by David Miller
At twilight I walk down to Bald Mountain Pond, the water source for the shelter. The surface of the pond is flat and smooth, except for protruding boulders and reeds near the shoreline. I sit on a boulder with my water filter, hose dangling into the water, and pump water into my bottle. Back at the shelter I lie awake in my bag, perfectly content, whiffing the smoke from our sputtering fire. I can see the nearly full moon between the dark silhouettes of spruce trees, and its rippled reflection on the pond.
“Y’all missed it,” 81 says (he’s from Georgia). He was the first one awake and saw a moose near the shelter. I get up and go hunting with my camera, but the moose is gone.
I have eighteen miles to go before reaching Monson, the last trail town before Katahdin. The trail is nearly devoid of elevation gain and loss, but not without challenges. Thick tree roots lie like pythons across the trail. There are rocks to traverse. There are streams to cross: the Bald Mountain Stream, the Marble Brook, and the Piscataquis River. Some of them intersect with the trail in multiple places. None of the streams are bridged, but I am able to rock-hop across most of them. A larger variety of trees grow in this low-lying stretch of the trail. I walk through colorful stands of birch and maple trees.
In Monson, I find the largest group of northbound thru-hikers that I have seen since Gorham, including Ken and Marcia, Kiwi, Dreamwalker, Chief, and Jan Liteshoe. I met Chief and Jan back at Caratunk; Kiwi and Dreamwalker are new to me. All of us are electrified with the prospect of finishing the trail. It is all but over; 114 miles is like an afterthought in the scale of our journey.
Monson is about the size of Stratton, but there are no motels and no shops catering to tourists. Both restaurants on Main Street are closed. I visit the general store. It is no larger than a convenience store and peddles everything from food to clothes, drugs, cattle feed, and socket wrenches. Outside there is a pay phone, where I stand calling home at twilight. The sky is a brilliant purple, in its transition from blue to black, dark enough for the moon and stars to shine brightly in contrast. Trees and rooftops form a jagged horizon.
I stay at Shaw’s Boarding House. Hungry Hiker is here; he is a young man I last saw in Virginia. He now has a head full of curly red hair and seems to have grown six inches taller. He finished his thru-hike over a week ago, with time to spare before his flight back to Israel, so he hiked south, back through the 100-Mile Wilderness. Hungry Hiker is a voracious eater. Pat Shaw’s breakfast choices are “1-around,” “2-around,” “3-around,” and so forth. Hungry Hiker has the 4-around, which means four blueberry pancakes, four eggs, four sausage links, four slices of ham, and four pieces of bacon, along with hash browns, coffee, and juice. Meals are served family style; all of us come to the table together. Ten hikers sit at one long table in the eat-in kitchen, and five more take seats at an overflow table on the porch. Hungry Hiker had Shaw’s big breakfast yesterday, and he advises me to get only the 3-around. It is bad advice because it leaves me feeling hungry. Fortunately, Pat brings out a plate full of doughnuts. My typical trail breakfast is three packets of instant oatmeal and hot chocolate. Shaw’s breakfast is far better. With meals like this, I’ve been able to maintain the same weight (about 160) since the middle of the AT.
Keith Shaw Jr., the son of the owners, will give Kiwi and me a ride back to the trail. Kiwi is a nimble sixty-one-year-old thru-hiker from New Zealand. He and his hiking partner, Dreamwalker, say their farewells. Kiwi needs to conclude his hike before his six-month visa expires, and Dreamwalker is staying in town a few extra days to meet family. For most of their hike, they had hiked in a group of four gentlemen roughly the same age, and the group was dubbed “The Four Geezers.” Along the way, two fell behind. Dreamwalker and Kiwi hiked together all the way to Monson, but now have to part ways, a week away from finishing.
While we are loading the truck, a man from the house next door begins a bike ride with his two kids. The younger child is on a bike with training wheels; the older one is a girl about ten years old, similar in age to my oldest daughter. As they pull onto the road, the young one is having difficulty and falls behind. Dad looks back to see what is wrong and veers slightly toward his daughter. The daughter overreacts and jackknifes her front tire. She puts her hand out to catch herself, and the bike’s handlebar falls across her arm, breaking her forearm near her petite wrist. She gets up confused and scared, holding her limp arm and calling for her father, “Dad, Dad…DAD!”
