There is really something to these things called vacations.

Aside from being just a tad physically tired and having to face the structured daily routine, I returned mentally laid back. Of course having a Monday holiday and a four-day week helped immensely.

Actually getting away helped too. My wife, Kathy, and I, unencumbered by child or pets, headed for Grand Manan Island a couple of weeks ago. It was a first for us but not the last. We came back vowing we’d return.

The time to go is the middle to the end of August. That’s when the whales are hanging around. There were whales just a stone’s throw (no, we did not throw stones) off shore. We spent a sunset one evening watching finbacks, minkes and porpoises off Long Eddy Point from a wooden helicopter pad. The sunset was spectacular over Cutler, the beer was chilled, the chips, cheese and dip were great, and we sat back in our Crazy Creek chairs and drank in the beauty until well past sunset – along with about 25 others who turned out to do the same.

One evening we drove to the southernmost point at Southwest Head where the cliffs are an awesome 200 or more feet tall and straight down to the ocean. We got there just as the sun settled below the clouds over Eastport and turned the baby blue and gray sky vermilion. Through my binoculars I could count the communications towers at Cutler and just make out the lighthouse on Machias Seal Island to the south.

We set up a small tent at The Anchorage, a provincial park on Long Pond Bay, and used it as our base camp for three days as we checked out all we could. (My wife, thankfully, insisted on packing a self-inflating, queen-sized Aerobed that we fired up. It totally filled the tent, so there was no rolling off it. Getting into and out of the tent was a challenge, but the mattress sure was comfortable).

One afternoon we paddled our kayaks off the sandy beach at Seal Cove and explored the salmon pens moored offshore, watching the frisky little buggers jumping clear of the water in wild abandon. While we didn’t spend a lot of time paddling, we discovered several places that have great potential on another trip. Another day we hiked an easy trail along the shore to Red Point, about a mile and a half from our campsite.

To shake the routine up a bit on another day we drove across a neck of land exposed at low tide to Ross Island and did some four-wheeling on a rather rough road. The going was slow and bumpy, the kayaks were on the roof racks and the old Jeep was acting up, so we settled for going only halfway down the island to an abandoned lighthouse opposite Ingalls Head. On the way back we stopped on the bar and collected a bag of scallop shells.

Another day we took the toll-free ferry from Ingalls Head to White Head Island and drove the entire road network (all 3.5 miles of it) checking out the tiny island where fishermen make their homes. (There is a small campground on the island. It’s not officially open, but you can stay for free and get water across the road at a home.)

A mile or so walk on the island’s southern shore took us out to the lighthouse at Long Point where we heated some water for instant noodle soup to ward off the afternoon chill (love that JetBoil stove).

Fishermen I talked with on the island painted a bleak picture of their industry. One lobster fisherman told me the fin fishing was the worst he has ever seen it in his 70 years. That means little or no bait. A younger boat owner who was fishing for crabs (the lobster season begins in November) with a crew of two said that day would be his last on the water. The cost of fuel – $200 per day before Katrina – and paying his two crewmen each $150 made the cost prohibitive. He was hanging it up.

On Grand Manan, the Connor Brothers herring packing plant closed in April, throwing some 400 people out of work. All over the island there were “for sale” signs on well-kept homes.

Despite what looks like a bleak picture almost everyone we talked with was upbeat and friendly. It may have been appreciation for having tourist money in town, or it just may be that island living is good for the soul. About the only negative talk we ran into was criticism of CNN news, mostly for what they said was its U.S. parochialism and some for its “liberal” slant – no mention of Fox News, maybe they don’t get it on their cable.

At North Head where the ferry from Blacks Harbor lands, we found a bar/restaurant that met nearly all my criteria for a great establishment: Country music (higher priority), NASCAR on the tube (lower priority), a wide selection of meals and a good variety of beer (top priority).

Since this trip was more of an exploratory one, we economized a bit by snacking here and there and preparing a few convenience-type meals at the campsite. Next time we’ll check out a few of the bed-and-breakfasts that dot the island.

With the gasoline situation being what it is now, I’d suggest getting on the ferry with a full tank of gas. We filled up in Bangor before leaving and that left us with a low tank after several days of exploring the 55-square-mile island. To relieve the anxiety of driving around on less than a quarter of a tank we plunked down $30 for 24 or 25 liters of gasoline (around $1.17 per liter). That brought the tank to slightly over half. I decided to wait until I got back into Maine to fill the tank.

During our last day on the island, we explored Swallowtail Light on the northeast corner just up from the ferry landing. The lighthouse sits high on a rocky promontory. The south side had a few weirs that looked unused except by four or five seals that cavorted in and out of the nets. On the northeast side a finback whale entertained us. It slowly made its way toward Whale Cove, turned around and passed in front of us. This happened several times in the hour or so we watched.

Later on the ferry we scanned the bay with binoculars, sighting about a dozen other whales and a score of porpoises. The next time I go I plan to take a whale watch tour and get a little closer to these magnificent animals. There’s one tour operator I heard about who takes you out on a sailboat.

As we neared the end of the ferry ride ($50.20 cents for a car and two passengers, paid only on return to mainland) I couldn’t help but think that our five island days had passed too quickly. But there’s always next year, and I have a pretty good feeling we’ll be headed back. Heck, it’s close enough that it could be a long weekend trip.

The fun continues

During Week Two of my summer laziness my brother, Dan, ventured north. He had a business trip in Rhode Island. We headed to Milbridge to visit with our parents. After Katrina passed through we let the ocean chill for a day before heading out for a paddling adventure that began at Pigeon Hill. Bois Bubert (Bo Bare in Down East dialect) beckoned us and we headed south to round the seaward end. Close to the south end we hopped a sand bar and slid into a calm Little Bois Bubert Harbor.

A couple of deer at the shore paid us no mind as we headed out to sea. I swear, in retrospect, I can hear one of them laughing at us. As we cleared the harbor we started a sleigh ride over six- to eight-foot rollers breaking on the island’s southern ledges. From there back to the northern end near the Douglas islands it was pretty much white-knuckle paddling.

We headed to the eastern side of Trafton Island where once again we got into rollers coming past Pond Island. Between Trafton and Tommy islands the swells and refracted waves did their best to swat at us from every direction. It wasn’t much fun. After a brief respite and a bite to eat on a sheltered beach on the eastern side of Trafton Island we headed north along the western side of Dyer then up the eastern side of Foster Island and into Wallace Cove on Rays Point. We’d covered more than 13 miles, according to Dan’s GPS.

It was time to call for a ride home.

A couple days later I headed out of Stover’s Cove, crossed Narraguagus Bay and circumnavigated Foster Island.

Then on Labor Day seas were much friendlier, and my wife decided she’d like to go for a short kayak trip. We took the boats to Wallace Cove and headed to a sandy beach at the northern end of Fosters. After beach-combing we launched again. To my surprise my wife was interested in paddling along the western shore. We wound up at the southern tip of the island before long, spying a couple of seals and an eagle in transit. Kathy was ready to cross the bay and head for Wyman, but I thought it best to head north up the western side of Foster and go back to our car.

That turned out to be a muddy decision – by about a half-hour. When we got back to the cove the tide had receded enough to leave about 40 feet of slimy, brown mud flats exposed. It was a slippery, yucky trudge to hard ground, but a cottage owner, Mrs. Fickett, who watched our mucky excursion, offered us a bucket of warm water to use to clean up. For that we were grateful.

Jeff Strout’s column on outdoor recreation is published each Saturday. He can be reached at 990-8202 or by e-mail at jstrout@bangordailynews.net.