Et in Acadia ego

I continue to muse over my brief visit to Maine's Acadia National Park.  By the way, the misspelling contained in my Latin title is intentional.  Arcadia (note the "r") is a large, somewhat wild region in the center of Greece's Peloponnese.  But in Greek mythology, the term was understood to be what Wikipedia describes as "a poetic byword for an idyllic vision of unspoiled wilderness."

In the sixteenth century, an early explorer -- with the Greek myth in mind -- gave the name "Arcadia" to Maryland and Virginia, because of the forested beauty he beheld.  With time, the word lost its "r," and the area it represented migrated northward step by step.  Geographically, it ultimately referred to a French colony that occupied what is now the Canadian Maritime provinces, as well as northern Maine -- including the area of today's Acadia National Park.  Parenthetically, the Louisiana "Cajuns" were French Acadians who fled British rule. 

And so the morose warning displayed on a tombstone in Poussin's painting, "Et in Arcadia ego" ("I (Death) am even in Arcadia") becomes for my purposes the cheerful "Et in Acadia ego" ("I (your friendly blogger) am even in Acadia National Park").

But I amuse myself at my readers' expense.

Acadia National Park has a number of units, each separated from the others, but the most touristed portion is that on the eastern "lobe" of Mount Desert Island.  (The island, a bit like Orcas Island in Washington, has two lobes, separated by Somes Sound.) The park occupies most of that eastern "lobe," excepting Bar Harbor in the northeast, and an area along the southern coast.  Two peaks dominate the eastern lobe of the island:  Cadillac Mountain (1,530 ft.) and Pemetic Mountain (1,248 ft.)  To the west of these two peaks are two large lakes: Eagle Lake and Jordan Pond.  And to the west of the lakes are a number of peaks, the highest being Sargent Mountain (1,373 ft.).

The park is a maze of trails and "carriage roads," but visitors who stay in their cars tend to limit themselves to the loop highway.  The loop begins near Bar Harbor, heads south to Sand Beach, and then closely follows the coastline south, around Otter Point, and north, passing between the two lakes to the west and Cadillac and Pemetic Mountains to the east.  There is also a spur road from the loop to the summit of Cadillac Mountain, which now requires a permit for vehicular access that must be obtained in advance.

The "carriage ways" are a unique feature of the park.  They were built by John D. Rockefeller for the exclusive use of non-motorized travel -- especially horse-drawn carriages.  They remain today a maze of spacious roads, open for use solely by pedestrians, bicycles, and horses.  They are an easy way to see much of the park on foot or bike.

During my first visit in 2008, I climbed Pemetic Mountain.  I left my rental car at Bubble Pond, and climbed to the summit.  I note in my journal that, 

The climb was steep and the trail was all rock and tree roots.  It would have been impossible to discern the trail but for painted blue blazes and occasional cairns.

From the summit, I walked another 1.3 miles across a saddle to the lower summit of The Triad (698 ft.).  From The Triad, I walked down 0.4 miles to a nearby carriage road, and walked another three miles back to my car.  I recall the entire climb and hike as being a high point of my visit to the park.

For various reasons, I was unable to do this hike, or anything equally ambitious, this visit.  Nor was I able to once more drive to the summit of Cadillac Mountain.  I had obtained the necessary advance permit, but the permit was in my baggage that -- as noted in my prior post -- hadn't yet arrived.  In any event, when I next visit Acadia, I think it would be much more worthwhile to climb Cadillac Mountain on foot -- hardly a Himalayan feat -- rather than drive up the road.

What I did have time for was a half hour or so poking around Sand Beach, and a significantly longer time following a cliff-top trail around Otter Point.  The Otter Point trail is very enjoyable, often forested, and with magnificent views of the Atlantic, and of the cliffs dropping far below your feet.

When you see a map of the park, you note that the western "lobe" of Mount Desert Island is actually larger than that to the east.  I tried exploring it in 2008, however, and wasn't that impressed.  Most of the waterfront property is in private hands, and I was unable to get many ocean views.  On the other hand, if you have time to leave the island, you should drive about fifty miles east to the section of the park on the Schoodic Peninsula.  The loop road about the peninsula offers striking views, and gave me some of my best photographs in 2008.

