Fargo and I sat at the Hikers Welcome Hostel and listened to southbound hikers complain of brutal trail conditions in Maine and New Hampshire’s White Mountains. These hikers had started on Mt. Katahdin just a month ago and had only several hundred miles under their boots. We, on the other hand, had hiked over 1,800 miles and had already seen all kinds of trail conditions and weather. Fargo and I were certain the complaints came only because these southbounders were not yet in hiking shape. After everything I’d endured in the last one hundred days, I was certain I had seen everything the trail could possibly throw at me.
Then again, how many times had the Appalachian Trail already surprised me?
We’d left the trail and stopped at the hostel in the tiny village of Glencliff, New Hampshire, nestled in a high mountain valley at the edge of the White Mountain National Forest. Tomorrow Fargo and I would enter those White Mountains. We studied our guidebooks, charting our course for the next several days. Camping rules are very stringent in the Whites and tenting sites are limited; hikers are rightfully concerned about the trek across these mountains.
Scattered across the White Mountains are eight huts maintained by the Appalachian Mountain Club in New Hampshire. These rustic mountain lodges are popular tourist destinations and a stay is quite costly. Most of the huts allow a limited number of thru-hikers to stay in exchange for work, usually sweeping or doing dishes in return for the privilege of sleeping on the floor and eating leftovers after the paying guests are finished with a meal. Fargo and I hoped to do several of these work-for-stays as we traversed the Whites.
Padre and Rhino also stopped at Hikers Welcome Hostel. Padre had a habit of losing things, and he’d just lost his third set of hiking poles. Hikers occasionally leave their poles in vehicles when hitching a ride, but losing three pair had to be some kind of record. I was certain Padre would need poles to conquer the mountains ahead of us.
I was tired, but I knew I only had a few more weeks on the trail. Just these mountains in New Hampshire and then beautiful Maine.
My Trail Journal entry that night:
The climbs are either getting tougher or I’m getting weaker. I am 63 miles from Mt. Washington. . . . I don’t know how I’ll feel when I’m closer to done with this hike, but right now I’m so ready to be done. I am just completely worn out right now. Some good news, though, only 398.5 miles left. Just a little walk in the park.
———
Early the next morning, Fargo and I labored up Mt. Moosilauke, the first time we climbed above tree level in New Hampshire. Close to the summit, trees were short and stubby, and a sign warned that we were walking through fragile alpine vegetation and requested that we stay on the marked trails. How can anything that survives these harsh mountaintop conditions be considered fragile?
Trail signs disappeared, and the path was marked instead by rock cairns, small directional piles of rocks. We finally stood at the top of our first White mountain and took in the incredible view; waves of blue and purple peaks stretched to the horizon.
A gusting and chilly wind reminded us to keep moving, and we picked our way down the rocky descent alongside a tumble of waterfalls. We maneuvered down the mountain, finding only small blocks of wood fastened to the rock faces for footholds. We’d conquered the first mountain of the 117 miles of trail that cross the White Mountains. Moosilauke, it turned out, was also one of the easiest climbs.
The sun made a short appearance. The small brook we followed was too inviting; Fargo jumped in for a swim, as was his habit. Rather than hiking on, I waited for him, lying on my back on the trail and soaking up the welcome sunshine.
I heard the clomping and clicking before Padre came into view. He was moving fast, and I saw he’d been outfitted with another set of hiking poles; he explained that he’d found them back at the hostel. I admired the pink poles with purple baskets, obviously a girl’s set of ski poles.
“Wow, Padre, that’s quite a fashion statement you’re making. Too bad not many people will have a chance to admire them, since you’ll probably lose those too.”
Padre had decided to make a big push for the finish, and he thought this would be the last time we’d see each other. We exchanged addresses and said our good-byes, and my friend and his pink poles were gone.
Trail Journal, July 19, at the Galehead Hut:
I hiked the 10.4 hardest miles of my life. I never imagined how difficult the trail would be in NH.
