Truth is stranger than fiction. And apparently, I'm stranger than anything the fine folk of Maine have seen in awhile.

Spent the morning being interviewed and photographed by The Portland Press Herald. We agreed that in the interest of my NOT being stalked, they would not publish this Web site address. The reporter, Jen Fish (Hi, Jen!) tells me they won't run the story for a couple of days so I may be out of the state before they make me famous. What is fame good for? Well, it got me off the hook with the hotel manager. Jen told him my story and thereby talked him out of busting me for having dogs in a no-pets establishment.

For your amusement: www.pressherald.com

Limped to the store for ace bandages and tape. I'm not sure what I'll do with them, but it feels right to have them. We're on the road again tomorrow -- the weather is just too beautiful to spend sitting inside.

Halloween thoughts...I don't know if Maine goes "batty" for all holidays, but they go all out for Halloween.  In the laundromat today, I overheard that they didn't even have school today in Wells.  Seemingly every house is decorated, from the mailbox to the rooftop, with some seriously scary stuff.  The kids here really have to earn their candy.  A particular favorite, apparently, is the arched-back, black cat silhouette.  There are thousands of these...and my dogs are fooled each and every time.

No cool photos today, so I drew you some pictures...

Inside the tent/top-view: How we fall asleep:

Inside the tent/top-view: How we wake up:

Sheep.

I have never been able to encapsulate in a single word my reasons for doing this trek. And yet, if the trek were to end tomorrow, I could say why with just one word -- sheep.

Maine apparently alternates its weather on some every-other-day-is-perfect schedule and today was the day for perfection. And so we set out this morning from our rogue campsite with high hearts. (Our campsite, by the way, was on the banks of the lovely Saco river which we followed all day yesterday -- going west -- then forded at Saco and spent all day today following -- going east. Such is life.) (We were on the grounds of some lovely institution -- perhaps an assisted-living center, perhaps a home for the criminally insane. It was hard to tell, but the grounds were lovely.)

Route 9 out of Saco is a lovely road: nice, broad shoulder and a view of the river around every bend. Like much of Maine, it has its share of Ted Kaczinsky-styled shacks, but these gave way to some truly lovely homes as we neared the ocean.

But then there were sheep. A small farm, straight out of the English countryside, fat, wooly sheep grazing -- nearly motionless -- on a gentle hillside. The road was climbing as it passed the farm and there was a sharp drop off on our side. At some point Buster deduced that -- even though none of the shapes on the hill had moved -- they were living creatures and so he barked at them.

And the sheep did what sheep do: They ran.

And the dogs did what wolves do: They chased.

I had both dogs tethered together and then tethered around my waist. I had both hands on the chariot, pushing it from behind. As soon as they reached the end of the leash, the 205 lbs. of dog lifted me off my feet. I had a choice to make and chose to keep hold of the chariot -- there was some vague concern that it would roll down the hill we had just climbed and into traffic, causing an accident at the worst, and making me backtrack half a mile to retrieve it at best. As I fell, I remember distinctly a decision that I did not want to be falling face first, and rolling onto my back. I also remember fearing that the chariot would land on top of me and putting my legs in the air to keep it from landing on my head. Adrenaline really does help those synapses fire.

At the bottom of the hill, the dogs encountered a fence and came to a halt. I slid to a stop soon thereafter and the chariot -- fortunately -- stopped midway down the hill having ejected all of its contents in a wide debris field.

I had a temper tantrum like some white-trash mother in K-Mart during a blue-light special.

I called Buster every name in the book -- including one that turned out not to be an insult at all, just a statement of fact (think about it....).

After expressing my feelings, my next concern was to ascertain if my spine was broken (I couldn't imagine it wouldn't be) so started out by wiggling my toes. My left ankle hurt, but then, everything hurt, so I climbed back up the hill and began reassembling the chariot. At some point, the dogs and I forgave each other and got back to the enjoyment of a blue-skied, two-layer day.

We walked for the next eight hours, through Cape Porpoise -- which is just as charming as it sounds. There we met a lovely man named Alan who steered us to the best Cape Porpoise has to offer. (I enjoyed a rare roast-beef and fresh dill sandwich sitting in the sun at the center of town.) From there to Kennebunk, where charming is shoved down your throat ("YE OLDE SEAFARING SOUVENIR SHOPPE!") The place was horribly crowded on a Thursday afternoon in nearly-November. What sort of living hell must it be in the summer? And from there to Wells Beach. I had wanted to make Wells Beach because it was the first place KP and I stayed in Maine when she brought me up here to begin this trek. Was that really just four weeks ago? It seems like a lifetime. Anyway, I had dreams of camping on Wells Beach..but still a few miles from the beach and an hour after dark realized I was having trouble walking. We detoured into the Elmwood Hotel and after I'd fed and watered the dogs, I went to take off my shoes. My shoes had been wet this morning when I put them on -- a victim of yesterday's deluge. Apparently, they had molded themselves to my foot because as soon as I took the shoes off, my left ankle ballooned to twice the size of the other.