In conclusion, it's clear that I was able to spend less time hiking and enjoying Acadia Park during last week's visit than I had in 2008.  My primary problem was the time I had to spend trying to get information about the search for my baggage from United Airlines, and securing certain prescription medication that had been in my misplaced baggage.  But beyond that problem, I simply allotted too little time for the actual park visit, relative to the time it took to fly to and from the east coast.

As I concluded in my prior post -- I hope to visit Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park again soon.  And next time, I will plan on a much longer stay. 

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Photo:  On the cliff-top trail around Otter Point.

Brief visit to Bar Harbor

Returned home very late Thursday night after a highly enjoyable four days in Maine -- an enjoyment only slightly tarnished by the inability of United Airlines to transfer my baggage in Newark from my Seattle flight on Alaska to their own short flight from Newark to Portland, Maine.  After a couple of days of receiving only automated messages that they were still "searching" for it, it was finally delivered to me in Bar Harbor late Wednesday evening, just in time for my Thursday morning flight home.

After shopping for a few clean socks, and other clothes in Portland, and arranging contact between my doctor in Seattle and a pharmacist in Bar Harbor, I was able to fully enjoy my destination.

I spent Monday night at a La Quinta motel in Portland, and then drove a rental car north to Bar Harbor

on Tuesday.  My GPS said that the trip should take three hours, but workers were doing a lot of road work on U.S. 1 and their temporary road closures -- plus the fact that I was enjoying the drive and was in no hurry -- stretched the journey out to 5½ hours.  As I drove across the short, almost unnoticeable bridge separating Mount Desert Island from the mainland, I was feverishly recalling sights from my only other visit to Maine, in 2008.

The town of Bar Harbor lies adjacent to Acadia National Park, which occupies the center of the island and a portion of the coastal area.  

State Highway 3 which crosses that bridge onto the island continues all the way to Bar Harbor, down Mt. Desert Street through the middle of the town of Bar Harbor, and then loops about the island.  My hotel -- a fairly recently-constructed building, but one built in the style of a traditional New England inn, with just 31 rooms -- was itself on Mt. Desert Street, within easy walking distance of the central business area with all its restaurants.

I spent Tuesday evening, after my arrival, walking about the town, orienting myself, dealing at some length with a local pharmacist, and finally having dinner at a pub that makes the claim of being "The Irish pub closest to Ireland in the U.S."

Wednesday was my one full day in Bar Harbor.  I did the Highway 3 loop around the island, which runs primarily outside the park.  Back in town, I had for lunch an excellent Maine lobster roll on the outdoor deck of the Reading Room, overlooking the harbor.  The "Reading Room" was a famous hang-out and cultural retreat for nationally-prominent leading families in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.  Its clientele is less exclusive these days, but the restaurant still has a genteel atmosphere, especially compared to the pub culture that pervades most of the town center.

That afternoon after lunch was to be the best part of my stay, and the  part that most makes me anxious to return.  The park service has its own loop road, somewhat parallel to Highway 3 but located entirely within the park.  I stopped at various areas, especially along the coast -- Sand Beach, which is one of the rare sandy beaches in New England, and Otter Point, with its highly scenic coastal walk above the ocean.

That night, I noted that the path from town to Bar Island seemed to have emerged from the sea -- it's open for only four hours during each low tide, and I'd been hoping to make the crossing.  By the time I reached the approach, however, the sea was already sweeping across the lowest point of the path.  One brave person on the other side took off his shoes and waded across, rather than spending the night stranded on the island -- he was successful, but the current was strong.  The isthmus is actually the "bar" that gives Bar Harbor its name.

Thursday morning, I had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel, wandered through town one last time, and headed back to Portland -- this time on I-95, rather than risk arriving late for my flight by traveling U.S. 1 again.

It was a short three days in Bar Harbor, but I felt I had seen and experienced a lot.  The Maine coast is somewhat similar to the Washington coast physically, but is different culturally and has a long and interesting history worth absorbing during one's travels.  I definitely hope to return again soon -- next time, for a much longer stay.

