by Bill Walker
I quickly swapped out my hiking shoes for my crocks. As I was walking down the bank to enter the surging stream I suddenly stopped. “I’m just gonna’ go without my backpack to test it out.” It was to prove to be the single wisest decision I made the entire time on the AT, if not my whole life.
When I stepped in I first noticed how rocky and uneven the surface was. It was tempting to try to hurry across, but that was surely a bad idea. The uneven footing and unrelenting current were the essence of the challenge. The water was mountain-ice cold.
I picked out a big rock about fifteen yards downstream that I was planning to dive for in case I got swept up by the current. On the fourth step my foot went an extra two feet deeper than expected, and suddenly the water was above my waist. A loud, collective groan emanated from my audience perched on the bank, as they wondered where the water would be on them. Meanwhile, I wondered where the water would be on my next step. Fortunately, with my hiking pole I was able to probe and get a better idea of what lay ahead. Finally, I got to within a few feet of a big rock on the far side and flung myself on it and crawled out of the Little Wilson River. My audience on the far side gave me an ovation. It may have been my high moment on the AT.
But now I had to go back and retrieve my backpack. When I stepped back in, the male Honeymooner yelled over, “Try it down here and see if you can find an easier place for everybody to get across.” Dutifully, I went down to where a rope had been hung across the stream. This was where the water spilled over the rock and the current seemed the strongest. I got halfway across, but the powerful current turned my legs into jelly. Everybody kept yelling, “Grab the rope.” It was probably good advice, but it didn’t seem a sure bet. And one look down the torrid, white-capped rapids told me it had to be a dead cinch—or else. I turned around and went back to the north bank. Then I quickly ran up to where I had crossed before.
But when I started across this time my legs again felt unsteady, and now I was tired. It seemed dangerous, so I turned around to return to the north shore after a few steps. I lost my balance at the end and had to lunge to safety on the big rock I had arrived at when I had originally crossed successfully. The fundamentals were grim. My backpack was on the south side of the Little Wilson River, and I was on the north side. And I had just failed twice in attempting to get back to the south bank.
Thank God for the log bridge Stitch and Swinger had built. Embarrassed, I hurriedly bushwhacked downstream to try to find it and get back across. After a couple hundred yards I saw where somebody had laid two narrow tree logs from the far bank of the river to a rock in the middle. My task was to jump from the north bank to one rock, and then from that rock to the big rock in the middle. Then I would crawl across the rickety log bridge. It was doable, but there was no margin for error. This far downstream the Little Wilson broadens, which means that in case of a blunder a person’s chances of being helplessly swept away increased.
Cackles had come down to watch with a quizzical look on her face. “Is this the bridge Stitch built?” I yelled out to her.
“I guess,” she shouted back. I executed the two jumps to the middle rock well, and then got on my knees to crawl across the two logs. They seemed somewhat steady, if not a bulwark. I carefully crawled across and was finally back on the south bank of the Little Wilson, where my backpack was after my misadventure. “You did great,” Cackles consoled me, but I was torn about the whole effort.
When we got back upstream to where everybody was, I said, “There was my fifteen minutes of fame. Now it’s somebody else’s turn.”
“How did you hurt your foot?” Hit Man, a hulking Floridian, asked. I looked down and saw blood spilling profusely out of my big toe. Undoubtedly, it was cut by one of the sharp boulders at the bottom.
The maximum effort had tired me, but everybody except the Honeymooners started back downstream with their backpacks for the log bridge, and I followed suit. I was contentedly back in my more familiar follower mode.
One by one, everybody walked carefully over the slick rock to the log bridge and got on their knees with their backpacks strapped on. “Make sure your backpacks are loosely strapped on, just in case,” I called out. Box-of-Fun was second-to-last, followed by me. She teetered over the logs very tentatively. Several times she stopped, unsure of herself on the log bridge. Just a few feet below roared powerful white torrents that would have given vertigo to anyone who focused on it for long. Finally, she made it to the rock in the middle, and then after long surveys of the terrain executed the two rock hops perfectly to the far bank.
