by Jenna Herrington
When my sister said she wanted to go to New England for her senior trip, all I wanted was to see a moose. Months before the trip, we requested maps and brochures from every state along the east coast. We spread them out on the dining room table and made a list of historical sites, national parks, and other tourist attractions. Dad lobbied for as much history as possible and my sister made sure we fit in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, but I pushed for the national parks. I wanted wilderness—unadulterated beauty and all that. We weren’t going to see a moose walking down the streets of Philadelphia or Boston.
Gradually, we narrowed down the list while still managing to include something to please everyone. We mapped our route, checked admission prices, and reserved the hotels. When vacation time rolled around, we made our packing lists and checked them twice.
My most anticipated stop was Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. I read all about it in the visitor’s guide: Providing views of forests, mountains, and ocean as well as the possibility of sighting a peregrine falcon, moose, or bear. Acadia consistently ranks as one of the most visited national parks each year. One of the most popular destinations in the park is Cadillac Mountain. Visitors can hike or drive to the summit, which offers panoramic views of land and sea. The mountain is a particularly good place to watch the sunrise, as it is one of the first places in the country that the sun’s light touches every morning.
So said the brochure. I couldn’t wait.
We pulled into the visitor center parking lot early. The sky was gray. As we walked toward the trailhead, it began to sprinkle. Undaunted (we hadn’t driven all the way to Maine to be stopped by a few raindrops), we proceeded to walk two and a half miles in first the drizzle and then the downpour. Rewarded by the beautiful scenery and some ocean views, we returned to the car determined to make the most of the day despite the weather. Maybe it would clear up in time for us to explore a beach or take another hike that was less like a swim.
We started driving the 27-mile island loop road. At first, we stopped at some overlooks, dashing out of the car to read signs and snap hasty pictures and then dashing back again, each time a little more wet than before. Finally, at a stop called Thunder Hole, my sister said, “I’m not sure I want to get out again.”
I wasn’t sure I did either.
Still, wanting to make sure we weren’t missing anything, my sister asked if Dad would run down and see what there was to be seen. Always willing to take one for the team, Dad zipped his camera inside his rain jacket and hopped out of the car.
When he got back, he explained that Thunder Hole was a place where the waves came up through a big hole in the rock, making a sound like thunder and shooting spray into the air. “It’s a good thing we didn’t all go,” he said. “It was a pretty small platform, and a big wave came and soaked part of it. I didn’t get wet, but if we’d all been there, someone would have.”
After that, we stopped at a visitor center which, to our great joy, had a fireplace. We huddled around it, dripping water onto the hardwood floor and identifying ourselves to all the other visitors as poor southerners who weren’t used to cold and rain in the middle of May. When we were warm and dry, we ran back through the rain to the car (getting cold and wet again in the process) for the second half of the drive.
We saw trees and cliffs and crashing waves in abundance, even through the rain, but no moose. Not even after yelling “Here, moosy moosy moose!” out the window. We did see some loons diving and stopped on a bridge to count how long they stayed under. We also saw two beaver dams in the middle of a lake. In one picture we took, you can see a dark brown spot in the water that might be a beaver—or could just as easily be a rock. Other than that, all the animals were lying low out of the rain, which we probably should have been doing as well, but on we went to Cadillac Mountain.
We had given the rain plenty of time to pass over, but it hadn’t let up. If anything, it was raining harder. As we turned onto the road leading up the mountain, someone said, “Maybe the top will be above the clouds?”
But mountains on the east coast aren’t that tall. The top of Cadillac Mountain was in the clouds, not above them. At the peak, the rain fell in sheets, and the wind howled. I took a few pictures out the window as we drove around the loop. A few show trees shrouded in fog. One shows nothing at all—just empty gray.
We saw a sign at what must have been an overlook. My sister wanted to know what it said, so Dad got out of the car to take a picture. Immediately, he almost lost our umbrella off the side of the mountain. He snapped a picture of the sign, ran back to the car, and wrangled the half inside-out umbrella in behind him.
On the way down, disappointment settled over us. That was it. We had been on the top of Cadillac Mountain, and all we had to show for it was a bent umbrella and a few pictures—of foggy trees, a blurry sign, and empty gray sky.
Acadia’s website warns that rain is common in all seasons, so I know our experience was far from unique. But it’s hard not to take things like that personally. That was our one day in Maine. Why couldn’t it have been sunny? Would that have been so hard?
As we drove back south, I felt ripped off. I did my best to enjoy nature, and nature did not cooperate.
But later, when the frustration cleared, I realized that wasn’t exactly true. I thought about the stop at Thunder Hole. Initially I was glad I had stayed behind, but looking back I wished I had gone. I said that I wanted to enjoy nature, but when it came down to it, I chose to sit in the car rather than endure a little cold and wet.
I wanted to experience wilderness, and I did—weather I could not control, waves that thundered, cliffs that towered, and moose that were not tame and could not be summoned to our car with a shout.
I still would rather have had a clear day—and a moose sighting. But instead I got a reminder—that I am small and mountains are big, that I am loud and moose are shy, that I shouldn’t take a sunny day for granted, and that even when it rains I shouldn’t be afraid to walk down a set of slippery stairs, lean out over the edge of a cliff, and get drenched by the thundering waves.
Jenna Herrington is an English major and creative writing minor. She enjoys both hiking and rain, just preferably not at the same time.