Exile on Snow Street Part Eight: Coda

Sunrise over Bald Porcupine Island

12 October 2024

The events in this blog post took place on August 31, 2024.

I don't have to run down the path to the water today. I have plenty of time. There's a low cloud cover. I might not see the sun rise.

It doesn't matter. All I want to do is sit by the water for a while. I find a slightly chewed-up piece of seawall on the Shore Path construction site and sit down, my legs dangling over the edge.

At 5:57 a.m., a pink haze creeps over the top of Bald Porcupine Island. A few gulls squawk to each other.

Egg Rock Lighthouse is murky.

It's low tide.

At 6:07, I switch my camera to a shorter shutter speed.

It's Saturday. There are no lobster boats going out to pull traps today. It's just me and the birds.

6:10 a.m.:

At 6:17, I take my last picture.

I stand up and walk a little down the path to take some photos of the repair.

I've been out here for almost half an hour. I'd stay all day but I can't. I have to go back to Exile House and put the sheets in the washing machine.

I think I forgot to take pictures of the bathtub plants. I'll post these with the rest of the Exile House pictures.

I'm ready to go by the time Glen is supposed to arrive to pack my stuff into his car. He texts me that he's running fifteen minutes late. I have time to walk quickly to Choco-Latte. I think I'll order a cortado. Heddy has me hooked. I make it back to Exile House in time.

We stop for gas at the station next to Everyday Joe's before we leave the island. I find a fence to hang from to stretch my back. I step into the road to take a picture of Main Street, facing south, empty, with Champlain Mountain behind fog in the distance.

I'd promised Glen we'd visit Allagash Brewing Company on this trip. We didn't have time to stop on our way into our out of Portland, so we're going to aim for the brewery today. They open at 11:00. It's a 3-hour drive from here.

We're letting Google Maps tell us where to go. I assume we'll be on Route 3 for a while, then head up 1A to I-395. 

We're lucky today. There's very little traffic, unlike two weeks ago. Was it really only two weeks ago? It feels like I've been on this trip forever.

When we reach Ellsworth, where Routes 1 and 1A split, we're directed to take Route 1. This is the scenic route, which hugs the coast and usually takes longer. There must be a jam up north.

As we near Bucksport, the Penobscot Narrows Bridge comes into view. Now I'm happy we've gone this way. Glen is a bridge engineer, and this is a bridge to marvel at. I open Wikipedia and read to him as we cross:

"The Penobscot Narrows Bridge is one of three bridges in the US (the others being the Zakim Bridge in Boston, Massachusetts, and the Veterans' Glass City Skyway in Toledo, Ohio) constructed recently using a cradle system that carries the strands within the stays from bridge deck to bridge deck, as a continuous element, eliminating anchorages in the pylons. Each epoxy-coated steel strand is carried inside the cradle in a one-inch steel tube. Each strand acts independently, allowing for removal, inspection and replacement of individual strands. The cable-stay system was designed with a system that uses pressurized nitrogen gas to defend against corrosion.

In June 2007, six reference strands within three stays were replaced with carbon fiber strands — a first in the United States. Monitoring on the strands will evaluate this material for future use in bridge designs. These engineering innovations helped the bridge appear in the December 2006 edition of Popular Science as one of the 100 best innovations of the year. The total project cost was $85 million."

We're back on the interstate. It looks less like Maine and more like anywhere in New England now.

"What was the name of the hotel in Dingwall?" Glen asks.

"I, geez, I don't remember!"  Not even two weeks ago. "Wait! Markman!"

We're less than five minutes away from Allagash. We follow what the Google Lady tells us to do, and find ourselves on a wrong turn that adds 15 minutes to our drive. 

It's around noon when we pull into the brewery parking lot. We lock the bikes. We get our hands stamped. I head for the sour beers. There are so many this time! I have to ask for help, because Coolship Red is not among them. I'm guided to two that are closest to the no-longer-made Red. I get a taste test. One is slightly better than the other, but I decided to buy a case of both, a case being 6 bottles. 

Glen is roaming around, building his own collection.

At the counter is a bowl of little pins with the Allagash leaf logo. There are green ones, purple ones, and blue ones. I take one of each. 

