The One Where They Go to Maine

To Pearl, who shared her home and her love for Maine with so many 

I have been privileged to travel a good deal in my twenty-seven years, but no matter where I roam, Hancock County, Maine, will always be one of my favorite places. It is home to Acadia National Park and historic Bar Harbor, once a summer destination for the barons and their families and now a popular tourist locale. It is also home to the small town of Winter Harbor, where my great-aunt Pearl's tiny cottage sits perched above the waters of Summer Cove.  

This pocket of coastline is a surreal place—a cloistered world I want to share with everyone but keep to myself at the same time. When I'm there, I am awakened into an energetic contentment that I think must be rest.  

I have been rhapsodizing about this place to my college friends since 2014, and on many occasions over the years, I suggested the possibility of a group vacation to Maine, never believing it would really happen. But two summers ago, against the odds, it did; and it was a trip I will cherish always.  

It is a rare gift to be able to share a piece of your childhood with your adult friends, and I was so humbled that my friends trusted me enough to follow me all the way to this little corner of the country.  

Getting There  

For most of us, who live in Greenville, South Carolina, it was a considerable journey to Winter Harbor, Maine. And it was even further afield for Holly, who would be flying from Memphis (where she was helping with a church summer camp), and for Jon, who would be flying from his home in LA. Lenny and Jess decided to fly from Greenville, but Joseph, Jessica, Meg, and I decided to drive. The two-day road trip would be cheaper than flying and would provide us with a second vehicle to help us travel around Acadia. My sister and brother-in-law kindly offered for us to spend the night at their home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the perfect halfway milestone.  

Joseph's Prius was elected as the vessel for our voyage, being the most reliable and fuel-efficient of our vehicles. Our first day of driving was uneventful. Joseph drove most of the distance, and we made it to Lancaster by dinnertime. My sister and brother-in-law were out, so we decided to drop our luggage at their house and go to Chipotle for a bite to eat.  

As we entered the parking lot, Meg realized she had left her wallet at the house. "Hey, Jessica, guess what?" she said, as if she had a surprise. (This kind of diplomacy makes Meg our go-to spokesperson when something awkward must be said.) Jessica knew the truth before Meg could even spit it out. She complained about spotting Meg, pretending it was a serious financial burden even though she really couldn't have cared less. We decided that leaving behind a form of payment would henceforth be called "pulling a Meg," and it became an accusation we used throughout the trip. 

I will admit that stopping in Pennsylvania served a personal agenda (aside from seeing family). I had insisted from the start that we stop at a Wawa while passing through PA. I was going to prove to my southern friends once-and-for-all that Wawa is a better gas station/convenience store/eatery than QT. The plan was perfect—we'd hit the road early the second morning, find a Wawa to fill up, enjoy some delicious breakfast sandwiches, and stock up on snacks for the road.  

Unfortunately, things did not go to plan. Because Joseph's Prius was so darn fuel-efficient, we didn't need to fill up right away, and because I am not a morning person, I had soon drifted into a comfortable slumber. And somewhere past the bucolic fields of Lancaster County, unbeknownst to me, we plunged into New Jersey. 

Eventually I stirred awake, and Joseph said we would soon be needing gas. We selected a Wawa along our route and drove on toward that blessed establishment. My anticipation was boiling. This would be the first of many sacred things I'd share with my friends on this trip.  

As we pulled up to the Wawa, I was dismayed to realize our GPS had recommended one of the handful of Wawas that is only a convenience store and not a gas station. "You mean we can't even get gas here?" they complained. As I recall, the bathrooms were not great either; one of them may even have been closed. But let's be clear: Wawa has never promised glamorous bathroom accommodations. That is not why people go to Wawa. People go to Wawa for the fresh hoagies, the warm soft pretzels, the sting of hot coffee, and the general northern disregard that is momentarily softened by shared affection for this faithful franchise. 

After ordering enough food for breakfast and lunch, we drove across the street to a rather worn-down Sunoco, where a man in a turban approached our car.  

"What's this man doing?" Joseph said in confusion.  

"Oh, are we in New Jersey?” I asked, suddenly realizing how long I'd slept. "He's going to pump your gas."  

"But I don't want him to pump my gas," Joseph replied indignantly.  

"You don't have a choice," I laughed. "You're not allowed to pump your own gas in Jersey." 

Joseph reluctantly handed the man his credit card. He watched, stupefied and somewhat emasculated, as the man went about his job. The rest of us cackled mercilessly. We would tease him about this incident the rest of the trip.  

Altogether, it was not the most successful Wawa stop, but I think everyone liked their sandwiches well enough. I'm not sure if it beat QT in their estimation, but I don't think the contest really mattered to them that much. They don't have quite the same attachment to QT we northerners have to Wawa.  

In total, Joseph, Jessica, Meg, and I spent twenty-some hours in the car together, passing snacks back-and-forth, playing twenty questions, and listening to comedy specials. We were the first to arrive at the cottage, just before golden hour. As we rounded the bend in the gravel driveway, the glint of the sunlight on the water pierced through the curtain of pines, beckoning us onward. It was just as I remembered it, just as I had hoped it would be.  

Summer Cove from the deck of Pearl’s cottage

Meet the Friends  

Lenny, Jess, and Jon arrived later that evening under the most spectacular blanket of stars I have ever seen. I was beside myself with happiness, watching the tiny, hallowed living room fill up with these dear friends. Holly would fly in the following morning, and the first group decision we had to make was who would go pick her up at the airport an hour away. The four of us road-weary travelers had already decided it should be Lenny, Jess, and Jon, and we left it to Meg to break the news.  

