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.
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).
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.)