Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail

by Paul V. Stutzman

  River fords were unusually dangerous; the waters were high and currents swift, a result of all the recent rain. We forded four rivers. The wildest one actually turned out to be the safest crossing; a rope strung above the swift current helped to steady us as we waded across.

  By noon, the rains had started again and continued all afternoon and evening.

  We stopped at Long Pond Stream Lean-to and quickly shed our wet clothes. A group of French students on a section hike camped nearby. Fargo and I relaxed in our sleeping bags, and watched and smelled and envied as the group’s sponsors cooked huge bowls of steaming spaghetti. This scenario could turn out to be either a horrible torment or the best thing ever.

  Finally, those wonderful words, “Do you guys want any leftover spaghetti?”

  You would never have guessed that Fargo and I had just finished our own evening meals and had eaten an enormous breakfast that morning. We showered them with thanks as we gulped down the treat.

  “Do you want me to cook more? We have plenty.”

  Our mouths full of spaghetti, we shouted our affirmative. Soon two more large bowls of hot spaghetti slid our way. I asked if there might be any Parmesan cheese. Sure enough, a bowl of grated cheese appeared.

  The gift of a bowl (well, two bowls) of spaghetti had quickly taken me from the misery of cold rain and muddy trails to a high plateau of satisfaction and contentment.

  ———

  The rain drummed steadily all night, and morning brought no hope that it would end. I gasped and shivered as I climbed into my wet clothes.

  We planned to hike twenty miles that day. As usual, I’d set a goal for myself and was soon hiking far ahead of Fargo. In three days, I wanted to be at the White House Landing Wilderness Camp, a private camp on Pemadumcook Lake that can be reached only by boat. The camp is a mile off the trail and difficult to find, since trail maintainers in this section do not permit any private directional signs on the AT and hikers have to follow a primitive path through private timberlands. But I’d heard southbounders rave about the one-pound hamburgers at the camp, and I was determined to be one of the fortunate hikers who found their way to the lakeshore.

  Once at the shore, visitors sound an air horn, summoning a boat from the camp that transports guests across the lake to White House Landing. The camp was still three days away, but the juicy one-pound burger dangling in my future was now every bit as much motivation as monetary bonuses had been in my previous life. And I did need motivation to get through this mud-filled trail.

  There was no way I’d reach my goal of twenty miles that day. White House Landing by Saturday night also seemed doubtful. By two o’clock, I’d climbed four mountains but had covered only eleven miles. Every inch of those miles had been through cold rain, and I was completely drenched, was chilled to the bone, and had lost all feeling in my hands. Partway up Chairback Mountain, the trail passed in front of Chairback Gap Lean-to. I could go no farther. I’d hit a wall. Mentally, emotionally, physically, I was worn out.

  I wanted to get out of my wet clothes and somehow warm up. Hot food would help, but I needed water, and the spring at this shelter was down a steep, rocky hillside. I started down, but my foot slipped on a slick rock and I fell, tumbling forward in a complete head-over-heels somersault. A moss-covered rock softened my landing, but for a moment as I pitched down the slope, I thought my hike was over.

  The stinging in my elbows gradually subsided, and I continued my search for water. Heavy and constant rains had overwhelmed the spring, making it indistinguishable from the surrounding swamp waters. I filled my water bottle and cooking pot with liquid that already looked like soup.

  I headed back uphill. At the same place I’d slipped on the way down, my foot now caught on a root stretched across a rock. My tired body had no fight left; I went down hard, sprawling on the rock and spilling the water from my cooking pot.

  I had an emotional meltdown. I was at the end of my tolerance for this misery. Pulling myself up from the rock, I shook my fist at the heavens, and yelled, “God, You’re not looking out for me anymore, are You?”

  I’m a little embarrassed now about my tantrum. The foolish and silly statement came out of sheer frustration, and I knew it wasn’t true. I had no serious injuries; those falls could have easily broken one or every bone in my body. Of course He had protected me.

  My expensive GORE-TEX rain gear had suffered three significant rips. I decided the holes no longer mattered; they might even be beneficial, allowing more moisture to leave than what might creep in.

