Katahdin, Part III

After hours of lingering and reminiscing, the forces of nature finally decided to evict us from the mountain top. Katahdin is often closed to hiking due to its notoriously violent weather, and because it is close to a death trap to be caught 2.5 miles above treeline in storms. I experienced the source of the fear yesterday, as thunderstorms enclosed the mountain. We scrambled as quickly down slick rocks as we could, but sharp hail and lightning descended on the peaks. I was sure that nothing was closer to a vision of the apocalypse than the summit then. Practically falling down the same rocks I crawled up, I knew that the ending to this journey would not be pretty. As I passed people crouched in chasms and huddled behind rocks, I thought that my life would end in a lightning bolt on Katahdin. At least I would have finished the trail in time to leave it. However, Trill and I made it back safely, enduring probably the worst weather and greatest rush of adrenaline on this entire journey.

Katahdin, Part II

Today I awoke with the normal spur to routine which has controlled me for the last five months. I pick up my feet and walk. I was unintimidated by the fear that surrounds my last climb, overwhelmed instead with the feelings of invincibility and pride. After several hours, however, I realized that even my stamina was being chipped away by the legendary ascent. The mountain is known as a Monadnock- a steep upthrust of granite, rising sharply from all the earth below. For the 2.5 miles above treeline, I followed an utterly rugged and relentless path up boulders, scrambling up rocks mightier than any creation of mankind. The climb taxed my mind and body, but I could feel the gravity of the summit pulling me higher, and I only began to accelerate up the steep rocks. I felt butterflies in my stomach at the first glimpse of the sign atop the peak- a moment I had imagined every day and night for almost five months.
The mountain is controlling- it is the dominant thought of many steps and many minutes, through joy and sorrow it carried me through this trail. I had no premeditated ideas of how I would react, I could only feel the smile on my face coming up the side of the mountain. But when I reached the top, I touched the sign and cried instantly. In the midst of a crowd of day hikers and baffled tourists, I sat down on the rocks and cried. It was perhaps the most glorious moment of the last five months. I lingered on the summit with the only other thru-hiker within days around, my friend Trill, as we absorbed every view and soaked up the elation. As Trill says, "This trail will change your fucking life. Every step north you take, you are a different person. The farther north you are, the harder it is to explain to people who you are."

Katahdin, the prelude

A mountain only fit for a 2,000 mile climax and well-tempered minds and legs, Katahdin is the Northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. It is the whitest whale of the seas, a 5,268 foot peak looming above all around it. Hikers eager to finish their months of torment and joy are confronted with a 4,000 foot climb over 5.2 miles, easily the most difficult single ascent on the entire path. It is bizarre and possessive- dominating the horizon in a mass of granite that shadows all around it. There is no mountain which rivals it in peril or glory, it is the mightiest peak.

photos from the White Mountains

Crossing the Kennebec River

Pierce Pond Lean-To

2000 mile mark

Before and During the Wilderness

7/16 5.3 whole miles to Horn Pond Lean-to

The journey is nearing an end, which means so is my opportunity to enjoy this lifestyle. I purposefully suppressed my urge to trudge on, and chose instead to savor this pretty day on a pond, with Southbounders "Nocar," "Stretch," and Tommy.

7/17 17.5 miles to West Carry Pond Lean-to

The day is not yet over, but I am confident at this point that there can only be a peaceful resolution. The lessening intensity of the terrain as well as my ecstasy for the finish have subdued my frantic pace. The weather is ideal, and I am camped in the midst of natural beauty that most Americans spend their lives trying to capture and civilize. The spirit of the wilderness is still very alive in Maine, and it lives in me as well as anyone else who treads its ground. I am reading The Places in Between, and I am walking through a parallel universe to Rory, except without the threat of gun-toting Afghans, and with the beauty of peaks and ponds.

7/18 19.5 miles to Pleasant Pond Lean-to

Things aren't as pleasant as advertised here at Pleasant Pond. Dodger, Longstep and I are here representing the Northbound crowd, and we have met Abby, the Southbounder, and three weathered geezers, all packed into this minute rustic Maine shelter. The highlights of today's excursion include tramping through deathly bogs, and crossing the Kennebec River- the most formidable water body on the trail. The ferryman was confident that if I would of attempted fording the river I surely would have drowned. I'm glad I'm still alive.

