In the quiet of early morning, I heard my chipmunk friend scurrying about. I shared my breakfast with him and stored away as many calories myself as possible. The “most difficult mile on the trail” was ahead of me that morning.
Before that notorious mile in Mahoosuc Notch, though, I crossed Mt. Carlo, the three peaks of Goose Eye Mountain, and the south peak of Fulling Mill Mountain. Between the mountain peaks are the sags, low points filled with murky water, wet and decaying plants, and sphagnum moss. I’d dropped in to visit one of these bogs the day before; and, much to my dismay, I made a return visit this morning.
Crossing a board over a sag on Goose Eye Mountain, I took a misstep and once again tumbled into the oozing mess. My backpack halted my plunge, and I used the board path to pull myself out of the gooey slime. Leaving a trail of filth, I climbed a rock and shook and scraped off as much of the moss and fragile alpine vegetation as possible. I soon found a creek along the trail that, in comparison, looked clean and pure. I jumped in with clothes and shoes still on, hoping to shed more of the swamp. A change of socks, and I was ready for more adventure.
Imagine the letter V, with Fulling Mill Mountain forming one side and Mahoosuc Arm forming the other side. Mahoosuc Notch is the bottom of that V. It’s a mile long, it’s narrow, and it’s filled with a jumble of boulders, many as large as cars or even houses, that have fallen from the opposite cliffs. I’d read hikers’ accounts of traversing the notch, but nothing had prepared me for this most difficult mile on the Appalachian Trail.
There was no path; the white blazes came sporadically along the mile, but they served only as assurance that I was still following the AT. Each hiker must find his own route over, under, or around the boulders.
Those strong and brave enough can sometimes jump from rock to rock. I did jump from several boulders, using my Grand Canyon safety scale, but I was substituting “moose” for “death.” A moose trapped in the notch had broken its leg in a fall.
We’d been reading the story in hiker comments in the shelter registers. Hikers had tried to get park officials to put the moose out of its misery, but the official policy seemed to be to let nature take its course. Register entries voiced vehement disapproval of this course of inaction. One hiker attempted to do the job himself, with his own knife, but apparently the moose disapproved of that plan. And so the unfortunate animal had slowly died of starvation. I passed the skull and bones, all that was left of the huge creature. Someone had strung Buddhist prayer flags nearby. Was the moose a recent convert? Or was the gesture simply a tribute to its suffering?
When I wasn’t jumping, I was squirming under boulders, pushing my backpack ahead of me. Little streams flowed under the rock piles, and sometimes I even discovered large chunks of ice, well-protected from the summer sun. A cool mist filtered up between the rocks; the notch was air-conditioned.
When I at last reached the north end of the notch without breaking a leg or having a house-sized boulder fall on me, I found that the second and third “most difficult” miles were up Mahoosuc Arm. I stood at the end of the notch, looking upward at an almost vertical trail, and shook my head. It’s impossible to go up there. But there was nowhere else to go. Grabbing tree roots, searching for toeholds, and clawing for fingerholds, I pulled myself upward over the next two miles.
By four o’clock, I was exhausted and I’d only covered nine miles. I stopped at the Speck Pond Campsite, overlooking Speck Pond. In Ohio, a “pond” is a small body of water, usually under an acre in size. In Maine, a “pond” can be anywhere from several hundred to several thousand acres and often several square miles in area. Thunder rolled over the pond. Moving inside, I set up my tent on a wooden platform with a view of the water, placed rocks on the corners of the rain fly, and retired for the evening.
Trail Journal, Speck Pond:
I am very tired and smell like a swamp. One exciting thing happened this morning. I went over 1,900 miles. Only 274 Mainely hard miles to go.
Since it was still early, I studied my guidebook, planning the next several days. The next day was Sunday, and I’d hardly seen anyone for two days; I needed a town stop. Fifteen miles up the trail, I’d cross East B Hill Road. Andover was another eight miles down that road. My guess was that East B Hill Road was not a major thoroughfare and I’d have little chance of getting a hitch for those eight miles into town. Perhaps I’d have cell service on top of one of the mountains, and I could call ahead for a ride.
