Rock Salt Journal

Editor's Note

My brother and his fiancée threw a joint “bach” party in Bar Harbor. Their college friends own a house two blocks from the village center, a cute white cottage with red shutters and a mountain view. Shiny hardwood floors, wrap-around deck, sheets and blankets soft as kitten fur. Three hours from the closest city, probably swarming with tourists when the clock strikes midnight on May first. Seven-dollar kiddy cones, eleven-dollar milkshakes.

I like to weigh the pros and cons of all the places I visit as if the housing market will one day collapse and I’ll be able to buy any house I want (or any house at all). By the end of the weekend, I concluded I’d be willing to give Bar Harbor a try. It was far, but not too far, expensive, but hey, I was pretending. Being an island boy, the bridge from Mount Desert Island seems a fair compromise between ferryboat commuting and city living. And I do love the mountains.

After a night of corralling the over-drinkers and feeling awkward around Millenials I’ve never met, the “men” climbed Door Mountain, while everyone else stayed behind painting nails, drinking nine-o’clock vodka sodas, eating waffles (or so I heard).

We rose quickly. Trees turned to shrubs, walking to clambering. Soon we could see Bar Harbor below us and the islands beyond. Fog swallowed parts of the bay, hiding islands for a few minutes at a time before rolling on. We reached the top and sat. Someone asked if we were ready to descend. Everyone said no.

“Glaciers carved the softer rock out, shaping the valley between Door and Cadillac,” said Andrew.

We started arguing about whether dogs or humans could run further. The humans would have to be in peak condition of course, but I think they’d win.

Anyway, some of the following stories made me cry. Welcome back, I hope you cry too.

— J.B. Marlow, Editor