The next day, we awaken to the placid blue of pre-dawn, in the second-story bedroom of an old Victorian house in Bar Harbor. The green-decored room is comfortably warmed by a space heater, but I can feel the frosty morning air radiating from the window panes. We don our cold weather gear (for the first time since Iceland) and descend the creaky staircase, stopping on the front porch to lock the door. Back along Bridge Street, as we descend the dirt driveway down toward the narrows, we are stunned to find a dark, half-mile sandbar rising up out of the water. We stare at the water receding from the path, which is at least thirty yards wide in places, just barely uncovered in others. Celestial bodies pull upon every atom of the planet, generating ocean waves with lengths spanning half the globe, before which all the Earth's shorelines, safe harbors, and, indeed, continents, are just incidental bumps in the road - land to be acted upon, submerged. In the dim light, a flock of Canada geese flies perpendicularly across the bar, unusually quiet for their kind. They are partway through their southward migration along the Atlantic flyway; in a few weeks, they will make water landings in the lakes and marshlands dotting the Chesapeake Bay, their home for the winter months. We skirt the tide pools and the bushes of beach rose and walk across the bar tenuously, aware that we only have a certain amount of time to spend on the other side.
On Bar Island, we climb a footpath through the trees, past several abandoned orchards and farmsteads. The path eventually branches; a wooden post has two arrows pointing in different directions which are helpfully labeled "Trail". We turn uphill and climb through a stand of spruce and pine, emerging into a clearing with needles clinging to our jackets. There is a massive cairn of rock and debris here; we look around, confusedly, at the treeline rising above us. This does not feel like a summit. But just ahead, there is a break in the forest with views descending south toward Bar Harbor. Out of view to our east, the sun has just crested the Atlantic, and its rays illuminate the town across the water. A fleet of white sails and Victorian-era façades gleam like gold under the bald summits of Cadillac and Champlain Mountains. We sit there for a few minutes, enjoying this pretty sight, before returning to the forest.
Back downhill, we continue east in search of another view. The trail winds through the upland forest before deteriorating into an invisible track among the roots. We creep through the branches and find ourselves at a dead end - an overgrown cliffside on the eastern end of the island; we can just barely see the glimmer of seawater through the canopy of leaves. We crawl forward on hands and knees and sit on the rock ledge; the morning light is streaming through the autumn foliage, illuminating our little space beneath the trees. It is a golden room of perhaps six square feet, and it is one of the loveliest forest scenes I have ever seen. On our return, we get lost in the thick forest growth. We contemplate emerging from the woods hours later to find the sandbar flooded by the tide, wondering how we will spend the day alone on the island. Fortunately, we soon find the track through the woods, and our dread dissipates. We descend to the beach and walk back across the water, stopping to peek in the exposed tide pools at the limpets and barnacles, the mighty strands of kelp.
Back at the house, June is busy in the kitchen. She treats us to a breakfast of coffee, juice, a bowl of fresh fruit, hot scrambled eggs, and pancakes topped with orange marmalade and butter. Nourished, we put our hiking packs in the car and drive west out of town. It is Sunday, October 18th, the date of the annual Mount Desert Island Marathon, and so today we will be avoiding the majority of Acadia proper in favor of the western half of the island - the "quiet side". We drive past Eagle Lake with its summer cottages and fishing piers, and follow the highway across Somes Sound, a glacial fjard (broader, flatter version of the fjord) that neatly divides the island into two lobes. The frosty blue morning has given way to brilliant sunlight and crisp, fresh air. On the north shore of Great Long Pond, we pull into a gravel parking lot at National Park Canoe & Kayak. The boats are sunbathing in front of a tiny cabin office, next to a rack of paddles and life jackets. No one is around; a sign on the door informs us that the office is closed for the season, and rentals can be paid for via honor system. We deposit our fee in a wooden envelope box and carry our baby-blue tandem kayak across the street to the boat launch. Faced with a team-building exercise, we laugh nervously. After I promise not to capsize her, Jane allows me to push us out into the water. We set off across the lake.
