August 1, 2014
Our first night in Acadia proved restless. Although not deep in the woods, the darkness of our cabin was all-encompassing and the silence kept me awake. At points a seed or an animal would make its way from the tree above to our roof and roll or scamper down the side.
It’s been maybe 4 years since we last camped and even now we weren’t really camping. We chose to stay in what is essentially a wooden box because I have no interest in setting up a tent and Linda prefers a real mattress on a platform to one filled with air just above the ground. But hotels in a place as beautiful and popular as Acadia are prohibitive and if you’re going to go to national park you may as well at least to pretend to be roughing it.
In Acadia we are surrounded by vista after vista with small towns in between filled with enough supplies to make it through our stay. With a bit of effort, our wooden box looks out on the longest fjord on the East Coast, or so our travel companions tell us. We are also fortunate to share our Acadia experience with my sister Katie, her husband Jack and their daughter Annabelle Rose. They, as we, are at the end of their journey through Canada. They, too, had been through Montreal, but added time on the remote and inspiring edge of Nova Scotia and points in between.
They are well-traveled and well-experienced campers. In her four years, Annabelle has gathered more woods wisdom than I have in my 38. They treated us to a seaside picnic and a late night campfire. They provided the brussels sprouts, the stove, the fire, the wine and the birthday cake Oreos. We provided the mosquito-electrocuting tennis racket.
In two days, we took in two mountains, two lakes, two bowls of chowder, two fish sandwiches, a lobstercake, and a dozen mussels (Linda only). Then with a consecutive five-hour drives to Boston and then on to Jersey City, it was over, several days short of our usual trip. We are home, at rest, listening to the steady hum of tires and street lights.