July 3, 2010 – Day Fifty-seven

Bar Harbor never celebrates the Fourth of July on a Sunday, so today, Saturday, was their Fourth.

We needed to get going a little earlier than usual for a couple of reasons: the Rotary Club would quit serving blueberry pancakes at the park this morning at 11am, and if we had any hope of getting a parking spot in town to see their parade, which starts at 10am, we’d better leave by 8am.

And so, shortly after 8am we left to go into Bar Harbor, eight miles away; we left the dogs in the trailer.

We left at just the right time, because we got a great parking spot right across the street from the park and only 100 yards from the beginning of the big parade.

Marianne’s eyes lit up when we got there since the park was also host to a little craft fair featuring the talents of local artisans. But before we could see the crafts, I just had to eat some pancakes.

The line into the tent where the Rotarians were making the pancakes on ten different hot griddles wasn’t too bad, and after only about five minutes we were paying our $8 per person to eat all the pancakes and sausage we wanted. They were serving both plain and blueberry pancakes, but it seemed that the overwhelming majority of the folks wanted those fresh blueberry pancakes. They also offered real maple syrup for an additional $2, but I hoped to find some sugar-free syrup, and when none was to be had, settled for the imitation maple syrup.

On the first go-around we were given two blueberry pancakes and two sausages each, from there we walked 15 paces over to the large dining tent, and scanned the area for a place to sit down and eat. After stealing a chair from another table, we were able to sit together at a table with two other couples.

Since they were done eating shortly after we sat down, we didn’t get to say anything to them except, pass the syrup. They were replaced by a young couple with three young daughters four, two, and two months, all of whom looked cute and amazingly identical. They were from Wisconsin and every year for the Fourth of July, another one of his siblings picks a place where they all meet to celebrate. In the past they usually end up at each other’s homes in Texas, California, or Wisconsin, but this year they did something different and all rented a house in Bar Harbor. What a great idea!

For the joy of everyone, a lady dressed up in a lobster suit came by our table, and the kids got to have their picture taken with this pseudo-crustacean. Marianne wasn’t quick enough to get in on the act, but caught Ms. Lobster later outside of the tent for a personal portrait session.

Of course I went back for seconds, since I wanted to get my $8 worth of pancakes, and this time around a Rotarian loaded me up with three huge blueberry pancakes, and I got some more sausage for Marianne.

After breakfast we headed over to see the crafts. There were only about 20 different exhibitors, ranging from jewelry and photography, to dog collars and dolls. Marianne looked at just about every item on display. As you can well imagine, this takes a bit of time, and with only 15 minutes to go, I hustled her off to the truck to get our backback/portable seats so we could watch the parade sitting down in comfort.

We sat ourselves down at the corner where this part of the parade started. Vehicles were lined up on the two cross streets, plus the street opposite of the parade route. People were quickly filling up all available spots to view the forthcoming spectacle. As we sat there waiting for the festivities to begin, an elderly lady positioned herself behind us and commented that she’d been coming to the parades here for over 60 years!

I took that as a pretty good endorsement.

Marianne asked her if she had lived here that long, she had, but now spends her winters in Florida. Bar Harbor is no place for wimps in the winter.

The parade finally started about 15 minutes late, par for the course, and just as the natives were getting restless.

After a bit, I noticed that there were no high school marching bands. There was what appeared to be a high school band, but they were riding on the flatbed of a truck, which if you’re any judge of things, you’ll realize that this would indicate it wasn’t a very big band. There was one marching band, a group of Scottish bagpipe players in full dress uniform (and I do stress dress).

As with most small town parades, this one featured its fair share of businesses marching, strange groups tagging along out of step, and automobiles, from an area Corvette club to a few antiques. Our favorite was probably the Shriners, who drove their go-karts up and over a truck with ramps as it was driving down the parade route. We’d never seen anything like it. There were more Shriners in the parade than any other group, not only were there about 8 go-karts, but another half-dozen or so were driving miniature 4x4’s, others on miniature semi-trucks, and still others on miniature boats on wheels. Hey noble!

When we thought the parade was over, we and the thousand or so other people started milling about, heading into the stores, or like us, back to the craft fair, since Marianne still had a few things she needed to touch. Unfortunately the parade wasn’t over, there were still groups trying to go down the now totally blocked parade route. This thing needs a bunch more organization. Maybe that old lady could set them straight or maybe a few of the Shriners.

