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Bar Harbor, Maine

There has been no other place that made me feel more like I had crested the summit of the world than Acadia National Park. Tucked away in the northeast corner of the country, Acadia National Park offers something for every type of visitor. Whether you prefer a relaxing stroll along rocky coastlines, a peaceful picnic accompanied by the serenading calls of overpassing birds, wildlife expeditions for otters, whales and puffins, or even a strenuous, white-knuckle inducing, climb up a mountain, Acadia National Park will not disappoint. 

It may then surprise you to learn that Drew and I almost didn’t make it to this chilly island sanctuary. We had just learned that we were tasked with returning home in 10 days time if we wished to be in Philadelphia for my Poppop’s funeral service, something I wasn’t willing to miss. After assessing our options, we debated whether it would be the right choice to start our southerly descent immediately, carving out a few hours of drive time every few days. The alternative option was to throw our hands up in the air and head an additional four hours in the opposite direction, allowing us to spend a week exploring Acadia, and then  immediately forcing us to make an expedited, 14 hour long, drive to Pennsylvania. This was not the sensible option, but I have never really seen myself as a sensible individual. So, when you really think about it, and I mean REALLY, really think about it, it may actually make logical sense that this was the direction I chose to lean.

This decision was not without risk, as a glance at our calendar provided us with the knowledge that we were approaching Labor Day weekend, a pickle we would have stumbled into even without the added complexity that losing a loved one had just introduced. I spent the large majority of a day calling every campground located within a half hour drive to the national park and was awarded nothing more than a few well wishes from the individuals manning the reception desks before they all let me know that their campground was completely sold out for the holiday weekend. Making it to Acadia National Park was the ultimate goal from the moment we left our little town of Philadelphia suburbia, and the thought of coming so close without actually stepping foot on our destination was a pill that my stubborn personality had trouble swallowing. It was fortunate that just before I felt the need to shut my laptop and sulk in the corner of the RV, that I found a website linking me to Bar Harbor Campground, a casual but large campground that claimed to be the closest campground to the national park, and additionally followed the unique guideline of not accepting advanced reservations. I showed the site to Drew, and we smirked at one another.

I asked a simple question. “What are the odds that we show up there and they have a spot for us?”

He paused for a moment. I saw his brows crease as he completed a few silent calculations in an effort to give me an accurate prediction. “Maybe 50/50,” he eventually answered, “but there’s always Walmart, right?”

If you’re unaware, most Walmarts will allow you to park your RV overnight in their parking lot free of charge. And so, our haphazardly orchestrated plan when we left Old Orchard Beach on that Saturday of Labor Day weekend, was to drive to the Bar Harbor Campground, and then pout in the Walmart parking lot while we formulate a Plan B if we were to be turned away.

I was actually quite confident at the beginning of the drive, a sensation that slowly lost its intensity with every mile we drove along Route U.S. 1. By the time we pulled up to the campground, my nerves forced me out of my seat before Drew could bring our motorhome to a complete stop. Timidly stepping into the office, I asked if they had availability, and was unexpectedly greeted by a warm smile and a nod.

“We have one left, Dear.”

I promptly threw my hands in the air and did a happy dance in front of this perfect stranger. We had successfully secured our home for the week, and were more than ready to explore the surrounding park. 

Best of Acadia

Over the course of the week, Drew and I (and sometimes Charlie) explored Acadia at every moment that we had available. After securing our Annual National Park Pass, we drove the length of the glorious Park Loop Road, a scenic throughway that guides you around the perimeter of East Desert Island. For 27-miles, we enjoyed seemingly endless ocean views atop rocky shorelines, stopping occasionally to take in the overwhelming presence of the Atlantic Ocean. This drive was an incredible preliminary voyage which allowed us to gather information about the overall landscape of the park, and to note areas which seemed like they would be of greater interest for us to explore in greater depth.

