We traveled up the coast on Saturday, in an effort to change up our scenery some during these last few weeks of winter. We arrived on Bailey Island, where the road ends at the edge of the Atlantic. Winter viewed from the craggy shores of the island seemed fleeting, and it was almost possible to feel wistful for winter's nearing and inevitable end. With a squint of the eyes and blatant ignorance of the gale blasting raw our faces and hands, we could almost imagine that the golden light was that of a summer's day, slowly melting into warm, pink pools over the ocean. At Cook's, the parking lot was suprisingly full and we imagined locals relishing their coffee and chowder, free of tourists and summer people. We saw fishing boats in the cove and traps neatly stacked in driveways that share the same street address with mansions, a contrast that one finds throughout Maine, in the woods or along the coast. Maine is just that sort of place. The kind where the land runs out among coves and rocky channels and it's happy to have you, in any season.