Grasping the cold steel hand rail, I pull myself up and ease gingerly over the slab, which is covered with a veneer of gleaming ice. As I make the move, I am keenly aware of my precipitous position here, with a bird’s-eye view of the pond 500 feet below through the leafless trees.
“Don’t try this at home, folks,” I laugh nervously to myself.
The Jordan Cliffs Trail is one of the wildest hikes in Acadia National Park, a rising traverse of about a mile across the steep east face of Penobscot Mountain high above Jordan Pond.
Steel rungs, hand rails, ladders and log bridges guide hikers over the trickiest spots. A few places without any aids, where you really wish there were, add considerably to the excitement.
The next obstacle is a log walkway, which actually descends about 50 feet. It, too, displays icy patches, and after just one step I realize the entire structure is as slick as snot, as the old Maine saying goes. I hold onto the side rails with a firmer-than-usual grip and inch my way down. Stepping off at last, I look back up and breathe a sigh of relief.
Most sane hikers tackle the Jordan Cliffs Trail in the warmth of late summer or early fall. (Note: The Jordan Cliffs Trail, among several others in the park, is closed every year between March and mid-August to protect nesting peregrine falcons.)
Me, not so much, clearly, as I’ve chosen a crisp early December afternoon after several days of rain and nights below freezing. “What could go wrong?” I thought. Besides, a repeat of a hike I’d done years ago was high on my bucket list and, stubbornly, today was the day.
The Jordan Cliffs Trail is one of a handful of rugged and rigorous paths in the 120-mile inventory of park trails on Mount Desert Island. Other marvels of trail engineering include the Beehive Trail on the Beehive, the Ladder Trail on Dorr Mountain, the Beech Cliffs Trail on Beech Mountain and the most famous, the Precipice Trail on Champlain Mountain.
Originally known as the Jordan Bluffs Trail in the late 1890s, the Jordan Cliffs Trail is the work of Waldron Bates, the indefatigable trail builder for whom the Bates Cairn is named.
You’ll find these unique cairns, constructed of two to four base stones, a lintel stone and a pointer rock, marking the bare rock sections of Acadia’s mountain paths.
So far, so good. Sort of. Kind of.
As the trail climbs higher, I can see the prow of the mountain’s face bathed in sunshine. I scamper below in complete shadow, dressed well yet chilly from sweaty exertion and a mild case of nervous anticipation. A thermos of something hot would be nice, but instead I sip cold water from my bottle and carry forth.
One ledge drop, sheathed with ice, is devoid of any assistance. Rather than take a chance on what would normally be an easy hop, I sit on the seat of my pants and slide carefully down, without shame, I might add. I’m alone, after all, and I do fully intend to make it home to my wife for dinner. I pull similar antics at the next iffy passage without hesitation.
The wind picks up as the blue-blazed trail exits the trees and ascends over wide-open rock toward the base of the summit cliffs. The view over the pond is amazing, taking in the shapely forms of the Bubbles as well as Pemetic and Sargent mountains.
I arrive at a steel ladder leading straight up the face to my left. Counting seven rungs, I grab on and go.
There’s no motivator quite like fear. While I wasn’t gripped, I felt a rational twinge of concern, not unlike my younger days as a technical rock and ice climber, when I always felt I was living on the edge on the walls.
At least then I was roped.
Halfway up, then three, two, one rung and yes, I latch onto the upper hand rail.
I inch along the exposed ledge to a safe stance and look back. Wow. I smile and, with a thumbs-up, snap a selfie. In the background, out beyond the pond, I spy the ocean. Above, a blue sky of puffy white clouds. For the first time in over an hour, I can breathe properly.
I drop into the trees and, with a bouncy step, head for the Deer Brook Trail.
As I circle the far side of Jordan Pond, the sun dipping behind the shoulder of Penobscot Mountain casts a long golden ray across the water. I shed my puffy and relax in the day’s last moments of warmth. At an opening in the shoreline trees, I take a long look up and trace my impossible route across Jordan Cliffs.
And decide that a cold beer is in order.