July 17, 2019 to July 18, 2019
Bar Harbor
Orland to Bar Harbor
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Jackie’s avg speed: 9.9 mph
Scott’s avg speed: 10.2 mph
Weather: 65-70 degrees, overcast, then light rain
Joyous birdsong woke me up a little after 05:30, the sun was just starting to rise over the tree tops of the campground. I’m a lollygagger, and don’t usually pop out of the sleeping bag when I first wake up. But the forecast called for rain to start about 13:00. If we got moving, maybe we could get to Bar Harbor before it hit. We still didn’t have gas for the Primus, so our cold breakfast without coffee or tea was over in about 15 minutes. We packed up our panniers for the last time on this ride and were pedaling away at 07:10.
We followed Highway One to Ellsworth and then took Highway Three, aka Bar Harbor Road, across to Mount Desert Island and into Bar Harbor. In 1604 the French explorer Samuel de Champlain saw rock outcrops on the summits of the island peaks, so he named it “Isles des Monts Desert,” which means “island of barren mountains.” Mount Desert Island is a clumsy rendition, since the island is thickly timbered with various conifers, as well as birches, red maples, red oaks, hemlocks, and aspens. The rainy climate supports a rich undergrowth of ferns, grasses, and wildflowers.
Hudson River School landscape artists were inspired to paint the rugged coastline, craggy summits, and verdant hillsides. Their publicity drew wealthy patrons and regular tourists to the area. By the 1880s, 30 hotels had been built. The Rockefellers, Morgans, Fords, Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Astors built summer retreats here. George B. Dorr, “the father of Acadia National Park,” was one of the wealthy residents who worked with other conservation-minded philanthropists like John D. Rockefeller to protect the area from development. As one of the Hancock County Trustees of Public Reservations, Dorr advocated for the federal government to establish a national monument, which ultimately became Acadia National Park. A poignant footnote to this happy ending. When Dorr died in 1944, he was impoverished and living in the caretaker’s cottage of Old Farm, his own family’s property which he donated to the National Park Service. Because of his vision, commitment, and generosity, Acadia National Park was preserved for the public to enjoy.
Let’s cut to the chase. Not surprisingly, the forecast was wrong and light showers started about 11:00. We were undaunted pedaling up and down the hills, eager to reach the end of our 3,047 mile journey. We headed straight for a place in Bar Harbor where we could dip our tires in the Atlantic waters.
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We checked in the Cromwell Harbor Hotel, a splurge at $179. Previous guests have awarded it 4.7 out of 5 stars for its well maintained exterior, rooms, and landscaping. No bikes are allowed in the rooms, the first time we had been denied in our trip. We parked our steeds in the bike rack near the pool and explored the dozen of restaurant options on Main Street.
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Dinner the first night was at the Bar Harbor Lobster Company a few minutes walk from our hotel. This time I had the lobster roll, Scott had crab. The “word on the street” from a local man we passed on the sidewalk was that this place had the best and cheapest lobster rolls. He said another place closer to the harbor offered a more extensive menu and fine wines. After 64 days of riding a bike, we were used to casual and not inclined to pay extra for linen tablecloths and expensive libations. These seafood rolls were okay, but the mayonnaise dulled the flavors. We were starting to understand why melted butter is the go-to accompaniment for lobster and crab. Cameron’s Lobster House in Bowdoin was still in first place out of four for the best lobster rolls in our trip.
The next day, we took a 17-mile round trip ride into Acadia National Park to take in the views around from the top of Cadillac Mountain, 1,513 feet high. The sun was out with temps in the low 70s, is a fine temperature for the climb. Particularly since we had left the panniers in the hotel room.
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For dinner, we drove the rental car 14 miles to Trenton Bridge Lobster Pound, a chaotic “all you can eat” place where customers pick their live lobsters that are then cooked in big outdoor tubs heated by wood fires. Just ordering was complicated because the place was so crowded. Scott selected a 2 ½ pounder for $18, I had one last lobster roll for $16, which seems a kind of standard price. We sat inside at one of the plastic tablecloth tables, rather than a picnic table outside. The Pound definitely offers the cheapest lobster per pound. My lobster roll had just the meat with a few green onions, but it was cold. Sautéing in butter to warm the meat the way Cameron’s does in Brunswick is definitely the way to arrive at the best roll. Scott's lobster was spot on. He rates it the best of the trip.
