In Dublin town

We arrived in Dublin in the dark and the rain. As with our trip to Maine last year, my main expectation has been fulfilled -- I'm in Ireland. But I have this image in my mind that, like Maine, I hope will be exceeded by the reality. This side of the trip I can say the image could never live up to the reality.

We deplaned -- isn't that an awful word? -- and began what has to be the longest jetway walk I believe I have ever taken in an airport. When we reach the end of that, we will still have to walk and walk and walk, seemingly across the entire airport. The airport is featuring a photography exhibition called "200 faces of Ireland," which at first blush is no big shakes. Most of the faces you see look like the faces you'd see in any city you walked about in the U.S. No stereotypical flaming red-haired Irishmen, no craggy faced sheep herders like you'd see in the movies, just ordinary people.

Then I spied Pierce Brosnan's face in the center of one set of photos. A bit further on Gabriel Byrne's face appears. OK, I'm guessing that probably more of the faces in the exhibit are prominent, but you'd have to live there to know who. Still, the exhibit distracts from the long walk.

We eventually wind up in a big hall at the end of a snaking line of people waiting to go through immigration. It looks for all the world like the cruise terminals we've been through. While standing in line, some guy spies my Texas Tech hat and says something about being a long way from Lubbock, Texas. I reply, "Well, at least you know where Lubbock is," and his wife tells us they are both Tech grads. The short discussion that follows indicates they graduated in probably the same decade we did. Fill in your own cliche here.

Once we clear immigration -- we have stamps in our passports! -- we pick up our bags and head for the main area, where a man from the tour company spies the ID on our luggage and checks us in on his iPad. He shuttles us off to wait for the bus to take us to the hotel and says that should happen within the hour. It doesn't. 

When the time does arrive, quite a few people board the bus, but they won't all be going to the same hotel. In fact, we are the only ones on the bus going to our hotel. We arrive at our destination at about mid-morning, which is too early to obtain a room. Not long after our arrival, though, the tour director greets us, relieves us of our luggage, and tells us to make ourselves comfortable in the lobby. We're given a complimentary pot of tea and take a gander at the activity going on around us.

This place is posh. Way beyond the level of any hotel we tend to stay at. Lots of business folks wearing what appears to me to be expensive clothing sit at tables conducting meetings. I feel shabby in my everyday clothes. 

Eventually other people come in and sit in the same section of the lobby. The tour company gave us backpacks, so it's obvious they belong in our group. We don't introduce ourselves, but everyone falls into chitchat. Sharon and I have sat enough and decide we'll go walking around and check on our rooms again when we return.

We only walk around the block, but it becomes obvious that we're in an enchanting place. Old mixes easily with new. This is going to be a cool trip. 

By the time we return, our room is indeed ready. We call the elevator and immediately face a conundrum. After pushing the button for our floor, the elevator stays in place. We push the button again and again go nowhere. I notice a card reader on the wall near the buttons and wonder if we have to use our room key to make the thing operate. Voila. Way above our usual accommodations, and the room bears that out. 

We've enough time to situate ourselves and freshen up a bit before heading back down to meet the group and begin our adventure. We'll take a bus tour of the city and end up at Dublin Castle, for centuries the seat of Irish government and still being used for meetings and conferences, including a recent G8 conference.

Dublin Castle Gardens. This marks the approximate spot
of the "black pool" for which Dublin was named.

The name Dublin comes from two Gaelic words: "dubh" and "linn," which mean "black pool." Our guide tells us that a pool was formed by the confluence of two rivers, but the information from the Dublin Castle site states that the pool was formed by the river Poddle, which was diverted to fill the ditch around the castle. The river is now subterranean, and a garden marks the approximate spot of the original pool. 

While walking around and on the tour, we see a number of political signs urging people to vote on a proposition to eliminate the Seanad, or Senate, the upper house of Irish government. Proponents claim a savings of 20 million euros a year and fewer politicians will result from a "yes" vote. Given the situation in the U.S., I would vote for a proposition like that solely on the strength of having fewer politicians. The vote takes place Oct. 4. 

One of the features of the driving tour is a glimpse at the Georgian houses from the 1700s that once dominated the city. Many were torn down before anyone recognized the architectural and historical value of maintaining them. The buildings are rather nondescript, tall and narrow, butting up against each other so that the only way you know where one stops and another begins is by the seam.

But the doors are colorfully painted and feature quite a variety in their decoration. (This reminds me of my favorite shop name spied while on the tour: Knobs and Knockers.) The stories behind the doors are as colorful as the doors themselves. One has is that a couple of famous Irish writers lived next door to each other, and one was fond of coming home late from the pubs, inebriated and confused as to which was his door. After the more sober writer grew tired of the banging on his door, he painted his door green. The other responded by painting his red. 