7/19 14 miles to Moxie Bald Lean-to

I used today for convincing myself of the necessity of liesure: spending many hours reading, eating, swimming in ponds, lounging on summits, or engaging in activity commonly dismissed by puritans. Afterall, the journey is almost over- tomorrow I reach the last town, Monson. All southbounders should fear my power.

7/23 20.6 miles to Carl Newhall Lean-to

Yesterday was an intense day. So was today. And so will be the next four days. It is an unfortunate way to end this glorious journey, but how else can I cope with 100 oppressive miles, and enough food weight to break my back.
Perhaps this is the crucible of hiking- teasing myself with food that I must frugally ration, battling the savage trail in Maine, rushing over peaks to beat section hikers and infidel Southbounders to the cramped shelters.
But all the toil is not without humor. I am elated to be so close to Katahdin, and to have Trill's company and ecclectic stories in these last miles. He at 30 blueberries at once- "the chronic," he claims.

7/24 18.9 miles to Cooper Falls Lean-to

It's been a cold, windy and rainy day, but I wouldn't call it miserable. I'm too close to the end to be miserable.
The barren landscape of worn rocks, frail brush and sheets of mist and fog atop White Cap Mountain looked like what I imagine the apocalypse to be. However, the rest of the day involved rolling woodlands and glittering ponds. Trill is still by my side, telling the goofiest stories that split my sides with laughters. Dinner is ready- one of the last suppers, one of the last opportunities to savor dehydrated food.

7/25 21.5 miles to Wadleigh Stream Lean-to

Without exaggeration, today truthfully featured the worst insect infestation I have experienced yet. Luckily, my insect suit kept me invulnerable and safe in my strides. I hope I will never hate a human with as much passion and vengeance with which I hate mosquitoes. Even when I am completely covered they find the patches of skin from which they can extract blood. Ironically, I just paused to pull one's legs off. You can't have my blood, greedy vessels of destruction.
Otherwise it's been another sentimental, glorious day in Maine. Plenty of scenic lakes added new color to the wilderness, and I met a yo-yo, Brian, who has the typical stony stoicism of someone who has hiked his soul out.

7/25 19.5 miles to Hurd Brook Lean-to

No matter how I sing my thoughts,
or how I twist my tongue,
I can't rephrase these steps of mine
to tunes that can be sung. 

And every hour that passes by
beyond the reach of time,
can't be portrayed again
by any thrust of rhyme.

Waking to a pressing urge
to lift my feet and walk,
and fighting day until the dark,
are not for common talk.

And many times I've cried and fought
and fiercely tried to quit,
but many more I've yelled aloud
and boldly stuck with it.

This life of mine is more than words 

but only simple things,
more than only frigid nights

and demons borne with wings. 

I leave more than one place or friend,

but a true entire life,
and miles of sun and happenstance
and days of storm and strife.

Well all those times come crashing down 

this one last lofty peak
but have I or have I not
found the truth I seek?

The Wilderness

Here's the truth of the matter: the journey is almost over. The feelings I have I cannot easily describe to others, who are usually so eager to extract some sort of revelation or truth out of my 2,176 mile hike. The best I can do is tell them that this feels like the last week of high school; all my sentiments and experiences seemed warped by time, and what was so recent seems like a lifetime ago- but still, that is not an accurate comparison. A journey like this can only be known like a work of art- something that we can describe passionately to others, but can really only be understood by experiencing it for ourselves. So I can only describe for you what it feels like, being here in Maine, 114 miles away from the finish. It feels like many frigid nights, days with snow underfoot, warm hostels, copious quantities of hot food, scarce rations of cold food, American towns too small for maps, friendships through triumph and sadness, physical taxation, the glory of peaks, the misery of every type of thunderstorm, the oppressive summer heat, paranoia of insects, and the great simplicity of only living with less than 30 lbs. of possessions.
Still, things aren't over yet. A friend of mine from high school, Will Davis, picked me up from Monson and has let me stay and recover at his house before heading into the 100-mile Wilderness- the last crucible. In many ways it is the culmination of a Northbound hike- 100 miles of untamed Maine backcountry- untouched by roads, and still in the hands of the forest's will. The last fourteen miles include the climb of Katahdin, the highest peak in Maine and the magical Mountain Deity. Maybe I will have some revelation for you then.

