Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  We took the customary pictures by the freshly painted sign and gazed at the mountains in the distance to the west and north. The most striking aspect of the view was all the lakes. One quarter of Maine appeared to consist of water, all sizes and shapes of water. Much as I would have liked to stay there for the whole afternoon, I hurriedly ate my lunch and asked David and Ann if they would wait for me at the top of the Gateway. We were all aware that the way down would be at least as difficult as the way up.

  It was every bit as challenging going down, sometimes more so. It had taken seven hours to go up. We were on the summit about a half hour and going down took nearly as long as going up. My coughing was worse in the afternoon. It was hard to make good time with both poles planted in one place while leaning over them, hacking my insides out. David, with his long legs and easy-going personality, was a great help going down as well as up. Helping me down boulders, he joked that he was catching a flying pastor instead of a flying nun.

  Past the worst of the descent, I told them to go on, as I needed to stop and eat something. I should have said a better goodbye and thank you.

  They were gracious, kind and sweet people, the perfect companions for me on that climb. I ate, put fresh batteries into my headlamp and walked the last mile in the gathering darkness at my own slow, limping pace. The light of campfires at the campground was a longed-for sight in the dark night as I signed in at the register at 8:01, 20 minutes after Ann and David.

  It had been a 14-hour day, and I think I set a record for slowness. But I’d climbed Katahdin on a beautiful day with gracious and simpatico people. Who could ask for more? Life was good. I ate some almonds and dried pears and fell into bed.

  Waking up around 6:00, I told myself to roll over and stay in bed. Taking stock of my body that morning, I was pleased. My sorest muscles were my abdominals and rib muscles from coughing so much. Next in line were my pectorals (chest muscles) from so much hauling myself around boulders or doing push-up butt hitches on those rocks.

  My right quad (thigh) was only a little sore. I had scratches on my knee and my ankle from biting rocks and a blister on my calf from my brace. That wasn’t a bad total for an old lady on Katahdin. Since I wasn’t more significantly sore, I guessed I was in fair physical condition. I was just slow.

  I’d planned a zero day after Katahdin for recovery. I talked to thru hikers, who summited that day and other hikers in the campground. Just before I ate my dinner I met Bookworm, a younger hiker, who was interviewing hikers and collecting stories. Bookworm was an artist who hoped to turn his hike into visual art. He’d been in the Peace Corps in South Africa and had taught English in Korea. We had a good time talking and comparing notes about hiking and life histories, having some things in common in spite of a rather large age difference. He would be headed SOBO as would I, but after my slow record on Katahdin I was certain he would be much faster than me.

  100 Mile Wilderness

  I was awake coughing most of the night, but my hike plan called for me to start walking. That I did, after soliciting the help of a pickup truck to retrieve my food-bag rope, which was stuck in a tree. How embarrassing.

  I enjoyed Maine: trees, lakes, and streams, moss-covered logs and rocks. It wasn’t too dissimilar to the Olympic Peninsula rainforest in Washington, although it was flatter and even more filled with beautiful lakes and moss. The trail description said to cross the Nesowadnehunk Stream on a bridge. I laughed. What passed for a bridge were three small saplings about 6-8 inches in diameter stuck over the rushing water. Frijole came by at just that minute and helped me cross.

  Yellow Jacket, Tripod, Slojo, Feedbag, and Snarky were thru hikers starting their trek to Georgia. I loved trail names. Some names are repeatedly chosen, like Achilles, Rocket, and Papa Bear. Other names reveal endless creativity in choosing colorful trail monikers.

  I stopped at Abol Bridge Campground because they had showers. The setting sun turned the entire sky an incredible orange that reflected back from the perfectly still lake to bathe the trees in an orange glow. Orange on orange. The very air seemed orange. I’d never before seen a sunset quite like that.

  After coughing all night long, I overheard an RV camper talking to another in the restroom wondering, "…how that poor woman can hike." I probably kept a lot of people awake, but I could hike. My strong point was stamina, or maybe just determined stubbornness. I’m not sure there is a difference.