Early Sunday morning, I trudged up Speck Mountain to an elevation of 4,180 feet. Then the trail dropped to 1,498 feet at Grafton Notch. It was a roller-coaster day, with climbs to mountain peaks followed by drops to the sags between, where boardwalks crossed more oozing bogs lying in wait. I hiked those areas with extreme caution.
Baldpate Mountain was bald, devoid of trees or foliage. Rock cairns marked the path up and over its West and East peaks and then over Little Baldpate Mountain. At the summit of East Baldpate, I stopped to take in the views. Maine is a state of spectacular beauty, with range after range of mountains dotted by ponds.
On East Baldpate, I had cell service and called Pine Ellis Lodging in Andover, hoping to persuade someone to pick me up at the road crossing. A woman answered the phone.
“Ma’am, this is the Apostle Paul, calling from atop Baldpate Mountain. I would like to stay at your house tonight.”
“You have to be kidding,” she replied. “I can’t believe this.”
“What can’t you believe? Do you have room for me at your place tonight?”
“Yes, I do. But it’s your trail name that shocked me. I was sitting here, reading a book about the Apostle Paul, and the phone rang, and it’s the Apostle Paul wanting to stay at my house tonight. It’s just . . . such a strange coincidence.”
She agreed to have someone pick me up at the East B Hill Road at 5:00 p.m. “Oh, by the way,” she added, before she hung up, “my husband’s name was also Paul. He passed away from cancer not long ago.” Even out here in the middle of nowhere, God was still throwing “coincidences” at me.
———
At Pine Ellis, my hostess and I sat at her kitchen table and shared our losses. Her husband had lived only a few months after his diagnosis, and her heartache and grief were still raw. I assured her that healing would happen; we just never know when. Memories of our lost ones will always be with us, but the acute, overwhelming anguish will lessen at some point. We do find life on the other side of grief. I had left the shackles of my grief in a puddle of tears on top of Eph’s Mountain three weeks before.
Many folks remain stuck in grief because they can’t comprehend why God would take their loved ones. We get angry with God and question why He would subject us to such terrible loss. But if it were up to us, when would we ever allow God to take our son or daughter or spouse? The answer, of course, is that we would never choose it. We don’t want to die and we don’t want our loved ones to die. If the choice of when to die were left up to us, this world would be filled with sick people.
Each of us lives in a small slice of measured time, inserted here between eternity past and a never-ending life hereafter. From the moment of your birth, death becomes inevitable. Your little slice of time is so fleeting. Whether you live on this planet ten years or eighty is insignificant to God. What is significant is your choice of paths that will lead you to the end of your time here.
For those who do not believe in God, my thoughts on life, death, and eternity will make no sense. If you came here to read an adventure book, just skip ahead a few paragraphs while I talk with those who have suffered a devastating loss in life.
We question, Why, God, why? Each of you must answer one question for yourself: Is God in control or not? If you believe He is in control, then He knows the whys and whens and wheres of your loss. If you don’t believe God is in control of these difficult situations, if you believe all that happens to us is random and beyond God’s powers—well, then, you still need to skip ahead a little further.
If you could comprehend heaven and the bliss your loved one is experiencing, and if you also had the power to bring that person back to earth, would you? When you can finally say, No, I would not bring her back, your journey to the other side of grief has begun. Perhaps instead of lamenting our misfortunate loss of loved ones, we should wonder why God chose them as fortunate enough to join his celestial city.
———
If you’ve blue-blazed to this paragraph, welcome back. It’s good to have you with us again.
Rejuvenated by a hot shower, I walked to the Andover General Store and Diner to resupply. My first Sunday in Maine ended with a pint of Hershey’s chocolate ice cream on the Pine Ellis front porch and conversation with other hikers lodging there.
At five in the morning, I was back at the diner. Huge breakfasts started my days with an extra burst of energy, but these mountain climbs and difficult trails exhausted me by day’s end. That day, I crossed Wyman, Moody, Old Blue, and both peaks of Bemis, struggling through nineteen miles. At Bemis Mountain Lean-to, I set up my tent, too weary to write more than one paragraph in my journal. Updating my daily miles in my guidebook, I added a one-word description of the day. “Wow!”
