A Lion In Winter

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!