The idea to visit Acadia National Park was born in mid-July at Wonderland in the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington, DC. After a morning soccer game with my DC SCORES team, I was enjoying my favorite postgame meal, “The Veganator,” at one of Wonderland’s picnic tables and discussing my future hiking adventures when my no-filter friend Emily piped in, “You should go to Acadia!” I know of Acadia — I knew my parents had been there — but hadn’t given the national park any thought until then.
A couple weeks later, I sat at the kitchen table at the Red House in New Hampshire thinking about what I would do the second week of my vacation when I would be all alone. The parents, sister, brother-in-law and baby would all be back in Michigan. Aunt Vicky would be back in North Carolina. I would have complete freedom. Sure, there was always plenty of New Hampshire hiking I could do. But the idea of going on a completely new adventure intrigued me.
How about Acadia, I asked? A day later, Dad came into the kitchen with a trail book and map he had found on the old house’s shelf of maps. I then spent a couple hours reading through the countless trail descriptions. Yes, Acadia didn’t have a mountain taller than 1,500 feet, but the trails seemed awesome — rocky, ledges, ladders, steep. That was all I needed to hear. I began to plan my trip. I was going to Acadia!
I booked a site at one of the island’s two national park campsites, Seawall. Then I watched as the weather forecast got worse and worse. When I left the Red House in the early afternoon of Wednesday, Aug. 13, it was downpouring and the forecast gave no indication of the rain lessening in New Hampshire or in Acadia, which was about four hours northeast of the Red House. Oh, well, I thought, this really is going to be an adventure! I even took the step of setting up my tent as much as I could indoors and stuffing it in the Civic so that setup would be minimal if I had to do it in a downpour.
As it turned out, by the time I reached the island around 7pm, the sky, although ominous, produced no precipitation. The island, also called Mount Desert Island because not all of it is the national park, was interesting. It didn’t take me long, as I passed gas stations and tire shops, fast-food joints and other commercial businesses, to recognize that this national park experience might be vastly different from others. I was in a national park, yes, but it didn’t have that pristine feeling that I often experience in this nation’s crown jewels. After setting up my tent, I drove across the main road to the beach and ate a dinner of a crusty sandwich and beef jerky (I could have done better) with a gluten-free beer while peering out at the wind-swept white waters of the ocean. It was chilly. I could tell the rain would be back.
Once darkness came, I returned to my campsite and crawled into my tent with my book. And thus began the night from hell. Soon, the rain started to fall. And then drops began falling on my head. Yes, I was getting wet. My five-year-old tent’s sealing was subpar. Add to that the fact that I happened to be stationed next to the campsite with the immature, loud, drunk, dick-joke-making college-age kids, and I wasn’t sleeping. The only thing that got me through that night was my book, “The Adventures of Buffalo and Tough Cookie,” a great read about a man who befriends a girl from next door and ingrains in her a love of hiking as they complete the 52 peaks in New Hampshire that aren’t 4,000-footers but all offer great rewards (Note: Hiking all of these peaks is a new goal of mine; add it to the list!). I finally fell asleep around 2 a.m.
I woke up the next morning at 7 a.m. The wind was still howling, but the rain was gone. The bottom of my sleeping bag was soaked. Thankfully, it had been a very warm night. I had never gotten chilled. I left my tent and picked up my site in record time. Good riddance. In order to cleanse my initial experience in the park, I needed to hike. I didn’t particularly care what the hike was or what conditions I experienced. I’ve never gone on a bad hike in my life. I just needed to lace up my boots and hit the trail.
So being on the southwest portion of the island, I drove to the nearest trailhead, which gave me access to a variety of peaks. The sky was completely clouded over, so I knew views would offer little, if anything. No matter. It was time to hike. The trail quickly gained the first peak, Flying Man (284 feet), a popular sunset destination. The rocky top gave me a (limited) view into Valley Cove below. After snapping a photo at the summit, I descended the trail into the woods until I emerged at a beach on the cove. It was a pretty cool setting. A hundred yards out or so in the water sat a medium-sized Coast Guard boat. The fog had lifted enough that I could see the land forming Northeast Harbor across the cove. I sat down, enjoyed a snack, and took in the scenery.