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Photos (top to bottom)

1.  Map of Bar Harbor and environs

2.  Hikers on eastern edge of island, looking out to sea.

3.  Lobster roll and IPA, at the "Reading Room"

4.  On trail near Otter Point

5.  Watching the trail to Bar Island close as tide comes in

Return of the hunter

A domestic cat shares 95.6 percent of its genes with a tiger.  Whatever its behavioral adaptations, the house cat has changed little from its feral ancestors (its most direct ancestor being the wildcat), which in turn are closely related to other members of the Felidae family.  All are carnivorous.  All are predators.

All that being true, it's impressive that so many humans -- those worth knowing -- are capable of bonding so closely to Felis catus.  

My two black panthers turn eleven months old next week.  From rambunctious kittens back in August, when I acquired them, they have become sleek, well-built nearly-adult cats, athletic and intelligent, with wry senses of humor.  And more than any other cats I've ever "owned," they pride themselves on their predatory skills.

For a while, they were proudly bringing their conquests into the house -- up to my bedroom, even -- to seek my approval.  A few weeks ago, we had a little dispute when one of them brought a live young rabbit upstairs after I'd dropped off to sleep.  I woke up, spoke intemperately, carried the cat downstairs, rabbit-in-mouth, and thrust him onto the back deck.  In shock, he dropped the rabbit, which, thanking its lucky stars, escaped apparently unscathed.  Physically, if not mentally.

They seem to have decided between themselves that I've proved myself unworthy of their displays, and have since discreetly seized and dismembered small mammals and birds out of my sight.  They are predators, and it comes naturally, although -- as I say -- the five cats I've had before these two jokers were far less bloodthirsty.  They preferred to eat indoors, and they preferred kibble.

All of this is prelude to my telling you that Castor wandered off about dinner time Wednesday night, and hadn't returned by the time I went to bed.  This wasn't unprecedented, and I thought nothing about it.  I began to worry the next morning, when he still hadn't returned  home.  By Thursday night, I was panicking, especially since I'm leaving for Maine on Monday, and need both cats to be secured inside when I leave.  

I pored over relevant internet information.  I was told that indoor-outdoor cats like mine often disappear for a day or two, having got interested in something they came upon -- something potentially edible, usually -- and lose track of the time.  Don't worry if your cat goes missing for a day or even a couple of days, the experts said.  In fact, persons with missing cats say that the median time the cat is gone before returning is five days.  Of course, the experts remark, darkly, the cats don't always return.

If they don't return, the writers cooed, don't beat yourself up.  You gave your cat a good life, and, hey, life's a jungle.  "No, no," I was yelling.  Yelling at least mentally.  "Castor isn't even a year old.  He hasn't had a "good life."  He hasn't even had a good year yet!"

Thursday night, last night, I went to bed, disconsolate.  I woke up at midnight, and decided to give the house one more check.  Pollux was asleep on top of the cat ladder, where he always hangs out.  I stroked him, and was startled at how silky  his fur was.  Just like Castor's.  

And of course it was Castor.  He was so sleepy he wouldn't even open his eyes, let alone give an accounting of his behavior over the past couple of days.  By this morning, he was feeling more chipper, but no more talkative.

But neither he nor Pollux has shown any interest in going outside, even while I was out reading on the deck.  Something probably happened.  As many a parent has told himself, "It's just as well that I don't know the details."  

And as many a parent has also told himself, "I could kill him for scaring me."  And then I fed him extra kitty treats as a reward for coming home. 

The wily musca

My cats seem to have suddenly developed a devotion to ballet, or perhaps contemporary dance.  I see them leaping about the house, bodies extended in ways both improbable and graceful.  What has brought about this aesthetic transformation in my beasts?

Musca domestica.  The common housefly.  

Somehow, over the past week, my house has been populated by an irritatingly large number of these critters, with more outside the windows, begging for entry.  Why now, and why so many?  I don't know.  It isn't as though they are cicadas, emerging at the end of a seventeen-year cycle.

Houseflies are similar to dogs and cats in being associated with human activities -- especially garbage -- for their food.  The relationship is called "commensal," meaning the fly benefits from the relationship, while the human is neither benefited nor harmed (at least directly).  

