Since arriving in Maine, I’ve explored much of the region outside of Mount Desert Island, including Ellsworth and Trenton. I’ve explored Bar Harbor and the immense Cadillac Mountain; I’ve also witnessed its mesmerizing sunrise. But, I have yet to hike a challenging trek. Sure, I’ve taken a few leisurely hikes but not an arduous one—a hike that would leave me feeling exhausted, weak in the legs, and with calloused feet. The paths were beckoning me; I had to answer their call. I had to discover what lies within the forest and atop the mountains of Acadia National Park.

While at my camp on a sunny Saturday morning, cooking scrambled eggs and toast over my camping stove, I opened my Acadia Park Map in search of adventure. Scanning the map for a trail that would satisfy my desire for excitement, I came across Jordan Pond, a body of water that lies between Pemetic Mountain to the east and Penobscot Mountain to the west. As I skimmed this section of the map, I found Sargent Mountain, located just north of Penobscot Mountain. I recall seeing Sargent Mountain as I ascended Cadillac Mountain in my lumbering, white metal box—a trip that nearly ended in negligent death. I thought: ‘This will be perfect. Today, I will climb Sargent Mountain.’

I needed to find a starting point, a trailhead. I could see on the map that there was a trail that led from the northern edge of Jordan Pond to the peak of Sargent. There was a parking lot along the Park Loop Road (a scenic, oceanside roadway that circles Cadillac Mountain) that is parallel with the northern edge of the pond. I thought this would be perfect. I will begin my trek from the trailhead near that parking lot and head west, hike along the northern edge of Jordan Pond, and then begin my ascent up to the peak of Sargent Mountain.

It would only take me a half-hour to drive to that location, and once I arrived, I would finally be where I wanted to be—on an unknown trail in the middle of Mount Desert Island (at least unknown to me). With my plans now in place, I quickly finished my breakfast, sprung from my red, tattered camping chair, swung open the hatch of my ship, started the engine, and drove off. In my impetuous excitement, I didn’t even have the care to clean-up from my morning meal. I left the remnants to the flies and small woodland critters.

It was now noon, and as I approached my destination—the parking lot parallel to Northern Jordan Pond—I could see that finding a spot was unlikely. The entire lot was full. While slightly panicking, and with many obscenities coursing through my mind, I continued following the loop road hoping I would find another roadside divergence. I eventually found one, but it was at the southern end of Jordan Pond, opposite of where I had intended to begin my adventure. I immediately claimed a spot for my van and parked.

Now I’m thinking: ‘Do I have enough time to hike around Jordan Pond and scale Sargent Mountain? Should I hike around the pond today and maybe return tomorrow to hike Sargent?’ If I began my hike from the south side of Jordan Pond, it would add a couple of miles to an already unknown distance. I took a look at the map hoping I could gauge the distance around the pond coupled with the climb up the mountain, but unfortunately, the National Park Service does not list trail distances on their map (who designs a map without including trail length!?), and without cellphone service, I could not Google any information. So, there was no way I would know how far the trek would be.

With this knowledge now in mind (or the lack thereof), I prepared for an “expedition.” In case I decided to climb Sargent, I packed my backpack with enough food to last me into the evening. I made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, grabbed a few bananas and granola bars, and stuffed them into my backpack. To ensure I would not become hungry on the trail and so that the food I brought would last, I ate a chicken sandwich and some potato chips before leaving my abode. I also drank plenty of water because once I reached the summit of Sargent Mountain, I knew there would be no water to be found. My 32-ounce water bottle would be all I had for the duration of the hike. After I finished eating, I cleaned up my mess, exited the van, affixed my pack and hit the trail.

As I began my hike from the trailhead, the path leads with a descent through a thickly wooded area. It was a quick walk because, within minutes, I arrived at the pond and an intersecting trail. I was awestruck by what I saw—a massive pond, which could easily be considered a lake, laying at the base of Sargent and Penobscot Mountains. The scene was spectacular, with a brilliant blue sky, green, vibrant conifers, and the most pristine body of water I’ve ever seen. I’ve never in my life beheld a natural water source as crystal clear and clean as this one. It looked so refreshing that if I were thirsty, I would lay prone and plunge my face into the cold, transparent liquid, and like a moose satisfying its thirst, I would drink continuously until surfeit. It would be the best water I’ve ever tasted. Although, I would not take a sip. I did not want to taint the precious water source.