I've swallowed a few of Buster's aspirin and wrapped a towel-ful of ice around the offending joint, but it is not a pretty sight. I've tried walking on it, but that doesn't feel so good, so I'll try resting it tonight and give it another try in the morning. Wish me luck. Or send me a crutch. You decide.

Soaked. Sodden. Near-drowned. Last night it rained, rained so hard in fact that when I first woke up this morning, I made the command decision that we we were staying put until it let up. After all, it was nice and dry INSIDE the tent.

But then -- just as I always imagined -- there was an authoritative "hello" from outside the tent and an officer of the law tappin' on the rain fly. But (in the restore-your-faith-in-humanity department), he was not there to kick us off the beach. He was there to tell me that a high tide was expected in about two hours and he thought my tent might be pitched too close to the water. As it turns out, camping is allowed on the beach -- as are dogs from Labor Day to Memorial Day. Nonetheless, since we had to move the tent anyway, I started packing. And got soaked. The downpour, combined with the sand on which we were camped, formed a thick, gritty paste which has coated every surface of every item I brought along. (The fine folk at Best Buy are going to regret selling me that three-year warranty on this laptop.) I swear the Chariot is ten pounds heavier.

It turns out we were camped just outside Orchard Beach -- a Twilight-Zone town-that-time-forgot. You could film a movie set in the 1950s here and not change a thing. It was also eerily empty, just the dogs and me on a wide sidewalk made for strolling. Route 9 took us through a dozen lovely beach neighborhoods, kept private by the expediency of disallowing all street parking. On the other side of Route 9 is a marsh with -- apparently -- much huntable wildlife. Our ears were ringing from shotgun blasts every five minutes. Very peaceful. We also passed a convent and the idea of nuns on the beach amused me for hours. The rain continued off and on throughout the day. Just outside Saco, stopped for more dog food. The dogs are crazy-hungry all the time -- do they make protein bars for dogs? Maybe I could tie some chicken to the Chariot and let them snack as we walk along.

Speaking of dog snacks...discovered that among the items that got soaked was the dog food concentrate which -- just as advertised -- expanded and formed "a thick, tasty gravy" all over everything.  The dogs enjoyed cleaning up for me.

The terrain has -- at last -- mercifully -- flattened. No more heartbreaking hills. Someone should let the folks north of here know that this is how a beach is SUPPOSED to be.

Woke this morning and noticed right away that I couldn't see my breath in the cold air. At first, I suspected I might be dead -- but then realized that it was just warm. Oddly warm. Two-layer warm. Which is a good thing because it is also gray and drizzly and without the warmth, might have been characterized as an icky day. Unfortunately, because it's so warm, I can't wear a hat without looking like a crazy person. Had to wash my hair in the ocean because -- without the hat -- I look like a person who hasn't showered in days.

Broke down camp in record time and race-walked back to Port Clyde, getting there just at 9:30 -- which is the time the ferry ticket office opens. Unless it's the first day of daylight savings time, in which case it opens at 10:30 which is really 9:30 which is really...oh, forget it. Got a cup of coffee and a muffin at the general store, and some cheese for the dogs. Now we're sitting in the mud room of the ticket office, waiting for someone to tell us how we're going to get out of Muscongus Bay!

No joy. The ferry was running to Monhegan, just no ferry from there to Boothbay. While we were waiting on the dock, we made friends with a nice man named Ollie who was from Norway. Ollie brought me a flower. Granted, he picked it from a flower bed that wasn't his, but the thought was good. Another man on the dock helped me snag a buoy for Michaela's collection. Mind you, I'm the one who had to climb down the rickety ladder and plunge my hand in icy water, but again, he helped.

I think "compliance" is the word. Maine's inhabitants -- rugged individualists -- are also the most compliant people I've ever met: comfortable with rules and very uncomfortable with people who don't know the rules. I think this accounts for the attitude they display whenever you suggest that there might be a ferry running. They are offended that you don't understand ferries are seasonal AND THE SEASON IS OVER! By simply inquiring, I seem to be challenging the rules and making people hugely uncomfortable. Maybe they just get tired of explaining the same thing to the same dumb tourists year after year.

Finally caught a ride to South Portland with Vivian (a "he" Vivian, not a "she" Vivian). Vivian lives in Port Clyde, in fact, had seen us walk past his house on the way into town from our rogue campsite. After 20 years of "lobster fishing" (his phrase, not mine), he had retired to a life of huntin' and fishin'. We talked good eats (venison=yes, bear=no, moose=maybe). We talked good hunting (shotgun=yes, bow and arrow=no). We talked wild turkey vs. Butterball (wild). We talked about Maine's casino referendum (his vote would be no, he thinks the state is too crowded and casinos would just bring in more tourists).

We got out of Muscongus Bay and Casco Bay in one swell foop, landing in South Portland where we again pick up the Atlantic Ocean.