The stories were true. Hiking conditions here were brutal. Every mountain climb was an exhausting experience. Rain, wind, and sleet battled us as we struggled up and down steep trails crossing Mt. Lincoln, Mt. Lafayette, and Mt. Garfield.
We had hiked only ten miles on the day we arrived at Galehead Hut early in the afternoon. Wet and shivering, Fargo and I inquired about doing a work-for-stay and were told that those spots were usually not given out until at least four o’clock. The next hut was still eight miles away, and we had no intention of hiking one mile farther that day. We stayed at the desk and informed the woman that we intended to be the first four o’clock hikers she would see; we were not going to stray far from that spot. Only one other hiker showed up that afternoon, and all three of us were hired.
The huts in the White Mountains are staffed primarily by college kids, each hut having its own group of workers who are referred to as “the croo.” Summer jobs at these mountain lodges are prized gigs, but there’s hard work involved too. No roads lead to the huts; all food and supplies have to be carried or helicoptered in. Thru-hikers are usually welcomed, since they not only help with the work, but also assist in disposing of leftover food.
The third hiker that day was St. Gertrude. I’d first met Gerty and Stretch back at the pavilion at the Graymoor Spiritual Life Center, and later they had stopped for a visit at the Pharmacy Shelter. Now Gerty arrived at Galehead Hut alone.
“What happened to Stretch?” I asked him.
“He tore a muscle and had to leave the trail for a while.”
Many hikers, especially the younger ones, spent time each morning stretching their muscles. They’d push against trees, pull up their legs, and contort themselves into pretzel knots, preparing their bodies for a hiking day. My preparation each day was to put on my pack and start walking. By the time others were sufficiently stretched out, I was a mile down the trail. Stretch had torn a shoulder muscle while doing pushups in preparation for his daily hike.
We enjoyed a lively evening, socializing with about forty other guests. A women’s church group was there on a retreat, and we discovered that we had met part of their group the night before at the Liberty Springs tent site on Franconia Ridge. Apparently the women had been given a choice of tenting or staying at the hut. We assured the women at Galehead that they had made a smart decision; the night before on Franconia Ridge had been miserable. Fargo and I had set up our tents on wooden platforms and spent a cold, miserable night just trying to stay dry and warm. I’d put on every article of clothing, including my rain gear, and several times I lit my cookstove, hoping for some meager warmth. The wind howled all night and cold rain battered my tent. The group of ladies tenting at the same site had the misfortune of spending the night on that cold and stormy ridge while their counterparts were warm and dry at Galehead Hut.
While we talked with the guests, the staff took a radio call. The ladies’ group leader back at the Liberty Springs tent site had fallen and broken her leg; a rescue crew was on its way.
Fargo, Gerty, and I slept on the hardwood floor of the dining room that night, and I was thankful simply to be warm and dry.
We could not leave the next morning until our work was finished. After the guests had eaten breakfast and checked out, we shook out dozens of blankets and swept the entire hut. The chores were a welcome change from laboring up and down mountains with a heavy pack. We finished at nine o’clock and collected pay in the form of breakfast leftovers.
We had hoisted our packs and were ready to leave when we spotted two familiar figures coming up the trail toward the hut. I recognized Franklin and Einstein; they’d met each other back at Delaware Water Gap and had hiked together since then. They had learned from a southbound hiker that Apostle was just ahead of them, and so they had left camp early that morning to try to catch up with me.
I was delighted to see my friends again. We dropped our packs and took time to catch up on all the trail chatter, joining them for another round of food before starting our day on the trail.
The AMC huts in the White Mountains offer a hiker special. For two dollars, we could eat whatever soup was left from the previous night’s meal—all the soup we wanted, as long as the supply lasted. When we left Galehead, we planned to hike seven miles to the Zealand Falls Hut, resupply on their soup, and end our day at a campground in Crawford Notch.
