Bar Harbor sand bar at low tide and sunset
22 September 2024
The events in this post took place on August 24, 2024.
It's 6:00 a.m. in Yarmouth. That means it's 5:00 a.m. in Bar Harbor.
All of us -- me, Glen, Martin, Heddy, Ginger, Jeff, and Lonnie -- are sort of staggering around in the breakfast area of the hotel lobby.
The clerk recognizes me and welcomes me back as I place my breakfast order (which I ought to have done last night). He's way too cheerful for this hour. I ask him how he stays so upbeat. "Coffee," he says. "Lots of coffee."
As we're loading the car, I investigate some spiders on the overhang by our hotel rooms. They're too far up for a good photo from my phone, but they look like Zygiella x-notata from down here when I zoom in.
We arrive at the ferry terminal before 7:30 and park next to the other Caboteers. Now we wait until they let us drive onto the boat.
It's not easy to portray how big this ferry is.
The cars in the foreground only make it look smaller.
Our group now consists of Heddy and Ginger, Jeff and Lonnie, Frank, Elaine, and Jackie, Martin and Glen, and me. Martin's wife, Jill, is on her way up from Massachusetts after a hellacious drive from New Jersey yesterday.
All but Jackie and I are staying in the same house in Bar Harbor. At this point, I'm less miffed than I was about not being included, whether by miscommunication (most likely) or deliberate exclusion (maybe a little, because by keeping me in the mix, the house would no longer have been an option), and options were thin even a year and a half out. At least I had help finding Exile House, a 2-bedroom cottage around the corner from the Party House. I'd offered the extra room to Jackie last year, which would have cost her far, far less than her Bar Harbor Inn reservation, but she had legitimate reasons to be at the inn instead.
I've had over a year to warm up to the idea of having the little house to myself. The more I've thought about it, the better I've felt about it. Especially now that I've had my own rooms and cabins for six nights in Cape Breton, I appreciate the peace. I've been in communication with the hosts, who live in South Jersey and have been overly kind and responsive. I've looked at the Vrbo photos over and over again. I've already chosen the room I'm going to sleep in.
Meanwhile, we mingle outside of our cars.
Jeff tells me that the busted bike bag has ruined his top tube. For some reason, the bag has grommets on the bottom, and as the bag shifted, the grommets wore the paint all the way down to the steel. What a stupid design. He shows me the damage. It's the final blow to his poor Serotta for this trip. Geared lower than his carbon Pinarello, he brought the Serotta to Cape Breton only to discover how much slower his heavy bike is. When he borrowed the electric bike to climb North Mountain, the Serotta's fate was sealed. Now, Jeff doesn't want to take the Serotta out again until he paints over the scars.
I feel his pain. I ditched Miss Piggy for the same reason: she's geared lower, but she's built slower. She was a bike for her time, and that time has passed.
The sun is trying to come out from behind fog.
They finally let us drive onto the ferry. From the front of the viewing deck, I get a glimpse of Yarmouth.
Some of us go out to the side deck to watch as the ferry leaves the harbor.
The engines kick up a fuss in the water.
Heddy tells me to look out for Lady Janice, a fishing boat she and Ginger spotted earlier.
I'm snapping away as we move out. The farther we get from shore, the less fog there is.
I like the patterns the engines are stirring up on the water's surface.
It's low tide. There are rivulets in the muck.
The ferry casts a shadow on the water.
A cormorant rests on a piling.
Then it flies low over the water.
Is that a dry dock marina over there?
A flock of cormorants:
An old dock, I guess?
The rocks tell a story of the tides: seaweed where it's wet all of the time, slippery black algae at the high tide line, and lichens where it's dry.
And above that, grasses and trees:
One last angular lighthouse, this one maybe even functional:
We leave the harbor behind. The captain guns the engine. We retreat to the rear deck for a while.
Even though the sun is in fog, it's blinding out here. We move inside.
I ask at the gift shop if there's going to be a tour today. The clerk isn't sure, but there will be an announcement if there is.
On my way to the front of the boat, I snag some oat cakes to take back to New Jersey. I'm hungry. I eat one.
Heddy is playing the free New York Times games on her iPad. I join in. Peope from our group come and go.
There's a guy playing guitar and singing in the corner, like there was on our way to Canada. He covers Tom Petty's "Free Falling," and also the same annoyting Four Non-Blondes song that the guide Jane sang much better last week.
There's a movement to the side deck as we get closer to Bar Harbor. Apparently there was a tour, and I missed the announcement because I'm hearing impaired and nobody thought that I might not have heard. Apparently, something is going to happen with the pilot boat approaching at high speed. Martin is fixated on it with his phone's camera. It looks to me as if we're going to collide.