“So, we were thinking that the people who go get Holly should be people that did not drive twenty-plus hours to get here,” Meg said with her aforementioned diplomacy.  

“Oh, okay,” Jess retorted as the room broke into laughter. 

“I mean that in the best way possible,” Meg insisted. 

“So, where is everyone sleeping?” someone asked. Thankfully, we had solved this puzzle beforehand.  

I must reemphasize how compact the cottage is. It was designed for a small family—certainly not eight college friends. But in the proud tradition of college friends with tight budgets, we had determined to make it work. Jessica, Holly, and Meg, the three roommates, would share the king bed in the master. Lenny and Jess, the married couple among us, would take the room with the two twin beds. Joseph and Jon would share the sleeper sofa. And I would sleep at the foot of the dining table on an air mattress we’d brought along.  

It was quite a cozy situation, but the eight of us had been friends for seven years at this point, many of us living together along the way. We had endured tight accommodations before in old campus housing, sweaty church vans, and rain-battered tents and had proved that we were, at the very least, compatible.   

We noted almost right away that our group personality had taken on a sort of accidental symmetry—four free spirits and four pragmatists. This may seem like a tired and overly simplistic characterization, but we had all more-than-earned our place within our respective categories, and there was to be no doubt over the course of the trip who belonged to which group. 

Free Spirits

Meg (The Diplomat)  Always keeping the peace Jess (The Flower Child) Always happy with the sun and the water  Jon (The Localist) Always hunting for an authentic experience Me (The Enthusiast)  Always too excited about everything 

Pragmatists

Jessica (The Planner) Queen of the Google doc Lenny (The Breadwinner) An exemplary remote employee  Joseph (The Strategist)  Champion of the “best way” Holly (The Mussel Whisperer)  Loves a scavenger hunt

In hindsight, this equilibrium served us well for most of the trip. But anyone privy to our nightly planning sessions would be shocked that we accomplished anything. As the only one who had ever been to Maine, I tried to steer the group toward what I considered the essential experiences, but I didn’t want to commandeer the schedule—I wanted a democratic decision-making process that gave everyone a voice. This was all well and good, but sometimes democracy is chaos, and even with a few “musts” established before we arrived, there was still much time to fill and many opinions on how to fill it.  

In the evenings, when everyone was full and tired and the sun had finally receded past the horizon, the question would slowly rise to the surface: “So what are we doing tomorrow, guys?” It was usually Meg or Jessica who finally asked because no one else was willing to initiate what was certain to be a long, circuitous conversation.  

It’s not that we were argumentative or that anyone was a bully; we just had so many ideas. And on several nights, just as we were about to settle on a feasible plan, someone would make another suggestion that would cause us to start all over at the beginning. Jon was perhaps the worst offender in this regard because all the poor man wanted was a lobster boat tour, which never quite seemed to fit into the rest of our plans. Jon has a knack for finding the soul of a place. (On this trip, he managed to strike up a half-hour conversation with a curator in Southwest Harbor and order a chair hand-crafted in Nicaragua. He also found a discarded lobster trap that he shipped back to LA to enhance his 100-gallon fish tank.) And he was convinced that a tour with a local lobsterman was the most quintessentially Maine experience one could have. I too would have enjoyed this activity, but not everyone was game for a half-day adventure on the high seas hoisting lobster traps and tasting salt.  

In addition to everyone’s wish-list items, we had to account for Lenny’s work schedule. He had to work Monday through Thursday, and we wanted to avoid doing anything too important without him. But we also didn’t want to spend all day every day lying around the cottage. So the question every night became, What can we do tomorrow that Lenny is okay with missing? Ironically, this sort of allowed Lenny to check out of most of our planning discussions, which he was thankful for.  

One night toward the end of the week when planning fatigue had nearly crushed our collective spirit, we held a particularly tedious session. The schedule had been redrafted multiple times, and just as we were finalizing a plan that worked for everyone, Jon asked, as if making the proposition for the first time, “Is there any way we can fit in a local boat tour?” 

Across the room, Holly stood up from her chair, teacher hand extended to the room, and announced, “I’m done. I’m going to bed. Y’all tell me what we’re doing in the morning.” 

Unfortunately, Jon never did get his lobster boat tour, which I still feel bad about. But I do think we made the most of our time there. We found a great balance between busyness and rest, between trying new things and simply enjoying each other’s company. And everyone’s unique contributions made the trip more interesting and more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise. More than anything we saw or did, I was most gratified that at the end of the trip I felt more love and appreciation for each of my friends than I had at the start—never a guarantee when eight comrades choose to share a home for a week in a remote location (see Rian Johnson’s Glass Onion). 

Top row (left to right): Lenny, Joseph, Jon, Me; Bottom row (left to right): Jess, Meg, Holly, Jessica

The Most Beautiful Gazebo in the World 

I am not typically a very loud or exclamatory person, but something comes over me at certain times and in certain places when I am able to relinquish my usual cares and concerns and simply be an audience to the world. I begin to find everything so wondrous—water, trees, light, shadow, sounds, stillness—the most elemental pieces of our world that surround me every day but in veiled glory. Maine is one of those places where I begin to see again, and with renewed sight comes unrestrained enthusiasm.  

We had barely crossed the border when it began. 

“Ooh! Look at those lupines!” I said, tapping urgently on my window as though I could draw the eyes of everyone else in the car to the very spot I was pointing. “Lupines are some of my favorite flowers, and they grow wild up here,” I explained.  

