I just came inside from my motel room deck overlooking the southern end of Eagle Lake in northern Maine. It’s not quite 2 a.m., a waning half-moon shines both in the sky and on the lake surface, and a thick mist cloud hangs over the water. A fox barks from the dense woods between the motel and lakeshore, and the wind sighs almost constantly in the treetops. Here, with little interference from artificial light, the stars shine brightly and boldly against an ebony sky, and the only other sound is that of an occasional lumber truck passing by. I spend the next two hours or so monitoring the sun’s appearance from behind a distant ridge and watch in awe as it slowly gilds the mist and sends long fingers of shimmering pink light across the lake’s surface. Words like spectacular, breathtaking or beautiful simply do not do this event justice.

If asked to describe this area from a topographical point of view, I’d have to say that whatever life forms exist here do so among what appear to be the wrinkles on the state’s forehead. No map or chart that I have ever seen has much to tell about the deep dips and rises in the landscape that begin just north of Ashland and that continue past the northernmost point of Fort Kent across the St. John River into Canada. And in more places than I can get my head around, the scenery steals the breath from me on all sides, and I don’t have nearly enough capacity with a single pair of eyes to take it all in. Add to all this the fact that the county’s foliage is peaking as I write, and you have the makings of an experience that is nothing short of surreal.

It is as though some great mythical creature had flung a large varicolored carpet across the landscape and didn’t bother to smooth it out. And for several hours, I, along with my traveling companions, negotiated each crease by coasting first down one slope, engulfed by heart-stopping vistas, only to crest another and be greeted on the other side by more of the same, with Eagle Lake itself a large puddle in the pit of one of the deepest crevices that seemed to run forever along the eastern edge of Route 11.

In my entire life, I have never seen the woods this intensely on fire. I also had no idea that the country was so mountainous. These peaks are not high by mountain standards, but the valleys are deeper, and from the top of one hill, I can see the road winding up another. And just as I did as a child seeing mountains for the first time, I can’t stop looking behind me at them as I reluctantly leave the area. Even from Bangor and environs, they are visible on the horizon, beckoning, ever beckoning. And unlike so much else in this world that cannot be depended upon, they will always be there.

And then there is, of course, Katahdin, spelled Ktaadn by Thoreau, its icy, silvered peak shimmering in the sunlight from a high point along Route 11 near Patten. I saw it first on the trip north, stopping at the scenic overlook off ME 95 where I beheld its craggy peaks, hugged in clouds. On the way back, there was not a cloud to be seen from any point, and nothing marred its majesty. It glowed like an enormous blue-gray stone in the distance, and it was all I could do to tear myself, again reluctantly, away from it and set my sights on flatter, duller ground.

Jet lag is a common affliction of those who travel great distances by air and go from one time zone to another in a short period of time. I suggest that there is also such a thing as earth lag, which is the shock that one experiences when moving quickly from mountainous terrain to sea level. Back here, I am forever checking the horizon for humps, even going so far as imagining that those clouds above the trees across the street are really mountains and not the diaphanous stuff that will soon change shape and disappear altogether.

Hills and mountains were formed millions of years ago by the constant energy emanating from inside the earth and the movement of great bodies of ice across its surface. The process continues in infinitesimal degrees and imperceptible shifts, and lucky for us, they’re too small to be noticed in a single ”“ or many ”“ lifetimes. Change is indeed a constant with most things, and I’m thankful that this truth only loosely applies to mountains and lakes that are fortuitously no more than blips on most people’s road-trip radars.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Springvale, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@metrocast.net.