We're not. The pilot on the pilot boat is going to climb aboard and steer the ferry into the harbor. This is a thing that must be done, apparently. Martin records the ascent.
From where I'm standing, I can't see the pilot climbing the ladder. He magically appears at the top of the stairwell behind us, and goes inside.
It's time to make our way to our cars. I take one last photo as we near my happy place.
Glen and I are in his Jeep for a solid five minutes as Martin is nowhere to be seen. Glen is unperturbed. "He'll get off the boat. He knows where the house is."
Then Martin comes ambling along, grinning. "I followed the crowd and wound up on the upper level." He shows us pictures of all the cars around and beneath him.
Getting through customs is quick this time. Elaine has ordered us all to report to the Hulls Cove Visitor's Center, up the road in the opposite direction of town. I know where it is and guide Glen there.
The plan is for those without park passes to buy one, and for us to get maps. I lose everyone in the crowd and go back down the long, winding, outdoor steps, past the Island Explorer bus stops, and to Glen's car. Nobody's there. I'd wait around, but it's warm out here and there's no shade. I text Glen and Martin. One of them is buying something. I start back towards the building as Glen, Martin, Elaine, and Frank come down. I don't know until I get a confused text from Heddy that she and Ginger are looking for the rest of us. I thought they'd already gone. I apologize; I'd been out of the loop too.
The three of us drive off. It's made clear to me in so many words that these two feel no obligation to hew to what the rest of the group is doing.
Our first order of business is the Bar Harbor Bicycle Shop, to find the proper disc brake pads for Glen. In a matter of minutes, he's got them in hand. Martin and I are cruising the shop's logo jerseys. They have three iterations. The oldest has a shockingly happy lobster in a pot of water. I've never liked that one. A later version has a drawing of the iconic Bass Harbor Head lighthouse. The newest one has Otter Cliffs on the front, Cadillac Mountain on the back, "ride the loop" running down one side, and "climb the mt" on the other. That's the one I want, but they're all too small for all of us, and far too expensive for me. The shop's new owner (they only changed hands a few months ago) tells us she's expecting more in soon, maybe by Monday. This is the same place I took my flat tire when I was here last spring, the day I met the guy who has biked up Cadillac Mountain over 8000 times. I recognize the mechanic who helped me.
Our next stop is Hannaford, the town's supermarket. I make a surgical strike, getting diet girl food like yogurt, cottage cheese, cereal, apples, and carrots. Glen and Martin stock up on stuff too.
Next, they drop me off at Exile House. Snow Street is so narrow that we drive right past the intersection the first time. They help me unload, leaving everything on the curb or by the front steps. I enter through the unlocked purple door to retrieve the key.
When I turn around, they're gone. I take everything inside, setting Janice in the corner of the sunroom. I peer into the master bedroom, which seems kind of dark. The second bedroom, with two twins, is brighter. This is where I've planned to sleep. I put the suitcases on the bed farthest from the windows.
I investigate the rest of the house, figuring out light switches and the washing machine situation.
There's a red side door, next to an old, footed bathtub full of plants that my duty is to water as needed.
The cottage is small, 700-something square feet, but it feels spacious.
The sun room is already hot.
The kitchen has built-in benches, under which are various cooking supplies. There's a coffee maker, but my Bar Harbor suicase is loaded with my own press, grinder, and beans. The clock, ticking away, is stuck at 7:20.
The kitchen is old. Sun streams in from the windows over the sink.
For some reason, there's a slanted wall by the door to the master bedroom, so the door doesn't open all the way.
I like the twin bedroom much better.
So. Here I am. By myself. Do I dig into the breakfast food and upload pictures? Do I wait for the folks in Party House to remember that I exist? Should I be feeling like a college sophomore right now?
Cut it the fuck out, please.
I text Heddy to see what she's up to. They're at Bar Harbor Lobster Company, about to have lunch. She says to come on over. I know where the place is. It's down a little ways on Main Street. I ate there with some of the folks from the Jackson Laboratories training session in 2016. I found something vegetarian back then; I'll be able to find something now.
Jeff and Lonnie are there too. I order a salad at the counter and take a seat with the group.
After lunch, I get a tour of Party House. So much house! It's so well-appointed that I'm afraid to touch anything. I let slip, "I wanna see what I got kicked out of," which is a terrible thing to say, but I've said it. What I'm not getting at Exile House are modernized bathrooms, huge bedrooms, carpet everywhere, a massive dining room, a den, patios front and back, and a floor plan that has me lost when I finally try to leave.
While the Party House residents settle in, I sneak down the officially-closed southern end of the Shore Path. When has a "road closed" sign stopped a Hill Slug?
The fox on the path doesn't seem to care if I trespass.