Jane, in front, is doing most of the paddling; I am just along to document the ride. The autumn air is cool and nipping at our noses; our fingers quickly turn cold, gripping the steel of the paddlebars. But the view is more than worthwhile; the clean blue water of the pond is ringed by trees and lakeside cottages. We paddle curiously toward the private docks and peer at these charmingly pastoral dwellings. All around us are the tufts of evergreens and the brilliantly red and orange birch and maple trees. Looming ahead over the water is Great Notch, and beyond it Beech and Acadia Mountains. We are paddle down the lake, long and narrow as a scratch, a finger-shaped scar in the earth, clawed out by the southern advance of Pleistocene ice. The sheer size and scale of this so-called "pond" is not apparent to us at this point, at eye level. We do not go particularly far before the cold, the sun, and the diving, blue depths of the water convince us to turn around. On the roadside, a few onlookers have stopped their cars to admire the lake and, embarrassingly, to watch us kayak. "You two sure picked a damn fine spot for paddlin' on a Sunday morning!" one man yells to us from the jetty. We wave like British royals, trying hard not to disturb our combined center of gravity; the visual effect, I imagine, must have been quite comical. Back on shore, we entrust our boat to Mr. and Mrs. Baker, another couple visiting from Maryland. No strings attached, we say. Just two daft kids who are quite cold and strongly prefer to remain on terra firma.
We drive south from Great Long Pond, across the foothills between the lakes, to the trailhead beneath Beech Mountain. The short hike to the summit, which takes us through the mountain oak and up smooth-grey granite slopes, is quite refreshing after our hour on the water. We are back in our element. Jane climbs ahead while I photograph. We get our first good look at wild blueberry plants, which grow with reckless abandon all along the mountainside. In the fall, their crimson-red leaves are perhaps the most startling and vivid colors in the entire Maine countryside, and here they beautifully complement the soft pink of the mountain rock
I catch up with Jane where she has stopped to take in the view, on the northwest slope of the mountain. From the side of Beech Mountain, we can see the full length of Great Long Pond; miles away in the distance, we can barely see the indentation in the shoreline and the tiny jetty where we launched our boat. The Pond stretches nearly 180 degrees across our field of view, north to south, nestled in a broad valley. In the far distance over the hills, running parallel to us, are the shimmering lakes of Hodgdon Pond and Seal Cove Pond - more claw marks left by Mount Desert Island's ancient glaciers. I imagine the entire landscape before us submerged by a mile-high columns of ice - glowing blue mountains deforming the earth, crafting the valleys below us with their sheer weight. It all happened yesterday, if one measures in geologic time.
A few hundred meters further up the slope, we reach the mountaintop, heralded by a rickety old fire tower standing on the bald granite above us. We are warm from the climb, and the wind whips around us, not unpleasantly. Jane climbs the fire tower. We stand on the south face of the summit and gaze out at the "Quiet Side" of Mount Desert Island. The little buildings of Southwest Harbor are in the distance, dots floating in ocean of many-colored trees. The sun is shining brightly now, and the Atlantic has become a sea of white light, silhouetting the Cranberry Islands just offshore. The granite around us, too, is sparkling in the mid-day sun. Jane and I realize, belatedly, that we have not re-applied sunblock since 6 AM; our cheeks begin to feel tight. We finish the loop, following blue trail blazes painted on rock all the way down the mountainside.
From Beech Mountain, we return to the main roadway and head south, completing the last miles of the Mount Desert Marathon by car. In Southwest Harbor, there is a festive scene at the finish line - runners bundled up against the chilly October wind, sipping hot cocoa with medals in hand. We stop by one of the few places in town still open past the high season - The Quietside Café and Ice Cream Shop. I readily admit to Jane that I am most intrigued by the latter portion of the name. We order big bowls of fish chowder, and share a slice of wild blueberry pie à la mode. The restaurant owner is leaving for Florida at the end of the week. The gift shop next door, where we peruse little trinkets and island-themed decor, is having a closing sale. The shopkeeper is moving to California for good; we chat for awhile about Orange County, where her children and grandchildren live.
