Cutler Coast: My First Real Trail Since the Hardware Install

I decided to head up to Downeast Maine this weekend. A solid two-hour and forty-five-minute drive from home. Long enough to question the decision. Not long enough to turn around.

I took Route 1 north, which, if you’ve never driven it, is one of the better stretches of road in this state. Old buildings. Ocean flickering through the trees. Just enough strange roadside stops to keep things interesting.

Into the Trees

Shortly after Ellsworth, I turned onto Route 182.

Remote doesn’t quite cover it.

I lost cell service for about eight miles. It felt like a small gift. No texts. No notifications. Just me, the Jeep, and a two-lane road cutting through forest so thick it swallows the light.

The road wraps around still ponds. Barely any traffic. Just the sound of tires on pavement and the occasional crow heckling from a pine.

Route 182 spits you back out in a little town called Cherryfield. That’s where Route 1 changes names and becomes part of the Bold Coast National Scenic Byway. Starts in Milbridge. Runs 147 miles to Eastport. It’s a hell of a drive. Quiet. Real. The kind of road where the light hits just right and you forget what time it is.

Cutler Coast

From East Machias, I cut off onto Route 191 and made my way to Cutler Coast Public Reserved Land.

If you’ve never heard of it, look it up. Over 12,000 acres of wild, jagged coast. Four and a half miles of it overlook the Bay of Fundy. The air smells like pine and salt and something older than all of us.

Small parking area. Trail map on a wooden board. Donation box. No ranger station. No bathroom. No cell service. Just you and the land.

I stood there for a minute, staring at the trailhead.

This was it. My first real hike on an actual trail since the hip replacement. Not a sidewalk. Not a park loop. An actual trail with roots and rocks and all the things that could go sideways if I wasn’t careful.

Part of me wanted to get back in the Jeep.

The other part laced up my boots.

The Coastal Trail

We did the Coastal Trail. Just shy of three miles round-trip.

The trail is what I’d call moderate. Roots. Rocks. Places you could twist something if you’re not watching. The terrain rolls and dips. Never quite flat. Never quite steep. Just uneven enough to keep you honest.

The person hiking with me wasn’t a seasoned hiker either, so we agreed the short trail was the right move. No egos. No proving anything. Just two people walking slower than most and stopping more often than we probably needed to.

That’s the thing about coming back from surgery. You don’t get to be reckless anymore. You don’t get to push through pain and call it toughness. You have to listen. You have to stop. You have to respect the fact that your body is held together with screws and scar tissue and a lot of hope.

So we took it slow. Watched our steps. Stopped to catch our breath and pretend we were just admiring the view.

The trail winds through dense spruce forest before opening up at the coast. It’s dark in there. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you notice your own breathing.

And then the trees part.

The Overlook

The trail ends at a high cliff spot looking straight out over the ocean.

When we reached it, the ocean opened up and everything else just sort of fell away.

The water stretched forever. Dark blue-gray. Cold. Indifferent. Waves rolled in and smashed against rocks that didn’t care. The wind hit my face sharp and clean. Salt and kelp and distance.

There’s a steep path down to the rocks if you’re feeling brave. A lot of folks left their packs at the top and made the climb. Scrambling down like they had nothing to lose.

I stayed put.

Snapped a few pictures through the trees. Sat on a flat rock. Ate a granola bar that tasted like cardboard and relief.

No shame in playing it safe. Not when you’ve spent the last year relearning how to walk.

The view was enough. More than enough.

I sat there longer than I needed to. Watching the water. Listening to the wind. Feeling my hip throb in that deep, familiar way that could mean healing or damage. I wouldn’t know which until tomorrow morning.

But for now? I was here. On a trail. On the coast. Standing upright and functional and alive.

That counts for something.

What I Didn’t Do

The longer trails out there look like a full-day grind.

The Black Point Brook Loop runs around five and a half miles. Fairy Head Loop is nearly ten. Beautiful. Brutal. Remote.

Maybe someday.

Not yet.

This was my first real trail since the hip replacement, and I was not looking to prove anything. I’d already proven plenty just by showing up.

There’s this weird pressure to always go harder. Farther. Longer. To summit something. But sometimes the win is just finishing the short loop without limping. Sometimes the victory is getting back to the Jeep under your own power and not regretting it the next day.

I’ll take that win.

The Drive Back

The drive back down Route 1 felt different.

Lighter, maybe. Or just quieter in my head.

I’d done it. I’d hiked a real trail. My hip had held up. My body had cooperated. I hadn’t twisted anything or fallen or needed to turn back.

The woods looked the same. The crows still heckled. The ocean still flickered through the trees.

But I felt different.

Not healed. Not fixed. Not back to who I used to be.

Just a little closer.