by Bill Walker
“Hey, come look at this,” one hiker said, “That must be Katahdin.” A whole panorama of mountains lay before us, and indeed a distant peak silhouetted in the far distance seemed to distinguish itself as we stood there silently at dusk. It was a tantalizing glimpse, even if I wasn’t entirely convinced that it was Mount Katahdin (“The Greatest Mountain”), still 180 miles away, that we were ogling.
Fred Flintstone and Steady Eddie arrived, but the frigid conditions inside strongly discouraged any repeat of Fred Fintstone’s epic tales. The howling wind tore at the windowpanes, which made sleep difficult. I set up my tent behind a wall to gain some protection from the cold draft, but the fierce wind shook at the window panes all night. We were all up at first light the following morning, and my tent was soaked from the condensation created by warmer air colliding with cold air. We filed out silently, and I was quite happy to get back below tree line.
A couple days later the trail ascended three thousand feet on the Bigelow Range. Colonel Bigelow had been part of Benedict Arnold’s expedition that attacked the British along this route during the revolutionary war. This was, of course, during Benedict Arnold’s good ol’ days as a red-blooded American patriot. Had they succeeded in this attack Canada might today be part of the United States.
My emotions were mixed. The whole AT had started off as an intense shout of freedom, and it had been anything but a disappointment. But at some point a person’s appetite for the new begins to flag, and I had just about reached it. A profound fatigue greater than could be remedied by a mere good night’s sleep was setting in. At this point I just wanted to make it all the way.
That night I was alone, and had to hike a half-mile off the trail in tricky terrain to find a suitably un-rocky campsite. I tried to hang a bear line, but ended up failing miserably. This meant keeping my food in the tent with me all evening, never a soothing prospect. But my biggest worry turned out not to be hungry bears, but high winds. The wind howled and shook the forest all evening as branches fell off trees, bouncing off other branches lower down. I lay cowering in my tent, completely exposed to a tree blow-down, of which I noticed there had been many.
Inevitably, I began the next day in low spirits. But then I arrived at the bottom of Little Bigelow Mountain. This was the end of Warren Doyle’s Section Three of the AT, which he had labeled as the toughest of the four sections. That was good news. Better yet, as I followed the trail down a dirt road in isolated, central Maine I noticed a big camper with a picnic table set up on a side road. I gnash my teeth now trying to remember his name, but he was a member of the well-known “Billville Hiking Club.” He invited me over for a picnic.
“How many hamburgers would you like?” he asked heartily. “I’ll cook ‘em on my grill for you.”
“One would be great,” I said.
“One,” he said surprised. “I’ve never had a hiker eat just one.”
Even though I had just eaten lunch 1.5 miles back, the burger had a heartiness and flavor that few besides thru-hikers and animals could appreciate. And there was just something about trail food that never quite hit the spot (“like the soup made from the shadow of a crow that starved to death”). After I devoured that burger and meekly asked for a second, he replied, “There you go, and try some of this other stuff, please.” Sure enough, the table was decked out with pasta salad, desserts, candy bars, and soft drinks. He even had Advil, aspirin, and toilet paper for hikers to take. Soon, Stitch, the Joy Machine, and Foamer arrived with ineffable looks at what lay before them.
I finally headed off with a renewed vigor that, honest to God, lasted for a full day and a half.
Everybody was in buoyant spirits at the shelter that early autumn evening, and most went swimming in the nearby lake. The hot topic at the Lean-To was Warren Doyle’s entry in the trail register from a couple weeks before.
West Carry Pond Lean-To—mile 1,911
9-01-05: Five Myths—Warren Doyle
Iraq has weapons of mass destruction.
Saddam was connected to 9-11.
Bull moose like to become intimate with female hikers during their menstrual cycles.
Masturbation leads to blindness.
The Kennebec River is unfordable at all times.
“That’s the most entertaining journal entry I’ve read in two thousand miles,” I exclaimed.
But fully imbued with the anti-Doyle trendiness pervading the younger hikers, Stitch spoke for the group, “That guy is nuts.” And looking at me he added, “You’re crazy to listen to a word he says.”