A broader version of the story has it that wives painted the doors different colors to help their husbands find their way home after a night at the pub. Still another version has Queen Victoria ordering all the doors in the kingdom painted black after the death of one of the royals. Catholics supposedly painted their doors in bright colors as a protest.

The most famous door in Dublin. Stories abound as to its
origins. Google it and see what you can find.

The most prosaic, and probably surest, explanation is that the architectural style of the buildings was strictly regulated, kind of an ancient building code cum zoning regulation kind of policy, and the only part owners could control was the entrance. Bright door colors, fanlights, gratings and door hardware made the entrances uniquely the owners' own. 

Probably the most affecting part of the tour was a stop along the River Liffey, where a set of statues had been placed as a memorial to the victims of the great famine that began in 1845. The memorial depicts gaunt emigrants on their way to find hope and a better life somewhere else. Unfortunately many of them died aboard the ships they sail out of Dublin on, causing the ships to become known as "coffin boats." 

The famine devastated the Irish population, and they've still not recovered. Our guide said the population of the island before the famine was about 8 million, and the current population stands at just more than 6 million, or about the same population as the DFW metropolitan area. 

This is not the place to be political, but it would be worthwhile to read up on the Irish immigration to America. You might be surprised at the similarities to some of the arguments today.

We wrap up the day's activities with our trip to Dublin Castle. They -- I assume "they" are historians or archaeologists or some such -- have found evidence of a wooden and stone precursor dating back to the 12th century, The existing parts of the castle span multiple centuries and now houses a library, a couple of museums, conference areas and offices, among other things. If you're curious, check out the castle's website at http://www.dublincastle.ie/

Supper that night was left up to us. We were craving a hamburger and hiked over to that American staple, TGI Fridays, which was practically deserted. After a lovely quiet dinner, we returned to the hotel. By 8 p.m. Sharon had turned into a pumpkin, and I followed about 20 minutes later. Small wonder. Working in our time, we had been up for 30 or so hours, with only catnaps to carry us through. Sharon would not awaken until 6 the next morning. I had a bit more trouble sleeping but still felt ready in the morning for the next part of our adventure. 

There and back again

Most of my trips are taken by car. I would fly more had I the money, or perhaps, were I less cheap. A few trips we've taken have required travel by air, and I would rate our experiences as so-so. A three-hour or so domestic flight can be tolerable because you know that you are flying more than a thousand miles in that time, leaving you with plenty of time to spend at your destination. Of course, you can't exactly drive to Ireland.

Flying post 9/11 requires some inconveniences -- removing shoes, stashing liquid items in small, clear containers that are then placed in clear, plastic bags for inspection. Because I fly so little, I have managed to make myself an object for scrutiny. Like the time years ago that I believed something I'd read on the Internet and didn't take my shoes off. Or the first time I flew with a laptop and didn't know you had to take it out of your laptop case. Those instances caused me to be pulled from the line and tested for explosives residue.

But in recent years, I seem to trigger regular searches. I've pretty much learned the ropes, so I expect to be able to pass through the checkpoints with little fanfare. Hah. I've been patted down and had my ankles checked. The latter makes a bit of sense because I have metal in my right ankle, put there to hold it all together after a motorcycle accident. The guy checking me out insisted, however, that the presence of the metal had nothing to do with it.

Welcome sign at JFK International

I wondered whether I would be suspicious on this trip, and sure enough, as we passed through the checkpoint, I was pulled over for a pat down of my left side while Sharon went through without so much as a how do you do. Mind, I've nothing on my left side that differs from anyone else's left side -- skin, bones, lungs, the usual sort of body parts. What causes this, and how many more searches will I endure on the trip? None, actually.

At Shannon Airport, a regional airport on a par with Abilene or Lubbock, we learn we really don't have to take our shoes off, and when I forget to remove my hat, the security guard asks to look at it and then spends his time examining the Texas Tech logo and telling me about his own hat collection. At Heathrow I speed through the checkpoint with not a pause and still with my shoes on.

Now that's a big apple. Sign says it's in honor of Helsinki.

But the big contrast in travel come with the planes. We fly in an American 737 to New York, a cramped, little plane filled almost to capacity. I think a seat or two might have been vacant but not next to us. Fortunately I have an aisle seat so I can hang out a bit to give Sharon some room. But I'm amazed at how little room we have. I thought that because we'd lost so much weight since the last time we flew, life on board would be more comfortable. If you are the size of the average 10 year old, you might stand a chance.

From New York we will fly on an American 757, which though capable of a trans-Atlantic flight, seems to be larger only as to length. Being on that plane for the six or so hour flight was, to put it charitably, just short of miserable. It came up short of miserable because they at least fed us, something that will cost you extra aboard a domestic flight.