  From Abol Bridge, the AT entered the 100 Mile Wilderness. It wasn’t really a hundred miles, nor did it seem a wilderness in western terms, as logging roads crossed the trail. It was, however, quite remote, and town services wouldn’t be available until I reached Monson. It wasn’t true that there were no services at all. A determined researcher could find ways to receive food drops in that 100 miles.

  Book Worm and I played leapfrog during the day as he stopped often to interview hikers. Some hikers complained endlessly about the trail. Two white-haired ladies said they were not going to do anything outside ever again once they climbed Katahdin, yet they’d walked the whole trail. I honestly do not understand that attitude and had little sympathy for those not having a good time. If you are not enjoying yourself at all, stay home and do something else you do enjoy.

  The trail is not for everyone. It is work. It is sometimes annoying, frustrating, and hard, with challenges you may not have anticipated or for which you were not prepared. But there is so much to enjoy. Yes, there are roots and rocks. It’s the AT. What else would you expect? There was also bear and moose poop to marvel at, frogs and toads, trees, a few flowers, berries on bushes, streams and waterfalls, other hikers to talk to, occasionally a few feet of level, smooth trail and lakes and more lakes.

  At Rainbow Springs Campsite I met some women in their 70s; one had completed all of the AT including its extensions in Florida and Canada. She was lamenting that her husband was tired of hiking, though she really wanted to go west and hike the John Muir Trail. She was my kind of woman, what a delightful contrast to the complainers earlier in the day.

  The trail through the rain forest required me to weave an intricate dance over rocks and roots trying to stay out of the mud. I got pretty good at zigzagging from tiny branch to tiny branch. Trail runners passed me on a very well-graded gravel crossroad before heading up a hill. It seemed strange to me to see gravel roads and trail runners in a fabled wilderness. But I reminded myself I’d also seen trail runners on the Wonderland Trail. Pennywhistle, a younger hiker did 30-mile days. I was in awe.

  Numerous hikers with colorful names passed me the next day going both directions. Scotsman called to me after passing and asked if I would climb Katahdin with him after he met his fiancée and marry them on top. Sorry, Scotsman, I was headed in the other direction.

  Earlier hikers had complained about the rocks and roots, but what gave me trouble was the mud. Crossing a black mud bog a hundred-feet long, a hiking pole went into the mud past the basket on the bottom of the pole and was hard to pull out of the sucking goo.

  Taking the side trail to the Pemadumcook Lake dock, I found the air horn and blew it, the signal for the folks at White House Landing to come across the lake in their boat to get hikers. For $40 I would get the boat shuttle, a bunk-house bed, a shower and an AYCE (all you can eat) breakfast at a rather beautiful location on the lake, a hill of lawn surrounded by woods, pocket gardens, and several cabins.

  Linda, the proprietress, heard me cough and gave me sweetened hot water with lemon. One-pound hamburgers for hungry hikers were advertised, but I settled for a half-pound burger with trimmings. Linda found some Alka-Seltzer Plus packets and gave them to me. She also fed me ripe cherry tomatoes and fresh blackberries on my zero day, hoping they would help me fight off the cough.

  She told me I’d missed their resident moose, Baxter, who came every year for a few weeks, eating berries and their lawn and napping on the grounds. He’d swum away across the end of the lake about two weeks before I arrived.

  Ameoba, Memere, Gray Feather, Ouch,
Sky King and Pipe Smoke stopped at White House Landing while I was there. Two of the ladies were in their 70s. Long trails are not just for the young. They and their ages encouraged me.

  The rest day did me good. I had my lunch on the trail the following day at a beautiful little pocket sandy beach on JoMary Lake. Since my knee had its bout with the staph infection, I couldn’t really swim, as kicking hurt, and the knee felt loose. I surely didn't want to get in serious trouble with the knee in the wilderness, so I contented myself with wading in my underwear and splashing in the water. It was lovely, a marvelous experience all alone in a beautiful wilderness gem on a perfect day, wading on my private beach as if I owned the world. Amazing. How lucky I was to be there.

  My first food drop was hidden in the bushes for me by Kathy, a local angel. The 100-mile wilderness does not have to be done on one food carry. I couldn’t do what the young bucks do but I could plan alternatives that fit my needs. Farther up the trail, I stayed in the shelter at Cooper Brook Falls by a lovely cascading waterfall.

