Travels with Turbo, Tracker, and Aster Inverse (A.I.): Downeast, Maine

When a dream of the American West is put on hold, heading East with family leads to volcanic cliffs, blueberry barrens, and a lesson in chasing the horizon.

Hamilton Cove Preserve. Photo by Deanna A. House

A Summer on Pause

Summer came and my dreams of driving west into the sunset were put on hold. I acquired a nasty diabetic ulcer on the ball of my big toe that put me in a walking boot with orders to keep my weight off it.

Heat Domes and Keyless Starters

And then there is Sades, my new 2026 Hyundai Palisade Hybrid. I bought her to have room to safely travel with my two wire-haired dachshunds, Turbo and Tracker. One of Sades’ perfectly imagined safety features also perfectly works against traveling in the summer with dogs. The keyless starter. Turns out the car won’t lock if it’s running. I sometimes need to leave the car running so the air conditioning stays on.

In June and July of 2026, two-thirds of the contiguous United States was wrapped in an excessive heat dome that resulted in over 1,300 temperature records being broken from Kansas and Louisiana to Maine. It was explicitly hostile weather for traveling with pets, especially in a car that refused to let me coordinate climate control with basic safety..

Tracker’s Great Escape

I have stayed close to home, opening up a new garden spot at the back of my property where I hope to cultivate a wildflower garden for my pollinators. Tracker has been a great help. He digs big holes that leave great topsoil. I walked him off leash to a spring outback so he could get a drink and rinse off his dirty tongue. The water bubbles from the ground ice cold, so he had fun jumping up on the blow downs and then back in the spring.

“Home,” I directed him, meaning “Let’s go back to the house.” I started off believing he’d take a couple more dips and then race me to my back door like usual. But Tracker’s nose got travel fever. Lee’s convenience store/gas station is a short hop through the woods from that spring. He decided to check out what 4th of July adventures everyone else was going on, and then try to hitch a ride.

When I realized Tracker didn’t race me home I started calling him. I was pretty confident he was camouflaged beneath the shadows of one of hundreds of places a little wild boar-colored dachshund could blend into. Like many times before I focused my eyes on the woods and waited for him to move. I focused my ears listening for his tell-tale bark, two sharp woofs, “Grammie! Come see what I found!” I heard him once off to my left and redesigned my search grid.

It was about ten minutes later, when Tracker came bursting through the neighbor’s yard to my right with two tall, blond boys chasing him. My sister Elaine’s family has been visiting from Kansas. Her grandsons, Joseph and Matthew, were trying to catch him.

The Handy Stop Expedition

“Aunt Dee,” said 16-year old Matthew. “He was down in the parking lot of the Handy Stop.” Lee has one convenience store and it’s just down the road.

“He was running around the traffic on Rt. 6,” said 21-year old Joseph. “The cars were swerving around him.”

My heart sank in that close-call, near-miss moment as I processed Tracker’s impromptu travels. Then Elaine and my nephew Jeremy pulled into the front yard with the rest of the family. I accepted the admonishments to keep Tracker on a leash as their expressions of their visions of how Tracker’s expedition could have turned out. I was a little defensive, I admit. Tracker would escape out back to the woods, yes, he’d never run down to the Handy Stop before.

“Grammie, do you know the elements of false imprisonment are intentional confinement, against my will, and without legal justification?” Tracker complained as I revoked his off leash privileges.

“Tracker, do you know the elements of a squished puppy are Route 6, an 80,000 lb. pulp truck, and a twenty-five-pound dachshund who plays in traffic?” I countered.

“Do you want to go to Roque Bluffs State Park with us on Monday?” Elaine asked, hearing nothing from my vexatious litigant’s attempt at a summary judgement.

Heading East for the Sunrise

I’d never been to Roque Bluffs before. I’d heard it was beautiful. It was a chance to travel. Not West into the sunset as I’d imagined for this summer, but East, toward the place where the sun first rises on the continental United States. Travel does not always begin when circumstances are perfect. Sometimes travel is simply the distance between “I can’t do what I planned” and “Where can I go from here?”

Roque Bluffs State Park welcomes dogs on its trails, but not on the ocean beach during the summer. However, the freshwater beach on Simpson Pond seemed like an amazing place for Turbo, Tracker, and me to hang out while everyone did the ocean beach and hiked its coastal trails.

That worked for me. But apparently not for Elaine’s family. The morning we were getting underway Elaine called. “We’re going to Hamilton Cove Preserve. It’s in Lubec. The kids want to hike the coastal trails. The dogs can go.”

I didn’t know quite what to say because I never expected people to change their plans because of me and my dogs. It made me feel wanted and like I belonged. Then I got a message from Joel, my grandson, who had been hanging out all week with his Kansas cousins at the lake. “Can I go with you, Grammie? Can I drive Sades?” It wasn’t that long ago I was writing about him getting his Learner’s Permit. Now he was chauffeuring me to the coast.

