Heat Wave in Maine? Hardly.

"I was sweatin' today," said Nate. "I had to spend the whole day at the beach."

In a conspiratorial tone, Deb, who is originally from Delaware, explained to me: "It gets really hot for them at 80 to 82 degrees. They die."

Luckily, the first half of the trek was shaded by towering evergreens that sliced the blue sky into thin ribbons. However, at the steeper rocky section, which required boulder-hopping and a bit of spider-crawling, our cover disappeared. Without the trees, we were naked to the sun. Nate started to melt.

We reached the peak in less than an hour, and in that short time I felt as if I had leapt to the top of the world. From my perch in the stone observation tower, I could clearly see the miniaturized town, the harbor and its toy boats, and a confetti toss of islands. A layer of fog created a pale gray backdrop against the deep blue of the bay, and many of the islands were blurry, like overexposed film.

While the fog obscured the long views, it had its advantages, too. Thanks to the bay breeze, the moist air was blown in our direction and provided little fan bursts that ruffled my hair and cooled my skin. I was now ready to descend and hail a windjammer.

* * *

Camden is very well-to-do, like the Hamptons but with Sperry Top-Siders instead of Gucci loafers -- and no pretensions. Most of the homes follow the Brahmin color scheme of white exterior with black shutters; look-at-me pastels and architectural flourishes are not the norm. And while it may be uncouth to talk about your annual bonus, it's not vulgar to talk about others' conspicuous consumption.

One of the most famous nearby homeowners is John Travolta. Word is, he flies his plane into Owl's Head airport, then drives to Lincolnville (one town north of Camden) to catch the 20-minute ferry to Islesboro, where he owns a spread.

The houses on the 12-mile-long island mainly belong to the wealthy (self-made or inherited), but the ferry fare of $7.50 round trip makes the island an egalitarian side trip. After the constant activity of Camden, Islesboro was a nice exhalation.

For such a small island, with one of everything but not much more, I was amazed at how easily I filled my hours: poking around tidal pools on Town Beach, pawing through $5 dresses at a church yard sale, viewing quilts at the historical society and watching the kids working at the Dark Harbor Shop eat spoonfuls of rainbow jimmies.

The last boat leaves at 4:30 p.m., and you want to be on it, as overnight lodging is limited. It's wise to plan ahead as well: I had attempted to take the 3:30, but it was full. (The guy driving the black Rolls-Royce didn't make it on either, so I felt better.)

Staying within eyeshot of my car, I wandered down to a small slice of beach, where a father and his two grown sons were prepping their day sailer. One of the sons, Dave de Grasse, pointed out Kirstie Alley's old house, an impressive sprawl on the water.