She Said… “I Dream About Blue Seas”

In 1983, my parents decided to go into the boat business. They bought a small boatyard near our home in Stamford, Connecticut, and imported Westerly sailboats from Hampshire, England. The first to arrive was a Westerly Fulmar, a 32-foot sloop we named Lower Goose, after an island in Maine we often visited. She was quickly sold.

Twenty-eight years later, my father bought Lower Goose back. As she was being refitted, a space heater started a fire down below that smoldered for half a day. Lower Goose became an insurance write-off, but my dad couldn’t bring himself to scrap her. For the next few years, she hung neglected on a mooring in Connecticut’s Five Mile River.

I have spent some time on boats. There were the childhood boat shows, family sailing trips, and my youthful obedience to a call of the sea so loud that I dropped out of college and signed on as a hostie, a volunteer who cooks and cleans in exchange for board, on a boat bound for the Coral Sea, in the South Pacific.

Will, my boyfriend, is a writer who grew up in Colorado. He is happiest on a horse and hunting in the mountains. His calls come from the Mongolian plains and Asia’s Silk Road. But I was certain that his love of open spaces, wind patterns, and rope knots would recommend him as a sailor.

We had both lived in Santa Fe for years when we met on horseback while riding on a mutual acquaintance’s ranch. The first time we spent any length of time together was five years ago, on one of Will’s story assignments, mining for gold in Arizona. As a physician assistant, I was hired to keep the subject of his story, an aging prospector, alive while we trekked through the mountains. Will was not his usual self, and we quarreled terribly. As far as I was concerned, we still weren’t on speaking terms when, about a year later, back in New Mexico, I got a flat tire one night and reflexively called the most capable person I knew. Will promptly turned up in his truck full of tools and swapped out the tire while chatting amiably about the weather. We’ve been talking about the weather ever since.

As time went by and Will spoke about dreams of a future homestead together, I’d counter with my own, filled with endless seas. When he suggested we get goats, I said I think we should have a boat.

“W±đ±ô±ô±ô±ô,” said Will, which is what he says when he’s thinking.

It wasn’t long before we were enrolled in a week of sailing school—and I’d asked my father if we could have Lower Goose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he responded. “Have you seen the state of the boat? Besides, you live in New Mexico.”

But Will and my father are pretty easy to capture with the idea of an adventure.

In April 2016, my dad signed over the boat to us. I started a to-do list that quickly grew to six pages. That was the summer of Tyvek suits and respirators, grinding the iron keel, and sanding, scrubbing, and painting in Connecticut’s 90-degree heat. My fingernails turned blue from scraping old paint. My mother worried that we were poisoning ourselves. Tensions ran high. For $50, we got a leaky old inflatable dinghy and named it Pato. Will bought a splicing kit, joined a Finnish knot group, and rerigged the lines on Lower Goose.

In July 2017, we rode horses across Wyoming, reconnaissance for a book Will is writing on the Pony Express trail. It was very windy, but there isn’t much sailing there.

Our goal was to have Lower Goose ready for an overnight trip by the end of summer 2018. But I got carried away one night and suggested we sail her from Connecticut to Lower Goose Island, in Maine’s Casco Bay. Will thought this was a grand idea. We mapped out a leisurely week sailing north, stopping each night at a different harbor.

He Said… “I Thought Your Sailing Bug Would Only Last a Week”

I’m a mountain man. Always have been. My legs are pale as fresh snow, and my farmer-tanned neck is red year-round. But Claire’s idea of a vacation, at least as it emerged on a midwinter night at our home in the southwestern desert, was to take a seven-day sailing course in the Caribbean.

“You can choose the next vacation,” she said. “I think you’ll like sailing.” And so, for fear that saying no might run her off, I said yes.

On the first day of sailing school, I dropped a semi-critical piece of equipment overboard. I remember Skipper Dan, our instructor, saying at dawn on the third day that I probably wouldn’t pass the three exams by week’s end. On the fifth day, I whispered to Claire that I knew more knots than Skipper Dan and would gladly go knot for knot with him any day of the week.

“What the hell does that mean,” Claire said. “You need to chill out.”

On the sixth day, when Claire and the other couple in our class went ashore for provisions, I was left behind with Skipper Dan to fill the water tank. “You’ve found your new calling,” he said, standing over me.

This son of a bitch takes me for a common laborer, I groused. I asked him if he meant that my new calling was holding a garden hose over a hole in the side of a boat.

“No, sailing,” he said. I told him we’d see about that.

At week’s end, Skipper Dan congratulated us for passing the exams and told me that he hoped I would continue to sail. I flew home to New Mexico to resume life on dry land, while Claire flew to Connecticut to see her parents. Soon enough, she called excitedly to tell me about Lower Goose.

“This is our chance to own a boat,” she said. “And if we fix her up but don’t want to sail anymore, we can always sell her.”

In the fog of love, I failed to fully think through what exactly this would entail. I supported her. What the hell, I thought, at least we’re out from under Skipper Dan. Never mind that we lived in New Mexico and Goose was in Connecticut. That summer we headed east, rolled up our sleeves, dove in.

We were like untrained cattle dogs: eager to work but without direction. We hardly knew where to start. Fortunately for us, one of Claire’s old boyfriends ran a sailboat-maintenance business in nearby Norwalk. Max, I was told, was a professional sailor, had crewed on boats all over the world, and had under his care a carbon-fiber-hulled racing boat with its own Facebook page. “He was sponsored by Omega when we lived in his grandmother’s flat in Vienna,” Claire said.

A member of an Omega-sponsored sailing team with a flat in Vienna wouldn’t have been my first choice of someone to partner with, and being an old boyfriend of Claire’s made him pretty much my last. At times I suspected that he piled on the work to watch us suffer. I had no way of knowing whether our rudder needed as many coats of epoxy as he suggested. Was it truly necessary for us to grind every last square millimeter of old paint from the keel before repainting it? Did the undersides of the floorboards really need several layers of the most expensive varnish you can buy? But as it turned out, Max continually saved our asses.

She Said… “Your Mind Is in Central Asia”

We planned to depart for Maine on Sep­tember 1 and needed all our free time to ensure that Goose was safe and habitable. But in July, Will was offered a place on the U.S. kok boru team participating in the World Nomad Games—in Kyrgyzstan. This meant that, during crucial pre-cruise preparations, he would be halfway around the world playing a game where men on horses fight over a headless goat. His return date was September 10, which conflicted with our departure. I was not pleased. Alone, I reviewed my checklist: Get plumbing. Get electricity. Fix bilges. Put in a head. Redo the galley.

