I’ll admit it: If you’d told me a decade ago that I’d willingly walk into a chainsaw sculpture competition in the middle of nowhere, I’d have laughed. Hard. But sometimes life throws you into places you never expected to end up—and sometimes those places involve a whole lot of motor oil, sawdust, and yes, romance.

Let’s back up. It was late summer in Maine, and I’d just started settling into my new coastal life. I was wandering through a cheerful little farmer’s market when I stumbled upon a flyer advertising the Chainsaw Carving Festival in nearby Greenville. Now, normally, I’m more of a “curl up with a book of Appalachian ghost stories” kind of guy than someone chasing weekend thrills like this. But there was something oddly compelling about the idea of chainsaws and artistry colliding.

I figured, worst case? I’d walk away with a funny story. Spoiler: The story got a lot funnier than I bargained for.

Flirting in Flannel and the Romance of Sawdust

I didn't go alone. My neighbor Paula—a 50-something dynamo with a sense of humor sharp enough to fillet salmon—insisted I tag along with her and her friends. I think she took pity on me after I accidentally referred to a lobster roll as “fancy seafood salad.” Regardless, by the time we arrived, I was in the passenger seat of her Subaru, bouncing along dirt roads, a thermos of black coffee warming my hands.

The festival was held in a sprawling field dotted with pine trees, the air packed with the scent of fresh wood shavings and grilled hot dogs. Think county fair, but with more sparks flying—literally.

Within five minutes of arrival, we were greeted by the unmistakable brrr-brrrrr of chainsaws revving against wood. To this day, I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a shirtless guy in a kilt carving a life-sized bear faster than I can fold laundry.

While Paula and her crew were busy haggling over maple syrup at a vendor booth, a woman standing beside me leaned in and said, “You ever seen a man wield a chainsaw like that before?” Her smile was mischievous, her tone conspiratorial.

“Can’t say I have,” I replied, trying to sound smooth. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that back in West Virginia, most of my childhood encounters with chainsaws involved clearing storm-felled trees or watching my uncles argue over firewood stacks. This was my first exposure to chainsaw artistry, and I wasn’t sure what emotion was appropriate: awe, fear, or... attraction?

Somehow, we ended up debating whether the sculptor’s choice to carve a giant eagle was profound or just pandering to tourists. Before I knew it, we were sitting at a picnic table, swapping festival observations over fried clams that could make California seafood look like a cheap imitation.

I didn’t catch her name that day. She left before I could ask, her number forever lost to the din of chainsaws. But the memory stayed, as crisp as the bite of Maine’s September air, because it was the first time in years I’d clicked with a stranger so easily.

Lessons Learned in the Dust and Chaos

Here’s the thing: Sometimes the "craziest place" isn't crazy at all—chainsaws or not. It’s just unfamiliar enough to shake you out of your routine.

Let me tell you what I discovered that day about connections (with others and yourself):

  • Comfort Zones Are Highly Overrated. When I moved to Maine, I promised myself I’d stop living so predictably. It’s easy to stick with what you know—whether it’s job paths, Friday night routines, or even the kind of people you hang out with. But stepping into new spaces, even odd ones, can introduce you to people who might surprise you—including potential romantic prospects.

  • Shared Experiences Make the Best Sparks. There’s something about being in the middle of chaos—whether it’s quirky festivals or bad karaoke nights—that bonds you with the people you meet. They give you something to laugh about later... or just something to reference in awkward first-date conversations.

  • Humor Heals the Awkward. Lean into the weirdness of where you are, even if you feel out of place. That chainsaw competitor in the kilt? I still don’t know if it was part of a costume or just his way of staying cool, but the shared laughter we all had watching him made it easier to open up.

When “Out There” Becomes Home

Fast forward to now: I’ve started going back to small-town festivals regularly, armed with a camera and a willingness to say yes to just about any pie-eating contest or dance-off that comes my way. Something about that day in Greenville taught me that even the quirkiest experiences—maybe especially the quirky ones—can feel grounding in unexpected ways.

And as far as Maine goes? It’s reshaping me. I’ve traded my Appalachian mountains for rocky coastlines, but the essentials remain: community, laughter, and finding meaning in the seemingly small. Maybe we don’t really leave ourselves behind when we move. We just repurpose a little, like whittling a bear from a block of wood.

Next time some stranger offers to take you someplace that sounds wildly out of character—or you’re doubting whether joining your office softball league could possibly lead to romance—just go. Pack light. Take your curiosity. You might forge a lasting relationship that begins, ironically, with the smell of sawdust and sea air.

Let’s face it: Life’s most meaningful connections often start in the unlikeliest places. Today, it’s a chainsaw festival. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe a cider mill or a live poetry night at that coffee shop you’ve avoided checking out. All I’m saying is: Show up.

Final Takeaway

No, I didn’t meet the love of my life in Greenville. But I learned something equally valuable: We grow when we lean into life’s oddball surprises. Whether you’re flirting over fried clams or taking in lungfuls of pine-scented chaos, life will always offer you moments to break your rhythm, try something absurd, and—if you’re lucky—connect with someone you weren’t expecting.

Real romance isn’t about finding the perfect setting. It’s about creating stories in the ones you have.

So, where’s your chainsaw festival? Or better yet, what’s stopping you from finding it? Go now. I can promise you—life’s a lot more fun (if a little noisier) with a little adventure built in.