I am geographically challenged. Even with a GPS, wrong turns seem like my hobby. There’s this classic scene from “The Office” where Michael Scott drives his car straight into a pond because his GPS tells him to. Now, I’ve never driven into a pond, but let’s just say I’ve driven an hour and a half in the wrong direction, blissfully ignoring all road signs, because my GPS insisted.

So, navigating anywhere with confidence for me takes effort, repetition, and luck. The irony? I enjoy driving. And let me tell you, driving from Rome to Waterville will teach you almost everything you need to know about Maine.

Despite my navigational challenges, I took my brother and nephews to hike French Mountain. The hike is always a winner because it’s so easy even little ones can do it, and the summit makes you feel like a superhero. You’ll likely spot birds of prey, wild Maine blueberries, and teaberries. It’s popular, but it’s never crowded. You often have the summit all to yourself. Such serene and stunning moments will remind you that communing with nature is good for your soul. Tourists may flock to Cadillac or Katahdin, and they’re surely beautiful. But you don’t have to wait in line or undergo rigorous training to climb a mountain and appreciate Maine’s beauty.

Near French Mountain, we saw the Travis Mills Foundation, a retreat for post-911 veterans, embodying Maine’s slogan, “The Way Life Should Be,” offering health and wellness free of charge. You can’t pass by without feeling inspired.

Between Rome and Waterville we spotted a homemade sign on the side of the road. It was as if someone had grabbed a giant piece of black construction paper and, using charmingly child-like white letters, wrote just one word: “Turtle.” And to make sure you don’t miss it, they thoughtfully placed identical signs facing each direction.

Kidding aside, it’s common for Mainers to stop traffic to rescue turtles, or to wait for ducks, or moose. We love our wildlife so much, that we make massive turtle signs along roads in hopes you’ll slow down for them.

Before the turtle sign (or was it after?), we stopped for pedestrians (as most Mainers do by law, generally without irritation) at a crosswalk at Castle Island Camps, a picturesque spot typical of Maine. My nephews marveled at the canoes in the water near the camps. “Camps” are synonymous with Maine. There are lots of things that determine how “campy” it is, like if it’s on water, has running water, has a full kitchen, and has a wood stove, or a heat pump. If you’re lucky enough to have one passed down through your family, it’s more than a weekend getaway. It’s also a repository of memories and like a member of a family.

While canoes and camps evoke summers, we passed reminders of unforgiving Maine winters: road construction, a generator supply store, and a firewood and logging operation. The firewood piled higher than a four-story building. But nothing rivals the smell of crisp, cool air on an autumn day, wet leaves on the ground, and a faint scent of pine mixed with the smoke from wood stoves’ first fires of the season.

In a remote spot, we drove by a small food stand, H.J. Blakes. Open 11 a.m.-7 p.m., its menu boasts not only lobster rolls but also veggie burgers and sriracha or roasted red pepper mayo. Outsiders might be surprised — long hours and a gourmet touch? Mainers aren’t afraid of hard work. We love good food, and we also go the extra mile to make others feel welcome.

Nevertheless, the economic divide is evident where lobster isn’t a staple for everyone. We passed mobile homes and massive estates, a common sight throughout Maine. I wanted my brother to see beyond the obvious. Often, a modest house that seems unimpressive from the outside hides a gem within. Or dirt road next to a mailbox might not lead to a mansion, but to a piece of property that feels like Thoreau’s Walden — or sometimes, to actual mansions.

Mainers can be like modest homes, revealing themselves as hidden treasures when embraced. They’ll watch over your home when you’re away or stand by you during a storm. They’ll always remind you that you’re “from away,” no matter how long you’ve been here, yet they’ll treat you like you’re family for life.

In Oakland towards Waterville, we debated the best ice cream: Gifford’s or the Ice Cream Shoppe of Oakland? Waterville, our final stop, has this fantastic arts scene, where you can change your hiking boots for heels, catch a show, explore art, and have a good meal too.

Yes, Maine holds everything I need. I just didn’t know I could see it from Rome to Waterville.

If you know a similar route, email me. Perhaps I’ll take another drive — with my GPS of course.