As we approach the Canadian border, we are on a particularly lonely section of I-95. Few cars are traveling now, letting Ted set the cruise control to 75 mph and relax behind the wheel with The Beach Boys piping in though satellite radio. The moose crossing warnings frequently encountered south of Bangor are no more not because (I suspect) of scarcity but of commonality.
The trees are thick along side of the road forming a dense wall of rods shooting upward. The dominant trees are conifers: pine, spruce and hemlock. In the sections where they form an almost impenetrable mat, the only deciduous trees are white birches.
For over 30 miles driving it appears that the trees are recovering from a fire. Trees with fresh growth are stained black on one side with fresh undergrowth underneath. We are not immune to the type of fires that are currently devastating the West coast.
As we approach the Canadian border, maple and locust are added to the green patina along the road. A few mountains come into view as we pass a stretch of blue lupine alongside the road. Continuous clumps of white-petaled daisies follow in the tall grass yet to be mowed by the highway department. To our right a ridge of flower-like windmills spin elegantly, a reminder of our impact.
The sky is a deep blue though clouds are forming north of us. The sun shines though the spokes of a wheel casting thin shadows on us through the moonroof. We have yet to see a moose, but the crossing into Canada is close at hand.
