The note said that I was once again single. Nothing new to me but this time instead of anger or elation I just felt weary. I decided if my wife was going so was that ball busting job. The plan had been for me to work the EPI one more year then we would do the Appalachian trail in '02. The problem was that I hated my job so much I was impossible to live with. I worked my two weeks then Shelly invited me to join her on a hike of the 100 mile wilderness.
The Appalachian Trail stretches from Georgia to Maine some 2160 miles more or less. The exact mileage is kind of vague. Along the trail you hit towns every 10 to 30 miles until Maine. The trail in ME is unrefined compared to the other states. There aren't any bridges over the rivers and streams. One year a woman drown crossing the Kennebec prompting the Appalachian Trail Club to hire a man to ferry hikers across in a canoe. It's a tough place to walk roots, rocks swamps, and ice cold streams with round slippery rocks that can be waist deep. Then there are mountains that go straight up and down, and the last glacier left precious little top soil so those 100 foot pines have a tendancy to fall down. So while you are slogging through the mud across a stream on a 70 degree incline you also have to crawl over or under a blow down with branches trying to remove your pack.
The last big obstacle before Katahdin is the 100 mile wilderness. From the town of Monson there is 102 miles to the next store, pavement, or any vestige of civilization. You have to carry enough food to last at least 10 days. I have heard complaints that it isn't really wilderness there are several logging roads that cross the trail and two lodges a mile away. True but help is a long ways away if you broke an ankle.
Shelly and I had decided to head south because the finishing point would be Monson instead of Abol Bridge Campground that has no phone. Shellys mother, Linda dropped us off, took "the last known photo" and we stepped into the woods. our first night was to be 3 miles in at Hurd Brook but we felt fresh so we pushed on. Up over Rainbow ledge, with splendid views of Katahdin, then down to the eastern shore of Rainbow lake. We set up the tent,and while Shelly made dinner I filtered water in the evenings last glow. A leech come out to take a look around.
We had the first of many noodle dinners then turned in. I don't remember for certain but I think I slept like a baby. Not a real baby that fusses and has to be fed at 2am, and changed at 4am, the proverbial baby long and restfull in my LL Bean sleeping bag. We had made seven miles that night.
We hit the trail at 7:30 the next morning. None of this crack of dawn shit for us, we were on vacation damn it. Shelly and I settled into a wonderfull routine in the campsites, we set up and took down the camp with barely a word spoken. It seemed choreographed. A couple weeks ago we had nearly split up because our lives were so incompatible.
A couple miles down the trail we met our first thru hiker, trail name Bombadil. Most hikers aquire a trail name once they have been out a while. Shelly hikes a week nearly every year, these hikers are called section hikers as opposed to thru hikers who do the whole trail in one season. Shellys name is "just for a week". Anyhow Old Tom was out of food, he had been hiking on one power bar a day for two days. He said he was doing fine but his legs were a little wobbly. I gave him a couple meals to see him through. Shelly was silently furious, she pictured us crawling along while vultures cricled overhead. I had planned the meals and knew we had plenty. The last three days we pigged out, if you can call two packs of Ramen noodles pigging out. Ramen noodles are an entirely despicable form of sustinance. Given a choice between starvation and retchmen noodles I would gladly starve. I have the same feeling for granola bars. We had several in our food bag for several months after, the mere sight of which was enough to make me gag.
A word of advice about hiking with Shelly, carry whatever you need during the day, because you won't see much of her. She has the curse of the Irish which means she is short, but man can she hike. We hike at our own pace which is as it should be, but on this day my new boots were making hamburg out of my heels. She had the medical kit. I limped along with Rainbow Lake on my right beneath the enourmous pines. Rainbow stream drains out of the west end of the lake then forms three dead waters, it was here I saw the only deer of the trip, a couple yearlings eating grass.