The sound of raindrops against my tent that night was a sign of things to come; rain would be my constant companion for the last two weeks of my hike. Early the next morning, as I wiped the water off Big Agnes, I was already thinking about finding a dry room for that night. Eighteen miles away, the trail crossed Rt. 4; at that point, I would still have a nine-mile hitch into the town of Rangeley.
I was crossing the Bemis Range, walking over an area of smooth and rounded rocks, when a noise startled me. I stopped when I caught sight of a mother grouse just a few feet in front of me. She was foraging for food under the bushes at the edge of the rocks, her four little chicks scurrying after her as she bustled and scratched. When I looked up and started down the trail again, a large fog bank was rolling down the hillside to meet me. After 1,900 miles, I was still fascinated by these amazing vignettes in nature and still thankful for my good fortune to witness such scenes.
Ten hours of stream crossings, stretches of well-marked trails, walks over long slabs of solid rocks, and wet and muddy paths brought me at last to Rt. 4, my thumb in the air. Before this AT hike, I’d never hitchhiked in my life; now, it was my mode of transportation on the highways. Fortunately, the folks in Maine weren’t as judgmental as I had been in my previous life, and this dirty, wet, bearded hiker soon had a ride into Rangeley.
Rangeley is a small tourist town surrounded by 110 lakes and ponds, a town that caters to snowmobilers, skiers, and fishermen. I stopped at the lovely Rangeley Inn and asked for their cheapest, no-frills hiker rate. The young man in charge actually had one such room; it did have a bed and a shower, and that was luxury enough for me.
I found a restaurant and enjoyed a huge steak dinner. These town stops with good eats and extra calories always made for a stronger hiking day. I also stopped at a grocery store for supplies for the next several days.
More mountains and more rain. The next day took me over three large climbs, Saddleback Mountain at 4,120 feet, The Horn, and Saddleback Junior. When I wasn’t laboring up a mountain, I was fighting treacherous mud at the lower elevations.
Toward evening, I was hiking alone through a cold and miserable rain on Lone Mountain. The wind howled around the mountainside and tried to shove me about. I was still two miles from Spaulding Mountain where I’d planned to stop at the shelter, but I was exhausted. Along the trail, ripe blueberries grew in abundance, and I stopped to gather and eat many handfuls of the delicious morsels. My arrival at the shelter was delayed a bit more, but even in the cold and blowing rain, I could not resist an evening snack.
At Spaulding Mountain Shelter, I quickly erected my tent in front of the building, and then went inside to catch up on the news in the register. Many entries spoke of a very large rabbit that visited this shelter. The stories sounded wild and unbelievable, and I wondered if perhaps some mind-altering substances had contributed to the unlikely tales.
My water was filtered and I was dry, inside my tent for the night. Something bumped up against the canvas. What was going on here? I flipped back the tent flap and was face to face with the largest rabbit I’ve ever seen. Had I eaten psychedelic blueberries or some other plant that caused hallucinations? Could this creature be real? Quite unalarmed at my presence, the huge thing turned slowly and hopped away. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was four times bigger than any rabbit I’ve ever seen back in Ohio. I never imagined there would be a night that I kept rocks within reach . . . to protect myself from a rabbit.
As I left the shelter in the morning, a voice behind me on the trail shouted my name. I turned and my first glance fell on a white flute protruding from a backpack.
“Good morning, Padre. How’s the toe?”
“The toe’s fine, but I need to get into a shelter and dry out. I was trying to catch up with you, but got caught in the storm up on Lone Mountain last night.” Padre had tied his hammock to two trees and spent a cold and miserable night in the rain on Lone Mountain. “Let me warm up and get something to eat, and I’ll catch up with you.”
“Nice sticks you have there, Padre.” He explained that he had, indeed, lost his girl’s ski poles; now he had somehow acquired an unmatched pair of Leki poles.
I hiked ahead while Padre stopped at the shelter. I was struggling over slippery rocks on my way up Spaulding Mountain, when a sound stopped me in my tracks and brought tears to my eyes. Haunting notes from a flute drifted through the mist on the mountainside. I’d often heard Padre play a melody on his homemade flute. That morning, however, as I stood alone in the Maine woods, the sound pierced my soul.
