The town of Northeast Harbor has quite the legacy on the Maine Coast. Widely considered one of the state's most
beautiful harbors, this elegant town is also home to one of the country's most exclusive and refined summer colonies. Much like North Haven, Dark Harbor, Prouts Neck or Christmas Cove, Northeast is no stranger to the Waspy and well bred. Scores of
Vanderbilt's,
Rockefeller's, Morgans and
Astor's have all summered here for decades. Main street in July and August is filled with well tanned and well dressed men and women out for a shopping stroll or gearing up for an afternoon sail. All forms of classic sailboats come to this deep water harbor for it's excellent protection, but mostly for it's unmatched beauty. You are likely to see at least 10 to 15 Hinckley's
cruising around, and at least a few 100 foot yachts with towns like Newport, St Barth's and Cape Town painted on their hulls. The stately Asticou Inn stands proud at the head of the harbor, with it's numerous tennis courts and croquet lawns. Mercedes and
Volvo's with Virginia, Connecticut and New York plates sit parked in front of quaint and expensive boutiques and art galleries. If the Preppy Handbook was looking for a place to visit, they would come to Northeast Harbor. While all of this is fascinating in the eyes of many, and has been written about and talked about for years, it really doesn't mean shit on a frigid day in the middle of
January where the
temperature never touched the 10 degree mark. Throw in a stiff breeze of Somes Sound and you had yourself a truly freezing Winter's day in Down East Maine, where there were no summer people or Bermuda shorts to be found. When the tony trappings of a summer colony are
tossed away, you get to see the true color of a town and it's people, and it is then and only then, that you can see the coast and it's salty towns in their truest form. I had left Camden about 7 that morning to make the two hour trip east to Mount Desert Island. It was -4 when I left and the majestic sea smoke that forms on cold mornings like this was holding sway over Penobscot Bay. As I crossed over the bridge in Belfast, the smoke
seemed to lift right up to my car and enveloped the town in a whirl of white fog. As I shot through Ellsworth and reached the Island, the temperature had finally climbed past the zero mark, topping out at a balmy 3 degrees. Damn it was cold! I had decided to hike in Acadia first and then take some photographs in the afternoon. Layered up and covered up, I began to hike the icy cliffs of Valley Peak in Southwest Harbor. A short hike with a stunning view, Valley Peak is truly one of the hidden gems of Acadia. Though the terrain is challenging, and the Winter ice
treacherous, the hiker is rewarded with a birds eye view of Somes Sound, Northeast and Southwest Harbor, Norumbega,
Cadillac and Door Mountains and outer Blue Hill Bay, which leads gracefully to the mouth of the sound and the Cranberry Islands. I reached the top in just under an hour and took in the surroundings with a special sense of pride. I had
conquered this nasty little peak in the middle of January when there was not a soul around. I had not let the brutal cold stop me, and I was no worse for the wear. I love hiking in the winter! Your blood flows and your heart pumps as the cold winds hit your face. The landscape is caked in white
fluffy snow and the degree of
difficulty is always higher. Your mind and you instincts must be on full alert at all times. I lingered at the top for a good half an hour before carefully descending the trail to Valley Cove below, where I roamed the shores of Somes Sound and reveled in the complete silence of my surroundings. A lone white seagull drifted past me on his way into the woods and I could see a few squirrels dancing around the tall spruce trees that covered the cove like a green blanket. The Island had
received 26 inches of snow two days before and the trail back to my car was truly a winter wonderland. I half expected to see the
Budweiser Clydesdale's come tromping down the path on their way into town, much like they do in the commercials you see during football games. My hike over, and my body rested, I proceeded to cut across onto route three and down the other side of the Sound to Northeast Harbor. My
faithful Nikon at the ready, I prowled the docks of this fabled harbor in search of the true local color of the town. After shooting the powdery landscape and the crystal blue water, I happened upon three very
friendly lobster men who had just
returned from a cold day on the water. "That was a fucking waste of time," one said as a sarcastic smile crept over his face. "Got maybe twelve total, and been out since 4." That's right, 4 in the morning. For all of those people who want to see true work ethic, come up to Maine in January and talk to the fisherman. These hardy souls leave their warm beds before the sun comes up and they most often return as the sun is going down. All while battling
Arctic temperatures and brutish seas.