The intersecting path that I came upon was the Jordan Pond loop. It, apparently, circles the entirety of the pond. As I gazed upon the landscape, I become emboldened by the scenery that lied before me—Jordan Pond, and beyond that, Sargent Mountain. I was now instilled with excitement and motivation. With the sudden influx of confidence, I decided that no matter how long it took, I would hike the entirety of the Sargent and Penobscot Mountains ranges—even if night fell before I finished. I began to venture along the southern side of the pond, and then, I would continue along the western side of the trail heading north towards Sargent.

The path around the pond is captivating, almost otherworldly when compared to the majority of the United States—a land filled with fast-food restaurants, shopping malls, and garbage collected along roadways. Even the many state and national parks that I have visited throughout my lifetime have never matched the perfection, cleanliness, and allure of Acadia National Park. The valley where the pond lies has many different types of flora such as spruce and birch; moss covers much of the forest floor; lichens grow upon the rocks, and many wildflowers radiate their flamboyance to the unsuspecting hiker.

The Jordan Pond trail is a very popular trail because it’s attractive and easily accessible, and coupled with the Jordan Pond House it summons tourists from miles around. There were many people on this trail. I loathed this. There were amateur hikers like me who hiked at a moderate pace, didn’t get in my way, and were courteous. I did not mind my fellow seasoned hiker, but what I hated were the “family hikers.” These hikers—actually, more like lost wandering cattle—are composed of man, wife, and children. Though troublesome, slow, and occasionally aggravating, I would quickly pass the troop, leaving them behind me as the parents yelled and scolded their children.

Traveling around the south end of the pond, I could see in the distance the Jordan Pond House, a gray building with blue trim, dozens of windows, and a large deck that stands along three-quarters of the building. According to a work titled The Story of Jordan Pond (1915) by T.A. McIntire (and apparently the owner of the house at the time of publication), the first Jordan Pond House was built in 1847 by George and John Jordan. The Jordan brothers bought the property from William Bennet in 1839, which included a small home and two sawmills. The Jordan brothers would work these mills for many years, clearing valleys and stripping mountainsides of their trees.

The original pond house does not remain. It was replaced in 1982 by what stands today, a tourist mecca second only to Bar Harbor. It offers fine dining, carriage rides, and, of course, a gift shop. I have absolutely no interest in visiting this building, no matter how historical and celebrated the original pond house was. I’m here for the natural environment. I’m here to hike and gaze at the beauty of the natural world, not browse a gift shop with every piece of merchandise stamped with “Jordan Pond House” and surround by fanny-pack wearing imbeciles.

As I continued my walk north along the Jordan Pond trail, I came to a section of the path that is raised and composed of wooden planks. This elevated narrow timber walkway is similar in size to the moving walkways found in airports; although these platforms were not going to aid my progression, in fact, they would hinder it. The wooden path serves to protect the surrounding ecosystem and annoy the hell out of me. Instead of a broad, wide expanse of trail way, I’m confined to a slender plank footbridge.

After walking roughly a quarter mile on the walkway, I came to a sudden stop. Along the shore of Jordan Pond, there was a hold-up along the trail, a saunter traffic jam. I stopped because there was a line of a dozen or so hikers just standing, waiting. Looking past the hikers in front of me, I could see the cause of it. The culprit was a family with two small children slowly walking along the narrow beams, occasionally stopping to observe the pond and the random interests that fascinated the youngsters. Usually, I would briskly overtake a distracted, sluggish family herd, but with a queue of hikers in front of me, I was trapped. Frustrated by the impasse, a man from the front of the line took the lead, leaving the platform and walking around the family on the soft, NPS protected terrain. Other hikers and I happily followed him along the detour around the obstructing clan.

Shortly after passing the family, I reached the Sargent Mountain trail and began my ascent up the granite giant. The beginning of the path was undoubtedly steep, but it was not a problem for me. I’ve been preparing for a climb like this since January. I’ve been attending the university gym religiously from the beginning of the winter semester in January straight through May. I would run a half-hour three days a week; I would bike, and I would perform various muscle building exercises. I’m confident in my stamina and endurance. I’m ready for whatever this mountain will throw at me.

