I went up to Maine early to spend the night with my homesteading friend, Becka. I was disappointed to find out that they have joined the grid, but I enjoyed being able to wash dishes in warm water without putting it on the stove first. I did get to milk a goat while I was there, so I can now add that to my list of skills. (I’m sure it will come in handy in Kenya.) The night I was there, the remnants of Hurricane Hanna came through. It was awfully loud in the little metal camper I was staying in. Becka didn’t have a rain gauge, but in the morning the wheelbarrow was full of water.
From there I headed to Bar Harbor, about which I’d been hearing for years. Two things struck me. 1) It is really no different from Portsmouth, except it has sales tax and is 5 hours away. 2) Everyone there had grey hair. I drove to the other side of Mt. Desert Island (pronounced Dessert apparently… not sure how that happened) to the AMC Echo Lake Camp. The first thing I found was that the driveway had been washed out. Washed out but good. About 100 feet of the tarmac had collapsed. We all just parked at the top of the hill and schlepped down. No biggie. The trick was the poor guy who got there the night before (Mt. Desert got 7.5 inches of rain that night), and was now stuck at the bottom!As I was unpacking, I realized that I had left my raincoat at Becka’s. Groan! I called mom to check in, and mentioned that I had left the raincoat. She said that of course she would have a spare poncho in her car. I did not. Luckily one of the women on the trip was similar to my mother (except she could actually spell the word “outdoors”) and had a poncho to lend to me, which came in quite handy on a very wet Tuesday.
The crew was only nine people, all very nice (and obviously like-minded, for who would PAY to do manual labor??), but not quite what I was expecting. When I was in grad school, a guy who lived in Seattle or somewhere out west commented in class one day (apropos of who knows what; it was a pretty loosey goosey class) that where he lived it was considered rude to ask someone what they do. I think of that every time I meet someone and go through my standard get-to-know-you questions: “Where are you from? Have you always lived there? What do you do?”—crap, I shouldn’t ask that one—“Um, can you think of any sport more non-stop than soccer?” (No, I don’t ask that one, but yes, my grandfather did one evening when I had a friend over.) I noticed that in this group of volunteers, I seemed to be the only one who mentioned my job. Then it struck me, that is because everyone else is retired! Their ages ranged from 56 (she’s not actually retired, I think) to 77! Yet again I am reminded that I have the tastes of a 60 year old woman. Sigh. (In St. Louis, I spend my time in dance classes with teenagers and at the symphony with grey-hairs, leading me to wonder, where the hell are all the 35 year olds?? Ah yes, they are all stuck at home with their kids, and not free to play around as they wish. Suckers!)
The week was good. We were in canvas tents (here's a picture of the view from my tent) at a swanky camp (it had hot showers). Our task was to build about 250 feet of a new trail they are creating, which will be ADA compliant. That meant we had to dig down about 4 inches and make it level before we poured in a bunch of gravel (Acadia has a secret blend, courtesy of John Rockefeller). I was all about wheeling that barrow of gravel up and down that hill. I much preferred that to grubbing out the soil and rocks. We never did get to see our work complete, because the final stage was to tamp it down, and when we finally got the tamper (two other crews kept nicking it), the pull cord was non-functional. Oh well.
The week was good. We were in canvas tents (here's a picture of the view from my tent) at a swanky camp (it had hot showers). Our task was to build about 250 feet of a new trail they are creating, which will be ADA compliant. That meant we had to dig down about 4 inches and make it level before we poured in a bunch of gravel (Acadia has a secret blend, courtesy of John Rockefeller). I was all about wheeling that barrow of gravel up and down that hill. I much preferred that to grubbing out the soil and rocks. We never did get to see our work complete, because the final stage was to tamp it down, and when we finally got the tamper (two other crews kept nicking it), the pull cord was non-functional. Oh well. 
One of the four work days we got to hike up one of the mountains to help out the Park Service replace granite steps. Have you ever wondered how those steps get onto a trail way up in the mountains? Well, now I know. Some Park guys find a bunch of boulders vaguely near the trail and dub that a quarry. They drill and bash the rocks into somewhat step-like shapes. They then sucker in a bunch of volunteers to move the rocks (one cubic foot of granite weighs 180 pounds). That was actually totally cool. The process is called high-lining. 
We pried up a rock until we could get a chain around it, attached a hook to that, and then cranked down this metal cable which is suspended from two trees until it could pick it up. Crank up the cable, and let gravity pull the rock down the hill (kind of like a zip line). Mind you, the rocks we were moving only went about 30 feet before we had to make the pile for the next high line, so it wasn’t too tricky. 
They gave us the last day off to do whatever we wanted. Those of you who know me well will not believe me when I tell you that I decided to get up to see the sun rise on Cadillac Mountain (supposedly the first point in the US 
that the sun shines upon, although there is apparently a town on the Canadian border that will fight that tooth and nail). I set my alarm for 4:45 am, set out some long underwear, and snuggled into my sleeping bag for a short night of sleep. It was worth it, though. The sunrise was really lovely. (We totally cheated and drove up to the top of the mountain, so don’t think I’m THAT virtuous!) 
We came back to camp for breakfast, and then planned the day. Some folks were going to go on a nice flat bike-ride, others on a gentle hike. I decided to do the trail called Precipice. It was pretty aptly named, as it went basically straight up a pretty flat face of a mountain. (Big hill, really. Only just over 1,000 feet.) When I got to the top, it was, of course, cloudy. 
Oh well. I was back down in no time (via a much more gentle path), so decided to do another precarious hike, this one up Beehive. Both of these trails were ones with ladders (really just metal rods drilled into the side of the mountain), which involved lots of climbing and pulling and feeling pretty buff. (Shaner would NOT have liked either, as there was a lot of standing on, well, precipices, with nothing between you and those treetops way down there.) It was getting pretty windy as I climbed Beehive, so when I got to the top and a couple of women congratulated me (and then remarked “She looks like a pro.” Yes, buy a few of the right clothes, and I can trick people into thinking I’m a real hiker, or dancer, or girl…), the first thing out of my mouth was “We won’t tell my mother about this one.”It was a lovely way to begin the frivolities of my Gap Year. I even learned (or reaffirmed) a few things on the trip:
1) I like being outside.
2) I now know a new way to tie shoes which will not come untied (teachers and parents, I will give you a demo later if you remind me).
3) I am not a morning person. (My tentmate had to wake me for breakfast one morning… but only once.)
4) I like being active and sweating. (Who knew I liked exercise!)
5) I am a bigger risk taker than I thought. I had no fear dangling from the side of the mountain by myself in the wind. (Again, don’t tell mom.)
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