Back at the craft fair everything was inspected once again, and still not buying anything, we headed back to the campsite through Bar Harbor’s the narrow streets. This turned into a full-fledged traffic jam in this little burg, and it took us about 45 minutes to get back.

We then took the dogs to a part of the campground where they could run free, away from all the other campers. They had a great time chasing each other, and we came upon a huge patch of wild blueberries. We stooped over and picked enough for two meals, with the dogs wondering what we thought was so great about these little things.

Later on we took our bicycles and rode them out of the campground and across the street to a miniature golf site. For $8.50 per person we had our choice of two different courses in this pirate themed attraction, the easy or the hard. We picked the easy one.

This is the kind of golf I like, other than one very tricky hole, I shot par or better on all of the holes. I think I could become a professional putt putt golf player if they had such a tour. Think about it, you only need one club, you don’t need a cart, the courses are in the best tourist traps in the country, you can play 18 holes in about 30 minutes, you don’t have to worry about losing a ball, and even at $8.50 a round it’s much cheaper than the three hour version. Instead of the PGA, it would be the PPPGA, The Professional Putt Putt Golf Association.

That evening I headed back over to the Canadians next door and their campfire, while Marianne stayed inside, reading and emailing.

July 2, 2010 – Day Fifty-six

Wally World!

It’s hard to believe but we’ve put 5,000 miles on the truck since our last oil change in Montgomery, Alabama. We needed to restock supplies, so we headed to Ellsworth, across the bridge back to the mainland, to the Super Wal*Mart. Since these stores sell just about anything you could need, plus they have an auto service center, I decided to try my luck to see if I could get them to do an oil change on my diesel Ford F-250.

Twenty minutes later we were in front of the Wal*Mart service center, and yes, they could do an oil change on my truck. Great I said, and while you’re at it, could you rotate and balance the tires as well? Sure. And how long will this take? Oh, about an hour. Perfect.

We left the truck and headed into the store armed with a shopping cart which we intended to completely fill up.

We bought everything from toilet paper to ice cream (the 100 calorie per serving type – you may remember that I have a fond weakness for ice cream). Marianne bought a $7 waterproof blue watch for kayaking, I bought a plastic bin with lid to store my papers so the dogs wouldn’t get into them again, as well as a brush to clean the truck and trailer in the event we ever get close enough to running water where it’s legal to wash your vehicle.

After an hour of shopping and perusing, I headed back to the auto service department, where they had only finished rotating and balancing the tires. They still needed to change the oil, but don’t worry, they said, that should only take about 20 minutes, and by the way, do you want us to check your air filter, too? Sure, why not.

It took them 20 minutes to figure out how to get the paper element out of the filter, and when they did, it didn’t look all that bad to me, but what the heck, it wouldn’t hurt since it’s probably due according to my recollection. It took another 15 minutes to get it in. And wouldn’t you know it, my truck doesn’t take a simple air filter, oh no, this thing is as big as a Volkswagen and costs $73. Ouch. Oh well, at least now it’s done.

All this time our groceries were starting to get warm, especially the ice cream. In the interest of food safety, I ate two of the ice cream bars.

It was going slower then everyone anticipated, so we decided to put our bag of frozen goodies back into the frozen foods department while we got a bite to eat. Now most Super Wal*Marts I’ve been to have a McDonald’s at least. Not this one.

This one had a Dunkin’ Donuts, which if you’ve ever been on the East Coast is never more than 100 steps from wherever you may be. I wasn’t too excited about having donuts for lunch, being a diabetic and all, and after having eaten those two ice creams bars. But now they serve lunch, including a ham and cheese sandwich. Great, I’ll have one of those. No, we’re out.

So Marianne and I settled for a chicken parmesan sandwich, which we got within a couple of minutes after it had been nuked in the microwave. Marianne wasn’t looking too good, the stress of waiting mixed with the restaurant choice, was wearing on her.

After lunch, we retrieved our bag of frozen food from their freezer and headed back to the auto service department.

Bad news. They had run out of the synthetic Shell Rotella oil they were using to fill my truck. It’s somewhat understandable since the truck uses 15 quarts of oil. But why me, why now?

They had to run to the local NAPA store to pick up another 5 quarts of oil. And they now were feeling embarrassed and sorry for me, so they gave me a $20 discount, plus they gave me the rest of the oil they didn’t have to pour into the truck.