The event is troubling. I wish I could have done something; I wish kids never got hurt. They seem too tender to have to deal with pain. I take solace in believing that her initial shock and worry was the worst of it. By tonight, she’ll be home eating ice cream and having friends sign her cast.
Keith Shaw drops us off at the trailhead, and we enter the 100-Mile Wilderness. From here to the base of Katahdin there is little access to civilization. The trail will cross a few logging roads, but hitches from these are improbable. A group of three young southbound hikers stop to greet me and Kiwi.
“Congratulations,” they say. It is common for southbound hikers to congratulate us on the completion of our thru-hike, even now, far from Katahdin. One of the hikers looks familiar. It is Peter, the first thru-hiker I met on my journey. Back in Georgia he was a pale and timid kid; now he has filled out. He is bearded, with shaggier hair and much more confidence. We both recognize each other from a single two-minute trail passing 137 days ago. He flip-flopped and will finish his hike southbound. Just from the brief glimpse I have of his demeanor, I like the impact the trail has made on Peter.
Kiwi and I exchange equally uncertain plans for the remainder of our hike. I have a pretty good idea of where I will be each day, and I’m sure Kiwi does as well. Hiker etiquette necessitates vagueness in how you divulge your plans. If you find the new acquaintance disagreeable, you can deviate from your actual plan without effrontery. If you change plans for other reasons, you won’t unintentionally offend hikers you really aren’t trying to avoid.
In our walking and talking, the beauty of the scenery has not escaped me. There are still ponds, rocky summits, streams, and a variety of trees and brush. I linger at Little Wilson Falls. The falls cascade over a stepped rock wall with such uniform geometry that it looks man-made. I take a side trail to get better photo angles. By now I have concluded that Kiwi is in no way offensive—actually, he is very likable, and his pace is well matched to my own. Still, I think of my photo shoot as an opportunity for us to gracefully go our separate ways.
The next section of my walk is tiring. There is small elevation gain and loss, but little completely level ground. Continual change from uphill to downhill—roller coastering—is often more exasperating than extended climbs or descents. I push on without pause, wondering why I haven’t caught up to Kiwi. I imagine the old guy ambling along while I struggle. When I arrive at Long Pond Stream Lean-to, Kiwi is there resting comfortably, looking as though he might be staying. I have my sights set on the Cloud Pond Lean-to four miles further. After a short break, I put my pack back on and notice that Kiwi does too. It occurs to me that Kiwi’s vagueness of plan had a purpose I had not foreseen. I believe he did not pin himself to a specific schedule so that we might tacitly adapt to each other’s plan. Kiwi has hiked with one or more partners for over two thousand miles; it is as natural for him to have a partner as it is for me to be alone.
The remainder of our day is all uphill, with a steep climb up Barren Mountain. Halfway through the climb, we pick our way up through a rockslide, culminating in a rocky ledge. We stand on house-sized boulders that elevate us above the trees, from where we have dazzling views of the Maine countryside. There are the omnipresent ponds and the gentle contour of low hills carpeted with dense green trees.
Kiwi on the Barren Ledges.
After our nineteen miles of hiking are complete, we still have a half-mile side trail to walk before reaching the lean-to. We arrive as the sky begins to darken. The sun sets about six minutes sooner each day as the season transitions from summer to
fall. At 7:20 p.m. it is dark. Cloud Pond Lean-to is yet another in Maine that is paired with a pond.
The moon is illuminating the shelter when I wake up near midnight. Kiwi has a headlamp on and is watching the mice. His pack is hung about a foot from his food bag. The mice drop from the rafters onto the pack and leap from the pack over to the food.
In the morning, Kiwi finds that he has suffered only minor loss of food to the mice. Overnight the temperature fell into the thirties, making for a chilly morning, but shortly into my hiking day I am able to pare down to my shorts and T-shirt. It is excellent hiking weather, and I rarely break a sweat. Hiking in the 100-Mile Wilderness is easier than the hiking in southern Maine, but it is no cakewalk. Short but precipitous ascents and descents continue. I pause when the downhill trail leads into what looks like a rockslide, similar to the rockslide we ascended at the end of the day yesterday. Climbing down will be much more treacherous. The bike accident comes to mind, causing me to think how vulnerable people are and how unfortunate it would be to get hurt here, so close to the end of my hike.
