Maine is a little like Heaven. Everyone knows that it’s up there and it’s terrific but nobody’s in a great hurry to visit. If you’re not a New Englander, chances are you have never been to Maine and you’re not going. What a shame. Like Heaven, Maine is beautiful, the air is impossibly clean and there is virtually no crime. The closest thing they’ve got to the latter is an occasional episode of someone borrowing from someone else’s lobster pot. Law Enforcement in Maine pretty much consists of the State Police nabbing outsiders for speeding on the Turnpike, although they do have some odd laws of which visitors should be aware. In Maine, for instance, it is against the law to step out of a plane in flight. I think we can all agree on that one. Less adhered to but still on the books is another law requiring that shotguns be taken to church just in case there is a Native American attack. Most reprehensible of all to people like Bill is a notorious regulation, punishable by fining, that all Christmas trees be taken down by January 14th. This, of course, is tyranny of the first order.
In Augusta, it is against the law to play your violin while strolling down the street. It is illegal in Freeport to sell mercury thermometers within the city limits. In Rumford, it is against the law to bite one’s landlord, while in Waterford you may not blow your nose in public. In Huberson, it is illegal to eat five potatoes in a meal without giving one to each of your pigs. In Wells, you may not advertise in the cemetery, just in case you had a notion. In all of Maine, it is illegal to sell a car on Sunday unless it comes equipped with plumbing. It is likewise illegal to push a live moose out of a plane, assuming you can get one in there. It is not illegal, however, to push a dead moose out, so the handwriting is on the wing for airborne moose(s). On the positive side, Maine is one of only four states where billboards are illegal, so there’s that.
For thousands of years, indigenous peoples were the only inhabitants of the territory that is now Maine. The first European settlement was by the French in 1604 on Saint Croix Island by Pierre Dugua, Sieur de Mons, whoever he is, and the English established the short-lived Popham Colony in 1607. At the beginning of the 18th century, only a half-dozen European settlements had survived the elements, the severe deprivations and conflicts with the locals. During the American Revolution and the War of 1812, Patriot and Loyalist forces contended for the territory. Maine was part of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts until 1820, when it voted to secede, perhaps anticipating the coming of the Red Sox. On March 15, 1820, it was admitted to the Union as the 23rd state under the Missouri Compromise. Maine is currently the 39th most extensive and the 41st most populous of the 50 United States. Average temperatures in January range from a high of 28 degrees to a low of 11 with 19 inches of snow, so take a hint. In July, it’s from 79 down to 60, with many afternoons in the mid-80s. It can snow in Maine in Summer, though. In 1816, snow fell on the state every month of the year, even June, (which got seven inches), July and August. But, hey, that was 1816, which was back before even Elvis, so who’s counting? It’s 200 years later--Siobhan and Bill are on their way.
Getting There Is Half The Fun
That’s the old advertisement, which sounds an awful lot like the popular current admonition, “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.” If that were entirely true, why not stay on the road all the time, like Willie Nelson? We’ve got to admit one thing, though. We’ve come to enjoy these multi-destination vacations. Last year’s trip down the California coast with stops at San Francisco, Monterey, L.A. and Laguna was great, as was this year’s parlay of New York City, Boston, Lawrence and Bar Harbor. In 2016, after the wedding in Las Vegas and the descent to the floor of the Grand Canyon, we hope to revisit Sedona and also Glen Canyon and Monument Valley. The repacking is a bit of an annoyance but the expanded trip horizons are worth the trouble.
Bar Harbor, Maine, is just over 260 miles and four-and-a-half hours from Lawrence, Massachusetts, most of it over fast interstates. Unlike Portland or Kennebunk, however, the town is far from the major highways and the last leg is a trek over small Maine roads not given to speedy travel. We arrived at our motel, the Best Western Acadia Park Inn, around 3:30 and checked in. It is not our habit to select a motel over a hotel, mostly because of noise issues, but all reviews of this one promised high quality at reasonable prices. Those appraisals were spot-on. The place was well-located, less than five minutes from Acadia National Park and ten minutes from Bar Harbor. The rooms were clean, of ample size and, most important, quiet, somehow insulated from the noise of neighboring rooms and even the parking lot. The inn had washers and driers out back and a sizeable building housing the free breakfast facility, which provided just about anything you wanted. The shower was not slippery and the pipes did not clang in the night.