Then it was back to the trail and my next destination, Acadia Mountain (681 feet). The hike up Acadia was awesome. It was as extreme as almost any New Hampshire peak. It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t come close to reaching 1,000 feet. The trail was steep with many pitches that required using my hands to boost myself up. Add to that the fact that many rocks were slippery and the wind was howling, and it was an extreme ascent.
The top had zero visibility, but it did offer 30-plus-mph winds! I stood on the wet rock and took it all in. I had the mountain to myself, and I was loving it. Sometimes the elements make a hike memorable, even if you can’t see farther than 20 feet away. That was the case on Acadia Mountain. On my way down, I actually saw three groups of hikers — the weather was becoming more auspicious — as I headed south on the St. Sauveur Trail, going over its namesake peak (again, no views) before navigating the very slippery trail on the descent back down to the car. I made it back unscathed.
It was about 12:30 p.m. when I finished my morning hike. I knew I wanted to do another trek in the afternoon, but not before I found a place to stay. To be honest, I wasn’t confident in having an enjoyable camping experience after the nightmare of the night before. Heck, I didn’t know if my sleeping bag would even dry. So I drove up 102 to 3 and the north part of the island and then headed east to Bar Harbor, the touristy town. I mistakenly thought I might be able to find a hotel room at a reasonable price less than $100. Boy, was I wrong. I stopped at what looked like the most run-down place in town and was shocked when the unhappy-looking woman behind the desk offered me a room at $161. Ah, forget about it! I’ll try camping again, I thought. I drove through the tourist hotbed and continued on Route 3 south until I came to the Blackwoods national park campground in the southeast portion of the island. Luckily, they had a few spots remaining for the night.
I knew right away that my camping experience might be better than the previous night’s when the family adjacent to my site offered me their large hammer to help knock in my tent’s short stakes (the ground was rock hard). They were quite the upgrade from the loud kids of Seawall. After getting settled, it was time to hike again!
I drove west to Seal Harbor, where I was able to merge onto the 27-mile Park Loop Road, which accurately loops on the east portion of the island and has access to many trailheads. I took the road to the southern shores of Jordan Pond, which, I quickly learned, is a tourist destination. I was lucky to find a parking spot amid the swarms of people, and as I walked to the edge of the pond, I was far from alone. However, as is usually the case when hiking, once I began on the Penobscot Mountain trail, I quickly gained solitude. Crowds don’t climb. They just hang out.
Again, I was on a really fun, steep, rocky trail. I loved it. Even better — within maybe three quarters of a mile, I emerged from the woods and was treated to absolutely tremendous views as I walked up the open rocky slopes toward the 1,194-foot summit. Every few feet, I stopped, rotated, and took in the sites in every direction. I couldn’t identify what everything was. I didn’t care. I was in a spectacular place. The sky was as blue as the sea and the myriad ponds and sounds that stretched beneath me in all directions. On the completely exposed summit, with the late-afternoon sun radiating on the wooden sign that stuck out of a large cairn, I was joined by three other hikers. I contrasted that with the hundreds of people some 1,000 feet below on the shores of Jordan Pond.
From there, I descended to tiny Sargent Pond, tucked delicately in the col between mountains, before an equally enjoyable ascent to Sargent Mountain (1,373 feet). I had Sargent’s summit to myself. I gazed to the northeast at Eagle Lake with its azure-blue water. I turned around and shielded my eyes from the bright, almost-setting sunlight above Somes Sound. To the east on the other side of Jordan Pond stood Cadillac Mountain, at 1,530 feet the highest point on the mountain.
I was tempted to stay on top of Sargent for sunset and put my headlamp to use, but I was in an unfamiliar place and would be taking new trails down. It wasn’t worth the risk. Minutes later, I knew I had made the right decision as I carefully descended the extremely steep, rocky, and still wet Sargent Mountain North Ridge Trail. It would not have been fun to navigate in the darkness.