The seven miles to Zealand Falls were rainy and slippery. This hut is a delightful place to stay, with a beautiful falls nearby, but we’d seen enough water. We wanted only to be inside and dry. The five of us soon devoured all the cornbread and bean soup remaining from the night before.
Before we left the hut, I mooched a garbage bag from a croo member, emptied the contents of my backpack, and lined it with the bag. The rain had been constant and blowing, and my pack cover couldn’t keep the contents dry. The garbage bag was one of my better decisions; it did protect my few possessions from the almost constant rain during the next several weeks.
After our soup break, we had eight miles to Highway 302 at Crawford Notch; we’d been informed that these were the easiest miles in the White Mountain stretch. At the road crossing, we’d head three miles down the highway to the Crawford Notch General Store and Campground. Gerty and I decided to see how quickly we could do these miles. Our plan was to make the campground in record time, then send a vehicle back to where the trail crossed the road and pick up the other three who lagged behind us.
For the next two hours Gerty splashed and skidded over rocks and rivers at a ridiculously reckless pace, and several feet behind him charged one equally ridiculous Apostle. I was determined that he would not out-hike me—unless, of course, I fell and broke every bone in my body. We foolishly risked life and limb, but, oh, what a thrill it was to emerge two and a half hours later at the road crossing—with me right on Gerty’s heels.
We attempted hitchhiking the three miles to the campground, but no one would pick up two hikers walking along the road in the pouring rain. When we reached the camp store, Franklin greeted us at the front door. While we were walking the three miles in the rain, the other three had come to the road crossing and the first passing car had picked them up. They rode to the campground while we walked in the rain.
“Thanks for picking us up, Franklin,” I complained.
“We waved when we passed you, but you were already close to the store, and we didn’t want to interrupt your challenge.”
Exactly five bunks were still available in the bunkhouse, and so we were soon five happy hikers. A laundry room and a shower house added to our bliss. All evening we lounged, eating and talking and attempting to dry out our backpacks. Outside, the cold downpour continued. I didn’t care about the rain. I was dry, and I was among friends.
Mt. Washington lay ahead of us. At 6,288 feet, that mountain would be our second highest climb on the trail, second only to Clingman’s Dome back in the Smoky Mountains. Our next stop would be the Lakes of the Clouds Hut, just 1.5 miles short of the summit.
The towering mountain endures the world’s most extreme weather conditions. Mt. Washington sees snowfall every month of the year. The highest wind ever measured on planet Earth occurred at the summit on April 12, 1934, measuring 231 mph. The main building on top of the mountain is built to withstand gusts up to 300 mph, and all other buildings are chained to the ground. Storm systems seem to meet on this summit and result in extreme weather conditions. If snow and wind and storms do not deter the visitor, fog will often obscure the views.
The forecast was lousy, with weather warnings out for the mountain. We awoke to a damp, misty morning at the campground. Franklin and Einstein had already planned to take a zero day to recover from several long and difficult days and to wait for better weather before climbing Mt. Washington. Fargo was torn between hiking with me or heeding the dire forecast and staying at the bunkhouse. I remarked that if my hike had been dictated by weather forecasts, I’d probably still be in Georgia. Eventually, he decided to stay behind; if the sun happened to come out, he’d try to catch up with Gerty and me.
We two caught a ride back to the trail and started our climb, gaining several thousand feet in elevation in just two miles. At Webster Cliffs, the clouds gave way to sunshine and we enjoyed a splendid view over the valley and the three-mile road walk we’d done in the previous evening’s rain.
Mt. Webster and Mt. Jackson were between us and soup at the next hut, the Mizpah Spring Hut. (Fargo had renamed it the Bar Mitzvah Hut.) Thinking about that soup as we hiked, I tried to guess what kind it would be; I was craving chicken noodle. So I was happy to find that the soup of the day at Bar Mitzvah Hut was turkey noodle. Gerty and I each had two large, steaming bowls of soup and several pieces of cornbread and, refreshed, tackled the remaining six miles upward to Lakes of the Clouds Hut.