My sister, Alice, had flown in days earlier to visit younger sister, Kathy, and her husband, John, in New Hampshire before moving into a timeshare just outside Bar Harbor a few days before Siobhan and I arrived. Having been there before, they knew the lay of the land. We all met at Bar Harbor’s premier breakfast spot, Jeannie’s, which advertised the “best breakfast in town.” We cannot swear to the fact that this is a boldfaced lie, having sampled none of the competition, but if Jeannie’s is actually the prime a.m. eatery, I am Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. The headliner blueberry pancakes were doughy and greasy, for starters. The huge crowd inside, most of which had waited in a half-hour line to savor Jeannie’s delicacies, didn’t seem to mind, though, cheerily discussing the day’s prospects and pulling from their purses treasures accumulated during the previous days’ shopping. The orange juice was okay and nobody burned the coffee.
Bar Harbor, itself, is a charming little place, the downtown located smack on the water and offering sensational vistas. There are a few restaurants positioned harborside and the fare is consistently first-rate. The day we arrived, we dined at a small Main Street place called Testa’s, where Bill dependably got the Lazy Man’s Lobster, not being a fellow inclined to deal with shellcrackers and the like, nor with lobster embellishments like sauces and breading, which detract from the taste of the actual lobster. Just give him his lobster swimming in a sea of butter and he’s as happy as ….well, to keep in the spirit of the day….a clam. Testa’s also offered, of all things, a rare animal called a Creamsicle Daiquiri, which fascinated Siobhan. “It tastes EXACTLY like a Creamsicle,” she said, and it did, although some people might look elsewhere for their alcoholic flavoring. Siobhan is not, herself, a big drinker but she does enjoy discovering new wonders for her dinner guests in Florida, so this was another opportunity. After she got home, she spent days trying to replicate the drink, finally calling the restaurant to obtain the name of the exact liqueur used and ordering it—at $40 a bottle, nonetheless—to achieve her dream. It arrived intact, and why wouldn’t it at a shipping cost of another $17? Do they still make the original Creamsicles? Are they still five cents?
Chilly spy awaits the shuttle.
Early morning in Acadia National Park
Texter in the mist.
The old philosopher considers the possibilities.
The iconic Bubble Rock.
Bubble Rock with wise ass.
The view from Bubble Rock.
Acadia
Created as Lafayette National Park in 1919, Acadia National Park was renamed in 1929. It is the oldest national park east of the Mississippi River. Acadia comprises most of Mount Desert Island on the coast of Maine and includes mountains, an ocean shoreline, woodlands and lakes. In addition to Mount Desert Island, the park comprises much of the Isle au Haut, parts of Baker Island and a portion of the Schoodic Peninsula on the mainland. In total, Acadia National Park consists of more than 47,000 acres. Cadillac Mountain is on the eastern side of the island. Because of a combination of its location and height, its green, lichen-covered, pink granite summit is the first place in the United States to see the sun rise each morning, joined by a phalanx of early-rising naturists, latter-day hippies and just plain folks with sleep issues. We decided to cede them the property for the moment, hiking in the dark being very low on our priority list. The sun-greeters, of course, usually drive.
Our first hiking day, Thursday, found us wandering through the fog down Acadia’s Ocean Path Trail early on a chilly morning. The OPT begins at the far end of the upper parking lot at Sand Beach and then meanders in a southerly direction along the eastern shore of Mount Desert Island for approximately two miles. It features several spectacular vistas, or so they tell me, Most of them were lost in the a.m. haze. The fog slowly lifted as we marched on and by the end of the hike we could finally see the waves crashing into the rockbound coast. A better starting time for this trip would probably be somewhere in the neighborhood of ten o’clock when the mists have dissipated and picture-taking is an option. About halfway between Sand Beach and the end of the trail at Otter Cliff is the famous Thunder Hole. When the waves and the tide are just right, park rangers tell us we just might get to hear the signature sound while still some distance away. Granite stairs with railings take you to the viewing area which can get pretty moist in the face of larger waves.
Next up was a shuttle ride to the Bubble Rock Trailhead. The park’s buses have scheduled stops at various points throughout the area about every half-hour but will stop to pick you up anywhere you happen to wave them down. The Bubble Rock Trail turned out to be popular despite the challenging nature of the hike. Seems everybody wants to take a look at a giant boulder, delicately balanced on the side of a mountain, which looks to be vulnerable to the next strong breeze. Scientists estimate the rock originated some 40 miles to the north, near Lucerne, its coarse white granite differing markedly from the familiar pink of Mount Desert Island. Most of the climbers celebrated their arrival by taking silly pictures and we weren’t immune. Siobhan always worries, in these instances, that I will be the unfortunate party who accidentally pushes the boulder over the edge, earning scorn, enmity and a night in jail. Not this time, though. We got our photos and moved along.