I called Max. “Haul the boat,” he said. Goose was put back on the hard. I crossed all nonessential projects off the list. The galley was beyond repair; we would make do with a camp stove. The guys at the yard took over the more difficult tasks, like hooking up the head and the waste-holding tank, while I painted the cabin and ordered carpet to cover the soot in the V-berth. I also got wire crimpers and a book on volts and ohms before it struck me as irresponsible to electrocute myself prior to the journey. So I hired Bogdan, a marine electrician, to rewire the boat.

Will had ordered 15 pounds of New England nautical charts before setting off for Kyrgyzstan, and once I got back to Santa Fe, I spread them out, each as large as a couch cushion, on our kitchen table. There were lots of symbols. I added “study navigation” to my list. But I was also confident that Will could navigate us out of a black hole if it came to that. My father is in general impressed by Will, but after I sent him a photo of our paper charts, he made an urgent call to suggest that we get ourselves a digital chart plotter.

Right, I replied. My dad asked for Bogdan’s phone number, and between the two of them they equipped Goose with a Garmin chart plotter and radar combo, a VHF radio, a distress beacon, an anemometer capable of measuring both true and apparent wind velocity, and another instrument that could clock speed over ground and through the water. She’s a Hinckley undercover, Bogdan said, citing a much fancier boat. Still, I plotted a tentative course to Maine that would keep us mostly within cellular range.

On September 10, after 48 hours of travel, Will arrived home—sick. For the first time since I have known him, he was unable to get out of bed to feed the horses. He claimed to have been peeing blood in Kyrgyzstan, after a hard fall playing kok boru. He was certainly coughing up the stuff. “You’re ruining the pillowcases,” I scolded, perched on the edge of the bed trying to show him my new apps, Navionics and PredictWind. He made noises like a dying seal. I laid his sailing clothes next to the bed. “Winter will not wait for us!” I shouted in his sweaty ear.

Five days later, with Will still ­looking rather pallid, we flew east in the wake of ­Hurricane Florence. We waited out the worst of the storm and chose Sunday, September 23, for our new departure date. In preparation, I started reading the .

He Said… “I Showed Up Despite Being Wrecked”

Thick clouds hung low over the steel gray water of Long Island Sound as Claire’s parents and her younger brother, James, and his family showed up at the dock to see us off. We sprayed champagne over the anchor, everyone in good spirits despite unseasonably cold weather. Claire’s dad pointed out that our anchor setup lacked a swivel shackle and chain. Yep, I told him, got that chain and swivel right here in the starboard locker.

“We should be in Maine in a week’s time,” I said as we cast off our dock lines and cranked the old Volvo Penta diesel motor to life. Lower Goose runs like a mustang when she’s in front of a breeze; under motor power, she lumbers along like a team of draft horses hitched to an ice cart. But given the tight confines of the dock and our lack of experience, we motored into the sound, passing dangerously shallow water near the Greens Ledge lighthouse before running up our sails for an easterly wind. Claire’s family, who had followed us out in another boat, gave us the thumbs-up and swung for home, and we were finally on our own, headed for new water.

After two hours underway, we’d polished off a can of Pringles and slightly interfered with a massive trash barge. Claire was at the helm when we received a text from her brother, who was looking at photos of the launch and wondered: “Is your outhaul connected? Maybe tighten it up a little bit?”

Claire and I looked at each other. The outhaul? We knew that we had an outhaul—the line that keeps the outer corner of the mainsail tight—and we thought that it was indeed tight. But we’d certainly never adjusted it.

“Hmmmm,” I texted back. “Talking about outhaul. Just finished a can of Pringles.”

Our learning curve was steep, but morale was high. Claire, whose three summers of effort had now resulted in us making a crisp five knots on a starboard tack, glowed with an earned sense of accomplishment.

That night we docked at the Milford Yacht Club and enjoyed a mediocre dinner in front of a mediocre Frank Sinatra tribute band. The next morning, I checked the forecast using a series of apps on my phone. The National Weather Service had issued a small-craft advisory: wind speeds of 25 to 33 knots, seas five feet or more.

“Inexperienced mariners, especially those operating smaller vessels,” the official warning said, as if targeting us directly, “should avoid navigating in these conditions.”

Claire prefers to start her day slowly, taking a half-hour or so to gather her thoughts. It’s generally unwise for me to read her news headlines or talk about the day’s itinerary before the kettle has boiled a second time. But I told her anyway: small-craft advisory for the sound today.

From beneath the piled sleeping bags and blankets in our berth came no response. So I checked the fuel, oil, and coolant levels, boiled the kettle a second time, and made for the churning sea.

As it turned out, small-craft advisories were issued on more than half the days we sailed. Claire, however, later informed me that she had no idea of this until after the journey. (“You know that you can’t tell me anything until after I’ve finished my tea,” she said.)

For the next three days of passage along the coast—to Old Saybrook, Stonington, Point Judith—the weather worsened. We were behind schedule, and it frustrated me. I asked Claire if she thought we’d get to Maine in time for Thanksgiving. “We have to start out earlier every day,” I told her.

“That’s your opinion,” she said.

“Everyone knows that when you’re traveling you need to make use of daylight,” I said.

“That’s how you feel about it,” she replied. “But not everyone feels that way.”

Two days of near silence ensued. We limited communication to what was necessary to sail the boat. I longed for our horses and dog back in New Mexico and figured that they were enjoying a sunny autumn in the mountains while we slowly froze to death on a boat in New England.

She Said… “A Bird Nearly Got Us Killed”

On the sixth afternoon, the sun came out and we were back to chattering away like forest animals. Will sang, “Makes me want to move my dancing feet,” his own lyrics to a Bob Marley song. It was uplifting to see other boats with their sails up. We hit seven knots.

It’s remarkable, the effect that sunshine and conviviality have on confidence. We set a course for Cuttyhunk Island, off Massachusetts, where after we picked up a mooring in the bay, some entrepreneurially minded kids on a small boat delivered salty sea-cold oysters and hot creamy chowder for dinner. Then I reorganized our books. Lower Goose might not have hot water—or even running water—but she has an extensive library, thanks to a yacht-club sale Will and I attended. We bought every book available, each for a dollar, including a first edition of the Joshua Slocum classic .

