Acadia Do-Over

 

Otter Cove, Park Loop Road, Acadia National Park

4 June 2021

We arrived at Bar Harbor on Tuesday evening. The best weather for my annual road ride through Acadia National Park would be the next morning. 

This vacation is a do-over. We were here last September, during a lull in the pandemic, when cases up here were fewer than at home. It was crowded, and masks were required everywhere, indoors and out. We ate outside or in our hotel room. Jack had to teach and attend meetings from a shaky wireless connection. I ran around on my own, outside, taking hundreds of pictures every day, wondering if this would be my last time up here, not knowing what would happen to the town if the pandemic went on much longer. There were forest fires in California. The smoke blew east and made for spectacularly creepy sunrises and a silvery haze over the island.

Now we're both vaccinated. The mask rule has been lifted for people who've had their shots. The island is crowded again, but in a different way. It's as if we've all heaved a collective sigh of relief and then taken our masks off to enjoy the world again. We're all instinctively keeping six feet away from people we don't know, and we carry our masks in our pockets for the places that still require them. It would be naieve to assume that every nose we see is a vaccinated nose, of course, and I'm still wary of a small space with too many people in it. But the mood is different. Jack is relaxed this time, and already talking about coming here again.

I wasn't sure if I was prepared to ride through Acadia. My mileage for the year is on the low end, and I haven't done much in the way of hills either. Tom did drag us through Morris County a few weeks ago. I did a solo ride up and down Pennington Mountain during a break in the rain the next weekend. That would have to suffice.

Despite being Our Lady of Perpetual Headwinds, I will not go up Cadillac Mountain again if there's more than a lilting breeze. I'm still getting over hearing music through my bladed spokes in 2016.

I've climbed that mountain every time I've been here. What would happen if I skipped this one? What would I tell myself? Would it then hang over my head until I returned? It was already hanging over my head, like a chore, or a piece in glassblowing class that I'm determined to get right. For both of these things, getting it done is its own reward. Plus the view at the top. 

I hauled myself up the first climb from the Sieur de Monts entrance. It's a steep climb, and I dropped into the granny gear. There were no Hill Slugs to keep up with or wait for me. There were no other cyclists zipping past. 

The sky was a perfect blue. The air was a dry, mild 70-ish degrees. There was some wind, though. I watched the tree tops every time I got near the coast. If they were bending, I'd bail on the mountain.

Should I want to convert the ride to a Rouvy route, I had my Fly camera running. I stopped for pictures anyway. I'll edit the breaks out of the video on a rainy day. I also pointed my handle bars to the view I was photographing. If the view is good from there, I'll leave it in for a second or two.

This is the Ocean Path, a mostly gravel walkway that spans from Otter Cove to Sand Beach. I know this looks like the same picture three times, but it's never the same picture three times.

The National Park Service does a spectacular job keeping Park Loop Road in excellent shape. There's nary a crack nor a pothole to contend with. It probably helps that the road is closed in the winter, so they don't have to salt or plow it.

The last, best place to see the ocean is at the road's southernmost point, Otter Cove.

There were two hikers at the fence when I got there, One of them thought there might be something playing in the water, or it might be a rock.

"I can zoom in and look," I offered.

I checked the camera screen. "It's rock-shaped," I said. Oh well.

I'd never been here at low tide before. The shallow water was blue and green.

Around the corner there's a causeway between the creek and the cove. I stopped there too.

I'd never seen Otter Creek when the inlet was exposed.

Cadillac Mountain loomed. What's it gonna be, OLPH?

I took the hills at a Slug's pace. At the Bubbles, clouds poked out around the mountains.

Acadia requires paid passes for everyone all of the time. To park at the more popular spots, like Sand Beach and the Cadillac Mountain summit requires an extra pass, at a reserved time. The program started last October, and it seemed to be cutting down on traffic. Would that help me get up and down the mountain? Was I even going to go?

I decided that I'd stop for photos at the Eagle Lake overlook and take a measure of the wind. 

There was no wind. I was going up. Part of my calculation was that it's free to ride a bike to the top of the mountain. Jack could take or leave going up there by car, and I didn't want to be locked into a time.

As I clipped in, a skinny 20-something passed on his bike. I watched him turn up the mountain road, standing for the incline.

The ranger at the bottom of Cadillac Summit Road smiled and waved me through. The music in my head was the same music I had in my head when I was making vases because the key matched the hum of the blowers in the classroom. Out here, it reminded me of how much better I do when I'm calm. 

The skinny guy disappeared ahead of me. I had the road to myself.

Two cyclists were descending as I started to climb. One called out a hello, and I tried to ask if it was windy up there. He passed by too quickly for an answer. Oh well.

As I curved around the first mile, the smell of balsam fir wafted from the woods. It had never been warm enough for me to smell it before. Walk into any shop in town and you'll be hit with balsam fir emanating from soap and pillows. It's a lovely scent, and it's even better when you're climbing a mountain at a snail's pace.

During the snowy parts of the winter, I climbed Cadillac Mountain three times on Rouvy. Gonzo doesn't have climbing gears; I have to stand for anything over 6%. The practice helped, because I knew for sure that the toughest stretch is in the second of the three miles. Both calves were considering the possibility of cramping; I was a bit dehydrated. I kept the gear low and my cadence high.

The third mile is where the vertigo is. I fixed my eyes on the double yellow line and let the camera look at the scenery.

And then I was rounding the last curve to the top, without the slightest touch of dizziness and no cramps.

That's Bar Island and Bar Harbor, with the sand bar in between:

There were two other cyclists resting on the wall. One had an e-bike, and we all had a long conversation about that, as we bike geeks are wont to do. They left, and I pottered around on the summit in my cleats for a bit.

That's Otter Cove down there, with the causeway:

What I like most about Acadia is its accessibility. At the top of the mountain is a paved path that's wheelchair-ready. 

Is that a wind farm on the mountains over there? Let's zoom in.

It is! 

I left the summit and swung into the parking lot of the Blue Hill Overlook.

Then I began the treacherous descent, hands feathering the brakes the whole time. I stopped at the first turnout to get a look at Bar Island.

The steepest part of the descent is past the curve in the road.

I made it down that part without being nervous. I stopped for the waterfall.

And again before another steep descent, this one lined with trees and much less nervous-making.

Part of my jitters comes from Miss Piggy herself. There's something about the frame that makes me feel unstable on descents. I know I'm not going to wipe out, but I feel as if I might wipe out. My steel bikes don't do this to me.

I took the road that leads to Hulls Cove so that I could catch the view I hadn't seen since 2017. I wasn't counting on having to climb a hill to get there, and then descend, and then climb it again in the other direction after having turned around at the end of the road at the visitor's center.

"What part of New Jersey are you from?" a woman at the overlook asked me. I was wearing an old Princeton FreeWheelers ride leader jersey, one that fits me like a tent. 

That's Bar Harbor to the right:

The Margaret Todd was rounding the eastern end of Bar Island:

From the park exit, I coasted back into town, taking a detour to the edge of the pier.

The extra miles to and from Hulls Cove added enough elevation gain that, for the first time since I've been tracking these things, I climbed more than 100 feet per mile. A typical Hill Slug ride brings in about 50 feet per mile. I was tired, but a good tired.