"Want a pin?"

"Sure!" Glen takes a green one. I go back to get another green one. 

We order lunch from the truck stationed outside. It's a fancy truck that serves lobster roll. I order a salad and the last Bavarian pretzel I'll see until I come up here next year. At the bar, we order flight pours. I choose a sour I didn't try inside: Little Sal, made from blueberries.

I like it enough that I go back inside and buy two bottles.

I take over driving for a while. I have a heavier foot than Glen does. He likes to stay at 65 mph. I find myself creeping up past 70.

I'm trying not to drink much so that I don't have to keep asking to pull over.

We stop for gas on one of the many parkways in Connecticut. I never know which one we're on at any given time. It seems we don't turn but the names change. The rest stop we choose is so crowded that we have to park along the exit road.

Glen takes the wheel again. The sun is setting as we reach familiar territory.

When I left home two weeks ago, my front yard was a pile of dirt with a backhoe on it. Two weeks before, we'd had a stately oak tree cut down because its roots had taken over our sewer line. For more than a decade we'd put it off. Now the tree was down, a pile of ground stump in its place. I'd spread as much of it as I could among the plantings in the yard. 

The landscaper who has done all the work in our yard since Superstorm Sandy took out a tree, carted the rest of it away. The day before the trip, the plumbers arrived with the backhoe and a new pipe. The landscaper arrived to survey the blank slate while this was happening. I told him he could get creative. I told him I wanted wildflowers for the bees and butterflies. I told him I'd rather not have a lawn at all, but in this neighborhood, one needs one's postage stamp of green.

Jack has been sending me photos as the work progressed. I know there are rocks involved. 

As Glen and I round the corner to my street, I warn him, "I might not recognize my own yard."

He pulls up in front of the house. He says, "It looks like Baa Haa Baa!"

"Rockefeller's teeth!"

*****

For a month after I got home, I had dreams about being in a big group, about houses on the water, about islands and tides, about getting another chance to climb North Mountain. With each blog post, the dreams became less frequent. 

But I'm still processing.

I spent a year and a half stressing out about this trip. 

Could I keep up with the Premeds? (Mostly) 

Without getting injured? (This year, yes.) 

Would I be driving all the way to Cape Breton and back by myself? (Fortunately, no.)

Would I be a loner for two weeks? (Yes and no.)

Would I be comfortable with this group? (Comfortable enough.)

Could I train well enough to climb those two mountains in one day? (Nope.)

Would all of this even be worth it? (Absolutely.)

When I wrote earlier that I felt like a college sophomore, I wasn't being hyperbolic. I really did feel the way I did when I was trying, as a transfer student, to figure out where I fit in among friend groups that were already established. There were plenty of folks I felt comfortable being social with, but I didn't really click with them. That's how this trip felt. 

I got along fine with the Caboteers and the Party House people, but I couldn't really be myself. I don't think I made any new friends. Not that I've reached out to anyone but Heddy and Jeff either. It's mutual invisibility.

What I do feel now is relief. I can go back to doing whatever ride I damn please. There's nothing looming over me now. If I don't want to join the Premeds on a hella-hilly ride, I no longer have to. 

By being so uncomfortable among the Premends, I realized how comfortable I am with the Slugs. That comfort didn't happen overnight, obviously. We've been riding together and trading snarky emails for the better part of a decade or even two. 

Come spring, I'll join the Premeds on Wednesday nights when the ride starts up again. Maybe it'll feel different now that I'm not under any pressure. Maybe I can be myself.

Meanwhile, I'm back in glassblowing class and riding locally. There are dozens of photos on my camera that need to be written about. Stay tuned...

Exile on Snow Street Part Seven: Finale

Jordan Pond Carriage Road, Acadia National Park

11 October 2024

The events in this post took place on August 30, 2024.

I'm starting to move my stuff back into suitcases. I'm eating breakfast in Exile House this morning, getting rid of the last of the perishable food.

Heddy sends a text while I'm eating. She and Ginger want to stop by to say goodbye before they leave. I meet them at the front door. They're heading to the outlets at the southern end of Maine. They'll spend the night down there and drive back to New Jersey tomorrow morning.

