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| Buckled to Birch (Freecamp - Highway 3) |
I woke around 6:30 AM and quickly beat it from my free camp. I was relatively close to Highway 3, but this wasn’t a factor due to my free fan (white noise) application on my iPhone. Christina turned me on to this technique on the Camino last summer. My life was forever changed.
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| Mosquito Trap (Reason #1 to Reject Bivy Sack) |
I pedaled into Bar Harbor and found Jeannie’s Great Maine Breakfast, ordering their namesake meal. Decent. The major event at Jeannie’s was not the food; the power went out halfway through my breakfast. The rumor spread around the cafe that a tree had fallen on a power line. Knowing that I had limited opportunities to use a restroom, I pulled my headlamp out and proceeded into the darkened space. No problem.
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| Pre Outage |
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| Aim... (Bar Harbor Overlook) |
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| Bar Harbor Burying Ground |
Leaving Bar Harbor, I entered the outskirts of Arcadia National Park. There is real beauty on Mount Desert Island. I stopped for awhile to contemplate still lakes showcasing beaver lodges. I hope to return.
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| Beaver Lodges - Arcadia National Park |
After entering Ellsworth, I noticed that my rear tire was slowly losing pressure. As luck would have it, a half mile further brought me to Cadillac Mountain Sports. One of the mechanics quickly installed a new tube and fine tuned my rear derailleur and breaks. I did not catch his name, but this was a huge time saver.
It was after the town of Surry that I took highway 176 south instead of north. I’m generally headed south, but I should have paid better attention to the map. I ended up in the quaint town of Blue Hill, approximately ten miles off course. After gathering myself, I started pedaling (the only reasonable way to solve the problem). At about six o’clock, I found myself at the front desk of Balsam Cove Campground.
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| Mistake Metaphor |
A hot shower does wonders for the beaten psyche. After toweling off, I was emboldened. Walking down to the Toddy Pond waterfront, I was again fueled by beauty.
Returning to my campsite, I grabbed my yoga mat and headed back to the beach; I had it in mind to do my practice on one of the docks. An older man, looking for solace with his fishing pole, had materialized on the middle dock while I was away. Walking down a different float, I asked if he would mind me stretching. My request was quite loud, and sound carries over water well; he heard me, but said nothing. I faced away from him, rolled out my mat and began the forty-minute routine. I was conscious that my posterior faced his direction. After striking several downward facing dog poses, he headed in the direction of his tent. I guess the fish stopped biting.
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