Everybody seemed to take it for granted that I would easily re-cross the log bridge, but this time I had my backpack strapped on. Nevertheless, it came off fine, and we had finally all cleared the Little Wilson, even if it hadn’t been pretty.
“All’s well that ends well,” said Hit Man.
“Yep,” I added. “And we should be able to find a good place to camp on the banks of the Big Wilson in three miles, and then hopefully get across tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah,” Hit Man replied. “And we should see Stitch, Swinger, and company camped out on the banks of the Big Wilson.” Surely it was impassable on this day. The next few miles everybody seemed relieved to have dodged one bullet and gotten vivid intelligence on how to handle the next powerful stream.
Anticipation and apprehension built as we started hearing the rush of running water getting closer. Soon we arrived at the banks of the Big Wilson. Stitch, Swinger and company were nowhere to be seen. “Let’s refrain from any morbid jokes,” I said, surprised.
“They must’ve gone across,” Hit Man said. “I reckon we can make it too.”
“God, wouldn’t it be nice,” I said. “The shelter is just a half-mile over this stream.”
It was about fifty yards across, and the white-capped current was moving steadily, but not as torrentially as the Little Wilson had been. “I’ll go first,” Hit Man volunteered.
“No objections here,” I said, having exhausted my quest for glory back at the Little Wilson.
“But I’m going to keep my hiking shoes on, instead of wearing crocks,” he said, sensibly.
The big, burly Hit Man then waded in and moved steadily across as the water never got up to his waist. The Joy Machine soon followed suit with the water reaching their waist, but they did not seem shaken at all. It made a big difference when I followed, wearing my hiking shoes, although the steady current kept me intently focused.
It was 4:30 when we happily arrived at the Wilson Valley Lean-To. We had about ninety minutes of reliable sunlight remaining. Foamer was there to greet us with a Foamerism: “These long days sure are short.” I scoured the immediate vicinity for somewhere to pitch a tent, but the terrain was rocky and inclined.
Then, to my amazement I noticed the Joy Machine making plans to head off, and Hit Man joined in. “How about you, Skywalker?” “This is home for me,” I said with uncharacteristic decisiveness. Off they went with a little more than an hour of sunlight left and five tough miles to the next shelter.
A southbounder arrived at dark, and Foamer and I briefed him on what lay ahead with the Big and Little Wilson Streams. “Doesn’t sound any worse than what I just did,” he said. “The water was up to my chest.”
“Did you pass a threesome on the way here?” I asked.
“Yeah, I was going to warn them,” he said, “but it was getting dark.”
After an hour of hiking the following morning, Foamer and I crossed a stream that fell off down a waterfall for almost one hundred feet, just fifteen yards after it crossed the AT. After we were able to rock hop across I asked, “Do you think this is the stream that guy was talking about last night?”
“Probably so,” Foamer said. “They go down fast overnight.”
“Glad we waited until this morning,” I said. “Fifteen feet off the trail to the right and it’s all she wrote.”
But a mile or so later we were eating our words, as we arrived at another cascading stream. It was o
nly about ten yards across, so we ran up and down the banks looking in vain for a way to get across. Not in the mood to take any chances I took off my socks and put my hiking shoes back on. It was up to my thighs and the current was stiff. Halfway across, Foamer said, “See where the current hits me,” pointing to just below his waist. “It’s probably fallen at least a foot from when they crossed last night.”
When we passed the shelter soon after, I read Cackles’ entry:
Long Pond Stream Shelter—mile 2,076
9-21-05: Fording a surging stream at night with water reaching your chest is not highly recommended. It’s not even smart.—Cackles
Foamer and I then ascended seventeen hundred feet, virtually straight up the granite mass of Barren Mountain. At the summit, decked out and having an extended picnic was the Joy Machine. “How are the two nighttime forders?” I asked.
