by David Miller
Bill cooks us one-pound hamburgers for dinner. “Would you like cheese on that?”
“Of course.” The hamburger is a mess to eat, but it is delicious. For dessert, I have a New England whoopie pie. It is made with two bun-shaped pieces of chocolate cake and creamy frosting sandwiched between. It is as large as the hamburger.
At sunset Kiwi and I take the canoe out on the lake. We row far enough out on the choppy lake to get another view of Katahdin’s peak. The sky on the western horizon is pink with the last traces of sun, and it transitions upward through shades of mauve, purple, and blue. Directly overhead, the sky is deep blue; panning down to the east, the hue darkens and stars are already visible. Darkness comes early and fast, too hurried, like a drawn curtain. My hike is nearly over.
In the morning, Bill gives Kiwi and me a boat ride back to the trail, and we hike on together. The AT takes a crab-wise route to Katahdin, winding around lakes and ponds, which gives us views of the mountain from different angles. Nesuntabunt Mountain is the only climb of the day. It is an unusually twisting, disorienting climb. We stop for lunch on top, where we have a “side” view of Katahdin. The postcard view of Katahdin, which I arbitrarily deem to be the “front,” shows the mountain broadside, with a barely discernible center summit and symmetrical summits on the shoulders that are nearly as high. From Nesuntabunt, Katahdin looks narrower and taller.
When we return to the trail, I am in front.
“Where are you going?” Kiwi asks.
“This is the trail, isn’t it?” I answer.
“Yes, but you are going back the way we came.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
I feel certain about my choice, but there really is no way to be sure. Both paths seem to lead away from Katahdin. Since we are at the top of a mountain, both ways go downhill. I reluctantly follow Kiwi’s direction since he seems more certain than I am. It takes me more than a quarter of a mile to be convinced of our direction, but he is right.
After descending Nesuntabunt, the trail levels and runs parallel to a gorge. A wide stream flows in the center of the gorge ten to thirty feet below us as the land undulates and the stream maintains its gradual downhill course. The coming of fall is increasingly evident; we crunch through fallen leaves, and the maple trees, still holding on to their red and yellow leaves, stand out like torches. Along with Kiwi, Ken, and Marcia, I set up my tarp next to Rainbow Lake. Loons on the lake make calls that sound as if they are blown from a flute. This will be my last night on the trail.
Way back in Hiawassee, I had cut eighty-five pages of mileage data loose from my guidebook. I keep the most current page in a Ziploc bag and tuck it in my pants pocket. I start the day by paring down to the last sheet. My goal is to get to the base of Katahdin and then hitch out to the town of Millinocket, where I’ll wait for my family before hiking the final five miles of trail.
I leave camp and hike alone, quickly reaching Rainbow Ledges, a rocky cliff from where I get one last look at Katahdin before the trail submerges into the woods for the next six miles. Abol Bridge marks the end of the 100-Mile Wilderness. From the bridge, I pause to take in the new perspective of Katahdin. This is the postcard view, the unobstructed front, the broadside view of the mountain. I can see every crag and ridge, all the way down to where the mountain merges with the humble flat of trees before it.
There is a camp store near the bridge. I stop in to get my fill of food before tackling the remainder of the day. I see a newspaper with an update on Hurricane Isabel, an Atlantic storm that Juli had told me about when I was in Monson. Five days ago, the storm was a latent threat far out in the Caribbean. The storm is more worrisome now since it has yet to turn northerly. Like most Atlantic storms, it is potentially a threat to the entire East Coast, which could affect my home in Florida, my family’s flight to Maine, or the weather here when I climb Katahdin two days from now. Ken, Marcia, and Kiwi arrive at the store while I am loitering, and we all proceed into Baxter State Park together.
There is a sign-up sheet at the park entry to ration the limited camping and shelter space within the park. A large sign is above the sign-up sheet so it will not escape our attention. Kiwi and I get our picture taken in front of the sign, conferring our own meaning upon the notice that reads, “Important: A.T. Thru-Hikers.”
