10 Peaceful Maine Islands That Lost Their Calm To Tourism

The Maine coast once promised whispers of surf, pine-scented breezes, and villages whose clocks kept tide-time. Today, many of those islands still glow with natural beauty – but they also shoulder summer crowds, selfie stops, and the churn of ferries and cruise tenders. This is a love letter and a cautionary map: how these places changed, why they still matter, and what travelers can do to tread lightly. If you’re going, go with open eyes, a quieter heart, and respect for the fragile balance between island life and longing.

1. Monhegan Island

Once: A remote fishing outpost where paint and salt mingled, Monhegan gifted artists wind-scrubbed cliffs and near-mystical light. Narrow paths led to breakers, and you could wander for hours hearing only spray and brushstrokes. Hospitality was humble: spare rooms, simple meals, early nights.

Now: Day-trippers flood the wharf with each ferry horn; trails feel busier, and studio doors swing endlessly. Lodgings book months ahead, and the village hums with gallery chatter. Yet the headlands still thunder, and the lighthouse keeps a steady gaze. If you travel here, pack out everything, tread single-file on fragile cliff paths, and respect residents’ working hours. Stay overnight midweek or shoulder season, buy directly from local artists, and leave space on the ferry for island freight – the lifeline that preceded our curiosity.

2. Mount Desert Island

Once: Granite shoulders met spruce and surf, and the hush between gull cries felt cathedral-quiet. Carriages rolled to carriage roads, hikers traded nods on empty ridgelines, and Bar Harbor closed early to the moon. The island’s rhythms were tidal, slow, and deliberate – fishermen at dawn, loons at dusk.

Now: Acadia’s fame draws caravans of cars, buses, and cruise-day tides; the Park Loop becomes a ribbon of brakelights. Trailheads overflow, café lines braid down sidewalks, and the quiet side isn’t as quiet. Still, sunrise on Cadillac can move you to reverence if you arrive off-season or pre-dawn. If you travel here, reserve timed entries when offered, ride the Island Explorer bus, skip peak holidays, and spend in locally owned shops – returning some calm to the island that gave it first.

3. Peaks Island

Once: Portland’s nearby refuge where pine shade and porch swings framed quiet sunsets, Peaks offered a slow ferry, a slower stroll, and neighbors who waved from weathered steps. Beaches felt pocketed and personal, the backshore a meditative loop of spray and stone.

Now: Summer ferries spill carts, bikes, and beach coolers; the circuit hums with rental golf carts. Ice cream lines curl like kelp, and parking headaches begin on the mainland. Still, dawn along the backshore hushes the island to its old heartbeat. If you travel here, walk or bike rather than rent a cart, keep to the right on narrow lanes, and support year-round cafés. Aim for early morning or shoulder months, pack out trash, and yield to working vehicles – this is a neighborhood first, destination second.

4. Great Diamond Island

Once: A half-forgotten outpost, Great Diamond’s brick casemates and empty drill fields slept under moss and sea wind. Few ventured beyond the dock, and the island’s soundtrack was gulls, halyards, and the discreet clink of lapping tide.

Now: The parade ground hosts weddings, the marina fills with sleek weekenders, and boutique rooms glow warm at dusk. Service carts buzz quietly, but the vibe is curated rather than wild. The fort’s bones endure – history is the island’s deepest view. If you travel here, book ahead, keep voices low on resident lanes, and stick to public ways. Learn the fort’s story on a guided walk, dine off-peak, and remember staff ferries carry people home after you toast the sunset – tip generously, tread gently, and let the island exhale.

5. Chebeague Island

Once: Chebeague was an island of surnames and seasons, where clammers timed days to tide and porches faced the same horizon for generations. Visitors were friends of friends; rooms were spare, meals local, and the night sky unbothered.

Now: The ferry brings wedding parties and weekenders to inns and rentals, and beaches fill with picnic rugs and paddleboards. Amenities are tasteful, but the pulse quickens in July. The island keeps its warmth – if you move at its speed. If you travel here, yield to work trucks, stay in established lodgings, and buy from island stores that bridge the winter. Walk or bike, keep noise down after dark, and plan around ferry schedules – crews carry more than memories, they carry groceries, mail, and the marrow of daily life.

6. Vinalhaven Island

Once: Vinalhaven’s harbor rang with diesel and dialect, a granite-and-lobster island that measured success in traps hauled and storms endured. Visitors found quarry ponds like blue eyes in the woods, and long, quiet roads where foxes crossed at dusk.

Now: Rentals dot coves, cafés brim with cyclists, and swimming holes grow crowded by noon. Working wharves share space with sightseeing, and the ferry’s car line testifies to summer’s pull. Even so, the mile of tide between islands still cools the mind. If you travel here, give fishermen the right-of-way, keep clear of gear, and learn wharf etiquette. Swim only where allowed, pack out litter, and stay longer than a day – so your dollars sink roots, not just ripples. The island’s patience should be matched by ours.

7. Deer Isle

Once: Deer Isle balanced artists’ quiet studios with skippers’ early runs, mornings smelling of bait and balsam. Villages moved at human pace – gallery doors propped by driftwood, suppers served in church halls, and fog that softened every edge.

Now: Summer brings show openings, craft fairs, and visitor traffic edging the narrow streets in Stonington. Parking squeezes, café lines lengthen, and rental prices test locals. Yet the art is rooted in place, and so are the boats. If you travel here, visit midweek, pull safely off the road for photos, and ask before photographing people at work. Support co-ops and galleries that keep winters viable, and hike land trusts respectfully. The island will welcome you – if you honor its working backbone and artistic soul.

8. Isle au Haut

Once: The island felt like an end of the map – trail threads through spruce, surf booming below, and a sky wide enough to carry your worries away. Acadia’s presence was a whisper: simple markers, empty paths, and a few tents under stars bright as salt.

Now: Word spread. The mailboat brings more hikers, campsites book swiftly, and quiet coves host company. Infrastructure remains spare, so pressure shows quickly – on trails, on locals, on patience. If you travel here, carry everything you need, stay on marked routes, and keep voices low; this place is wilderness first. Choose shoulder seasons, respect private land boundaries, and thank the mailboat crew. Leave no trace so the island can keep tracing itself – wind, wave, and an old rhythm that predates us all.

9. Bailey Island

Once: Connected by the ingenious cribstone, Bailey felt like a secret you learned from someone’s grandfather. Salt-streaked diners, quiet coves, and afternoon naps on smooth ledge defined the pace. The bridge itself was a marvel seen without a queue.

Now: The bridge is a bucket-list stop; cars stack on sunny Saturdays, and wayfinding signs sprout like beach roses. Lobster rolls become events, and roadside shoulders brim with tripods. Still, late-day light pours gold over the ledges. If you travel here, park only where allowed, order patiently at shacks that serve neighbors year-round, and wander beyond the bridge for less crowded views. Weekdays and early mornings restore some hush – listen for it between gull calls and engines.

10. Squirrel Island

Once: A cloister of summer cottages where quiet reigned, Squirrel Island drew families who returned like tides. Unpaved paths stitched between porches, voices seldom rose above the breeze, and the mainland felt a whole ocean away.

Now: Even exclusivity attracts attention; tour boats idle nearby, social media pings, and the aura of privacy sometimes clashes with curiosity. Access remains restricted, but the island feels observed. What endures is the architecture of restraint – shingles, shade, and shore. If you travel near here, respect boundaries: admire from the water, heed posted rules, and keep wakes low. Spend your time in nearby open-to-public islands and towns, supporting local skippers and shops. Reverence is a form of visitation too – quiet, distant, and considerate.