Three hours after we dropped it off, we were finally ready to head back to the trailer.

I was exhausted, so I proceeded to take a two hour nap.

When I woke up, I heard the distinct bell of an ice cream truck echoing throughout the campground. I’d never heard this sound in a campground before. And I never did see an ice cream truck, but rather, a couple in a Ford station wagon. He was holding a bell out of his window and ringing it, yelling, “Pies, get your fresh baked pies…”

I’m a sucker for fresh baked pies harked at campgrounds, so I strolled over, and asked her what kind of pies she had. Apple, blueberry, strawberry/rhubarb. . . .

Strawberry/rhubarb? That was all I needed to hear. And after giving the lady $16 for a homebaked pie, I was all smiles. Along the way she told me that this was their 22^nd year of doing this in the campground.

Let me see, $16 per pie, maybe starting out with 30 pies, that’s almost $500. Do that for the three month season and it’s over $40,000! That’s the business I want to be in. Make a note of that.

For dinner we had corn on the cob we picked up at Wal*Mart and for dessert we had some of the strawberry/rhubarb pie with whipped cream. Heaven. Now that’s camping.

After dinner I spent the evening with the Canadians next door and had a great time by their campfire getting to know them all better.

Before I knew it, it was time to hit the hay. Tomorrow is another day.

July 1, 2010 – Day Fifty-five

Omigosh! It’s July already. It can’t be!

But it is. And we had a rude awakening.

This morning Marianne was the first to get out of bed, and when she opened the door separating the living area from the sleeping area, she gasped. It had looked like the dog had pooped all over the place. There were plentiful small brown mounds dotting the trailer floor.

But Marianne didn’t have her contacts in so she couldn’t see what it really was – shreds of the plush brown bath rug that Coco had apparently snagged by stretching paws underneath the aforementioned door. Once she was able to pull enough of it under the door with her paws, she grabbed it with her teeth, and then dragged the rest of it into the living area, where the dogs are relegated now while we sleep.

Once it was in their total control, they went to town on it. And of course when Marianne caught Molly and Coco at it, they both gave her their classic innocent look. When that didn’t work, they looked at each other as if to blame the other for their misdeeds.

I don’t know why dogs love to demolish bath rugs. Our previous Miniature Schnauzer, Mitzi, had the same mean streak. She’d go after bath rugs in the trailer and both bathrooms at home. Whenever we left home or the trailer, she would punish us with bath rug destruction. As a result, we had to close any doors to bath rooms to avoid further damage whenever we left.

So add bath rugs to receipts and facial tissues as items to totally entertain our dogs.

Once the mess got cleaned up, and we were done lollygagging, it was time to see Acadia National Park, the first national park east of the Mississippi River. The park first attained federal status in 1916 when President Woodrow Wilson, established it as “Sieur de Monts National Monument”, to be administered by the National Park Service. Three years later it did became a national park, with the new name “Lafayette National Park” in honor of the Marquis de Lafayette, an influential French supporter of the American Revolution. Ten years later, park's name was changed yet again to “Acadia National Park”.

The Acadians were the French Catholics who settled in the area but who where hunted, massacred and driven out by the English who didn’t want the French, nor Catholics, in what they considered was their area of the New World, and which would eventually become Canada. Mount Desert Island was as far south as the Acadians settled. Before the mid 18^th century French and Indian War, the English governor declared open season on the Acadians, forcing many to flee in order to avoid being killed. But it was that war that practically eliminated all the remaining Acadians from the area; those that weren’t killed, or who managed to somehow escape, were dispersed among the American Colonies, purposely dividing families. Others were shipped back to France, where they were treated much like cattle in the hold of a ship. There are many heartbreaking stories of these times, but the most notable was the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem, “Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie” published in 1847. It became his most famous work, and forever altered the consciousness of Americans about the plight of the Acadians.

Like Evangeline, the luckiest Acadians to be deported ended up in New Orleans, which at the time was a Spanish possession. The Spanish were not only Catholic, but despised the British as well. Yet, even though Louisiana was about as far as the Acadians could get from their homeland, they flourished in this area. The name Acadian became bastardized into Cajun, and today, over 400,000 descendents of those disposed people live in Louisiana, the largest Acadian population anywhere.

