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I zipped my heavy fleece and tugged on my winter gloves. The wind was brisk and blew through my layers stinging my eyes and cheeks. I stood on the overlook looking over the edge and marveling at the difference in the weather. At the base of the mountain, the temperature was a lovely 72 degrees; at the top, it was 34 degrees. I made my way back inside the building and held the door for a long line of Appalachian Trail thru-hikers who all gave me a weary smile and thanks. It was mid-August.

The mist rolled below me as the sun rose slowly from the Atlantic Ocean. I was perched on the farthest eastern part of the US coast watching the sunrise from Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, Maine. Far below me the midst and fog swirled in and around the surrounding islands playing peek-a-boo with the colorful sailboats bobbing in the bay. Far below nestled in the early 5 am dawn lay Bar Harbor tucked into a corner of Mt. Desert Island. I was fortunate to score a ticket to drive up the mountain as I watched dedicated and tired hikers emerge from the only trail to the summit. Quietly, people gathered in small groups to watch the sunrise. Whispers were carried on the wind as we all sat on the large granite mountaintop in awe of the scene before us.

As I approached the silky, colorful flags waving in the breeze, I could see each flag was printed with Japanese script in beautiful, flowing letters.  Each flag was a little ragged as the wind tossed them against the dark pines of the Massachusettes forest.  I paused to admire the life-size zen garden of white rocks with the familiar swirl of lines raked into sweeping lines.  The posted sign explained that each flag was a prayer for peace to be placed outside allowing for the wind to carry the prayer to the heavens.

Gobble gobble.  I stopped on the bottom step of the water house and eyed the flamboyant turkey.  He stood audaciously in my path quivering and bristling with full plumage.  Sighing, I edged around him and made my way to the brethren’s bath house.  He kindly escorted me to the next building and the next and so on.  Well, you get the picture. Orville Redenbacher the turkey was obviously infatuated despite his girlfriend living across town in the barn.  I had a full day touring the Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill Kentucky with Orville.  I would like to think that I let him down easily and we parted friends.

11 pm. Only a half hour ago the sky suddenly clearly against all weather reports. The moon was entering the first day of the full moon phase. I pulled into the parking lot amazed at the crowds. They carried chairs and warm blankets. Little children were bundled in winter coats with thermoses. I found a spot in the overflow lot and parked quickly on the grass. I had no idea how long the sky would remain clear. This was my only chance.

The cave soared above me with a grand cathedral ceiling. I stood at the entrance in awe of the massive space hidden hundreds of feet below the surface.  The lights were low and glowing.  I had stepped into another world.

“I can touch it?  Photograph it?”  I asked in awe of the journal lying on the table.  A journal from 1840 by a canal boat captain.  

“Sure, carefully and we only allow pencils here,” replied Mark Bloom, Senior Archives Associate with The University of Akron, Archives and Special Collection.

The smoke curled lazily in the night air as I listened to the lament of a young woman seated next to me.  I was comfortably wrapped in a warm blanket and sipping a spiced apple cider.  I was not inclined to move. 

“I just don’t know why my in-laws like camping so much.” She sighed.  I then heard her tale of driving four hours to a campground in West Virginia with a toddler and a new tent.  I nodded empathetically as I watched the group of campers mingle at the campground’s Halloween-themed social gathering.