This week, I’ve been reading another blogger’s posts (here and here here) on camping in downeast Maine with a nostalgia bordering on jealousy. (I suggest you read the rest of her blog, too, it’s the first one I check every day.) To be sure, her tent wasn’t nestled into the shadow of a fifteenth-century castle. But she captures a scene so familiar I can’t help being a bit homesick. Green Coleman stove older than I am, clothesline strung between two evergreens, glimpses of a nylon tent through the young spruces… It looks, in short, the way camping is supposed to look. The way it looks in my head. Early memories die hard. In this case, I can only be thankful.
After wallowing in her pictures for a while, I was thankful that I had been up in Acadia only a month ago, which stopped me from feeling quite so homesick. In fact, I had pictures of my own to wallow in.
A while back, I reported, exhausted, a route map for a hiking trip in Acadia National Park. For the casual hike we planned, it turned out to be epic terrain. Also an epic failure to check the topo map before the hike. A good time, though.
The map doesn’t quite convey the sheer amount of rock we clambered down… and up… and up again…
So I brought you these pictures instead.
The exuberant beginnings.
Here, my lovely baby sister displays what the “trail” looks like. I didn’t expect the Brook Trail to be an actual brook, but I can’t fault the Park Service for truth in advertising.
Three hours later, after 1330 feet of bedrock descent and 900 feet of clambering. Again, that is the actual trail they’re standing on. If it looks like solid granite, there’s a reason for that.
NTS: still going strong. The sun is setting on our side of the valley, but it’s still bright on the side of Dorr Mountain.
A sardonic salute.
Daddy: Did we seriously just climb down that rock face and then up again?
If we rigged a pulley to the top of the mountain…