7/9-7/14/08 to Stratton, Maine

Today, 7/22/08, Michael is near Monson, Maine with only 114 miles to go, planning to finish around 7/28 or so.  Below are the journal entries he recently mailed home...always a little out of sync, about a week or so behind.

7/14/08 18 miles to Spaulding Mountain Lean-To

Bob O’Brien treated me really well in Rangeley, Maine. Unfortunately his kind image does not represent the trail in Maine. Sometime today I realized I had left the Appalachian Trail and accidentally wondered onto the National Scenic Mud Pit, and it ironically follows the same course. However, I saw my first moose today, which redeemed some of my bitterness.

7/12/08 13 miles to Bemis Mountain Lean-To

The prospect of Katahdin at this point is tantalizing: so near, yet still hidden by the horizon, still only a rumor. Many times a day other hikers assure me that I am almost done, which is hard to accept when trudging over this steep, sawtooth terrain. All I can do in the mean time is rest, eat and savor the miles.

7/11/08  21 miles to Hall Mountain Shelter

Maine is deceptive with its array of terrain. Yesterday’s hike had me throwing bitter curses at the wind. Today however, was ideal for 21 miles. I still feel smashed as a black fly, but triumphant in my Northbound campaign for today.   I happened to encounter a band of insecure tweenage girls at camp and their counselors, exploring the great outdoors. Ironically, one counselor thru-hiked in 1999 and was sympathetic and kind enough to offer me their extra food before I could even attempt my Yogi technique. The girls all giggled! Tonight I am staying with a geezer named Poz who is intent on telling me intricate stories even as I am writing. I’m trying just to nod and say “yeah.”

7/10/08 15 miles to Speek Pond Shelter

Perhaps “Mahoosic” is the Indian greeting for “a brutal ass-kicking terrain.” Today’s hike included the Mahoosic Notch, the Mahoosic Arm and countless other knee crippling climbs, comprising easily the hardest 15 miles on the trail which I‘ve yet done. Gale force winds, stronger than anything I’ve experienced on any peak or through any storm, did not help either.   However, I am in Maine, which is ample cause for joyous celeration. I see Southbounders regularly at this point, all of whom are delighted to hear my veteran tales and seasoned advice.

 7/9/08  12 miles to Gentian Pond Shelter

After a soothing stay amongst the company of campground residents and visitor in Gorham, New Hampshire, I felt the gravity of Maine towing me to the border. Unfortunately my 1:00pm start and afternoon thunderstorms hampered my victory march.  So I have settled for this shelter, only 4 miles from Maine, with the company of eager Southbounders. It is practically a flashback to my early days on the trail. Hot Springs, NC is as far from Springer as we are from Katahdin now. What a time for reflection. I started my college reading assignment this evening. Ironically the narrator is undertaking the same feat I am, except in the desolate warring country of Afghanistan.

The last week of school

Kurt Vonnegut said, "So it goes." Tupac said, "That's just the way it is." Only 114 miles left.

Back on Squam Lake!

Captains Paul, Michael and Ryan

Squam Lake

Kayaking on Squam Lake

Working on the Swap Walk 

White Mountain photos

Ishmael on top of the world.. at least the White Mountains!

7/4--7/8/08 to Gorham, NH

7/8/08  16 miles to White Birches Hostel Gorham, New Hampshire

Like any challenge, the White Mountains have been just as rewarding as they were challenging. Summitting the mightiest peaks in the Northeast, braving the glut of tourists, maneuvering my way through the grip of a domineering Mountain Club, and finding my way to the glorious boundary of the final state were all part of the Whites’ endeavor.  Just as it is difficult to see the forest from the trees, or the universe from one world, the Appalachian Trail cannot be fathomed from one mile. But after my four months of adventures and now stumbling into a new crowd altogether—the Southbounders, I realize what a magical trip this has been!

7/7/08  11.7 miles to Carter Notch Hut

Today fell to the leisurely side, but after my aggravating voyages through rough climbs and mobs of tourists, I feel justified in relaxing. Plus, with the last state in sight, literally and figuratively and the miles quickly disappearing, I know it is time to savor the end. I earned work-for-stay at the northernmost hut, Carter Notch, and their kind treatment helped redeem my pessimistic view of the New Hampshire huts. 

