Into Acadia, through the fog
A blanket of fog hung heavily in the air, descending on the cliff face like a thick, white fist.
The veil, an impermeable mass of vapor, billowed in wispy sheets around me as I maneuvered across a sliver of slick granite on the ascent up Champlain Mountain. It obscured what promised to be a majestic, sprawling view of the rocky, island-specked coastline below — one of the features that makes Acadia National Park a renowned treasure of the Northeast.
Rain and fog were in the forecast for the entirety of my jaunt from Brooklyn to Maine’s outer reaches (four days exploring, two days driving), and I was determined not to let the weather deny me the hiking vacation I craved after a half year of quasi-forced captivity due to the Covid-19 pandemic.
But that determination came with trade-offs.
For one, Precipice Trail, Acadia’s most thrilling and dangerous hike (and the setting of this story’s opening scene) is more lethal in wet conditions. The top half of the steep, mile-long trek to the 1,058-foot summit is completely exposed, largely occurring along two- to three-foot-wide wedges of smooth rock and up vertical metal ladders bolted into the mountain. An imprecise footstep or handhold meant a long fall through the mist. (It should be said that the added risk made the trek more fun — for this adrenaline junkie, at least.)
Precipice also affords some of the best views in Acadia, overlooking the shimmering blue waters of Frenchman Bay and the Atlantic, and a grouping of islands sharing a peculiar resemblance to porcupines (the aptly named Bald Porcupine, Burnt Porcupine, Long Porcupine and Sheep Porcupine islands, my personal favorites among the many offshore masses).
Otter Cliff, Acadia National Park.
The shroud that enveloped Mount Desert Island, a 108-square-mile colossus housing the 47,000-acre national park, during those days in late September and early October hid most of the Crown Jewel of the North Atlantic from sight. (Fun fact: The island, Maine’s largest, derives its name from French explorer Samuel de Champlain, who called it “Isles des Monts Deserts,” or “island of barren mountains.”)
It felt cruel to be in Acadia and not glimpse the ocean from up high.
To some extent, that outcome was to be expected. The Maine coastal climate is second only to the Pacific Northwest in annual precipitation, according to the National Park Service.
But the timing was certainly laughable. Until my arrival, Mount Desert Island had hardly seen any rain for 3 ½ months and was going through something of a drought. There was also comedy to be had for anyone observing me on the summit of Sargent Mountain, getting pelted by liquid bullets in what felt like 40-mile-per-hour wind gusts, on a Tuesday morning that was supposed to be rainless, and trying to read a hiking map that, in the moment, was acting more like a parachute than a navigation device. (The map was, thankfully, waterproof.)
While the clouds kept one visual stunner under lock and key, another, as luck would have it, was unfolding around me: The forests of beech, birch, maple and oak were ablaze in the radiance of near-peak foliage season, that much-anticipated annual hallmark of fall in New England. Even the needles of the conifers cresting the island’s mountains were laced with yellow, as were the ferns dotting the forest floor, which itself was a Jackson Pollock-themed smattering of color.
The ephemeral beauty was striking, a flame against the dreary sky, any self-pity over foiled vistas quickly erased.
With virtually no one else on the mountain, given Mother Nature’s frequent temper tantrums, it was like a kaleidoscopic playground just for me. The solitude afforded the simple pleasures I often lack in New York — watching the mist gently caress the conifers’ outstretched arms, dripping lightly with dew, against the choral backdrop of crickets, birds, and the rustling of pine boughs and leaves in the wind.
The solitude was rare, given Acadia is among the top 10 most visited U.S. national parks each year, with more than 3.5 million annual visitors to its jagged headlands, pristine woodlands and old-growth forests.
The weather certainly couldn’t keep me away from the ample seafood feasts to be had in Bar Harbor, a charming coastal town on the island’s northeast shore, and further afield in other hamlets like Bass Harbor and Southwest Harbor. I’d wager my blood carried exceedingly high traces of lobster by the time the week was out, after inhaling an assembly line of lobster rolls, lobster grilled cheese, lobster chowder, lobster bisque and basically any other lobster vessel I could find.
Otter Cove, Acadia National Park.
Abel’s Lobster Pound was my undisputed favorite, both for the food and relaxed, homey atmosphere. Other notables included Charlotte’s Legendary Lobster Pound and Stewman’s Lobster Pound, or Finback Alehouse for a more laid-back pub vibe.
Blueberries placed a close second in consumption, given Maine’s status as the largest producer of wild blueberries in the world. Most of my mornings began at Jordan’s Restaurant, a diner that serves up a fantastic stack of blueberry pancakes.
There are also ample ways to enjoy the park absent ideal weather, as long as you don’t mind venturing out with a rain jacket. Enjoy coastal hikes like the Ocean Path, a leisurely 2.2-mile out-and-back portion of Acadia’s 150 total miles of hiking trails. It starts at Sand Beach, a 290-yard “pocket beach,” a geological rarity in the region, and winds past some of Acadia’s most popular attractions, like Thunder Hole and Otter Cliff. Drive the Park Loop, a 27-mile road tracing an ovular path through the park’s eastern section. Hike or bike the historic carriage roads, 45 miles of motor-free, broken-stone roads that weave around Acadia.
Miraculously, the forecast shifted in my favor mid-week, affording me about a day of sunshine. Seeing the clouds evaporate, finally yielding the park’s sweeping panoramas to sight, was not unlike that joyous childhood feeling I remember of unwrapping a Christmas present I already knew was under the tree.
I made the most of it.
On Wednesday evening, I caught sunset at Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse, the lone lighthouse on Mount Desert Island and arguably one of the area’s most recognizable landmarks.
Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse at sunset.
I woke early the following morning to catch sunrise from the peak of Cadillac Mountain. At 1,530 feet, it’s the highest mountain on the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S. and for about half the year, between Oct. 7 and Mar. 6, it’s also the first place in the country to see the sunrise. (Fortunately, it’s also the one crag in Acadia with a motor-vehicle road to the top.) I arrived an hour before the sun edged over the horizon, and the sky was already illuminated in dark blues and purples, like a beautiful bruise, the silhouettes of the porcupine islands coming into faint relief.
A view of the Porcupine islands from Cadillac Mountain at sunrise.
The rest of the day, my last in the park, consisted of a roughly 14-mile, three-peak trek up Champlain Mountain (by way of Precipice Trail again — yes, it’s that fun), Dorr Mountain (1,270 feet) and Cadillac Mountain (this time by foot).
Views from Precipice Trail.
As twilight descended, I found myself atop Champlain Mountain again while meandering in a roundabout route back to my car. I was accompanied by a sweet ache in my legs after a long day of hiking, as well as that emotional ache all satisfied travelers get when the inevitability of departure begins to weigh on the soul.
But, in the moment, something helped dull the latter feeling.
Fog had settled in, swift and sure, like an old friend. Acadia was lost to the clouds again. And it made me smile.