We were served a light supper and a sort of breakfast, which was satisfactory because we were hungry, but we never did figure out what the red sauce on the chicken was. It had little flavor but wasn't disgusting. Not exactly high praise for a meal. We stash away packaged items in our backpacks for future consumption, figuring our dining schedule will be off, and we might need fortification. We were right.

On the way back we flew first on an Aer Lingus Airbus that was every bit as cramped as the American flights. This will be a short hop from Shannon Airport to Heathrow, one of those flights that climbs to cruising altitude and then immediately begins its descent. On board this flight, absolutely everything costs you. No water, tea, soda, coffee unless you cough up 2 euros. It's a short flight, and we're fortified, so that's not a problem. But the big guy next to me is. I sit folded up in my seat and am still bumping up against him, trying my best not to squeeze Sharon out. A landing in Heathrow cannot come too soon.

Finally, we attain nirvana. Our flight to Dallas will be on a British Airways 747, with seats that are more than accommodating. They are wide, have these drop-down parts of the headrest that, when augmented by the small pillow we've been given, make it fairly easy to become comfortable enough to grab some shut-eye.

Small viewing screens built in to the seat in front make it easy to control the in-flight entertainment, and the selection is generous. On the flight over, we were shown a movie and some television shows, which we did not pic, and the screens were awkwardly mounted, causing you to either strain your eyes or strain your neck to view the picture. On the BA flight we had multiple audio and visual options to choose from, pretty handy for a nine-hour flight.

The BA attendants served food and drinks -- as in alcoholic drinks ranging from wine and beer to those cute little bottles that people used to collect and stash away in their carry-on baggage or purses. (We did not partake, and I managed to get a sniff from the attendant when I asked for tea.) Water and juice were served several times to keep us hydrated, and you were free to go back to the galley and snag a soft drink and a snack from the "tuck box." If I have to spend more than a working day on a plane, this is the way to do it.

One last thing in this now overlong post. Something about our ticketing did not allow for early check-in. In Dallas, we were able to use the kiosk at the airport to obtain our boarding passes but not our bag tags. This seemed to flummox the AA personnel, and it took what seemed like an unreasonable amount of time. Meanwhile, at Shannon, the gate agent took our passports and had our boarding passes printed and luggage tagged and on the conveyor in just a couple of minutes.

I asked him if he'd be willing to come to Dallas and teach the AA personnel how to be as efficient. "No," he said with a laugh. "It's an art."

A wrap up from your Maine man

First let me say, no, I'm not going to apologize for the title pun.

Second, I mentioned in the first post of this series that I would have more to say about the lobster buoys that dotted the bay behind our hotel.

Sun glints off the numerous lobster buoys as a group
of gannetts fly over.

We saw lobster buoys everywhere -- in the stores, obviously, because they make iconic souvenirs -- but also on the water. For 20 odd miles on the trip to Mount Desert Island and back on the whale watching tours, you could look anywhere and see lobster buoys. The closer to shore, the more numerous they are, but you can't seem to go far enough away to not see them.

The result it that Maine lobstermen are suffering financially because they catch so many lobsters, they can't sell them for much. We saw a story on the news where one firm had inked a deal with a cruise line to provide them with lobsters, but the 5,000 lbs. they sold were a small dent in the supply.

The Side Street Cafe promoted saving the lobstermen by giving customers $5 off on lobster dishes. But even at $5 dollars off, the prices seemed pretty steep to me. The whole situation reminded me of farmers who grow whatever the hot commodity is because they can receive a good price for it until they wind up overproducing and driving the prices down. But that doesn't always seem to trickle down to the consumer. It's a vicious cycle, folks.

The night before leaving we wanted to use the hotel's shared computer to check in for our flight and print boarding passes, but what appeared to be a father and son were using it for the same purpose. No problem, we thought. They won't take long, and then it will be our turn. The teen ran the computer, but they hit some sort of a snag and the dad said he would go to the room and be right back. He wasn't.

The teen started checking his Facebook, then progressed to playing games. I wondered whether the hotel had another available computer, and Sharon asked the clerk. The clerk said they didn't, but she would help us. So we chatted with her and gave her the info to put in the website, and she printed out our passes.

The morning came all too soon, and my plan to put the top down for the drive to the airport ran into the meteorologist's telling me it was foggy out. Rats. We load up and head out. No fancy restaurants for breakfast; we'll stop at the McDonald's in Ellsworth.

Paul Bunyan reminds passersby the Maine used to be
the logging capital of the U.S. 

Before we make it all the way out of town, however, the sun makes an appearance. I pull off into a convenience store lot and the top comes down. We've left in plenty of time to make one more touristy stop before checking in at the airport.