After what seemed a long 1.2 miles, I reached the northern shore of Jordan Pond. The sun had set and was already creating irresistible-to-view colors in the sky as I began walking on the pond-side trail. I had a good mile to go before reaching the parking lot at the southeast corner of the pond. The walk was incredible. As darkness took over, so did fog, and a few deer appeared before me on the trail. They didn’t seem scared of me as I approached, and nonchalantly trotted into the woods only when one of us had to make room. A few minutes later, I heard a splash in the water to my right and noticed a head poking up. I followed the animal’s movements and realized it was a beaver. It followed a pattern of swimming 10 to 20 feet and then poking its head above water to make a sound I can’t describe. A minute later, I noticed that it had a mate. Two beavers, what a scene!
As I ended my journey, I came out to a cadre of rocks on the edge of the pond and sat down. There was a group of people farther out on the pond to my left. We had the place to ourselves. The fog that had settled over the water created a mystical setting. It was dark, but a white pocket of light refused to leave the sky to the north and reflected on the pond. I didn’t want to leave. As the darkness got thicker, a pair of black birds suddenly flew in front of me making loud chirping noises as if to signify the beginning of night. Their communication was answered by another’s howling from the opposite end of the lake.
Finally I left and drove the park loop road back to the campsite, fully content from a memorable day of hiking. After some reading while enjoying a rice cakes dinner with beers, I fell asleep soundly at 10pm. I slept soundly.
MILES HIKED APPROXIMATELY: 10
Friday, my final day on the island, began with a visit to the campsite’s registration building. I had been told the previous day that because of the popular season, the only way to get a spot at the campsite for an additional night was to line up by 8 a.m. when limited spots were available. Unfortunately for me, when I arrived at 7:46 a.m., about 10 people were already in line. Fourteen minutes later, the ranger came out of the building to announce that just six (or maybe it was eight) campsites were available. I was on the outside looking in. I returned to my campsite and packed up. I had no idea where I would stay for the night.
But that was a future concern. In the moment, I was excited to take advantage of what appeared to be a spectacular weather day. I knew what I wanted to hike first — Champlain Mountain (1,058 feet). From the moment I read about the Precipice Trail, I knew it was right in my wheelhouse. It didn’t disappoint. The 0.8-mile trail was literally straight up. And that meant ladders and rungs — several of them. Not surprisingly, the trail was popular. It was the closest you can get to rockclimbing without, you know, actually rockclimbing. The trail consisted of climbing one ladder after another, with ledge walking mixed in. There were several sections when a misstep could have resulted in disaster. Still, this danger didn’t dissuade dozens of people from doing it. I guess I was a little surprised by how many people I encountered. Near the top I stopped and took the picture of a group of three about my age, including a girl who, her sister said, was afraid of heights. Wow. I was impressed she had done the hike (or been pulled along). There was that much exposure. Of course, gaining elevation so quickly, and being on the eastern edge of the island, also afforded outstanding views to the east of the ocean and the many small islands that dotted Frechman Bay. To the northeast I could see Bar Island, which you can walk to when it’s low tide.
Upon reaching the wide summit of Champlain, I headed south on the Bear Brook Trail, stopping often to pick the plentiful blueberries and huckleberries that dominated the edges of the rocky but easy trail. The trail dropped gradually and eventually entered cover before coming to “The Bowl,” a small pond that was quite popular on this August Friday. Families bathed in the shallow waters and others sat on pond’s edge. It was nice, but nothing special. I continued past the crowds and up “The Beehive,” another small peak I had read featured a very steep ascent. The only thing was, as I quickly learned, that ascent was from the east, not from my direction. I actually gained the summit quite easily. I sat and observed as people, their T-shirts caked in sweat, emerged on top from what I could imagine was a trail similar to the Precipice. I could have tried going down, but no, I was fine. One Precipice was enough, I figured!
Instead, I turned around and headed back the way I had come. The return trip was nothing special except for whom I encountered — the barefoot legend. I had noticed her going the other way, but this time I stopped and asked the woman if she always hiked barefoot. Her mom piped in, telling me that her daughter was Susan Letcher, one of the two sisters who had hiked the entire Appalachian Trail barefoot and wrote a book about it (which I still need to read, by the way). I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was in the presence of a legend. I asked Susan what the hardest part of the AT was, expecting her to mention the spear-like granite rocks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains.