  White Cap was the first real climb south of Katahdin. From White Cap, NOBO thru hikers get really pumped at the view of Katahdin dramatically sticking up from surrounding lowlands and lakes. After 2,000 miles, their hike is almost over. I liked the view, but it didn’t have the same emotional impact for me or other SOBOs as our hikes had many miles to go. Scads of NOBO thru hikers passed me, determinedly headed to Katahdin that day in September.

  I met a hiker named Lisa, who was completing her Triple Crown. She’d walked the Pacific Crest Trail, the Continental Divide Trail, and was close to her finish of the AT. As we chatted, I wondered if I could consider doing the CDT when I finished the AT and PCT, at least the prettiest parts. I didn’t know if my body would last that long as a backpacker, but it was fun to dream.

  Near Screw Auger Falls, I met Gail, a woman from Gold Bar, Washington whom I would see again when I did hike the CDT. I forded the West Branch of the wide-but-shallow Pleasant River and met Kathy, my local angel with my second food drop.

  Chairback was the next climb. On all fours I followed the little white rectangles that mark the AT straight up talus boulders to the top of the mountain. When nearly there, after crossing a small bog and a gap looking for the shelter, I found a sign announcing the shelter 150 feet ahead. It should have just said up. Ahead was straight up a hill just short in steepness from being called a cliff. Peering up the steep hill, I could just see the shelter roof and wafting smoke from a campfire. After I climbed the steep hill I met Bullet and West, who told me tales of their AT hike as rain fell on the shelter roof.

  The following day rain added to the mud on the trail, and I fell in a bog.

  The 4th Mountain bog lies in the gap between 4th Mountain and Barren Mountain. Bogs in Maine lie between rocky walls in gaps that do not drain, even on the tops of mountains. Bogs often have split-log puncheons to walk on, keeping you out of the mud. I started out on a split log, a sign commanding me to stay on the trail, so the rare plants can live.

  I tooled along confidently on split logs until there wasn’t one. There was only a 6-inch diameter sapling. My foot missed the branch and hit the mud. Now, looking at the mud, you have no idea how deep it might be. It wasn’t just an inch of mud. I went in all the way up to my hip. If the other leg had not straddled the sapling I might have just kept on going deeper. A thru hiker named Porter came along just then and helped pull me out.

  I was afraid the sucking mud would claim my shoe. What would I do in the middle of the 100-Mile Wilderness with only one shoe? My Dirty Girl Gaiters worked perfectly, keeping the mud from getting in my shoe. Under the gaiter my shoe and sock stayed clean, although there was plenty of mud on the outside of the shoe, gaiter, brace, shorts and all available skin up to my crotch.

  Laughing, I remembered the sign commanding me to stay on the trail and save rare plants. I don't think I harmed any plants; I’d stayed on the trail. Well, technically, I stayed inside the trail, three-feet deep inside the trail. I found the whole episode hysterically funny.

  Later that day I met Fox Trot. He’d just completed the PCT and decided to do the AT SOBO to Harper’s Ferry for dessert. Ah, youth. He flitted over the boulders, roots, and rocks like a butterfly. Watching him I thought enviously how nice it would be to have knees, ones that really functioned. Stopping at Cloud Pond that night I cleaned off the mud.

  Two more days and I was at Monson, the first town south of Katahdin. Hiking into Monson I found myself thinking somewhat longingly of New Jersey's flat spots of trail without the plethora of roots and rocks. But I enjoyed the 100-mile wilderness, its lakes and waterfalls, its green hillsides, loons on the lakes and many hikers. But I was ready for a break and the marvelous dinner served that night in the hostel. They only served dinner on Mondays. Lucky me. It was a Monday. Pretty pink and blue quilts on the beds were very cheery, the color scheme reminiscent of preschooler’s bedrooms provided for burly hikers and a grandma. The beds were heavenly, with real sheets.

  “So, you’re still active then?”