Paul Bunyan lives in Bangor, sorta. The city erected a statue to Paul Bunyan outside its civic center, and we get the GPS to help us find him. Construction is underway at the center, so we can't come close to the statue, but we're able to take pics of old Paul. Depending on which InterWeb site you believe, Paul, or his statue, stands between 31 and 37 feet high.

I'm sure the Mainers believe that height is impressive, but they've never seen Sam Houston towering over I-45 on the way to Houston. Why, he's even taller than some of the trees.

And old Paul stands by himself. Where is his famous blue ox? Not here. The statue celebrates the lumber industry, and according to the Internet, Bangor claims to be the birthplace of the industry and, thus, Paul. Yeah, right.

They also claim this is the largest Bunyan statue in the world.That could be true. Here's a link to a story from the Bangor newspaper on the occasion of the statue's 50th anniversary: Paul Bunyan turns 50

A woman walks by on the sidewalk across from the statue. She very deliberately avoids looking at us, and I wonder if the statue embarrasses her, or us, or maybe both. In any case, she has no intention of recognizing our presence.

We have to go. We arrive at the airport, turn in the car, and check in. This time we go through the new full-body security scanner machine where you have to raise your arms. Once again, I'm told to wait, and a TSA agent takes me off to the end of the security area. He runs a hand down my back, then kneels and checks my ankles.

I make a comment about the hardware in my leg, but he says, "It's not an x-ray, sir," then sends me on my way. Again, Sharon goes through without a problem.

Our flight's been delayed because of a crew illness. So we sit and wait. Security agents take a dog onto the plane that's bound for Washington. All the unrest in the Middle East, apparently, which is also the excuse for telling passengers on the big plane to Dallas that they can only use the bathrooms in their class. Someday I figure I'll understand why having a coach-class passenger walk all the way to the back of the plane is safer than allowing him or her to use first class.

Some random thoughts about our trip:

I did a lot of Internet research about restaurants and attractions. Some common themes cropped up about the restaurants. Be prepared to wait, service is slow, the staff are rude.

We chose some of the more popular places to eat, but either our timing was very good, or the waits weren't any more onerous than the wait at any popular restaurant at meal time we've ever been to. Besides, we're on vacation. What's a little wait?

Service did seem a bit slow at times, but that could have been to the amount of business, or to the slower pace of a small town, even if it is a tourist town. Or it could just be that they were in no hurry to rush us out of the place to push as much business through as possible. Again, we were on vacation, so I didn't fret too much.

And no one was rude. We try to be respectful and kind to waitstaff. This tends to be reciprocated. Or maybe they were more relaxed because the clientele is different in September than the summer.

This trip began because of a picture in my mind. The pictures came to life and remain in my mind, no longer as something I wish I could see but as a memory of a wonder experienced. When you travel, especially on a "dream" vacation, you wonder if you will come away disappointed, if the reality can live up to the expectation.

But when you encounter the glory of creation, whether a giant cleft in the earth in Arizona, or the stark contrast between mountains and the desert in one place in far west Texas, or the crash of waves on the shore coupled with creatures of the deep great and small in Maine, the expectation will always be overshadowed by the reality.

That's good; that's very good.

Thar she blows

I keep hoping I'll sleep late on this vacation, but I'm up every day somewhere after 7, which is 6 Texas time, about the time I'd be getting up for work.

But today I'm probably up because I'm excited. We're planning to go on the whale watching tour, and the weatherman, excuse me, meteorologist, promises a wonderful day. Light winds, fairly calm seas at 1 to 2 feet, and temps in the 70s, which the weathe ... meteorologist describes as summerlike. Hah.

One of the places in town to eat breakfast is supposed to be Cafe This Way, so we hop on the bus and head for the Village Green. Although the cafe seems to be in yet another converted house, the interior space is wide open, light and airy. Bookcases line the walls, inviting customers to sit a spell and enjoy their time there. And unlike most of the places we've been, guys make up the bulk of the waitstaff.

I'm trying to be good, so I order turkey bacon with my meal and am pleasantly surprised. Thick cut and cooked to just short of crispy, it almost tastes like real bacon. If I were asked to write a recommendation, I definitely would. Actually, I guess I just did.

We walk down to the pier to purchase our tickets for the afternoon trip and are warned by the ticket seller that we should be sure to dress warmly. The day is turning out to be just as advertised so the advice seems unwarranted, but we're going to buy the coats anyway.

A tourist who stands out.

Crowds throng the streets. The cruise ship tenders ply back and forth from the ship to the pier, bringing ever more old people. We decide to explore the shopping south of the Green and discover that there's not much. But in the process we encounter one woman who is decidedly not old and not dressed like a tourist. She stands out so much from the crowd, I just have to sneak a picture.

Finally we make our way back to the park across from the pier to wait for our whale watching trip. We notice that people are lining up much earlier than we'd been told to report and then see that passengers appear to be about to be boarded.

