Two weeks ago, getting on the R.V. John M. Kingsbury in Portsmouth, N.H., and heading to Appledore Island, I thought I knew what to expect.
I sit on the deck of an aluminum boat rolling back and forth. The boat surges forward, pushing through the waves and crashing whitecaps. Another wave breaks over the rail of the boat, making wet splatters on our clothes.
Instantly, I notice the cool mountain air. As I open the door, get out of the car, and stretch my legs, I smell the earth, the slight humidity, and tranquility. It’s the crisp scent of fir and pine, the chatter of the chickadees, the echoes of woodpeckers, and the murmur of a beckoning mountain stream.