Come for the Popovers, Stay for the Bogwalk: Jordan Pond, Acadia National Park

A view across Jordan Pond from the southeast portion of the loop trail. In the center are the Bubbles; to the right, Pemetic; to the left, Penobscot.

Taking a bit of a break from the graduate thesis writing to bring you my second posting about Acadia National Park, from our trip earlier in the summer. Last time, I told you about the joys of biking up a really steep trail to Witch’s Hole. So this time, I’m taking you down to the southern end of Acadia, to Jordan Pond.

Jordan Pond is a glacial lake formed during the Ice Age, so say the geologists. It is framed in on three sides by mountains: the Bubbles to the north, Penobscot to the west and Pemetic to the east. And on the southern edge you’ll find the Jordan Pond House.

Climb Ev’ry Mountain: Witch’s Hole, Acadia National Park

Bikers ride over the Rockefeller-built bridge – part of the network of carriage trails in Acadia National Park – near Duck Brook Road.

Repeat after me, boys and girls: There is no shame in walking your bike up a steep trail.

Once more, with feeling: There is no shame in walking your bike up a steep trail.

I freely admit that as a biker, steep hills and I do not get along. I can set a pretty good pace on suburban roads and flatland woods trails, but I generally leave the serious mountain biking to the really serious extreme sports types. (Aside from the occasional round of ziplining – see also: Hunter Mountain – I generally prefer my sports to be non-extreme. But I digress.)

The family and I were on a week-long trip to Maine in mid-August. Lots of hiking, biking, kayaking. And I’m pleased to report that I got plenty of fodder for the blog, including two visits to Acadia National Park. One day involved a bike ride around the northern end of the park, which I am describing to you here, and a side visit to Sieur de Monts (that’s for another entry). The other was a visit down to Jordan Pond (also for another entry).

Happy birthday to the NPS!

Just a short – but very sweet – post tonight. Today marks the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service.

I’ve been to parks with awesome sea views (Acadia National Park, and the Assateague and Cape Cod National Seashores), not to mention under-the-sea views (the underwater trail in Virgin Islands National Park). There’s the park not too far from me that makes learning about the Revolutionary War more fun (Morristown National Historic Park).

And then there’s the one with the giant hole in the ground – you might have heard of it? The Grand Canyon National Park?

As part of the centennial activities, the NPS have launched Find Your Park, a campaign to get people out to enjoy their local national parks. On the NPS website, there’s a function where you can punch in where you live, and the site bring up national parks in your area.

I’ve visited a fair number of parks on the list, but there’s a lot more that I want to visit – so I need to get trip planning. Shenandoah, perhaps, or Yosemite? Or Denali – for like many others, I am smitten by the adorable pups in the Canine Rangers.

Happy birthday, NPS, and here’s to another 100 years or more.

For further reading:

NPS Centennial: Find Your Park, centennial activities, and much more.

Campfire cooking (Or: John Muir meets Julia Child)

One of my earliest camping memories involves me sitting in the front seat of Dad’s old tan Jeep Cherokee, munching on a packet of oatmeal cookies (the soft chewy kind with lots of molasses) as Mom and Dad got the tent pitched. (At three and a half years old, I was a bit too small to do much of anything with tent pitching, but I was big enough to lift up one of the aluminum tent poles.)

But like Proust with his madeleine (makes you wonder what Maman Proust put in her baking), I got to thinking about some of the other foods we’ve dined on around the campfire over the years.

Some people seem to think that being out on a camping trip means being deprived of real food and eating freeze-dried this and powdered that. Granted, yes, my dad, being an Air Force guy, had accumulated a ton of MREs over the years. And thankfully for our health (and stomachs), the MREs stayed packed away in the attic, where they belonged. (Dad’s always joking that not even refugees in famine-plagued countries would go near MREs.)

But our various treks have always involved real food. Fruits and vegetables. Eggs. Meat. From-scratch pancakes. (Yes, it can be done.)

Now, we’ve done some of the usual stuff. We’ve roasted a fair number of hot dogs over campfires – and when I was seven, I discovered that it takes a certain knack to keep your hot dog from slipping off the toasting fork and into the fire. We (or at least, my brother and I) consumed plenty of marshmallows, too. But I was a grown woman before I ate my first s’more. (See also: my previous exegesis about s’mores on this blog.)