I had been told about the Allagash since childhood – it was enigmatic. Few details were given, most likely because few were known, but the mind of the child went where no info was given. There were stories of big, scary woodsmen who would no doubt do something horrible and yet to be named to any visitor. I was all the more intrigued. On one visit to northern Maine, my uncle, a resident of Eagle Lake, assured me that those inhabitants would pose no problem at all. My father and mother remained steadfast in their view and threw their hands up in despair over a son who apparently was determined to explore the inner world.

The Maine North Woods region (which some call the Allagash, a river and wilderness waterway) is an extremely large and unusual area, relatively unknown to outsiders and even to many current and former Maine residents, yet it occupies roughly one-quarter of the state, an area of over 5,000 square miles, approximately the size of the entire state of Connecticut.

What is unusual is that the area is predominantly privately owned by a number of timber corporations. Within its borders, there are no towns, only unpaved lumbering roads. A small area, the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, a state protected region, lies within the Maine North Woods.
The Maine North Woods is open to visitors – naturalists who go there to fish, canoe, and explore one of the most isolated and last true wilderness regions of the United States. It is accessible via various checkpoints and a very nominal entrance fee.

And so it was some years ago that I did at last make the decision to visit the area. I had rented a room in Greenville, Maine, where I spent time at Kokadjo, a remarkable restaurant that left an indelible imprint on my mind. It was from Kokadjo that I left for my exploration – I was forewarned by the owner that the roads were troublesome and best not toured in a passenger automobile. Undaunted, I was spurred on with just another in a series of warnings that were falling on deaf ears. I left excited, arrived at the checkpoint, and, with little ado, was heading north. I quickly learned why this wilderness area was not a top tourist attraction. The roads are dominated nearly 100% by enormous lumbering trucks with precarious loads of cut trees. The clouds of dust left behind as trucks roar down the dirt roads is HORRIFIC – I soon learned that the only way to navigate these roads was to stop and wait until the dust cleared before resuming. It was tedious and tiresome.

But, no worry, my tedium was to be short-lived – within an extraordinarily short distance, I felt and heard the telltale signs of a dreaded flat. I REALLY did not want to deal with changing a flat here in the Maine woods – my car was layered in dust. To add insult to injury, I had developed a worrisome chronic squeaking sound. I had no choice – there were no inhabitants, no towns, no service stations. I was on my own, and I already imagined the chorus of “I told you so” on the future retelling of this story to my family.

I exited the car and stood behind it, mustering the will to deal with the filthy job of changing a flat in the hot sun on a car consumed with dust. I had not stood more than seconds when the driver of a lumbering truck stopped, assessed the situation, asked for my keys, opened my trunk, and began to change the flat without even asking if I needed help. I was shocked how this complete stranger rose to the occasion without request or any obligation to do so. This was classic Maine spirit – in an environment where just breaking down in the harsh winter can be fatal, locals have learned that working together and offering a helping hand is necessary.

The truck driver’s handiwork was done in no time. He assured me that my experience was common on roads littered with nails and other debris. He also assured me that the squeaking sound was nothing serious – it was due to dust in the brake linings from traveling the roads there, another common occurrence in these parts.
However, I was dismayed that the spare tire provided on cars was no longer a duplicate of the standard, like that of olden times, but was now a small “doughnut,” designed to be ridden only a few miles to get one’s flat tire serviced. So my exploration of the Allagash was to be cut short. Back I went to Kokadjo to see what the general store may offer in the way of repair.

I had barely walked in the door, and the owner immediately caught my eye and asked if I had gotten a flat. I was startled by his precognitive abilities as I got my first round of “I told you so’s.” Frustrated by my initial defiance, the owner toured me through his small retail store, locating a patch kit and instructing me on its use and the repair of steel belted radial tires.

On Saturday, May 19, 2012, I was cruising my neighborhood for a parking spot. The seasoned New York City street parker will not only scan for empty spots, but will also canvas for idling vehicles and pedestrians making their way towards parked cars. As I approached Duane Reade on Waverly Place, I noticed a man in a parked car. I asked if he was pulling out. He said he would be, but only as soon as he got a jump for his car, which now sported a dead battery.

If there is a God, I was now being tested. Beyond getting a parking spot, would I help this man for the right reason? And if karma really is operative, would I be propelled to make a repayment for the act of kindness in the Maine Woods? Knowing this man’s plight, it would be unconscionable not to offer assistance. I carry jumper cables, and boosting a car battery is only a few minutes work. This was an opportunity to soften the harsh world of New York City, a place certainly not renowned for benevolent acts.

I learned that the owner of the car, Hasan Sims, had called a friend for help. I suggested that he call his friend back to avoid an unnecessary trip. I also learned that Hasan worked the night shift at the neighboring Duane Reade and had taken a nap in his vehicle. In the few minutes we worked to start his car, we spoke openly about the various motivations I might have in helping him. I assured him that although getting a parking spot was the primary goal, I was working on something new – being a better person. Unfortunately, time did not allow me to to tell him that I also had a debt to repay for a deed done by an unknown trucker In the Allagash 🙂

Note to the intrepid traveler: I was finally to explore the Maine North Woods on a future trip, entering from the north at the town of Allagash, near the Canadian border.

More about parking: Nice Move, Kid, Pull Ahead, WFF ‘N PROOF

Kindness and rudeness in New York City: Random Acts of Rudeness, Area Code 714 (Part 1 and Part 2)