“Oh, you should have seen it,” Box-of-Fun said.
“I doubt I could have,” I responded, “because it was nighttime and there couldn’t have been much of you poking out of the water to see.”
They had forgotten to buy cheese in Monson, and I was carrying three half-pound blocks of Vermont cheese. “Ya’ll deserve a morsel of cheese for your heroics,” I said. Like animals catching a whiff of prey in the Maine wilderness, they hurried over.
The idea of getting caught at night out here in the rocky, mountainous wilderness loomed ever-present, and I cut my break short to reach my evening destination. The Joy Machine, meanwhile, continued lounging and gazing at the sights—a classic adrenaline hangover.
Howling wind and rain were back with a vengeance. At two-thirty in the afternoon we all made it to the Carl Newhall Shelter, but like an army, we appeared stalled out in the mud and fog. Getting over exposed White Cap Mountain was going to be impossible this day. And quickly it became clear it was going to be a miserable afternoon and evening. It was cool and damp, and I knew how my 6’11,” now less-than-180-pound physique would respond. Further, Stitch was again carping and snapping at Foamer.
When Cackles said, “There’s a campsite one and eight-tenths miles up the mountain. We’re going to head on,” she piqued my interest.
“I’ll tag along, if it’s okay,” I said. Moving on would at least keep my body temperature up for the next ninety minutes. Off I went, tagging behind the Joy Machine. Cackles, as noted before, was the master of conversation while trekking up steep climbs. I just tried to keep up and not get lost in these nether regions.
We arrived at a wide open area, which we presumed to be the Sidney Tappan Campsite. Three guys had their tents set up right in the middle of the AT. “There has to be more to this campsite than this clearing,” Box- of Fun said, looking around. We wandered over to the nearby camping area to inspect the terrain. “It all looks a little rocky,” Box-of-Fun said, examining them.
“The clearing is cool with me,” Cackles said, and I followed them out to the clearing. We put the tents up. The rain had lightened up, but we were completely exposed to a powerful, forest-shaking wind.
The Joy Machine had the good sense to cook dinner and then get in their tents for the evening by six o’clock. I, on the other hand, dithered in the dark. I even went on a sightseeing tour to the privy, despite my anemic headlamp battery. When I finally did get in my tent it was probably about eight o’clock, and I had already begun feeling chilled. Nevertheless, I was able to get comfortable until about midnight. At that time I exited my tent to relieve myself. But upon returning a strong draft began to dominate my thoughts in the “warmth” of my tent.
Over the next few hours I tried everything I could possibly conjure up to get warm, but to no avail. Not even the emergency blanket worked, as I thrashed around as if fighting a wild animal. I’d made a huge blunder in not camping over in the less-exposed trees, or down the mountain with Stitch and Foamer. The temperature was probably no less than forty degrees, but my muscles became increasingly tense. I just didn’t have the body fat to stay warm in these high winds. I wondered if I would even have the energy to make it over White Cap Mountain the following day.
As I lay there listening to one roaring gust of wind after another, paranoia began to set in. When I heard some stirring in the guy’s tent I yelled over, “What time is it?”
When one responded “two-thirty,” my heart sank. That meant I had three or four more hours of maximum physical exertion and eerie mental torment to endure before daybreak.
Then I remembered the privy. In my sightseeing tour the previous night I had noticed it wasn’t one of those open-air privies. It had four sides. That made it the most valuable piece of real estate in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness.
Off I went down a dark side trail and soon I came upon the privy. It wasn’t big. I opened the door and sat on the toilet seat. It wasn’t much bigger than an airplane bathroom, but seemed okay. I sat in there listening to the howling wind bouncing off the privy walls and began to feel more relaxed. In fact, I was marveling at my genius for improvisation during a crisis.
It was so good that I decided to go retrieve my sleeping bag and make a night of it in there. Again, I stumbled back to my tent, and a few minutes later I was back in the privy, with my sleeping bag wrapped around me.