  Finally back at the shelter, I attempted to light my stove and boil the swamp water. My fingers were so cold that I could not move them to ignite the lighter. I finally resorted to striking the lighter with the side of my hand, but by the time I switched on the gas on my stove, the lighter had gone out. When I tried to light it again, only a few sparks flew from the tip.

  Desperation set in and suggested a foolish plan. I turned the gas valve open on my stove and let the lighter’s feeble sparks ignite the escaping cloud of propane. It was the one plan that actually worked that day. My desperate act also singed all the hair from my hands and filled the shelter with the aroma of burnt hair. My hands were too cold to feel a thing. I had fire; that was the only thing that mattered.

  While the water boiled, I removed my wet clothes and pulled on my dry Patagonia long johns and my warm fleece. When Fargo arrived at three o’clock, he needed no convincing; his day was also done. By four, we were in our sleeping bags for the night, happy to be out of the never-ending cold rain.

  My clothes and shoes were still wet in the morning. And cold. There was nothing to do but pull them on and hike off in the rain. I wanted to make East Branch Lean-to by that night, a 20.7-mile hike. Between me and East Branch were Hay Mountain and White Cap Mountain; both were over 3,000 feet, but they were the last two mountains of such elevation until I reached Katahdin.

  All day I plodded over mountains, fighting the muddy trails, determined to do the 20.7 miles that might make possible a hamburger at White House Landing on Saturday night. Toward evening, I crossed White Cap Mountain in a blowing, misting rain. Later, the trail passed directly in front of Logan Brook Lean-to, and a familiar figure in a sleeping bag propped himself on his elbows and grinned at me.

  “Fargo, what are you doing in there? I thought we were going to the East Branch Lean-to, so we can make it to White House Landing by tomorrow night.”

  The truth was, at that moment Fargo did not care about East Branch or White House Landing. He’d arrived at Logan Brook shortly before and had met a southbound couple there. Now he was engrossed in telling them trail stories, and their interest in his stories would keep him there for the night. When I arrived, he was in the middle of the Wapiti murder story from back in Pearisburg, Virginia. I’d heard him tell it many times, and every telling was more gruesome than the last.

  I let Fargo know that I intended to go another 3.5 miles to East Branch. He assured me he would catch up with me the next day. As I left, I encouraged him to spice up the story even more. “Add a bear to it,” I suggested.

  I finally arrived at East Branch Lean-to at eight o’clock. I was soaked, half-frozen, and mud-splattered, but I’d achieved my goal and that was very satisfying. Earlier that day, I’d also crossed the 2,100-mile point and now had only 68 miles remaining on my journey. I peeled off my wet clothes, ate a quick meal, and went to sleep with visions of one-pound hamburgers dancing in my head.

  ———

  Cold and wet clothes will wake you up faster than coffee. I had only 21.7 miles to my hamburger. Little Boardman Mountain, just over 2,000 feet, was the highest climb of the day. My shoes were still soaked from the previous day’s hike, so there was no need for careful stepping on the flooded trail. Throwing caution to the chilly wind, I splashed and stomped out those 21.7 miles by four o’clock.

  Maher Tote Road, leading away from the trail to the shores of Pemadumcook Lake, was not much more than a grassy path. At the edge of t
he lake, I sounded the air horn and saw a speedboat, my ride to White House Landing, leave the opposite shore. I arrived at five, just in time to join other hikers for supper.

  I relished that one-pound hamburger and congratulated myself on reaching my goal.

  I rented a bunk in a small cabin by the lake and washed my clothes in a washtub outside. In the evening light, I paddled a canoe away from the shore and watched a beautiful sunset over Pemadumcook Lake. The storm clouds had passed, and from my canoe on the quiet lake I caught my first glimpse of my final goal, the mighty Mt. Katahdin. Its name came from the Penobscot Indians and means “The Greatest Mountain.”