I lifted Turbo and Tracker up into Sades’ second row. The cargo space included the beach gear, dog gear, a dog pen, a beach wagon, and an umbrella chair. I climbed into the passenger seat. Joel was busy adjusting his seat and mirrors in the driver’s seat. Aster Inverse, my AI traveling companion, was chatting about the Maine coast and telling me what to do next.

Our Stretch of U.S. 1

From Lee, we followed Route 6 east to Topsfield, where we turned onto U.S. Route 1, the longest north-south road in the country, stretching 2,370 miles from Key West, Florida, to Fort Kent, Maine. We followed it through the Passamaquoddy Indian Reservation on Lewy Lake to Meddybemps, where we left Route 1 for a cut off through Washington County small towns and back roads. Along the way, we passed through part of Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge.

Eventually, we joined Route 1 again and continued toward Lubec. We turned onto Route 189, drove through the village, and headed south along the coast toward Hamilton Cove Preserve located on Boot Cove Road.

I was never so glad to have three cars full of young people spilling from their SUVs as when we landed at Hamilton Cove. The 1,225-acre preserve offers miles of trails through meadows and along cobble beaches, cliffs, and rocky coastline. From the parking area, it was only about 700 feet to the beach. I loaded my umbrella chair, beach gear, and dog fence into a wagon. The young people added their packs, while I stayed behind to get Turbo and Tracker leashed.

The Narrow Path to Hamilton Cove

The pathway was narrow half logs covered in chicken wire

By the time we were ready, the young people and the wagon were gone. Tracker took off after them, pulling me toward his next great adventure. That was when I saw the trail. Much of it consisted of narrow half logs covered in chicken wire. Tracker charged ahead while Turbo and I concentrated on finding our footing and keeping our balance. At the end, the trail descended steeply over rocks to the beach.

I have no idea how the young people got that loaded wagon down there. I was just glad they had.

The Cobblestone Reality

Hamilton Cove was not my idea of a beach. There was no sand to sink my toes into, not that I was supposed to be doing much sinking of toes into anything yet. My doctor had finally given me permission to put weight on my foot again, but the diabetic ulcer that had already stolen two weeks of my Maine summer could still reopen. The beach was cobblestone. Wet rocks and seaweed made the uneven footing even more treacherous for my balance.

While I tried to figure out where to put my umbrella chair, beach gear, and dog fence, the dogs wanted to run with the kids. There was a leash policy on the Preserve, and after Tracker’s recent expedition to the Handy Stop, I wasn’t about to turn him loose.

There were no outhouses at the parking area, along the trails, or at the beach.

Trees lined the backshore, but as soon as I looked for a place to step into the woods, I discovered dense grass, beach roses, or cliffs. I finally found an uphill log with enough branches hanging over it to mostly hide me. Fortunately, we were the only people on the beach.

By the time I had taken care of the necessities of travel and felt like looking around, the young people were everywhere. It was low tide, and they had crossed the channel to explore the rocky cliffs on the other side of the cove. They divided themselves into little groups and, like a flash, were off on coastal adventures.

Everyone hiked except Elaine, who wasn’t able to. I really shouldn’t have been hiking either. Turbo and Tracker, however, had not traveled all the way to Hamilton Cove to sit inside a fence while I relaxed in a beach chair. And, if I’m being fair, neither had I.

“Grammie, you want me to take Tracker?” Joel asked. Going back up the trail was easier once I knew what to expect. At a crossroads marker, we caught up with some of the kids.

Did I ever. Tracker was two years old and in the middle of an adventure in a wonderland full of sights and scents to chase after. He had been pulling hard at his collar. Not good for my arms. Not good for his neck.

Turbo’s Stream Venture

Turbo decided illness was no hindrance to getting his drink

Turbo may be eleven years old with IVDD and Cushing’s Disease, but he spent much of his life tracking wounded game through the Maine woods with Paul. He knew what to do on a trail. He too was eager to move forward. But pulling made him thirsty. Cushing’s makes him constantly thirsty, so when we came to a bridge over a little freshwater stream, he decided illness was no hindrance to his needs. He scrambled down a bank of boulders, pulling hard enough that I either had to let go of the leash or follow him over the rocks.

I let him go.

Turbo drank and cooled himself in the stream. Then we discovered the problem. He went down easier than he could come back up.

I stood above him considering my options. Before I scooted down over the rocks on my butt to push back up the rocks, Jeremy and Alicia came from behind and offered to rescue him.

Turbo went down easier than he could come back up.

Blueberry Barrens and Ocean Views

Turbo and I reached another crossroads marked with arrows. I had looked at the trail map with Aster earlier that morning, but now I had no idea where to go. I heard laughter. It came from somewhere to my right. Turbo and I followed the voices through the blueberry barrens until we found the kids on the cliffs at the edge of the sea.

“Vegetation covered the bank right up to the sky, as if growing on forever.”

The view was indescribable, but I barely had time to breathe it in. Turbo wanted to go. We moved until we discovered Joseph sitting on a granite bench overlooking the cove below. Tracker was tied to one of its legs.