Some days the make money, and
some days they
don't. Quite the way to make a living! The three men were all gathered around the back of the boat where two very large fish sat dead on the side rail of the boat. "Most likely a carp," one said as he proceeded to slice it's stomach wide open and remove its innards. "I got myself some dinner tonight." I chatted with the men about prices and
their boat, which was quite the monster. At least 40 feet long and bulky as hell, the craft had a certain rugged character to it and looked
quite imposing with scraggly strands of ice clinging to it's windows. The men unloaded their measly catch and cleaned the boat up. I walked off the dock with them and thanked them for their hospitality. They asked me where I was from, and I told them I had come up from Camden. "Right down the road," the captain said. "What brings you up here?" I told him that I was a photographer and that I liked coming Down East to shoot because of the lack of people and distractions. "Yep," he said. "I
definitely like it this time of year. Just us and few other people. Nobody to hassle ya." I waved goodbye and took my last shots of the day. The temperature had dipped below zero again and the afternoon sun was beginning to set over the snow covered peaks of Acadia. I drove home that night with a smile on my face. I had entered the belly of Winter and had returned to live another day. As for finding the local color of the town, I guess that had been a success too. Not too hard to find in the middle of January!
Acadia National Park has a way of drawing you in and not letting you go. No matter how many times you enter this fabled ground, you feel as if you have barely scratched it's rugged surface. This place will seduce you. It will haunt you. It will entice you. But above all else, this place will thrill you. It's magic descends on you like a light rain that suddenly turns into a heavy downpour as you reach the summit of a jagged peak or turn a rocky corner to face the crashing surf of the bold ocean. You are lulled to sleep by it's tranqil trails and dreamy forests, and then all at once, like a jolt to the system, you are awoken by the awesome power of this place and you realize how sheer the cliffs are and how unforgiving they can be. One's total immersion in the vast wilderness of Acadia is required to fully grasp the brilliance of this place. If you surrender yourself to Acadia, your life will never be the same. Trust me, I am a frequent user and my addiction continues to spiral out of control. It was this very addiction that led me here on a bitterly cold Monday in late January. The forecast called for dangerous wind chills that were to approach minus 40 in the afternoon, with the temperature not reaching zero all day. While most sane individuals would have heeded winters stern warning and stayed at home wrapped under a tangle of wool blankets, I headed out at 7 in the morning, prepared to face this lion in Winter head on. The sea smoke was racing across Penobcot Bay as I headed up to Bucksport. The tempearture was steady at -6 and the wind was blowing drifts of snow across the road in rapid intervals. As I made Ellsworth and headed to Mount Desert Island, my heart was racing. I admit, I was a little nervous. The night before had consisted of an hour long planning session with myself, in which I had chosen the best routes to stay out of the wind, prepared as many layers as I could possibly wrap around my body, and stacked water bottle after water bottle in my trusty old backpack. Prepared as I could ever hope to be, I first entered the park in Southwest Harbor on one of my favorite trails. Ship Harbor is a beautiful oval shaped inlet of rushing water where a winding path leads out onto the rocks of Seawall and to the enourmous expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The wind was whipping off the water and it repeatedly slammed into my face like a squadron of stinging bee's. I reached the rocks and gazed out to the ocean. The sun was shining on the water and the sea smoke was drifting back and forth with the wind. The smoke would rise up in a mist and then retreat to the surface as a gust of wind blew it apart. I watched as the waves crashed into a series of ledges about 40 yards off shore. The spray off the rocks was magnificent when combined with the smoke off of the ocean. Together, they formed a white mist that hung in the air just long enough for the bright sun to penetrate it's center, turning the mist into a dreamy trail of light that seemed to vanish as soon as it appeared. The