Never in my life had I worked so hard toward a goal as I had struggled to finish this hike. I just wanted to reach that sign on Katahdin and go home. But I’d been so engrossed in the physical difficulties of the hike that I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after Katahdin. Two hundred miles from where I stood, Mt. Katahdin waited, with that sign and the finish line.
Then what?
The notes from the flute, dropping through the mountain woods, sang the song of my life on the trail. This trail had become my life. My fellow hikers were my family. I’d discovered peace and a sense of normalcy out here. My body had gone to previously unknown limits of exhaustion, but my mind was on a path of freedom.
Now the floating melody stirred emotions I didn’t know existed. I wept as I realized how much this trail experience meant to me; I cried for what had been, what was, and what was about to end.
The last notes of the flute drifted away. It was time to start walking again.
———
I’d been alone in these woods for the last hundred miles, so I was happy when Padre caught up with me. Our big climbs of the day were South and North Crocker Mountains, both over 4,000 feet. By the middle of the afternoon, we’d crossed four mountains, forded four streams, hiked over slippery rocks and through muddy paths, and stood at the edge of Rt. 27, five miles from Stratton. Huddled under pine trees, seeking shelter from pouring rain, we had no difficulty convincing ourselves that we needed to go into town. Hitchhiking was unsuccessful, but I had cell service, and the owner of the Stratton Motel agreed to drive out and pick us up.
All evening and night, the rain poured down, but we laundered our clothes and ate a delicious meal at the White Wolf Inn.
Padre and I hiked in the rain for the next two days. The rain had turned the trail into a miniature bog. Undergrowth along the trail was so thick that we could not walk alongside the path; there was no choice but to slog through mud and running water.
Crossing a small mountain road at the base of Little Bigelow Mountain, I reached a major landmark in my journey. In the middle of Long Falls Dam Road, someone had painted the number 2,000. The few cars and log trucks passing through probably never saw it on the pavement; or if they did, they wouldn’t guess its significance. But any thru-hiker crossing that road certainly knew what that 2,000 meant.
Several southbounders had highly recommended a stop at a hunting and fishing camp near Pierce Pond. Harrison Fish Camp served a lumberjack breakfast that included twelve pancakes, sausage, eggs, juice, and coffee. A makeshift bridge over Pierce Pond Stream brought us to the primitive but wonderful camp in the middle of nowhere. Padre and I rented a cabin, and that evening I journaled by the light of a kerosene lantern while my clothes hung drying on the front porch. Life was good.
The lumberjack breakfast was bliss. The twelve pancakes were the best I’d ever eaten and were gone in no time.
Three miles beyond Harrison Camp, I stood on the banks of the Kennebec River. The level of the Kennebec is controlled by a dam, and in years past some hikers have attempted to ford the river at low levels. One hiker lost his life attempting to cross, and so the official route across the Kennebec is now a canoe. The white blaze is painted on the floor of the canoe that ferries hikers from one bank to another. Anyone fording the river now is blue-blazing, although that choice was not a consideration for me. With the abundant rainfall, the river was now twelve feet deep where hikers used to walk across.
On the south bank of the Kennebec where I stood, a signal flag was provided to summon the canoe. I waved the flag, and across the river another flag acknowledged my call. A canoe pushed into the river, and my ride was on its way.
Beyond the Kennebec, the trail crossed U.S. Rt. 201 at Caratunk. I loved these little Maine towns and regretted that I could not stay and explore. It was still early in the morning, and my goal was to reach Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to. That would be an eighteen-mile day, and would put me within a day’s hike of Monson. Padre and I reached my goal at six that evening, but it turned out my goal was not his goal.
“Let’s try for Moxie Bald Lean-to,” he said.
“That’s over four miles away, and we’d still need to cross Moxie Bald Mountain. It’s impossible,” I lamented.
“We can do it in one and a half hours. Just keep up with me.”
Why do I fall for these challenges?
