“I will be the gladdest thing… Under the sun!... I will touch a hundred flowers… And not pick one…. I will look at cliffs and clouds… With quiet eyes… Watch the wind blow down the grass… And the grass rise….”

“Afternoon on a Hill” by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

Our hillside in Maine (Lakeview Highlands) is a former farm that was converted into a community of private homes starting in the 1970s. When we bought our lot in 1983, we had only a few neighbors—a handful who purchased lakeside cabins the farm used to rent and had them moved up the hill and four homes the owners either had built or built themselves. We joined the latter do-it-yourself group when we built our place. Today, the hill has more than 40 well-spaced homes.

We originally bought our lot for its proximity to Saddleback Mountain and winter skiing and we used it year-round on weekends and during vacation periods until we took up residence in Florida two years ago. It’s now our summer home and one of the things we enjoy is a daily morning walk around one of the hillside loops. It’s only two miles but the hilly terrain makes it feel more challenging than our flat, three-mile, daily walk at home. The road is dirt and fine shale and dust is kept down with occasional treatments of calcium chloride. The former pasture land is now dotted with tall trees— spruce, pine, cedar, white birch and poplar.

A left out of our driveway takes us uphill. About a quarter mile up, the next house on the left is the first house built on the hill that wasn’t a cabin. I have memories of my young children building a tree house with the two boys who visited their grandparents there in the summers. Two houses up on that same side, is another of the early houses and I remember how the original owners had a shadow box filled with individual rocks they found on dozens of Maine peaks. A small road climbs to the left and I remember it used to lead to one of the cabins where we enjoyed pancakes made by the owners using blueberries from their expansive blueberry patch.

The right side of our road has three houses and a steep lot that was once the top of a short-lived ski slope. Openings in the trees offer expansive views of the southern end of Rangeley Lake and the Overlook, the hill to our south that was unbuilt on when we arrived and is now dotted with homes and is part of our landowners’ association. The last house in the row is also one of the early ones. It was built by the owner the year before ours went up and we’ve watched it grow in size over the years. The property has morphed from one house into a compound of buildings and we’ve shared many good times there. As we walk past, the scent of balsam wafts from the trees lining their roadside. 

When we arrived here in 1983, the road took a sharp left after that last house and there were no more houses until you took a right after about a mile and came upon some of the old cabins. Today, that mile has about ten houses and one of them is in the process of having an addition built.

 New roads have since been opened at that turn. One continues straight ahead, ending in a cul de sac and another is to the right. Our walk takes us right and downhill. At a curve we pass a break in the woods for power lines. A path underneath them is carved from the ruts of snowmobiles and ATVs . It makes a steep decline on our hill, crosses Nile Brook and has an even steeper incline up the Overlook hill. It reminds me of the adventures our young children had climbing down to Nile Brook and their tales of a baby moose there with long, spindly legs and finding abandoned baby rabbits they nicknamed Sam and Maxie.

One house further down on the left reminds me of former owners who had the odd habit of feeding a bobcat. Continuing downhill from there, the lake comes into view again. On the right is a weathered barn that marks the road leading up to a bed and breakfast.

Along the way, we get hints of animal musk drifting in the clear air. Even when we don’t see them, we know the woods are home to moose, deer, coyotes, foxes, black bear and rabbits. We hear the sounds of bird song. Our eyes feast on glorious wildflowers—lupine, daisies, Indian paintbrush, yellow hawksweed and more. In the woods, a few storm-tossed trees lean. Colorful kayaks are stacked under some house decks. 

Toward the bottom of the hill, the road curves right. Paralleling Route 4 and the lakeshore below it, it touches the upper boundaries of the land occupied by the farm’s original main house and outbuildings. The house has operated as The Farmhouse Inn since the 70s. The most recent owners added a huge event barn about a hundred feet long. Due to the restrictions imposed by the pandemic, it stands temporarily empty and an outdoor wedding arch is gone.

The road climbs uphill until we reach the corner and turn right onto our road again. This is the steepest part of the walk. The next house on the left, next-door to ours, has a small apple orchard and is the home of one of the farmer’s descendants. She was the last baby in that family born in the farmhouse.

Nearing the end of our walk, we turn left into our uphill driveway. It’s a workout!