Hill Slug Chronicles: Strange Trip Part One: Escape to Maine

Evening on Frenchman Bay

as seen from under my favorite Shore Path tree

12 September 2020

"Shit," Jack says as we drive past Stewman's Lobster Pound. There's a long line of people, six feet apart, some not wearing masks, waiting to be seated.

I don't care if I eat take-out in the hotel room for six days. After postponing our trip from late may to mid-September, all I care about is that we made it up here.

Jack had thought the trip would be a stupid idea. I countered that Maine is safer than New Jersey right now. I'd subscribed to the Mount Desert Islander and had been tracking all Covid-19 news since March. On Mount Desert Island there were no active cases. "I'll go up myself," I'd told him. Having been back at work since mid-June, being the one who has run all the errands, and having had to make trips to Philadelphia to mop up a family mess, I was used to being in a mask for 8 to 10 hours every day. Jack, who had only left the house a handful of times since lockdown, was decidedly not.

Both of us had been under unusual stress, of course. I'd been able to escape it by riding my bike and blowing glass. But getting to Acadia National Park was the week of zen that I needed to refill my happy tank for real.

Maine, like New Jersey, has been strict about flattening the corona curve. In July, Maine's quarantine rules were relaxed for four states: New York, New Hampshire, Vermont, and New Jersey. As the disease took off elsewhere in the country, Maine and New Jersey kept it down.

Bar Harbor, a tourist town that relies heavily on cruise ships and Acadia visitors, is a tourist trap for a reason: it's beautiful and it's next to a national park. Built on a hill overlooking the harbor and Frenchman Bay, the town is nearly all family-run businesses, with the exception of the drug store, supermarket, and gas station. With no cruise ships this year, and with the quarantine in place for half of the season, some businesses decided not to open. Most did, figuring a small income would be better than nothing at all.

In the busy parts of town, masks are mandated. To make mask-wearing easier, there are mailboxes full of free masks and affixed to hand sanitizer dispensers. Indoor dining is permitted, with restricted occupancy. On Main Street and Cottage Street, parking spaces in front of some of the restaurants are cordoned off and peppered with tables for outdoor dining. All of the front-line workers, servers and cashiers alike, wear masks.

Living in central New Jersey, in a blue township in a blue county in a blue state, I'm used to seeing 100% mask compliance. Jack points out right away that half the people he sees aren't wearing masks. I think it's less than that, but I agree that it's jarring.

Jack is not happy. He starts to unpack while I do the thing I have to do: go to the balcony and take pictures of Bald Porcupine Island and my favorite two trees along the Shore Path.

Favorite one tree. With the barharborcam.com sunrise camera out of commission, I haven't been able to watch the seasons change along the path. Some time this spring the closer tree came down. What I end up taking pictures of is the sky and the Porcupine islands in shadow. The sun is setting behind clouds, leaving a pinkish haze over the bay.

I realize I forgot to pack toothpaste. I tell Jack I'm heading out to the drug store on a scouting mission. It's almost 7:00 now. Already the dinner crowds have thinned out. I keep tabs on the maskless. It's maybe 20% if I don't count the people eating outdoors.

I take the Shore Path back to the hotel so that I can get a few more pictures before dark.

In the foreground is Balance Rock. On the horizon is the Egg Rock Lighthouse.

Someday I want to see the western tip of Sheep Porcupine Island up close.

For now, my zoom lens will have to do.

I missed watching you, Bald Porcupine.

Jack is having trouble getting used to wearing a mask. It makes him feel claustrophobic. It fogs his glasses. I went through this too, back in June. "It was this or lose my job," I tell him. "It takes some getting used to."

When I packed, I left my digital SLR camera with the macro lens at home. I didn't figure I'd see any spiders. I'm wrong, and now I regret it. On the balcony, on either side of the glass slats between the floor and the railing, are at least four orb weavers. They're tiny, and skittish. I do what I can with the Canon PowerShot. Meh.

It's easier to photograph this little guy on the balcony wall. It's a male for sure; dig the palps.

We get lucky and find outdoor seating at one of our favorite restaurants on the southern end of town. I get a glass of my favorite sour beer, Coolship Red, by Allagash Brewing. It's so sour that it takes me the full span of dinner to get halfway through the glass. Good stuff.

"Save Bar Harbor -- Eat in Eden" posters are scattered throughout town. Eden, I assume, refers to the historic name of the town, seen only now on Route 3, which is Eden Street, on the western side of Bar Harbor.

The streets are nearly empty by the time we get our ice cream cones at CJ's and walk back to the hotel.

Back on the balcony, this time with my tripod, I try for more spiders but they're not having it. I shoot for the stars instead.

Out on the bay, where the cruise ships used to dock, there's a luxury yacht. People with more money than god have infiltrated Bar Harbor and Southwest Harbor. The townsfolk are happy to have their money, according to the MD Islander, but are decidedly less so about the noise that comes with it.

The ship out here isn't making any noise. Instead, it's lit up, with green LEDs along the waterline that seem to move and sparkle with the waves.