rocks were covered in thick coats of ice and the few ducks that patrolled the inlet certainly had more courage than I. On my way back towards the center of the island, I stopped in Bass Harbor to snap my faithfull Nikon. I had been to Bass last in November, on a very cold day where the temperature had hovered around 20. Now I was back in this girtty fishing village, but the temperature was certainly not 20. Not a chance! The wind was screaming over my head as I ducked down to shoot an abonded wooden dock that was strewn with anchors, lobster traps and different colored strands of fraying rope. The town was so still, I felt as if my tracks in the snow were signs of trespassing. A few trucks rolled by, but not a soul was in sight. This was winter in Down East Maine, and the preffered place to spend a day like this had to be in front of a wood stove. I left Bass Harbor, my ears ringing with cold, and proceeded back to the center of the Island, where I took route 3 back down the other side of Somes Sound to Schooner Head. I had planned out a hike up to Great Head, and a subsequent traverse across it's snowy ridge back down to Sand Beach and Newport Cove. The trail to Great head was thick with snow and the pace was slow, the work grueling. Every step brought snow up to my knees and the wind was peppering my face from all angles. As I reached the summit, Frenchman Bay sat in front of me like a large blue carpet. White cap's were forming out in the distance and the air was so clear that the Schoodic Peninsula to the east seemed to be right in front of me, as if I could reach out and touch it. I took in the view and headed back to traverse the spiny ridge on this small but challenging peak. A few awakard steps and a whole lot of rock hopping later, I reached the edge of a 200 foot cliff that led down to the inviting sands of Newport Cove. Sand Beach was a magnificent sight to see from the top of Great Head. The whole island was caked in snow and ice, yet there it was, seemingly untouched by the jaws of Winter. The water was frigid as I dipped my finger in. The sand, that famous grainy white sand that gave this hallowed beach it's name, was almost frozen. I jabbed my hiking poles in the ground, but nothing really gave. Just a few strands of sand popped out, like a few crumbs of bread falling off of a stale loaf. The core of the beach was wrapped in the palms of old man winter's hand, and only the far off months of spring and summer could bring this place back to life. There was no frolicking to be had today, no quick dips in the spray to combat the heat of July. No sir, this beach was alone now, with only a few occasional hikers and cross counry skiers to visit with. It is an amazing feeling, almost surreal, to have such a gorgeous piece of land all to yourself. I never want to leave this beach, but today, I really didn't want to leave. It was just so breathtaking, just so damn Beautiful! The Beehive was caked in snow to the North, and the lazy stream that led from the top down to the ocean was frozen solid in a mix of brilliant blue colors. The dunes on the back of the beach were covered in snow and the giant pines that surrounded the cove were as as elegant as ever, their stately snow covered frames dancing back and forth with the rushing wind. The crystal clear blue water of Frenchman Bay lapped at the shores of the sand and a lone seagull swooped overhead. The place was silent. the only sounds were the wind and the water. Total immserion had been achieved. I had surrended to Acadia. My soul was at ease, my heart beat still, and my body was alive with sound and sight of Nature in all her glory! They say all good things must come to an end, and I contemplated that stupid saying as I hiked back to my car. I was beat down by the time I hit Bucksport and I had still have 40 miles to go before I reached the cozy confines of Camden. The extreme cold, like the extreme heat, seems to take everything out of you As I reached Northport, the sun was beginning to set over the Penobscot Bay. A fiery orannge glow spread over North Haven and Islesboro, while the late afternoon shadows began to fade over the Camden Hills. I reached my house, stripped off my icy clothes and sat down in my favorite chair. I was warm now, safe from winter's viscous grip. My feet up, and my wool sweater on, I laid back and closed my eyes. I had gone toe to toe with the lion in Winter. My quest was complete. I smiled, knowing that my painless addiction to Acadia National Park had just spiralled a little more out of control. Oh what glorious fun!