That would have served as a sufficient PSA about Maine’s beautiful wildflowers. But every five to ten minutes I was pointing out another roadside cluster of lupines. Soon, Meg and Jessica began mocking me: “Derek! Look at those lupines!” 

By the time we arrived in Winter Harbor, my excitement was hot like a fever. But it was not just my own joy this time. My happiness was compounded by the delight my friends were sure to experience as they saw Maine for the first time. And it was enflamed even more by this folding of time, this opportunity to introduce my adult friends to a sacred piece of my youth.  

Of course, along with my revelry came a sense of responsibility for my friends’ enjoyment. And behind this sense of responsibility was hiding a subtle fear that if the trip didn’t live up to their expectations, I would never quite be taken seriously again. I tried to push this faulty notion out of my mind, telling myself that I could not make anyone have a good time. The best thing I could do was enjoy myself and hope that everyone else would catch on.  

Our first evening in the cottage was perfect, but the following morning my sunny projection for the week was overshadowed by a most unfortunate turn of events. Just as I was about to sit down to breakfast, I was informed that the toilets in both bathrooms were overflowing. I brought my friends all the way here only to make them use the woods for a week, I catastrophized. I frantically assessed the situation and then immediately called my Pop-pop, who offered his deepest condolences and gave me a few instructions to flush out the system. 

A few of my friends offered to help, but I could not allow this to be part of their experience. An hour and a half later, after lots of plunging and mopping and a regiment of Drano, I was finally able to return to my breakfast. And mercifully, the septic system gave us no further trouble.  

Admittedly, in the wake of this near-disaster, my enthusiasm faltered a bit, but I quickly recovered. My response to the highway flora turned out to be my reflex for anything I found exciting—which was most things. Multiple times an hour, I'd involuntarily exclaim, "Ooh! Look at that!" While hiking: "Ooh! Look at that cool tree!" While ordering lunch: "Ooh! Look at that lobster roll!" While making dinner: "Ooh! These mussels are gonna be amazing!" And by day two, my friends were heckling me nonstop. Every "Ooh!" from me was followed by a chorus of "oohs" from them. The game lasted all week, and though I grew a bit insecure about my exclamation of choice, I never grew embarrassed of my wonder because I could sense that my friends felt it too. 

The real teasing, however, came at the end of the week when we visited Bar Harbor. I had long since transgressed the one rule of sharing—don’t overhype the experience. Everyone knows that when you share a song or a movie or a restaurant or a city with someone, you don’t create unrealistic expectations. This inevitably leads to disappointment for you both and puts your friend in the precarious position of having to feign amazement or crush your spirit. But despite this time-proven principle, I had been carrying on for months about all the incredible things we would see and experience on our trip. And at some point during this interval, while indulging in a moment of hyperbole, I made a passing remark about Bar Harbor having “the most beautiful gazebo you’ve ever seen.” Somehow my friends latched onto this comment, and they were soon convinced I had promised them “the most beautiful gazebo in the world.”  

To be fair, it is the most beautiful gazebo I have ever seen. Its elegant white frame sits isolated on the velvet lawn in Agamont Park, overlooking the fishing boats bobbing up and down in the harbor and the couples strolling along the gravel Shore Path. It takes in such lovely sights and sounds and on a late fall afternoon or evening would afford just the right amount of privacy for a proposal. Obviously, it has always held a great deal of romance for me. 

To my friends, however, it was hopelessly funny. “Look at that gazebo!” they cried with exaggerated amazement. Whether or not it lived up to its billing, it had become legendary among the eight of us, so we crowded in the archway for a picture. “I don’t know about ‘the best gazebo in the world,’” someone said, but to this day, none of them have claimed to see a finer one. 

Out to Sea 

The day after we arrived was Sunday, and there were errands to run. Jessica, Meg, and Joseph had been assigned to grocery duty, and Lenny and Jess offered to go pick Holly up at the airport. (Meg had proven tactful and persuasive once again.) I was exempted from errands after dealing with the plumbing emergency, and Jon was left behind to keep me company. This left the two of us with time on our hands, and that was the top of a slippery slope.  

It was a glorious day, so Jon suggested packing a lunch and taking the canoe out. "If we're not back by 4:00, start to worry," Jon told the others. Maybe he truly anticipated being gone the entire afternoon, but I expected we'd row across to Jordan Island (within sight of the cottage), eat our lunch, explore a bit, and row back well before the others returned. Neither of us could have anticipated what the afternoon would truly hold.  

As we paddled toward Jordan Island, Jon spotted Egg Rock Light off in the distance. "Bro, we should row out to that lighthouse," he said.  

"That's way farther than it looks," I laughed dismissively. But we agreed to row to the next island, eat lunch, and reassess.  

By the time we reached Ironbound Island for lunch, we were a bit weary, and Jon admitted that maybe the lighthouse was too far. But after eating, we were filled with renewed energy and hubris. "We're already almost halfway there. Let's go for it," I said.  

We were almost halfway, but there were so many other factors we hadn't considered. Before lunch, we'd had the islands as a fixed reference, so it felt like we were making quick progress. But once we got past the islands into the open water, distance and time melted away, and the lighthouse seemed to remain forever out of reach. Whitecaps crested all around us, and because we hadn't thought to check, we found ourselves rowing against the incoming tide. Not to mention that neither of us are regular paddlers and neither of us had ever canoed on the ocean. On top of all this, we had no cell reception and no other communication devices. It was just us and the waves.  

