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Romance: It’s not all hearts and flowers

THIS STORY APPEARED IN

February 12, 2012

(ISTOCKPHOTO/GLOBE ILLUSTRATION )

Romance does not always arrive gift-wrapped like a box of chocolates, and seasoned travelers may prefer it that way. Our writers share their adventures of the heart.

OF A WATERFALL, LONGING - AND GENEROSITY

Bash Bish Falls in Mount Washington, near the New York and Connecticut borders, plunges 60 feet to a deep pool. When my wife and I hiked in one morning, we met a woman in her 70s who recounted the tale of an Indian maiden who dove over the falls rather than be captured by pursuing trappers. The maid was never seen again, except as an apparition on moonlit nights. Our informant loved the tale and her own memories of visiting the spot with her husband and young children. When he died, she scattered his ashes at the base of the falls. We were feeling like intruders on a private grief until she smiled and gave us a lesson in love and generosity. Recalling the Indian maiden, she said, “I know what my husband is doing on moonlit nights.’’

DAVID LYON

A GREAT WAY TO GET DUMPED

We loaded our bags into a canoe on the shore of Rainbow Lake, which sits in the shadow of Mount Katahdin, Maine’s highest peak. With a nod of his head, our float plane pilot from Katahdin Air cranked up the propeller, punched the throttle, and flew away. For the next three days the lake, 20 miles from the nearest human, was ours. After setting up camp, the wine flowed into tin cups as fish fed in the cove in front of our tent. A meal of fresh, almond-encrusted brook trout put us to sleep. The silent night was interrupted only by the gentle splashing of a wading moose and the creamy, green glow of the northern lights rippling above.

BRIAN IRWIN

JUMP-STARTING INSPIRATION

One Christmas my college boyfriend bought me a vintage, manual typewriter hoping to encourage my fledgling writing career. Come spring, he insisted I needed to write somewhere beautiful to feel inspired. So at the first sign of sunshine, he trucked that thing in a backpack on his bike from the Boston University campus to Boston Common. We spent a warm afternoon sitting on the grass, gazing at Beacon Hill, where the dogwoods were just starting to bloom. A photographer, he snapped photos while I typed. I lost what I wrote that day but have kept the typewriter that launched a collection and - I like to think - a career.

NICOLE CAMMORATA

TIME TASTES SWEET