From 1915 to 1933, the wealthy philanthropist John D. Rockefeller, Jr. financed, designed, and directed the construction of a network of carriage trails throughout the park. Along with some of America’s wealthiest people, the Rockefeller’s built huge “summer homes” in the area, to get out of the heat of New York City. Their summer vacations were spent at the Eyrie, a vast rambling 100-room mansion in Seal Harbor on the southeast shore of Mount Desert Island, with neighbors and friends such as members of the Henry Ford family, along with a large retinue of servants, French tutors and governesses. Unfortunately the mansion was demolished by the family in the early 1960’s.

People have been drawn to the rugged coast of Maine throughout history. Awed by its beauty and diversity, and armed with the influence of the rich and famous of the early 20th-century, Acadia National Park has flourished. It is now New England's most popular vacation destination. Today visitors come to Acadia to hike granite peaks, bike historic carriage roads, or relax and enjoy the scenery.

Our first jaunt into the park with the dogs was to head up to the top of Cadillac Mountain. At 1,532 feet, it is the highest point along the North Atlantic seaboard and is the first place to view sunrise in the United States from October 7 through March 6. On top, the vistas offered views for miles in all directions, from out into the Atlantic, the various islands both large and small, as well as back to the Maine mainland.

As everywhere, the dogs are a people magnet for both young and old alike. Kids love petting Coco, who is so glad to get the attention she will strain at her leash trying to jump up on her latest victim. Molly on the other had, still doesn’t like kids too much, so she’ll shirk away, but then is forced to acquiesce when she sees Coco getting all of the attention. Old people come up and lament how much they miss their dogs at home.

We were also scoping out possible places to go kayaking. Jordon Pond, which is practically in the middle of the island, is a perfect spot, since it even has a boat ramp for launching. I don’t know why it’s called a pond since it is larger than many lakes I’ve been in.

Two knobs sit at one end of Jordan Pond called the North and South Bubbles. The Jordan Pond House is a famous restaurant known for serving tea and popovers on the lawn for over a century. This, one of the most popular restaurants on Mount Desert Island, is the only restaurant that is within park land. There is also a 2½ mile hiking path that loops around the entire pond offering some stunning views.  This became our #1 choice for kayaking.

We left the dogs in the car and had a scrumptious lunch at the restaurant. I had a mouth-watering cup of lobster bisque, which was loaded with lobster. I also had as one of those popovers, a very light, hollow muffin made with eggs, milk, and flour called puff batter (individual Yorkshire pudding), and baked in a deep muffin cup, where the top falls over the edge, henceforth the name. Served with butter and strawberry jam it is to die for. I liked it so much that I ordered another one with my after lunch coffee for dessert, and dined overlooking the pond as Marianne checked out the gift shop.

We headed back to the trailer the long way home, finding the one way road that winds through the park, and discovering Northeast Harbor, a quaint little fishing village that isn’t as crowded as Bar Harbor.

After a few wrong turns and even a rain squall or two, we finally made it back to the trailer.

I had worried about the rain, wondering if I had tilted our awning enough so that it wouldn’t catch the rain. I didn’t and it did. Using a broom, I was able to push gallons of water off the awning. I now use this trick, since once before I just tried just lowering one side of the awning support, when it collapsed, causing it to break.

Camped next to us was a family from St. Johns, Nova Scotia. They were just setting up their campfire for the night so I introduced myself to them. They were very friendly and had come to this campground several times before. This time, they were accompanied by two other families in their own trailers. They frequently drive in this caravan when camping, and they love camping in the United States.

We talked America, Canada, camping, traveling, and families until 10pm that night when everyone retired to their respective trailers for our much needed sleep.

June 30, 2010 - Day Fifty-four

Shopping!

Around noon we drove the eight miles into downtown Bar Harbor to walk the main street and check out the stores.

Finding parking for a Ford F-250 4x4 is not as easy as for a “normal” car. This thing is huge, and it has a turning radius to match. Bar Harbor is a quaint “little” town. Little town and huge truck normally don’t go together, but today the parking gods were with us and we found a great spot and it was simple to get into – it offered plenty of room in front of it so I could easily maneuver the truck into place.

And best of all the first shop closest to the truck was one dedicated just to men: The Man Store. All the paraphernalia inside was dedicated to the male of the species. I’ve seen most of it before, but it did offer some unique gifts, but all of them were over-priced. That’s the reality of life in a tourist town, where the nearest Wal*Mart is across the bridge on the mainland.