About this time, the sun had also peeked out down at the campground. Fargo soon realized the error of his calculations. He was now behind his hiking partner and, in addition, had lost his connection to da missus back in Scansin. He’d been using my phone to keep in touch with home; now that I was gone, how would he keep up with the progress of his house sale?
He took off in pursuit of Gerty and me, and made it as far as the Bar Mitzvah Hut before stopping for the night. By then, we were six miles ahead of him at Lakes of the Clouds. Although he made a valiant attempt to overcome that six-mile gap, it would be 230 miles before we met again.
I’d just crossed Mt. Franklin at 5,004 feet when the sky opened up and dumped cold, hard rain. The trail became a rushing torrent, and I splashed through water streaming around and over my feet.
I’d almost reached Lakes of the Clouds Hut when the rain stopped and a rainbow pierced the gray clouds and arched over the mountainside. For a rain-drenched hiker, it was a beautiful reminder of God’s promise to never again destroy the earth with a flood. There would be times in the next several weeks, though, when I wondered if God had excluded Maine from that promise.
Trail Journal, from Lakes of the Clouds Hut:
I can’t begin to describe how I hate getting rained on, so I won’t. One of these days I expect to wake up covered in moss and sprouting mushrooms.
Hikers know Lakes of the Clouds Hut as “Lake of the Crowds.” Its popularity is not surprising; the hut sits dramatically on the rocky mountainside just below Mt. Washington’s summit, looking out over lesser peaks and drifting clouds. This hut is the largest of the eight, built to accommodate ninety-two guests, and it was completely full when I arrived.
A croo party was scheduled for that night at the next hut, Madison Spring, which had closed for the night. The croo from Lakes of the Clouds was also invited to the party, so our hut that night was staffed by former workers filling in for the regulars. They were delighted when Gerty and I showed up wanting to do a work-for-stay and even more excited when they discovered that I had twenty-five years of restaurant experience.
Hand-washing dishes for ninety-two guests was more than I’d bargained for. Gerty and I joined the guests later for a question-and-answer session about our thru-hike. We did eat well; and later that evening, I unrolled my sleeping bag and slept on the same tabletop where I’d eaten just a few hours earlier.
At least our work was done that night and we could leave early in the morning. Only 1,200 feet remained to summit Mt. Washington, but when we arrived we found the mountaintop shrouded in heavy mist. No views today.
Inside the Summit House, I noticed a plaque memorializing people who had been killed in various mishaps on the mountain. It listed over one hundred persons who had died there, noting name, age, and reason for demise. Not the most pleasant way to start another hiking day on a dangerous mountain range.
We left the summit, crossed the cog railroad tracks, and headed for Madison Spring Hut. Much to my relief, the trail passed below the summit of Mt. Clay, Mt. Adams, and Mt. Jefferson. Along the trail, we passed croo members returning from their party at Madison Spring Hut the night before. I hoped the temporary help back at Lakes of the Clouds would hang around for a while, because these young folks did not look ready for prime time.
At Madison Spring Hut, everything was still in slow motion. It had been quite a party. Apparently, soup had not been on the menu last night; we were told no soup was available. “What do you mean, no soup?” I asked. “Every other hut has had soup for us.”
“I think we had chicken noodle soup several nights ago, but it would take time to heat it up,” the girl replied. But those were magic words; we would wait. The rain had started again and we were in no mood to continue hiking soaked and soupless. We spread our wet clothes across tables and settled in and waited. And waited.
Our reluctant hostess at last realized the only way to get rid of the two pesky hikers was to give them their soup. It was worth the wait. Life just runs better on hot chicken noodle soup. We navigated a descent of almost 4,000 feet, forded seven streams, and put Mt. Madison behind us.
Our fifteen-mile day was completed when we arrived at Pinkham Notch, where New Hampshire Rt. 16 cuts through the mountains. Pinkham Notch Visitor Center offers a bunkhouse, camp store, and dining room. We would again have a bed and a shower. In the last five nights, I’d slept on a wooden tent platform, a hardwood floor, a tabletop, and two bunk beds.