The rest of us are leaving Bar Harbor tomorrow morning. Today, though, four of us are going to ride from here to the Duck Brook Road entrance to the carriage roads. They're over at Cafe This Way again. I come up with a route in the meantime.

I'm trying to keep it flat, as much as that's even possible in there. I'll avoid Day Mountain, little as it is, and the switchbacks of the Around the Mountain loop. We'll go up to Witch Hole Pond again, then follow the Tri Lakes Loop south.

Jeff has made a last-minute switch. Instead of borrowing Frank's gravel bike, he's on Jill's, a Topstone of a later vintage than the one I have at home.

Glen and Martin are on their gravel bikes too. I'm on Janice. I'm the only one with slick tires. They're 30 mm, so I'm not worried about fishtailing. I am worried that I might hit a stone wrong again, like I did last time. Then again, I've only used my gravel bike on the carriage roads once. All the other times, maybe a dozen by now, it's been on a road bike with road tires.

I lead the guys down West Street, across Route 3, and up the West Street Extension. It's a hill, but it's nothing compared to the grind on Eagle Lake Road. Duck Brook Road is closer to town. It's also been closed to car traffic for as long as I've been coming up here.

The road leads to the gravel-covered bridge over Duck Brook. We pause to look around and down.

Jeff is liking the Topstone. I point out that this is the fourth bike he's ridden on this trip. First, his Serotta, sidelined now because of missing paint and anachronicity; second, the borrowed e-bike he took up North Mountain; third, the e-bike he rented here on Monday; and fourth, Jill's Topstone.

Hers differs from mine in that it has a double ring up front. Mine is a one-by. She hasn't ridden it much. She isn't in love with it. Jeff is asking Martin questions about it.

We turn right off the bridge to follow the Witch Hole Pond loop. At one point, we get a good view of Cadillac Mountain.

We pause on the return at the Eagle Lake Road parking lot, where there's a bathroom. Jeff is asking Martin more questions about the Topstone. "She's not getting this bike back," I chide. 

"Would she sell it to me?" Jeff asks.

"Maybe if she finds something she likes better first."

We follow the Eagle Lake carriage road to the Aunt Betty Pond loop. After the pond, which they all zip past, so I don't stop for pictures, we turn onto the Aunt Betty connector, which will take us back to Eagle Lake carriage road. 

There's a long climb I'd completely forgotten about. My slick and relatively narrow tires help me here. I'm at the top long before they are.

I get a chance to catch my breath and take some pictures.

Now Bubble Pond comes into view. We stop again.

Glen, wearing mountain biking shoes, climbs down onto the rocks for pictures.

On his way back out, he very nearly falls in.

We're in the woods for a while, heading south. We pass the bridge that connects to the Day Mountain carriage road as we turn north again.

We cross Park Loop Road at the old carriage house across from Jordan Pond House.

It's getting a bit congested here by the southern end of Jordan Pond. I've taken plenty of pictures of my bike resting alone along this fence.

We follow the road up the western side of Jordan Pond. The carriage road is above the trail. From here, I can see where Heddy, Ginger, and I were yesterday. On the far side of this ridge is the Bubble Rock we never got to. But how close to the top were we?

I zoom in to find the ledge where we'd been sitting. I look for the very important rock at the edge of the ledge. When I find it, I realize just how much farther we had to go yesterday. We weren't even close! (When I get back to Exile House, I edit the photo and send it to Heddy.)

From here, on our left side, is a slope of rocks that goes on for a few hundred yards. Whenever I pass it, I think "Scree!" but I'm not sure it qualifies.

We can see down to the Jordan Pond trail from here, the rocky bit.

Jeff is now negotiating a purchase. Does the saddle bag come with it? The tube bag? 

As we get rolling again, Jeff says, "Hey, Martin. I think I have a serious bike crush!" That's going into the blog.

When we get to the Eagle Lake Road entrance again, I detour us to the edge of the lake for more pictures.

I lead us out of the park on some side roads. We descend on Cromwell Harbor Road and take Ledgelawn into the southern end of town. Glen and Martin want to go back to the Bar Harbor Bicycle Shop again, in a final attempt to get jerseys. Martin and Glen want one of the oldest versions, with a somewhat startled-looking lobster in a pot of boiling water. I've never liked that one. Heddy is holding out for one of the new ones, whenever they come in.  