This route guided us to explore Sand Beach, a waterfront given its name due to it being one of the only sand covered beaches on the island. This little beach is nestled between two mountainous and rocky jut outs, protecting the cove from the impact of waves which allows for the accumulation of unique shell fragments and creates this small corner of sandy paradise. We were surprised to learn that you can actually swim at the beach, and we did see one attendant partaking in the activity, although the water rarely exceeds 55 degrees on the hottest summer days and so critical thinking lead me to believe that this would be a rather unpleasant experience. Drew and I did a polar plunge in Homer, Alaska this past September, and the sharp pain that felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing my lungs from doing so was more than plenty for one lifetime.

A relaxing walk along the coast then led us to Thunder Hole, a small cavern along the shoreline that creates a thunderous roar whenever an incoming wave hits it at just the right angle to slap the trapped air within. We sang “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC for a large portion of the time it took us to walk the 1.7 mile trail, hearing the call of Thunder Hole greet us as we approached. Resting atop the brick colored boulders, watching the waves roll in, we were treated to several thunder claps during our visit. A few kids ran down onto a man-made pier which came close to the Thunder Hole cavern. I called this pier the “splash zone” because every child who dared to venture down its path came back soaked in ocean water.

Dogs are indeed allowed in the area, and it was Charlie’s previously demonstrated indifference to loud noises that gave me the confidence to know that Thunder Hole wouldn’t frighten him. Although we were correct, him paying no mind to the phantom thunder, he instead focused every ounce of his attention to obtaining a greeting from every passerby within a thirty foot radius and so we quickly searched for less populated areas.

On a particularly sunny day after Drew and I had both finished work, the three of us took a walk around Jordan Pond, a 3.1 mile heavily trafficked loop around a still lake, all surrounded by densely forested mountains. The trail itself is composed of a combination of a dirt trail, a wooden boardwalk, and a short rock scramble which Charlie’s proficiency in never seems to fail in impressing any spectators. We walked alongside flocks of loons who fished in the water next to us, and found both a dam and the trademark chew pattern on downed tree trunks that let us know beavers lived nearby. 

While all of these adventures treated us to unique scenery and relaxing moments in nature, I was particularly interested in taking on the challenge of the Beehive Trail, a cliffside hike infamous for its iron-rung ladders and majestic overlook. Though only 1.4 miles in total, the trail is rated as “difficult”, and is located behind stations of ominously placed signs advising anybody with a fear of heights to rethink the decision to hike the trail. Charlie stayed home for this one, both due to the fact that dogs are not permitted on the hike, and because I doubted his ability to scale a 450 foot cliffside no matter how good his bouldering skills may be. For the first time in my memory, I was anxious about completing a hike, full of nervous energy that I would freeze in fear once I looked over the edge of an ominous cliff. Still, I was excited to see the view from the summit and so I marched past every warning sign, trying to portray the confidence I wish I felt. As it turns out, that nervous feeling may have been a bit of intuition knocking on my subconscious, because although we did not encounter the problems that had been originally plaguing my thoughts, we did end up getting stuck on the side of that mountainside, 

Worst of Acadia

We were about halfway up our ascent of the Beehive trail, the Sand Beach coming into aerial view as we gained elevation. My heartrate had begun to quicken and sweat started to bead across my forehead as the movement warmed our bodies. This is always the part of a hike where I want to turn around, to quit before I have really begun, and I must pound my fists against that wall in my mind that tells me to crawl back into bed until I shatter it. As I argued with the pessimistic voice inside my head, I finished my second ladder climb up the affixed iron rungs, and I was surprised to see a crowd of people before me. One kind hiker saw my confusion and offered an explanation.

“It’s a line,” she said with a smile. 

Oh, well, that’s new. I had never had to wait in line to finish a hike before, and it was a long line at that. Though the trail of people disappeared past the next corner, the pace of the line felt sloth-like, and by that I mean to say it moved very, very slow. There were times I considered sitting down on a rocky ledge, but this thought was typically interrupted by a few steps of advancement which I did not want to be excluded from. The whole experience seemed more like waiting for an attraction at Disney World than the secluded exploration of natural wonder that I had anticipated. Out of the hour and a half that it took us to reach the summit, roughly half of that was spent standing still, one hand on an iron rung, staring at the ponytail of the girl in front of me. It was at this point, that I had undeniably determined that the worst part of Acadia National Park was the sheer quantity of people who infested it. 

