Before I got married in 1997, me and my best friend packed up a car and started driving from Burlington, Vermont. We had no plan, other than drive until we ran out of road.
We washed up about eight hours later in Millinocket, Maine, looking at the lake. Parked at the dock there was a float plane. We walked into the office behind us and said, “drop us somewhere.” It was May and he wasn’t sure where ice was out yet, but he strapped a canoe to the the float, loaded us up and 45 minutes later we were in the air.
We touched down on Lobster Lake and spent the next four days paddling down the west branch of the Penobscott to Chesuncook. Everything about it was perfect.
My best friend, my soulmate for all my life, died last fall at 51 of cancer. Because of covid, I couldn’t say goodbye, but in going through his things his girlfriend found a picture of that trip. I didn’t know any existed.
That smile on my face says everything. Those four days were perfect in every way. It wasn’t what most people think of as a bachelor party but nothing could ever have been better.