(I now have two from the shop. One fits well, a previous iteration of their shop jersey, on sale cheap, with the iconic Bass Harbor Head lighthouse on it. The one we all want, the newest version, has Otter Cliffs on the front and Cadillac Mountain on the back. Up one side it reads, "climb the mtn," and up the other, "ride the loop." I found one the other day that's a little snug for my taste, but it was on sale for almost half the cost of a new one. And I got one from the Acadia Park store on Main Street that has the lighthouse on the front and a carriage road bridge on the back.) 

Packing and tidying up at Exile House has begun in earnest. I devour the rest of the yogurt and apples, consolidate the cereals, assess the Stadium cookie-shortbread-oat cake situation, and make sure my travel mug is full of iced coffee for the road.

I have to wash all the towels except the one I'll use tomorrow. Damn! The trash was supposed to go out into the shed last night. I missed the pickup! I'll leave a note. I think the previous guests missed it too. There was a full bag in the shed on my first day; now it's gone.

My stuff is pretty much packed now. I'm not one of those people who puts their clothes into whatever drawers and closets are available. I tend to live out of my suitcase. It's easier.

Jeff texts me. He's on a mission to find t-shirt and sweatshirts for a few of his relatives. Would I like to come along?

I thought I was good at surgical strike shopping. Jeff has me beat. He's looking for a sweatshirt that reads, "Baa Haa Baa." We'd seen them around. We don't remember where though. It's a million of the same store on Main Street. He goes into one, looks around, asks, gets told "no," and moves on.

Eventually, one clerk knows where he can find one. "Sunrise. Three doors up on Main Street." 

Jeff has found his treasure, and now we're looking at a pile of t-shirts on sale for $10. That's the right price to blow glass in. I find two that have a moose on the front. On the back, the shirts read, "The Black Moose, Bar Harbor, ME." The Black Moose. I remember passing that store when I was here in 2016. I took a picture of the sign. It was on Cottage Street, I think. I didn't go in. When I came back with Jack in 2017, the store was gone. (As was, a few years later, "Bra Harbor," a lingerie store whose sign was a bra covering the Bubbles. "Les Boubilles," as I'd explained to Jeff yesterday, a pun I learned my first time up here, in 1982.)

Mission accomplished, we make a bee line for Wayman Lane. Back in Exile House, I have time to do more laundry. I'll come home with a suitcase full of clean clothes now.

With the washing machine churning, I start making notes for my blog entries. So much has happened over the past two weeks, and I'm forgetting a lot of it already. The photos for each day have already been uploaded into draft entries. All I have to do is look at the pictures and jot down a few details.

There's a group text about dinner. It's going to be pizza at another place I've never been to. When I meet them at the chairs, they say they want to "see the house with the purple door," Exile House. So I show them around. Elaine agrees that the kitchen needs to be redone. "But I'd keep the benches," I tell her. "They're really comfortable."

We walk down to the pizzeria, on one of the smaller side streets. It's a crowded, noisy place with two floors. We go upstairs and push two tables together. It's chaotic, because there's no real table service. Someone puts the order in at the counter. Cups of water appear. This is the last night of being off the leash, and some of the guys are making the most of it.

I'm sitting next to Jill. "So, are you going to sell Jeff your bike?"

"I'm gonna hold onto it for a while," she says.

We walk back to Party House. We're skipping ice cream because the last of the blueberry pies, the one that had to be baked, has now been baked and must be eaten.

After the pie, we sit in a little room next to the front door. I've never lived in a house that had a room like this, so I don't even know what to call it. A parlour? A lobby? I ask Elaine, "Would you rent this house again?"

"Absolutely!" she says.

I make one more round at Exile House with the Spider Cam before I pack it away.

Glen and I have decided to hit the road by 8:00 a.m. to avoid traffic on Route 3. We don't want to get caught in what we saw on our way in here. 

There's one thing I didn't get to do during this trip that I really need to do. I need to sit by the water and just chill out. I'm setting my alarm for 5:35. I'm going to sit on the crumbled wall of the Shore Path, watch the water, and wait for the sun to come up.