Fall comes early and it comes fast. Most falls usually do: the fall from grace, the fall in love, the fall in line. I’ve heard people say that the fall comes early up in New England, too. How right they are.
The destination is Acadia National Park, in Maine, and as my partner and I take the drive north on I95 from Boston shortly after Labor Day, we’re met with changeable weather that culminates in heavy clouds and light rain. Cooler air found its way up our unprepared sleeves and unzipped jackets, and already by three in the afternoon the cars’ headlights lit the way around low hills and through deciduous green banks on the brink of breaking into crimson and gold. Some young trees couldn’t resist: they plumed a splash that bled across the hills foreshadowing the imminent. But until then, the deciduous leaves that flower in full shades of green all summer brilliantly mask their brighter pigments. I’ve since understood that it’s the green chlorophyll fed fatly by the long hot summer sun that keeps its colors hidden. Today I see only a collective green forest which will quickly break down from the upcoming change in climate and light.
The drizzle fell, becoming rain. We detoured off the interstate to ride Route 1 through coastal towns, brick layered sidewalks, flowers and flags hanging, quaint shops and parlors of ice cream and wine – Norman Rockwell scenes. We pass country farms, Dollar General stores, white steepled churches, and the houses tucked away behind old oaks. Summer season is definitely over here; on this early September day some places are already closed for the season. Gratitude cast its sentiments across banners, draped over businesses: Thanks for a great season! See you next year!
Route 1 leads us eventually into Ellsworth, Maine, established in the 1700s but founded in 1869 for its timber and water power. Situated 30 miles north of Acadia National Park, it’s a small town with a big task: to get the park goers fed and stocked up on food, L.L.Bean clothing, and outdoor sports gear. Two defining streets intersect the town: historic Main Street offering a choice of pub restaurants, antique stores and coffee shops, and Oak Street, Route 3, that bears the heavier retail traffic for the two large food stores, hardware, outlets and camping supplies, all conveniently found on the way down to the park. Follow this road, and 25 minutes later Route 3 splits and provides access to the east and west sides of Mount Desert Island, where the previous millennia’s glaciers and land shifting formed modern day Acadia.
The park’s use began long before its declaration of a national park by Woodrow Wilson in 1916. Its history begins in the 1800s by residents and visionaries who recognized its beauty and could understand the value nature contributes to humanity. With the aid of philanthropists, most notably Rockefeller, and the locally formed civic groups, preservation of its beauty begun: hiking trails and non motorized roads known as carriage roads wind through the hills and still grant the public equal access.
We drive to the west side that the ranger we met on our way called “the quiet side.” I felt a welcoming softness to the place; a reconciliation of some kind with time that has gone awry. What makes this park a little different from others in the nation that are more removed from private land and have clearly defined points of access, Acadia seems to live among its people, and it does so most amicably. Roadways enter and exit the park as they meander around the island, and camping grounds, hiking trails and small family commercial enterprises and homesteads. They mingle and meld with cohabitational ease. But it was along these roads where I first noticed the same signs, sporadically placed in front yards. They couldn’t go unnoticed as it jarred with the present ambience. A single, simple word that asked us for so much. That asked us to excavate rooted convictions and sensibilities. That admonished us for weakness, reminded us of strength. Pierced into the grounds of many front yards, this single word in white on black stood out defiantly: Resist. It had a way of nipping your toes all the way up a mountain.
We parked the car on the northern trail head to Beech Mountain. Each hike is different, each woods has something else to say, each trail offers insight and challenge to each thought and muscle. Young growth crops up everywhere around us. Soft, light green needles shoot out from trunks still capable of molding to climate and time. Wispy hemlock, sturdy fir, aromatic pine, ranging in height from a few feet to soaring points all share the slopes. Scaffolds of these new generations offer a place to return to for our own next generations. With such fortitude they exist and survive! Crevices in sedentary rock provide only the bare minimum in mineral and water access, yet roots take hold and together they stand the time. The ground cover gives somewhat under foot, creating a soft sponge tread; sea and moist air layers the decomposed maple and birch leaves soon covered by more of their kind as this season’s leaves will fall. The ascent is gradual up to Beech Mountain, big boulders of granite and layered metamorphic cliffs line the way, and soon, a few miles later, the summit announces itself by a flattened area of rock. Today though, no other indication hints that you’ve reached the destination because by that time, the fog has come in from the Atlantic, and it surrounds you. Its ethereal mist, obscuring familiarity and direction, loosens your grip on place. Steadiness wavers. Coordinates you’ve come to rely on, like distance and depth perception are absent. Suddenly, self-reliance is all you’ve got left in this opaque mist that dares you to fear. After all, it’s been a while.
