“I came, I hiked, I was humbled.” That is what I wrote for my very last register entry as a 2011 AT NOBO, in the register at the Katahdin Stream Campground ranger’s office in Baxter State Park, after I summited Katahdin. And, well, for people willing to listen to the trail, hiking it is quite humbling. Hippy Kippy said it was harder than anything he’s ever done–harder than Marine Corps boot camp, harder than grad school. It kicks hikers’ asses, and although I always knew I’d finish the trail, by the time I actually did I realized that finishing had as much to do with chance and the benevolence of Mother Nature as with my own perseverence. People dropped out on day three because they had giant blisters and wet gear. People dropped out in Rangely, ME, with less than 200 miles to go, because they’d just had enough. Every year some hikers die with their boots on, and this year was no different–RIP Stonewall, Open Mike, and Buffalo Bobby. Down in Georgia, when I got to the top of a tough hill, I shouted, “Mountain, I OWN YOU!!!” By the time I reached to the Whites I knew differently, and reverently breathed, “Mountain, I respect you” as I traversed the northern loop of the Presidential Range.
I respect no mountain on the AT more than Katahdin. I climbed her on September 24, along with Pebbles, Redwood, Ruffles, Lumiere, Scribbles, Hollywood, Snow, Mark Trail, Bronza (ie. Fourbeards), Lady Sherpa, and a handful of other hikers. Cherry Cheeks came, too, bringing along some guys from his college outdoors club. And let me tell you, Pamola (the diety of Katahdin, who Abenaki Indians believed would seriously eff up anyone who even came too close to the base of the mountain) does not relinquish her summit easily. The hike starts out all easy-peasy, then gets a little steeper, then omigod-I’m-rock-climbing-all-hand-over-hand-like. This makes it seem relieving when the terrain gets a teensy more horizontal (as in “this is still so hard and I’m hiking with all four point of contact, but I’m pretty sure I won’t fall to my death”), and just at the crucial moment when you’ve really to pee thanks to great hydration, the mountain flattens out to the Tableland, a mile-long, mile-high rock garden with nary a boulder large enough to piss behind. (Well, that was my experience. Fortunately it was a foggy day, nobody was that close behind, and Cherry Cheeks is now accustomed to Pebbles and I informing him he needs to keep his gaze fixed up the trail if he doesn’t want to see us pissing.) But then there’s a gentle enough uphill, or maybe it’s not so gentle, but it seems that way, because at the top of it is The Sign. The Katahdin Sign.
I awoke in the gray, pre-dawn half-light of September 24, 2011 snug in a little shelter at The Birches, a special campground for thru-hikers (well away from the other visitors) and noted it was raining. So I scampered out to take my last pre-dawn piss in the rain for quite some time, then dove back in my sleeping bag, hoping Redwood’s alarm wouldn’t go off for a while. No such luck–we needed to be up at 6:30, which is actually pretty close to when it gets light out now–so the hiss of my deflating Thermarest woke Pebbles up for the last time and we all started eating breakfast and packing up. I went to the ranger station to drop off my pack and borrow a day pack–probably the smartest thing I did on the entire trip, as I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have climbed Katahdin on that day with a fully pack–and noted the posted weather report September 24 was a Class II day, which means hiking above treeline is not recommended. And let me tell you, although I wouldn’t trade my wet, chilly, socked-in Class II summit day for a month of Class I days, the only way I’ll ever climb Katahdin in the future is on a dry, warm, bluebird of a Class I day.
See, the rocks were slick. I found myself wishing I’d replaced my hiking shoes with something a little less worn and more grippy. On the hand-over-hand climbs I really relied on my hands to grip, and sometimes elbows and knees to wedge and support. A few times I had the familiar thought from the Whites–“This is too hard, the reach is too far, my body’s too small”–but just as in the Whites, I knew I could do it because the undeniable empirical evidence is that many, many folks did it before me. In this case, plenty of folks did it before me on the same slippery, wet day. So I made my way up that mountain, and at the beginning of the Tableland I took a break and waited for Pebbles. She was my hiking partner for over 500 miles, and I’d be darned if I walked the last mile without her.
So we walked together, Pebbles and me and Cherry Cheeks, who’d let his outdoors club guys outstrip him so he could hike with up. Near the summit Cherry Cheeks turned on his helmet cam and walked ahead of us to film our last steps. I didn’t realize what he was doing, and when I saw that summit sign I started running, pushing past Cherry Cheeks and hollering and stumbling over rocks, lumbering more than sprinting, weaving through the mass of day hikers who wisely made way so I could drape myself over that iconic brown sign and then give it a resouding smack right in the middle of the A in KatAhdin. Reaching the summit of Katahdin was the sweetest joy I’ve ever felt. Pebbles strutted up in a much cooler fashion than me, and kissed the sign, and then gave me a huge hug, and I’ll be darned if both us badass ladies didn’t shed a few tears.
We chilled on top of the mountain for a while, eating lunch and taking photos and doing things that pissed off the poor, harried ridgerunner, like popping open a bottle of sparkling cider (a GLASS bottle, oh noes!), talking on cell phones (I called my brother as promised, although AT&T’s the only carrier with service, which I think they should put in a commercial, so I borrowed Hollywood’s phone), and yelling (not sure why that’s a no-no but it’s a rule we thru-hikers broke a LOT, whooping everytime someone reached the sign). Group shots were taken, and then Mark Trail rolled up unexpectedly, wearing only shorts and his long white beard on a day when everyone else was definitely fully clothed, and we all cheered for him and slow-clapped him up to the top, and then of course had to take group pictures all over again. Eventually enough fun was had and Pebbles, Cherry Cheeks, and I started back down the mountain. We did, after all, have 5.2 miles to go before we were done hiking. (I prefer to think of it as the first 5.2 miles of my SOBO section hike. :*)
That night we camped at Penobscot Outdoors Center, me and Pebs and the college boys, and Tim and Pebbles’ brother Will. We drank Shocklamainuhs, roasted brats, had a great fire, and stayed up way late. In the morning I got up at the crack of dawn, walked down to the lake, and gazed at Katahdin. The mountain was pink in the dawn light and wreathed in fluffy clouds, and the lake was like glass. I went back to camp and woke Pebbles up, and although we chatted quite a bit, we also sat on the dock in companionable silence. What do you say when taking leave of your sole sister? (Pun intended.)
Tim took me on a relaxing, fun little Maine mini-vacation and we just returned to Vermont last night. Readjustment’s now begun in earnest. Today I met a Long Trail hiker in town, and gave him a ride back to the trail. As we approached Lincoln Gap, where he was continuing south on the LT, I looked at the changing leaves on the trees, smelled the crisp air, and said, “You know, Tag, I know I just got off the AT…but I’m really jealous of you right now.”
A Very Long Walk 