Iron Rungs on the Beehive
My stomach was churning like a 19th century woman making butter, but nothing good would come out of this. I was certain.
January 1st, 2006.
My family and I were sitting at the dining room table, discussing new year resolutions over a plate of glazed cinnamon rolls. I was nine years old. My goals were things like keep my room clean (which I failed at) and take shorter showers (which I also failed at). However, my father had a far more interesting goal that he proposed as a resolution to share between the two of us: to hike one mountain each month.
I have lived in the woods for the vast majority of my life. My childhood was spent bushwhacking and building shoddy lean-tos. The only thing better than exploring the woods outside my backyard was exploring the woods in places I had never been to before. So this new resolution? I loved it.
July 2006.
It was a beautiful Saturday: the air was warm, the sky blue. That morning I was informed we were going to hike the Beehive. Like every mountain before it, I was excited. I had never hiked the Beehive. I had never even heard of it.
My family piled into the car to make the trip down to Acadia. I clicked my seatbelt in place and waved goodbye to my dog as we pulled away from the house. That was when my dad decided to tell me---like it wasn't a big deal---in order to summit the Beehive, I had to climb a ladder.
No, thank you.
I was out. Done. Armed with my irrational fear of heights, I launched myself into an hour long explanation (plea) that I did not want to hike the Beehive, that there are plenty of other mountains in Maine, and we should go hike one of those mountains instead. My parents were not having it. We were hiking the Beehive.
Over the course of 2006, my father and I hiked a mountain each month. We started with smaller hikes, like Parks Pond Bluff, Bald Mountain, and Eagle Bluff. The hikes gradually grew more challenging, which was fine. I liked a challenge. What I didn't like was perilously hanging off a ladder hundreds of feet in the air.
I should take a moment to clarify that I knew nothing about the Beehive, other than it had a ladder. I did not see any pictures. I was not even told what this ladder would look like or what it's weight capacity was.
As we drove towards what I was sure would be my imminent demise, I surveyed the landscape in search for the Beehive, or at least what I thought it looked like. I took deep breaths, closing my eyes. I could picture it: A giant cliff-face. A single, rickety wooden ladder nailed into the mountain-side. We were vertical---90 degrees. No harnesses. If we fell, we died. I informed my father that he would have to climb behind me, and if I fell, he better catch me. (Or we could always turn back...
please.)
August 2018.
I can't parallel park, and Acadia's Park Loop Road is almost exclusively parallel parking during the peak of tourist season. I arrived at about 1 pm on a Sunday and was met with rows of filled parking spaces. Trying to figure out how I was going to get out of the little parking lot near Sand Beach, I spotted my saving grace: an empty space (not designated for parking but big enough to fit a car). I backed into it with ease. Getting out would be no problem.
I walked along the side of the road until I reached the trail head for the Beehive. I hadn't hiked it in years, and each step was like learning the way all over again. I remembered one thing about the Beehive: there were two summit trails; one with ladders and one without. I knew which one I was taking.
I was not informed of the other ladder-less trail when I first arrived to the Beehive years ago. I was led through the trees, clambering over the rocky trails, my heart pounding.
"Where's the ladder?" I asked.
"On the mountain," My dad said. "We have to hike to it."
I couldn't see the Beehive, but I wasn't looking for a normal mountain. I was looking for the edge of the world.
It's actually pretty impossible to miss the Beehive. It's a large dome that recurringly appears along the Park Loop Road and the hiking trail. In my opinion, people look rather large on it. Their brightly colored t-shirts are as obvious on the mountain as bee on a rose. During my recent hike, the mountain was buzzing.
What is it about humans? Throughout the existence of humanity, we have looked upon large rocks and asked ourselves how we can get on top of them. I'm no different. I like the feeling of conquering something, of standing on the edge, and knowing that every footstep to get there was mine.
My fear of the Beehive immediately disappeared when I realized there was no giant, rickety ladder, but Instead, I was a series of iron rungs. I wrapped my little hand around one. The weight of my body in my feet, the thrill of the climb in my hands.
I climbed to the top of the mountain like it was a giant set of monkey-bars, and when I got to the top and my dad told me of the alternate trail, I still asked to go back down the ladders.
The Beehive isn't the most difficult mountain I've hiked, but it's probably the most interesting. You can't climb it without getting your hands dirty, without grabbing for the rocks and the rungs. You can't stand that close to the edge and not feel the earth beneath you.
Twelve years later, I'm still thrilled to grab hold of the rungs. To pull myself away from fear and into adrenaline.
