Good morning! Welcome to Bangor! Hope you’re enjoying the National Folk Festival in our fair burgh!

(In case you’re wondering, the organizing committee for the festival got a great deal on exclamation points over at Marden’s, then distributed them to those of us in the print media so we’d sound acceptably bubbly when we welcomed you to town. Rest assured that I’m not nearly this chipper in person … though I am darned glad to have you in town!).

This festival, as you may or may not have gathered, is, as we say in these parts, a wicked big deal for us. Heck, we haven’t seen such an influx of people since … since … since the Phish concert a couple weeks ago … but all as it turns out, all those Phish-heads were only interested in our beer and our gas.

You folks actually want to be in Bangor! Good for you! Good for us!

Let me introduce myself: I know. I know. You already know my name … and have a pretty good idea what I look like. The column logo takes care of that.

What you may not know is what I do. For 51 weeks a year, I’m an outdoors columnist. Accordingly, I write about deer and bears and meese (go ahead, say “meese” to a local … they’ll think you’re quite funny … but realize that they’ll be laughing with you, not at you). I also write about fish of all shapes, sizes and varieties. I write about mountains and woods and paths and trails. I write about all kinds of wildlife (except the kind that attended the Phish concert, which I wasn’t invited to cover … probably for good reasons).

But one week a year, I’m something entirely different. As it turns out, this is your lucky week! This week, I’m a real-life, in-demand, genuine local. And I’m happy to be your self-appointed tour guide, trail guide, and mentor to all things Maine … or at least, all things Bangor.

Hold on a minute while I switch hats.

OK. First off, it’s important that you realize something. You are in Maine. But you’re not in the same Maine you were in when you first got to Maine, about 180 miles ago. Not even close.

Confused? Bear with me. It’s really quite simple.

Up here, we call this unnatural phenomenon “The Two Maines.” Down south, where it’s warm, there’s one Maine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear the sound of this greater Portland metropolis steadily sneaking toward us. We up here in the hinterlands (more on this in a moment) like to disdainfully dismiss that Maine as a suburb of Boston … not that there’s anything wrong with the Red Sox or the Celtics or anything.

That Maine is urban … almost. It’s got money … in places. And, as we proudly – or stubbornly – proclaim, It’s Not Us.

Welcome to what we up here like to call “The Other Maine.”

The first thing you ought to know about our Maine – the one that stretches north all the way to the Canadian border – is that when you’re in Bangor … you’re not really in the hinterlands at all.

Ignore the fact that you drove through the woods to get here. Ignore that largely forested, somewhat monotonous stretch from Waterville north on Interstate 95.

You are not in the woods. You are not roughing it. And you are not in danger of wandering into the wilderness and getting lost or eaten by a bear, a herd of meese (feel free to laugh with me here) or a rabid deer. Well, most of you aren’t. Truth is, every once in awhile, a rogue tourist does barge into town, make a few a few basic errors, and test this theory.

You are in town. That’s what many of us call it, whether we grew up in Brewer or Holden or Glenburn. As in, “Hey, Bertha. I’ll be back in awhile. I’ve got to go into town and see about getting me a new used truck.”

So, on behalf of all of us real-life, in-demand, genuine locals, Welcome to Town!

Now, let me point out something else. Not all of us farm potatoes. Not all of us fish for lobster. (I know, you’re largely a pretty smart and worldly group, so you have likely figured that part out already).

But you may not know this: Every Maine accent you’ve ever heard on TV is awful, inaccurate, and offensive. Look around. Listen to us. You will not find anyone here in The Other Maine who sounds like Tom Bosley on Murder She Wrote.

Also, you might want to know that the word “Ayuh,” which roughly translates as “You betcha, Mr. Man,” is over-rated … and under-used.

As a matter of fact, you’ll be much more likely to find someone who’ll say, “We wuz,” (also known in the journalism trade as a “We-wuzzer”) than you will to find someone who says “Ayuh.”

One last point on this: If you decide that you’re in Maine … and you want to try out the language … and you simply must try to say “Ayuh,” it’s important to realize you will sound like Tom Bosley in “Murder She Wrote.” And at this point, we may be laughing at you … not with you.

Now, about wildlife (since this is, by definition, an Outdoors Column, and since some of you will never believe me and still insist that you’re in the woods, we ought to address this topic).

Bears can eat you, but won’t … well, that’s what we tell the tourists, anyway.

Moose can’t eat you, but can ruin your car. Also, they’re fun to look at, and remarkably easy to ride. Honest. (OK. Maybe I’m laughing at you again … but I can put you in touch with a man who claims to have ridden one).

Deer won’t eat you, and could dent your car … but remember this: It’s not the first deer that gets you; it’s the one who’s following the first deer that will send you to the auto body shop.

Raccoons aren’t as cute as they look. Neither are porcupines and skunks. We have plenty of each.

Foxes are as cute as they look … but should also be left alone.

We don’t have wolves in Maine … or do we? (The jury is still out on this, though many people insist that they’re out there). And since I don’t know if we have them, I can’t tell you if they’ll eat you or not.

Now, on to other matters that may help you adjust to life here in town:

. Blaze orange is always in style. You can accessorize with it, cover yourself in it, and even dress your dog in it.

. Ditto flannel. Especially plaid flannel. (Be aware, however, that if you wear flannel and it’s warmer than 70 degrees, you’re officially “from away.”

. “From Away” means that you’re not a Mainer.

. Being a Mainer means that you must have been born here … on purpose … and must live here … on purpose.

. Being born here while your parents vacationed here doesn’t count. Neither does living here and griping about it … unless you were born here and never moved away. In that case, you’ve got the right to gripe if you so choose.

. Paul Bunyan is ours. The people in Minnesota tried to steal him … but we know better. He’s a Mainer. And he’s allowed to wear flannel no matter how hot it is.

. Finally, we’re glad you’re here! We’re friendly! (Sorry, but they allotted me two more exclamation points that I had to use up). And we hope you have a great time.

Welcome to town.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.