At so many points, we should have turned around, simply given in and let the tide carry us back. But the sunk-cost fallacy and our own stubbornness bore us onward. Ahead of us, we could see tour boats from Bar Harbor circling Egg Rock with their passengers, watching all the birds circling overhead. We did our best to appear like confident rowers and not a vessel in distress.  

Finally, after a couple grueling hours, we ran aground on the rocky shore. The feeling of exhilaration was quickly dampened by a sign announcing that the island was closed for waterfowl nesting season. But we had come too far—we had to see the lighthouse. And the tour boats had since gone, so there was no one around to spot us.  

I suppose I thought the nesting birds would overlook our intrusion if we left them alone, but they clearly had a zero-tolerance policy. As we began walking up the path toward the lighthouse, I realized just how many birds there were—hundreds, if not thousands—and just how many nests they were guarding. Even sticking to the trail, we couldn't help but disturb them. Their distressed shrieking was deafening. I kept expecting to feel a warm splat on my head or to be dive-bombed at any moment. We advanced cautiously, arms shielding our heads, like paratroopers hopelessly trying to avoid enemy fire. We were about halfway to the lighthouse when we saw a tour boat approaching the island.  

"They're gonna call someone on us," I told Jon. 

"Yeah bro, we should go back," he agreed. 

We ducked down so as not to be seen and raced back to the canoe. We threw it in the water and jumped in after it, wanting to put as much distance as possible between us and the island. We paddled aggressively, using the tide to our advantage this time, and soon we were too far from the island to be considered trespassers.  Quite tired, we paused to rest our arms and pull a snack from the drybag.  

We were growing concerned about our time. Our phones told us we’d been gone for a few hours already, and we were unsure we could make it back by 4:00. Still out of cell service, there was no way to warn our friends. All we could do was row faster. The return voyage would theoretically be easier, but the ocean is at best an indifferent collaborator. The waves were pushing us in the general direction we needed to go, but they were much choppier than before, and they carried us off our axis before we could notice or protest. We came the closest to capsizing on our way back and realized that the sea always demands vigilance, even when it appears friendly. 

After an indefinite period, we finally rounded the shoreline and came within sight of the cottage. Thoroughly exhausted, mildly shaken, and very proud, we pulled the canoe ashore at 3:56 pm. Our friends were lounging in the sunshine, apparently unconcerned. As we told them our tale, they shook their heads, trying to withhold their amusement.  

Later that evening, Jon did some calculations. It turns out we had rowed almost ten miles on a whim. “You’re the only person in my life I would have done this with,” I told him. “Because I never would have initiated it, and I would’ve said ‘no’ to anyone else who suggested it.” 

Our voyage as the crow flies, so really not a very accurate representation.

Locals and Locales 

That evening after dinner, we decided to visit nearby Schoodic Point to watch the sunset. Even though Schoodic Peninsula is part of Acadia National Park and therefore belongs to the US government, I have come to think of it as an extension of Pearl’s property. And catching a sunset on the Point is almost as fundamental as viewing the sunset from the deck of the cottage. It’s always quiet except for the waves, the gulls, and the wind-dampened voices of other revelers. And it’s a wonderful place to linger if you’re hoping to understand the simple, steadfast beauty of coastal Maine.  

As soon as we arrived, I took off across the familiar rocks, camera swinging violently from my neck as I jumped from boulder to boulder. My friends followed along a bit more gingerly, choosing every step for the first time. It was a cool evening, probably in the 50s, and they were all layered in sweatshirts and flannels, while I sported shorts and a cut-off. Maybe my northern blood runs cold, but I have always felt most alive in those crisp temperatures. My friends looked at me like I was a lunatic. “It’s invigorating!” I insisted, remembering the words of my Pop-pop on many a cold morning. They just smiled and shook their heads. 

On our way around the peninsula, we also stopped at Raven’s Nest, an unmarked roadside marvel that’s worth pulling over for if you can find it. A short footpath winds through the trees to a small ravine cut into the coastline. The floor of the “nest” is covered with large, rounded stones that tumble over each other as the waves wash in and out of the cavity. It sounds like an audience repeatedly clapping at the wrong moment before being silenced by the conductor.  No rails or ropes guard the edge, so you are able to get as close as you dare, gaze down into the hole, and listen as this wonderful ritual plays out over and over again.  

The warm light of golden hour highlighted all the colors of the cliffside, and the creeping dogwood at the edge of the tree line was in full bloom. Jon stood silently near the water’s edge, sipping coffee from one of the cottage mugs. Joseph was lying on his stomach, head hung over the ledge, watching intently as the waves rearranged the rocks below. The girls were huddled together taking group photos. Lenny roved about, admiring the landscape and scanning the scene with the ever-watchful eyes of a group dad. I found myself, camera to my face, trying to capture each of my friends as they experienced the magic of the place in their own ways.  

I had come to Maine with great expectations for all that we would do. I wanted to show my friends as much of the area as I had seen and maybe even more. Thankfully they were all very eager to explore. We did a good deal of hiking as that is one of the best ways to see Acadia National Park. The hike I most wanted to share with them was the Precipice Trail on Champlain Mountain, but sadly, the route was closed for peregrine falcon nesting season. And after our brazen assault on Egg Rock, Jon and I decided not to trespass again. After all, birds of prey are generally more adversarial than waterfowl, and park rangers, I gather, can be even worse. The boys were mildly disappointed to miss out on this hike, but I think the girls were quietly relieved to not be taking any chances on the most hazardous trail in the park.  

