Coming home to the ranch from the Harbor, my old Jetta and I landed fourth in line at the Southport bridge. It was a delightfully wonderful evening as many are this time of year and our brief pause at the Golden Gate felt quite relaxing. I could see around and through the trees to the north that a dandy sunset was in process.

To the south, coming up the gut, there was a considerable back up of water traffic so it would be a while before everyone scurried along through the opening bridge. I like to get out of the car and stretch when it is a long wait – give my newly inserted knee an opportunity to straighten out and loosen up. Probably require a few more boats in line to really remobilize the old leg, but happy to accept this break in the action.

I got out of the car and did some routine stretches then started to mosey downhill a bit to see what I could see. There were some nice boats floating by. Fun to watch.

As I made my way along the road I heard a voice from behind me say “What’s going on?” “Why is traffic all backed up?” The visiting person in the car behind me seemed a little upset with the delay we were experiencing. I guess it could seem a bit odd to come to a complete stop and see people leisurely exiting their vehicle. “It’s OK,” I responded. “The bridge is open.”

“What bridge?” The fellow asked. Bob and tour guide 101 made quick work of the inquiry and launched into my “Welcome to Maine” pitch. I resisted asking if the signs approaching the bridge had been noted. It seemed like the right thing to do. After all, who am I to criticize – I never read instructions either. It’s a man thing!

“Hi,” I replied. “How are you doing?” “Pretty night isn’t it? Did you see the sunset? It’s going to be a beauty.” “This is how we get home. The bridge ahead opens and closes, pivoting with a big gear to allow boat traffic to pass through. We, of the landed gentry, need to stop while the bridge is open until the boats have passed. It opens every half hour this time of year, on the hour and half hour. From the number of boats lined up it will take a little time for everyone to pass. Many boats can’t pass under the bridge because there is not enough clearance. Wanna take a look?”

The visiting chap seemed a little steamed but I could see signs of a thaw. We walked down toward the gate and I introduced him to one of our region’s most spectacular views, “Sunset up the Gut” ... the title of my next book! Not! My newfound weary traveler released a little tension and stared up toward the ink bottle with a sigh.

“So, welcome to Maine,” again I offered. “This visit will change your life forever. And when you head back to your home, you will always remember how pleasant it was to wait for the bridge to close and the sun to set.”

As the gates went up we waved good-bye. “Thank you,” he called from a very fancy shiny car.