Day 41 – Lost at Sea!
Bar Harbor, Maine, to Franklin, New Hampshire
After two extraordinary days in Bar Harbor, it was time to weigh anchor and set sail for New Hampshire. Our destination was Winding River Campground in Exeter, about four hours away. At least that was the plan!
The weather forecast called for heavy rain throughout the day, so we weren't in any great hurry to get underway.
I had an 8:30 AM phone call scheduled with Julie to discuss a few remaining details for our Oregon Naturalist Field Experience program. It was only 5:30 AM in Oregon, but Julie had scheduled the call! We arranged to have a Zoom meeting on Thursday to finish up a couple of things, so I wanted to find a campground with a reliable internet connection.
Winding River Campground appeared to have plenty of availability. Rather than make a reservation, I decided we would check the cell signal when we arrived and then book a site. A perfectly reasonable plan, I thought. Little did I know!
While Janice did a load of laundry and worked on her blog, Tad and I headed out for one last adventure in Maine before the storm arrived.
Taddy had been such a trooper during our recent adventures, especially his unfortunate encounter with a porcupine. I wanted to spend a little more time hiking with my faithful companion in this incredibly beautiful state.
We discovered a rugged trail that appeared to lead down toward the harbor, which I estimated was about 100 feet below the campground. The terrain was steep, and the thick forest made it difficult to see where we were headed.
Naturally, that made it all the more intriguing!
We scrambled down through the trees, weaving our way around obstacles, until we finally reached a paved road. Unfortunately, houses on the opposite side prevented us from reaching the shoreline.
Undeterred, we followed the road, hoping it would eventually wind its way back uphill toward the campground. Instead, it meandered along the coastline, taking us farther from home.
Along the way, we encountered a fellow walking his gray Labradoodle, Stanley. We both restrained our enthusiastic canine companions long enough for them to exchange greetings.
I introduced myself, and the gentleman, Dex, shifted his doggy bag to his other hand so we could shake hands.
Dex and his wife operate a bed-and-breakfast just down the road. In one of those delightful coincidences that seem to happen so frequently on our travels, his wife is from Bend, Oregon, and he is originally from Washington!
Small world!
Unfortunately, a car approached, interrupting our conversation, and we parted ways. I would have enjoyed learning more about their story, but our 11 AM checkout time was rapidly approaching.
Tad and I climbed back up the steep hillside to the campground, where Janice had everything ready to go. I disconnected the water and electricity, secured everything aboard our trusty Chariot of the Dogs, and we cast off just as the first raindrops began falling.
Farewell, Maine!
We were thoroughly impressed with Bar Harbor and Maine in general. As has happened so often on this Grand Adventure, we found ourselves wishing we had more time to explore.
But there were new horizons ahead, and we were excited to be on the road again.
Surprisingly, driving through the rain was quite pleasant. The heavy clouds softened the light, making the brilliant autumn foliage appear even more vibrant. Raindrops streamed across the windshield, blurring the reds, oranges, yellows, and greens into a constantly changing watercolor painting.
It was mesmerizing.
We settled into our familiar traveling routine. My phone was mounted in its holder on the dashboard, Google Maps announcing upcoming turns. My daily Coca-Cola was nestled in its cozy, and Tad was eagerly awaiting his share of our traditional traveling treats.
Road cigars!
These are the beef and chicken meat sticks we enjoy only while driving. Taddy has become quite the connoisseur, and I suspect he considers them one of the major benefits of traveling in a motorhome.
As we cruised through the Maine countryside, Janice read aloud about the fascinating history of Acadia National Park.
The story of Acadia is particularly interesting because its creation is so closely connected to the extraordinary wealth accumulated during America's Gilded Age.
During the late 1800s and early 1900s, Bar Harbor became a summer playground for some of America's wealthiest families. Industrialists, financiers, and other members of the economic elite built enormous summer estates, escaping the heat and congestion of America's growing cities.
Among them were members of the Rockefeller family.
Fortunately, some of these wealthy summer residents recognized the importance of preserving the spectacular landscape around them.
George B. Dorr, Charles W. Eliot, John D. Rockefeller Jr., and other conservation-minded citizens helped acquire and protect thousands of acres of mountains, forests, lakes, and coastline.
In 1916, President Woodrow Wilson established Sieur de Monts National Monument. It became Lafayette National Park in 1919 and was renamed Acadia National Park in 1929, honoring the region's French colonial history.
Rockefeller also financed and helped design the beautiful carriage roads that wind through the park today.
What an extraordinary legacy!
Yet the story raises some interesting questions about wealth, privilege, and the common good.
Just the other morning, at 3:30 AM, I had a fascinating conversation with my digital traveling companion, Sage, about the growing concentration of wealth in America.
A friend had posted an observation about how productivity and corporate profits have increased dramatically over the past four decades while the wages of ordinary workers have grown much more slowly.
