Maine and Nova Scotia. It’s surprising how two coastal regions along the same Atlantic stretch can be so different. The very air tells two stories.
In Maine, the salt in the breeze is clean, briny, and threaded with the faint scent of seaweed sunning on the shore. It’s the kind of classic “ocean smell” people picture when they dream of the coast. The contrast is small but unmistakable. Maine’s air feels gentler, mellowed.
Driving along, the coast reveals another set of differences. Maine’s houses have that iconic New England charm with weathered cedar shake siding, dark shutters, and an understated color palette shaped by storms, salt, and tradition. Many homes feature radiant “sun face” wall ornaments—technically called sunburst wall plaques—watching over wide porches. According to Wikipedia, they symbolize warmth, energy, happiness, and positivity, often inspired by ancient solar deities and cultural beliefs in good luck and abundance. It’s a look that feels old-school, nostalgic even, especially as the road winds toward each mountain peak.
Long Live The Daily Hike
When one gets in the habit of hiking, it brings you into an almost addictive headspace. Where the streak must be continued. Every day feels incomplete without at least a few miles on a trail. Your cardio gets better, your balance improves, and even the hiking sticks start to feel like extensions of your own rhythm.
With time, you begin to understand the personality of different trails—how “moderate” can mean anything from a pleasant forest walk to a full quad workout; how elevation gain written on a map never truly reflects how steep a climb feels when your breathing quickens. There were a few hikes I had planned that ended up taking much longer than expected. Some even pushed us past sunset, turning into careful nighttime descents lit only by headlamps.
Those after-dark hikes were a first for me. The forest shifts at night—the temperature drops, the birds quiet, and every rustle feels amplified. My knees, already a bit weak and jumbled from hours of stepping over roots and rocks, protested with every uneven stretch. The already difficult task of placing each foot over obstacles rather than into them became even more challenging as the sun slipped behind the tree line.
But there was something strangely calming about it too. With our headlamps cutting narrow beams through the darkness, the world shrank into a tunnel of light. Step, plant, breathe. Step, plant, breathe. Mile after mile, we made our way back to the truck—slowly, steadily, and somehow feeling more alive than we had at the start. Especially when the unmistakable howl of coyotes echoed in the distance.
Saturdays Are For Long Hikes
Then came the Saturday that will forever be known as THE LONG HIKE.
I had planned what I thought would be a challenging but reasonable nine-mile route. Nine miles didn’t sound like much, mostly because my brain still insists on converting everything into kilometers and convincing me it’s shorter.
The logic was simple: We had a full weekend to rack up miles and conquer peaks. And for some reason, it had evolved into this unspoken competition with ourselves—pack in as much as possible, squeeze every ounce out of daylight. So much for nature’s calming influence.
As we approached the trailhead I’d pinned on our map, two crucial factors had been conveniently ignored: the time and the day. We left for the trail at 10 a.m. on a beautifully sunny Saturday in Acadia National Park. Peak weather, peak season, peak foolishness. Naturally, the parking lot I aimed for was completely full.
Time for Plan B.
We kept driving up the winding road along the base of the mountains, searching for any sliver of available space. The next lot was also full—but there were cars neatly lined along the shoulder of the road. Perfect. We joined the single-file pilgrimage, creeping forward until we hit a stark sign that read: “NO PARKING BEYOND THIS POINT.” Because we are eternal optimists, we tried our best to wiggle our big truck behind the sign, but also dangerously close to the front bumper of the car behind us.The front cab and hood of the truck were definitely flirting with illegal territory, while the bed of the truck was defiantly sticking out. If you squinted, we were good. Technically. Kind of.
As it turns out, nine miles was actually fourteen miles once the full route revealed itself—twenty-two kilometers. That mathematical betrayal hit us only after the fact.
We began with the famous Precipice Trail, which turned out to be exactly what the name promises, with absolutely no false advertising. The route climbs almost straight up, rising over iron rungs bolted into the cliff face, threading narrow ledges that press your spine against granite and dare you to look down. The views are spectacular. Every downward glance delivered a pleasant surge of vertigo and the reminder that gravity is a very real concept.
As we continued our quest for spectacular views atop mountain peaks, we had the privilege of hiking up various types of terrain. Among them, the rock staircases varied wildly—some neatly arranged like nature’s version of a gym circuit, others complete free-for-all scrambles. We followed the painted blazes, trusting that they knew where the trail was supposed to go even when our legs questioned why we were going there. Each step was a fresh reminder that glutes and calves are both heroic and dramatically petty when pushed too far.