After the dead waters the stream runs through a small gorge, the trail crosses the stream to Rainbow stream leanto. Waiting inside was Shelly. Though only noon we called it a day, seven miles and my heels were shot. The shelter has rounded logs for a floor, what they used to call baseball bats. This was how they made shelters untill the invention of portable saw mills. This site gets a lot of use since there is a lodge three miles away that sends guests over that want a more rustic experience. The leanto site sits down near the stream and is dark and damp. Our tent site was above in a grove of cedars much nicer. I put on my old running shoes and went fishing then had a bath.
We made an early start the next day, the trail follows Rainbow stream downhill for several miles. What a beautifull stream full of fast water and pools. Hard to believe they used to drive logs down such a narrow rocky stream. I read that this area was notorios with the loggers, they even wrote a song about how awfull it was. After a couple hours we could see a bright light ahead. It seemed almost biblicall after the dark green of the woods for three days. We came out onto a logging road with a bridge crossing Pollywog stream. The light and warmth of the unfiltered sun was wonderfull. We stayed there for some time drying our clothes and soaking up the warmth. A man and his son rode up on mountain bikes and invited us to his cottage for coffee, they were staying at the Namakanta lodge a mile away. Shelly regretfully declined, she wanted to get down the trail. Without her morning coffee she was having headaches. Glad I never aquired that addiction.
We both hated to leave that spot, the road and bridge were somehow comforting. On we pushed along Pollywog gorge and over Nesuntabundt mt. Our brief longing for civilization was dispelled on top of the mountain. As we neared the summit we could hear people yelling they had allowed their 10 year old son to wander off. Said the same thing happened in Viginia, perhaps they have a goal of losing their son in every state in the union. We promised to keep an eye out for him and took a side trail to see the view. The view was fantastic , Namakahnta lake is long and deep blue with mountains all around. The view came with a bald man talking at a machine gun pace into a cell phone. The climb had been tiring, we had the first of our snickers bars. Snickers, we came to find out, are worth their weight in gold out there. Having soaked up enough sugar and view we departed. The trail on top of the mt. made a dog leg so it is easy to see how the young man got lost. Sure enough we found him a ways down the trail huffing and puffing his way back north. We gave him some water and told him to tie his shoes which he didn't do. This incident freaked Shelly out a little, it just annoyed the hell out of me.
We stopped for the night on Namahkanta lake, on a sandy cove. I wandered down the beach to fish, I'd brought a four piece fly rod that fit perfectly in my pack. I had a great bath but the fish were not biting , they wouldn't the whole trip, too hot.
While I was doing that Shelly was getting acquainted with a hiker named Jeff who was also camping on the beach. He was our companion for the next few days.
for a remote, pristine lake that sure was a noisy spot. A fisherman putted up and down the lake, someone across the lake had a chainsaw going. Twenty loons hung out in our cove all night making a racket. It was really their cove so I shouldn't complain. Adding to the symphony of the night was a giant bullfrog right in front of our camp. Shelly got a kick out of him sitting on the edge of the water observing everything with his great bulbous eyes.
The next day the trail took us down the lake, on the rocks I found a watch with a red strap I put it on my pack to mark the hours. Our pace was ussually 2mph. At the end of the lake were several campsites and a road. Quite a few people were camped there and several kayaks were beached on the shore. I went down into the woods to take a piss and found several old trucks rusting away at the bottom of a gully. We crossed the road next to a bridge and followed Nahmakanta stream for 4 miles. This was the prettiest stream of the trip, long rapids with boulder strewn pools. There is a campsite along the stream, when we passed there we found a clothes line with jeans shirt socks and sneakers. They had been there a while, all covered with dust and cob webs. It is good to find things like this in the woods, it gives your mind something to do while you hike. Did the owner of the clothes suddenly dissapear one night? Perhaps he ran off naked one night to drown in some distant pool, crazed by the solitude. The truth is probably more mundane, some lazy shit left it there so they wouldn't have to carry the extra weight.