We buzz over and take our place in line, and it starts moving within minutes of our arrival. By the time we board, passengers have taken all the best seats on the open decks and line the rails in the bow. We take up a position on the rail outside the cabin as close to forward as we can get.We'll have to stand the entire trip, which is supposed to last 3 to 3.5 hours.

 I've read reviews of this company that said if a whale is sighted the crew makes sure watchers on both sides of the boat, but I'm convinced the whales will always wind up on the other side of the boat.

We'll be heading some 20 odd miles out into the Gulf of Maine. The boat is a jet-powered catamaran, very stable and fast, capable of speeds up to 30 knots. Even with the bow crowded with people and blocking some of the wind, we're glad we have the coats.

A marine biologist who either is or used to be affiliated with the College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor keeps up a steady stream of informational patter on our way to the prime whale-watching area. Along the way we see gannets, large sea birds with a 6 to 7 foot wingspan and watch as they spot fish from a hundred feet up, then fold their wings and plummet beak first into the water to catch their prey.

One of the Minke whales we saw on the trip.

The biologist points out dolphin, but they are almost always on the other side of the boat or I just can't see them if they're on our side. We see some seals, but they're way off from the boat. Suddenly he announces that a whale's been spotted.

The boat slows to a snail's pace and begins a sweeping circle. We'll keep our distance, we're told, and it'll be up to the whales to decide if they want to come close to the boat. The biologist decides our whale is a Minke whale, which doesn't usually blow a big spout like some whales and rarely jumps out of the water. The whale dives, then comes up 5-6 minutes later.

 Eventually it surfaces on our side of the boat, but I'm not ready with my camera. It dives again, and when it comes up, I just point my camera in the general direction and press the shutter. Fortune is on my side. I'll get a deliberate shot of another whale later, but I've seen a whale, and I've taken its picture.

We motor up close to Mount Desert Island, site of the lighthouse farthest east from the mainland. The lighthouse now belongs to the College of the Atlantic, which uses it a a whale-watching station. Big seals loll on the rocky shore and swim in the waters nearby.

Seals chillaxin' at the Mount Desert Island lighthouse.

The captain resumes the search for whales, and we will see two more Minkes before we head back. The biologist says the whale received its name because an old-time whaler named Minke kept confusing the whale with a blue whale, and whenever he'd see one, he'd point it out. The whalers would chase the animal down and discover it wasn't the more highly prized blue whale. Eventually they would say, "Oh, it's just another of Minke's whales," and the name stuck.

Seal pups swim up close to the boat, more birds are spotted, and the afternoon begins to draw to a close. The boat heads back. Along the way we spot another, larger whale swimming ahead to starboard, a finback, which the scientist says is the second largest of the whales. The captain shuts the boat down as the whale dives and begins trolling. It reappears to port, and the biologist says it appears to be traveling, which will take it away from us. After it dives, the captain turns back for the harbor.

Now people eschew their bow perches, and the wind strikes us more directly. Because of the increased exposure to the wind and the time, we grow cold fast and eventually take refuge in the cabin. All the seats are occupied so we hang onto poles and pipes like bus commuters.

Mount Desert Island lighthouse.

By the time we return to the pier, it's after 5. We've been out more than four hours, Sharon standing the whole time, me grabbing a seat for a few minutes on a step for one of the bow viewing areas. But the trip was worth every dime, every minute on our feet.

We'd missed lunch, so by the time we plopped down on a bench back at the pier park, we were hungry and tired. We picked out a gift shop/restaurant across the street, mostly because it was close. The food was acceptable but nothing to write home about.

Back at the hotel, we fall asleep soon after packing for the trip home, visions of sea creatures dancing in our heads.

I have been to the mountain top -- Downeast cont'd

Acadia National Park occupies much of Mount Desert Island. Woodrow Wilson designated a portion of  the park, the first national park east of the Mississippi, as a national monument in 1916, and the rest of it came into being three years later.

We picked up our park pass on Monday in Bar Harbor. The ranger who helped us explained that the wonderful buses don't go to the summit of Cadillac Mountain, and because the afternoon is supposed to be sunny with temps in the 60s, we have the perfect excuse to take the Mustang with us on our visit.

Waves crash on the rocks near Sandy beach.

We'd decided on several parts of the park we wanted to see, a tiny fraction of the available sights.Why didn't I plan for more time?

A shopkeeper told me Monday to enjoy my stay because I'd never be back. I might just have to prove him wrong.

We start at the visitor center, where we pick up a map and discuss a possible itinerary with one of the rangers. We intend to take the bus to a  place called Sandy Beach, then hike the Ocean Trail to Thunder Hole and Otter Cliffs. From there, we'll grab the bus again and go to Jordan Pond. The Jordan Pond House is supposed to be famous for its popovers, so we'll have lunch there and return to the visitor center. We'll end our day at the park with a top-down drive up Cadillac Mountain.