As I’ve said before, Marianne loves to shop. She can spend hours looking and touching everything that piques her interest in a store. She loves doing this. But it drives me crazy.

It was explained to me that women are gatherers, and men are hunters. Women need to examine all the available goods to determine if any are worthy for their dowry. Men on the other hand know what they want, go to the specific store that sells the item, and then buy it. Down and dirty. Quick and easy.

Marianne’s way of shopping is painful for me since it’s mostly looking and not buying, so as soon as she veered into the first store that attracted her attention, I counterveered into an ice cream store and purchased a no sugar added cone, found myself a bench on the main street, and watched the world walk and drive by for the next 45 minutes.

I also took this opportunity to take some photographs of this picturesque downtown area.

When Marianne came up for air, I decided to join her shopping. I found a shop that had some “Acadia National Park” T-shirts in my size, and bit later I found a sweatshirt with the word MAINE across the front for $9. The hunter in me bagged these targets.

After a couple of hours of my hunting and Marianne’s gathering we headed back to the trailer and the dogs to recuperate.

All refreshed we headed across the street from the campground to a “lobster pound” place. This is where one can purchase lobster by the pound, either to have it cooked on the spot and eaten off of paper plates, or packaged to travel. We elected to eat ours on site.

The restaurant isn’t too much more than a drive-in shack, with plastic chairs and tables, both inside and out. Because the air was cool again, we elected to eat our dinner indoors. When we arrived, there was only one other couple eating, and they were outside, so we had the half-dozen white plastic tabled indoor dining area all to ourselves.

They advertised a $13.95 special: lobster with corn on the cob and coleslaw; a great deal, but the large lady behind the counter claimed that they were out of lobsters that were small enough to make this profitable for them, the typical bait and switch scheme. Instead we paid $18.95 each for two lobsters that weighed about 1-3/4 pounds each, which also came with the corn and slaw.

We got to pick out the lobster we wanted to eat. This is somewhat painful for me, since it’s a lot like going to the pet store and picking out a puppy, and then eating that puppy. Well, maybe not quite, since I didn’t try to make eye contact with my meal, nor did I play with it.

The winner, for you, or loser, for the lobster, is then immediately placed into a boiling tub of water, and in 15 minutes we were served our dinner. Before I dug into mine, I asked the lady what the proper way to eat this lobster was. She explained to me where I could find the most meat and how to get at it, while Marianne insisted I put on the plastic bib, since she’s seen me eat before.

The lobster was tasty, and as we left the table with lobster shells piled high, the restaurant became busier, good for the restaurant, bad for the lobsters.

With full stomachs we headed back to the trailer to digest and slumber.

June 29, 2010 – Day Fifty-three

It was a gorgeous day as we were departing Twin Mountain; I was ready to stay longer but we needed to get to Bar Harbor, Maine. Our destination, the Bar Harbor Campground, doesn’t accept reservations and it’s the closest campground to Bar Harbor and the surrounding Acadia National Park. I called and was informed that if I would get there by mid-week, I wouldn’t have any problem getting a site. Because I didn’t want to risk it, so today we headed toward the Atlantic Coast and Mt. Desert Island.

Just ten minutes after leaving the KOA campground, I observe this weird looking dog doing a strange lope across the road about 100 yards in front of the truck. When I get closer, I see that it’s not a dog at all but a black bear cub!

Like Vermont, New Hampshire is also very narrow on its east/west border, so within no time at all we were in Maine, the last state I needed to visit in the lower 48. Now I have only one more state to visit and I will have been to them all, Alaska.

Marianne still has four states left, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, North Dakota, as well as Alaska.

We arrived at the Bar Harbor Campground about mid afternoon, and upon checking in, were informed that there were still a few sites left with full hook-ups, and more without sewer, and even more without anything. Their policy is to let you find a site you like, set up your campsite, and then come back to the office and pay for that site. And they don’t accept credit cards, only cash, $40/night. Pay for six nights and you get the seventh one free.

We were glad to get in when we did, because we think we got the last great site in the entire park, a super huge spot with a big shade tree and centrally located. With the Fourth of July just days away, we decided not to risk going anywhere else because we believed that every campsite in the Northeast, or anywhere else in the country, will have been taken. So we decided to stay here until Monday, the day after the 4^th.