We hiked with our new friend Jeff for a while. He was from New Hampshire and in between jobs. He was tall and long legged, soft spoken, and not very trail smart. His pack weighed 80 pounds. He had a long stride and soon left us behind. Our destination was the White house landing. This is an old hunting and fishing lodge on Pemadumcook lake. Lodges were once quite commen in maine. They were places where the rich and famous would come to play, most are gone now, some have adjusted and survive. The White House Landing is one of these. It is run by a middle aged couple who cater to snowsledders and fisherman. They supplement their income by taking in hikers. To do this they illegally advertise on the trail. Signs advertise "beer and pizza one mile." So you walk down an old logging road gone to grass, then along the shore of Pemadumcook lake to a dock. There you find a sign and an air horn hanging from a tree. The sign reads,"blow horn once we will come get you" I told Shelly to block her ears and let loose. A minute later we heard a motor sputter to life across the cove. Five minutes later a nice lady driving a boat chugged up, we threw our gear in and across the lake we went. Talk about culture shock we went from trudging head down to flying across a sunlit lake. I kept putting my hand in the water the coolness felt so good. The lodge is on a hill overlooking the lake, with several cabins and a bunkhouse.
We had come for lunch cooked by the nice lady in the lodges kitchen. Packs and boots are left on the porch. I was new to this, exposing my three day old socks to a totall stranger was not on my list of things to do. She was used to the stench however.
Shelly had a Bud and large loaded pizza while I had Pepsi and a cheeseburger. My burger was nothing like the McDonalds burgers of my camping youth, this burger would have been the bully of the burger playground, a burger that would have kicked little whoppers ass, taken big macks lunch money, and pulled wendys' braids.
The lodge had a hikers box, where other hikers have discarded unneeded items in the hope someone else will need them. I picked up some medicated lotion for some friction rash on my thighs. Shelly bought 4 snickers at a dollar a piece. Back on the trail we hiked to Potywadjo spring where we camped. The spring is the size of a living room and ice cold. You can see the water bubbling up through the sand on the bottom. Best water I ever tasted. LL Bean maintains the leanto and out house.
The next morning we hiked over Potywadjo ridge. Near the top was an open ledge full of blueberries and raspberries, we feasted. Later we came to Lower Jo Mary pond named for a famous Penopscott Indian guide. A side trail took us to an enourmous white sand beach where we swam for an hour. Farther down thr lake is The Antlers campsite. The Antlers was one of the most famous lodges in Maine, now the only thing left is a pile of rusting pots pans and a cookstove lying in the woods behind the outhouse. Sheely and I hung out beneath the 100 foot red pines.
After the Antlers the lake country was behind us we hiked past a few ponds and along Cooper Brook. We stopped at the Jo Mary tote road for an hour filtering water and resting. There is a small waterfall above the bridge. We found an old boot that we took the laces out of to tie down our rain fly. A Toyota pickup roared by in a cloud of dust, that spot seemed so remote then. A year later we drove there, it seemed like landing on the top of Everest in a helicopter.
We followed the brook to our nights destination, Cooper Brook Falls Leanto.This is a classic mountain leanto perched above a waterfall with a large deep pool below. There were four guys in the leanto, three were northbounders waiting out a small rain storm, the fourth was Jeff. The rain quickly passed and Shelly went for a swim, paddling up to the falls then turning on her back and letting the current push her back to the foot of the pool. I lay in the tent trying to read the Princess Bride but the low slanting sunlight on the water brought me out fly rod in hand. While I cast Shelly and Jeff tried to get a fire started. "Where there is fire there is bound to be smoke," did not apply that night.
After a while I migrated to the top of the falls where I spent a happy hour throwing various flies into the dark water. At nearly full dark I was wiggling a brown leech pattern below the falls when a swirl produced a 9 inch brookie. As I admired this beautifull native trout, thinking how tasty it was going to be, it wriggled from my grasp. An epic stuggle between man and fish ensued with the fish winning the race over wet granite to the safety of the pool. "Catch any? Shelly cheerfully asked as I trudged defeated past the shelter on my way to another Retchmen noodle supper", grumble, grumble," I replied.
