Day 71. Rockland/Rockport to Orland, 53 miles

My mood broke today, a huge relief. The weather wasn’t the fix: it rained on and off and often hard enough that I was regularly stopping to put on my rain jacket or remove it and was cool enough that getting real wet wasn’t a great idea. (My feet were on day two of wet shoes, but some problems aren’t solvable.) There was less climbing, “only” 3300 feet, but I don’t know if that was it either; that’s in line with the climbing that made me so miserable the other day. I think that I mismanaged my expectations. Chris had warned me about Maine in East Glacier, as had Bob and Cheryl at Sully Creek, but I did the two big climbs and thought I had it in the bag. And then I was unpleasantly surprised when it was hard. The worst part was I did it one day and then did the same thing again the next day: “okay, NOW I got this.” But by today I’d adjusted my expectations—“well, this is just going to be miserable, so let’s get okay with that”—and BOOM: mood improved. That’s my theory.

I woke up to a puddle on one side of my tent footprint, but a largely dry tent (soaked fly, of course). It was sprinkling such that it took a while longer to get ready; packing my panniers in the tent vestibule so everything doesn’t get wet while I pack it is a cramped and slow process. And although it was misty, the campground was on the actual ocean, and it felt foolish to leave without seeing it, so I walked down to the overlook point.

I hit the road around 8, and first thing out was the revelation that I was closer to Rockport than I thought and had already climbed most of a 450-footer, a rough climb, yesterday getting to the campground. Expectations exceeded!

Because of the rain that was predicted all day, it would have been the only time on tour that I wasn’t able to dry my tent during the day, except that it didn’t matter because I didn’t need to sleep in it tonight and could dry it at Nate and Laura’s. So fortuitous!

The riding was classic Maine lovely, and I didn’t hate it anymore.

Camden was cute.

I stopped at the side of the road outside Camden to ogle some tiny islands with correspondingly-sized houses on them. You can’t see the houses in the photos, but each of those copses of trees surrounds a house, and it looks magical.

The map had advised strongly against shortcutting its route by taking US 1 from Camden to Belfast, though the ACA route is significantly longer/less direct, not coastal, and, of course, steeply graded. I took their counsel and, armed with my new fatalism, went at the hills I’d put in front of myself.

It was good riding. Real hard at times, but it didn’t feel as hard as before. I could smirk and say “of course” when I went up a hill, made a right, and kept climbing; this is very different from the things I said in the same circumstances over the last two days, few of which would pass Jennifer’s excellent NYT test for email content (would you be okay seeing it published in the NYT?).

Belfast had a charming misty harbor.

Stockton Springs had a cemetery with a view.

Verona Island, Bucksport, and one brutal country road called Dark Mountain Road I turned right onto and straight into an 11-13% grade, and I was at the Orland Community Center, which appears to be, along with neighboring town hall, all of Orland.

I texted Nate and Laura, and Nate headed over to pick me up. While I waited, I amused myself by standing in the intermittent rain while leaning against a wet picnic table, putting up and taking down the hood of my rain jacket. (Orland’s community center playground does not boast a gazebo or covered patio, to its detriment.)

I loaded my filthy, wet bike into Nate’s car, and we headed back to their place a half hour away (by car). Their beautiful place, with the swankest guest suite and their dog Jeannie and cat Ned (SO SORRY—no photos) and amazing deck, which we sat on drinking beers and talking until it started raining again. Friends ❤️

Then we went to Bangor for dinner and ate the most ridiculously delicious fries, which had both kimchi and pork belly on them? Back to the house for more hangs, followed by reluctant yawns and bedtime in the most comfortable bed, knowing that holy unprintable, tomorrow is my last day.