“Get a life, Stitch,” I responded.
Below the five myths Warren had gone on to list ten steps for fording the Kennebec River, all of which we had discussed in his class. A woman had died several years back attempting to ford the Kennebec, and there had been several other near drownings. Finally, the ATC, whether for humanitarian or liability reasons, had decided to provide a ferry with a blaze painted on it to carry hikers across the river. But the fiercely independent Doyle had said, “Remember, if you take the canoe, you haven’t hiked the entire trail.” The woman who drowned had had her backpack strapped on tightly, and was unable to remove it as she was swept up by the current. Warren had demonstrated to our class how to carry our backpacks with straps loosened while fording.
I had been thinking about doing it for some time. But the first step Warren had listed was to be at the shore by seven o’clock, when you’re fresh and the water from upstream hasn’t been released yet. The largest dam in the Northeast is a few miles up the Kennebec from where the AT crosses it, and water is released at irregular intervals. After each release the water levels and current increase rapidly. But we were thirteen and-a-half miles away from the Kennebec that evening, which meant we wouldn’t arrive at the shores of the Kennebec until two or three o’clock the following afternoon at best.
The trail was abuzz the next day as we approached the river. Unfortunately, my statement in support of Doyle’s journal entry and remarks to the effect that I might consider trying it under the right circumstances, had been turned into bold claims that I would.
At the lean-to, 3.5 miles before the Kennebec, was the following entry:
Pierce Pond Lean-To—mile 1,921
9-16-05: High Noon. meets the Kennebec.—The Riddler
The trail wove downhill, toward the river, which I began to hear surging by. Then I cleared the hilltop and the Kennebec River presented itself in full. It looked more like the Potomac River, than some of the waterways we had been able to negotiate by rock-hopping. And a cursory glance both upstream and downstream didn’t reveal any significant rock outcroppings to gain traction.
The canoe ferry operator approached, and from the shore I shouted out, “Is it fordable?”
“Oh don’t go committing suicide, now,” he yelled back. “You see the water where you’re standing, now?”
“Yeah,” I replied looking at the water under my hiking shoes.
“That will be up to your waist in a half-hour,” he shot back. “They just released the water from the dam upstream about twenty minutes ago.”
“How deep is it?” I asked.
“Maybe twelve or fourteen feet when you get half way across,” he answered. “Just last week two people tried it and ended up floating one hundred yards downstream before they were lucky to catch a rock.”
I was chastened as my chance to distinguish myself among my peers was jettisoned.
Disillusioned, I joined the others in loading my backpack in the canoe. It soon became clear that he was right, as we struggled mightily to help him paddle upstream and then across the powerful, streaking currents.
Our first challenging fords came the next day in heavy rain. “Skywalker, this must be a piece of cake for you,” Foamer shouted out.
“No way,” I shouted back. “A high center of gravity is no good in this.” As best I could tell the biggest risk was taking a step into an unknown deep spot and then toppling over. I unbuttoned my backpack straps, per Warren Doyl
e’s advice, just in case I did fall over.
The fords often came unannounced; they weren’t even listed in the guidebook. We would arrive at a wide creek or narrow river, and look left and right before somebody would spot a blaze on the far side of the water. Dutifully, everybody would pull off their hiking shoes and put on the crocks to wade across. The bottom was usually rocky, and the natural urge to hurry could cause one to careen over. In just a few days Hurricane Rita would have these streams jumping their banks and they would be anywhere from dangerous, to completely impassible.
The trail also kept coming up on rickety bog bridges and fifty-foot puddles. Hikers had a choice of splashing through the mud and water or trying to skirt around through the bushes and trees. Inevitably, our shoes and boots were filled with mud and water. I was thankful for the company. Getting lost in these rural parts, in heavy rain and with several streams to cross, would have been a grave matter.
Finally, three days after crossing the Kennebec, I came to Maine Highway 15. A sixtyish lady, who gave the impression of nobly performing a grim duty, gave me a ride into Monson. This was the last northbound hiker town on the AT and the entry point into the Hundred-Mile Wilderness.