The next day we Passed Crawford pond where we filled our bottles at a pretty sand beach. Near the summit of Little Boardman Mountain we stopped for berry picking. Lunch was served at East Branch Leanto. Jeff was there as well as several north bounders. Jeff and I went down to the river for water, there is an old dam there as well as an enourmous Bullwinkle. We scrambled for our cameras, but he was gone when we returned. At the shelter was a thru hiker named Clyde, who had taken the name of his Caddilac as his trail moniker. He said he had no idea where his car acquired the name just that was it's name when he bought it. Clyde had been part of a group heading north when one member blew out his knee. Clyde helped his buddy traverse the 15 miles back to Monson, then turned around and busted ass to catch up. He was doing nearly 30 miles a day and was still behind them, he deperately wanted to summit Katahdin with them. On this day he was pretty lame and had some bad chafing on his thighs. I know what that is like from many August days at the EPI, every step is agony, and your skin can start to bleed. I had picked up some medicated lotion from the hikers box at White House Landing for a slight case I had then. I gave it to Clyde, Shelly once again thought I was nuts, but he was in greater need than I.
On we pushed through the heat, I was drinking four 30ounce bottles of water a day and barely urinating. I was just sweating it out. We finally stopped for a much needed rest on some steps leading up to the roughest road I've ever seen. While Shelly was picking every cashew out of our trail mix, I had a Snickers bar. The phrase sugar rush means so much more to me now. A large skidder went by, ten minutes later it returned and stopped. The driver leaned out the window and asked ", do you work at the EPI?" Turns out he and his wife come to Bar Harbor every year for the half marathon. I was surprised he could recognize me, but I guess when all you have to look at is trees two tired hikers is pretty interesting. Soon after he drove off Jeff stumbled up, he didn't look to good. His pack was enormous and his knees were killing him. He also hadn't packed any high energy snacks for rest stops. I gave him some ibuprofin,[called vitamin I on the trail] and a Snickers bar. Shelly didn't roll her eyes this time because she liked Jeff and could see he was in dire need.
We left him there and pressed onward up the increasingly steep trail. We passed an older couple that had started the same day we did at The Golden Road. The woman looked frail and was hiking in canvas smooth bottom shoes more suited to the deck of a sailboat. Looks can be decieving. They made as good a mileage as we did every day, and made it to Monson before we did.
Logan Brook Leanto is on about as steep a piece of real estate that could hold a structure. The old folks pitched a tent, butwe slept in the shelter with Jeff. I understood why Jeffs' knees hurt when I watched him cook supper. His mess kit had to weigh as much as my whole pack. He was also carrying mace, to protect him from I don't know what. That was the worst nights sleep on the whole trail, the mice crawled all over me. At one point I was awaken by Jeff banging around. A mouse was in his tin cup eating his chapstick and he kicked it out of the shelter.
The next morning We gave Jeff some Ibuprofin to carry with him and set out. White Cap is a bitch, steep trail full of broken rock. There was a great view from the top, but it was windy and hazy. Next was Hay mt. then West peak, and finally a noon rest stop at Sydney Tappan campsite. This is a steep notch in the mountains with a grassy bowl, surrounded by trees. The tent sites are in the trees. We were trashed, I mixed up some ice tea packets that came out of some MREs that my father in law gave us. That stands for meals ready to eat, military issue. he got them from his son in law who is a Marine. We drank down a whole bottle, it was like some incredible drug. We the hiked the quarter mile side trail to the headwaters of Gulf Hagas brook to filter ice cold water. We then napped in the grass for an hour.
Next stop was Carl A. Newhall shelter for a midafternoon break. There were several hikers there and Jeff showed up soon after, much to our relief. Holding court in the leanto was a large man in his seventies. He had white hair and a long white beard. His trail name was Old Dan, he had been section hiking the trail for several years and was going to finish this summer. He asked if we had any TP or Snickers we could spare? We did not but I mentioned that a chipmunk had invaded our food bag the day before and began eating a Snickers, we had thrown it away. He looked at me for a moment then stated solemnly," you're not a through hiker are you." He then asked if we still had it and if he could have it. When I gave it to him he told me he was deeply in our debt. I've never had anyone greatfull for a rodent chewed candybar before. Dan entertained us with a story about hiking from California to Washington D.C. after his retirement. People would stop and give him money thinking he was indigent, police would run him out town as a vagrant. Later others who had hiked with him said he was retire CIA.