Instead, our first hike was to Schoodic Head, the highest point on Schoodic Peninsula, from which you can see all of Frenchman Bay and the eastern shore of Mt. Desert Island. We chose to hike the Alder Trail to the Schoodic Head Trail and then descend the mountain on the Anvil Trail. I had hiked this route the year before with my Pop-pop, my sister, and my brother-in-law, and found it to be an incredibly interesting trail with several distinct environmental pockets. I knew my friends would enjoy the natural stone staircases that wind up between giant rock formations like something out of Middle Earth. And I was sure to point out the undergrowth of wild huckleberry at the peak that turns into a fiery red carpet in the fall.   

The trail truly morphs around you. One moment you’re surrounded by tall deciduous trees, carefully choosing each step on the slippery rocks that interrupt the rivulets of water running down the mountain. Minutes later you’re walking among redolent pines, plodding along almost silently on a bed of needles. At the summit, dwarf trees grow out of the inhospitable bedrock, twisted in the shape of the wind with limp moss draped over their limbs like shredded shawls.  

The hike can be challenging in places, especially near the summit, but it’s not too difficult overall, and there are plenty of great places to pause and rest. It was the perfect introductory hike that prepared us for the Beehive. Hiking the Beehive Loop was our concession for missing out on the Precipice Trail, and we waited until Friday when Lenny was able to join us.  

The Beehive is a massive, 500-foot dome that rises above Park Loop Rd. in Acadia. The trail can be rather hazardous because it is so steep and because it involves climbing up several series of iron rungs imbedded in the side of the mountain. It requires a lot of concentration, but it offers incredible unobstructed views that allow you to see miles out into the Atlantic. And walking along a shallow shelf hundreds of feet above the ground is a special kind of thrill.  

Some members of the group were quite apprehensive about endeavoring this climb. There was talk of some people waiting at the bottom while the rest of us hiked, but we were planning to have a picnic at the top, so splitting up was ruled out. Left with no better options, everyone was forced to give it a shot.  

The hike has the potential to be very grueling because of the drastic incline, but there were a good number of people on the trail, and everyone was moving cautiously so as to avoid falling to their deaths. The trail is too narrow to pass other hikers, so we were forced to take our time. Between vertical ascents, we rested against the wall of the mountain, perched like little tchotchkes on the ledges, some of us perfectly content, others hardly believing where they found themselves. But by the time we made it to the top, everyone was feeling rather accomplished, and I think the experience proved to be one of everyone’s favorites from the trip.  

The other vantage point I was determined to show my friends was Cadillac Mountain. The peak is the first place the sun touches in the continental United States, and it offers panoramic views of Mt. Desert Island, Bar Harbor, Frenchman Bay, and the Atlantic Ocean. Sunrise is an obvious time to visit, but Lenny had decided to take Thursday afternoon off, so we packed a picnic and drove to the summit for lunch.  

There is a station just below the summit parking lot where park employees check for parking reservations and national parks passes—one for each vehicle. Jon had brought along his park pass, which covered one vehicle for the trip, but we needed a second one, and they can be expensive. My Grandpa kindly loaned me his senior pass, and I had hoped our shared last name would be enough to satisfy the rangers. But when we presented the pass to the gentleman in the booth, he looked at us with skepticism. “Which one of you is Donald Gahman?” he asked. Lenny’s intimidating expression and dark sunglasses hadn’t worked on this man. 

I leaned forward from the backseat. “He’s my grandfather,” I responded.  

“Well, you tell your grandfather he’s not allowed to share his pass,” the man said as he placed a red check mark on the back. “If he gets two more of these marks, the pass will be revoked.” Then he kindly waved us on without making us pay $30 for a single-day pass. What a legend.  

It was windy on the summit, but the sun was warm enough, and it had burned away all the morning mist, allowing us to see for miles in every direction. The morning crowds had also dwindled, and we enjoyed a nice lunch on a large, open bald spot facing Bar Harbor, which we would visit later that afternoon.  

Sitting that far above the town watching the boats drift in and out of the harbor is kind of like visiting a miniature village. The mountaintop is much too far away to see people walking the streets, but it’s easy to imagine their lives unfolding. Tourists wandering about among the shops and restaurants. Children and dogs playing in the park. Couples strolling the gravel path along the water’s edge. This experience reminds me of visiting Roadside America with my Pop-pop when I was a little boy. I always wanted to enter that miniature world and find out what life was like there among those little people. Descending the mountain and driving down into Bar Harbor is almost like doing just that—becoming part of something that was only just a fiction.  

In some ways, this is what the whole trip was about. Letting my friends into a part of my world that had, up until that point, only ever been pictures and anecdotes. It’s a vulnerable thing to do—let people into something sacred. And my instinct in those situations is to act like a tour guide. To point out everything I want them to notice. To constantly assess their engagement and excitement. To have them retrace the footsteps of my experience. But this is not what I would have wanted had I been able to enter that magical world of miniatures. I would have wanted to experience it for myself in my own style, at my own pace, following my own inclinations. I hope I allowed my friends to experience Maine in this way. I hope I played the host instead of the guide and made them feel welcome rather than educated. And whether or not they found something sacred in it for themselves doesn’t ultimately matter. It matters that we shared this time together and that we share a simple understanding—you are invited into my life should you choose to enter. 

Bar Harbor was busy that afternoon, but not bustling like it is later in the summer or on holiday weekends. We roamed around the shops on Main St., many of them selling the same hats, sweatshirts, and blueberry-scented candles. Over time, I’ve learned some of the more interesting establishments—Sherman's Bookstore, In the Woods (a woodworking artisan), and Ben and Bill’s Chocolate Emporium. After we tired of the shops, we enjoyed some ice cream on the Village Green. Then everyone wanted to walk down to the waterfront and see this gazebo they’d heard so much about. The rest of them walked back down Main St., but Jon and I decided to take the long way.  

