Bar Island at Low Tide
6 June 2021
Two days ago, the morning started out foggy. We'd been planning to go over towards Northeast Harbor, to the Asticou Azalea Garden, but the tide was out, so I suggested we look at the fog from Bar Island.
By the time we walked over, maybe fifteen minutes later, the fog was moving out. Bar Harbor has been crowded, but not mobbed. People seem to have internalized giving everyone six feet of space.
The island side of the sand bar rises in a pile of heavy cobbles.
That's the village of Bar Harbor, with Champlain Mountain in the distance.
Dorr Mountain is on the left, Cadillac on the right.
I've been having a curious problem on this trip: my lens cover doesn't retract completely on its own. I have to give it a little flick with my fingertip. Sometimes I miss and get dark, diagonal edges on opposite sides. It's probably some dirt gummed up in there, and when I get home I'll try to clean it out. Anyway, this is the view from a side trail off the main path:
The path winds towards the center of the island, past a stand of birch trees.
Between the trees and the trail are lupines:
At the summit is a pile of rocks. If this was here last year, I don't remember it.
There certainly wasn't a lupine stuffed into the top of the cairn last September:
Each time I come here (all of three now), the view decreases. The trees are getting thicker and taller.
Through the trees, beyond the sand bar, is Cadillac Mountain.
My camera refused to focus on the floating dock next to the island. I heard somebody behind me refer to "my floating dock." I think he was being facetious; I'm pretty sure nobody lives here, although there is a path marked "private" after the field of lupines.
Crowded, but not mobbed:
Birch bark is fascinating.
On our way down, I saw another side path and took it while Jack waited for me.
The tides leave seaweed stripes.
At the edge of the island, not too far from where the tide comes in, is a little stand of little trees, like an oasis in the desert.
Jack made for the town side of the sand bar while I pottered around with my camera.
The Margaret Todd is like a ghost in the distance.
I heard the meows before I saw the bengal cat, in a harness, with its leash tucked under a rock. The owners were a few feet away, playing at the edge of the water with their dog. The kitty had a lot of important things to say. I tried to join the conversation, and gave the beautiful cat some decent skritches, but kitty was more interested in making bold statements than in looking at me. I moved on.
It was here, maybe fifteen minutes into the walk, that I spied the orb weaver, between two birch trees, by the pond. Of course, I'd forgotten to bring my good camera. Not that it would have mattered much; the spider's back was facing away from me, and I couldn't get to the other side of the web without standing in the water.
I must have spent ten minutes trying. Eventually the spider skittered over to one of the trees. I must have nudged the other tree by accident. Its new position afforded me the opportunity to get a good look.
My best guess, after guessing wrong and being corrected by a naturalist I respect, is that this is some species of Eustala.
Robins are a lot easier to photograph.
We passed by a little stream. There were webs in it. "Nobody home," Jack said.
"There is!" I said, and zoomed in. I'd found a tetragnathid:
A couple more plant pictures before the place closes:
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