The next morning, we zipped across Buzzards Bay to New Bedford so Will could visit the Clifford Ashley knot exhibit, something he’d been droning on about for almost a year. Then we raced into Marion, screeching and beaming as we hauled the sails in closer and closer, trying to overtake the boat in front of us, until I shouted to Will, “We’re going to hit it!” He turned Goose to wind in the narrow channel, and we doused our sails.

A day later, we timed our cruise through the Cape Cod Canal to start with the early flood tide and eventually entered the Atlantic Ocean proper. When a sudden squall hit, Will caved to my insistence that we duck into Plymouth Harbor. We somehow missed the famous rock but read inscriptions about those who came across the Atlantic on boats. I was humbled by the brave souls who went to sea without chart plotters or Pringles, not for a laugh but for new lives.

Boston’s is a busy working harbor, so to avoid the traffic we sailed straight out to sea. A soggy purple finch plopped on deck, had a look down below, then took a nap, head under wing, nestled against Will’s foot. We were grateful for the radar, as heavy fog meant we couldn’t see much beyond łŇ´Ç´Ç˛ő±đ’s bow. But, preoccupied with making sure our guest had enough crackers, we forgot the number one rule of sailing (always keep a lookout) and the number one rule of radar (remember to zoom out after you zoom in).

“Oh, there’s a tug,” I said to Will.

“Shit,” was his reply.

A second boat loomed out of the fog behind the tug. “It’s towing a barge—they’re moving toward us,” Will said. He was alarmed. “Tack. ±·´Ç·É!” he yelled. I swung Goose around, and we sailed back the direction we had come. The wind and waves were picking up. It was raining sideways.

Entering unfamiliar harbors can be dodgy; enter in the dark during a storm and it’s downright scary. But cold and tired, we beat doggedly toward Gloucester. We couldn’t see Norman’s Woe, the fabled site of many shipwrecks to the southwest of the harbor, but there was a faint blinking light warning us to steer clear. We could barely make out the lobster pots until we were almost on top of them. There were hundreds, their malevolent little lines ready to wrap around any propeller that came too close. Our new spotlight didn’t work. We rounded the break wall and picked up the first mooring we came across. I tried to hail the yacht club it belonged to on the radio, but there was no answer. Closed for winter. We cooked two boxes of macaroni and cheese, devoured it in heaping, steaming spoonfuls, and went to bed. It was a night of rolling and bucking, and not between the sheets. Like two corpses we lay, straining our ears to make sure that Goose was still tied to the mooring. The wind mocked us all.

He Said… “OK, I’ll Go to Sea Once More”

Heading north from Gloucester, most sail­boats pass through the Blynman Canal to save time and avoid rounding the shipwrecked waters off Cape Ann. Unsure about our clearance under a bridge, we opted for the cape and endured cold rain, massive North Atlantic swells—and, for me, seasickness. Claire somehow managed without nausea, but the only time I didn’t think I was about to vomit was at the helm, my eyes trained on the horizon.

We made Newburyport that afternoon and tied up at the town dock. Claire bought us a pair of wool hats, and we had a pizza delivered to the boat. We were about 90 nautical miles, or three days’ sail, from Lower Goose Island. A heavy gale was forecast to hit in 48 hours and would require us to lay over in Kittery, Maine, for a day. That put us into Casco Bay, where we planned to dock the boat for the winter and fly home, on October 7. That last day, just about nightfall, we would pass Lower Goose Island, four miles to starboard.

As planned, we stayed in Kittery, shed our foul-weather gear, and let the gale blow through. On the morning of October 6, we began the last leg of our journey. But before tacking north, we decided to follow the advice of a man in the next slip over and go look for whales beyond a rocky archipelago known as the Isles of Shoals. We were about six miles offshore. Broad swells like soft prairie hills rolled by in wide sets, but a faint wind hardly marred the ocean’s surface. Under a cloudless sky, we glassed the blue horizon fruitlessly for water spouts, humped backs, and flukes. Finally, we gave up, but as we turned north for Kennebunkport, our last night’s destination, we glimpsed a large kettle of seabirds circling low over the water.

Gannets, cormorants, and gulls were diving for baitfish that scattered in nervous schools. A pod of porpoises, apparently leaving the feeding frenzy, passed as we cut the motor, hoisted the sails, and very slowly drifted into the mass of activity. We’re bound to see a whale here, I said as the porpoises disappeared to the south. But rather than a whale, Claire noticed a lobster boat bearing down from a mile away. Its pointed hull showed as two symmetrical triangles, meaning that it was headed directly for us.

Claire raised both her arms, waving and cursing vigorously. “What are they thinking?” she asked. With every passing second, it became clear that the boat was not changing course, even as Claire yelled and flagged her arms with increasing agitation.

Finally, she cranked the motor, I jammed it into gear, and Lower Goose lurched forward with a cough of black smoke. The lobster boat roared by us with no one at the helm. The two men on board, both working aft while underway, briefly lifted their heads to notice the sailboat they’d nearly halved abeam on the open ocean.

“Those irresponsible fuckers,” Claire said as the lobster boat faded toward shore. “Time to go to Kennebunkport,” I said, and we set a course a few degrees east of north for our final port of call.

By now, Claire and I had our routine dialed. No other aspect of our life together required the communication or cooperation of managing the boat. Claire was the captain, I the mate. We worked together. We solved our problems—not the kind that send flat-footed couples to therapy, but the kind that require someone on deck and someone aloft, someone to tie in the reef lines and someone to steer the boat head to wind. We relied on each other. I wasn’t ready to sell the horses and buy our dog a life jacket, but the experience further convinced us that we could spend our lives together—on land and sea.

She Said… “We’ll Sail Around the World”

We’d planned to hoist our Jolly Roger when we got close to Casco Bay, but things didn’t go as planned.

As we left Kennebunkport, the wind was again from the north, and with 35 nautical miles to go we turned on the engine. But Goose kept decelerating. Will went below to assess the situation and reappeared on deck followed by a puff of smoke. The old engine had suffered from years of disuse. The sails slumped, we had no headway, and the swells rocked us like a pendulum. We can sail out of this, we said. Then, as we drifted toward the restricted presidential waters of the Bush compound, we weren’t able to sail out of it. I called Boat U.S., a tow company. For two hours, we clung by a dock line to a lobster pot and were sad.

