Oh, Hi!
28 May 2018
We booked the hotel in February. Some time around then is when I found the ,a href="http://barharborcam.com" target="_blank" title="Bar Harbor Cam">camera feed
. I opened the browser tabs and kept them open in the background. In spare moments I'd peek at the camera trained on Bar Island, looking past the empty parking lot built over the water, watching the land bridge to the island come and go with the tide. That was the zoomed-in view. The zoomed-out one let me see the whole island from the hotel's rooftop. It looked over the long dock that, come summer, would hold the four-masted, red-sailed tourist-hauler, the Margaret Todd. Sometimes there was snow on the dock; it would melt within a few days. Sometimes fog would hide the island. Sometimes rain would blur the lens. There were deep purple-hued evenings warranting a screenshot. There were more screenshots as the setting sun moved closer to being in the frame and the camera stayed on later and later. In April the trees were still bare, but, little by little, more and more cars would be parked in the lot. Sometimes one or two people would be making their way along the low-tide rocky sand between the two docks. Another camera appeared, trained on Jordan Pond and the Bubbles beyond. I watched the trees there go from bare to a hint of green. Then, all at once, in the middle of May, Bar Island turned green and the Margaret Todd was back. The parking lot was full. One week later Jack and I were on the road to Bar Harbor, Maine.
We planned to stop for a night in Portland first, in order to break up the long drive and to see what the city was about.
A roadside rest stop in southern Maine provided much moose-themed entertainment for Jack, who amused himself by taking pictures of pamphlets for tourist attractions such as the life-size chocolate moose. I took a picture of a stand of evergreens next to the parking lot. I knew it would be the tip of the Maine photo iceberg. It wasn't even particularly Maine-like, but one has to start somewhere.
The sky darkened as we drove into Portland. We checked into the hotel while the rain came down. Jack had already made dinner reservations (it was our 29th anniversaryyikeswereold) and we walked there.
We were in the Old Port area, where all of the sidewalks -- all of them -- were brick and there weren't any skyscrapers.
We stopped in a used bookstore before dinner. I came out with three books and Jack left with one. This is unusual, but not unheard of. I tend to find an author I like and read everything I can find from that person.
On our way home we spotted a shop that was chock-full of tacky souvenirs and chock-fuller or moose-related paraphernalia.
There were buckets of moose.
Having recently purge our home collection of all but the moose with the most zazz, I wasn't interested in buying any more. I did waver, long enough to prop him up, on a camo-moose. But I passed. I'm a peacenick, and the colorful moose corner is pretty full right now.
Socks, however, take up no space at all.
The next morning we walked up to the Portland Museum of Art. We started with local artists, like this one's collection of goofy wooden birds.
We saw about half of the collection (it spans four buildings) before calling it quits and heading to another used bookstore. One look inside and I made for the door. I just didn't have the patience to attempt to search for favorites among the crammed shelves and piles on the floor. Jack, who used to live for Lame Duck Books in Philly, and who once could lose himself in a place like this, wasn't far behind me.
It didn't help, he said, that half the lights were out.
Around the corner was another bookstore, this one with a revolving cast of adoptable cats. Today's was Marigold, a brown tabby of 9 months, already spoken for, who, when we arrived, was making sure that a customer's leashed dog knew who was boss around here. She stalked the pooch all the way to the front door.
We got a quick lunch and hit the road. Three hours to Bar Harbor.
I was fumbling with the room key when Jack pushed the door open and said, "Yeah, there's your view!" When we were booking the room we had a choice between a northern harbor view and an eastern ocean view. I agonized over it for all of two minutes and chose ocean.
From our room on the second floor of one of the Bar Harbor Hotel's sprawling outbuildings we had a clear view of Porcupine Island and Frenchman Bay.
"Send for the cats," I said. "I'm not leaving."
Below us was the Shore Path, a stretch of cinder that starts near Margaret Todd's dock and follows the coast for 1.4 miles.
While I had my camera out Jack found the coffee maker and made himself some tea. Within five minutes he was settled in.
I really wanted to go outside. I had a plan. I was going to stalk the camera in a different way. All I had to do was find the damned thing.
We walked out onto Margaret Todd's dock. I turned around to face the hotel. I turned on my camera
and zoomed in to the roof above a balcony, where I thought I could see something that looked like a lens.
Yeah, okay, Bar Harbor Cam. I see you. And now I'm going to walk into your picture.
On my phone I opened the Bar Harbor Cam page and, standing still, held the phone down and captured the screen. Jack and I are the dots on the dock
Now I was stalking the camera that was stalking me, who had been stalking it for four months. I can't possibly be the only one who has done this, can I?
The Margaret Todd had left the dock fifteen minutes ago. Jack and I started out on the Shore Path, keeping pace with the ship as the four red sails unfurled, one at a time.
It's not as if I have a thing for sailboats; I don't. I'm not particularly interested in being a tourist on this cruise either. The thing is, this boat is so damned photogenic, and if I take a picture of the harbor there's a good chance she's going to be in the shot.
There were other things to see along the path.
When I looked toward the island in the distance, I was surprised. "It's the Egg Rock lighthouse!"
Time for the 40x zoom.
We were still an hour from sunset. The clouds played well with the evening light reflecting on the water.
I breathed in the low-tide smell. It's not the same as a New Jersey low tide. It's more metallic, sharper. I like it better.
I also like the granite shoreline.
Here's a foot selfie.
A plaque along the path told us that this is called Balance Rock. Around it hikers had built little cairns.
"This one's for sale," Jack said. "I could teach online for a semester."
The path turned away from the shore and led us to Main Street, Bar Harbor.
I've never been inside this store (it's never open when I'm around), but I'm fond of the scowling crab. And once the word "peekytoe" gets bouncing around inside my head it takes a while to dislodge.
We'd accidentally timed our walk so that, after a stroll through town and down to Bar Island Park, we'd be ready for sunset.
The tide had come in; the sand bar was well under water.
I plopped down on the gravel beach.
Hi, Margaret. (See what I mean?)
"Um, you'd better get up," Jack said. I was sitting cross-legged now, and the water was almost to my knees. We watched it get closer to where I'd been sitting.
We ate dinner at a waterfront lobster emporium, where neither of us had lobster, but where we were surrounded by first-time lobster-eaters who had to be taught by the waitstaff how to crack open the giant red creatures.
The temperature had dropped a good 20 degrees. I was too cold for ice cream. I took a picture of the moose above Geddy's on Main Street and we walked back to the hotel.
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