We accidentally left for our vacation in Maine a day early. I take full credit — or blame — it depends on who tells the story. There’s nothing wrong with leaving a day early, except that when you get there you won’t have a place to stay.

A quick online search landed us a reservation just outside a picturesque New England town we’d been to before, a charming spot with water, docks, boats and cafes with giant lobsters painted on the windows.

Our reservation wasn’t actually in the picture postcard town, but somewhat nearby. As a crow flies. A crow with two broken wings and no brain for navigation.

I couldn’t find pictures of the place where I reserved a room, but when the car is loaded and you’re panicked, you don’t waste time on details.

It was long after dark when GPS led us off a state highway and onto a blacktop side road. With no moon or streetlights, we popped the headlights on high, penetrating the thick black night with all the brilliance of a birthday candle.

We drove and drove, curve after winding curve, without a single vehicle coming in the opposite direction. Side roads had no signage. “Enter at your own risk” was understood.

The only sign of life we passed was a few trucks and half dozen people in a clearing gathered around a fire blazing in a barrel. We didn’t stop to socialize.

Mile after mile, trees hemmed us in on both sides of the road. The forest was dense and ominous—the kind that terrorized Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, and Goldilocks.

We kept going. But to where?

I knew where. Deliverance.

I imagined our lodging would turn out to be some grizzled old coot’s ramshackle barn at the far back of his property. Amenities would include an outhouse with a creaky door, lots of flies and no toilet paper. Our sleeping quarters would be two filthy sleeping bags in a rickety hay loft where we would be killed in our sleep.

I shared these thoughts with my husband. Apparently, it’s not easy being married to someone with a vivid imagination.

The blacktop finally dumped us onto a road with other vehicles. GPS directed us down a steep drive that led to one of the most charming places ever. It was part hotel and part inn, like something out of the old "Newhart" sitcom. Thankfully, there was no sign of Larry, Darryl and Darryl.

The clerk was closing shop for the night but checked us in and mentioned a trail on the backside that led to chairs by the water for a black sky view.

We dumped our bags and headed down a long trail with a small flashlight while dodging goose poo every other step. At the water’s edge we plopped down in Adirondack chairs, looked up and fell silent.

I’d never seen so many layers and layers of stars. I’d never seen millions of stars all sparkling, twinkling, appearing and disappearing. I’d never seen the Milky Way. I’d never seen that mysterious hazy band that looks like part fog and part cloud, as it weaves through the stars and spirals through the galaxy.

We sat amazed beneath a superdome of stars beyond the power of our comprehension and the capability of numbers.

We went to sleep that night in a comfortable bed in a clean room, giving thanks to the Creator for the wonder of creation, last-minute plans and the road less traveled.

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