Duck Brook Bridge is part of the historic carriage trail system on Mount Desert Island. Stuck in the middle of the woods and blessed with a name straight out of an E.B. White story, the bridge always seemed a bit grand for the trickle of water underneath. Maybe I’ve only been there at low tide, so to speak, and I am sure the design made perfect sense to the Mr Rockefeller.
Funny, I’m not exactly sure how to get to the bridge although I’ve been there several times. I mean, the island is only so big. As a friend once said, “you can’t get lost – it’s an island, just keep driving. ”
Duck Brook Bridge, for whatever reason, is my emblem for Mount Desert Island. Grand and rising up out of nowhere, not really all that much in reality but an anchor for all bits and pieces of memories that just seem to land at that bridge.
There was that day we were antiquing, on the hunt for ballerina Depression glass, the same day we went to the top of Cadillac and saw the pink and orange sunset move across the mountain. The wind blew like it would never stop. That day, still stunned that after the bride disappeared with his best friend, hearing the whole crazy, rotten, unbelievable story, kicking rocks, and singing Patsy Cline. The air was drenched with the scent of pine. That day, when she was just little, pony tails and baby teeth, thinking we could avoid the tourists but we found out that tourists are preferable to black flies. She picked out a baby seal stuffed animal at the store in town.