Monson is another nondescript one-street town in which AT hikers resupplied, but Shaw’s Boardinghouse is anything but ordinary. It is a picturesque two-story house located off the main street that has been putting up hikers for thirty years. Several rooms are available at reasonable prices, and a fabulous breakfast is served at six o’clock.
The first person I saw upon entering was Baltimore Jack. After his unexpected dropout due to injury, Evan was helping out with the late-season rush of hikers. They were full, but I agreed with his suggestion to sleep out on the lawn. It was to be about the only thing we agreed on.
Downstairs, Baltimore Jack began holding court in trademark fashion in front of a captive audience. Stitch had told him about his rival Warren Doyle’s trail register entry about fording the Kennebec. But Evan didn’t find it amusing. He was even threatening to hike out to the West Carry Pond Lean-To Shelter to retrieve Warren’s entry and show it to the ATC Board of Directors. Apparently, Warren had been taken to task by the ATC for advocating that hikers ford the Kennebec, despite the fact that he was a board member himself.
“What’s wrong with his fording the Kennebec, if he chooses to?” I asked Evan in what some took as an act of lesé majesté.
“He can ford the Kennebec all he wants,” Evan fired back. “But he tries to shame and humiliate others into doing something dangerous.” Well, maybe Evan had a point, but Doyle’s journal entry had specifically taken issue with the idea that the Kennebec was unfordable at all times. It was all pretty esoteric stuff and the passions it aroused would show what a bubble thru-hikers live in.
“Look, he’s a maverick with a bit of a swagger,” I said taking a philosophical tact. “No, he’s not ‘a maverick with a bit of a swagger,’” Evan thundered back. “He’s a fraud.”
At six-thirty Baltimore Jack called out, “Silence. Jeopardy time.” For the next half-hour he demonstrated a stunning command of minutiae and historical facts going back hundreds and thousands of years. The amateur Freud in me couldn’t help but wonder if it all wasn’t linked: eight thru-hikes in nine years, heavy drinker, chain-smoker, fixation on Jeopardy trivia, obsession with Warren Doyle. A classic addictive personality.
He had joked, “I’m a drunk with a hiking problem.” Humor was his saving grace.
Chapter 22
The remnants of Hurricane Rita blew a powerful storm into the area, pouring sheets of rain all night, with no letup the next morning. We glumly realized it would be practically insane to head out as Wilma lashed the area all day. Meanwhile, Baltimore Jack gave us a brief primer on the streams to be forded in the 100 Mile Wilderness. “Watch out for the Little Wilson,” he said in words that would soon gain great significance for us. “It can be a problem after heavy storms.”
The Shaws dutifully shuttled us back to the trailhead early the next morning, where the sign said:
YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER THE 100 MILE WILDERNESS. YOU SHOULD HAVE 10 DAYS OF FOOD TO COMPLETE THIS JOURNEY.
I had about a seven-day supply, which I thought would be sufficient. My backpack now weighed forty pounds, the most ever. This was a far cry from the low twenties it weighed back in Georgia. I felt myself swaying and “back heavy” the first couple rock climbs. It immediately became clear that the trail conditions had changed dramatically in just thirty-six hours. In the wake of the powerful storm, long stretches of puddles and thick mud presented themselves right in the middle of the trail. Hikers were trying all manners of bushwhacking, straddling, and the like. Still our feet and socks were a mess after one mile, with ninety-nine more to go. Travel was slowed dramatically, and I quickly began wondering if I had brought enough food.
One reason I wanted to hang with a group was to avoid getting lost in the most isolated stretch in the entire eastern United States. But with my long, gangly physique I consistently had trouble keeping up with people in rocky, wet, and muddy areas. And that was to be the case on this day as the trail traversed around ponds and over slippery slate rock and through quagmires. Fortunately, the Maine Appalachian Trail Club (MATC) had once again done a fantastic job blazing the trail, even in the most remote wilderness areas.