We met the relatives for dinner that night at Stewman’s Lobster Pound, which sits out over the water and requires a twenty-minute wait. They make their Cobb Salad there with a generous helping of lobster. I got it. Then we traipsed around town a bit. The Bar Harbor downtown largely consists of three important streets—West Street, which borders the harbor, coming to an end at the bottom of a hill to the right, which is Main Street. Not far up the hill and off to the right is Cottage Street, teeming with small shops and eateries, including Jeannie’s, where you might not want to have breakfast.
On the way up Cadillac Mountain.
Islands in the mist.
Resting on the Cadillac Mountain Trail.
Ascending Cadillac Mountain.
The cairns mark the way.
Descending on the south side.
“I thought it was supposed to be easier going down.”
Assistance for the directionless.
Hiker dispatches annoying boulder.
Siobhan, Bill, Kathy, John and Alice at Paddy’s Irish Pub. They didn’t even throw us out.
Cadillac Mountain
One of these days, I’m going to roll up the wrong three-syllable mountain and run into Clifton Clowers, the lofty resident with a pretty young daughter, a gun and a knife. Probably not today, though. I think Clifton’s place is a little further south.
There are two ways up Cadillac Mountain, the North Ridge Trail and, of course, the South. The North trail is alleged to be the less strenuous of the two and I’m 74 years old, so which branch do you think I took? Bingo. The trail ends on the 1,528-foot summit, offering spectacular views along the way of brilliantly blue Eagle Lake to the west and the village of Bar Harbor and the offshore islands to the north. You’ll have a lot of company on this hike if you leave early in the morning—it’s probably the most popular walk in the park. The early part of the trail scrambles up over rock slabs and through groves of stunted pine trees, eventually breaking out into the open, then climbing moderately but steadily. The view improves with each step upward. After a little over two miles, the trail reaches the summit, where you’ll find a large parking area, a gift shop and rest rooms. It would be difficult to take a bad picture in any direction. We had a small lunch and some water, bought a few trinkets and started back down. A ranger reminded us the South Ridge Trail was an opportunity to see another side of the mountain, so we decided to go that route. We asked him if there was a bus stop at the bottom and he told us it would be necessary to walk across the campground at the bottom to get the shuttle. He didn’t tell us it was another two mile walk, which wouldn’t have been an issue if Bill had been wearing his hiking shoes instead of sneakers which allowed him to feel every rock and root he stepped on. At the bottom, there was a sign, vaguely advising (via a dotted line, whatever that meant) that Park Loop Road, the bus route, was only a half-mile away. We eschewed the campground and headed for the shuttle. Down the road apiece, there was an underpass (perhaps the reason for the dotted line, but who knows?) that looked an awful lot like Park Loop Road. Siobhan eyed the steep walk down suspiciously and decided it must be another avenue. We moved along for about a mile, finally saw what looked like a park sign ahead and took a left. Uh uh. Just wilderness. We stopped a Fedex driver and discovered we were “not in the park.” He didn’t know where to send us because all his deliveries were also “not in the park.”
“Um, Siobhan….you know that underpass we didn’t take….?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know—don’t rub it in.”
We went back, descended, found a park sign and sat down to wait for the bus. Siobhan quickly spotted a large vehicle coming ‘round the bend and jumped up, waving avidly. The giant Winnebago slowed down and pulled over. “Need a ride?” asked the driver, a little surprised to be called upon. “No thanks,” said a slightly embarrassed Siobhan, “I thought you were the shuttle.” He shrugged and moved along, the real bus following closely behind. We sat down, I looked at her and smiled. My partner was in no mood for scapegoating. She looked back at me, stonefaced, and uttered, “Well, YOU’RE the one who forgot his shoes!”
At four p.m., we met John Scanlon and the sisters for a round of mini-golf at a busy place near the motel called Pirates’ Cove. I hadn’t played in thirty years and Siobhan never. Alice couldn’t remember her last putt. John and Kathy were regulars, though, and he wisely took the last turn, an opportunity to watch the cut of the green and learn from the mistakes of others, of which there was no shortage. Despite their inexperience, Siobhan and Alice did okay, both knocking in a couple of holes-in-one, but nobody was a match for the wily John, who won with something to spare. We shouldn’t forget that these new experiences are learning opportunities and what Siobhan learned is that you are not allowed to hit your ball while it is still rolling, a great disappointment which, she felt, severely hampered her game. That and hitting her ball in that troublesome creek which ran by the sixteenth hole. I almost nabbed it three or four times as it floated by, but the current was too strong and carried the hapless little sphere back to its waiting clubhouse. “What do I do NOW?” she wanted to know. Kindly old Alice let her share. When we got back to the car, I looked at her and smiled, but she was having none of it. “Well, YOU’RE the one who forgot his shoes!” she said.
Dinner was at a local institution called the Chart House, a winner. Disdaining unpredictability, I had the Lazy Man’s Lobster. Well, we’re in MAINE, for Christ’s sake.