Her answer surprised me — a handicap-accessible path in Connecticut with gravel and poison ivy growing on its edges. She said that the gravel was tough on her feet, and she couldn’t avoid it. Makes sense!
After bidding goodbye to the legend, I continued my hike back to the summit and took a longer, roundabout way down to avoid descending the Precipice — probably a smart choice, especially as I would learn later about the poor tread of my sneakers. Once down, I drove south toward Sandy Beach, the island’s one public swimming salt water location. I thought I was going to swim, but once I stepped foot on the beach, felt the cold afternoon air and then the water hit my toes, and observed a beached jelly fish, I changed my mind. It wasn’t that appetizing. Yeah, my tough-guy reputation — if I even have one — took a hit, but it was OK. No one was watching me. After hiking the Precipice, I could live with not jumping in the cold water (plus, I had gone in Echo Lake the day before).
I read for awhile and then continued down Park Loop Road. I intended to drive to the campsite and maybe check on availability before heading to Cadillac Mountain for a final hike, but I couldn’t stop myself from pulling over twice to walk over to the red rocks above Newport Cove. While Sandy Beach wasn’t all that beautiful, walking on the rocks and looking out to the ocean was spectacular. I could have spent an entire afternoon traversing the shore on the rocks that jutted out above the white waters. Instead, I settled for about 20 minutes. I loved that Acadia offered such diverse environments that were equally amazing — in how many places can you go from a mountain peak to the rocks of an ocean cove in an hour?
By the time I was able to pull myself away from the red rocks, time was of the essence — I needed to start my sunset hike up Cadillac. My plan was to go up the mountain’s shortest route, the Cadillac West Face Trail that was 1.4 miles to the summit. I forget what time it was when I started, but I didn’t have a lot of daylight. Still, I wasn’t worried. I had my headlamp. I laced up my sneakers and started up. Immediately, I realized just how steep the rock-slab-dominated trail was, and it wasn’t completely dry, either. This would be no easy sunset hike.
Then, just like that, the sky was devoured by a cloud. This wasn’t before I enjoyed picturesque views of the evening fog above Bubble Pond below me. But pretty soon I realized there would be no sunset from Cadillac’s peak. That fact combined with the steepness of the trail and many wet rock slabs that I knew I would have to descend almost convinced me to turn around. Plus, the hike was taking, seemingly, forever.
But if you know me, you understand that I hate turning back on any hike. So I picked up my pace and continued on, determined to reach the summit simply because I had set out to do it. Finally — after what seemed like 2 miles — I reached the junction with the South Ridge Trail half a mile from the top. The path leveled out, and I jogged most of way to the top, which was disgusting. There was a store. There were dozens of cars. I was the ONLY person who had hiked the mountain that evening. The summit was even more touristy than the summit of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire.
Thankfully, I hadn’t planned on spending much time on top, anyway. I wanted to begin what was sure to be a treacherous descent before darkness. So I set up my gorilla pod and took a quick photo, simply to document the achievement, and then turned around. So long, tourists. Enjoy the views! After jogging the easy half a mile back to the junction, I took my time with every step on the way down. I had descended the most difficult pitches and was nearly down when, inexplicably, I slipped on a fairly flat rock and fell on my butt. It was a bit sore, but I felt fine. Then, a minute later, my shoe, again, gave out from me and I hit the ground, scraping my right hand. I looked at the blood from a decent cut — although not deep — and shook my head in disgust. What the heck? How had I made it this far down and now couldn’t take a step without slipping?
My confidence was a bit shaken, I have to admit. Still, I knew I needed to regain my focus. Even though I wasn’t far from Bubble Pond and could hear voices below, I was alone on the path. No one was coming to rescue me. I survived the final portion of the path, found a rock beside the still, tranquil pond, sat down and got out my medical kit to find a band aid for the cut. That taken care of, I grabbed my final beer and enjoyed watching the darkness, once again, take over such a beautiful setting. I had survived Acadia National Park, which didn’t take long to gain my respect. The summits might have been tiny compared to my other hiking destinations, but no trail was easy.
I’ll be back, Acadia. You’re spectacular!
MILES HIKED (APPROXIMATELY): 7
TOTAL ACADIA MILES HIKED: 17
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