Rain, Radio Stations, and Bar Harbor

Maria and I settled into our site.

To be honest, the whole tourist-attraction draw of Bar Harbor is pretty low on our list. We’ve been here before—once back in 1993, and again in 2013 with our four youngest children, my parents, and cousins who brought their own self-contained fifth wheel.

Fast forward to the now. We pulled into our site, and I went through my usual checklist: level the Mothership, hook up the sewer, and get the internet flying so we could stream. Then, we both tackled some housekeeping to clear out the road dirt that accumulates from stopping for gas and moving in and out of the rig.

Maine is a state that seems to never change, and if you’re a local, please correct me if I'm wrong. Although time has flown by since 1993, or even 2013, the colors on the houses look like they've just been repainted with the exact same shades. When you walk into a business, even a big-box store, it might technically be updated, but you still get the distinct sense that you’ve slipped back in time. You hear music overhead, but it’s coming from a local radio station, something I, and probably many of you, have mostly traded in for streaming. Politics aren’t argued out in the open like in other states I’ve lived in for months at a time. This place is just a state of calm. The drivers are slow and cautious, never aggressive.

You know that random stranger who waves to you even though they have no idea who you are? Out here, that’s just standard practice. Every stranger on the backroads of Maine has waved without hesitation, always with a smile. The state doesn't just offer incredible views—like the cove less than a quarter-mile from my site for the summer, or the mountainous hikes I plan on taking—it offers a peaceful pocket of the past. It feels less like a politically charged, split society, and more a collective breath of fresh air.

This return is significant for Maria and me. Back in 1993, we had only been dating for three months when we took our very first vacation together right here. Now, we're back. I’ve already figured out when and where we’ll be shopping, and I've mapped out our resources, like where to fill up if we get low on propane.

The weather is taking its time warming up, and the rain is proving to be a bit of an issue. We developed a leak. Thankfully, it's not on the roof (I coated it twice in Florida and sealed everything with Dicor), but in our windshield, which was replaced in Pennsylvania two years ago. I’ll touch base on that whole saga next week. In the meantime, I’m seeking where I should get my first Lobster Roll, what movies were filmed nearby, and a slew of other activities.

For the time being, if you ever plan a trip out here to the only state with a single syllable, the only state bordered by just one other, and a place that legitimately boasts more coastline than California, you can count on a few constants. You'll know it’s calm, you'll know it has beautiful views, and you'll get the distinct feeling that you’ve time-traveled back to 1993. A better year, in my opinion—because that's where our story in travel started.

Thanks for reading.

Tim Eagle

Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Karma Cop, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and cat Walter White. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.com 

A Foggy Bar Harbor in early spring

Another foggy hilltop view of Bar Harbor

The day in Bar Harbor is clearing up

The past, 1993 and the future, 2026 in Bar Harbor, Maine

My new digs at the new job in Bar Harbor