Roughly a third of the way to the top, I came upon a crossroads. I stopped here and enjoyed a few minutes of repose. I spotted a slender, young man who was descending the trail from atop the mountain. He approached with a map in hand and asked, “Did you come across a road in your travels?” “Yes, I did. It’s about a quarter mile back.” I answered (I had passed this 15-minutes prior; bicyclist often use it, typically). “Okay, good. I’m not far then.” He exclaimed happily. I densely asked him, “Where did you come from?” “I just came down from the mountain. It’s beautiful up there, but it’s very steep. It was sketchy coming down” He said this in exhaustive reminiscence. I’m thinking, ‘this man must not be in good shape. The terrain that I’ve experienced so far is difficult but not terrible. It can’t be much worse.’ I replied, “Oh, really? I can’t wait to get up there. I bet it’s amazing.” After palavering for a few moments more, we said our goodbyes, and he continued down the mountain.

Shortly after my acquaintance departed, I continued hiking up the mountain. After only traveling a few hundred feet, the trail became very steep. The man I met during my break was right—this is treacherous! The trail was no longer a dirt path with random protruding rocks and roots. It was now wholly composed of large rocks and boulders. The trail was barely visible amongst the many stones scattered across the foot of the mountain. The only reason I knew I was heading the correct way was that a few boulders were marked with blue blazes, indicating the direction of the trail, but these were few and far in between each other. Whether I was on the path or not, I knew I was going the right way—up.

I could no longer continue walking in an upright posture. Instead, I had to occasionally climb my way up—using my hands to grip stones, hoisting my way further. I’m thinking, ‘I hope this precipice doesn’t get any worse. I am not a rock climber nor am I a mountain goat.’ I knew if I fell, I was toast! So, I took my time and climbed with absolute certainty. One imprudent grip or foot placement on a deceiving boulder would grant me an early death.

What better place to die than on Mount Desert Island? On the side of a mountain, alone, and with no cell phone service to call for help should I slip and possibly survive the fall. I would die happily in agonizing pain on one of the most beautiful islands in the United States. Surrounded by mosquitos, draining me of my life’s blood, while being attacked by hordes of black flies, I would lie staring at the canopy and blue sky beyond. I would step into the afterlife from a combination of dehydration, blood loss from a possible compound fracture, and infection. It would be great!

With a quarter of the way yet to climb, I took another well-earned break. As I stood, my heart racing, ready to explode—with the regret of never using the StairMaster at the university gym, which may have helped me in this grueling endeavor—I looked southeast over Jordan Pond and Pemetic Mountain. I could see the tree line at the corner of the pond from where I emerged from the woodland and began my trek, and just beyond that, I could see a small, horizontal break in the forest following the length of Pemetic Mountain. This hair-thin opening is where the Park Loop Road cuts through the forest and where my van is parked. I, indeed, have traveled a long way, and I have much farther to go. Before I began climbing again, I fueled up on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bananas; I also took a few gulps of what little water I had. Once relaxed, fed, and hydrated, I again began climbing the mountain.

As I continued my ascent, the nearly perpendicular mountain side began to level. I could finally hike without the fear of going into cardiac arrest. I emerged from the rocky, wooded path onto a gradually rising, treeless trail. I was nearing the summit. The blue blazes guiding me up the mountain are now substituted with guide stones, better known as cairns. Following the rock formations, I was now feverishly and briskly hiking to what I knew would be the greatest achievement since arriving in Maine.

I reached the gusty, barren apex and was immediately overwhelmed with euphoria, triumph, and the most sinful of all, pride. After an exhausting, perilous climb, I was standing on the summit of the second tallest mountain on Mount Desert Island. Standing on Sargent Mountain at 1,373 ft, I could see for miles around and in all directions. I stood embracing the landscape, gazing south at the many islands that lie south of Mount Desert—Sutton Island and the Cranberry Isles. I could see many small ships sailing around these islands, either going out to sea or returning. They appeared as white dots speckled across a canvas of blue. Although I was in complete bliss, I was overcome with so much excitement that I could not stay. I had to keep moving!

I began hiking across the mountain range toward Penobscot Mountain, which lies south of Sargent. With one summit conquered, I might as well conquer another, and since I’m beginning from the Sargent side, it’s all downhill from here baby! No more impromptu rock climbing for me!