Once again, I risked life and limb trying to keep up with someone. But Padre was right. We made the Moxie Bald shelter and found a lovely setting. The small and primitive building perched on the shore of a placid pond. The shelter came equipped with rain, but wasn’t this a standard amenity at all Maine shelters? A rainbow arched over the neighboring mountains. Rocks jutted into the pond, and Padre relaxed on the rock formation and played his flute in the last of the evening light.
The notes of the flute and the glow of the rainbow both faded away, and another day in Maine was finished.
Monson, Maine, is the last outpost of civilization for hikers facing the 100-Mile Wilderness. This stretch of untamed Maine is much like the previous hundred miles, but it lacks towns and resupply points. Hikers are advised to leave Monson with a ten-day supply of food. I had planned for seven days on this last stretch of my journey. That also meant I could take a much-needed zero day in Monson.
It was a rocky, eighteen-mile hike to Monson, with several tricky river fords. The current was especially swift on the West Branch of the Piscataquis River. A small island split the river. I waded toward it, through rapidly flowing water that reached above my knees, praying for safety. Fortunately, I did have a man of the cloth behind me to recall any last words I might utter, should things go badly.
The trail followed the gorgeous river for several miles through the woods, crossing the waters again where the river widened and was shallower.
Years ago, the AT passed through Monson, but a relocation had taken the trail four miles west of town. The old trail still existed as a blue-blazed trail, and anyone but a purist could cut off three miles of hiking by using the old route. I was sure that Fargo would not have a difficult decision to make here. The shorter, blue-blazed trail might even make it possible for him to catch up with me.
When the trail crossed Maine Rt. 15, I attempted to call Shaw’s Lodging in Monson, but I had no reception. The rain was coming down, and I resigned myself to a four-mile road walk into town. A young couple took pity on me and pulled over to pick up this rain-soaked and dirty hiker, and graciously dropped me off in front of the boardinghouse.
I booked a room for two nights, showered, and went downstairs to wait for Padre. Padre was a stronger hiker than I, but whenever a town was within range, no one could catch me.
Breakfast at Shaw’s is a glorious event, and I happily experienced it twice, since I was taking my last zero day here. Each hiker at the table is simply asked, “How many?” The answer determines the size of breakfast served. A “Three” got you three of everything: eggs, bacon, sausage and pancakes. There was no limit on the number. I thought “Six” was about right for me, but I was too embarrassed to go that high, so when our server circled the table, I just ordered “Three.” Halfway through the meal, I got the server’s attention and held up three more fingers for the last half of my breakfast.
It was a beautiful day in Monson, the first day without rain in . . . how long? I almost couldn’t remember a day without rain. I set out on my errands. My final food box was waiting at the post office, and I stopped at a store for glue and tape. My shoes were coming apart, casualties of the daily battle with rocks, roots, mud, and water, and I hoped to hold them together for the trek through the 100-Mile Wilderness. I spotted a library and stopped in to use their computer. I’d been isolated from all world events since Fargo had abandoned me.
On my way back to Shaw’s, a booming voice came down the street. Fargo was coming down Pleasant Street, waving his arms wildly.
“Hey dere, Apostle, I finally caught up wit ya. I gotsta say, doh, dis trail’s a humdinger, believe you me.”
“It’s great to see you again, Fargo. How’s da missus? Did your house sell? Let’s get you checked in and go find something to eat.”
I relaxed on my zero day in Monson, visiting with Fargo and other hikers. Fargo and I discussed our plans for the 100-Mile Wilderness and Katahdin’s summit. He had his usual concerns and worries about this final trek, but I assured him that if he stayed with me, we would summit eight days from now on Wednesday, August 13.
Back at Shaw’s, I sat with other hikers and caught up on trail news while I attempted to work a glue-and-tape miracle on my shoes. Within reach were a slice of pizza and a pint of chocolate ice cream.
I knew I was one fortunate man at Shaw’s that night. All my needs were met. I certainly had enough to eat, I had a soft bed, and I was dry. It had not rained that day (although I would hike in rain for the next seven days). And I was among friends. Tomorrow I would start the 100-Mile Wilderness, with its trials and difficulties and final push to the finish line. But that was tomorrow. Tonight at Shaw’s, all was well.