Much of the financial reward has flowed to those who already own substantial assets, creating a system in which wealth generates even more wealth.
The contrast with Bar Harbor's Gilded Age was striking.
Here we were, enjoying one of America's most magnificent national parks, made possible in large part through the generosity of people who possessed extraordinary fortunes.
There is a wonderful irony in that.
Wealth that once helped separate the privileged few from ordinary Americans was used to preserve a landscape that millions of people from all walks of life can now enjoy.
Of course, the story is more complicated. The history of conservation also includes the displacement of Indigenous peoples, and the lives of the working families who supported these wealthy summer communities were very different from those of their affluent neighbors.
Still, Acadia demonstrates something important about the choices we make as a society.
Wealth can be accumulated for personal benefit, or it can be used to create opportunities and preserve treasures for generations yet unborn.
The generosity of Acadia's benefactors deserves recognition. But so does the larger question of how we create an economy in which prosperity is shared more broadly, rather than depending upon the philanthropy of a fortunate few.
I am profoundly grateful that Acadia belongs to all of us.
Our historical journey continued with the colorful story of Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, the French adventurer for whom Cadillac Mountain is named.
Cadillac was quite a character!
Born Antoine Laumet in France in 1658, he reinvented himself with an aristocratic-sounding name and a rather embellished personal history. He arrived in French colonial Acadia during the 1680s and eventually acquired land that included portions of Mount Desert Island.
He and his wife, Marie-Thérèse Guyon, lived for a time near present-day Otter Creek.
But Cadillac had much grander ambitions.
He later established the French settlement that became Detroit in 1701 and eventually served as governor of French Louisiana.
His career was filled with political intrigue, controversy, and accusations of corruption. He even spent time imprisoned in the Bastille before eventually returning to favor in France!
His connection to Louisiana led us into another fascinating chapter of North American history.
The French-speaking Acadians of eastern Canada were forcibly expelled from their homeland by the British beginning in 1755, decades after Cadillac's time. Many eventually settled in Louisiana, where their descendants helped develop the distinctive Cajun culture we know today.
Cadillac himself didn't create Cajun culture, but his travels and the later Acadian migration are threads in the larger story of French influence across North America.
Imagine that! From the rocky shores of Maine to Detroit and the bayous of Louisiana, history connects places in ways we rarely appreciate.
And somewhere along the way, Cadillac's invented noble identity became the name of one of America's most famous automobile brands.
Not bad for a fellow who apparently had a rather flexible relationship with the truth!
As the miles slipped by, we listened to local classic rock stations and Maine Public Broadcasting.
I enjoy listening to local radio when we travel. It gives us a sense of the communities we're passing through, their music, their concerns, their culture, and their personalities.
Listening to Maine Public reminded me how much I hope that someday Oregon Public Broadcasting programming will be available through our growing KQUA Community Radio network across the Umpqua Valley.
Community radio can be such a wonderful bridge between people, ideas, and places.
By about 3 PM, our stomachs were beginning to complain, and I realized that we were rapidly running out of Maine without having accomplished one very important mission.
Eating a fresh Maine lobster!
We decided to stop in Wells Maine where we discovered a small local restaurant called Fisherman's Catch, nestled beside a coastal marsh.
The rain continued to fall as we climbed out of the motorhome, feeling like sailors disembarking from a ship that had finally found safe harbor.
We were greeted by a cheerful young waitress named Astra.
Naturally, I struck up a conversation.
Astra grew up in the area and has lived there her entire life. I told her how impressed we had been with Maine and how much we were enjoying our travels.
Janice rolled her eyes and suggested that I needed an intervention from Dr. Rick, the character in the Progressive Insurance commercials who coaches people on how not to become their parents.
Astra burst out laughing.
Apparently, her father is just like me!
She joked that her family accuses him of practically giving out his Social Security number at restaurants because he shares so much information with strangers.
I felt an immediate kinship with the man.
Somewhere, Dr. Rick was shaking his head.
Meanwhile, we enjoyed listening to a group of men at a nearby table bantering in their wonderful New England accents. One particularly animated fellow was holding court, sharing his political opinions and recommendations for Netflix programs.
It was delightful.
I love these little glimpses into everyday life in the communities we visit. The accents, humor, conversations, and personalities are every bit as interesting as the scenery
Then my lobster arrived!
Janice had ordered shrimp tacos, but my attention was entirely focused on the magnificent crustacean sitting before me.
There was just one problem.
How in the world was I supposed to eat it?
Janice looked up instructions on her phone, and I began what can only be described as an awkward surgical procedure involving cracking, twisting, extracting, and occasionally wondering whether I was doing more harm than good.
Only after completing the operation did we discover that the paper placemats beneath our plates contained illustrated instructions on how to dismantle a lobster!
Naturally.
Despite the challenges, the lobster was absolutely delicious, and I could finally check another important item off my Maine bucket list.