We stayed a while, resting our eyes on the misted-out, non view, and I can’t resist thinking about resist. One word. A command, it asks something powerful of you. It demands something, something you might think about up here in the woods, in the mist, masking any familiar landmark from vision or for orientation. A choice to oppose or to fold into? A force to withstand or to join? A standpoint to honor or a platform to guide? There is nothing murky or gray about resist. It’s as firm a command as the rocky shores, resisting the lashing of perpetually cold waves. As forceful as lava pushing through stone. Resist. Today on the summit, a blank canvas waits for a painting, a depiction, a description of oneself. There’s nothing to see but a reflection of yourself. There’s nothing to grab onto for comfort or crutch but what you know and what has guided you all your years. Remember what that was. Disorientation can be daunting. Resist the intimidation. Trust your nature, untainted now by ideas that aren’t quite recognizable. Individuality can be frightening. Resist the fear. It’s our own undoing when we fear our natures, disbelieving our strength and power in favor of some others’. We feed our fear this way, instead of dismantling it, and the more we resist, the more fear builds its arsenal, threatening us from expressing our truth. Like the individual shades of red and yellow pigment behind the green in a leaf, you’ve always known yourself. Why resist?
The next day from Ellsworth, we stayed on Route 3 that empties into Bar Harbor, an energetic town catering to both tourists and denizens, seasonal or year round. New England cottages and Victorian houses perch along the side streets behind the usual souvenir and food trappings for vacationers. Green spaces and small parks open to local fests and fairs, and water front harbor access gives options for whale watching, fishing or private charters, cruises and ferries over to Winter Harbor on the east part of Schoodic Peninsula.
Once Bar Harbor has satiated a stomach or adventurous agenda, there’s a whole park to explore. Cadillac Mountain, the highest natural mountain on the eastern sea board at roughly 1500 feet, is the most frequented attraction. Options to access it are available from the north or south ends via hiking trails or by driving to the summit (an option by reservation only from April to October). We reached its summit by hiking 4.7 km in from the north, along the rocky, challenging Gorge Trail that serves in wetter seasons as a drainage for melted snow. We scrabbled up the rocks that form the path, sometimes needing to use both feet and hands for grip and stability. Steep, layered bedrock lines the ravine, the sun glitters off the leaves, the air becomes remarkably cooler. The autumnal plunge begins.
Maybe autumn graces us with so much color as a way to make the transition from summer’s bounty to fall’s decay easier. It’s the recognition of change. Autumn ends the rambunctious parties played out on long days and lawns, but gives us back to ourselves for inner reflection and a preparation for the stillness of winter: crystalized and frozen from movement, it holds our hearts in quiet rectitude.
The top of Cadillac Mountain is a hopscotch of flat granite boulders that has points of view onto all sides of the park, a panoramic perspective. The sky is clear of clouds and mist on this day making visibility once again reliable and orienting. We are sighted creatures, after all, and our eyes gravitate to what we know. We lead them to what is familiar. The Atlantic Ocean glistens its blue and wraps around inlets and shores of the peninsula. It appears gentle and embracing; from up here its thrashing temper is no more. Dorr Mountain appears less formidable and more diminutive. Eagle Lake only a puddle far below. Bar Harbor is still safely a small town. Seeing something other than what we recognize may challenge our comfort level but looking at it from a panoramic perspective asks us to look at something deeper and differently. It opens up vistas and reveals the courage we need to stifle and silence the fear that hijacks reason. We are incumbents of our own office and stewards of innate sense, and can stand up to the fear of uncertainty and confusion that may surround us, whether we’re in the fog or in the clear.
I never did ask the locals about what they consider we resist, but it does force a good ask of ourselves nevertheless. I can’t resist falling for something, make you sure you see clearly what you’re falling for.
Write Down the Road 