They're working on it at least. There's the Margaret Todd, coming in from her afternoon sail. The first photo-bombing of the trip!
There's a crater where the path used to be.
Supports are up for the eventual cement wall.
I walk past the construction, to where it appears some repairs have been completed. Beyond that is more rubble.
I turn around.
Hello, Bald Porcupine Island. Bald Porcupine is my favorite porcupine.
On the left is Burnt Porcupine Island, the only porcupine that the national park doesn't own.
I go back to Party House to report to Elaine on the state of the Shore Path. "I know. We looked too," she says. I tell her, "I'm reading that it'll be 2025 before it's finished."
I go back to Exile House and set my laptop up in the kitchen. The benches are very comfortable. I feel cozy here. It's not luxorious, and neither am I.
Low tide and sunset coincide tonight. I'm going to the sand bar. I text the others to let them know my plan. A few people have had dinner at Project Social Kitchen. I meet them there. We walk too slowly towards the harbor. Someone wants to fetch Jackie at the Bar Harbor Inn. By the time we reach the sand bar, we've missed the pinks and are into the oranges.
Elaine, who has spent far more time on Mount Desert Island than I ever have, doesn't think this is much of a sunset. I shrug. "There are no bad sunsets in Bar Harbor." I'm taking lots of pictures.
The Margaret Todd, returning from her evening sail, photobombs again.
We crunch back up the hill to West Street. Some of us have not had dinner. It's late. It's time for ice cream. Ice cream for dinner. Why not? Today has been a long mess anyway.
I like taking pictures of the tables at Stewman's Lobster Pound. Jack hates the food, but we both like the view.
The rental kayaks are in for the night.
Unlit when we were here at the end of May, the Geddy's moose is back in proper form. I text Jack a picture right away.
We meet the rest of the group at Mount Desert Island Ice Cream, Elaine's favorite. I like it here too. The flavors are not standard ones. They're creative, with things like cardamom and other not-ice-cream ingredients. I veer away from the spices when I'm here.
We congregate on the grass at Village Green. Then we're walking north, towards the pier. The Margaret Todd is berthed for the night.
We walk along the Shore Path in front of the Bar Harbor Inn. This was under construction when Jack and I were here three months ago. Now it's finished.
Jackie appears on the balcony of her first-floor room. I walk over to it from the path, looking for spiders between the glass slats. There are Zygiella living there, but all I have with me is my cell phone, no use for nighttime spider photography.
We walk around and go into Jackie's room.
I've stayed at this inn so many times it feels like home. It could have been this time, too, but not for $700 per night, the going high season rate. We still pay a lot, but we don't pay nearly as much, when we get here around Memorial Day.
Folks want to see the main building and the grand lobby. Weddings are held here. We've never stayed in this part of the hotel's grounds, because I want to see the sun rise over the Porcupines from our balcony.
Jeff poses in an oversized wicker chair by the front door.
I go inside to leave a note for the once housekeeper, now maintenance manager, who we see almost every time we come up. (I never heard back.)
The plantings by the Birch Point room, where breakfast is served, are blooming. When we're here in the spring, it's still bare mulch.
I look for spider webs under the pathway lights. I took photos of Zygiella atrica in their webs here last spring. Now all the webs have been cleared away. Pity.
They're making plans for tomorrow. Frank, Elaine, Jackie, and Jill are going hiking. Glen is choosing a more challenging trail and will somehow meet them en route. Martin is going to ride his bike on the carriage roads.
The rest of us don't want to make plans at all. Heddy, Ginger, Jeff, Lonnie, and I want to do nothing. "It's Sunday," Heddy says, "A day of rest."
When I get back to Exile House, I fetch my lantern and the DSLR camera with the macro lens, both of which had been packed in the Bar Harbor suitcase. I look around the yard. There are some small orb webs, where the females have their abdomens towards me. They're skittish; when I move too close to try to see their backs, they hide. They're not Ziggies. I'll have to upload them to iNaturalist to figure it out. Araniella displicata, iNaturalist thinks. I find two large grass spiders by the front door.
There is a Zygiella x-notata hanging near the sunroom. She has her back towards me, and I get the best photograph of an adult Ziggy that I've ever taken.
Tomorrow will be the first unscheduled day since this trip began nine days ago. I'm enjoying watching Jeff and Lonnie and Heddy and Ginger see Bar Harbor with fresh eyes. I'm far from a regular, of course, and even when I do stay here, it's only for six nights at a time. I know the town well enough, but not all of it. Staying at Exile House will give me a feel for what it's like to be here without an ocean view, and without a car.
I call Jack and settle into bed with the book of Micmac legends.
I'm feeling comfortable by myself in Exile House. I'm alone, but I'm not lonely.
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