Throughout the winter in Maine , for the five months of the year starting on
October 7 and lasting to March 6, Cadillac
Mountain in Acadia
National Park is the first place in
the United States
to receive the morning sun’s light. It is a place of worship: the pink granite
of the mountain rises 1,500 feet directly out of the sea, the luscious
Cranberry Isles lie just offshore to the south, the blue of the sky intensifies
the blue of the ocean, the sunshine streams from the east across the Schoodic Peninsula
and Frenchman Bay Bar Harbor just
below, where others worship, is temporarily irrelevant.
But even in the height of August,
in the middle of the day, the hundreds of people crowding Cadillac’s crown are
quiet as if in church, receiving a gift from Abraham’s God or the gods of
Thoreau. Perhaps for a few moments the light and the air cleanse them of care.
Perhaps it lasts longer than the drive back down to their motels, than the
drive back home. I’d like to think that feeling could last for the rest of
their days.
I read a blog post once that
described a morning on Cadillac shortly after 9/11. The author said the mood among the tourists
was somber until a few college women starting singing “America the
Beautiful.” As the song lifted to the heavens, many of the people around them
broke down in both tears and joy.
Even second-hand, the account was
thrilling. It wasn’t just the conflux of emotions, the anger and senselessness
and soul-piercing beauty. For me Acadia is
always a restorative place, and even the thought of it heals wounds all year
long.
Excerpted from Saving
Maine: A Personal Gazetteer
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