The trail stretched on far longer than expected. Every section seemed to open into yet another—another ridge, another scramble, another false sense of nearing the end. Hours passed. Eight of them, in fact. By the time we emerged from the last segment, every muscle in my body was trembling. But the vistas were indescribable, the kind that make you stop mid-sentence. The fellow hikers we met along the way were wonderfully kind with little bursts of camaraderie. Quick smiles, encouraging words, that unspoken “we’re all in this together” energy that happens when strangers become temporary teammates.
One man, cheerful and sweat-soaked like the rest of us, recommended a brewery near our campground. “Great pizza. Great beer,” he said. “If you’re into that kind of thing.”
Well. He spoke directly to our souls.
The scenery almost erased the discomfort (almost) until we climbed back into the truck and my legs staged a mutiny. The photos taken that day capture the entire emotional arc: hopeful excitement, mild concern, worsening concern, full existential questioning, then the hollow-eyed perseverance of someone who just wants a sandwich and a soft surface.
And while we’re on the subject of photos—how do influencers look effortlessly radiant at the summit? I look like I’m molting. The moment the incline begins, I turn into a sweaty, frizzy, tomato-tinted creature that no filter can save. Any action shot of me requires distance. Dramatic distance.
The final leg of the journey wasn’t even on the trail—it was the long walk along the pavement back to the truck, since to Precipice was a one-way climb. Every passing car was a temptation. A tiny part of my brain whispered, “Flag them down. Hitch a ride. No one will judge.” But then the stubborn part kicked in, and we marched on, fueled by the promise of beer and something carb-loaded. My internal mantra became a chant: pizza and beer, pizza and beer, pizza and beer. Sometimes survival looks like determination; sometimes it looks like food-based affirmations.
By the time we finally spotted our truck in the thinning row of cars, we remembered our questionable parking job. A group of hikers ahead of us noticed too—they paused, laughed, tried to take a picture. Chris, being the embodiment of Minnesota Nice, shouted a joking “Hey! That’s ours!” They burst into laughter, relieved to find the renegade parking belonged to someone whose day had clearly been as long as theirs.
Like us, they were coming to the end of a long day, some of them barefoot now because their shoes had surrendered earlier. Before I could blink, Chris offered them a ride to their campground. Five of them piled into the truck bed like a scene straight out of a feel-good movie. I could hear their laughter trailing behind us, wind tossing their voices around. When we reached their stop, one of them gave two taps on the roof (classic signal) before hopping out with heartfelt gratitude. In moments like that, the world feels small in a good way.
And then, finally, the reward: Fogtown Brewery. Live music drifting through warm air, tiny pixie lights hanging above the patio like glowing fireflies, the smell of pizza that could revive the dead. We devoured slices, sipped cold drinks, and let the day settle into memory.
That meal tasted like victory. Like exhaustion. Like pure contentment.
It tasted exactly like THE LONG HIKE deserved.
The next day’s planned hike was quickly forgotten and instead we decided to take a very leisurely bicycle ride on carriage road, where we gave our bodies some well deserved rest, but also kept ourselves moving to keep the streak going.
The Particularity of Our Campground
One thing we quickly learned about campgrounds in Maine is that the calendar runs a little differently—especially when it comes to Halloween. Apparently, Halloween happens in September. Not officially, of course, but in practice. And honestly? As a super-fan of anything spooky, eerie, pumpkin-themed, or glow-in-the-dark, it felt like a cosmic gift.
The first clue was subtle: a few pumpkin lights strung around a camper, a witch’s hat perched suspiciously on a picnic table. At first, I thought people were simply getting an early start. But then the decorations ramped up—fast. Campsites transformed into full-blown Halloween displays overnight. Motion-activated skeletons jerked to life as we walked past, their red eyes glowing like something out of a low-budget horror film. Ghosts swayed in the trees. A fog machine hissed to life in the evenings, rolling smoky tendrils across the gravel like a scene from a haunted carnival.
By the second night, it became clear this wasn’t just enthusiastic decorating—it was a tradition. Entire families returned each year specifically for “Campground Halloween,” a weekend of spooky lights, potlucks, costume parades, and friendly attempts to outdo each other. And honestly? It was magical. Something about being surrounded by twinkling lights, cackling animatronics, and grown adults who take their skeleton displays very seriously made the whole place feel like a cozy, festive micro-universe.