A chipper little tow boat and John, her deaf-in-one-ear captain, showed up for the rescue and dragged us for the next seven hours. There was a lot of time to reflect. I felt gratitude to those who had helped make this voyage happen—Will, my parents, Max, and so many others. I realized that while Goose might not be the most comfortable boat, she sure was comforting. I understood why, all those years ago, my parents chose boats: for the freedom.

Will and I were both on deck entering Casco Bay. I told him the names of the passing islands: Chebeague, Bustins, the Goslings, Upper Goose, Lower Goose. And then, there on the dock at Strouts Point in South Freeport, having left Connecticut five hours earlier by car, were my parents and my brother. I handed the bow line to my father. Mum patted Goose, as one relieved mother would greet another, and we all ate fried shrimp at Harraseeket Lunch and Lobster. Will and I chose to spend the night on the boat. James joined us. “Does she always smell this bad?” he asked from his bunk.

The next few days were spent getting Goose ready for winter. I wanted nothing to do with society. My thoughts strayed to our next project: the house we’re planning to build. A few days after Will got back from Kyrgyzstan, we had purchased a plot of raw land in Santa Fe. While folding sails, I imagined our bedroom, small and cozy like a ship’s berth, and decided we should have an office each, at opposite ends of the house.

Will interrupted my reverie: “I think we should keep sailing north next summer.”

“Yep,” I said.

He continued: “We should definitely go to Canada.”

Wait, what? I’d just spent two weeks shivering, damp, and cold. “What happened to the more southern climes?” I replied.

Will was moving around Goose with the same ease he moves around a horse. He said, “We’ll get there eventually.”

Claire Antoszewski was an ­intern at şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř in 2002; she now works as a physician assistant in ­emergency medicine. Will Grant () is ­writing a book based on his ­October 2017 story about the Pony Express trail.

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The Marquesas: Let’s Get Lost

Beating about a savage and sublime paradise

It’s high noon on the island of Hiva Oa, and I’m marinating in the sweet stench of fermenting mangoes, papayas, breadfruits, and bananas that hang in the dense jungle air like perfumed exhaust. I’m so buzzed that when I hear the sound of a moose’s bellow, it doesn’t immediately register that moose wouldn’t inhabit the world’s most remote archipelago, 850 miles northeast of Tahiti. The “aaa-oooogh-aaah” grows louder as my guide, Bob Suggs, one of the world’s foremost experts on the Marquesas, leads us toward a stone platform—once used for human sacrifice—at the base of a basalt cliff, upon which a dozen or so ripped natives are dancing to drums, horns, and nose flutes. They surround a chief with a feathery headdress who’s chasing a frizzy-haired, bare-chested man wearing nothing but a loincloth. Doc Suggs leans over and interprets that Loincloth Man represents a female fairy tern—a symbol of Marquesan love—and the warriors represent its feuding suitors. In reality the fairy tern is the bartender at the Hiva Oa Pearl Resort, the luxury bungalows in the town of Atuona, where I’m staying. In the Marquesas, however, reality is a loose term: This is a land where men with head-to-toe body tattoos still race one another in handmade outrigger canoes, the telephone didn’t arrive until the 1980s, and, in the old days, there were two ways to please the island gods: sexual exhibition or sacrifice.

There’s a reason Mark Burnett filmed a season of Survivor in the Marquesas: Paradise couldn’t come with more caveats. Sure, the chain of ten islands possesses the rugged volcanic beauty of Molokai, more than 20 varieties of breadfruit, and the standard laissez-faire of island life. But if you’re looking for loping crescents of white sand with nothing but a pink-umbrella drink between you and a dip in the azure water, stop off in Bora-Bora. The Marquesas—even the largest, most modernized islands of Nuku Hiva and Hiva Oa—are paradise in the raw, where the fun comes in communing with the islands’ primal past.

Rose Corser, a 69-year-old American-expat art historian who’s lived on Nuku Hiva since 1979, explains the islands’ appeal this way: “I love the Marquesans because their life is their art, yet they were cannibals.” This sublime-savage juxtaposition has attracted Western writers and artists for more than a century: Here, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote his best poetry, Herman Melville was inspired to write his classic adventure Typee by a run-in with cannibals on Nuku Hiva, Jack London witnessed the haunting tubercular coughs of the lepers, and Paul Gauguin was so smitten that he moved to Hiva Oa in 1901 and built his infamous House of Pleasure, a tropical version of Studio 54—without the disco. In addition to his endless stream of concubines and hazy morphine bouts, Gauguin kept a fishing rod dangling from his second-story studio, to fish out wine bottles cooling in the well below.

These days, most of the Marquesas’ roughly 3,200 annual pilgrims are less interested in replicating Gauguin’s public display of decadence and more interested in trying to piece together Polynesian life as it was hundreds of years ago. Unless you’ve booked a berth on the Aranui 3, the passenger freighter that stops at all six inhabited islands, you’re not likely to get to the smaller islands like Fatu Hiva and Tahuata, which internal flights don’t access.

But Nuku Hiva and Hiva Oa—with their jagged volcanic peaks, rugged jungle interior, and overabundance of coconut palms, crashing surf, and sultry air—are plenty. Both are riddled with ancient ceremonial sites where the crumbled remains of stone tikis grimace at you through thick layers of moss. Interspersed with four-wheeled excursions to archaeological ruins, there’s time to hike to hundred-foot-high waterfalls or sunbathe on an isolated half-moon beach. And to experience a little living history, stop for lunch at village restaurants along the way, where you’ll feast on breaded wahoo, shrimp, cassava, breadfruit, and mashed banana while you watch a villager cool off his horse in the surf or whittle an intricate tiki.

Luckily, it seems the only ancient practice that doesn’t still exist is cannibalism. But even that ritual sacrifice wouldn’t feel so out of line in a culture where the greatest desire was to please fickle gods and the ruling emotion is still passion. And as I bushwhack through the jungle with Doc Suggs, who points out skull repositories, embalming platforms, and stone tikis with frightening faces and fat bellies, I almost wish the song “Time Stops in the Marquesas,” by Belgian singer Jacques Brel, who was buried here in 1978, were true. After all, what would you rather be? A bartender or a majestic bird?