I took my shoes into the shower with me, as I’d done earlier that week. Since they couldn’t possibly get any wetter, they might as well be clean.
During a delicious meal in the dining room, Gerty and I discussed our reasons for doing our thru-hikes. His wife had recently informed him she wanted a divorce. He was finding his peace on the trail. Why follow a five-step program to peace when you can just as easily shoulder a backpack and walk five million steps to peace and freedom?
———
The dining room opened early the next morning, so we finished off a huge breakfast to store as much energy as possible for the day. We walked through another wet and foggy morning, over Rt. 16, up the Wildcat Ridge Trail, to the top of Wildcat Mountain, gaining two thousand feet of elevation over two miles.
I’d heard of thru-hikers quitting their trek in the White Mountains, and I’d always been puzzled. How could one quit so close to the goal? Now I understood. This was no longer hiking; this was difficult rock climbing, made even more difficult by wet and slippery rocks. Three times during my week in the White Mountains, hikers fell, broke bones, and had to be rescued.
Gerty and I finally rounded the top of Wildcat Peak E. In blowing wind and rain, we hiked past the Skyride gondola, a chairlift available for folks wishing to enjoy the view from Wildcat without the workout we had just suffered.
Wildcat has five peaks—A, B, C, D, and E—and we crossed them all. I’d been concerned that the Presidential Range in the White Mountains might not have enough mountains for each president to have his own namesake, but apparently there is no need to worry.
We crossed all five peaks and arrived at Carter Notch. Ahead was an afternoon of more climbs: South, Middle, and North Carter Mountains. But we needed soup before attempting more climbs. Carter Notch Hut is the last hut in the Whites. The morning had been miserable with cold rain, and we needed to get inside and warm up. By the next day, we would be in Gorham, where I hoped a package waiting for me at the post office would have my winter gear. I’d been warned about the possibility of bad weather in the mountains but was still surprised by just how miserable July could be.
Today’s treat was bean and pasta soup. That was a new taste for me, and just confirmed that you can put any two ingredients in broth and call it soup. But the hot mixture brought new vigor to my tired and wet body, and we continued our all-day slog over more mountains.
The Appalachian Trail through the White Mountains is notoriously difficult to follow. Instead of trail signs indicating “Appalachian Trail,” different sections of the trail were given alternate names. A hiker who does not know the name of the section he’s currently hiking can easily take a wrong turn. Many frustrated hikers have taken the matter into their own hands and carved AT directions on signs. Or sometimes hikers leave their own handmade signs for those following them. These impromptu guides probably saved many thru-hikers from needlessly getting lost.
Just beyond North Carter Mountain was Imp Campsite. We’d been battered by the weather and drained by climbs for thirteen miles, and I wanted to get out of my wet clothes. The Imp Shelter offered us sanctuary. The front of the building was partially enclosed, affording even more shelter.
One old gentleman had also taken refuge there. He was on a section hike, but the weather was so miserable he had spent several days at the shelter. On the previous evening, a rescue party had brought a man with a broken leg to the shelter and waited for daylight to carry him out. It took twelve paramedics to transport the injured man across this slippery and rocky trail.
The eccentric guy seemed genuinely pleased to have the company of two thru-hikers during his solitary stay. He had just finished cooking his meal, and I thought the mice would be delighted; he had spilled half his food over a large area.
There were only the three of us, so I set up my tent in the shelter and ditched wet clothes and slipped into my sleeping bag. Again I lit my stove inside the tent and soon had a warm and cozy spot. The elderly gentleman kept up a steady stream of conversation; sometimes Gerty answered, sometimes I did, and sometimes he answered himself.
