As winter begins to take hold here in Brooklyn, I can't help think about warmer times. This past summer we went up to Maine for a wedding. We also rented mountain bikes for the weekend and road all over Acadia National Park. But what struck me to be the more memorable ride was a random outing through Blue Hill, where I came upon this gorgeous section of trail off main the road. It only lasted a few hundred yards, but the timing and scenery was perfect. It reminded me of the good old days of scouting hidden trails, often making new ones in my hometown of Vancouver, WA.

I think what I rode through was a farm of sorts. Maybe blueberries. You can see faint lines delineating sections of brush. For all I know I was trespassing, but I didn't see any signs. No harm done.

The path meandered down towards the water, cutting through boulder fields, gradually turning into brush.

It was my first time in Maine, and it reminded me a lot of the Pacific Northwest with its rolling hills and endless tree line. I look forward to my next visit.