Frigate: Surf Whale Country

Falling for Fiji's open-ocean breaks

MY GIRLFRIEND, SIAN, watches me fall in love with another, and she smiles. She knew this would happen, which is why, as I leap from the boat into the South Pacific and start paddling toward one of Fiji’s best breaks, she says, “Have fun.” It’s not a big day out at Frigate Pass—the waves are head high—but 50-yard lefts reel across the reef, the water is an inviting 78 degrees, and with only four other surfers out, the lineup might as well be empty. I paddle for a wave, pop up, and glide down the face. In a postcard paradise of brilliant sunshine and white-sand beaches, some beauty defies a postage stamp.

The open ocean is an unlikely place for a surf break. Frigate sits 14 miles south of Fiji’s main island, Viti Levu, and seven miles southeast of the closest inhabited island, Yanuca. But thanks to a reef system that plummets 3,300 feet in just over two miles (a drop comparable to that from the Grand Canyon’s South Rim to the Colorado River), Frigate rumbles across a stretch of wild sea locals call “whale country.” It’s not a beginners’ break—the wave can unleash 20-foot faces and just as quickly send you to the hospital as offer the ride of your life—but it’s worth the challenge for experienced surfers. In an archipelago of more than 300 islands, with world-class breaks like Restaurants, Namotu Lefts, and Cloudbreak, Frigate is one of Fiji’s best.

For the next five hours I gorge myself. Small, playful waves that have traveled thousands of miles from the Southern Ocean offer themselves up in their waning moments. The Salty Dog, a 35-foot boat from the Batiluva Beach Resort (my home for ten days), bobs patiently, anchored in the channel. A single 40-horsepower engine propels the craft with all the strength of a sedated sea turtle; still, she’s a star—built for the Hollywood movie Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid, she was cinematically destroyed by a giant snake and resuscitated into our present-day surf charter. As she chugs the 75 minutes back to Batiluva, on Yanuca Island, we catch a yellowfin tuna; a few hours later, chef and co-owner Sharen Todd, 49, serves it as a sashimi appetizer with a sweet soy-ginger sauce. Grilled Spanish mackerel follows. Life is simple at Batiluva. “Eat, sleep, surf,” says Dan Thorn, Todd’s 57-year-old business partner, “and have a beer in between.”

The two Americans opened Batiluva, which sits on six and a half beachfront acres, in August 2003. Besides the guests at another small resort in a neighboring bay, the only people on the 800-acre island are the roughly 300 locals. Batiluva is a simple camp that sleeps 14 in two multi-room bungalows, with shared bathrooms and rain-fed showers. We eat fantastic buffet dinners at a long communal table, perfect for reliving the day’s war stories; coconuts fall regularly, and banana trees droop with 50-pound bunches. The staff won’t just take you spearfishing; they’ll cook your catch, too. If you time your stay at Batiluva right, you’ll find Thorn grilling lobster tail for dinner. “This is what Fiji should look like,” he says as he regales us with a story of a 30-pound grouper he once speared. As I swing in a hammock, watching the sunset pour red over the Pacific, it’s hard to argue.

Even when we don’t surf, our days start early, as soon as the 7 a.m. sunlight sneaks through the gaps of our wooden-planked walls. Sian and I lounge on the sand, kayak around the island, or snorkel the reef just off the beach. Some days we head back out to Frigate to snorkel and freedive, while others explore with scuba gear. On two separate occasions I snorkel next to a pair of three-foot whitetip reef sharks—mellow and curious, they’re the Labrador retrievers of the sea. Eventually I swim over more than a hundred coral species and see huge groupers, a hawksbill turtle, and dolphins. Paddy Ryan, author of Fiji’s Natural Heritage, calls diving around Frigate “a real buzz. There’s a feeling of space and movement and depth,” he says, “that gives you that extra little bit of excitement, a feeling that something big can come in.”

And not just underwater. A perfect day at Frigate is big and hollow—12-foot faces throwing barrels wide enough to drive a Volkswagen through—and elusive. Though I never see it in top form, I realize that what’s special about the break is how fun it is, even in poor conditions. One morning, with a small swell and the wrong wind, I paddle out anyway, and 30 minutes later I’m on a shoulder-high wave, zooming over a turquoise blur of coral a few feet below. I brush my hand along the face of the wave as it throws over me, and I find myself standing in the middle of the barrel, in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a love affair.

Society Islands: Sail the Sous-le-Vent

Setting blissfully adrift in French Polynesia

SAILING IS THE ONLY FORM OF TRAVEL on which my family agrees. Despite the close quarters, squabbles between my mother, father, brother James, and me diminish on board a boat. We’ve seen a fair amount of the world this way. Or at least a fair amount of water.

In search of new winds, we find ourselves in Tahiti, the central hub of the Society Islands. With a prevailing easterly averaging 15 to 20 knots, the Societies make for an ideal cruising ground. The 14-island archipelago is divided into two groups, the Windward Islands and the Leeward Islands. We like the sound of the latter in French (Les ĂŽles Sous-le-Vent), so we take the hour flight from Tahiti to Raiatea, the home port for Sunsail, our charter company. After a quick stop to provision in the capital of Uturoa, we’re under way on Tourteau, a 47-foot Beneteau we’ll call home for the next two weeks as we make a round-trip circuit of the Societies.

On our three-hour shakedown sail to Tahaa, Mum gasps, “Look at the color of this water!” It’s true: The sea beneath us is becoming a lighter blue. Alarm bells go off—changing colors indicate changing depths. And although we should be in the channel, I can see the ocean floor.

“Wait, we’re in French waters,” my father yells from the helm. (The buoy system in French Polynesia is the opposite of that in American waters.) We make it to Tahaa without running aground, then dinghy ashore for a sunset dinner at Marina Iti. There’s no menu, and we’re the only people in the beachside restaurant. We eat cheese soufflĂ© and mahi-mahi stuffed with shrimp and drink rum and wine.

Tahaa is known as the Vanilla Island, owing to the fragrance of its numerous vanilla plantations. Most of the residents are full-blooded Tahitians, but there is a visible French influence—the mailboxes are designed for baguette, not post, delivery.

The next morning, the sky keeps clouding over, and hail drives us below. After several false starts, we finally make a break downwind for the fabled island of Bora-Bora. When my father was a lad living in the outskirts of London, he thought Bora-Bora the farthest, most exotic place in the world, and so although some of the more rugged sailors advise we skip this “glitzy” island, we are too close not to have a look. It’s a glorious five-hour journey under full sail.