The trail is scenic within the park, for much of the way running parallel to the Penobscot River, the same river I crossed on the Abol Bridge. But my excitement wanes. The trail alongside the river is deeply rutted and rocky. My feet feel bruised, and I have seven more miles to walk, on top of fourteen that I’ve walked already. Our circuitous route through the park is actually taking us further away from Mount Katahdin. It looked so close from the bridge. The trail turns away from the Penobscot and follows a tributary upstream. The stream that we now follow, the Nesowadnehunk, is a wide stream cascading over massive boulders. I no longer appreciate the scenery; I just want my day to end. The threat of Hurricane Isabel weighs on me, and worries darken my mood.40
We come to a spot where a huge slab of bedrock slopes from our shoreline out into the stream, funneling the water into a cascade near the far side. Kiwi and I walk out and sit on the slab, essentially in midstream of this thirty-foot-wide creek. Other hikers are sliding with the cascade down the rock face, splashing into a pool of water below. Kiwi gives me half of a honeybun he purchased back at the Abol Bridge camp store, trying to cheer me up. Kiwi has been a great hiking partner, always positive, considerate, and sharing. I part with Kiwi at Katahdin Stream Campground. He will stay here tonight and conclude his hike tomorrow. He promises to look me up in Millinocket.
Luckily for me, Bob and Gloria Nicholson are descending from Katahdin just as I arrive, and they offer me a ride to town. They are from Maine and have driven out to hike up the mountain today. Their son thru-hiked in 2000.41 They give me a tour of the town of Millinocket, which is more spread out than most trail towns. I stay at the AT Lodge, a bunkroom on Main Street.
I call Juli and we discuss our plans for her arrival in two days. She tells me that if it looks like the weather will change for the worse, I should go ahead and hike Katahdin by myself. I have been fortunate to have had excellent weather over the past week, and for the moment, it looks as if favorable weather will continue. Also, my day was exhausting. In the eight days since leaving Caratunk, I have averaged over eighteen miles per day. I am ready for two days of rest.
On my first day in Millinocket, I do laundry and eat well, like I’ve always done in town while on this hike. I visit the grocery store, but I really don’t need any supplies. My last day on Mount Katahdin will be a day hike. I have no plans to make, and I miss the responsibility. I meet Kiwi at the Appalachian Trail Café just as he arrives in town. We sit for dinner (Kiwi orders fish and chips), and he tells me of his climb up Katahdin in perfect weather. Palpable excitement makes my retired friend seem like a schoolboy.
I spend my second day milling about town, waiting impatiently. The weather is overcast, and there are intermittent showers. I worry that I have missed the opportunity to end my hike on a clear day. Kiwi has headed home, but Ken and Marcia are still in town when my family arrives, and I am happy that they get to meet them. My youngest daughter, Lynn, is five years old, Rene is eight, and Jessie is nine. Juli’s brothers have also made the trip. Mark is older than Juli, and Mike is two years younger.
Juli, Jessie, and Mike will hike the last five miles of the trail with me. We are awake and on the road before sunrise, making the twenty-mile drive to Baxter State Park. Nearing the park, the strip of road cuts a channel through the trees. A bear runs across the road. We can see Katahdin, perfectly centered in the swath cleared of trees. The side of the peak to our right is tinted gold with sunlight. The top of the mountain is the first piece of land in the United States touched by the morning sun.
At Katahdin Stream Campground, the weather is ideal, cloudless and about fifty degrees. We start at 7:15 a.m. The trail is densely woode
d, “like a jungle,” Jessie says. The footpath is moderately inclined uphill, somewhat smooth with only scattered rocks. Birch trees have dropped a coating of brown and yellow leaves on the trail. We cross Katahdin Stream and Falls on a footbridge. After a couple of miles, Jessie begins to tire, which is troubling because the most difficult climbing is still ahead. Mike volunteers to turn back, but Jessie is not yet ready to give up.