I’m frustrated with the trail at the moment. There seems to be no reason for it to be so precarious. I wish the AT would wind down the mountainside on switchbacks. I’m taking this obstacle personally, as if it was put here with the intent to trip me up. I’d like to hurl every expletive I know at the trail at this moment. Kiwi comes up behind me and says, in his genteel New Zealand accent, “It’s quite steep here, isn’t it?” His statement is so understated it makes me laugh. After working our way down the mountain, I stop to take a long break and regroup. I encourage Kiwi to continue on, and I spend time writing.
Late in the afternoon I reach the Pleasant River. It is the widest river since the Kennebec, and there is no ferry. It is twenty-five yards across, but studded with enough rock to give me hope of crossing without getting wet. I progress stepping from rock to rock, easily at first, then having to make longer jumps. I come to an impasse tantalizingly close to the far shore. I backtrack and then try to advance picking rocks a bit more upriver. Again, I am thwarted just fifteen feet from the north shore.
I return all the way to the shore where I started, change into my rubber clog camp shoes, and begin to wade across. The water is numbingly cold, and my ankles immediately start to ache with the curious pain induced by cold. The clear water in the deepest part of the river is deeper than I expected. It is up to my knees and is threatening the hem of my shorts. I’d like to hurry across, but the push of the water is surprisingly strong. I try to spear my trekking poles into the river bed for support, but the current slaps them away as soon as they touch the surface. The power of the river nearly dislodges one of my clogs. I wiggle my foot back into place and shuffle the rest of the way across the river.
Awol rock-hopping the Pleasant River.
On the north bank, I quickly put socks and shoes on my wet, blue feet. Beyond the Pleasant River the trail is smooth and takes a gradual upslope. I walk alone in the quiet woods and ponder the difficulties of my day. I think myself unfit for this hike, being so susceptible to cold and being discombobulated by the rockslide descent earlier. I want to give myself no credit for hiking two thousand miles; I am just the beneficiary of favorable conditions. The “cold” weather, as I perceive it now, is mild for Maine at this time of year, and I have been fortunate to have little rain to deal with since leaving Vermont.
My arrival makes for a full house at the Carl Newhall Lean-to. Kiwi is here, along with some weekend hikers, and I am surprised and pleased to see Biscuit once again. Her boyfriend, whom she has dubbed Grasshopper, has joined her for a week of hiking. A huge campfire is raging in front of the shelter, and the weekend hikers are throwing all of their trash, flammable or not, into the fire.
In the morning I wake to see Biscuit picking shriveled lumps of plastic and foil from the pit. Kiwi has already left, and Biscuit and Grasshopper leave before I am packed. The lean-to is located partway up the south face of White Cap Mountain. Immediately leaving the shelter, the AT steeply resumes the ascent of the mountain. It is a rocky and challenging walk, and I catch up with Grasshopper and Biscuit sooner than I expect. Grasshopper is standing with his hands on his hips, panting for breath. Biscuit is ahead of him, looking back over her shoulder, as if waiting for him to continue hiking. They are not talking, and neither says anything as I pass. I assume they may have been arguing, or that Biscuit was impatient with having to go at a slower pace. It would be difficult for any visitor to keep up with a thru-hiker at this stage.
I am moving a bit faster today, eager to get my first look at Mount Katahdin. My anticipation builds as I can see the trail peaking the crest ahead. At the top, I am disappointed to find that it is a secondary summit. The trail descends again before heading up the major summit of White Cap Mountain. Near the top, the incline of the trail lessens and bends to my right to make a more gradual, teasing approach to the top. I am not sure if my bearing is east or north, or if Katahdin is east, west, or north of White Cap. About the only place I know I can rule out spotting Katahdin is directly behind me. I am above timberline, scanning everywhere I can see and craning my head to peer over the shoulder of the mountain that I am on at this moment. My pace has quickened, as if Katahdin might sneak away if I don’t rush to get a glimpse. I see some distant peaks, and I give each a good look, not knowing how “the Big K” will appear from this distance. Nothing stands out. I reach the peak of White Cap and see that the trail curves left and descends on a gradual side-hill course. I now have a clear view to my left, and there it is! Mount Katahdin stands out as a bulking, unambiguous monolith even when viewed seventy-two trail miles from its summit.