It's not surprising that flies are everywhere; the mama fly lays eggs in batches of about a hundred.  What's surprising -- to me, at least -- is how they appeared in my house so suddenly.  Flies do hibernate, if the winter is severe enough, and emerge in the spring -- but we've had moderately warm weather for a couple of months.  So, I don't know the answer.

Fly larvae thrive on food waste, carrion, and feces -- none of which can be found lying about in my house, thank you for asking.  Once hatched, they zip through the larval stage in two to five days.

Whatever and wherever their source, they appeared in force about a week ago.  During the day, they seem attracted by daylight and cluster around my windows.  I tried opening the window briefly, and shooing a couple outside.  I'd then encounter flies from the outside who wanted in, even as I was shoving the inside flies out.

Of course, human ingenuity surpasses that of the little musca.  For example, I have at hand an aerosol can of Raid Multi-Insect® killer.  It doesn't kill flies as fast as it kills tiny "pantry moths," but it kills them without fail.  I worry a bit about causing a lingering death, but conclude that a fly's sense of consciousness has not evolved to the point of causing any real agony, physical or mental.  You'll never hear a fly singing the death scene aria from Traviata.  And besides, their life expectancy is only a couple of weeks.  I'm not cutting them down in their prime, just at the point where they've received their admission letter from Harvard.

I intentionally have not killed them all.  The cats have found they can enjoy their role as predator, toying with the struggling fly before ultimately eating it, without subjecting themselves to the dangers and discomfort of the outdoors.  And I enjoy having the cats stick around the house more, rather than ceaselessly prowling about outside, seeking whom they may devour.

So, who says the human host receives no benefit from the commensal fly?

Back to indoor eating

I had a sudden craving for fish and chips this morning.  At 11 a.m., I arrived at my favorite breakfast/burger joint.  The parking lot was pretty crowded.  Lots of people inside. 

I walked in, ordered my fish, and grabbed a seat by the windows -- my favorite location -- a seat that was available only because the woman sitting there was about to leave.  In Washington, 50 percent of restaurant tables currently display firmly worded "no-no" signs. 

A year ago, I was freaked out by the crowds in this same restaurant, even though I was masked and just picking up a pre-ordered hamburger.  A month ago -- same restaurant -- I arrived at 11 a.m., saw the cars in the parking lot, and turned around and went home.  Even though I was fully immunized.

Why my sudden courage?  Partly because I've grown gradually used to being immunized and hence, to my way of thinking, immortal.  But mainly because the CDC this week told us that it was fine for immunized folks to mingle with others, indoors or out, without wearing masks.  That was what we all had been waiting for.  That was all I needed to hear.

Still, once I had that fish in my belly, I pondered over my doubts.  Why the CDC's sudden change of attitude?  Why were the floodgates flung open?  And I'm not the only one expressing doubts.  According to the New York Times, just two weeks ago 80 percent of epidemiologists felt we would to need to wear masks indoors in public places for at least another year.  Only five percent felt we could stopping wearing them by this summer.

I was eating indoors.  And while sitting in my booth, I obviously didn't wear a mask.  I was eating and drinking, for God's sake!  And reading my Kindle.  When I eat at this burger joint, it's not a quick grab of something to eat.  It's at least an hour, as I slowly dip my fish in ketchup, and nibble on it gently.  Chew thoughtfully on a French fry.  Stopping occasionally to use my napkin to wipe fish grease and bits of ketchup off my Kindle screen.  My meal isn't just ingestion; it's a full-body experience.

The CDC is said to have changed its guidelines so radically and abruptly for two reasons:  First, the vaccines -- especially the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines -- are very protective.  And recent data shows they also protect against variant strains of the virus, at least to the extent of assuring that the immunized will avoid serious illness, hospitalization, or death.  And second, other recent studies show that even for the small number of immunized persons who do test positive for Covid-19, with or without mild symptoms, their load of virus is too small to be a serious threat to unvaccinated persons with whom they come into contact.

So yes, I'll go back for more fish and chips, even during the crowded noon hours.  I will conscientiously continue to put my mask on any time I get up from the table, and go after more coffee or ketchup, as I did today.  And I will feel relatively safe.  And relatively undangerous to anyone not yet immunized.  (In my zip code, 82.5 percent of all persons 16 years or older have received at least their first shot.)