One of my favorite things to do in Bar Harbor is to stroll down the little side streets, past the grand old homes, many of which have been turned into inns, until I reach the gravel footpath along the water’s edge. The path offers some of the best views in town—stately lawns and rose hedges on one side and the open waters of Frenchman Bay on the other—and is not heavily traveled. Historical placards tell the stories of the old houses, and one tells about a party boat that long ago ran aground on the rocks because its captain was partying a little too hard himself. Occasional benches flank the old sea wall and seem to take in the whole world from their humble vantage point. I like to imagine myself passing many hours there as an old man.  

On our scenic route, Jon and I popped into a little antique store, where the owner thought I was an actor. It must have been the handkerchief I was wearing and my long hair that I was growing out to ill effect. We had circled the shop and were about to walk out the door when the woman interrupted her conversation with other patrons and demanded to know: “Are you a movie star?”  

“Nope, not me,” I laughed. 

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t come into my store and not give me your signature,” she responded skeptically.  

In hindsight, maybe I should have told her I was the star of an upcoming indie film. It would have been a fun ruse, and I’m confident my friends would have made me a Wikipedia page to sell the bit. I could have been local legend in Bar Harbor, which would have been worth it if someone treated me to lobster. But alas, I haven’t learned to be an opportunist.  

After rejoining the group and paying homage to the gazebo, we wandered over to Side Street Café for dinner. Even though it was early, the restaurant was full, and we had to wait to be seated. Finally, we were escorted to a table and given drink menus, at which time Jessica realized she had “pulled a Meg” and left her ID behind. This time it was Joseph who rose to the occasion and treated Jessica to one of the delicious blueberry margaritas.   

After dinner, we drove to the opposite side of Mt. Desert Island to watch the sunset at Bass Harbor Head Light, one of the sixty-five lighthouses in Maine and certainly one of the most iconic. This also proved to be a popular place, especially for photographers. There isn’t much to do there except watch the sky and listen to the waves, and even though I could have stayed for hours trying to capture the lighthouse in the glow of dusk, my friends grew restless, and the mosquitoes became very aggressive. Jon was being particularly persecuted and eventually started walking back toward the wooden staircase that led to the parking lot. When the rest of us caught up to him at the top of the stairs, he made a proud observation: “Local tip. If you stand here, the mosquitoes won’t bother you.” 

“But you also can’t see the lighthouse from here,” I laughed. 

“Good point,” he admitted. 

Thankfully, we only had one day of rain. Since no one really wanted to go hiking that day, we decided to visit Winter Harbor only a few miles from the cottage. Aside from an emergency run to the IGA or a trip to get take-out from Chase’s, there isn’t much reason to go into town, but I wanted my friends to see the Winter Harbor 5 & 10, and I needed to get postcards to mail to my friends Natalie and Sara, with whom I’ve been trading tokens of travel for several years now.  

The 5 & 10 really is a treat, even if you don’t need anything specific. It smells strongly of balsam, and the old wooden floors groan wonderfully underfoot. Almost everything you could need or want for a week at the cottage can be found in that tiny store—shovels, brooms, umbrellas, lightbulbs, water bottles, birdseed, coal for the grill, yarn and needles, hats, sweatshirts, raincoats, stationary, Christmas ornaments, fridge magnets, calendars, puzzles, books, board games, stuffed animals, etc. Joseph picked up a wooden ornament for our tree—an old fisherman wearing a bright yellow oilskin and smoking a pipe. I selected my postcards and purchased a copy of Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey, the author of Make Way for Ducklings, who lived in and wrote about Maine for many years.  

At the checkout counter, Jess alluded to the dreary weather. “A silver day on the coast,” the cashier said. I thought that was just a colorful bit of exposition, probably a localism, but as the day wore on, I realized that “silver” was the perfect word for it. It was more than just blue or overcast—even in the gloom, the day had a luster to it. And in the evening when the weak sun sliced through the gray clouds on the horizon, the water in Summer Cove truly did shine silver against the sullen coastline. 

The closest Jon ever came to getting his lobster boat tour was the day we visited Southwest Harbor. The whole reason we drove to the west side of Mt. Desert Island that day was because Holly and I wanted to see a bridge.  

Somesville is the oldest village on the island (founded in 1761) and is still little more than a village. There’s hardly anything to see in the town itself (aside from some quaint old New England structures) but the moment I saw a picture of the little footbridge over Somes Creek, I knew I had to see it in person. It’s the perfect marriage between Monet’s Japanese Footbridge painting and Lucy Maud Montgomery’s idyllic Avonlea. It most certainly is a place where Anne Shirley would have daydreamed, and it’s a place I think any artist or writer would find himself inspired.  

Holly adores Anne of Green Gables, and when I showed her a picture of the bridge, she was also determined to see it for herself. (We had momentarily considered taking the ferry from Bar Harbor to Prince Edward Island during the week, but Canada’s border was still closed due to Covid, so this was as close as we were going to get.) The rest of the group indulged us, and even though the neighboring museum and historic Selectmen’s Building were closed, visiting the bridge proved to be a delightful afternoon excursion. 