Bora-Bora may be developed by Tahitian standards, but we find it magnificent, with lush Mount Otemanu stretching up 2,385 feet in the center. Over the next few days, we visit the famous Bloody Mary’s for its eponymous drink and sit out a small cyclone before sailing back to Tahaa. Upon entering the lagoon, we’re surrounded by some 50 dolphins. Had I been born into a godly family, we would have claimed the presence of the divine. We simply grin idiotically and say “wow” a lot.

After exploring Tahaa, we chart a course for Huahine, 25 nautical miles away. There is some grumbling on board arising from the fact that we are down to cheese and . . . cheese. We haven’t showered in a few days, because we’ve run out of water. James is the smelliest, as he’s refused to swim since the morning a harmless reef shark circled the anchored boat.

Once we procure steaks and water in Huahine’s main village of Fare, we head south to the bay of Avea, ringed with perfect white-sand beaches. Here we rest for a few days, doing somersaults in the water and floating on our backs. In the evenings, James and I dinghy ashore to play poker and talk wind with the locals in a sand-floored beach bar. James throws down a full house and announces he’s quitting his job at a Manhattan law firm. (He did—and is now penniless in Santiago, Chile.)

We spend the rest of our time exploring the bays of Huahine before finally returning to Raiatea. Once back at base, we gulp down the last of the Hinano (the local beer) and say goodbyes. Faces forlorn, we remember the famous French sailor Bernard Moitessier, who, instead of turning north to Britain from Cape Horn to win the Golden Globe race in 1968, kept on sailing, his course set for French Polynesia. We understand why.

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IF YOU THOUGHT PALM SPRINGS was nothing but a dense collection of geezers wearing polyester Sansabelts assembled in the desert to bitch about Medicare, well, you thought wrong. The variety of stark natural landscapes and deluxe material comforts—little more than a hundred miles from smog-ridden L.A.—make Palm Springs the ultimate base camp. Where else can you nail a 5.10 crux move in or hike the alpine trails on 10,804-foot Mount San Jacinto, then hit any number of swanky hotel bars for cocktail hour and choose from 6,500 hotel rooms? If there’s a downside to this schizo land of opportunity, it’s that you’ll have to pack two bags: one for all your gear… another for your dinner jacket and fancy shoes. Come winter, you can take advantage of a Southern California phenomenon: Within ten miles of downtown Palm Springs, the elevation jumps from 466 feet to over 10,000. Translation: You can spend the morning cross-country skiing and the afternoon lounging poolside in the sun.

AT PLAY
From Palm Springs, it’s a quick 26-mile drive north and east on California 62 to the first entrance of Joshua Tree National Park, the epicenter for the West Coast’s winter rock-climbing season. Boulder the quartz monzonite piles around the Hidden Valley Campground and the Wonderland of Rocks, or try J-Tree classics like the elementary jamming up Right On (5.5) or the highly technical Iconoclast (5.13a).

Four miles west of downtown, the Ariel Tramway shoots up to the pines at 8,516 feet on the flanks of Mount San Jacinto. From there you’ve got a choice of 54 miles of hiking trails (no biking allowed) through the meadows and granite of Mount San Jacinto State Park, a connection to the Pacific Crest Trail, and in winter, nordic ski rentals and serene cross-country trails at the ski center. Snow permitting, you can make your way to the top of the 10,400-foot peak. And if you’re lucky, you’ll glimpse one of the mountain’s bobcats.

Or explore rugged slot canyons in the Mecca Hills Wilderness, 30 miles east of Palm Springs. Two worth checking out are arid and beautiful Painted Canyon and an adjacent canyon with wooden ladders that makes a fine playground.

ON THE MENU
A ten-minute walk or a five-minute bike ride from the hotel is Johannes, a small, unpretentious restaurant, with walls painted a refreshing tangerine, that serves modern California fusion food. Try the curried crab with apples wrapped in cucumber or the seasonal vegetables with couscous sprinkled with truffle oil.

AT REST
Palm Springs came of age in the 1950s and early 1960s, and the best place to immerse yourself in a retro Rat Pack martini mentality is the Orbit In. Built during the late forties and mid-fifties and restored in 2001, the one-story hotel is nestled at the foot of Mount San Jacinto and features rooms stocked with minibars, lava lamps, and vintage furniture by 1950s design icons such as Eames, Noguchi, and Bertoia. The Orbit In even loans out retro-cool Schwinn cruiser bicycles for exploring the city—the ultimate in sporty throwback fun.

DETAILS
Winter is prime rock-climbing season in Joshua Tree National Park (760-367-5500, ), and the campsites with water and toilets ($10 a night) fill up fast. Uprising Outdoor şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Center (888-254-6266, ) has the nation’s largest outdoor climbing gym—a 55-foot-high, 8,500-square-foot behemoth under a shade canopy ($15 for a day pass). You’ll also find a full-service shop for climbers, hikers, and backpackers. Guided climbing trips to Joshua Tree start at $85. Tickets for the Ariel Tram (888-515-8726, ) run $21 round-trip, and the tram’s Winter şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Center rents cross-country gear and snowshoes for $18 and $15 a day, respectively. Rooms at the Orbit In (877-996-7248, ) run from a low of $169 during the summer to $269 per night in the winter high season. And reservations are recommended at Johannes (760-778-0017).

Green River, Utah

canyonlands national park

The Green and Colorado rivers carved Canyonlands' majestic landscape, benign from afar yet roiling with up to Class-V teeth.

HALFWAY THROUGH our five-day trip down the Green River’s Stillwater Canyon, a fine milk-chocolate-colored silt has dreaded my hair, coated my skin, and invaded every body crevice. I match the water and the canyon walls, and I’m sure I’m getting extra sun protection. This is a good thing, as it’s August, and midday temperatures in central Utah reach well over 90 and shade can be scarce, even at the bottom of a 2,000-foot gorge. Despite the heat, paddling Stillwater is blissfully easy. The canyon’s rapidless, Class I water lets us imitate driftwood and relax, and getting started was even more mindless: a four-hour jaunt from Salt Lake City to Moab, where we rented gear, then boarded a shuttle to the put-in.

Our daily routine involves gathering our seven-person crew to drink coffee and fry eggs before donning giant sun hats and long-sleeve linen shirts and stepping into our armada of four canoes. We float downstream at the speed of molasses, at times drifting downriver in life jackets next to our boats. Twisting silently between towering walls inspires a sublime sort of vertigo. I search for 1,300-year-old Anasazi cliff dwellings, lapsing into daydreams and imagining what’s beyond the corners I can’t see past. For lunch, I take to eating my sandwich seated in the river, with only my hands and head above water. In late afternoon, we pick campsites with pleasant beaches, then nap or scramble up side canyons. One night before dinner we catch sight of a lone desert bighorn sheep. It looks us over sternly and then bolts toward the canyon rim and disappears. Don’t worry, we say aloud, we’ll be gone tomorrow, back on the lazy river.