I'll feel safe, based on the scientific data to date, although I still have a nagging worry -- despite the scientific data -- that the CDC acted when it did primarily in order to protect the economy and, perhaps, to encourage the hesitant to get immunized by offering a reward to those who already had their shots.  

And that perhaps the decision was motivated by the CDC's concern that the natives were getting restless, and needed a few more carrots and fewer sticks.

Fighting voter suppression

America confronts a Republican party that has decided it can't win on the basis of the qualities of its candidates or the appeal of its programs.  So it intends instead to hang on to power by keeping "the wrong sort" of voter from voting.

Professor David Domke is streaming a two-part series of lectures this week, entitled "From Never to Now: The Right to Vote in America in 2021."  He presented his first lecture tonight; the second will be tomorrow.  In the past, I've presented detailed summaries of Dr. Domke's lectures.  I'll try to give a much more abbreviated summary of today's, because the facts he discusses are fairly well known to anyone following contemporary politics.

The election of 2008 left the GOP in shock.  Not only had a black Democrat been elected president, but the Democrats had won a 257-178 majority in the House, a 59-41 majority in the Senate, and 28 out of the 50 governors.  The Republican leadership vowed:  "Never again if we can legally help it."  The plan was not to seek votes from new constituencies or to present a new and more appealing platform.  

The plan instead was to limit ability of unfriendly voters to vote.  Some plans had already been underway before 2008, but the 2008 election gave the party new urgency.

1.  Win control of legislatures and gerrymander both Congressional and legislative district boundaries. 

2,  Enact voter ID laws, with the understanding that the states could require specific forms of identification that would be easy for affluent voters to obtain, but more difficult for black, brown, lower income, and young potential voters -- all of whom tend Democratic.

3.  Cut the number of days available for voting.  In the South, especially, reduce voting on Sundays, when Black church congregations often showed up in a group after church to cast ballots. 

4.  Reduce the number of available voting places, especially in "undesirable" regions of the state.

5.  Voter registration purge.  A 1993 federal statute prohibits purging registration because of a failure to vote recently, but purging is legal for voters who have change residences.  Younger and poorer voters tend to move much more often.

All these strategies have been permitted by the Supreme Court in a series of decisions during the past ten years.  All were enormously successful, leading to the Republicans' taking control of  House, Senate, a majority of governors and of state legislatures in the 2016 election.

The Democrats, with the help of organizations such as that headed by Domke, made the partial recovery in 2020 possible.  This was done despite lack of support in critical state legislatures, often by voter initiative.

1.  Automatic voter registration -- for example, when a driver's license is issued or renewed.  This is Domke's favorite instrument.

2.  Same day registration -- the voter registers at the same time he votes.

3.  Early in-person voting.

4.  Mail and/or liberal absentee voting.

Domke warns that the 2020 election results, and especially the senatorial results in Georgia, stunned the Republicans once more.  The vow "Never Again" is being heard once more, explaining the frenzy of voting restrictions in many states' legislatures over the past few weeks.  Domke warns that the Republicans to date have fought more desperately and more effectively than the Democrats, and that their effort to make voting difficult can be defeated only by intense political efforts.

On finding an old New Yorker

"But doctor, you talk about "hoarding" as though it's a bad thing."

The advantage of having a basement is that you can pile boxes down there for decades without being especially inconvenienced.  And when you occasionally root through a box, you sometimes -- in fact, almost always -- find interesting items.  Albeit, items whose reason for having been saved totally escapes you.

And thus it was with a copy of the New Yorker that I discovered a couple of days ago.  A big fat copy.  The issue of April 20, 1968.  To those of us who lived through it, the year 1968 seems only a modest time ago.  To most of humanity now living, however, I suspect it sounds like a time when men wore spats and women wore bustles.    

But come on, kids, the Beatles had already been around for five years.  The prior summer had been the "Summer of Love," and Hippiedom was still floridly in flower.  Eugene McCarthy and Bobby Kennedy were dueling for the Democratic nomination -- McCarthy didn't win, Kennedy didn't live, and the Democrats lost the whole shebang as the nefarious Richard ("You won't have Nixon to kick around anymore!") Nixon arose like a vampire from the dead.