It was four miles to the West Branch of the Pleasant river, Jeff planned to cross that day. We didn't make it. It had been a long hot day by the time we made Screw Auger Falls and I wasn't taking another step untill I had bathed. Shelly found a spot next to the brook barely large enough for our tent. We spent a cramped but restfull night.
Since we were illegally camped in a state park we got an early start. Crossed the river at dawn and it was already hot. The water felt great. When we climbed the west bank we saw Jeff camped off the trail with some other guys. Rather than stop we just waved, we would see him down the trail. That was the last time we saw him. His knees probably got the better of him. A few vehicles drive through there on the Katahdin Ironworks road. He probably hitched a ride into Brownsville Junction, or Milo. We were sad we hadn't stopped, Shelly especially. She really liked Jeff. Later at a road crossing she left a note on a sign post with our phone # hoping he would find it, this was after he did not show up at the next campsite. On the trail things like jobs and phone numbers are not discussed. I can only guess why.
The trail out of The West Branch valley is very steep for the first mile up Chairback mountain. We stopped at East Chaiback Pond. We picked up some trash that someone had left. I,ll never understand why people come to places of indescribeable beauty and leave their shit trashing up the place.
We reached Chairback Gap leanto before noon. The water source was a long steep descent followed by a long steep climb. The water tasted like a mud puddle my dog wouldn't drink out of. We stopped for the day, I was spent and Shelly was cramping. This was another place barely clinging to the side of a mountain. We ate quite heavily at lunch then cut up one of my shirts for toilet paper and other things.
The next day much refreshed we assaulted Columbus Mt. then stopped at Monument Cliff. Long Pond was below us, we would be camping on it's outlet stream that night. I think that is when it all hit me. Sitting there on that beautifull mountain, the warm sun overhead, looking across miles and miles of widerness, I realized how unhappy I had been. All the misery was draining out of me on that trip, at that moment some of it was leaking out of my eyes. Often on our hike I was reluctant to move on rom whatever spot we had stopped at , while Shelly was eager to push on. For so many years I had not been able to relax and fully experience a place, because I always had to be somewhere , ussually work. To be able to stop on some pond or mountain for as long as I wanted was more than a luxury, it was a release from some self imposed prison.
We hiked through the Barren-Chaiback Range stopping at Cloud Pond, a beatifull site but the area smelled like urine. Our last peak was Barren mt., where there is the remains of a firetower. The tower still stands but the platform is on the ground, the ultimate form of littering. The towers are obsolete because airplane fire surveilance, so the wreckage is left cluttering up mountain tops all over the state. At one time there were wardens all over the state watching for fires. Shelly and I have found many relics of that era, mouldering cabins perched on the side of lonely mountains. They speak of a world that is gone, perhaps not a better one, but a slower more thoughtfull one.
Our next stop was Slugundy Gorge on Pleasant Pond Stream. There were several totally obnoxious men in the shelter. by obnoxious I mean they were having fun in a loud manner. We had been in the woods so long it was a rude awakening. We went down to the stream to bathe under the waterfall. The water was wonderfull, and the trout kept darting between our legs. Later I fished but despite several strikes I could not hook anything. Luke warm cheese noodles for dinner, at least she hadn't cooked retchmen noodles.
That was our last night in the woods, we decided to skip the last shelter at Leeman brook. The last day was kind of torture, we both wanted to be done. Not that we wanted out, but knowing it was our last day we hiked and hiked through the 90 degree heat. We stopped at Big Wilson Stream leanto where someone had left a grocery store with a note, "help yourself. The closer we got to civilization the higher the level of stupidity. Leaving food festering in the August heat doesn't make you a trail angel. We packed it all out so someone didn't get poisoned.
