In 1981, after a hot, humid summer in Arkansas, I flew to Maine to look at a practice opportunity. The town was rather small but the medical community was welcoming and, of course, the prospect of living amidst the rugged mountains, glacial lakes, deep woods and spectacular seascapes of that State was surely appealing.
During my visit, one of the older physicians, sensing my enthusiasm for the local geography, took me for a drive up the Carrabassett River Valley, through the fragrant Northwoods, studded with ponds and bogs. The air was cool, mountains loomed in the distance and signs warning of wayward moose were spaced along the roadway. In contrast to the sluggish, muddy streams of the Deep South, the clear, chilly waters of the Carrabassett rushed above gravel beds and splashed among ancient boulders, dropped by the Pleistocene ice sheets.
For a variety of reasons, we declined the opportunity in Maine and ended up in the dry, sunny climate of the Front Range. Though I have no regrets, I often recall that drive along the Carrabassett River, especially when summer heat saps my enthusiasm for outdoor adventure. Over the past week, those flashbacks have come in steady waves.