“Tracker almost committed suicide again, Aunt Dee,” Joseph said. “He came running across the rocks and went to jump over the cliff. We caught him just in time.”

I could understand his naivety about the ways of geology. Vegetation covered the bank right up to the sky, as if growing on forever. The ancient cliffs are sea-weathered volcanic rock overlooking seaside drops that probably wouldn’t have plunged all the way into the ocean, but it would have been a long fall for a dog with six-inch legs.

Tracker’s Falsely Imprisoned Again

Tracker was tied to the bench, so the kids could climb across the vastness of time while Joseph stayed behind with him.

While I took a few pictures, Turbo crawled underneath the bench to get out of the sun. Turbo was hot and tired. I worried I might have to carry him, but he held up like the pro he was as we returned to the beach. Tracker settled down and stopped pulling on his collar.

When I arrived back at the beach, Elaine was there. Alone. The tide was coming in, so she had moved as much of our gear as possible. She couldn’t move the beach wagon, however. Apparently, it is designed for a different kind of beach.

The High Tide Retreat

“Turbo and Tracker, however, had not traveled all the way to Hamilton Cove to sit inside a fence”

I moved the dog fence and put Turbo and Tracker inside. Then I fell into my umbrella chair and listened to Elaine tell me about her afternoon.

The water kept rising. The wagon had to be moved. Elaine stayed with the dogs as I grabbed beach gear and a few other things to carry back to Sades. This was a chore where neither dogs nor AI could offer any actual help.

Back at the beach, I moved more gear until the wagon was light enough for me to pull past the high water mark. With that crisis temporarily under control, I put the dogs back on their leashes and took them for our first walk around the beach.

Turbo didn’t get far. The uneven rocks hurt his paws.

I dropped Tracker’s leash, so I could take Turbo back to our sitting area. By the time I looked again, Tracker was on the other side of the beach. I was glad the tide had come in or I might have had to climb the cliffs again to retrieve him.

One by one, the groups began returning. Daryl. Stephanie. Jeremy and Alicia. Matthew and Finley. Joel and Eliot. Joseph.

“Grammie, where’s my snack bag?” Joel hollered across the beach.

“It was in the bag I already took back to the car.”

“Why did you do that?”

“The tide was coming in and I had to move some stuff. If you go to the car, take some stuff with you.” Then I asked, “How did you get that wagon down to the beach?”

“Joseph and I picked it up and carried it.”

I looked at the steep bank leading back to the trail. “Can someone carry it back up the hill?”

Everyone smiled. Of course they could. They were young and invincible. Running, not walking. Carrying, not carting. Nothing to stop them.

The plan had been to go into Lubec for supper. Lubec is a border-with-Canada town. A crossing to Campabello International Park, the summer home of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. A sunrise town. A lobster town. A town with a sandy Mowry Beach and its dramatic mudflats and humongous tides.

But it was Monday. I don’t know whether restaurants being closed on Mondays is a rule everywhere. I haven’t traveled enough yet. But in eastern Maine, it’s a thing. The only place open was a hot dog stand.

Instead of going into Lubec, we drove a few miles to Quoddy Head State Park, where family pictures could be taken in front of a real Maine lighthouse. We found a real Maine outhouse. Then we headed home, stopping for sandwiches along the way.

Driving Into the Sun

I braced myself for Joel driving through the Carroll Hills. Not because he was a bad driver. Now home was driving West. Into the sun.

For a new driver, cresting a hill and suddenly seeing nothing but blinding light can be a shock. “Don’t stare into the sun trying to find the road,” I told him. “Look toward the side of the hood. Find the edge of the pavement. Trust where the road is going until you can see again.”

As I watched him navigate the glare, it occurred to me that while my own journey into the sunset is on hold, Joel is just beginning his. He might very well reach the West Coast before I do, chasing the horizon I had planned to claim this summer. But sitting in the passenger seat, watching him drive us home, I realized I didn’t mind.

When I first dreamed of traveling across America, I thought I needed a new car that got great gas mileage, gear for the dogs, GPS, hotel and credit card reward points, an AI assistant, and little else. It turns out I also needed my feet and a car that could keep two dogs cool and safe at the same time.

On Monday, we went East, following SR 6 and US 1, crossing Washington County, passing Moosehorn, and finding volcanic cliffs that sprang from the ocean over 400 million years ago on Boot Cove Road. We followed laughter rather than maps through blueberry barrens. Turbo found a stream he couldn’t climb out of. Tracker nearly walked off the North American continent. The young people carried a beach wagon not made for the beach we visited. And for now, a few miles East with the people who carry the wagons was exactly the distance I needed.

*“Downeast, Maine” is a chapter in my “Travels With” series about two wire-haired dachshunds, a grandmother exploring the country in her new-fangled hybrid car, and the world of endless possibilities she can create through artificial intelligence.” Other chapters can be read at

1. North Conway, NH
2. Millinocket, ME
3. Tampa, Florida*

You can buy Turbo and Tracker some Pup-Peroni dog treats for being such good boys at Ko-fi.com/deannahouse

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