She agrees we have a good plan.

On the way to Sandy Beach our bus driver provides some commentary about aspects of the island and the park. The only part I remember is about I house I took a picture of  while walking the Shore Path in Bar Harbor. A man from Maine named Bruneau or Grunau or something like that fell in love with an English woman and asked her to be his wife back in the States. He hadn't a house, and she wouldn't say yes until he agreed to build her one. So he did, a magnificent edifice overlooking Frenchman's Bay. He sent for her on its completion, and she took passage on ... the Titanic.

I suspect that Sandy Beach is seriously crowded during the summer. Plenty of people have gathered this day, but the weather's not very conducive to swimming. Small waves representing the remnants of the surge from Hurricane Leslie break onto the beach, and kick up spouts of spray at the edges of the beach where the rocks begin. We shoot a bunch of pics trying to catch the perfect view, then stand back to just enjoy the scene.

A woman standing behind me tells her companion, "I could stay here and watch this all day." I know exactly what she means. That picture in my mind? I'm soaking in the reality.

These women capture the scenery without the need
for camera batteries.

Finally we tear ourselves away to start down the Ocean Trail. The trail is only two miles long, but we will spend the rest of the morning hiking it. The terrain isn't difficult, but a new view presents itself every few yards, and every view begs you to take a picture. Side trails beckon you to explore them, and when you do, more spectacular views appear. The camera fairly screams, "Use me!"

I'll shoot so many photos my battery will run low, and I'll be forced to conserve power by turning my camera off between shots and limiting the number of pics I try to take. I'll learn some day to make sure I charge the battery the night before going on an adventure.

But having the battery run low is a blessing because it forces me to stop and enjoy the sights before my eyes, to build memories. The whole reason for being here, after all.

Thunder Hole

Thunder Hole lives up to its name. Though the surge is ebbing, water still flows into the cleft in the rocks and then crashes upward in a huge spray, accompanied by a loud boom. The path leading down near the cleft is blocked. Apparently the surge created dangerous conditions, and park officials don't want visitors on the slick, concrete surface, though by the time we arrive, the path is pretty dry.

The trail ducks up into the forest for a short while, then cuts back toward the shoreline. We're on the trail at the same time as a group of birders and catch bits and pieces of their guide's observations. We finally wind up at Otter Cliffs, a hundred feet above the water and a great spot for a sweeping view of the bay and the Gulf of Maine.

We catch the bus and head for Jordan Pond. The Jordan Pond House is the only dining establishment in the park proper, and we check in at the desk to get on the list for a table. While we wait we look through a gift shop, then sit out on a terrace overlooking the pond.

The pond is bigger than some lakes we've been on and is supposed to be 100 feet deep. The result is a sapphire-colored water that stands out against the green of the trees. We're called for our table and are seated at a table with a view of the lake through the window.

The popovers live up to their reputation. Light and airy, served with butter and homemade strawberry jam. I don't eat much strawberry jam, but this is wonderful. I would eat more strawberry jam if it all tasted like this.

You're promised two popovers with your meal. The first is served before you receive your entree, the second when you've finished. You don't need an appetizer or a dessert -- but of course they'll be glad to serve you both.

John D. Rockefeller -- Junior, I think -- had a series of carriage roads built on the island, closed then and now to automobile traffic. A carriage house is sited at one of the entrances to the trails, but we don't have time to do more than take a picture of it and head back to the car.

The view from the top of Cadillac Mountain.

Back at the visitor center we drop the top on the Mustang and follow the signs toward Cadillac Mountain. The mountain is billed as the tallest mountain on the East Coast, but it's only a bit over 1,500 feet above sea level. That's plenty high enough, though, to open up yet another glorious vista that sucks the rest of the life out of my camera battery.

We walk the path that takes you on a more than 200 degree arc along the shore view up to the top of the peak and drink in the beauty. Then it's back down the winding road to the hotel.

That night we decide we want hamburgers. I know. But that's what we wanted. The Internet tells me the best place in Bar Harbor is the Side Street Cafe, aptly named. Like so many of the diners, this one is a converted house with lots of atmosphere. College students seem to like the place, and some couples are obviously on dates.

The burgers are very good, and we decide to try the one other item as ubiquitous as lobster -- wild Maine blueberries, which we had in pie. Yum.

We return to the hotel, our tummies full from the good food and our minds stuffed with images and memories beyond the mental images that drew us here.

Bah Hahba

One of the picturesque streets in Bar Harbor. All the buildings
house shops or restaurants, or shops with restaurants in them.

Weather will dictate how we spend the next three days. Monday is supposed to be a bit on the cool side, "breezy," which we will learn is the term they use in Maine for pretty much a normal West Texas day, and partly cloudy.