We drive west now along the southern shore. It is, indeed, much quieter here than the Acadia and Bar Harbor side of the island; we pass precious few cars as the autumn sun begins to drop toward the horizon. We stop at the stone beach campground at Seawall. I leave my camera on the tripod as Jane walks determinedly out into the tidepools, like a television news reporter pursuing live interviews among the resident colony of herring gulls and black cormorants. A westerly wind is pushing the clouds before us, sending the sunbeams spiraling; the afternoon light shines down on the lovely scene before us, sifting between the pine trees across the cove. I stand on the shore, photographing as the light changes minute by minute. Jane combs the beach for anything to pique her interest, eventually settling down on a rock to assemble a collection of periwinkle shells. She walks over and gifts these to me before wordlessly waddling away.
Our last stop of the day is the Bass Harbor Head Light, near the southwest point of the island. We arrive on the headland to hear the Atlantic dashing upon the rocks. Above them on the cliff, the signal bell is clanging away dutifully, its rings carrying to the distant islands. A short trail leads from the parking lot down to the side of the cliff, where the lighthouse is visible across a field of boulders. We scramble over and under these lumps of pink granite, tinted a beautiful, dusky color by the light of the setting sun. There is a good crowd here; we dodge photographers assembling their tripods for sunset shots of the Head Light, and wayward toddlers climbing and jumping between the rocks, oblivious to their nervous, trailing parents and the crashing ocean waves below them.
Jane and I find a little alcove in front of a particularly large boulder and duck down safely out of sight of the firing squad. There we sit together, shielded from the wind, our bottoms on granite, our feet in a little saline puddle. The sun is sinking now toward the horizon, silhouetting the offshore islands and bathing the cliffside in a warm, orange glow. The lighthouse is beaming a soft, reassuring red, on and off at five-second intervals, and somewhere high above us, the signal bell is ringing happily in the evening breeze. We watch as the photographers ply their craft.
It is mid-October, and the sky darkens quickly. Eventually, we rise, stiff-legged, from our hiding spot and make our way back across the cliffs. Jane flicks on the headlights as we drive back from the southwest corner of the island. A few minutes away, back near Seawall, we stop to buy dinner at the irresistibly named Charlotte's Legendary Lobster Pound. It is dark and cold now, and Jane huddles by a space heater next to the trailer while I order at the window. The proprietor, Charlotte, informs me that she is out of whole lobsters but would be glad to sell us lobster rolls stuffed with claw meat. She sweetens the deal with several pounds of mussels and freshly drawn butter. We walk around the trailer lot as we wait for our food. A sign by the road says "LOBSTER XING"; we look, but find only a family of white-tailed deer grazing in the field behind the lot.
Back at the house, we sit on the ground and dig into our bucket of steamed mussels, cups of coleslaw, and lobster rolls. It is one of the more unique dinners that Jane and I have shared - a sumptuous seafood feast on the wood-paneled floor of an old Victorian house. It is 8 PM when we finish eating, and completely dark outside our window but for the glow of the old streetlamps that line the sidewalk. We go downstairs to sit for awhile in June's living room, pouring over her old Friends of Acadia magazines and examining the chunks of gneiss and schist and marble on her coffee table. On the wall hangs a photo of several boys standing in the woods, looking quite ruddy-cheeked and dapper in the snow and their Christmas sweaters. One, the youngest, is preparing to lob a snowball at the camera. Most of her children and grandchildren have moved away from Bar Harbor, June explains to us a few days later over breakfast. Now they occasionally visit, but not usually during winter. January and February, after the holidays have passed and the island remains blanketed by snow, is when most elderly folk in Bar Harbor pass away, June tells us. "I could never bear to leave, though." She shows us a collage of her house buried under several feet of snow, each photograph neatly labeled with the date and year of the storm. "Just look at what I'd be missing."