In early September 1604, French explorer Samuel de Champlain ran aground on a rock ledge believed to be just off Otter Cliffs, a short distance from present day Bar Harbor. When he came ashore to repair his boat he was met by the local natives, the Wabanaki Indians, who seasonally fished, hunted and gathered berries, clams, and other shellfish in the area. Champlain named the island Isles des Monts Deserts, meaning "island of barren mountains" — now called Mount Desert Island, the largest in Maine.

First settled in 1763 the community was incorporated in 1796 as Eden, after Sir Richard Eden, an English statesman. In the 1840's, the rugged maritime scenery attracted the Hudson River School and Luminism artists like Thomas Cole, Frederic Edwin Church, William Hart and Fitz Henry Lane. Inspired by their paintings, journalists, sportsmen and "rusticators" followed. By 1880, there were 30 hotels, with tourists arriving by train and ferry to the Gilded Age resort that would rival Newport, Rhode Island. The rich and famous tried to outdo each other with their entertaining and their estates. In 1918, Eden was changed to Bar Harbor, after the sand and gravel bar, visible at low tide, which leads across to Bar Island and forms the rear of the harbor. The name would become synonymous with elite wealth. It was the birthplace of vice-president Nelson Rockefeller in 1908.

In mid-October 1947, Maine experienced a severe drought. Sparks at a cranberry bog near the town ignited a wildfire that would intensify over 10 days, and not be declared out until mid-November. Nearly half the eastern side of Mount Desert Island burned, including 67 palatial summer houses on Millionaires' Row, 170 permanent homes, and five historic grand hotels were also destroyed. Over 10,000 acres of Acadia National Park were ravaged. Fortunately, the town's business district was spared, including Mount Desert Street, where several former summer homes within a historic district listed on the National Register of Historic Places are now operated as inns.

The campground had excellent WiFi coverage as well, so I didn’t have to use my Verizon wireless broadband to connect, since last month I was almost to my maximum limit of 5Gb. But I will admit that this was the first time I had used it as extensively I had, and Marianne uploading her scores of photos pushed us very close to that limit.

Using their WiFi, I logged on to one of my bank accounts and transferred money from savings to checking. Since it was at the same bank, I was credited with the funds immediately. I then walked to the office and used their ATM (how convenient, since they don’t accept credit cards) and tried to withdraw $500 because I hate paying those ATM fees especially when the banks pay a paltry 1% on certificate of deposit accounts.

But no, I could only withdraw a maximum of $300, plus the $3 service charge – 1%. Armed with my fresh cash I paid $120 for three nights, knowing that I would have to hit another ATM with another service charge to pay for the additional three nights I wanted to stay.

Six nights is the longest we have elected to stay anywhere; this place is not only beautiful, but there are many things to do here, for us it would sightseeing, bicycling, kayaking, shopping, and relaxing – plus eating lobster.

This was the first place we had been to where I needed to put a sweater on as the sun was setting. In fact it was getting downright cool! And when the night came the temperatures dropped low enough that I fired up the electric ceramic heater inside the trailer, for the dogs, since we like sleeping when it’s cooler. Heck, Marianne always sleeps with a small fan just above her pillow, blowing on her all night.

For all there is to do here, we sure didn’t do too much this first day here.

June 28, 2010 – Day Fifty-two

We woke up to a slight drizzle at the Twin Mountain, New Hampshire KOA, which was sad, since we were going to go to the top of Mt. Washington, but if summit was in the clouds, it wouldn’t be worth it.

We decided to go to downtown Twin Mountain and get breakfast. There’s a problem with this since there isn’t a downtown in Twin Mountain, but rather a sparsely populated business corridor, where we ended up finding probably one of the only restaurants in town. It was almost full, since we got the last table that was open.

Their menu pricing was great; I could get my favorite, Eggs Benedict, again for only $6.50. While eating breakfast we noticed that the couple parked next to us in the KOA were also here for breakfast. They had been here a day or two earlier, and had come from where we’d be heading, Bar Harbor; we pumped them for information, which they freely gave.

The famous cog train up the mountain takes three hours, one hour up, one hour at the top and one hour down. It costs $62/person and only goes about 2-3 mph. For a while it sounded interesting, but after talking to the couple, we deemed it wasn’t worth the price, plus it was boring. For $6 one can drive the road up the mountain, but because of the rain we decided that wasn’t to be.