Tuesday is supposed to be warmer and less windy. We also learn there's a storm surge warning because of Hurricane Leslie that will lessen throughout the day. Wednesday will be the warmest day, with seas of only 1-2 feet.

All that adds up to shopping on Monday, the national park on Tuesday, and whale watching Wednesday 

Once you arrive on Mount Desert Island, you can go almost anywhere using "free" buses. I say "free" because when you board the bus, it has a money collection box with a sign asking for donations to help keep the buses free. They're propane powered so you'll feel doubly good about protecting the environment -- using mass transit that uses cleaner burning fuel. The denizen of Bar Harbor seem to be very keen about being green.

For me, it's a case of not having to worry about figuring out how to get where we want to go. With my penchant for getting lost, this is a good thing. 

One bus route starts at our hotel, though we never quite figure out the schedule, which doesn't seem to match the published one. The bus delivered us to the village green, and we begin working our way down the narrow streets, popping into numerous shops. 

Bar Harbor is a tourist town, one that abuts a national park and that draws a different cruise liner almost every day of the week. Because it's September, we don't see many children. Couples are either our children's age and younger or our age and older. I send a co-worker an e-mail about our good fortune  with the car and note that I haven't seen that many old people outside a retirement community. 

We are bombarded with puns and humorous references to the Maine accent in the shop names and on the merchandise. We actually don't hear the Maine accent much, but it's charming when we do. Part of the picture in my mind.

At the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, I found the cutest little stuffed moose in one of the shops. We're not going to see a real moose on this trip, but moose toys, sculptures and pictures are everywhere, though. The cute stuffed moose is "mounted" on our bookcase now. 

This doesn't come close to doing justice to the view from
the town pier.

We're going to need a warm coat for our whale watching tour, but we were unable to find anything suitable at home. The shops have loads of the perfect coat at a reasonable price. They all have patches with either "Bar Harbor" or "Acadia" on them, but I'm willing to sacrifice. Of course, the first time we go to WalMart after our return, we find lots of similar coats suddenly available. Oh well.

We put off buying the coats until Wednesday so we don't have to haul them around or deal with them and shop our way down to the harbor. A nice, though. little park fronts the harbor, and I'm stunned by the view when we arrive. The picture in my mind lies before me, and its beauty is overwhelming. If I don't do another thing while here, my trip has been made. 

We putter about, taking dozens of pictures, then decide we're hungry. We wind up at the West Street Cafe, one of the many charming, little restaurants in the town. Maine is famous for lobster, of course, and you can't go into a restaurant without finding lobster on the menu. Hamburger joint? Lobster rolls. Breakfast cafe? You can have lobster in your omelet or as part of a breakfast burrito. In fact, the only place I don't see lobster listed is at Subway. Yes, we did. 

We have fried haddock, with a light breading. Very unlike the fried seafood you buy in Texas, even along the coast. The fish doesn't taste fried and has a firm, pleasing texture. I could eat this any time. 

Balance Rock

After lunch we decide to walk the Shore Path, a one-mile improved path that starts at the scenic, and huge, Bar Harbor Inn and winds between Frenchman's Bay and a bunch of mansions, some of which hark back to early last century when rich folks with names like Pulitzer, Rockefeller and Campbell (you know, the soup guy) built summer homes in the town. One of the smaller ones is for sale, but we don't bother to do any research to try to find out how much it might cost. If you have to ask ...

The sign marking the beginning of the path features an interesting rock formation that comes  into view a short way along the path after you pass the Inn. Apparently it's called Balance Rock and dates back to some distant ice age. The tide is out, and on our way back Sharon climbs down to the Shore and stands by the rock to provide a size perspective shot.

One of the Porcupine Islands. See the resemblance?

The Porcupine Islands dominate the view, and you discover quickly why they're called that. A birch tree that no longer produces leaves stands like a ghost with long arms stretched to the sky. And flowering bushes with red, berry-like fruit line the path and shore.

Another couple on the path stop, and the woman pulls off one of the fruit and begins eating it. I ask if they can tell us about the plant. It's a rose, the man tells us, and the red fruit are rose hips, tart and high in Vitamin C. They're an Asian import, from Japan, he thinks. According to the Internet, the popular name for them is Beach Rose and the hips are sometimes referred to as Beach Tomatoes. Neither of us is tempted to try the rose hips for ourselves.

A Beach Rose with rose hips.

We walk to the point where the path turns up into town, then go back to enjoy the sights from the opposite perspective. Back in town, we find plenty more shops to visit, as well as the post office so we can send post cards to the kids and a convenience store for a soda.

We decide we'll be cheap for dinner and stop by the Subway to pick up a sandwich -- told you we did -- and head back to the village green to grab the bus back to the hotel. After a nap and supper, we try to figure out where the town's grocery is. The phone book lists one but does not provide an address, just a phone number. I find the location on the Internet. So much for phone books.