As we progress, the trail gets steeper, and the boulders get larger. One section reminds me of Mahoosuc Notch; there are huge boulders gathered in a depression, mixed in with trees. We pick our way through and move higher. Jessie perks up with the change of terrain. She likes using her hands and wriggling through the rocks. Once above timberline, we feel a brisk, cold wind. I can see an unbounded view of the Maine wilderness. Boulders are steep and precarious, especially with the wind. Rebar handholds are implanted into a few of them. Jessie hugs tight to the mountain when the wind gusts. Again, we stop to assess the wisdom of continuing with her. She’s never done anything like this before. Getting down may be as difficult as going up. We are progressing very slowly. Most of the other hikers headed to the top of Katahdin via the AT started earlier or have already passed us. We proceed. Jessie is game, and there are three of us to help her. Someone nearly always has a hand on her in this stretch, supporting her from below or pulling from above. There is a solid mile of hand-over-hand climbing.
Juli, Jessie, and Awol headed up Katahdin.
Thru-hiking has been more of a challenge than I expected. Always, there were exhausting climbs and bone-jarring descents. The amount of elevation gain and loss on the AT is equivalent to climbing up and down Mount Everest sixteen times. The terrain was a greater impediment than I would have anticipated. Slippery roots and foot-bruising rocks slowed me more than any other factor. Rain, cold weather, and hot days would compound obstacles and make work of the easiest days. Countless days I struggled into camp with burning feet, aching knees, and soaking wet clothes. I won’t miss stuffing blistered feet into stiff, muddy trail shoes.
But the pleasure and contentment I felt on the trail far outweighed the adversity. Even on the most exasperating days, I never considered quitting. The most uncertainty I had about continuing was when I had injuries: a sore knee, an infected foot, and a sprained ankle. Those injuries tested my resolve, but ultimately reinforced my desire to continue. Possibly it was a motivational advantage for me to be attempting a thru-hike in my particular circumstance: not young, not single, not retired, and not rich. If I left the trail, I couldn’t try again next year. It was a one-shot deal. I am lucky to have experienced it all—the awe of seeing spectacular landscapes, the excitement of encounters with wildlife, and the invigoration of a physical lifestyle. It was always a treat to descend into one of the tiny towns the trail goes through, to get cleaned up, and emerge replenished.
Beyond the worst of the bouldering on Katahdin, we see a summit ahead, a pointed mound of rock piercing the unclouded blue sky. The trail follows a ridge up to this summit, a ridge like the edge of a pyramid, studded with boulders. The views are fantastic. I take photos from atop a boulder, thinking how the view before me is perfectly composed. Then I move forward fifty yards and have the same thought again. Hikers tend to speak of the mountain for its symbolic value as an endpoint of the Appalachian Trail, and not enough is said about the mountain’s autonomous appeal. Mount Katahdin is the most picturesque mountain on the trail. It presents itself wonderfully from a distance. The views from the trail on the mountain itself are enthrallingly diverse. The landscape before me now is beautiful in its simplicity, grandeur, and immutability. It will be equally beautiful in the winter and in the summer. It will look the same next year and one hundred years from now.
The trail up Hunt Spur. Mike and Jessie are in the foreground.
For me, hiking up this mountain seems nearly effortless. Perhaps it is because I am traveling at the pace of my group, the distracting beauty, or the excitement of finishing. On reaching the peak of our pyramid, we see that it is only the shoulder of the mountain. There is a nearly level expanse before us, with entirely new terrain, similar to a glacial plateau. This feature of Katahdin is called the tableland. The surface is peppered with rocks, but they are almost uniformly flat, low to the ground, and spotted with olive-green lichen. Alpine shrubbery coats the ground where rocks do not protrude. The shrubbery is as dense and as tight to the ground as grass, but it has a rusty brown color.
Mike, Juli, and Jessie crossing Katahdin tableland.
We see hikers who passed us earlier in the day, now on their way down. We yell congratulations over the howl of the wind. I recognize Dutch, Chief, and Dreamwalker. They are cheerful, talkative, and emotional. More than one of the hikers has red, watery eyes from a tearfully joyful summit. So much has happened over the past 2,172 miles. I have come through fourteen states, seen twenty-one bears, lost eight toenails, and gone through six pairs of shoes.
