My Wonder of Acadia - I Wonder What a Big Hike Is?

As you will learn, I’m blessed with neither a good sense of direction nor a good sense of balance (after the third martini my sense of decency is questionable, but we'll save that for another session).  This doesn’t matter to my friend.  Since we are surrounded by the wonders of Acadia National Park  he thinks it’s a good idea for us occasionally to experience those wonders up close by hiking.  For those of you not familiar with the term, 'hiking' means simply that you tie on sensible shoes, drive to a designated trail, exit your vehicle, put one foot in front of the other again, and again, and again, and again and..well you get the idea... until you reach the very same vehicle you exited hours ago.  I know, it doesn't make any sense to me either, but then I have never understood why anyone would run unless being chased, or peddle a bicycle when you have a valid driver's license.
Anyhoo, one Sunday morning a while ago, while still basking in the afterglow of crabcakes benedict on cheddar dill scones (I may not be able to find my way around the Hannaford, but I can cook), my friend suggested a 'little hike'.  It was a perfect hiking kind of morning - crisp and vividly clear, and I really needed to burn off the hollandaise I had licked off the counter while he wasn't looking.   A little hike seemed harmless enough, and the trail name sounded almost like a carnival ride -- Giant Slide Trail.  What fun!  I slipped on my formal Sunday sweats and sneakers, grabbed a bottle of water and hopped into the truck with the enthusiasm of a puppy who’s going to the park.



Giant Slide 'shrooms.  Awesome.

Soon after we started on the little hike, the noise of Route 198 faded away.  Sunlight filtered through the trees; mosses and an amazing variety of mushrooms  decorated the sides of the wellmarked path.  I felt like I was in the middle of a Bob Ross painting.  I want to work the word ‘dappled’ in somewhere. I inhaled the fresh outdoorsy air, thankful for this natural beauty at our doorstep. Calmness washed over me.  Or it could have been a hot flash. We worked our way up the sun-dappled (there it is) trail, intrigued by the sound of rushing water. Soon we discovered Sargent Brook, cascading down the rocky stream bed.  I was enchanted, awed, inspired; until I realized this was just the beginning of our little hike.  We persevered, no longer on mossy, mushroomy, forest floor.  We were now tottering over an ominous snangle of evil, jagged, nasty boulders. Pretty much vertical, and I am almost certain some had fangs. There were torrents of angry water rushing through the evil, jagged, nasty boulders. I put on my bestest fake smile and gingerly negotiated the first rocky challenge, mumbling my real thoughts under my breath (when I could catch it).  Slowly we worked our way up the side of the raging river (brook my ass) and I was making a perfectly adequate showing.  That is until the blazes marking the trail moved to the opposite side of the river.  My hiking companion, who I suspected was part mountain goat, skittered over the wet rocks, toting a full backpack, and balancing a pricey camera in his hand.  I, being no part mountain goat, took decidedly longer, delayed in part by a stumble over a shoelace into the fierce foaming fury that is Sargent Brook. It was actually kinda refreshing, and gave me a minute to catch up on my mumbling. 

I remember this being more menacing



Fear and massive self-doubt slowly gave way to something resembling confidence as we zigzagged from blaze to blaze.  About the time I got comfy with climbing over rocks we came upon a precarious arrangement we don't climb over but UNDER.  I wondered, silently, if maybe, just maybe my steady barrage of whining and snarking had  grated sufficiently on my wonderfully patient companion’s last nerve so that he might feel the need to photograph me squeezing twixt the boulders.  There is no angle that would look flattering.  He passed on that opportunity, because he is a grownup.  After I was safely on the other side, he handed me the camera and crawled through the opening toward me. I did snap a photo, because I am juvenile.   Photo not available.
We continued up the trail to the next sign post which listed several options – not one of them a decent restaurant or cab service.  It was here I realized that despite the fun name, there would be no actual Giant Slide to get me back to civilization. I looked down at what we had accomplished and announced (in a voice that I have not used since the final stages of labor) that there was no f*!king way I was going back down the way we came up.  We reviewed the options on the sign post.  He decided to not take one of the trails with a name carved in wood all official like, but for the option scribbled on cardboard and duct taped to the bottom of the sign post.  I thought it might lead us to some weird cult who preyed on weary hikers, and I really didn’t care.  I was tired, hungry and cranky, and I had no money on me.  I was ready to take on a weird cult.  But would they be ready for me?
He took my hand, guided me across the raging rapids one last time and we hiked up a short trail to a blessedly wide, well-groomed carriage path--with glorious views of Somes Sound, Aunt Betty’s Pond and the most flattering  view of my old Alma Mater I have ever seen.

The meandering carriage trail took us over the river and through the woods, past Gilmore Meadow back to the lower, more user friendly portion of Giant Slide Trail. 

Four hours after we set out on our adventure, I crawled back into the truck, mustering all the enthusiasm of an old mutt who’s been to the vet. But with a new knowledge of what 'little hike' means.