AT PLAY
At almost every campsite and lunch stop, you’ll want to hike the side canyons. One of the best steep-walled slots begins near Anderson Bottom (about halfway through the trip). Pull ashore on river right at mile 32 and follow the trail to the upstream side of the dry meander. After you head right into a side canyon, the slot will present itself and is worth at least an hour of exploration, though you could make a day out of it by hiking up to the mesa. And if you can time your trip right, a full-moon float in Stillwater Canyon is surreal. The soft light transforms the red-rock crags and pinnacles into spooky castles. Just don’t fall asleep and cruise past the confluence with the Colorado River—the Class IV rapids of Cataract Canyon would make for a particularly rude awakening.

ON THE MENU
Since the canoe (not you) carries your gear, bring all you need. To eat like royalty, pack two big coolers, layering the bottom with large ice blocks and the top with dry ice. (If you want cold cuts late in the trip, don’t even crack one of the coolers until day three.) The king of all river-rat dinners? Steak fajitas with camp-made guacamole and ice-cold sour cream.

AT REST
During summer, a ground cloth, sleeping pads, cotton sheets, and pillows are usually all you need, but do bring a tent in case of thundershowers or mosquitoes. The best campsites have sandy beaches, cottonwood trees and boulders for shade, and access to bluffs where you can get a wide view of the river. For camp comfort, carry a roll-up table and a couple of folding chairs to make lounging and cooking that much easier.

DETAILS
Red River Canoe Company (800-753-8216, ), in Moab, rents Wenonah canoes ($30 per day), toilets ($30 per trip), and river-running essentials. They’ll also shuttle you the hour and a half to the Mineral Bottom put-in. Tex’s Riverways (435-259-5101, ) provides a three-hour jet-boat ride ($115 per person) up the Colorado from the confluence (there’s no other way out). Most of Stillwater is in , so you’ll need a permit ($20 for a group; 435-259-4351, ). Early September is the best time to paddle—summer’s blistering heat has subsided a bit, yet the long evening light makes camp life easy.

The Tetons, Wyoming

STAND AT THE BASE of Wyoming’s magnificent Tetons—at somewhere over two million years old the newest range in the Rockies—and look up to see a massive wall of rock and ice piercing the clouds 6,000 feet above you. Recipe for our favorite mountain formula: Explore these jagged 13,000-foot peaks by day; then, by night, bask in the sounds of classical guitarists at Jenny Lake Lodge, in . Many travelers rush through this park, a 30-minute drive from Jackson, on the way to its better-known neighbor, Yellowstone National Park. But those making a beeline for Old Faithful miss out on a haven of moose, elks, bears, wolves, and even white pelicans, as well as some of the country’s best climbing. During a May visit, I enjoyed a medley of horseback riding through the aspens, floating the Snake River, and—my favorite—climbing the 5.8-5.10 Guide’s Wall. After it all, I watched the evening light dance across 12,000-acre Jenny Lake, tinting pink the glaciers that slash across the Tetons, geological new kids on the block.

AT PLAY
Weaving among the hills atop a horse gives a heightened perspective on the park. Grand Teton Lodge Company leads two-hour trail rides that take you off the beaten path, where you’re much more likely to catch a glimpse of a griz than on traffic-jammed park roads. Their rafting trips on the Snake River, which bisects the park, are a relaxing two to four hours of lazy floating, matched with grilled steak or trout for dinner. But for white-knuckle action, go climbing with Exum Mountain Guides. I was lucky to climb with Amy Bullard, who led the first unsupported American women’s expedition up an 8,000-meter peak when she climbed Cho Oyu, in 1999. After taking a boat across Jenny Lake, we hiked 90 minutes through pine forest and along the rushing Cascade Creek, where we were joined for a moment by a moose. A short scramble over a steep scree field put us at the base of Guide’s Wall, one of the most beloved climbs in the Tetons. The route follows the lower southwest ridge of Storm Point and is known for its variety: We tackled chimneys, dihedrals, faces, and finally a tiny vertical crack. Five pitches and 700 feet later we were cross-legged on a rocky ledge, munching on cheese and oranges.

ON THE MENU
After watching the sunset—gin and tonic in hand—on the porch of the Jenny Lake Lodge, move inside the elegantly rustic dining room for a five-course dinner that might start with golden tomato coulis soup followed by organic field greens with watermelon and an appetizer of rabbit loin. EntrĂ©es rely on local game: pheasant, elk medallions, and trout; the menu rotates every five days. Dessert would seem impossible if the spicy Asian pear tartin weren’t so tempting.

AT REST
Arriving at the venerable Jenny Lake Lodge, which opened in 1952, is like returning to a summer home you visited as a child. Set at the foot of Grand Teton and a short stroll from Jenny Lake, the 37 log cabins are surrounded by lodgepole pines and feature private baths, hand-made quilts, and patios with rocking chairs. It’s the perfect yin for your adventurous Tetons yang.

DETAILS
In addition to one-day climbs (starting at $110 per person), Exum Mountain Guides (307-733-2297, ) offers multi-day outings such as a four-day trip up Grand Teton, the park’s tallest peak at 13,770 feet, and backcountry skiing. For float trips ($52, includes three hours on the river and dinner) and horseback rides (starting at $25), contact Grand Teton Lodge Company (800-628-9988, ). One-room cabins at Jenny Lake Lodge (800-628-9988, ) are $444 per night, double occupancy, including breakfast and dinner at the restaurant (307-733-4647) and a mountain bike to tool around the lodge grounds. For information about Grand Teton National Park, call 307-739-3600 or visit .

The Keys, Florida

IF THE DIAGNOSIS IS STRESS, Islamorada is the cure. One of a narrow string of islands halfway between Miami and Key West, it very deliberately maintains the pace and feel of a small-town fishing resort with a łľ˛ąĂ±˛ą˛Ô˛ą attitude. The relaxed vibe is best suited for drinking beer in a hammock, but I’ve come here to see why Islamorada calls itself the Sport Fishing Capital of the World. Late one afternoon my guide takes me to a deep, cool channel where we chum the water with bloody juice from the bait cooler, our hooks laden with hunks of flesh larger than any fish I’ve ever caught. A brief rain shower lowers the barometric pressure, which “really turns the fish on,” and with more than 600 species stocking the surrounding waters—from big-game marlin to devilishly elusive bonefish—it doesn’t take long for my reel to scream with life. After a 30-minute struggle with a jumping tarpon, I finally land the beast, which weighs in at 110 pounds, larger than any shown on the outfitter’s Web site. In awe, we release it back to the sea with a slap on its broad, scaly side.