Outside, the wind howled and mist swirled around the shelter as darkness fell. I made a journal entry, noting that it had been another cold, wet, foggy, windy, muddy day in the White Mountains, very nasty up along the ridges. But I could hike through just about anything as long as I had hopes of being warm and dry at the end of the day. I had survived another day, and I was content.
Our section hiker was singing, his tenor serenading the wind and the rain. Mariah. It’s a lilting and haunting melody about days of love when the sun was always shining. The song could not have been about New Hampshire, since the sun almost never was shining out here. I wondered if our tenor knew the mountain ahead of us was Mt. Moriah.
At six in the morning, I donned still-wet clothes and left the Imp Shelter. We were eight miles from the highway that would take us into Gorham, New Hampshire.
Once over Mt. Moriah, we rolled downhill. Somehow we managed three river crossings. Our guidebooks showed footbridges across the rivers, but there were none to be seen. They were submerged under the swollen waters. We waded across, and although the water was never above our knees, maneuvering around rocks and against the strong currents was challenging. And the rain was still coming down.
Reaching U.S. 2, we still had a road walk of 3.6 miles to Gorham. Happily, someone took pity on us and gave us a ride into town.
At the edge of Gorham is The Barn at Libby House. The Barn is a popular hiker hostel. Gerty and I agreed that after the unrelenting misery of the Whites, we deserved more luxury than the hostel. Scattered along a mile on the outskirts of town are numerous hotels, shops, and restaurants. The Royalty Inn seemed an appropriate place for two beaten-up hikers.
As I walked toward the rooms stretching behind the main building, I realized I had been here before. The front of the inn had been remodeled, but the rooms were the same. I’d forgotten that I had ever been in Gorham before, but now I’d stumbled into the same motel where our family had stayed many years ago on a trip to New England. Our family was young, and time was still moving slowly. So much had happened since that trip. Now the children were grown and had moved on and Mary was gone. I had grandchildren. . . .
Grandchildren? I felt as if I’d barely had time to enjoy my children. The memories brought a sadness; I wanted to go back in time and enjoy my family more, and I would do things differently. I had spent so much time preparing for the future that I had neglected to enjoy the present. Now that present was the past. What had happened to all those years?
The room Gerty and I shared was only two doors down from the room our family had rented. I recalled the morning we left the motel. We were packing up to leave and were heading to Maine. I had backed our van up to our front door. The window in the room next to ours was open. Our van was an oil burner, and the smoke from its exhaust set off the smoke alarm in the next room. The maids couldn’t figure out what had happened. I told Mary and the kids to get in the van quickly so we could disappear before I set off more alarms.
“But shouldn’t you let them know why the alarm’s going off?” Mary said.
“No, I’m too embarrassed. What does it matter? I’ll never be back here again.”
But here I was, again.
Between downpours, Gerty and I dashed to the post office and picked up my box with food and winter gear. At Burger King, we consumed large quantities of flame-broiled goodness, then stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts and topped off our feasting with several of those small cakes. One more stop to replenish our supply of hiking snacks, and we were back in our room, drying out our clothes.
Gerty had started his hike long before I had left Springer Mountain, and he was a stronger hiker than I. Yet I had caught up with him. I asked him how that was possible; his explanation told me a lot about the man.
Hiking through Virginia, Gerty was crossing a small footbridge when he heard a noise underfoot. Curious, he investigated and discovered a kitten meowing forlornly beneath the bridge. If he left the kitten there, it would probably die. Instead, he rescued it, making a nest in the hat that hung around his neck. Gerty carried the kitten for a day, struggling to keep it in the hat while the kitten constantly tried to climb out.
He attempted to give the kitten to other hikers, with no success. Several advised him just to turn it loose; if it died, it died. Gerty could not do this. He reversed direction, hiked twenty miles back to a town, and tried to find a home for the kitten. No one wanted the little thing; folks just told him to abandon it. He would not. He had started to bond with the kitten, and could see only one other solution. He would keep it himself.