Since Southwest Harbor was only a few more miles down the road and we were getting hungry, we decided to drive into town in search of food. We drove almost to the end of Main Street, where we came upon the marina. Dozens and dozens of fishing boats rocked up and down in the water alongside charter boats and a large, very striking yacht. We walked down along the pier, admiring the boats, and I could tell Jon was searching for someone who would agree to take him out to check their traps. But we could only walk so far down the pier until a gate prevented us from going any further. Only boat owners were allowed beyond that point, and none of them paid us any attention. Jon could see the opportunity right in front of him, but it was just out of reach. We lingered for a little while, but we were getting hungrier, and the afternoon was slipping away.  

After finding some coffee and pastries, we split up to look at a few of the shops. Jon, Joseph, and I wandered down a side street and came upon a little place simply called The Store. From the window we could see that it was a kind of antique store, and when we walked inside, we were met with no shortage of beautiful furniture, artwork, rugs, and other far-fetched treasures.  

It was really more of a gallery than a typical antique store. To be sure, there were many old and precious pieces, but there were also new artisan-crafted wares layered throughout the room, all of the finest quality, and you could tell that everything in the store had been selected with the utmost care and consideration. Unlike many antique shops that are full to the brim and offer only narrow passages to walk through, this was a place you could hold a gathering. A place where you’d be able to recline in a chair with a drink and never run out of interesting, storied things to look at.   

We were the only guests in the store, and while Joseph and I made our way around the space admiring paintings and lamps and models and wall-hangings, Jon quickly struck up a conversation with the proprietor.  It turned out he had lived in California for decades and had opened this place in Maine as a sort of retirement project. He and Jon talked for almost half an hour, sharing anecdotes about California and exchanging life experiences. Nothing about this was unusual for Jon—he loves to tell stories, and he can draw stories out of strangers with ease.  

Eventually Joseph and I joined them, and the conversation turned to a collection of beautiful chairs positioned around the room. The frames were built of teak wood, and the seats were woven of vibrant fibers. They had come from Nicaragua, where the trees were hand-selected and the fibers hand-dyed. The owner had a personal relationship with the craftsmen and said he occasionally visited them at their production facility. He offered for Jon to join him on his next trip to Nicaragua, where, he promised, Jon could select all his own materials and watch the artisans make him a chair. Jon was giddy—he’d made an authentic connection with one of the locals, and he’d received an invitation to travel to the forests of Central America. It doesn’t get much better than that. And though he never did wind up going to Nicaragua, he did order one of those beautiful chairs, which I still covet from time to time. 

Prospect Harbor Lighthouse

Lobster Rolls and Blueberry Soft Serve 

In addition to the places I wanted my friends to see, there were a few culinary experiences I wanted them to have. It is my opinion that anyone visiting Maine should be prepared to try at least two things—lobster roll and something blueberry. Most people know that Maine is synonymous with lobster (or “lobstah” as the Down Easters say), but few people know about Maine’s wild blueberries. According to the US Department of Agriculture, Maine is the world’s largest producer of wild blueberries. And everywhere you go in the Acadia area, you can find people celebrating the blueberry—blueberry preserves, blueberry car fresheners, blueberry tea towels, blueberry glassware, blueberry stationery, etc. 

Taking a recommendation from my aunt and uncle, my friends and I decided to visit Me & Ben’s Dairy Crème, a seasonal family-run ice cream stand and snack shack just outside Winter Harbor. We had just finished our hike to Schoodic Head, and some refreshment was in order. At the window, I requested the blueberry soft serve that my aunt and uncle had insisted was some of the best ice cream they’d ever had. I must confess, I’m a bit of an ice cream snob, and soft serve is not typically my preference, but this seemed like the appropriate choice for the occasion. The lady behind the counter handed me a cone with one of the tallest ice cream twists I’ve ever seen, and with towering expectations, I dug in. 

My aunt and uncle had not exaggerated. It was undeniably some of the best ice cream I’ve ever had, and the fresh blueberry flavor was just right for a warm summer afternoon. Many of my friends also sampled the blueberry soft serve along with several of the shop’s other flavors. Jess got her cone dipped in chocolate, which proved disastrous in the heat. We laughed as she used napkin after napkin to mop up the ice cream running down her arm. But despite Jess’s struggle, everyone so enjoyed their ice cream that we decided we must return later in the week when Lenny could join us.  

To introduce my friends to lobster roll, I planned for us to have lunch at the Corea wharf, where fresh lobster comes right off the boats and is served up for eager guests. My friends had resolved to at least try lobster while in Maine, though Holly and Jessica were still quite apprehensive, and there was understandably some general skepticism about spending $26 on an experimental lunch. But everyone plucked up their courage and placed their orders.  

It was a beautiful day, and while we waited for our food, we sat along the edge of the pier admiring the different lobster boats anchored in the harbor. It must have been lunch hour for all the lobstermen as well because most of the boats were deserted. Had there been any lobstermen about, I’m convinced Jon would have talked his way into an afternoon ride-along. Everyone’s food finally arrived, and to my satisfaction, they all seemed to enjoy it more than they had expected to. I took that as a victory.  

There was one other culinary bucket list item I felt my friends needed to experience, and this one was perhaps the most controversial. At low tide, the rocky shore below the cottage is the perfect place to hunt for mussels. On a good day, you can find dozens and dozens of these creatures hiding among the tidepools and kelp beds, and fresh mussels are one of my favorite Maine delicacies.  