We passed the last leanto full of fat people with chips and two liter bottles of soda and trudged the last three miles to Rt. 15. Shelly left me in the dust, actually it was pine needles there isn't much dust out there. I didn't see her again until the road.
After 18 miles I climbed the steps to civilization, and there it was two lane black top. We were done except that we had 3.5 miles of highway to walk to get to Monson. That was the worst part of the trip, I decided to hike as fast as I could, half way to town I collapsed against the guard rail. We rested for a while and made our last effort, that was when the brave women in a small car picked up the two smelly hikers. It turns out the older couple I didn' think would make it were an hour behind us, so while we fought the blacktop they got a ride right out of the woods. They mentioned they had hiked with us and the nice lady dropped them in town and came back for us. She drove us to Shaws boarding house and didn't even hold her breath.
Shaws is Grand Central Station for hikers. Hikers everywhere, laying on the lawn, returning from the post office, most people pre package and address their food then have someone mail it at proper intervals. Mr. Shaw is a real french Mainer barely over five feet, nearly bald, talks like he has a mouth full of marbles. His stoic wife and son work with him taking in sledders in the winter and hikers in the summer. For $35 we got a small room, with a small rock hard bed, a small tv we didn't watch, and breakfast. We didn't care that we were too late for dinner because we were headed for Spring Creek BBQ. We settled in, Shelly put our clothes in the laundry, and then we SHOWERED. An orgasmic experience, don't even get me started about shampooing my hair.
We headed out to dine, I had no shirt because they both smelled like a two month old courpse had been wearing them. We happily bounced up the steps Of Spring Creek BBQ only to find they were closed, the saddest word in the english language. The sign said ,"closed out of food." Shelly looked at the sign, she tried the door, she looked at the sign again, then tried the door. If I hadn't been so fucking hungry I would have laughed. Sadly we walked up town looking for food in non noodle form. The Big Apple on the edge of town was open, shirts required. Jesus Christ what are they the fucking Astoria? Shelly went in and bought us two subs, chips and beer. Pepsi for me.
We sat on the second story deck and ate while darkness crept into town. We hung out talking to north bounders till 10:30. We heard horror stories about shelters, lodging, girardia, rats mice, rednecks, rain, mud, leeches, mosquitos, and many things I'm sure I've forgotten. One guy kept claiming he smelled cow shit. we kept telling him he was in the middle of town. Sure enough Mr. Shaw had two cows in his garage he was raising for meat this winter.
Sleeping that night was impossible it was way to hot, and the bed was like granite. Shelley eventually moved to the floor and slept a little. The next morning we went to breakfast. Mr. Shaw came to our table and looked at me grunting, "how many?" That meant how many bacon eggs and pancakes did I want. I chose the number three. He retreated into the kitchen and didn't return till my order was ready, then Shelly got to order. The food was awfull. Read the newspaper to find out how the Sox were doing. They wouldn't begin their collapse untill the end of August. After breakfast we began the wait for Linda to rescue us. We really didn't want to be rescued, Shaws was a great place to hang out. I bought a book to read but never did as there were so many people to talk to. Hikers from San Diego, Alaska, Minnesota, and many other places. They were waiting, and preparing to head north into the country we had just left. They all knew each other and knew some of the people we had met on the trail. The trail is like a moving comunity, travel with someone for 500 miles, then don't see them again for another 500, or not at all. As I got into Lindas' Subaru I looked back at Shaws and felt miserable.Ther is no end to this story, Shelly and I volunteer on the trail, and she hikes one week a year trying to finish the trail. A year later we were back in Monson with a friend, it was mid October and we had camped in the rain the night before. We finally were dining at Spring Creek BBQ. As we lounged in front of the wood stove petting the owners dog a hiker eyeballed me , "don't I know you from the trail down in P.A.?" No i hadn't hiked in P.A., his name was spider man and he knew someone Shelly had hiked with in Vermont that July. I guess the point is the trail is always there, saddle up and enjoy.