Content already with my day, I ease down to Logan Brook Lean-to on the north face of White Cap and take a lengthy lunch break. From there, I meander down to East Branch Lean-to, where I catch up with Kiwi once again. We are relaxed, put at ease by the sight of Katahdin. We really have made it. There are minor hills to climb, but they get progressively lower, diminishing like attenuating waves—the last ripples of the mountain range.
Kiwi and I are feeling hunger after three long days, and we talk about the food we enjoy “back home.” Fish and chips is the most popular meal in New Zealand. I crave volume—all-you-can-eat-buffet food cooked three hours ago in five-gallon trays and warmed by heat lamps. I want to go to a place that has a dessert bar where patrons cut their own servings from a slab of cake, and I can come along and scoop up all the crumbs and oodles of leftover icing.
We stop at Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to. Cooper Brook Falls cascades into a wide pool of water in front of the shelter. A section hiker named David is also staying in the lean-to. He will be ending his hike sooner than planned and gives me a day’s worth of food. I cook freeze-dried spaghetti.
Biscuit and Grasshopper come in around midnight, walking under the light of the full moon. Biscuit is quick to apologize for their reticence earlier in the day. It is September 11, and they had decided to observe the day with silence.
I cannot get back to sleep. I recall events of my thru-hike. I think about the conclusion of the trip, what it might feel like to finish, and what I’ll do when I get back home. I dismiss some of the anxiety I had in Gorham over the lack of change effected by my trip. The radical break from routine that I made in coming on this adventure unloaded the attic of my mind. Everything that I had stored away, out of habit, I’ve taken out and reexamined. I’ve yet to rearrange, toss things out, and repack. But most important, I should not treat this journey simply as an agent for change. It is an experience in and of itself. I am unequivocally pleased doing this.
I am the first to leave in the morning. Less than a mile from the lean-to I see a mother bear with two nearly grown cubs. One cub climbs a tree, but he seems too heavy to get very high or hang on for long. Realizing the tactic is doing him little good, he jumps down and runs away.
The trail is level and smooth, and I speed along, all the way to Antlers Campsite. I read the guidebook mileage and I’m able t
o determine that my pace is nearly four miles per hour. Just beyond the campsite, I find a rock the size of a bench and sit for a break. The forest looks ancient. Bark on the trees has accumulated moss and has deep fissures, akin to the age-spotting and wrinkling of aged humans. The added texture gives the trees character with no loss of vitality. They look like survivors, resilient and deeply rooted.
I dawdle, waiting for Kiwi. Now I am the one who enjoys having a hiking partner. I plan to end my day at a hostel called Whitehouse Landing. When I last spoke with Kiwi, he had not yet decided if he would stop there. Kiwi arrives, and we hike together to Pemadumcook Lake, where we get our second look at Mount Katahdin. The lake is shallow near this shore; large boulders protrude from the lake, far out into the water. Above the water, there is a band of dark green—the trees on the far shore—and then there is the ghostly lump of Katahdin, the only land visible above the trees. The color of the mountain is dulled by distance, but the timberline is distinct. The rocks atop the mountain give it the appearance of being capped by snow.
Two miles later, we reach the mile-long side trail to the hostel. Kiwi has decided to come along. At the end of the trail, we reach a boat dock on the extensive shoreline of Pemadumcook Lake, the same lake from which we had the earlier view of Katahdin. Whitehouse Landing is on the other side of the lake. There is an air horn on the boat dock; we give it a blast and Bill, the owner of the hostel, comes to ferry us across in a motorboat. Whitehouse Landing is a complex with multiple cabins alongside the bunkroom where we stay. The modest main building serves as the office, lodge, camp store, and dining area. A lazy hound dog is a fixture on the porch. Kiwi and I are the only guests tonight. Bill tells us that his place is also an ice fishing outpost in the winter. There is no electricity or public phone, but there are propane-heated showers and battery-powered lights.