  Leaving Monson, I met NOBOs Tagless, Tagalong, and Mountain Man. I’d met Tagless and Tagalong in Virginia in 2008 as they were doing a shakedown/trial hike before attempting a thru hike. I reminded Tagalong of her hesitancy the year before. Now, their thru hike was almost complete. Congrats!. I wished I could walk as well as they now did.

  Moxie Bald had an absolutely magnificent view. The best yet. Worries about a glove I’d lost that day or a sore heel foretelling plantar fasciitis or my crummy knees were only minor annoyances in comparison to the landscape stretched out before me.

  Rugged ranges to the west gave promise (or threat, depending on your attitude) of the grandeur to come. Lakes with their irregular outlines and treed islands stretched out on either side. Beautiful. Beautiful. Even if I was an old lady who moved at roughly the speed of molasses, standing there I was just another hiker drinking in the view and being so glad to experience the beauty.

  Two days later I reached Caratunk with its post office and few houses. There was no store, not even a gas station, and no cell service. A phone hung outside the post office to make local calls. The number for the Sterling Inn wouldn’t go through. I hitched a ride with some other hikers to the Outdoor Center, finding the Inn had failed a water test and was closed.

  But where was my food box that I’d sent to the Inn? A woman in the Outdoor Center made a few phone calls, gave me a cabin for the price of a large room and by the time I’d moved in and come back to the lodge for lunch, she found my box. Hooray!

  On a very short nero, (A nero day is a short day, not a zero day of no walking, but not a full day of walking.) I crossed the Kennebeck River by canoe, a service provided for hikers after a hiker had drowned in 1980 when water was suddenly released from a dam upstream. My canoe ferryman was enjoying the sun while waiting for hikers.

  After signing a waiver saying I wouldn't sue if I drowned and putting on a life vest, I climbed in and helped paddle across. It was a fun way to cross the river, and I’d been looking forward to it, no fording and getting wet.

  Walking by Pierce Stream, multiple waterfalls of all sizes abounded, color spots of red and yellow glowed by the river in the woods and sunlight made the water sparkle. I strolled to the shelter beside the lake. Looking out at the water, my feet and knees appreciating the shortness of travel and my senses enjoying shade, sun, the lapping of water on the shore and the view. What a peaceful place to stop on a day of short miles.

  I took a bath and washed my socks and sweat band bandana. My baths on the trail were quick. Standing naked in the forest bathing with cold water encourages quickness. The breeze blew me dry almost instantly, and I wasn’t surprised by another hiker while naked. When in a compromising condition, I listened closely though, for the click of hiking poles or voices.

  Trees were amazingly close together in Maine forests, like hedges of seedlings, then saplings, then mature trees. Sometimes it was difficult to leave the trail to attend to nature’s needs
, and I could see how one could be quickly lost behind impenetrable curtains of trees. I stuck to the trail and only left it to make solid deposits in my cat holes when the curtains of trees parted.

  Blue against the green of forests, the lakes of Maine were nearly constant features. I could begin the day at a lake, end at a lake, and stop for lunch at a lake, all lovely. Beauty surrounded me.

  There was a problem though. My right heel. I didn’t recall ever having much trouble with my right heel before that trip. Perhaps once or twice, I’d had a painful heel, which would clear up and go away without much problem. This time, the pain wasn’t going away. Hiking was harder when each step hurt, pain contributing to my slowness. Between left knee and right heel, I was often limping on both legs, no good leg to stand on.

  A couple months earlier, a friend whom I’d not seen for 50 years had contacted me about a High School Reunion. With surprise in her voice, she’d asked, “So you’re still active then?”

  “Well yes, I am still active.” I still hoist pack to back and do long trails. Each year something new hurts. But I am still active, very thankful to still be active, able to walk by lovely lakes, climb grand mountains and enjoy the sun on a beautiful day, even though my heel hurt.

  The farther south I went in Maine, the more difficult the trail became. The 100 Mile Wilderness was relatively easy, reasonable hiking. Farther south there were bigger mountains, the Bigelows, Little and Big. Thru hikers passed me headed north. By this time in their trip thru hikers were a bit superhuman. I wasn’t.

  A general rule I followed: If a thru hiker told me a certain stream, trail junction, or shelter was X distance away in time, I just doubled the number given for the estimation of when I might get there.