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?