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| On Beech Mountain over looking a mist shrouded Echo Lake |
Apparently vacations, in the modern sense, come from the
idea of students “vacating” schools during the summer months, although the rich
have taken holidays since the middle ages. Around the start of the 19th
century, a good deal of America’s population was driven by the Puritan work
ethic. Simple concept: work good—play bad. So idling away summer days at a lake
or island resort wasn’t popular. Vacations were also impossible for most of the
working class who at that time were mostly farmers. The work of farming, as it
turns out, is done mostly in summer, and not many had a mind to take vacations
in winter. So it was the rich—who coincidently were idle most of the time
anyway—that went on vacations, but not for fun. Apparently “fun” was also
considered bad. I imagine smiling was evil too—remember we’re talking about the
“good” old days here.
Instead people of means went on vacations for their
health. This was a time of wide spread tuberculosis and a belief in the curing properties
of air and natural spring waters, made Saratoga Springs one of the first
vacation resorts. A lot of early vacation destinations had the word “spring” in
the name for this reason.
The poor, got into the act, but rather than vacationing
for health, it was religion that drove them. Going on a religious retreat was
safe as the temptations of idleness like drinking, smoking, dancing, swimming,
and most importantly, sexual temptations, were restricted. By the later part of
the 19th century the railroad had the idea of building hotels at the end of
their lines and promoting vacations. The super rich of the Gilded Age had their
own train cars that would take them to great camps like those in the
Adirondacks and Acadia.
The Vanderbilts,
Durants, Astors, Rockafellers, and Carnegies went on holiday, but these people
didn’t take a weekend off for a whirlwind tour of Disney World, Epcot, and
Universal Studios. They left the city and lived on the lakes in the woods for
the entire summer. They brought libraries of books and read extensively. They
brought paints and easels creating art like we take photos. They went on
week-long canoe trips—not as their vacation, but as one small aspect to their
vacation. They wrote poetry, learned how to play instruments, created butterfly
collections.
As mentioned one
of those locations haunted by the ultra-rich was Acadia, Maine—Bar Harbor to be
exact. They built palatial cottages along the Atlantic’s picturesque rocky
coast. Then in 1947 a fire wiped it all out. 200,000 acres, 851 permanent home
and 397 seasonal cottages were destroyed in what was called “the year Maine
burned.” The rich didn’t rebuild…well not the Gilded Age rich at least.
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| Bar Harbor Inn |
Still when my
wife and I first stumbled on Acadia National Park nearly thirty years ago it appeared
to be mighty well off to us. At the time Robin and I were in our early twenties
and on a whirlwind tour of New England in a Capri hatchback. Too poor to stay
in hotels, we camped in our tiny dome tent at KOAs along the road and ate
campfire cooked sausages wrapped in bread and butter for breakfast. We wandered
the shops and streets of Bar Harbor marveling at the beautiful inns and high
priced shops and fantasized about one day staying at the legendary Bar Harbor
Inn right there at the park on the waterfront. We’d imagined sipping mint
juleps under the yellow umbrellas and watching the Margaret Todd—the only four-masted schooner in Frenchmen’s Bay—set
out on her sunset sail from the end of the dock. It was a nice dream that I
knew would never happen. That’s what dreams were back then, impossible desires. But I didn’t care because my best wish had
already come true. I’d married Robin the year before.
We had a great
time on that trip climbing the mountains of Acadia, even the infamous Precipice
Trail that sorely tested Robin’s fear of heights as it’s a 1000 foot
non-technical cliff climb with narrow ledges and iron rung ladders up the face
of Mount Champlain. Not long after Robin and I moved to Vermont. We visited
Acadia several times, but never scaled the Precipice again and never managed to
stay in Bar Harbor.
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| Climbing Precipice Trail 27 years ago |
For the last
seven years we haven’t taken vacations. Just too busy, I suppose. The Puritans
would be proud. Then last year, as you may recall, I went out to Death Valley
on a research trip for a novel, which turned into an unexpected week long
Californian adventure with my wife and son due to earthquakes, hurricanes and
forest fires. It turned out to be a lot of fun, so this year we thought we’d
try again. My son never saw Acadia, so we decided to introduce him to the adventure grounds of our youth. Hobbits adventuring once more into the
Misty Mountains, only this time we could afford more than a campsite.
So last week,
Robin, my son, and I flew to Bangor, drove down to Acadia, and achieved that
thirty-year-old dream of staying at the Bar Harbor Inn. We sat on the veranda
under the bright yellow umbrellas and sipped rum punch like characters in The Great Gatsby. We took the sunset cruise on the Margaret
Todd, where my son helped hoist the main sail, and we returned to the
Precipice.
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| My son James climbing precipice 2012 |
I wasn’t certain if I could climb that mountain
trail again, but my eighteen year old son was determined, and I wouldn’t let
him go alone. Robin was also determined to retrace her steps. I honestly didn’t
think either of us would make it, and before we even reached the cliff face
Robin waved us on. I figured she planned to just wait, but she only wanted to
go slower and didn't want to make us wait. My son and I reached the top and heading back down found Robin more
than three-quarters up. Terrified of the height, but even more stubborn, she pressed on not looking
down until she stood at the top. We went biking through the park in the rain,
had pop-overs at Jordan House, took a carriage ride and had other adventures,
but seeing Robin reach the top of the precipice once more and those drinks
under the yellow umbrellas were the highlight for me.
And while some
people find a unique shell or pretty stone that they pick up off a beach or
trail as a souvenir, I found an idea for part of a story. Just the sort of
thing I’d been looking for. That’s the problem with authors and vacations—leaving
the smart phone and laptop at home won’t stop us from working. I suppose it
might have made the Puritans happy to know that, but then again, happiness was
also probably frowned upon.
