I come to Maine for two main things: the hiking and the lobster. Usually? It's the latter that's a given-- we have some form of lobster every night. The hiking can be a little trickier, since it's dependent on the weather, the traffic, the group vibe, one's physical condition, and so on.
This year, our house, although it doesn't offer the water view or water access we covet in a vacation rental, has something we've never enjoyed before: a path that leads directly to Acadia National Park. And when we arrived a little after 4 P.M., that was the amenity I was most eager to try out. The longer August days up here at the 44th parallel gave us until 8, so after unpacking the cars and stocking the fridge, we leashed up the dogs and headed over Carroll Hill and down to Fernald Point. There we picked up the Flying Mountain Trail and made quick work of its 294-foot elevation. Then it was down to Valley Cove Beach, out the fire road, and back up the hill to our cottage.
When we arrived home just before 8, Bill was cooking pasta and making salad, and we all agreed that our earlier plan of going out for a lobster dinner might be better revised. Ever hopeful, I jumped in the car and dashed out to see if I might grab a couple of lobsters to add to our already delicious meal. Unfortunately, Sunday night did me no favors-- the lobster shack down the road was closed, and so was the nearby grocery. When I pulled into the lobster pound in town, the line was fifty or more with a wait of up to an hour, and lobsters selling for 18.99 a pound.
Oh, I waited around for a while to see if the line was moving faster than reported, but in the end, I gave up and went home. "Don't worry," Emily said when I reported the bad news, "we can have lobster twice one day!"
I laughed at the consolation and realized that when forced to choose between the two? I'd take the hike every time.
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