To Maine, Back—and Back Again

The Journey

The first time Maine found me this summer, I was sitting on a plastic chair in an Austin laundromat, watching my clothes tumble in a dryer that sounded like it was eating itself. My phone rang, and on the other end was Jake Martin a lobster fisherman from Maine, a man I’d deployed with to Afghanistan in 2012. Back then, he was younger, goofier, and full of fishing stories. We smoked cigars in the down time, trading war silence for boat talk. In the summer of 2025, he called out of the blue and invited me on a Wounded Warrior Project canoe-camping trip. Just like that, Maine was back on the horizon.

Jake flew me out and picked me up from the airport in a company van, which shouldn’t have meant much but it did. I felt proud riding shotgun again, like I belonged somewhere specific for a few days. The flight wasn’t free, though. Before we ever touched water, I helped him pack canoes, load a trailer, organize food, and inventory gear for a four-day river expedition. Jake supplied the essentials tents, backpacks, paddles, canoes. I showed up light and grateful, already realizing the things I should have brought.

The river gave us everything: quiet stretches, sudden rapids, and a steady population of hand-sized fish that haunted the water just below the surface. The guys who brought fishing poles traded paddles for quick casts whenever the current slowed. More often than not, they reeled something in. It made for the perfect cigarette-break ritual float, cast, smoke, laugh. Rapids came eventually, and with them the inevitable swims. Everyone got their turn testing their life raft and saying a small prayer that their phone would still work afterward. Mine survived, somehow, despite not having a waterproof bag a mistake I won’t repeat.

It was so fun it was exhausting, and so exhausting that old stories came loose at night. We fed them into the fire along with driftwood and wet boots. The river took its pound of flesh, but it gave something back, too: the feeling of shared purpose without orders, camaraderie without uniforms.

What I didn’t know was that this trip was only an introduction.

Back in Texas, before the river mud was fully gone from my boots, my friend Brendan Mahaney known in the Austin comedy scene as Sarge laid out the next plan. Austin to Maine. Maine to Madison Square Garden in NYC. Then back to Maine. Then home to Austin. A six-week gauntlet. The reward was seeing Kill Tony at MSG. The challenge was clearing out the dungeon of his recently deceased father, the Honorable Late Great Vincent Mahaney, and rescuing the maiden Astrid from the family farm.

I survived by the skin of my teeth. Brendan kept me alive. Astrid fed me well. I left Maine the second time with enchanted loot: Vincent’s Fitbit, a brown leather flight jacket heavy with history, and a pair of L.L. Bean Duck Boot Moccasins Brendan handed over like ceremonial gear. I came home feeling the same pride I felt returning from Afghanistan but this time as a civilian, not a soldier.

The Loadout (What I Brought and What Found Me)

L.L. Bean Duck Boot Moccasins: Would Bring Again No Question

These boots came into my life late, inherited rather than packed, but they earned their place immediately. Mud, wet grass, gravel driveways, and long days on the farm these boots didn’t complain once. They slipped on easily, stayed dry, and somehow managed to feel broken-in from day one.

I wouldn’t take them on a technical hike, but for travel, camp chores, and living out of a car while bouncing between states, they were perfect. Comfortable, durable, and just refined enough to wear into town without looking like you crawled out of a river which, to be fair, I sometimes had.

Brown Leather Flight Jacket (Vintage): Sentimental and Surprisingly Functional

Vincent’s old brown leather flight jacket wasn’t meant to be technical gear, but it turned into exactly that. Cool Maine mornings, windy evenings, and late-night drives all handled with ease. The leather blocked wind better than expected, and the weight of it felt grounding.

Would I plan a trip around it? No. Would I take it again if I had the choice? Absolutely. Some gear carries stories, and that counts for more than specs sometimes.

Fitbit (Inherited): Useful, If Unforgiving

I didn’t expect to leave Maine with a Fitbit, but there it was another artifact from Vincent. Watching my steps, heart rate, and sleep during a six-week road trip was equal parts motivating and accusatory. Turns out clearing out basements and hauling old lives into dumpsters is great cardio.

I wouldn’t prioritize it for wilderness travel, but for long hauls and recovery days, it helped me understand just how much I was burning through physically and why I slept like the dead.

What I Didn’t Bring (And Should Have): Fishing Pole & Waterproof Phone Bag

This trip made one thing painfully clear: if you’re on a river in Maine, bring a fishing pole. Watching fish hit lures while your hands are stuck on a paddle is its own kind of torture.

And the waterproof phone bag? Non-negotiable. Rapids don’t care about your photos, contacts, or sense of optimism. I got lucky once. I won’t press it again.

Lessons from the Edge

Not all journeys announce themselves as important when they start. Some begin in laundromats, phone calls, or half-serious road trip ideas. Maine reminded me that preparation matters but so does showing up when invited. I didn’t bring everything I needed, but I brought myself, and sometimes that’s enough to be welcomed into the work.

I also learned that purpose doesn’t disappear when the uniform comes off. It just changes shape. Canoes replace convoys. Fire pits replace guard towers. The bond is still there if you’re willing to sit with it.

Conclusion

If you get the call take it. Pack better than I did, bring a fishing pole, and waterproof your phone. Say yes to the hard drives, the long roads, and the inherited gear that finds its way into your hands. Maine gave me exhaustion, laughter, old ghosts, and new pride.

I went to Maine twice this summer. I came back different both times.