I want to say it is the most beautiful place I've ever been, but that wouldn't be entirely true. The temperate rainforest of Southeast Alaska is still the most memorable landscape in my mind. But the wilderness of central Maine comes damn close.
In fact, perhaps the reason I enjoyed the Maine woods so much was because they reminded me strongly of Alaska--deep, dark conifers and their fresh, intoxicating smell; gently sloped ground carpeted with lime green moss and ferns; undisturbed lakes, rimmed with rock and a few trees piercing the fog. Being enveloped in a wild place.
Tommy and I drove from Western New York up to the southern end of the 100-mile wilderness, planning to hike up to the northernmost part of the trail at Mount Katahdin. At that point, we would get a ride back to where we started; he would drive home while I would hike south. We had a schedule. Our minimum was 15 miles a day.
It was easy at first. The terrain was rockier than Virginia, but the excitement of being in Maine carried me over uneven trail and a few rock scrambles with little effort. By the end of the first day I was tired, and my right hip was a little sore, but my spirits were high.
Day two we ascended Barren Mountain. Sometimes it was difficult to know exactly where the trail was, but it's usually safe to assume you'll be going over the awkward part of the trail, and up. Always up. So I continued hoisting my body and 40 pound pack over boulders, using my hands rather than my poles, and often looked back at what I had climbed over. It gave me confidence. With the elevation I gained an appreciation for the rock-strewn mountain, and was glad for the change from the flat south. I kept my eye out for white blazes and continued up.
Halfway up Barren Mountain, I saw Tommy's backpack and "Triscuit" spelled out with twigs. I followed an arrow, left trail, and came to an overlook. Tommy excitedly beckoned me to the side.
"Holy shit," I said.
Apologies for the language, but imagine hiking through a quiet, rocky woods, thick and almost oppressive, for a day and a half, and all of a sudden the trees open and the world is laid out below you. Mountains, blue and green and grey, rolling beneath the cliff you stand on, chains of smooth lakes spattered on the ground, and no sign of road or cement or chain stores to interrupt the view. It was stunning.
We continued on, over mountains that looked awful on our profile maps, but when taken one step at a time, weren't so bad. It started to rain. For three days we stepped carefully over slick roots, rocks, and bog boards. When we ascended White Cap, the weather was nasty. On the exposed peak the winds were high. The sky was a solid sheet of grey. Had it been clear we would have had our first view of Katahdin, but instead, we saw streaks of rain and small clutches of hardy lichen and rocks: bluish grey rocks; dull maroon rocks; acid green, lichen-encrusted rocks. It was pretty in a miserable way. And though I wouldn't have wanted to stay there for much longer, White Cap is one of my fondest memories of the wilderness. Maybe I'm slightly masochistic, but I love awful weather.
My hip continued to get worse every day. I struggled to keep going, and wanted desperately to make our 15-mile-a-day goal so I could climb Katahdin with Tommy. I was happy to push myself, but emotionally I broke down when the dull ache in my hip evolved into shooting pain. As we filtered water one day, I tearfully said, "I feel like I'm hurting myself." It sucked. I was so grateful to be in the wilderness, and frustrated that I couldn't push through the pain without damaging my body.
Tommy was incredibly patient, and kind, and came up with a solution. He would give me most of his food, jump off on the next dirt road, and find his way to Katahdin so he could get back to work on time. That would allow me to take it easy through the last leg of the wilderness and climb Katahdin when I got there.
I hobbled up Little Boardman Mountain with Tommy behind. Every step hurt, but we made it to a campsite and my morale improved when we got out of the rain. This would be good. The next day was an easy four or five miles. We stopped at Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to, a shelter that sat on the bank of a vigorous and beautiful waterfall. As I walked down the bank, I saw a huge fire reminiscent of the ones I had sat around in Virginia, and when I got closer I realized why.
"Shelter Stew?!"
A friend I had last seen in the south was dragging logs toward the fire. He made huge fires at every shelter he stayed at, and I had enjoyed a few of them in Virginia. Shelter Stew and his dog, Maya, had also flipped up to Maine after reaching Pearisburg.
It was reassuring to see a familiar face, and to get warm in the shelter, and have a place to dry out my clothes. The water was inviting. I soaked my hips in a calm part of the water. This was where I'd stay, while Tommy walked on. It was strange. But good. And with a plethora of food to get me through the wilderness, I began thinking about the journey ahead.