We thanked Astra profusely. I heroically resisted the temptation to offer her unsolicited advice about living happily ever after.
Dr. Rick would have been proud.
We climbed back aboard our cruise ship, pulled up anchor, and resumed our voyage toward Winding River Campground in Exeter, New Hampshire.
We arrived shortly after 5 PM.
Unfortunately, the campground office was closed, and the entrance gate was lowered.
Hmm.
I tried calling the office, which was apparently hidden somewhere beyond the gate.
A woman pulled up in a car and asked which campsite we were staying in.
I explained that we hadn't made a reservation yet.
She rather abruptly informed us that they didn't accept same-day reservations.
Well, that was a fine how-do-you-do!
All those empty campsites, and we couldn't get into a single one.
We made a U-turn and headed back toward Exeter, hoping to find better cell reception so we could search for another place to spend the night.
The rain was coming down harder, darkness was approaching, and our options were rapidly disappearing.
We couldn't find any nearby campgrounds or Harvest Hosts willing to accommodate a same-day arrival.
Our peaceful cruise through New England had suddenly become a maritime emergency.
We were lost at sea!
Janice calmly suggested that perhaps we could spend the night in a Walmart parking lot.
WALMART?!
I scoffed at the suggestion.
Surely we weren't so desperate that we would dock our beautiful Chariot of the Dogs on some remote island inhabited by cannibals!
There had to be another option.
I continued searching and finally discovered a Harvest Hosts location near Webster Lake in Franklin, New Hampshire, about an hour away.
I submitted a request, and within minutes we received approval!
Hallelujah!
We plotted a new course, secured the hatches, and headed north into the storm.
By now, it was very dark. Rain pounded the windshield, and the glare of headlights and taillights reflected off the wet pavement, making driving increasingly challenging.
We eventually reached Interstate 93, where we encountered a tollbooth attended by a young woman whose demeanor suggested she had absolutely no interest in participating in our nautical adventure.
She collected our toll with all the enthusiasm of a disinterested troll guarding a bridge.
We paid our tribute and continued onward.
One thing that amazed me was the number of drivers traveling through the heavy rain without their headlights on.
By my highly scientific calculations, approximately 5.38% of the vehicles we encountered were navigating these treacherous waters in stealth mode.
I couldn't help thinking about Marge, our delightfully crusty bus driver in Acadia National Park.
I could practically hear her commentary.
"Look at that genius! It's pouring rain, you can't see fifty feet, and he's driving around without his lights on! What does he think this is, a submarine?"
Or perhaps:
"Hey, buddy! Your headlights aren't just so YOU can see! They're so the rest of us can see YOU! What'd ya do, leave your brains back at the tollbooth?"
I smiled, imagining Marge providing a running commentary as we navigated the storm.
Eventually, we stopped for gas near our destination.
As I stepped out of the motorhome, I noticed a young woman with bright green hair filling her car at the adjacent pump.
She smiled at me.
"We're HERE!" I proclaimed triumphantly.
She laughed.
"Oh my God! I almost ran out of gas!" she exclaimed.
"This is New York, right?" I asked.
"No! You're in NEW HAMPSHIRE!" she replied with extraordinary enthusiasm.
I assured her that I was kidding.
She seemed a little amped up, but her cheerful energy was infectious after our long, wet voyage.
Naturally, I explained that we were from Oregon and traveling across the country.
As I pumped 38 gallons of gasoline into the motorhome, I could almost see an imaginary Dr. Rick emerging from behind the Chariot, frantically making throat-slashing gestures with his hand.
STOP TALKING!
I obediently shut up.
At last, we arrived safely at our Harvest Hosts destination near Webster Lake.
Our host, Carol, greeted us from her porch, provided the Wi-Fi password, and mentioned that she would be leaving at 5:30 the following morning.
We thanked her and quickly settled into our temporary harbor.
Janice bundled up and took Tad outside in the rain to attend to his evening business while I searched for our next destination.
And there it was!
A campground near Narragansett, Rhode Island, right along the Atlantic coast.
Even better, the forecast called for sunshine and temperatures around 75 degrees!
After a day of rain, darkness, detours, and navigational challenges, the prospect of warm sunshine and sandy beaches sounded positively heavenly.
We had traveled much farther than planned, but we were safe, dry, warm, and together.
Tad was curled up comfortably, Janice was nearby, and our faithful Chariot of the Dogs had once again carried us safely through another unexpected adventure.
Sometimes the best stories aren't the ones we plan.
They're the ones that unfold when the road takes an unexpected turn, the campground gate is locked, and the weather reminds us that we aren't always in control.
What matters is how we respond, how we treat the people we meet along the way, and whether we can still find reasons to laugh when things don't go according to plan.
Tomorrow, we set sail for Rhode Island.
Sunny skies, warm breezes, and new adventures await!
