Interlude.

north bubble, acadia national park
To become so alone
to hear the trees
breathe
and feel air expand
in your lungs,
which heave
in exhaustion
and marvel.

The ocean waves goodbye.

sand beach, acadia national park
Oh, the places I have written:
words on the sea,
on rocks with massive history;
on planes, soaring
with my thoughts,
and dreams;
In lands, primitive
and historic;
all, such beauty.

Oh, the places my pen has seen,
leaving behind
some of my own history.

Getting Hives.

Quite the view. Just not down.

Bar Harbor, ME – I clung to the gnarled iron bar, admiring the sheet of rock that rose above me. No way was I going to look down.

A misshapen tree only bearing needles on the side facing the sun jutted out from the cliff. I twisted myself from the wall just as awkwardly.

Small chips of slate tumbled from my feet as I tried to melt farther into the rock, probing for narrow stone steps built into the mountain's smooth rock at the turn of the century. While I tried to limit how much I diverted my gaze, I kept a nervous eye peeled for the small blue flashes of paint struck on the rock. Without them, there was no path.

I missed several before finding myself on the edge of a precipitous drop.

I began to question my decision to hike the Beehive in Acadia National Park, one of the park's most popular and most challenging peaks. While it only took 20 minutes to scale the 520-foot summit, it's known for cliffs that fall out onto the tops of pine trees, and iron bars that make hoisting yourself up possible. And the trail opens with a sign warning of deaths on the mountain.

My breath deepened. My legs quaked. I looked down. I suppressed the urge to vomit.

But when I finally widened my view, it was well worth it.

From atop the summit, the greens melted into the blues and the browns: the sea into the rocks, into the forest.

And a gentler way back down.

(For a particularly vomit-inducing account of climbing the Beehive, check out the GoPro footage below.)

In Good Stead.

Worth the Climb.

Bar Harbor, ME – Gravel crunched like overcooked granola under our tires as we wound over pitted roads past farms with parted-out tractors.

A horse grazed within feet of us, tied to the front railing of its owner's trailer.

A sports car, flying at us, slammed on its brakes, drifting sideways, almost into the trees. It was incongruous given the otherwise quiet morning off the beaten path in Vermont.

Except, of course, this path is actually disproportionately used compared to others nearby. Located in Greensboro, Vermont, Hill Farmstead Brewery, last year's top-rated craft brewery, is seemingly tucked into a middle of nowhere framed by white fences and disinterested cows that pay little mind to the incessant pilgrimage of beer aficionados.

Thankfully, the beers were much, much smoother than the roads. And appropriately, the brewery provided samples of a couple beers called 'Excursions.'

Vitals:

• Time: 8.5 hours
• Distance: 571.3 kms
• Weather: Sunny, with some cloud
• States: Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine
• Wildlife: None

Buy the Yard.

'Axe' questions at Rumford Visitors Center.

South Burlington, VT – At every turn, the roads through New Hampshire and Vermont were littered by signs advertising ‘yard sales.’

And they were not referring to the term more commonly used by skiers in the region.

One has to wonder about the depressed nature of the economy in certain areas of these states, given that yard sales appear to provide a livelihood for a significant portion of the rural economy. It has not mattered what day of the week, or time of day it is – garages rest with gaping maws and storage lockers have been raised like Levolor blinds unto another world.

Deal finders even flocked to a funeral home parking lot onto which items had been spilled onto blankets under garish, marker-scribbled signs. I guess it’s a venue familiar with goodbyes.

It also continues to astound me how many abandoned homes dot the roads. They lean, creaking with windows falling out – their curtains still wrapped around the frames as one would cling to the ghost of a former love.

By contrast, however, we have landed in South Burlington for the evening and the area’s splendid vistas are home to a bustling population, packed patios and cute, manicured shops.

After a long day driving, though, finding a scallop and bacon wood-fired pizza at Folino’s and four free samples at Magic Hat Brewing Company (try the #9) made for a great way to cap off (pun intended) the day.

Not a Ferry Good Day.

Tide you over: the Hopewell Rocks, at low tide.

Calais, ME – Actually, it wasn’t that bad.

Here’s a pro tip, though: when travelling through time zones, be sure to change the clock in your car, lest you err on the timing of something important.

Like a ferry schedule. (Bonus points: especially after a long day of driving.)

Having just driven through mountains cloaked in fog, we pulled onto the ferry at l’Etete, NB. We had planned to catch the next ferry to Campobello Island after the half-hour trip to Deer Island – while hopefully seeing some whales and seals along the way.

As we settled in between a truck and a bus, we were told the last ferry was to leave at 7 p.m. – a couple hours earlier than anticipated.  The clock on the dashboard flashed 6:30.

The keen reader, of course, will have already figured out it was really an hour later locally.

Thankfully, the ferry back to L’Etete was free – but we saw no whales or seals.

As waves of ink spilled across the sky and bright sparks forked to Earth, we finally pulled into the border town of Calais, ME. Pathetic fallacy, methinks. The Calais Motor Inn seems stuck in a 1950s time warp – and that may also be the last time the floor was cleaned, too. But, it's home for the night.

Despite the later setbacks, however, our morning flowed with the timing of a tidal schedule. Literally.

Several hours after leaving our home base in New Ross, we stopped at the Hopewell Rocks and its distinctive flowerpot rock formations. As with other sites along the Bay of Fundy, the region is home to the world’s highest tides, leaving miles of red clay-filled mud flats stretching out in front of you. Six hours later, they are covered by more than 50 feet of water each day.

It was a day filled with good times, just not always accurate ones.

Miss Direction.

Like in my brain, fog fell fast in Halifax.

New Ross, NS – Sometimes, the GPS lies.

After breakfast at Becky’s Diner in Portland, we set our course and marvelled that there were fewer hours to go than anticipated.

On second look, I noted the GPS had us crossing the Bay of Fundy. While this may indeed have been the shortest route, there were no ferries to be found and I had not set the directions for an amphibious vehicle. I shook my head and recalculated. Somehow, we still made it.

Climbing into New Brunswick, I kept my eye out for the ever-elusive (to me) moose. At a distance would be fine. A blurry vision of a head poking out of the trees would do. Alas, my quest to see one of these big, dumb animals in the wild remains unfulfilled.

Thankfully, though, the coastal air has finally cleared the allergies that plagued me for most of the drive. We’re still so exhausted, though, it feels like the fog that rolled in over Halifax harbour tonight has settled into my brain.

I will, at least, use that as an excuse for my confusion at the toll bridge leading into the city. It turns out that when you seek change from the attendant, you will actually receive the full amount back – just in smaller denominations. I had not realized I was still required to drop the toll into the bucket.

As I pulled forward, the bar bounced in the breeze, but remained lowered authoritatively across my path – as though it were wagging a finger at me. The lane was too narrow to open my door and run back, and I eyed the motorcycle cop idling behind me.

The bar finally rose in a shrug.

I blame the GPS.