But the New Yorker.  The cover looks typically New Yorker-ish.  But I forgot how thick the magazine used to be.  I suspect this issue wasn't unusual -- not one of those double issues they foist on us now occasionally -- and I have no idea why I chose to save it.

How thick was it?  One hundred ninety-six pages.  Contrast that with this week's issue of a mere 78 pages.  It was also 2 cm taller and 1 cm wider in size.  I haven't measured the column inches of text, but I doubt if there was much difference between then and now.  The difference is in the advertising space.

This week's issue has three ads at the front and three ads at the back.  The 1968 issue was a mass of advertising, devoted to the interests of the moneyed classes.  Alcohol in its many forms was a primary advertiser -- not beer so much (one for Michelob)  or wine, but hard liquor and various cognacs, cordials, rums, and vermouths.  I counted 22 liquor ads.  New Yorker readers did a lot of drinking.  But not always on their own money ("Let's make it Chivas, the company's buying," suggested one ad.) 

They also did a lot of travel.  Ads for travel agencies, tours, cruise ships, air lines, foreign countries, Amazon safaris, Eurailpass, hotels ("The Tuscany .... Only hotel in the world with color TV," bragged one New York hotel.).  The State of North Carolina advertised that some of its citizens still spoke Elizabethan English, and offered a free dictionary to help tourists translate.  And a full page ad for the City of Atlanta sounded just like, well, like Atlanta:

The countryside is right outside your window.  Because Atlanta has an unbeatable land use combination -- no natural boundaries to block growth; a woody, rolling terrain; and a lot of people who love trees." 

Ads for expensive clothes.  Expensive furniture.   And expensive (I assume) hair care products.

Ignoring the ads, however, the magazine seemed reassuringly familiar.  Same sophisticated cartoons.  Same initial feature, "Goings on about Town," the "town," of course, being New York.  (Although there seemed to be more going on about town in 1968 than today.)  The same "Talk of the Town," although less oriented toward politics than it is today.  Perhaps more fiction.  Most New Yorker issues now have one short story; the 1968 issue had two.

The 1968 issue also contained one of the New Yorker's seemingly interminable feature articles -- this one involving gun control and the N.R.A.  The more things change ... 

The earlier issue did have one feature that I loved.  In fact, it was my earliest memory of the magazine, reading issues in the college library as a student.  I mean those little fillers at the bottom of columns, where an odd or ungrammatical sentence or two from  some other publication would be quoted, followed by a witty remark.  Example:

Last year was a good growing season at Woodlawn.  Rainfall was ample , and after five years of drought the entire cemetery seemed to revive. -- Letter from the Woodlawn Cemetery.

Were there any unusual noises?

Maybe technology has made it possible to avoid gaps at the bottom of columns that need filling.   Our loss, I'm afraid.

The biggest difference between the two issues, of course, was the newsstand price.  In 1968, you could buy the magazine for 35 cents.  Today, it will cost you $8.99.  

Go back and read what I wrote about the loss of advertising.

Bar Harbor

Gosh, that train trip to San Francisco was fun!  It reminded me -- I really love to travel.

Back in 2008, I took the train from Seattle to Boston.  Two nights sleeping on the Empire Builder, and one night on the Lake Shore Limited.  Plus an unscheduled night at a Chicago hotel, on Amtrak's dime, because of a lengthy delay -- a problem with the track, not Amtrak's fault -- that caused me to miss the Lake Shore Limited connection.  

I met family in Boston, and we drove up to Maine.  Our ultimate goal was Monhegan Island, off the Maine coast, where one of my nephews was getting married.  After the wedding, I took off by myself (in a rented car) and explored further the Maine coast, before heading westward to New Hampshire and Vermont.  (While in Gorham, New Hampshire, I decided on the spur of the moment to climb Mt. Washington, but that's another story -- in fact it was a 2008 story in my blog.)  (Check it out.)

My first couple of nights after leaving the island were spent in Bar Harbor.  Bar Harbor may not be a destination that's well known to my West Coast readers, but it's a very picturesque coastal town, one that shares Mount Desert Island with Acadia National Park.