Maine Hospitality Comes in a Bowl of Mussels
On our final evening, the universe handed us yet another surprise—this time in the form of food. One of our neighbors, who had been out fishing the day before, knocked on our door holding a bucket the size of a kid’s Halloween candy pail. Inside: mussels. A lot of mussels. Apparently, he had caught far more than he and his family could eat and figured we might be up for a fresh seafood feast.
Cue me speed-scrolling through Pinterest for a recipe while trying to remember what pots we actually had with us. Remember a few chapters back when I mentioned that we packed minimally? Well, that included bringing only three out of our four pots and pans. Thankfully, one of them happened to be the biggest pot we owned, and it just—just—fit enough mussels for two people.
The cooking process turned out to be wonderfully simple: clean, steam, and serve. I melted an embarrassing amount of butter, added garlic (for culinary confidence), and crossed my fingers. In minutes, the shells opened, releasing that salty, ocean-fresh aroma that instantly makes you feel like you’re doing something right.
We sat outside at our little campsite table, surrounded by the glow of Halloween lights and the faint echo of a distant fog machine, digging into a bowl of mussels that tasted like pure East Coast charm. Chris slowly acquired the taste—hesitant at first, then increasingly enthusiastic as he realized dipping anything into butter and garlic is practically cheating.
By the end, we were full, happy, and deeply grateful. Not just for the food, but for the generosity of strangers and the small, unexpected moments that make travel feel less like being on the road and more like being part of a community.
Little Motorcycle Rides in Maine
During our three-week stay, we didn’t end up venturing onto any off-road trails with the bikes—something we usually chase whenever we’re in a new region. But honestly, the paved routes around Acadia National Park, the Schoodic Peninsula, and even Deer Island had their own kind of magic. Sometimes a calm ride is exactly what the moment calls for.
Riding through Acadia National Park feels like gliding through a moving postcard. The Park Loop Road twists along rugged cliffs and dips into stretches of dense forest where the scent of pine becomes almost heady. Every few miles the trees open up to reveal glittering blue ocean, granite ledges, and distant islands that look like they’re floating. Even at lower speeds, the road’s gentle curves give that satisfying lean that makes a motorcycle feel like the perfect way to experience the landscape. There’s a peaceful rhythm to it—uphill, coastal view, downhill, forest shade, repeat.
The Schoodic Peninsula was a completely different vibe—quieter, moodier, and more remote. The roads here are wide and smooth, with long stretches where you hardly see another vehicle. It’s the part of Acadia that most people skip, which makes the ride feel like a secret you’ve stumbled upon. Black volcanic-looking rock lines the shoreline, waves constantly crashing against it. We stopped to enjoy the scenery and were greeted by grey seals in the distance. Just a small part of their heads were sticking out of the water. Their eyes followed our movements as we found a comfortable rock to sit on and quietly take in our surroundings. Riding with the sound of the waves in the background, and the salty mist occasionally brushing your face shield, made the whole loop feel cinematic. It’s a place where your mind slows down and your shoulders drop a little without you even noticing.
Our favorite unexpected ride was Deer Island. The route takes you through small fishing towns, over bridges that hover above quiet inlets, and past clusters of weathered boats anchored close to shore. It’s the kind of ride where you follow the road simply because it’s beautiful, not because there’s a particular destination waiting at the end. The island itself has a slower heartbeat—calm roads, gentle hills, and scenery that feels untouched. No rush. No noise. Just the hum of the engine and the soft roll of the Atlantic in the background.
Even without the thrill of off-roading, those weeks of riding were memorable for their easy pace. Each route offered something a little different—ocean views, coastal cliffs, fishing villages, forests—but all of them shared the same quiet, grounding charm. Sometimes the best rides aren’t the most technical ones; they’re the ones that simply let you breathe, look around, and enjoy the place you’re in.
And just like that, our stay in Maine came to an end. Between marathon hikes, coastal motorcycle rides, and unexpected seafood feasts, it’s safe to say the state kept us well-entertained. Tired… but entertained.
But the road doesn’t slow down for long. With the Bus hitched and the bikes strapped in, we’re pointing our compass toward Pennsylvania next—ready to trade ocean views for forest trails and ride the Backcountry Discovery Route loop we’ve been eyeing for months.
New terrain. New stories. Same two wandering souls.
NOMADIC ADV 