Off to the meadows.
Stairway down to Sand Beach.
Valuable educational material.
Sand Beach awaits.
A rare break in the rockbound coast of Maine.
Lots more room than Malibu.
View from the Jordan Pond Trail.
Rocky Top’s got nuthin’ on us….
Making the turn at Jordan Pond.
Sand Beach And Jordan Pond
Friday, a modest hiking day demanded a visit to the only beach in miles, a pleasant stretch of 290 yards just off Park Loop Road. The ocean temperature there rarely exceeds 55 degrees, even in summer, and there is not a glut of swimmers, these beachgoers content to sit on the sand, read a book and take in the gorgeous backdrop. An occasional shriek penetrates the atmosphere as some bold kid darts in and out of the water, but all is mostly serene. We gave it forty-five minutes and got the bus to Jordan Pond, which had a three-mile peripheral trail with few ascents. Just the thing for winding it down. Jordan Pond, itself, is a glacier-formed tarn with a maximum water depth of 150 feet, with steep inclines to the east and west. The water is exceptionally clear, with an average visibility depth of 46 feet but has been measured up to 60 feet, the most ever recorded in the state of Maine. Swimming is not allowed—as if anyone would try—although non-motor boats such as canoes and kayaks are permitted. The hike is less than strenuous but enough to provide an appetite for the evening meal.
Alice’s timeshare period was up Saturday morning, so our last meal together would be Friday night. I was buying, the sisters got to decide the restaurant. They wisely chose Paddy’s Irish Pub & Restaurant on the bottom floor of the West Street Hotel on the busiest corner of downtown Bar Harbor. In a long listing of Bar Harbor’s glories, nobody will include “easy parking.” It’s a nightmare. You can either park a mile from your destination or circle the area fifteen times, hoping for a break. Bill’s personal leprechaun was on the job this night, however, and opened a spot just adjacent to Paddy’s. The girls had chosen the place partly because the talented band played a ton of Irish music and did it much better than the usual suspects. A rollicking good time was had by all, especially the waiter who nailed a $60 tip, thank you very much. He did, of course, sign over all rights to his photo of the gang, displayed herein. Hugs all around and promises to meet again next June at the wedding. These family meetings are few and far between so you’ve got to take the occasion to appreciate your sisters, even if one of them is a Republican.
The final day was spent hiking through meadows and making a last pass through town. Around five p.m., I sat on a Bar Harbor bench and looked at an ominous black sky to the west. We had made it through an entire Northeastern vacation with barely a hint of rain—a minor miracle—so what if the gods demanded a little payback. Then, as if by magic, a special courtesy. The storm moved out into the harbor, never leaving a drop on us. When we got back to the hotel, the parking lot was a sea of puddles, a reminder of the Cosmic Largesse. I doffed my straw hat to the heavens in appreciation.
Kennebunkport lobster roll haven.
Downtown Kennebunkport. Nobody saw a Bush.
A view from the bridge.
Lunchtime, Kennebunkport
The sign and the line. World-famous Woodman’s, Essex, Mass. Clam heaven.
Streetside lobster sales. No waiting.
Homeward Bound
Next day, it was off to Boston, via Kennebunkport, a little gem of a place, always worth the stop for light shopping and lobster rolls. We didn’t see the Bushes but their pictures were everywhere. Then, on to the summer towns of our youth, Hampton and Salisbury beaches, on opposite sides of the Massachusetts-New Hampshire line. And finally, a dinner visit to tiny Essex, Mass., to Woodman’s for the requisite fried clams, a fitting way to wrap up a gustatorial journey. It’s not often you are sampling something that is The Best In The World, but that’s what you’re doing at Woodman’s, where the clams are so prized they are flown to devotees all over the country at incomprehensible prices. You’ve got a half-hour line to wade through at Woodman’s, but isn’t that to be expected for Best In The World?
The flight home was happily uneventful. The Pathogenes crew of Stuart Ellison and Austin Li had kept the thriving ship asail and horse-feeder deluxe Sharon had coddled the animals. So, now it’s back to reality for Bill and Siobhan, but we have our memories. Not to mention, the June 25th betrothal rites are a mere TEN months in the future, virtually no time at all on Old People calendars. Thanks to everyone who made the trip memorable, including the crew at Jeannie’s breakfast place, the Bar Harbor Parking Bureau and even the Red Sox. Let all of us not forget that in life there are obstacles to overcome and in surpassing them we are the better for the challenge. That being said, could somebody please put a more edifying sign up at the bottom of the Cadillac Mountain’s South Ridge Trail? Even if it IS my own fault I forgot my shoes.
That’s all, folks….