A New Point of View

As I awaited my turn to complete my hike, my thoughts drifted to the Lascaux cave paintings, a collection of Paleolithic cave paintings in the south of France that have been dated to be around 17,000 years old. The ancient artwork has a history of enchanting the lucky few who have seen the collection in person. For after 15 years of guided tours through the caves, algal growth was noted along the cave walls, it quickly being diagnosed that the heat, moisture and microorganisms which accompanied the visiting tourists were to blame for the algal growth. The cave was quickly closed to visitors in an effort to preserve the art, with the remaining few who still get to witness the paintings being the volunteers who work to preserve it. Replicas of the cave were created to allow the impact of the Lascaux paintings to live on.

I stood still on the Beehive Trail, wondering at what point it is determined that human visitors have begun to destroy the beauty of the treasures they come far and wide to see. At what point is the decision made that something is valuable enough in its sheer existence, that protecting its integrity is more important than allowing people to enjoy it?

After eventually making it to the summit of our hike, absorbing the raw beauty of the overlook and one quickly ingested protein bar gave me the clarity to realized the absurdity of my complaint. I’m certain I need not explain the hypocritical nature of being annoyed by my fellow humans who share in my desire to be challenged by mother nature. Yet there I was, a person who frequently preaches the importance of valuing the earth, becoming irritated that the volume of people doing just that was causing me a slight inconvenience. I was reminded by what Drew jokingly says to Charlie when he is barking at a dog who happens to be taking a walk by our camper. “We share this world.” I am not any more entitled to enjoy this planet than anybody else, even if I do play a leading role in my own version of reality.

The more distance I give myself from being stuck in that line, the more I find myself excited by the implications of the event. We are all still recovering from the eighteen month hibernation that we were forced to participate in, and as we all see sunshine again, it seems that the widespread, newfound appreciation for the great outdoors has not receded as I had originally predicted. While being the lone hiker in a forest of wilderness can provide the soul with a sense of tranquility, seeing a tsunami of like-minded individuals reminds me that I am not alone. The fight to save our planet, while impossible if acting independently, is feasible when we are unified. It is an effort that will outlive us all if we are fortunate, and will then require the next generations to adopt a respect for the delicate nature of our planet. So, seeing parents help their children climb the ladders of the Beehive Trail is the most hopeful exploit that I have seen in a very long time. 

Discover it for Yourself

The obvious difference between the Lascaux cave paintings and Acadia is that replication is not an option for our national parks. We have been graced with one earth and no extras. Acadia National Park is one of the most visited national parks in the country, with over 2 million people passing through it every year. The National Park system as a whole, implemented in large part through the combined leadership of Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, sees an average of 300 million visits on an annual basis. National Parks are not only a place where we can escape the illusion of modern day civilization, being reminded of the place we are born from and still a part of no matter how removed our wood and plaster shelters may make us feel. It is also a testament to what humans can accomplish if we set aside our instincts for greed, if we value the protection of our most stunning landscapes and the potential benefit that these areas can provide those who visit them.

Creating the national park system was an arduous battle, not without its share of adversaries, and sometimes whilst camouflaging the fact that America was not in-frequently claiming land that was never ours to claim in the first place. Still, the National Park system is often regarded as America’s best idea, and with National Parks being awarded status as recently as 1994, it is an idea that still holds potential to be manifested toward further greatness. America is far from perfect, but if we have done one thing right, it was in the creation of our National Parks. If you’re an American who has never visited one, I encourage you to stop waiting; If you have visited several already, I implore you to visit more: Even if you’re not an American at all, then I still welcome you to explore America’s greatest idea, taking full advantage of what you can learn about yourself in the process.

Thank you for joining us at Discovery Detour, where the Destination is always unknown.