Now I am back at my mom’s house. I really could have spent another night up north, but my services were required here to feed the dogs. I was worried that they wouldn’t remember me, but they did, and they are piled up on the floor around my bedroom. It’s pretty sweet.
I had wanted to go to Acadia National Park, and I really could have, but got talked out of it by three people who told me it was just too far to go. It wasn’t, though. I had plenty of extra time.
But I went for a nice walk along the Ducktrap river — one of the few rivers left where wild Atlantic salmon spawn. I climbed a little ridge, but couldn’t see anything. The guy who wrote the book I was using is a bit of a worrywort. He prefers wool over those synthetic fabrics because, although heavy, it “wears like iron.” He also warned the reader about steep descents and inclines that never really materialized. (Maybe he is writing for elderly people — I don’t know.) Apparently he’s a dowser and a bag-piper. Anyway, had I know about his alarmist tendencies I would have pushed on to Acadia and gone on a more difficult hike.
However, this was a perfectly pleasant walk and in fact it reminded me of the woods behind the house I grew up in. It was wet in a very familiar way, and I saw skunk cabbage.