(Originally Published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association.)
“We’d better get up early,” I announced to my wife, Meredith, as we planned our assault on Maine’s Acadia National Park, two-up, on our rented BMW R 1250 GS. Internet chatter—and party conversation—was rife with admonitions about traffic on the 27-mile “Loop Road.” After all, it’s the country’s fifth most-popular park, with almost 4 million annual visitors. I was concerned we would spend more time studying bumper stickers on the back of Sprinter vans than looking at actual scenery (“Sorry to Drive So Close in Front of You!”; “Surfing Sucks, Don’t Try It!”).
And yet, here we were, entering the park at 7:30 am, with no cars in front, or behind. It was as if an air-raid siren had cleared the place for our benefit. Back at home in California, I’d carefully packed my lifetime National Parks pass, one of the few perks, besides Medicare, given to those of us in our dotage. No one even asked for it, which I found almost disappointing. I’d imagined we’d do the loop in a slow procession of cars, the GS bolt upright, on the centermost portion of the tires. And yet here we were, achieving actual lean angles! Joy!
Riding in the Land of the Swamp Donkey
It was that way the whole trip. Since leaving Burlington, Vermont, we hadn’t encountered a single slow down, other than for farm vehicles. Apparently, the air-raid siren had cleared those roads, too, though it may have been the mosquitoes, which I find equally frightening. Maine mossies, as far as I can tell, are genetic freaks that resemble something from an old Gary Larsen cartoon, ready to suck a human entirely dry, leaving only a pile of loose skin. But I digress.
Riding the interior roads of Maine is a little like one of those underground trains at the amusement park, where you go into dark and haunting interior spaces, then emerge in dazzling sunlight, the world resplendent and pure. Mile after mile, the low-lying vegetation encroaches on the road, punctuated by the occasional mossie-infested swamp. Signs regularly proclaim things like “Moose Crossing, Next Five Miles.” I find this a little unnerving, since your average moose weighs more than a thousand pounds and T-boning one on a motorcycle would produce a very unsavory mammalian explosion, for both species. It’s one of those things you shouldn’t spend too much time thinking about.
My riding friend Tom calls these roads a “Green Bath,” as if prolonged exposure to vegetation and photosynthesis could cleanse the soul. But here’s the thing about Maine: just when you think the long green tunnel will never end, something over your shoulder flashes in its brilliance, you look that direction, and you realize you’re back on the coast. Fishing boats bob in the distance. Waves crash on the shore. Fishers haul up traps, as they have for hundreds of years, with angry crustaceans writhing within, destined for the pot. And, hopefully, my plate.
In Search of Dr. Quiet
Upon leaving the park, we decide to duck off on Route 102 rather than take the main road north, with its fast-food restaurants, cheap hotels, and water park, where children ripen in the sun like lobsters on the stove. It’s a scene in complete contrast to the serenity of the park, and best avoided.
There are those motorcycle couples who can’t stand listening to their spouses jabbering in the intercom, but I am not one of them. Quite the opposite. In fact, one of my favorite motorcycling activities is riding two-up in beautiful terrain with my wife holding forth on a number of topics, some entirely sensible (the day’s headlines, family news) and some less so (“Why do you think recycling bins are always blue?”). No one knows the answer to these existential questions, least of all me.
And so, apropos of nothing, the pronouncement comes from the back. “We need to go to Pretty Marsh.”
“Of course we do,” I answer dutifully. “Uh, where’s that?”
“It’s a little harbor up the road. It’s famous in our family. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
Thus freed from the inconvenient constraints of time and logic, we went in search of Pretty Marsh. It turns out that my wife, a person of much greater lineage and class than myself, is a descendant of the famous 19th Century physician, author, and poet S. Weir Mitchell, considered the father of medical neurology. He also spent summers in what is now Acadia National Park, and his leisure time sailing the intricate nearby bays—including Pretty Marsh.
Mitchell was famous for pioneering the concept of the phantom limb, a syndrome affecting Civil War veterans during a time when grisly amputations were the most effective and expedient treatment for a range of injuries. He also developed the more questionable “Milk Cure” and “Rest Cure,” earning him the somewhat derogatory name, “Dr. Diet and Dr. Quiet.”
In complete contrast to his scientific pursuits, S. Weir also wrote ghost stories—including one called “The House Beyond Pretty Marsh.” In it, the author, heading out for a sail in the company of his dimwitted friend, Tom Westway, unexpectedly encounters a fierce storm, forcing the pair to seek shelter in remote Pretty Marsh—and a long-abandoned house on the hill. No sooner do they reach the house, then they look back to find their boat “dimly seen, bottom up, adrift across the water.” I’m not sure, but it’s probably a bad sign when you look back from the shore in a storm and see your boat floating away, upside down.
Once inside the house on the hill, they find evidence of a fire, a smashed cradle, and…you guessed it: a ghost, holding a candle, perpetually searching for her long-lost child. “The face I saw in the flare of the matches I shall never forget,” writes S. Weir in his florid style. “It seemed to express fear and horror. I stood still a moment really appalled. She moved aside as though to let me pass. The tapers flickered in the wind and went out, the figure disappeared, and I drew a full breath of relief in the open air.”
Back on our ride, the GPS proudly suddenly announces our arrival at Pretty Marsh: “Your destination is on the right!” What was actually on the right was a tree. And a small swamp. No habitations or people anywhere to be seen, and certainly no ghosts. We find a small park to consider our options, before being chased off by the inevitable horde of mosquitoes, gathering like a swarm of World War II fighter planes.
We press on, happily exploring the small roads, the GS blatting along in its contented fashion. I’ve owned many Boxers (including, currently, an R 1200 GS and a R100/7), so renting the 1250 was a chance to evaluate whether an upgrade was warranted. Kind of like sipping one of those little cups of draft beer they give you before you decide to invest in the full pint. The conclusion? I enjoyed the additional horsepower (who wouldn’t?), but in other regards, it didn’t seem much different from my 1200, except for what appeared to be a large television (TFT display). Alas, there’s a 1300-cc GS on the horizon that’s not only faster but lighter, so those clever folks in Munich may drain my bank account yet. Damn them!
Pretty soon the smell of the ocean returns, and around the next bend, an expansive view of—you guessed it—the actually Pretty Marsh Harbor. It couldn’t be more different than the scene described by S. Weir. Sailboats tug gently against their moorings. A dozen people are getting a kayak lesson, and the newly minted paddlers carve an errant path through the buoys and out to sea. No clouds. No lightning. And definitely no ghosts.
We also spied an imposing house on a distant hill. Was it the one from the story? Of course it was. Then again, it looked like it could have been built 20 years ago, not 120. But who are we to allow facts to get in the way of such a poetic conclusion?
On the way back to our lodgings in Blue Hill, Meredith and I agree that it had been a perfect day of motorcycling: a national park that had apparently been opened purely for our benefit; incredible roads along the coast; and the pursuit of family heritage in a secluded harbor. Tonight we would celebrate with a dinner of large, bottom-dwelling crustaceans, drowned in butter, and washed down with white wine, in proper Maine style.
Route planning is almost always worth it, in my experience. Sometimes you even go where you intended to in the first place. And sometimes, you go to Pretty Marsh, looking for poltergeists, which is even better.
But there’s one thing I didn’t tell Meredith. As we rode down the tiny lane away from Pretty Marsh harbor, I took one last glance in the rear view. Just then, for the briefest moment, I swore I saw a woman, in nightclothes, holding a candle aloft, high on the hill, calling for us.
I dunno. Maybe she just wanted a ride….