Childhood experiences with bubbles date to
a pink, sudsy, up to my chin bubble bath or the outdoor adventure of blowing
bubbles through a soapy solution with a bubble wand. Pink double bubble or
hubba-bubba Bubble gum had to be cut from my hair and I was often admonished, “Don’t
blow bubbles in your milk.” Several friends and I sported fashion-forward
bubble hair styles, like Annette and Sandra Dee.
“Double bubble, toil and trouble,” stayed
with the witches of Macbeth until I encountered bubbles at Jordan Pond at
Acadia National Park on Desert (pronounced by locals as dessert) Island, Maine.
Who can blame a girl for grabbing the chance to see bubbles around or in a
mountainous pond, especially as a roadside attraction parking lot encouraged
the excursion.
A car filled with women led the charge and
other people along with children joined our adventure. Soon, I became aware
that the bubbles were not just around the next turn. In fact, they were located
up an ascending, roughly laid-out path that had been designed for hikers.
Up, up, and away we climbed. We met
smiling people descending, “It’s not much further and it’s so worth it!” Up and
up we hiked. We stepped aside as more able and prepared hikers passed us, those
with hiking poles often used by cross-country skiers. My companion became disgruntled,
but we’d passed the half-way mark. Nothing to do but keep going. How much
further could it be, I wondered.
The ascent became rockier and outcroppings
provided nice views and resting places. Fortunately, both of us were wearing sturdy
footwear and could help each other up the carved out trail. “These rocks must
be called bubbles,” I offered to no one in particular.
“Oh,” I said.
It’s a 1.7 mile hike up (higher and
higher, steeper and steeper) and an equal, but easier 1.7 down.
I don’t think I’ll be looking for Bubbles
again, except in carbonated Sprite Zero.
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