The maple tree of Bangor

August 22, 2025

In the heart of Bangor, there stands a maple tree that has lived longer than most people who pass beneath its branches. If you’ve ever wandered through the park on a gray winter day or driven by in the fall when the leaves turn to fire, you’ve probably seen it, even if you didn’t know you were looking at the most important tree in town. It isn’t the tallest tree in Maine, not by a long stretch; the pines like to boast about that, whispering among themselves that they alone are the giants of this state. But the maple knows better. What it lacks in height, it makes up for in beauty, in presence, in its ability to pull every camera lens and every pair of eyes straight toward its flaming crown of leaves. And in that quiet park, through the seasons, the maple carries with it the story of Maine, the way life should be.

Winter comes first, of course, as it always does here. Bangor winters are not kind, and the maple knows this better than anyone. The branches are bare, the trunk thick with frost, snow settling in around the roots until it looks as if the ground itself has grown white fur. The pines laugh at the maple then, shaking their green needles as if to say, see, we are eternal, we never change, we stay proud all year long. The maple doesn’t mind. It knows the wicked cold is part of its story. The wind cuts sharp across the park, the snow crunches under boots as families wander past, bundled and pink-cheeked. The children toss snowballs against its trunk, and the sound echoes into the quiet evening, while their parents snap photos of the frosted branches catching the glow of the streetlamps. Winter here isn’t something to escape; it’s something to live with, something to remember. The maple holds its silence, patient, knowing that the cold always gives way to something new.

When spring finally pushes through, the maple feels the shift first in the sap that runs thicker and faster. Maine is famous for its maple syrup, and though this old tree has never been tapped, it knows its kin who are. There’s a sweetness in the air that only spring in Maine carries, mixed with the smell of melting snow and mud that clings to boots. Little buds stretch along its branches, small and red at first, then tender green, shy but certain. The park fills with walkers again, couples strolling hand in hand, children racing bicycles down paths still damp from the thaw. The maple stretches upward, proud, knowing that it has survived another wicked cold season. Tourists haven’t come yet, not in droves, but the locals notice. They always do. A stamp collector, a traveler, an artist; they pause, they look up, and they know they are witnessing the start of something that will become unforgettable.

Summer is a different kind of joy. The maple spreads its green canopy wide, offering shade to anyone who seeks it. Families picnic beneath, students sprawl on blankets with books, and dogs nap in its cool shadow. The pines try to make their case again: look at us, we stay green forever, but nobody listens. In summer, the maple is loved for its comfort, for its shelter. The sounds of Bangor hum around it: cars rolling down the street toward favorite spots like Timber Kitchen & Bar, where the smell of smoked meats and fresh Maine lobster draws in hungry visitors; children laughing from the playground nearby; music drifting from an outdoor concert. The maple sways gently, its leaves whispering, part of the soundtrack of summer. Travel memories are being made here, even if people don’t realize it at the time.

But it is autumn that belongs to the maple. This is the season it lives for, the reason it endures the cold, the quiet, the waiting. The first shift is subtle, a leaf here, a leaf there, turning gold at the edges. Then, seemingly overnight, the whole tree bursts into flame; reds, oranges, yellows so bright they make the sky itself look dull. Leaf peepers arrive in droves, cell phone cameras in the air, eager to catch the moment before the wind carries it away. They gather at the base of the maple, stepping carefully on the fallen leaves that crunch like dry paper beneath their boots. The pines grumble in envy. They’ve stood tall all year, but now the maple steals the show. People point, they pose for photos, they whisper about how this is the most beautiful tree they’ve ever seen. The maple soaks in the admiration, not smug, but serene. After all, beauty this fleeting is worth the wait, and those who come to see it are lucky to catch it at all.

It’s a Maine autumn day at its best: crisp air, the faint scent of woodsmoke drifting from chimneys, the sound of geese overhead. The streets of Bangor are lined with cars as people drive by, slowing down just enough to catch a glimpse of the maple before heading off. Some go to Timber, others to the Sea Dog Brewing Company, where lobster rolls and chowder fill the tables, and the laughter of friends rises with the steam from hot plates. The tourists call it leaf peeping, but to the locals, it’s simply life, the rhythm of the seasons, the quiet pride of knowing they live in a place others travel miles to see.

The day the maple turned its brightest, I remember the sounds: shutters clicking, voices laughing, children squealing as they tossed armfuls of leaves into the air. I remember the envy of the pines, whispering their discontent, and the steady calm of the maple, standing proud in the center of it all. I remember the tourists tilting their heads back, sighing in awe, saying things like, this is the way life should be. And I remember thinking how fleeting it all is.

So yes, Maine autumn days are still wicked cold. The air bites at your cheeks, your breath fogs the air, and you pull your coat tighter as you stand in front of that maple tree in Bangor. But the cold only sharpens the colors, only makes the warmth of a nearby restaurant, the steam of chowder, the sweetness of lobster, all the more satisfying. And the maple tree, year after year, tells its story the best.

On days like this, when the maple is dressed in fire and the world seems to spin a little slower, I couldn’t help but think about the way to capture these moments. That’s what led me to create the Wicked Cold Collection, a series of oversized postage stamp prints with Maine motives. Each one is like this maple tree, ordinary in one sense, extraordinary in another. For the stamp collector, they are treasures; for the traveler, they are souvenirs of memories that linger long after the trip; for anyone who has stood beneath a Maine sky, they are wall art that brings the feeling back every time you see it.

The Wicked Cold stamps show Maine as it is: snow swirling over lighthouses, lobsters, and yes, autumn maples blazing brighter than anything else on the horizon. They are poster prints designed to be more than decoration; they are reminders of what it feels like to stand in Bangor on a wicked cold day, to walk through a park with leaves crunching underfoot, to taste lobster in a warm restaurant while the wind whistles outside. They are for anyone who has ever loved Maine, who has ever traveled here, who understands that the Maine lifestyle is about savoring the moments others rush through.
-Ana

Explore art from this Collection

This story is part of our Wicked cold Collection, a series of large postage stamp wall art celebrating Maine. Each artwork captures the colors, textures, and spirit of Maine through a lens of travel and memory. Discover related pieces like Wicked cold No.1 and Wicked cold No.2, or explore all works in the Wicked cold Collection.

Each piece is designed and printed in large-format detail; a postage stamp for your walls. View all collections or learn more about Ana.