While driving back to Montana with our bikes disassembled in the back of the rented Jeep, we had time to reflect on the trip. Below are some random thoughts.
Eating whatever and whenever we wanted will have to stop. No more second breakfasts. No more pie, ice cream, donuts, Coca Cola, or milkshakes just for the calories.
What did I need that I wished I had brought? My nylon string bag to carry a wallet, phone, and passport on the occasions when we put on our civvies in town. It weighs barely an ounce and folds up tiny. A microfiber towel, which I had laid out but somehow forgot to pack. I used a 12” square microfiber cloth found on the side of the road near Colville, Washington during last year’s ride. A mechanic at Ray’s Cyclery in Clare, Michigan gave me a hand towel with the shop’s logo as a souvenir. That actually worked fine. A regularly sized bath towel is nice, but you really don’t need all that terry cloth to get dry.
What did we bring that we didn’t need? Spare tires. We prepared for a worst case scenario where we would ride over glass that would slice the tire open in a rural area miles from nowhere. That didn’t happen, and in fact, we didn’t get even one flat tire. For future trips on highways close to towns, we won’t take them. I didn’t use earbuds or my Apple pencil. Some listen to music or podcasts on the road, but I wanted full use of all senses. We brought small camp pillows, but sent them back with our winter clothes. We tucked our clothes for the next day’s ride inside the sleeping bag hoods, that worked fine as a pillow.
“He thought he was gonna die, but he didn’t. She thought she couldn’t cope, but she did.” These lines from Kate Bush’s “Walk Straight Down the Middle” occurred to me many times when I got through what I thought would be a really tough day. My adrenaline-fueled imagination conjured all kinds of disasters that never materialized. Like, what if a trailer hitch on a pickup pulling an RV, an 18-wheeler pulling a load of grain, a farm truck pulling a load of hay, etc, fails and the trailer rolls backward and wipes us out? Or, as my sister-in-law warned, what if a driver is texting and veers off to the side, crashing into us?
We had a great ride, no misfortunes, which makes me grateful to whatever Higher Power is protecting us and provided everything on my list of gratitude. It starts with my best buddy. Every time I spotted him ahead of me, head down, consulting the map on his phone, relief and happiness flooded me; he was still safe. I thought all the time about our sons, grandsons, and daughters-in-law, all healthy, in loving relationships, enjoying life. When pedaling up Bread Loaf and Kancamagus, I was grateful to the Native American and early explorers who found the best passes through the mountains; the civil engineers who designed the roads to be safe for traffic in all kinds of weather; the crews who laid and maintain the pavement. The fact that the west slope of Kancamagus is shorter than the east. Email and blog comments from neighbors, friends, family, and St Patrick’s parishioners who sent encouraging notes and prayers our way. My cousins Mary and Lori who drove to meet us in Minnesota and Michigan. Scott’s sister who took care of our cat while we were off playing. The Glasgow, Ontario campground manager who gave us a 50% discount because our tent was so tiny. The man who gave us Prosecco and bottled water because Americans had been kind to him when he hiked the Appalachian Trail. The couple in Danville, Maine who invited us to take a break and sit a spell. Our good health and strength to make this trek. And finally, all the drivers who shared the road and the hosts who offered comfortable accommodations.
Did we get this craving to see the world from the handlebars of a bike out of our systems? Probably not, since we are now thinking about how we can get down to Houston and Berkeley to visit our sons and their families. A ride up Whitefish Mountain and over Logan Pass would help keep our legs strong. Maintaining our hard won fitness is the challenge.
Today's ride: 42 miles (68 km)
Total: 3,025 miles (4,868 km)
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5 years ago
5 years ago
I'm a few days late reading this and you are probably home getting ready for company by now. I want to hear about your drive 🏡 home.
See you soon!
Dixie and Lacy
5 years ago
4 years ago