Sibley Pond, Long Island, Blue Hill Bay
Before GPS and Google Maps, I loved to study renderings of Maine, especially dogeared topographical maps. With myriad contour lines and geographic features, one can discern details overlooked by other atlases. One such drawing of Blue Hill Bay showed a tiny blue speck in the secluded interior of Long Island called Sibley Pond. Obsessed with brook trout, I wondered if islanders ever stocked it. With no visible trails and roads, perhaps this pond provided refuge for generations of feral brookies that had never encountered an angler. As a boy, I imagined monster fish prowling in deep spring-fed waters. I had often asked to be dropped off, so I could find the pond myself, even though I worried my family might intentionally maroon me there forever. Anyhow, I never tested that nagging thought. Other adventures interceded as I grew into adulthood, and I never found the pond — until this past summer.
Four and a half miles long and two miles wide, Long Island is one of Maine’s largest islands. According to reputable online sources, the island boasts a rich maritime history. In 1850, Long Island had over 120 inhabitants, who labored as farmers, fishermen, and lumbermen. During the Civil War, 6,000 sheep grazed across mostly open farmland and pasture. Between 1890 and 1898, a quarry mine employed 150 laborers. By this time, the community had a boardinghouse, cemetery, church, dancehall, post office, school, and store. Originally, locals established the Town of Granite and later renamed it Seaville. Once the island’s economies waned, many moved to the mainland. Around 1920, Long Island was bereft of year-round residents altogether.
Subsequent landowners attempted to cultivate blueberry barrens and establish private game preserves. After these ventures failed, spruce forests returned, concealing most signs of human settlement. In the ensuing decades, a few property owners kept summer camps along the west and south shores. For a time, one landowner ferried bison to the island, which roamed free for hunting. Around 1995, Acadia National Park purchased an environmental easement and removed the creatures. Today, some camps remain, but the island is mostly wilderness.
During August 2023, my wife, pet beagle, and I traveled to Long Island. I had plotted an easterly course from the island’s western shore through unfamiliar woodland terrain. The precise distance measured 4,148 feet as the bird flies. From the satellite image, the way was a wall of spruce woods interspersed with granite outcroppings and fringed by peat bogs. Not inviting, but I had traversed many Maine islands, where shadowed forests afforded relatively easy walking. Based upon a lifetime of experience, I figured 40-60 minutes of bushwhacking to reach our goal. Regrettably, I was mistaken, which isn’t an uncommon occurrence for me.
After a 50-minute drive from home to South Blue Hill Wharf, we launched our modest boat. For a weekend, the landing wasn’t too busy, and there was adequate parking for my truck and trailer. The skies were clear with little wind, so barely a ripple disturbed as we crossed the mile long channel to the big island. Since its western shore is predominantly ledge and rock, we were fortunate to find a pebbled beach at the high tide line. However, the tide was receding, which would expose a flat of seaweed-covered boulders, so I inflated a rubber dinghy and anchored in deeper waters.
My wife, Heidi, and I packed minimal provisions for the expected hike, and we soon lamented not bringing more drinks as we slogged farther inland. At the outset, we ascended a spruce ridge. A thick mat of sphagnum moss and lichen blanketed the ground. We weaved through the trees and bushes and clambered over granite ledges, but the way was uncomplicated. Our beagle, Cookie, enjoyed being off leash as she ran back and forth. Please note that we rarely untether our dog, but she’s well-behaved, and there were no other people around.
At the summit, the woods were eerily quiet. Blue Hill Bay wasn’t visible through the treetops, and little sound carried through the humid air, except for the diesel drone of a faraway lobster boat. Occasional animal trails meandered and faltered. I observed very few signs of wildlife, excluding stale deer scat and secretive birds flitting through branches. Only once I heard an indignant red squirrel protesting our presence. So, desolate a place, I imagined escaped buffalo still roaming the woods or sullen ghosts drifting through foggy fens.
Farther inland, the landscape transformed into a morass of black spruce, dwarf shrub, and leatherleaf peat bogs. Huckleberry and maleberry bushes grew above our heads. Spindly twigs grabbed our clothes and scratched our arms and legs. For hundreds of yards, we waded through the brush, using our hands to part the way. So thick, we had to feel with our feet to avoid stepping into holes or tripping over blowdowns. I charted a circuitous course to bypass the worst places. Often, we had no choice but to plow through. The spongy bogs that fringed our path offered no respite, and the trees weren’t dense enough to shade the ground and stunt the underbrush.