The work is behind us. The trail across the tableland is an easy walk, gently uphill. I’m proud of Jessie for climbing the mountain with me. Nearing the peak, the wind dies down. There are a hundred yards of trail up one last mound of rock to the mile-high summit. Hikers are taking celebratory photos behind the simple wood sign on top with a backdrop of blue skies: “KATAHDIN—Northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.” Even though the end has been on my mind for the past few weeks, finishing seems abrupt. This is it: 146 days of unforgettable scenery, seemingly endless miles of trail, rain, pain, and friendships. It’s over.
There are no more miles to walk.
Epilogue
Awol at the end of his thru-hike, September 17, 2003.
Upon my return from the trail, friends, coworkers, and even an occasional stranger would stop to talk. “That was quite an accomplishment. Not many people do that—you must be proud.” I was often uncomfortable, at a loss for how to respond. This was nice to hear, and it is considerate of people to congratulate me. But pride is not at the forefront of my feelings about my hike. I do not think of it as an accomplishment. I feel fortunate for what I have experienced.
My daughters, especially my youngest, missed me. Being away from home for long stretches cannot be a way of life. Still, it is important for parents to continue to live their own lives. We can’t sit by and say we’ve already made our decisions, done our striving, and dish out opinions on the doings of our children. Words alone lack authority, and we risk making them surrogates for the life we’d like to lead. We can better relate to the budding aspirations of our children if we follow dreams of our own.
I missed the trail increasingly over the first few months I was back home, and then the feeling matured to a combination of fondness, loss, nostalgia, and longing. Some moments on the trail were awe-inspiring. Many days were full of picturesque moments: the path lined with blue wildflowers, areas overrun by blooming pink rhododendron and white mountain laurel, the beckoning trail weaving through trees and boulders, the smell of the firs, exposed summits showing limitless horizon of mountains, rolling fields of hay and corn with an old barn in the backdrop. My mind is saturated with these memories. They return to my consciousness un-summoned, while I’m driving or sitting at my desk.
In 2004 I returned to the AT to hike from Erwin to Damascus during the week of Trail Days. The trail was still very familiar; I could tell when it was about to bend, go up, or go down. I would spot a rock where I had sat to take a break—one rock out of millions spread over 2,172 miles. At the same time I felt removed, like my hike that ended less than a year earlier was in the distant past. I felt a tinge of loneliness, unlike anything I felt during my thru-hike. I stayed at Overmountain Shelter. It was empty when I arrived. I could nearly hear the voices, ghosts of the previous year, buzzing with excitement over what we had learned, how far we had come, and what lay ahead. I thought of what I would have been doing during my thru-hike—writing my journal, reviewing photos, reading the guidebook so I’d know what to look for in the next few days. And I was sad that I no
longer had to do those things. The whole timeline of my adventure came back to me: initially being intrigued with the idea, reading about it, taking practice hikes, trepidation of the start, excitement of being under way, even fondness for the drudgery of the middle ground, anticipation of heading into heralded locations, and contentment of travel when I knew the end was at hand. I had done it, written about it, and now it is history.
Of course pining for the past is part of life, not uniquely an AT experience. But the strength of that emotion—evoked when I moved away from my childhood home and again upon finishing college—I had not felt for years. Those were transitional events during emotionally sensitive adolescence. Now I am grown up, hardened, and yet still affected. There is redemption in sadness. It tells me that for nearly five months in 2003, I lived life with the open, raw, refreshing outlook of the young.
The payoff, though difficult to quantify, is much greater than I expected. I have no regrets about having gone; it was the right thing to do. I think about it every day. Sometimes I can hardly believe it happened. I just quit, and I was on a monumental trip. I didn’t suffer financial ruin, my wife didn’t leave me, the world didn’t stop spinning. I do think of how regrettable it would have been had I ignored the pull that I felt to hike the trail. A wealth of memories could have been lost before they had even occurred if I had dismissed, as a whim, my inkling to hike. It is disturbing how tenuous our potential is due to our fervent defense of the comfortable norm.