Acadia National Park, ME

Of lighthouses and lobsters

Before even setting foot in the park — let alone in the state of Maine — I woke up early, set up my phone — had signal, was signed onto account, turned off the VPN — to make sure to score tickets for the drive up Cadillac Mountain, available two days before desired date at 10 am EST.

Mission accomplished.

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It had rained all night — there was no way to miss the sound when we were sleeping in a metal box. We were sad to be leaving New Brunswick, to be leaving Canada. Although we never got to know Canadians as much as we’d liked, we were charmed by the breadth and beauty of the country, larger than even the U.S., but, with only about a tenth of its size in population, one that felt roomier, calmer (despite the wildfires), less frenetic. We wanted to come back soon.

We crossed the border back home in the town of Calais. As we were waiting in the immigration check line, we could see that the border patrol agent was doing a thorough job of asking questions, even coming out of her little box to open car doors and enter random vehicles. So we felt a bit disappointed when she just asked us where we lived, how long we had been out of the country. (She did perk up when we mentioned that we had been in Vancouver: she said she longed to visit the city for its dim-sum.) Again, we must have looked like the boring retired people that we claimed to be because she did not ask us to open our vehicle to peek inside to check whether we had any dangerous contraband.

N.’s mission in the state of Maine — “National Park? What National Park?” — was to eat lobsters every day. He started in a small out-of-the-way restaurant in Corea, Maine: a whole lobster with coleslaw and potato salad. I had the lobster in a toasted bun so my fingers did not stink afterwards. (Lobsters were once considered such undesirable eats that even prisoners revolted when served.)

We had mentioned Acadia National Park since the beginning of our van adventures, but as these were coming to an end, before we even arrived, Acadia seemed more like a box to check off: we were tired of the driving, of the logistics, of both the cooking in the van and eating out, of the Russian roulette that was finding decent showers, of the lack of stability and permanence. We could see light at the end of this tunnel.

So it was with a lovely sense of surprise that we drove a snippet of the Park Road at Acadia, came to the rocky-and-treed shores of the Maine coast in the late afternoon, looked out to sea and found a wonderful view and sense of calm.

***

During the high summer season, driving to the summit of Cadillac Mountain required a ticket to enter, but once up there, people were allowed to stay as long as they liked. It all sounded nice, except for the fact that there were no facilities at the top of the mountain, which basically meant that one could stay just as long as one’s capacity to resist the requirements of bodily functions.

But wait — we have a van! Although we could not find a “front row” parking spot, we found a good one on the second row, which gave us a view of the harbors below and of the people walking around and enjoying the views.

Today’s lobster came courtesy of a restaurant in Southwest Harbor.

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The only lighthouse on Mount Desert Island — where Acadia National Park sat — was the Bass Harbor Head Light. It was here that we were able to take those iconic Maine photos — the ones with the lighthouses, rocky shores, and battering waves.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the pretty Marsh Picnic Area.

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For the first time in recent memory, a visit to a national park visitor center was a disappointment: at Hulls Cove, the ranger didn’t tells us anything we didn’t already know. Maybe this assessment was colored by the fact that it was a gray and rainy day. Still.

We ended up spending the afternoon at the Thompson Island parking lot and picnic area, which we discovered on our own. Again — as in life — there are parking lots and parking lots, and this one was the latter. It was a skinny strip of land, but hidden from the sights and sounds of the traffic whizzing by. This secret area was open to the bay, with views of the water dotted with boats, islands, and sea birds. Why it was practically empty would remain a mystery to us.

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Our last day in Acadia was spent driving around the different stops on the Loop Road, where we discovered that the lowest clearance of one of those rock bridges was 10 feet 4 inches; our van required 10 feet. Squeak.