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 l
eft 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.
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. Andove
r 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.
Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail Page 23