Gerty took a taxi to the nearest airport, where he rented a car. He then drove to his home in Maine, asked a veterinarian friend to keep the kitten for him until he finished his hike, drove back to Virginia, returned the car to the airport, had another taxi take him back to the trail, and then continued his hike. The total cost for his new kitten, named “Troll,” was close to $660. That explained how I had caught up with him.
I could not imagine why any woman would leave a man with such a tender heart. When I called Ina that night to tentatively set a finish date for my hike, I told her Gerty’s kitten story and how amazed I was that a woman could leave a man who does something like that. Her reply was, “That’s probably why she left him, because he does things like that.”
Huh?
———
Leaving town the next morning, we stopped at The Barn at Libby House, looking for a ride back to the trail. In an oversized easy chair, my friend Padre sat soaking his foot in a bucket of Epsom salts.
“What happened, Padre? I thought I wouldn’t see you again. You were headed to the finish line.”
“Well, the day I told you that, I hiked thirty-five miles. But we’ve had so much rain, my feet have just been too wet for too long. My toe’s infected. It’ll be several days before I’m ready to hike again. Don’t worry. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
Back on the trail, Gerty and I crossed the Androscoggin River and began our last day of hiking in New Hampshire. If all went well, I’d enter Maine sometime later that evening. The sky had finally cleared up, and behind me I could see the mountain range I had crossed. Those same mountains had hidden in rain and fog for most of my time there, but as I hiked the last miles toward Maine, the Whites were silhouetted in blue and green against a clear, sunny sky.
Today was also my last day of hiking with Gerty. His kitten had altered his schedule and he needed to do some big mileage days if he was to finish by his deadline. I’d kept up with him on that one headlong dash to Crawford Notch, but I wouldn’t be able to match his pace all the way to Katahdin.
The mountain climbs were at lower elevations now, but the trail was still slow and difficult. The last climb of the day was Mt. Success, aptly named for my finish in New Hampshire. I crawled up and down rock climbs and waded through stretches of mud. I sure missed those huts and that hot soup.
But I was about to become an ingredient in a large primordial soup myself. Years of rain and decaying matter had settled and created a swampy bog almost at the top of Mt. Success. Narrow boards formed a walkway over the area, but the waters had risen with the large amount of rain, and several of the boards were now under water. I tap-tapped with my poles, trying to stay on the straight and narrow. But I slipped. That is, one hiking pole slipped off a board, and I lost my balance and sank into the oozing peat-filled bog. In a panic, I reached out and grabbed a board, and slowly dragged myself from the muck clutching me. “Congratulations, Mom and Dad. It’s a boy,” I muttered, as I lay there covered with mud and mire.
After regaining my balance and composure and scraping off as much of the goop as I could, I finished crossing Mt. Success. I was now a genuine born-again hiker: I had been immersed. I had become a new creature, albeit a swamp creature. Old things had passed away—yes, New Hampshire was behind me—and all things had become new. I was in Maine!
The small blue and white sign tacked to a tree brought an incredible rush of feeling.
Welcome to Maine
The Way Life Should Be
At last, my fourteenth and final state! I gave that little sign a welcome kiss and stepped into Maine.
I’d hiked seventeen difficult miles, and I was exhausted. My journal entry that night admitted, “I have never hiked a harder trail in my life.” And the morrow would be just as strenuous. Mahoosuc Notch was six miles ahead of me and was known as the most difficult mile on the entire Appalachian Trail.
I stopped at the Carlo Col Shelter and Campsite, less than a mile into Maine. The cabin-type shelter lay down a steep, rocky side trail. I filtered two liters of cold Maine water from a nearby stream. I had the shelter to myself and hung clothes everywhere, trying to dry out.
No one else showed up that evening. I hoped for company, but it was a lonely night; only a little chipmunk stopped by to share the shelter. Still, I was warm and dry. I again had my winter hat and my Patagonia fleece; additional weight, yes, but I had a feeling I’d need them as I hiked across this rugged and beautiful state.
I was ready for the Maine Event.