But they did highly recommend Franconia Notch State Park with its famed flume. They also filled us in on what we should see and do in Bar Harbor.

After a leisurely breakfast we headed back to the KOA, but Marianne spotted an old fashioned general store. This store also had groceries, and a gas station out front which even sold diesel. As I was filling the truck with diesel, Marianne disappeared inside. For the next ½ hour we perused all the aisles, rooms and even the second level of this remarkable store. They had a little of everything, but best of all we found a wall-mounted mechanical can opener just like the one we have in our trailer to give to my sister and brother-in-law, who have the exact same model trailer as we do.

After that serious shopping we prepared to head to “The Flume”, with the dogs.

It’s a ½ mile hike from the visitor’s center to the beginning of the trail for “The Flume” then another ½ mile or so up the trail to actually see it, which is a narrow slot canyon through which cascading water plummets more than 50 feet. We left the dogs in the truck with windows partially down. The temperature was cool due the overcast sky and rain drizzle. Since we didn’t want to spend the extra time (and energy) walking from the visitor’s center to the trailhead, we rode their shuttle bus instead, shortening our hike by 50%.

This place was as truly beautiful as our campground neighbors had claimed. And because of the weather, we only saw about a dozen other people hiking the trail. The subdued lighting gave both of us a great opportunity to play dueling cameras. It was intense, as we jockeyed for camera angles in a vain attempt to try to outdo each other to capture the perfect photo of this great place. We photographed the water, the trees, their roots, the rocks and flowers, from close-ups to panoramas.

And when we rush back to the trailer, we load our photos into our respective computers, edit them in Google’s Picasa (a great program), and then call to the other to have them see our latest slide show masterpiece. Too funny.

After Franconia we headed for the Mt. Washington Hotel. This place makes me feel like I’ve met the Hotel Del Coronado’s east coast sister. But instead of overlooking the Pacific Ocean, this hotel sits in the shadows of Mt. Washington.

The Mount Washington Hotel area is better known as Bretton Woods, and includes the nearby Bretton Woods ski resort. The hotel was constructed for $1.7 million by Joseph Stickney, a native of Waltham, Massachusetts, who had made a fortune before the age of 30 as a Pennsylvania-based coal broker. When construction started in 1900 on the Y-shaped building, he brought in 250 Italian artisans to build it, particularly the granite and stucco masonry. The hotel opened July 28, 1902. At the opening ceremony, Stickney told the audience: "Look at me, gentlemen ... for I am the poor fool who built all this!" Within a year he was dead at the age of 64.

The hotel was a success, but with the advent of income tax, Prohibition and the Great Depression, the hospitality business was rapidly declining. In 1936, upon the death of his widow, Foster Reynolds, Mrs. Stickney's nephew, inherited the hotel, which then closed in 1942 because of World War II. In 1944, a Boston syndicate bought the extensive property for about $450,000. At the hotel that year, the Bretton Woods monetary conference took place, a conference that created the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank, a system of rules, institutions, and procedures to regulate the international monetary system, all of which today is part of the World Bank Group.

After a day of sightseeing we spent the next couple of hours washing and drying our clothes. A necessary evil.

We wrapped up a full day by relaxing the rest of the evening in the trailer, once again blogging and uploading photos.

June 27, 2010 – Day Fifty-one

The dogs normally awaken us around daybreak, which depending upon the tree canopy we’re camped under, can start as early as 4:34am – way too early to be getting out of bed for normal humans.

We could hear the dogs wrestling with each other, and when I finally dragged myself out of my cocoon at 5:15am I was shocked to see that the floor of the trailer was littered with shreds of paper.

These were receipts I’m anal about recording into my accounting program. But I couldn’t blame the dogs for their misdeeds, since I failed to properly block off the area were I stowed those receipts.

I awakened Marianne to allow her to savor the destruction. As I walked the dogs for their morning constitutional, she gathered up all the confetti and laid it in a pile for me to see what I could do with it.

I spent the next hour working on one of the most complex jigsaw puzzles I had ever done, Scotch-taping these shreds back into recognizable receipts. I have to admit I did a pretty good job, but there were some with holes, which were probably the parts that the dogs ate.

