Actually, to say that we're away from civilization is incorrect. We are close to the town of Rangeley, but we are not going that way. Rather than circumvent the mountains, we are going to plow right through them just as we did to get here.
We're going to get started home if we can figure out why the car keeps beeping. "There's a door open," my sister says, looking at the dashboard.
We both open and close our front doors a few times, but the light stays on. "Maybe it's the rear hatch," I say. After all, we tossed off our heels and put some gear back there when we exited the church. I start to get out of the car when I walk smack into the rear passenger-side door, wide open exactly as I left it. I start laughing, then my sister starts laughing.
One of the other performers rolls down his window and calls over to us. "Hey! You're having too much fun over there!" This is true. We really are having too much fun, but this is how our life together is. We gather our wits, though, as people warn us the route we are taking is known for moose strikes: cars hitting them and them hitting cars, both kinds with serious injuries and sometimes fatalities of the animal and the human kind.
After a quick stop at the public restrooms, which are, mercifully, still open as dusk falls, we are on our way. We have waters, snacks, and some sandwiches still in our stash, so we begin tearing into everything as soon as we're out of the village. We need energy to be on Moose Watch. It may sound like a game, but we did spend several years living in the woods of New Hampshire as kids, and my sister still lives in a relatively rural area; we understand the realities of Man vs. Nature.
Even though our eyes scan the mountain road and the shoulder, the only animal we come across is a possum with glowing teal eyes. We stop at one of the scenic overlooks to take a last picture or two as the sun fades away, and we are passed by the only car we will see for many miles. The moon and the stars come out, brilliant and magnificent with the span of sky we can see from where we are.
As we get back on our way, the sillies come out. We rewrite lyrics to songs, singing such newly retooled hits as, "Are the stars out tonight? I can't tell if it's cloudy or bright, 'cause I only have eyes for moooooooooooose, deeeeeeeer..." We don't truly relax until we've woven back through the dangerous construction, now deserted, where the road gapes open with a trench through its center running about four feet wide by five feet deep by about one hundred yards long. If we accidentally swerve too close, we will topple in; we watched an eighteen-wheeler nearly get swallowed in this exact spot on our way north.
Every time we pass a sign that reads "low shoulder," which is every few miles, we shrug our shoulders as far down as we can then bust out laughing, as if this is still funny after the tenth time we do it (it is). Her creepy GPS occasionally speaks to us when we least expect it, scaring the buhjeezus out of us but also comforting us as an extra passenger to keep us awake.
We roll back into Southern Maine at a respectable hour -- eleven-ish -- still dressed in our concert togs, and even have time for a quick few rounds of Cribbage before we fall over dead asleep, another successful adventure under our traveling belts.