AT PLAY
If you burn out on fishing, you can snorkel among the banded coral shrimp populating Alligator Reef or sea-kayak among the mangroves of the Backcountry Islands. Road biking past the artists’ studios and boutiques lining U.S. 1 is good for a sweat; cool off with a scuba dive to the Eagle, a 287-foot freighter scuttled to create an artificial reef.

ON THE MENU
For such a small town, Islamorada enjoys a remarkably healthy selection of restaurants, most of them very casual. The Village Gourmet starts you off with focaccia drenched in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, whets the appetite with an organic vegetable soup, then closes the deal with blackened shrimp. Bentley’s Restaurant is famous for its cioppino: linguine smothered in a spicy marinara sauce laden with mussels, clams, shrimp, crab, scallops, mahi-mahi, and half a lobster.

AT REST
The Casa Morada hotel brings Miami South Beach style to the Keys, with modernist wicker chairs facing lushly manicured grounds, a bocce ball court, and a sleek pool rimmed by palm trees. My room featured a king-size bed blanketed with a fluffy, white comforter, a separate sitting room with day bed, a stocked refrigerator, and cable TV with DVD. Sliding doors opened onto a screened-in patio with a deep Jacuzzi bathtub.

DETAILS
Casa Morada (888-881-3030, ) has doubles ranging from $199 a night for a garden-view room in the summer off-season to $519 a night in the winter high season for a suite overlooking the sea. The concierge can arrange fishing, diving, and kayaking. A three-hour snorkeling trip costs $30, scuba diving is $60-$85 per dive, and kayaks and Marin bicycles are free. There are several fine fishing guides in Islamorada, including Captain Eric Bass of A Florida Keys Fishing Guide Connection ($300 for a half-day trip; 305-664-6099, ). Call ahead for the cioppino at Bentley’s (305-664-9094)—seating is limited. For daily specials at Village Gourmet, call 305-664-4030.

Shore to Summit, Maine

maine katahdin state park

Mount Katahdin, the northern terminus of the 2,174-mile Appalachian Trail

IN THE FEW HUNDRED YEARS since crustacean-weary indentured servants in colonial New England rebelled against being fed too much lobster—stipulating to their bosses that they not be forced to endure more than three meals of it per week—Homarus americanus has gone from being the food of the poor to the salivated-over icon of Maine. But while these tasty sea-bottom scavengers deserve praise, there’s more to the Pine Tree State than shellfish and 3,500 miles of island-bespattered coastline.

The perfect four-day tour pairs the spruce-topped granite islands in Penobscot Bay, the hub of the world’s most productive lobster fishery, with the rivers, lakes, and peaks of the Great North Woods. You’ll sea-kayak around Vinalhaven Island, relax on the shores of Moosehead Lake, and raft the Penobscot River—some of the Northeast’s best whitewater—and then end with a bid for the summit of 5,268-foot Mount Katahdin, Maine’s highest peak.

AT PLAY
In the waters off Vinalhaven Island you can kayak among dozens of granite islets, within sight of lobstermen hauling in the delicacy you’ll enjoy that very evening.

Greenville, a former lumberjack crossroads at the south end of Moosehead Lake, is the staging area for your next phase. Mellow out here with a scenic floatplane ride, then thrill yourself on the Class IV-V whitewater of Ripogenus Gorge and the Cribworks rapids on the wild West Branch of the Penobscot River, about an hour north of Greenville. Rapid River Outfitters offers small, personalized raft trips and has the closest base to the river.

For the finale, continue northeast to Baxter State Park, home of more than 40 peaks and 200 miles of hiking trails. Baxter’s jewel is Mount Katahdin, the sacred mountain of the Penobscot. Six main trails lead to the summit; several depart from Chimney Pond, in Katahdin’s majestic South Basin, and require eight to ten hours (and good weather) for the 11- to 12-mile round-trip. Some of the best views of rolling alpine tablelands and thousand-foot precipices are found by taking Saddle or Cathedral trails.

ON THE MENU
After leaving the ferry, provision yourself at the Market Basket, on Vinalhaven, a gourmet store with carry-outs, wines, and cinnamon doughnut muffins. In a wood-floored dining room perched over a tidal mill channel, the Harbor Gawker Restaurant serves up steaming lobster dinners.

AT REST
Vinalhaven Island’s 19th-century granite boom left several funky Victorian mansions that have been transformed into B&Bs. The five rooms at the Payne Homestead, listed in the National Register of Historic Places, retain pressed tin ceilings and marble mantels installed by the original owner, granite magnate Moses Webster.

In Greenville, stay at the Blair Hill Inn, built as an estate and farm in 1891. The inn is perched on a hillside above Moosehead Lake, with mountain views and 15 acres of lawns, gardens, and woods. The eight bedrooms are flooded with natural light.

After rafting, plant yourself at one of the 55 campsites or cabins at Allagash Gateway Campsite, on Chesuncook Lake, 25 minutes from Baxter State Park.

DETAILS
Ride the Vinalhaven Ferry ($11 round-trip; 800-491-4883, ) from Rockland. SeaEscape Kayak (207-863-9343, ) offers a Vinalhaven paddle tour and picnic for $75. The Harbor Gawker Restaurant (207-863-9365) charges market price for lobster. Doubles at the Payne Homestead (888-863-9963, ) start at $90 per night. See Moosehead Lake from a floatplane with Folsom’s Air Service (tours from $20; 207-695-2821, ). Doubles at the Blair Hill Inn (207-695-0224, ) start at $250. A full-day raft trip with Rapid River Outfitters (877-733-7238, ) is $112 per person and includes two meals. A spot at Allagash Gateway Campsite (207-723-9215, ) costs $12 per night. Jockey your car into position in the Togue Pond Gate lineup before 6 a.m. to get into Baxter State Park ($10 per nonresident vehicle; 207-723-5140, ) to climb Katahdin. Day use is limited to the number of parking spaces at the trailheads.

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