The whole New England adventure was fun.  I particularly enjoyed Bar Harbor and Acadia.  

You see where this is going, right?  I do have cats that I can't leave alone indefinitely -- three nights is my maximum -- so I'm not going to repeat (this year) my great railway adventure.  But on a Monday, three weeks from today, I will fly to Portland, Maine -- eight hours in transit (including a short layover in Newark), rather than four days and three nights by train.  I'll rent a car and, after a night's sleep, on Tuesday morning I'll drive the three hours or so to Bar Harbor.  Rather than stay in a motel some distance from the city, as I did in 2008, this time I've booked accommodations in advance in a traditional, New England-style hotel in the city center.  (I say "city" -- Bar Harbor has a population of about five or six thousand, but with all the tourists it seems larger.)

I plan to wander about the town, hike in the National Park, maybe explore surrounding areas by car.  Maybe sit on the hotel veranda, drinking tea (or maybe gin & tonic), enjoying the sun (or maybe the ocean fog), and thinking whatever nautical thoughts come to mind in a nautical setting.  I know it's a rush visit -- only one full day, Wednesday, in Bar Harbor.  On Thursday, I have to head back to Portland in time to catch a 3:30 p.m. flight.

A 3:30 p.m. flight to Charlotte, North Carolina.  "What?!" you exclaim.  I know, right?  I'm flying back to Seattle on American Airlines, and I guess Charlotte's their hub.  Such are the marvels of the U.S. airline system.

A train would be more fun.

Hark!

"The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."  So said Longfellow, and he was probably right.  I suspect more right in his own nineteenth century than he would be today, when the thoughts of youth often last only until the next in-coming text message. 

Be that as it may, I'm not a youth and my thoughts aren't always long. 

And certainly not deep.  In my last post, I unthinkingly used the exclamation, "But hark!"  One of my more inquisitive readers asked me if, in our childhood, we had not made it a practice of crying "hark!" to each other.  Not bloody likely, I thought to myself, but phrased my reply more diplomatically.

But then I started thinking about it.  And have you ever noticed?  That a word you take for granted suddenly seems bizarre, both in its sound and its written appearance, once you begin thinking about it?  Of course you have -- everyone's noticed that.  But "hark" suddenly seemed surrounded by an dazzling aura of weirdness.  Is it even a real word, I asked myself?

Well, certainly the herald angels thought so.  They sang "Hark!" at a critical moment theologically.  And certain dogs may have thought so, depending on the reading you give to "Hark, hark, the dogs do bark / The beggars are coming to town."  Actually, on reflection, I think it's the rhyme's narrator who is doing the harking, not the dogs.

My on-line dictionary gives "hark" the meaning of "listen attentively, hearken."   And, as you might suspect, "hearken" is merely another form of "hark."  They both date back to about 1175-1225:

From Middle English herken, herkien, from Old English *hercian, *heorcian, *hiercian, ultimately from Proto-Germanic *hauzijaną (“to hear”) + formative/intensive -k (see also the related hīeran, whence English hear). Equivalent to hear +‎ -k. Cognate with Scots herk (“to hark”), North Frisian harke (“to hark”), West Frisian harkje (“to listen”), obsolete Dutch horken (“to hark, listen to”), Middle Low German horken (“to hark”), German horchen (“to hark, harken to”).

Ah, to have lived when men spoke such words!   

Now, should you be a fox hunter, you know that "hark!" is a cry you give to your baffled hounds, commanding them to retrace their steps to pick up the fox's scent again.  From which we say in general "hark back," meaning to retrace our steps.  Or, even more generally, as one dictionary puts it, to evoke or pine for a past era.  

The similar word "hearken" is used in a similar fashion, to hearken back.  Purists insist that one may say either "hearken back" or "hark back" -- but not the scrambled form "harken back," a bastardization that dates back -- like so many deplorable aspects of life -- only to the 1980s.

So, we know that "hark" is an English word of long standing, one still used in polite circles.  But we can't claim that the herald angels literally sang "hark!"   Any more than that they sang "horchen!" or "harkje!"  If they wanted the shepherds tending their flocks to understand them, they probably sang something like "!הארק"

It's been a slow Sunday here in the Northwest Corner.