7/6/08 15 miles to Osgood Tentside

Trekking through the Presidentals (of the White Mountains) requires conquering both the jagged cliffs as well as the pampered mobs of tourists. The crew at Mizpah helped me begin the day with a sumptuous breakfast—giving me the adequate energy to overtake the yuppies summitting the magnificent peaks today. I was constantly overwhelmed with the sheer volume of tourists, especially at Mount Washington, where I had to stand in line to reach the summit! I wanted to throw up on the day hikers.  In addition to my social struggles, I was rejected from Madison Spring Hut because the crew claimed that three thru-hikers had already taken the work-for-stay positions. It’s a little disheartening to get shunted to the ridgeline in the evening, to rush down the rocks only to find the shelter of the treeline. These woods are my home, and I have nowhere to stay when the affluent tourists have a monopoly on the mountains.  Luckily I found a disgruntled hiker named Derrick here at the tentsite just as pissed as I am. 

7/5/08  21 miles to Mizpah Spring Hut

The demons of the mountains did not punish me as hard as in the past few days and I was fresh enough from my plush stay last night to conquer more Whites, including a 3000 foot climb. The mountains are both plush and rugged, civilized and untamed, devoid of warmth and disgustingly crowded. Tonight is my second night at a hut, and each time has given me only a glimpse of the pampered and insecure who move their comforts to remote places. It’s a distracting way to view this beautiful state, but hopefully I won’t miss it in the wide wilderness ahead. 

7/4/08  13 miles to Galehead Hut

The volatile adventure through the Whites continues after two days of leisure at Squam Lake and a day of conquest again on the rocks. Brett rescued me from Franconia Notch two days ago, to return to the only place on the trail I can call home—Squam Lake, New Hampshire. I spent one day meandering around Plymouth, NH and the next reliving old times with old friends. It was almost more than fate that Paul and Ryan were in town with me, so Brett ironically chartered us to repair a spot on the swampwalk we built last fall—toil I never thought I would return to. But nothing could spoil a beautiful boat ride on Golden Pond and free pizza afterwards. The sight of all of my friends—Brett, Paul, Ryan and Sarah, happy and at peace, gave me new inspiration for hiking. This was certainly one lucky thing since the mere thirteen miles of hiking today wore me into the rugged ground. But the evening was saved when I met Kirty Harry and LT at the hut and received good food from the kind crew of ladies at the hut. 

Photos from ?NY, Connecticut

    

6/20-7/2/08 to Squam Lake, New Hampshire

7/2/08  18 miles to Plymouth, New Hampshire  (Brett Durham’s house)

Fate has repaid my misery with wonderful rewards and now that I am in the company of old friends it is difficult to even remember the toil of the last few days. Thoughts of seeing my old New Hampshire home kept my feet moving, led me through swamps, clouds of insects and over ridgelines. I had promised my friend Brett to meet at a highway crossing by evening. This entailed walking 18 miles within 12 hours, a seemingly simple plan. But no matter how much I anticipated my timing or how fiercely I climbed, I had intense difficulty reaching the road; ultimately arriving just in time.

Though the Whites have been beautiful, the relentless, steep grade and jagged rocky landscape has slowed my pace drastically. Descending 3000 feet of slick rock faces or creek beds leaves my knees feeling like exploding, and then ascending the 3000 feet again zaps the strength that I have left.  But all is well that ends well, and this is just the end of one chapter. I am happy to see that all of my friends here are thriving in the woods’ life. Brett still works for an environmental non-profit organization. Paul found a job with the Forest Service working with my old boss Ryan, who is getting married to Sarah, an old thru-hiker, this August. Everything is well in New Hampshire! 

6/30/08  15.4 miles to Beaver Brook Shelter

Karma reaps its toll again. I feel like all of the frustrating and painful toil I have done today will surely equate to some bountiful glory, hopefully tomorrow things will be sweet with my old New Hampshire friends. I hiked an additional six miles today, confused by the chaotic jumble of trails. Mount Moosilaukee was a rewarding introduction to the White Mountains—clear views and a majestic atmosphere. Tonight LT, Dirty Harry and I are combating flies and telling stories. 