  A seventy-four-year-old man shared my cabin, and in two days he hoped to finish his hike of the entire Appalachian Trail. I’d complete my hike in one season; he would complete his hike after fifty years. Satisfaction in reaching goals does not always lie in the speed with which we achieve them; sometimes the satisfaction rises from overcoming obstacles and gaining wisdom in our journeys. How often do we dream of a goal, finally reach it, and then wonder, Is that all there is? Don’t forget to live on your journey.

  I devoured a stack of blueberry pancakes at breakfast the next morning, took the boat across the lake, and found my way back to the AT. Fargo was walking down the trail from his campsite three miles short of White House Landing.

  “Good morning, Fargo. Want to hear about the one-pound hamburgers and the blueberry pancakes?” I believe his answer meant no, but I described them anyway.

  Fargo and I took a break at the top of Nesuntabunt Mountain, where we could see Mt. Katahdin in the distance. Fargo left before I did; I was enjoying that view. Several minutes later, I took off in pursuit, but he was nowhere in sight. I was surprised; apparently he had speed that had not previously shown itself.

  Since I had only sixteen miles to the Rainbow Stream Lean-to, I hiked slower that day. Later in the morning, I heard someone behind me. It was Fargo.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. I’d been certain he was ahead of me.

  “I got turned aroun’ up on da mountain und went down da udder side again.”

  “Hey, Fargo, if you do that often enough, you’ll make up for all those miles you skipped by blue-blazing.”

  The AT crosses the West Branch of the Penobscot River on a pedestrian walkway on the Abol Bridge. Halfway across, I again had a view of Mt. Katahdin looming over the landscape. Only two days and fifteen miles separated me from that mountain peak and a lifetime goal.

  At the north end of the bridge is the Abol Bridge Campground and camp store. Stopping at the store, Fargo and I rented tent spaces in the campground. Another storm was brewing, so we set up our tents quickly.

  On our way back to the store to buy food, we saw two familiar figures crossing Abol Bridge. Einstein and Franklin were also headed to the campground. I’d never imagined this final scenario; I’d be summiting Katahdin with three hiking partners that had contributed so much to my AT experience. In the camp store, we read an entry in the hiker journal that told us Padre had stopped the day before and would be summiting that day.

  For several hours, the four of us sat under the awning of a deserted RV parked in the campground near our tents. It was the perfect time to reflect on our journeys. In two days, four middle-aged men who had been brought together by the trail would be reaching their ultimate thru-hike goal. I was certain that my three friends had experienced, learned, and changed as much as I had. The trail does that to a person.

  Occasionally, a campground employee passed on a golf cart and warned us to move away from the RV and its protective awning. Private property, he kept insisting. But we had spent too much time in the woods; the concept of private property held little significance for us that day. We had no intention of leaving our sheltered meeting place, and since the rain was again pouring down, the would-be enforcer had no desire to leave his covered golf cart to remove us.

  I did not sleep well that night. Perhaps it was the rain pounding my tent or the steady rumble of log trucks crossing the Abol Bridge. More likely, it was a thought I could not ignore: tomorrow would be my last full day on the Appalachian Trail.

  Just past the camp store, the trail continues into the woods. We stopped at an information board close to the path and reserved our shelter for that night.

  Baxter State Park, where Katahdin reigns, was donated to the people of Maine by Percival P. Baxter, who wished the land to remain “forever wild.” The park is very restricted, with a limited number of shelters, and spots in those few shelters are usually booked far in advance.

  Since thru-hikers cannot know when they will arrive at the park, several shelters near the Katahdin Stream Campground are reserved for thru-hikers only. As hikers arrive at the information board at the Abol Bridge, they reserve a spot in one of these shelters, ten miles ahead on the trail. A maximum of twelve campers each night are permitted one-night stays in this area called The Birches. From there, hikers have less than six miles to the summit of Mt. Katahdin.

  Ina was driving to Maine from Ohio to climb Katahdin with me. She would not be permitted to take one of the thru-hiker spots at The Birches, but I hoped to find a shelter in the Katahdin Stream Campground for her.

