Hill Slug Chronicles: Pilgrimage to Maine, Part Nine: Slug in Acadia

Miss Piggy and her tchotchke at the Cadillac Mountain summit

30 May 2019

I've talked myself into climbing the mountain again. I'm taking the same route as last year, riding south out of town on Route 3. It's a long, gradual ascent. The wind is out of the south. I can tell because I smell autoclaved mouse food half a mile before the Jackson Laboratory comes into view.

I get onto Park Loop Road at the Sieur de Monts entrance. It's the first real climb, and the toughest one that isn't the mountain.

I have to stop for a roadside beaver lodge.

There's a bit of a headwind as I come out of the woods and curve up towards the coast. If it's noticeable down here, what's it going to be like up there?

The road hugs the coast from Sand Beach to Otter Cove. I got enough pictures yesterday so I don't stop for pictures.

I do stop when I get to the causeway over the cove.

The mountain doesn't look like much from here.

Oh, wait. Yes, it does.

The road pulls away from the coast and goes into the woods for a while. It's mostly uphill, never steep, but constant. From the road I can't see Jordan Pond. There's a good, curvy descent between the Bubbles and Eagle Lake, and then it's back to climbing. There's a turnout in the woods, and then another at the top, where I stop to look at Eagle Lake. Another cyclist is already there, taking pictures.

"You going up the mountain?" I ask him.

"Nah," he says. "I left my asthma inhaler in the parking lot. I have to go down and get it." He points towards the other side of Eagle Lake, where the main entrance to Acadia National Park is. He had to climb a lot to get from there to here.

Cadillac Summit Road is less than a quarter mile away.

I know what to do.

Turn the corner. Drop into the granny gear. Grind for three miles.

The first mile has the steepest ascent, right at the beginning. It's in the woods. The grade gets easier when the trees disappear. I'm not feeling any wind, which is good.

The switchbacks start in the second mile. This is where there's a mountain on one side, the road in the middle, a row of granite blocks on the other side, and beyond that, nothingness. I know to keep my eye on the double yellow line. I know not to look over the edge. I don't stop at any of the turnouts. I'll take pictures at each of them on the way down.

When I'm on the outside curve I go into the center of the road, stealing glances in my rear view mirror for any cars that might be behind me. There aren't; I see only the road dropping off and I try not to think about it. Keep your eyes on the yellow line and you won't get dizzy.

The last mile is the most challenging, not because it's steep, and not because my lack of training has me more tired than I ought to be, but because it's got me on the outside the entire time. The first half is straight, so I keep my eyes on the top of the hill and on the double yellow line,

The road curves at the top. Across from the Blue Hill Overlook entrance a hiker greets me: "You're almost there!"

"Yeah. The hard part's over."

There's even a little descent before the last few hundred yards, where the summit parking lot comes into view.

I ride to the opposite end and do the bike picture thing.

This is my fourth time up here. It's the first time anyone has approached me.

A fellow cyclist, up here in street clothes, tells me he doesn't climb the mountain anymore because the arthritis in his hands makes him unable to grab the brakes on the way down. He looks at my wheels. "You don't have disc brakes."

"Yeah, no. I feather them."

He wishes me well and gives me a fist bump.

I turn back to take more pictures. A couple approaches. He says, "You didn't bike all the way up here, did you?"

"Yeah."

"See?" She says. "I told you! He thought you didn't."

"How?" he says.

"Training."

She says, "Look at her legs. That's how."

She adds that the hard part is over and I can have fun going down the mountain.

"Going down is worse," I tell her. She'll find out when she gets back in her car.

I get the camera set again. Behind me a fellow says, "You look like a photographer. Can you take our picture?"

"Sure."

There are about ten of them, and two phones.

He and his partner look at my bike. "Our daughter lives in Germany," she says. "She bikes there." I show them my stupid-low gearing.

He asks, "Where did you start?"

"See that cruise ship down there? My hotel is across from it."

Finally I have time to get a few pictures. Below, the island poking out on the left is the tip of Bar Island. Next to it is Sheep Porcupine. In the middle is Burnt Porcupine. I don't know the name of the one next to it. On the right is my buddy, Bald Porcupine, and a bit of the breakwater built as a folly and never completed. That we can see the breakwater at all from up here lets me know that the tide is out.

I can't do 40x zoom, but 30x gets me closer to my pal.

Here's Burnt Porcupine.

On my way down I'm going to stop at each turn-out for pictures. First, though, I pull into the Blue Hill Overlook parking lot.

The first turnout is on the outside edge in the top mile, the only place in that climb where the edge of the road doesn't drop off into oblivion.

This is what I faced on the way up. On the way down I find myself thinking, "This is not fun."

The next turnout faces northeast again, and I can see the Porcupines. Bar Island is on the left.

Looking down the road:

This is where I'm standing:

The next turnout is across the road, on the outside edge:

In the middle mile is a hairpin turn against a wall of rock. I noticed the waterfall on the way up. Now I'm stopping for it, zooming in from across the road.

This turnout overlooks Eagle Lake.

The next turnout faces the Porcupines again.

I'm almost off the mountain now. I can't zoom in enough for a clear picture of the Egg Rock lighthouse.

But I can see clearly that the buildings in the foreground are the Jackson Laboratory.

I'm off the mountain. Save for a few short climbs, it's all downhill from here. I spend the better part of five minutes coasting through the woods, and record four minutes of it. (Blogger is tetchy about file size, so here's a snip.)

I come to a stop by a stream. There's another beaver lodge, because of course there is.