And another a few minutes later:
At Schooner Head, there's a parking lot and a lumpy asphalt path that winds down to the rocks. I one-foot it as far as I can, over lumps and roots, until the asphalt becomes too decomposed to ride on.
I walk out into a clearing before the bottom of the path.
Even with the digital zoom, the lighthouse is too far away. It might come out all right. Might as well snap a handful and hope for one clear shot.
The distortion is fun. It makes the house look like a badly-executed watercolor.
I want a picture with my foot, the rocks, and the ocean.
It's only a little past 9:00 a.m., but I have to wait in line with the cars to show my park pass at the ranger gate. I'm only going to be on Park Loop Road for a mile or two before I turn off.
Otter Creek Road takes me back to Route 3. The Tarn, along Route 3, is the reason I wanted to go this way.
I get a lukewarm shower while Shannon figures out what to do with all the food we bought but never ate because we weren't hermits after all. I pack what I can into my cooler. We load the car, and I drop her off at Hancock County Airport. I'll probably never hear from her or any of my Jax classmates again*.
We're waiting at the gate in Bangor Airport. We're taking up two rows of seats. I'm sitting on the floor, across from the one person I maybe could call a friend, but we'll never see each other again, so I won't.
Somebody says something, and I respond, "I don't love anyone."
"Bullshit," my not-really-friend, who never curses, almost whispers.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, you do."
"I really don't." Why is this so hard to understand?
As I drive west, listening to music I listened to 34 years ago, what I see looks less and less like the Maine I remember. I switch playlists to All Bike Tunes and turn south towards Boston, wondering how the weekend rides are going back home. The weather is perfect.