Junkapork enhances Beech Hill camp life

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As rocks go, ours is neither majestic nor monstrous. It doesn’t strike fear into those who clamber up it, and has rarely reduced its visitors to trembling wrecks as they perch on the edge, one hop away from the cool waters below.

No, our rock is not as fearsome as some, nor as dangerous as many. It is small. It is safe.

And for generations of campers at Beech Hill Pond, it is our rock. And without it, camp life wouldn’t be quite the same.

Many of the state’s lakes are dotted with similar rocks, thanks to the glaciers that carved their way to the sea, leaving massive boulders in its wake.

And on most of those lakes, I’d hazard a guess, those rocks end up taking on a life of their own.

Ours certainly has. Leaping off it is a rite of passage for some, a yearly ritual for others, and a daily way to kill time for those who spend their entire summers on the pristine little Hancock County lake.

Part of the reason for our attraction to it, I suppose, is that it has a cool name.

Lucerne has its Elephant Rock. Sebago has Frye’s Leap.

And Beech Hill has (I’m not making this up) Junk of Pork.

Actually, according to the 1981 U.S. Department of Interior Geological Survey Map, it’s called “Junk of Pork Rock.”

Early speculation, which may have simply been a way for my father to get us to stop asking a question for which nobody had an answer, was that in order to understand the name, you had to think figuratively.

The pond, you see, wasn’t always a pond. It was once a plateful of baked beans. And the rock? Well, it was bigger than a bean … and it had to be the pork.

Some locals call it Chunk of Pork. Others (probably those too embarrassed to believe that its name is so absurd) simply call it “the rock.”

And for those who can remember 30 or 40 summers on Beech Hill Pond (a club, thankfully, that I’m able to include myself in) have shortened that awkward name, turning it into a one-word wonder like no other.

To us, it’s just Junkapork.

Nobody seems to know how big Junkapork really is, nor how deep the water around it may be.

Some say they’ve hit bottom when they jumped off. Others say that’s impossible.

From the water, the rock looks like it’s about the height of a 3-meter diving board. Ten feet, give or take.

From the top of Junkapork, it’s entirely different.

Ten feet looks more like 15 … or even 20, if you’re 7 years old, and have never taken the leap before … or if you’re 41, and are left wondering when you’ll outgrow the need to leap off rocks into cool, deep water.

On a recent sunny weekend, the water around Junkapork resembled a marina, with kayakers vying for space with party barges and speedboats.

One after another, potential jumpers climbed the ladder attached to the rock – refurbished in recent years by an unknown Beech Hill camper – and joined those waiting their turn.

On this day, a group of teenage girls (complete with the requisite cell phone, safely ensconced in a zip-lock baggie), lounged for hours on top of the rock, calling friends and taking an occasional cooling plunge.

Some jumpers were young. Some were older. Some, obviously, had never jumped before. And others were wily veterans … even at the age of 11, like my niece, Alyssa.

Alyssa’s 13-year-old brother, Ryan, enjoys an occasional leap off Junkapork.

Alyssa? She lives for it.

“Junkapork, Junkapork, Junkapork,” she’ll whisper in my ear, a few dozen times a day … until I finally agree to fire up the boat and take her there.

Once there, she’s nothing but a no-nonsense Junkapork jumper. No twists. No tricks. Just jump after jump after jump, trying to get in as many leaps as possible before her mother and I pull the plug and head back to shore.

“She said she’d jump all day, or until she got hungry, if you let her,” my sister told me the other day.

Over the years, Junkapork has become many things for many visitors. For some, it’s a mild way to address a fear of heights or water.

For others, it becomes the way to prove, finally, that they’re “big enough” to do what their siblings have done for years.

And for still others, Junkapork seems to supply exactly what’s needed … whether you know what you need or not.

The special places we visit often have that effect, I figure.

A few years ago, a friend who was finally coming to terms with an especially depressing divorce visited camp and joined other friends for a trip to Junkapork.

While diving off the boat to prepare for his first-ever leap, he resurfaced with what I assumed was bad news.

“My watch fell off,” he said.

It was growing dark, and we couldn’t find the timepiece anywhere.

After a few leaps off the rock, he returned to the boat. I promised to search for his watch later.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a weary grin. “My ex gave it to me. I think I lost it for a reason.”

Perhaps so. Perhaps not.

But thinking back on that night spent among friends, with one man’s troubles seemingly washed away by that cool Beech Hill water, his words make more sense.

All because of Junkapork.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.