From this lesson I learned that if we ever run out of dog food, we can feed them Kleenex and receipts, since they love them and try to eat them every chance they get.

We loaded up the trailer and headed to Vermont. Marianne had never been to Vermont so it’s another state for her to check off. I was pretty sure I was there, but this would confirm it.

Our first stop in the state was the birthplace of Calvin Coolidge, the 30^th President of the United States. As the vice-president under Warren Harding, he began his term upon Harding’s strange death in San Francisco in 1923. He was sworn in by his father, the local notary public, shortly before 3am in the family living room here in Plymouth Notch, a home without a telephone or electricity. A messenger had to deliver the news of Harding’s demise. After he was sworn in, he went back to bed. Later that morning he returned to Washington where he was sworn in again, since there was some doubt that a state notary public could administer the oath of office to a president. Calvin was elected on his own right in 1924, but uttered the memorable words, “If nominated I will not run, if elected I will not serve,” when he could have run again in 1928.

Finding Plymouth Notch is not easy. First off, the State of Vermont administers the site, unlike the federal government for both of the Roosevelt homes, and secondly, Vermont doesn’t allow billboard signs, so all you see are little highway signs for businesses, and some of these signs are very well hidden by shrubbery.

But we found it.

There was a large meadow next to the nearly empty gravel parking lot where we let the dogs run. And run they did – chasing each other at full speed, like they do now whenever we let them loose on a place where they can safely run.

The admission to the hamlet of Plymouth Notch, which has only about eight buildings, at least two of which are barns, was only $7. As a state historical site my Golden Eagle pass didn’t work, but my AAA card was worth a 50¢ discount. The admission price for the both of us it was only $13.

There were probably only a dozen tourists at the site.

Docents provided the staffing; one docent sold the entrance tickets, another provided the information on Calvin’s dad-owned store to which a tiny home was attached where Calvin was born, another one ran the still functioning store, and one more was at the home across the dirt road from the store where Calvin moved when he was four. This is the house where he was sworn in as President.

The docents were proud to state the furniture in the two homes was the actual furniture that was in those homes during Calvin’s time. This was unlike other presidential homes, which often use reproductions or similar period pieces.

In the summer of 1924 while he was in office, Coolidge's younger son, Calvin, Jr., developed a blister from playing tennis on the White House courts. The blister became infected, and within days Calvin, Jr., only 16 years old, developed blood poisoning and died. After that Coolidge became withdrawn and later stated in his autobiography that, "when he died, the power and glory of the Presidency went with him." This, probably more than anything, prompted the quote I mentioned earlier.

Calvin’s wife, Grace, who was his exact opposite in personality: she was talkative and fun-loving, while he was quiet and serious, declared that she never wanted to spend another summer in Washington, DC. All of the states vied for the opportunity to host the Coolidge’s as their summer White House, but for a reason I never understood, they picked the Black Hills of South Dakota. Once I visited this area, I discovered why: these areas are strikingly similar, yet the Black Hills didn’t carry with it the emotions of a lost son.

There was also a small working cheese factory in the hamlet that doubles as gift store, as well as the tiny church where the Coolidge family worshipped. We spent a little more than an hour checking everything out before heading further east.

Vermont is not a very big state, and its east-west borders are only about 110 miles apart where we crossed, so in no time we were in New Hampshire, a state that neither of us had ever been to before.

While Vermont has the Green Mountains, New Hampshire has the White Mountains. We were headed to the KOA at Twin Mountain, in the shadow of Mt. Washington, the highest peak in the Northeastern United States at 6,288 ft. It is famous for its dangerously erratic weather, and long held the record for the highest wind gust directly measured at the Earth's surface, 231 mph on the afternoon of April 12, 1934.

For New Englanders, these are impressive mountains, for us in North San Diego County, it’s no big deal since Palomar Mountain is only 150’ lower than Mt. Washington, and the San Bernardino Mountains are about a mile higher. But we have nowhere near that kind of wind speed, thank heavens!

Driving through Vermont and New Hampshire we were impressed. The little towns are “darling” (Marianne’s term). We saw several covered bridges, and there were signs to be on the lookout for moose crossing the road – we never saw any.

We were only going to spend one night here, but it turned out there was so much to do, so we elected to spend a second night.

There’s a crispness in the evening air that makes sleeping without an air conditioner possible and enjoyable.

Sweet dreams!