My enthusiasm waned a bit when multiple efforts to find a sleeping position failed. It waned even more when a strong ammonia-like smell hit me. I wondered if I was getting paranoiad again or whether I was getting high off the smell. My mind started to wander, when suddenly, thank God, I came to in a cold sweat. I burst out of the privy swaying. It was all I could muster out of my shaky legs to stagger with my sleeping bag in the dark back to my tent. Fortunately, when I dove back into my tent my body had been so exercised by the entire misadventure that I was warmer and the crisis passed.
At first light when Box-of-Fun poked her head out of the tent, yawning, I asked, “Were ya’ll able to sleep out here exposed to those high winds?”
“Yeah,” she answered, confused as to the basis of the question.
“Another rookie mistake on my part,” I then explained.
“You and your rookie mistakes, Skywalker,” Cackles reprimanded me acidly. “You’ve gone all the way from Georgia to Maine. That excuse is getting old.” She obviously had a point. However anyone who has unsuccessfully tried everything in their human power to get warm for several hours knows just how desperate the feeling is. Desperate people do desperate things.
Finally, I got moving, but the usual morning adrenaline lasted no more than a mile, the least ever. The climb up White Cap, which in typical Maine fashion had multiple ascents, was punishing. I was stopping every fifteen minutes in my debilitated state. “Ha, Skywalker,” came a vaguely familiar voice from my rear. Looking behind me I saw Buffet and Goat for the first time in three months. They were a late-fiftyish couple who had started in late March and that I had come upon in central Virginia. After hiking with them for a couple days I had gone ahead of them, presumably for good.
But it was utterly impossible to guess whether a thru-hiker wanna-be could make it all the way or not. It reminded of my friend who worked in a nursing home who said that the every-day banter of employees included everyone guessing which patient was going to be the next to die. “It was uncanny how wrong we were,” he related. “Some patients you were sure were goners would find something deep within and fight back to live for years. Others would just fall off a cliff and be gone in a wink.” The same phenomenon was at work here on the AT in a less final way.
“This is bad for morale,” I said to Buffet and Goat. “People I passed are all now blowing past me.”
“We’ve enjoyed reading your journal entries,” Buffet laughed. “Especially the one at the Halfway Store in Pennsylvania when you wrote one word: ‘Uncle.”
“Now I remember,” I said. “You’re New Hampshirites. You turn out hikers the way Brazil turns out soccer players.” They laughed and continued past me, to stay ahead for good.
White Cap Mountain’s frosty peak had a majestic vie
w of uncharted lakes and the dense Maine autumn forest below. But I skipped across the granite summit in a hurry because of the powerful draft and my all-important focus on maintaining my sense of direction while above treeline. After three steep miles of rocky descent the trail leveled off.
An ATC map showed unprecedented topography. For the next sixty miles the trail is flat as a landing strip, until abruptly interrupted by the gigantic forty-two hundred foot climb up Mount Katahdin. Despite bone-weary fatigue, my morale had picked up dramatically from my awful night.
Right as the sun came out in the afternoon I found an ice-cold spring just off the trail near Mountain View Pond. That gave me a disproportionate boost, and I was able to rock-hop over the Pleasant River. Then the trail became a straightaway and I put the speedometer on maximum speed (three mph). Everything was perfect on this late-September day in the northern Maine wilderness. I was now an odds-on favorite to complete this dreamlike journey.
When I got to the shelter I told Foamer about the previous night’s privy incident. “Boy, it’s a good thing you didn’t do that back in Georgia when people were getting trail names,” he cracked. “No telling what kind of name you might have ended up with.”
Chapter 23
I wandered upstream and pitched my tent along the brook. In the morning at the shelter I saw where Stitch had once again caught ten or twenty mice overnight with his mouse trap and laid them on a stump for hiker viewing. As vegetarians, the Joy Machine didn’t normally approve of such things, but they made an exception in the case of rodents occupying shelters.