Throughout, Heidi lobbed a steady stream of complaints and profanities—mostly, in my direction. I can’t say for sure, but words like idiot, moron, and other imaginative descriptors wafted through the air. Between wheezing breaths, I soothed my long-suffering spouse with platitudes of encouragement. A few times, I deliberately underestimated the distance remaining to offer a glimmer of hope for the journey’s end. Eventually, my deception would cause some fleeting marital strife, but for now, it was enough to keep my wife moving.
Far from shore, the air was sultry. Sweat soaked our clothes. At intervals, I checked my GPS only to be disappointed by our lack of progress. The little pond seemed to travel in opposition to us. My wife’s enthusiasm waned, especially as our water dwindled. Two-thirds of the way, the topography hadn’t changed, and we managed only short distances at a time. We lost our poor dog in the flora below. If not for the bell on her collar, we would not have known where she was. Around noontime, we stopped for lunch. Damp and exhausted, we inclined on a mossy knoll. We saw nothing through the woods, certainly no blue sky ahead to show a break in the canopy.
Not long after, I proposed turning back before we ran out of water. As a diabetic, my glucose monitor had beeped the entire hike, and I had suspended my insulin pump and snacked at intervals to raise my blood sugar. To my wife’s credit, she insisted on persevering since we had already come so far. I guessed another five hundred feet to reach our destination. Unfortunately, the last stretch was no easier, but finally, the forest canopy opened. Although the pond was still unseen, a rivulet of tea-colored water flowed from above and sieved into a bog below. Although the brook wasn’t cold enough to suggest a spring-fed source, its waters were slightly cool from recent rains.
Before the pond came into view, we heard a waterfall, which was unexpected on the island’s plateau. Nearing, we observed quarried granite blocks that comprised a dam about thirty-five feet long. Without the barrier, no pond would have existed.
Adrenaline flowing, we increased our pace. As Heidi climbed a ledge, she tossed her prized hiking stick over to free her hands. Unfortunately, it fell into a cleft on the other side. Deep down a narrow chasm, the pole was beyond my reach. So close to our destination and frustrated by the delay, I mumbled a few curse words of my own under my breath as I fashioned a lasso with a branch and rope. After several minutes of fumbling, I retrieved the staff.
Below the dam, the water foamed and swirled. Above, placid waters reflected the maritime sky. The pond was bean-shaped, two hundred feet long and seventy feet wide. Spruce trees ringed three of its shores. Granite ledge lined the eastern shore. The pond’s headwaters originated from a bog. Tea-colored waters filled its shallow basin—only four feet deep, choked with weeds and punctuated by pale stones.
Sibley Pond was a picturesque oasis amid the surrounding spruce woods, impregnable undergrowth, and peat bogs. However, no fish, frogs, or turtles disturbed its waters, and insects were scarce. Only select species of flora and fauna survived in the bog’s acidic waters. I scrambled across the dam to search for artificial trails, but I found none. Although the island once hosted myriad buildings and roads, nature had vanquished all signs of human civilization long ago.
Though islanders depended upon hand-dug wells, they constructed the dam as a water source for livestock. They may have harvested ice to fill their root cellars during the summer. Whatever its original purpose, this far-flung pond has very few visitors now.
Our return trip was more wearying, and we had no more drinks. Fortunately, fresh rains provided abundant water for our beagle. My wife and I dipped our hats to cool our heads. I charted a path farther north to find heavier tree cover and fewer bushes. Like before, we still had to plow through dense thickets. We found a slight brook that repelled the brush and offered easier walking. About a thousand feet from the shore, the terrain descended, and gravity assisted the rest of the way. Now dehydrated, my leg muscles spasmed and cramped a few times. With nothing to sterilize the water, I resisted the temptation to drink, lest I spend the next days on the toilet—or worse. After hours of arduous hiking, we were underway and headed home.
No doubt it’ll take a long while to forget the grueling memory, but I’m pleased we found Sibley Pond. If Acadia National Park ever builds a trail system on Long Island, my wife, beagle, and I will volunteer straightaway.