Scavenging for mussels is not glamorous work, and it requires a bit of fearlessness as mussels are not the only creatures you’ll encounter. You must be willing to dig under slimy piles of kelp, cut your fingers on rocks and barnacles, and face down surprise crabs that also enjoy the nooks and crannies of the coastline. Some mussels are easily torn from the surface of a rock, but others must be wrenched from tight crevices. And slipping or twisting an ankle is always a possibility. But there is also something thrilling about this Pavlovian hunt. You may search for a long while and find no mussels, and then just when you begin to despair, you may push aside a clump of seaweed and find a whole cluster of oblong black shells. And that reward is enough to keep you going.  

“It’s actually kind of addicting,” said Holly, who proved to be a master mussel hunter even though she had no intention of tasting one. 

Preparing them is simple, if a bit time-consuming. You have to scrub the shells sort of aggressively and then rip out the beards, the strong fibers by which they cling to the rocks. Then you boil them until the shells begin to open. Drizzle on a little garlic butter, and they are ready to enjoy. They can be eaten with a fork, but many people prefer to slurp them right out of the shells. 

We collected a few mussels on the second evening to go with our tacos, and though it took a great deal of persuasion, everyone at least tried them. They were not nearly as popular as the lobster, and I’m not sure Holly or Jessica will ever try another bivalve, but I’m proud of them for trying at least once. 

Aside from these few items, I had not given much thought to our menu for the week. I assumed we’d eat at several local establishments, but that left many meals unaccounted for. Planning is not my gift, and I had my hands full securing our reservation at the cottage, helping everyone coordinate their travel arrangements, and drafting a rough itinerary for our time in Maine. Thankfully, there are several planners and initiative-takers among us, and Jessica decided to take charge of the menu. Since we’d be out exploring most days, she planned simple breakfasts and portable lunches. She also planned a couple nights for us to eat out as a group, a night for the girls to go out, and a night for the boys to go out. That left three evenings where we’d all eat together at the cottage, so she divided the group into dinner teams, appointing at least one pragmatist (i.e., schedule-conscious friend) to each team to ensure dinner was ready at a reasonable hour. Lenny and Jess prepared gnocchi with homemade sauce, one of their signature dishes. After poor success with the charcoal grill, Joseph, Meg, and I served fresh seafood. And Holly, Jon, and Jessica made tacos. On our nights out, we ate at some of the popular restaurants in Bar Harbor. Experiencing local cuisine is one of the most exciting parts of traveling, and I was thankful that my friends were open to trying new things. But I was also thankful for simple, familiar meals around the table at the cottage, where we laughed, teased, and reminisced like the patchwork family we’ve become.  

A Humble Suggestion 

Sometimes I look back on this trip and still can’t believe we pulled it off. But in other ways it’s not surprising. Most of us were approaching seven years of friendship, and we’d shared so many formative experiences in that time. Our lives had blended together during our chaotic college years, and our relationships had only deepened during the first years of floundering adulthood. By this point, we knew each other’s families, had friend-group lore, and understood many of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. At the time, I thought of this group vacation as a relational milestone, but in many ways, it was just a celebration of the friendship we already had. 

Halfway through the week, Jon shared some pictures on Facebook to commemorate our friendship and our time together in Maine.  He added these thoughts: 

7 years. We first met at school, then went to church together, then many of us lived together, and then some of us married each other. Now, we vacation together. Excited to be in Maine for the week with these goons.  

This was a touching tribute, but it also inspired a very unexpected and amusing response. A wonderful man from our church, who knew us all through college and has offered so much wisdom and guidance to us men especially, made a very bold recommendation: 

Maybe some more of you should marry each other. Just sayin’. 

To date, no more of us have married each other, though more of us are married or soon to be. Our friend Emma, who wasn’t able to join us on the trip because of work, married her husband Francisco earlier this year. And Jessica is preparing to marry her fiancé Bobby in March. Lenny and Jess have been married for over four years now, and our friend Tim, who also wasn’t able to join us in Maine, has been married to his wife Emily for over three years. 

We’re also more spread out than we used to be. Emma and Francisco live in Clarkston, Georgia. Tim and Emily live in Raleigh, North Carolina. Jon is still in L.A. Meg is working as a missionary in North Africa, and Lenny and Jess are planning to move to Spain next year as missionaries. Jessica just bought her own home, where she and Bobby will live. We’re all approaching the end of our twenties, and the future promises to bring more big changes. 

But we have been so blessed to be together for so many years. After college, we all stayed in Greenville for a time, and even though we have begun spreading out one-by-one, most of us are still concentrated in the Southeast. Our lives are still intertwined five years after graduating. How many people can say that?   

I think most of us grew up with the expectation that we’d meet our spouses in college and be married right after graduation. That we’d start families and begin building little lives, leaving our college selves behind. This was normal for our parents’ generation. But that wasn’t our story. We all entered post-grad life without major milestones under our belts—just single young professionals looking for affordable housing, amiable roommates, and tolerable jobs. We didn’t necessarily have a roadmap for this transitional period of life, but we had each other, and together we’ve figured it out.  

I’ve had the tendency over the last several years to think of this time as a holding cell—a waiting period before my “real life” begins. Before I fall in love and land my dream job and move to my dream city. But this is my real life, and I’m so thankful it is. These “extra” years with my friends are a gift I would never trade, and I’ve realized that there is such joy to be found in sharing the life you have with people you love, even if it is not the life you envisioned.  

As I said earlier, taking all my friends to Maine began as a college pipe dream—something that would certainly never happen because our lives would surely splinter in different directions. But you can’t know what will happen, and you can’t anticipate how other people will change your life. If you’re open to it, you might just find yourself in a place you didn’t expect, with people you didn’t expect, unexpectedly happy.