Leeman Brook Lean-To—mile 2,064
9-19-05: Has anybody seen the fountain of youth?—Skywalker
A short, middle-age man with a clipped moustache appeared from the opposite direction. It was surprising to see a southbound hiker this time of the year. As usual, I planned to debrief him on what lay ahead, but he beat me to the punch. “Hi, I’m Cocomo. You might want to go back with me,” he said flatly. He had a frozen, stunned look on his face.
“I just left from Monson,” I said, confused.
“Those streams up ahead are dangerous,” he stated succinctly. “I almost drowned in the Big Wilson yesterday.” His face looked ashen.
“How high was it?” I asked anxiously.
“At one point it was over my head, and I thought I was going to die. Thankfully, the current washed my backpack ashore downstream.”
“Did you make it across?” I asked.
“No, I slept on the south bank and this morning the current was still so powerful I decided to turn around,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Is that the only fordable stream ahead?”
“No,” he answered. “This big, burly guy just saved my life getting me back over the Little Wilson, just ahead.”
“So you don’t recommend that we try to get over the Little Wilson or Big Wilson today,” I pressed him.
“No way,” he flatly replied. This was not going at all according to plan, and again I wondered about my seven-day food supply.
“So where are you headed?” I asked.
“Monson.”
“Are you thru-hiking?”
“I was,” he sighed.
“Well, God, I hate seeing it end like this for you,” I said, more in amazement than anything.
“Yep,” he said looking down. And off he went, south, with a grim look on his face.
I later heard he had decided to attempt an AT thru-hike to recover from the tragic death of his twenty-one-year-old daughter. On this day he indeed did return to Shaw’s in Monson, where he had been just a couple days before this. There, the Shaws and Baltimore Jack had apparently tried to break through his adamant refusal to get back on the trail. After a few days they succeeded. He went back out and eventually completed his thru-hike.
Soon I cleared a hilltop and saw the Joy Machine, Hit Man, and the Honeymooners (thru-hiking on their honeymoon—damn risky) among others. They were standing on the edge of the Little Wilson, a narrow, but surging, body of water. It was only about ten yards wide. I looked over and saw a blaze on the other side. This was where we were supposed to cross.
“Did ya’ll meet Cocomo back there?” I asked.
“Yes, I felt sorry for him,”
Cackles said.
“What about us,” I responded. “How in the world are we supposed to get across?’
“This looks like home for the evening for us,” the male Honeymooner said. “We’re going to hope it goes down enough by morning.”
A compact-looking fellow said, “I just led Cocomo back across by hand; both of us nearly went down. That current is powerful.” One look at this burly fella’ told me that if he had any trouble with it I would be foolhardy to try. He finally said, “I’m going to try a horse trail somebody mentioned.”
“I’ll tag along if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Sure.”
I couldn’t see where the horse trail went, but followed him anyway. We walked down the bank of the cascading river, but soon the path we were on ran into dense brush. He cut up the hill, going away from the river and next thing I knew we were bushwhacking. “Is this the horse path?” I asked perplexed.
“I don’t know what it is, but there has to be a route through here somewhere,” he said calmly. We kept slashing until we came up upon foliage so dense a moose might have avoided it. And it was supposed to be almost two miles to get to some railroad track that would cross this river, and then a trek back up to the trail.
“I’m sorry, man,” I said. “I’m just gonna’ go back.”
“No problem, brother,” he said pleasantly. “Only you know what’s good for yourself.” At the moment even that was doubtful.
When I finally made it back to the group at the bank of the Little Wilson Trail, they all smiled knowingly as I related the tale. Fortunately, Stitch and Swinger had just built a log bridge a few hundred yards downstream to get across.
But then, for one of the few times on the trail, a bold impulse, the desire to do more than get from point A to point B, seized me. Perhaps it was because I considered myself a good rock-hopper, or maybe it was because my other attempt at boldness, fording the Kennebec, had been foiled. “See that spot right there,” I pointed to an area right before the water tumbled over and down some rocks. “That doesn’t look as torrential. I’m going to try to get across there.”