We take the Mustang and head back to town to the grocery and buy some fruit for snacks. We'd already stopped by a bakery across from the post office and picked up pastries for breakfast. After having walked for some six hours, sleep probably won't be a problem.

Tomorrow, we'll head for Acadia National Park.

Going Downeast

Where to go for vacation?

A trip of a thousand miles begins with a single plane flight.
Those fins at the end of the wings indicate this is an Airbus.

We started asking that question several months ago. I'd always wanted to go to Maine, though I can't really explain why. It's a picture in my mind, and I wanted to see it in reality.

I told Sharon, and she agreed it would be an interesting place to visit, though it was obvious she wondered why I wanted to go. The questions then became when and where.

We could go in late September, early October and hope to catch the foliage changing color, but we needed to get away, and I wasn't sure at the end of spring that I could wait that long. Some Internet research revealed that the East Coast's first National Park -- Acadia National Park -- was in Maine, and a bit more research indicated that would be a great place to go. So we made our plans.

We'd arrive on a Sunday -- Sept. 9 -- and leave the following Thursday. We'd spend a day at the park, a day in town and a day doing something else, depending on what we discovered. With some more Internet research, I found out we could go on a whale-watching tour, and that settled our last activity.

One of our plans wouldn't come to fruition, though, or so we thought. Taking a cue from some folks we know who'd rented a Mustang convertible for their vacation, we thought we'd give that a try. But the car rental site didn't show any available Mustangs, and the convertible listed was going to cost a chunk of change. We settled for a "midsize" car -- Toyota Corolla class, which doesn't quite meet my definition of midsize, but it would have to do.

The day arrived. We loaded our one suitcase each -- to keep baggage fees down -- into the car and headed for DFW International. Leaving early, about 6:15 a.m., helps with my nerves about driving there, but I won't begin to relax until we've checked and boarded our plane for the first leg.

I go through security first, through a machine that looks like the standard metal detector. The TSA agent asks me to stay put and calls out, "Passenger assistance." Another agent comes and asks me to follow him. We walk to the end of aisle, and he tells me to put my hands out. Then he swabs my hands and says, "Stay there, sir," like I'm gonna run off or something. The swab-reading machine clears me, and I'm on my way.

Sharon goes through without a hitch.

Once on board, I can relax. We fly to Philadelphia first and have 45 minutes to grab something to eat and get to the farthest away terminal. Neither proves to be a problem thanks to a moving walkway and a shuttle. As we walk through the terminal we see a succession of small, prop-driven aircraft that I insist has to be the kind of puddle jumper that will take us to Bangor. (By the way, the Mainers pronounce that town's name as Bang-or, with a slight emphasis on the "Bang," not Banger.)

But when we reach our gate, we discover the plane is a decent-sized commuter jet. Both legs are  uneventful, and we arrive on time in Bangor. After retrieving our bags, we go to the Hertz counter, and the lady tells us she only has one car on the lot, a Mustang convertible. We can have it for no extra charge, if we'd like. Hmm. Let me thinkyes.

We load up the Mustang and head for Bar Harbor. I brought my GPS with me, and it indicates that Bar Harbor is about 48 miles away and will take about and hour and half to drive there. What? This definitely ain't Texas. Route 3 to Bar Harbor is a two-lane, winding road, and even though the speed limit is sometimes as high as 60, we rarely go that fast.

Sailboats moored at the hotel docks.

The day is overcast, and it had rained earlier in the day, but the scenery is still gorgeous. Trees. Seventy to 80 feet tall or higher. Picturesque houses. A business that looks like it used to be a farm house with the barn attached. If the sun comes out for the rest of the week, as it's supposed to, this place is going to be gorgeous.

We cross over a causeway to Mount Desert Island, where the park and Bar Harbor are located. Our hotel is situated by a bay, and after we check in, we go exploring. Our room doesn't have a view of the bay, but the elevator has a glass back wall, and we see the bay every time we go downstairs.

This guy buzzed my head so closely I thought he was going
to hit me. And he seemed to love having his picture taken.

The hotel also has its own boat dock, and a couple of sailboats are moored there. I think that a bunch of spots we see floating on the water are mooring buoys, but I discover while looking at the photos later that they are lobster buoys. More on them later.

A gull buzzes my head, then lands and struts around nearby, allowing us to shoot as many pictures as we want. While we wander about, the clouds break a bit, and the setting sun casts a golden glow over the landscape. Looking toward the Harbor, we see a cruise ship and a four-masted schooner, the Margaret Todd, at anchor.

The cruise ship weighs anchor and steams away while we watch, its white hull tinged golden as well. This is going to be a great trip.