  Fargo, Einstein, Franklin, and I hiked together, at a leisurely pace, since we had only ten miles to hike that day. This stretch included the last two river fords of my trek. The unceasing rains had made these river crossings dangerous, and a sign informed hikers that a new, blue-blazed trail had recently been opened to bypass the river crossings. Four hikers approached that bypass, but only three took it. One stubborn purist chose instead to risk his life and his entire hike.

  I rock-hopped over the first river crossing and remained dry. Only one more ford, and it’s done. That’s what I thought. But it wasn’t that simple.

  My heart sank as I approached the last crossing. The current was swift, and a ford seemed impossible. A log stretched between two large rocks, bridging the narrowest part of the stream. But the water churned through here with a roar, and the log was less than six inches in diameter. Could I walk across that? I carefully put one foot on it, then the other. The log quivered beneath me as I took a step, and I retreated back to the rock to evaluate the situation. Are you willing to die to remain a purist?

  I’d asked myself the question back in Maryland, during a storm, and the answer then had been yes.

  I walked upstream, searching for an easier crossing. No luck. I must either cross at this place or give up my purist hike and take the safe, blue-blazed bypass. My two goals of finishing this hike and remaining a purist were within reach, and I did not want to give up either one. I got here by stubbornness and persistence, and I will get across this river.

  Back in the woods, I found a small but sturdy log and dragged it to the river. I positioned it beside the log already spanning the rushing water, one end on the rock on which I stood, the other end in the water halfway across the river. I now had a V-shaped log bridge. Would it work?

  Hurling my hiking poles to the other bank of the river, I was committed. With hands on the original bridge and feet on the log I had added, I inched across the water, arching myself over the rushing current.

  Halfway across, I had stretched my body as far as possible and knew I would have to jump the remaining distance. I launched toward the other side of the river, my arms found the rock, and I pulled myself up onto it. I wanted to shout in victory. I know it was foolish and dangerous, but . . . I’d done it! Yes! I was still a purist hiker.

  I grabbed my poles and went in pursuit of my friends.

  Every thru-hiker planning to summit Mt. Katahdin is required to sign in at the campground office. Each hiker is assigned a number, thereby giving an accurate count of thru-hikers finishing the trail. On Springer Mountain, I signed in as hiker 391. At Harpers Ferry, I had moved to number 191, having passed two hundred of my fellow hikers somewhere along the way. I’d soon find out how many others I had passed on the second half of my hike.

  At
the ranger station, I asked about a possible shelter for Ina. Unfortunately, all of the fifteen shelters at the Katahdin Stream Campground were full.

  While I was talking to the ranger, I heard a commotion brewing outside and a familiar voice came through the screen door.

  “Are you Fargo? Is Apostle in there?” Ina was coming up the lawn toward us. She’d heard enough about my buddy Fargo to recognize him. I ran out and greeted my friend and introduced her to Fargo, Einstein, and Franklin.

  “Come in the office, Ina, while I sign up for the hike tomorrow. And we have a problem. I don’t know where you’ll stay tonight. I wasn’t able to get a shelter for you.”

  “Oh, that’s not a problem,” she said. “I stopped at the entrance to the park and booked the last shelter they had.” Ina’s arrival had been perfectly timed; someone had just cancelled a reservation, and she snatched the spot.

  I signed in for my climb up the mountain. I would be hiker 91 to finish the trail this season. I had passed another hundred hikers.

  How was it that number 91 followed me all along the trail? God’s promise of protection for my hike came from Mary’s beloved Psalm 91, read on the very day I started walking. All coincidence? Perhaps. Or maybe it was yet another reminder from God that all was well and in His hands.

  At the shelter, I prepared my pack for an early morning departure. Outside, the rain poured down, much like every other day for the last month. The forecast for the next day, though, predicted sunshine. The first rays of sunlight to hit America each morning touch Mt. Katahdin. I wanted to get an early start to witness the union of morning light and mountain peak.

  “Someday never comes.” Or so the saying goes. Endless waiting for someday can be frustrating, but the somedays of dreams can actually come to pass. Set goals and hike confidently toward them, one step at a time, and you will fill your life with many realized somedays.