6/29/08  19.3 miles Ore Hill Shelter

The challenge of New Hampshire has begun. Gone are the days of tranquil rolling ridges and now begin the rigorous combat climbs. Today included three major elevation gains: Smarts Mountain, Mount Cube and Ore Hill. Each one is a fiend to hikers. Today was also pivotal in that I met me first Southbounder, “Grace.” It is a good omen for what is north. Ryan and Sarah (friends I worked with on Squam Lake in Fall 2007) left me a note at a trailhead, telling me they tried to find me, but hopes of contact were futile.  But I can look forward to seeing old friends very soon.

6/28/08  16 miles to Trapper John Shelter  (near Hanover, New Hampshire)

I have been bound to Dartmouth for two days now, ironically. Last night I stayed in the house of Mary Friedman, another native of Winston-Salem and a Dartmouth student. It was both relaxing and indulgent to be in such a plush city.  However, tonight I ran into the Dartmouth sophomore student outing trip. This would have been enjoyable if by cruel cosmic irony there weren’t thunderstorms that forced 12 of us into a 6-person shelter. It certainly has been a great impetus for telling stories.

6/27/08  20 miles to Happy Hill  Shelter

Thus it is time for my final reflections on Vermont, this wild 12^th state. The long Trail and all of its history, challenges and travelers was an amazing connection to the land, and I have enjoyed all the crazy Vermonsters along the way. Recently the AT has been tedious and difficult, but hopefully I can forget the hardships and only carry the sweet memories of campfires into the future. Last night Trill, Allgood, Footloose, Pebble, Sunnyside and I had an epic thru-hiking night, a great opportunity to reminisce on the adventure thus far. The rain and pain I have tolerated well, but to stay sane now I say goodbye Green Mountains and hello to the Whites.

6/24/08  19^th birthday!

My birthday was sort of mundane. My most memorable celebration was simply gorging myself.

6/23/08 17 miles to Clarendon Shelter

There certainly need to be times of atonement and recovery after any challenge. Even though yesterday was dismal, my friend, Footloose, with whom I’ve been staying for three nights, has brought me back to good spirits. His peace, as well as the quirky wisdom from a trail geezer whose name I’ve already forgotten, have helped recover my ease. That and we had a good fire and whiskey tonight, practically early birthday presents.

6/22/08  19.3 miles to Big Branch Shelter

I felt unstoppable today marching through three thunderstorms, but crippled when I unpacked my bag and found my sleeping bag soaked.

6/21/08  14.7 miles to Spruce Peak Shelter

The family reunion was both successful and luxurious. It was more than a pleasant surprise to be transported instantly from an insect-ridden dirt path to a plush set of sheets in a Bed and Breakfast with sickening endless amounts of food.  This encounter with all my family left me with high spirits, reborn in my hiker capabilities. Today was an easy day. I was certainly willing to accept the delay for breakfast at the Snow Goose Inn.  Some of the greatest things in life aren’t things.  

6/20/08  21 miles to Stratton Road Family Reunion (near Bennington, Vermont)

Life in the placid and timeless wilderness has been more chaotic for me recently than it should I have not yet fully escaped from the constraints of schedules and transient goals, but am trying to steer away from moving to a place or purpose and just begin walking.  In Dalton, Massachusetts, I stayed at the legendary “Birdcage,” the highly trafficked home of Rob Bird, one of the legendary trail icons on the AT who gives away his resources to those in need without discrimination. The next day I crossed Mt. Greylock, the mighty crowning peak of Massachusetts and later entered the wide wilderness of Vermont.  I feel the old thrill of the northern mountains, something that can only be captured in the smell of fir trees, the chill of morning fog and the steep stacks of rocks up the sides of mountains. Soon I will leave the shelter to meet my family at a road crossing. Hopefully they will be there or I will be stranded!

Home for a While

Maybe all my toil and misery was invested wisely with Karma, because now I am happily in my old New Hampshire hood, taking days off with my old friends. In addition to high times and plethoras of food I am able to visit my old home on Squam Lake, perhaps the only place on this journey that I can call a home. It's great to see all my friends have survived the winter and prospered since; working through and enjoying the summer.
The White Mountains are exactly as I remember: beautiful and exruciatingly hard. Only 380 miles left!