Making my way across the desolate range, I could see the Penobscot summit. The peak was barren, but beneath the ridge, a thick deciduous forest surrounded it. The trail I was following led directly through the timberland. After walking for a mile across the adjoining range, I was happy that I would be entering the cover of woodland. Though the vistas seen from the vacant range are enticing, I was ready to traverse through new terrain.

Entering the small forest, I noticed very quickly how calm it was under cover of towering vegetation. On the open mountain range, it was very gusty—annoyingly gusty. It was so windy that I lost my hat twice, exposing my ever-thinning hair to the elements. After losing my hat a second time, I gave up wearing it altogether. This little forest offered the perfect asylum from the wind, and to my surprise, it also stores a hidden wonder.

Traveling through the patch of mountaintop woodland, I noticed I was approaching a clearing, and beyond the clearing, there was a tree line indicating an open area roughly the size of a football field. I assumed it would be another barren, rocky expanse of a mountaintop. The trail seemed to be heading in that direction, and so, I would soon see what it was. The path began descending very sharply toward the clearing, and as I hiked down, I saw what looked like the shimmer of water. What I found was not a rocky wasteland, but a serene pond. I was amazed to see such a large, dark body of water, surrounded by conifers, and nestled at the base of the Penobscot summit, on top of a narrow mountain range (I would later learn that this pond is called, Sargent Mountain Pond). I paused briefly to embrace the surprising, magnificence of the water and surrounding scenery before continuing to the summit.

As I continued hiking, leaving behind the pond and traversing higher toward the Penobscot apex, I realized I was exhausted, and I was out of water. I’ve been hiking now for five hours over rough, formidable terrain, and I was growing tired. I was hungry and very thirsty. I was beginning to feel the way Janusz and Mr. Smith must have felt in the film The Way Back, who after breaking out from a Siberian gulag in 1941 with other prisoners, traversed through the Siberia, Mongolia, the Himalayas, and India to escape the communist. They walked for many months with little food or water, and many of the men would not survive. Okay—I know I’ve only been walking five hours, but can’t a guy relate? I want nothing more than to kick back at my campsite with a hot meal and a well-deserved, ice-cold beer. It’s almost over. I’m nearing the summit.

I reached the peak a half-hour after leaving the pond, but I was not as thrilled as I was when I reached Sargent, but I was happy to reach my final destination. The Penobscot peak stands at 1,194 ft in height and offers detailed views of south Mount Desert Island. I was now closer to the coastline, and I could see far out to sea. The ships that appeared as white blots on blue canvas were now much more detailed. I could see many vessels stowing lobster traps, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. I could see Seal Harbor and Bracy Cove with many small ships anchored and idle. I did not stay atop the summit long. Dusk was soon approaching, and it would take another hour at least to descend the mountain.

Walking down Penobscot Mountain, I found that the trek was not nearly as treacherous as the ascent up Sargent; though the descent was steep. I came across many hikers as I climbed down, much more so than when I ascended. This was likely because Jordan Pond House rests below Penobscot Mountain and is a tourist hotspot, as I’ve mentioned. The Pond House summons tourists from miles around; it boasts that when one visits, they must have tea and pop-overs while sitting on the “Tea Lawn,” gawking at the pond surrounded by hundreds of other idiots who are simultaneously partaking in the same dull, overrated tradition. Will I join them? No, I will not. I have better things to do—like hitching a ride to Canada on a whim or bar hopping through Bar Harbor, which is a great way to meet locals, who reveal the true side of a region’s culture. Or, of course, returning to my campsite to relax and bask in the glow of my campfire with a take-out order of chop suey, while reminiscing a day well spent.

Once I reached the bottom of Penobscot Mountain, I quickly made my way past Jordan Pond House, stopping only for water. I returned to the southern Jordan Pond Loop and hiked my way back to my abode. I got back in the van, started her up, and began driving along the Park Loop Road and eventually, Route 3 East, back to Ellsworth and my campsite.

The hike along Jordan Pond, Sargent, and Penobscot Mountain was a captivating and enlightening experience. It was challenging, but the difficulty of the hike only encourages me to conquer another, more difficult mountain range. This hike has left me wanting more, and I believe Champlain and Gorham Mountain will temporarily satisfy my growing hunger—or, perhaps, the Schoodic Peninsula?

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