My time in Maine ended the same way it began. Tears were shed, the dazzling scenery which we found ourselves in momentarily eclipsed our pain, and I wondered if this really was the end while not giving much thought to what was after. The state of Maine begins with the revered-but-often-feared Mahoosuc Range, bombarding the thru-hiker with deceptively abrupt ups and downs, rocky terrain which made our walking style resemble an awkward prom dance, and steep pitches that demanded the use of our arms as much as our trail-worn legs. Every mile of this stretch seemed to require the effort of 2 or even 3 miles found in the south, shortening our pace to no more than 10 miles a day (a far cry from the 20 mile days earlier on in the trip). The epicenter known as the Mahoosuc Notch, where the trail snakes through a pit of car-sized boulders, is widely regarded as "the most difficult or fun mile of the AT". Right afterwards, the Mahoosuc Arm sends hikers about 1600 feet up root ladders and eventually bare rock in less than a mile.
But big effort reaps big reward: much of this section is above treeline, and we got sweeping views in all directions, starting from the alpine meadows around us to the gnarly spruces on the perimeter all the way to the morning sun-tinted mountains on the horizon. From a makeshift campsite right on the New Hampshire-Maine border (yesterday's goal was to do 17 miles into Maine, and I was far too tired to find a real campsite after the border), Seinfeld had entered hiker euphoria: dense fairy tale-like forest on each side which made the trail feel like a magical and undeserved safe haven, sharp peaks rising like church steeples and valleys like nestled town squares to contrast, and a total lack of human influence all around. It was only me and the mountains. Like a fly fixated on top of a roaming elephant, my surroundings seemed to propel me forward as to reward me for my toil. Me and the wilderness were at a stalemate, and with each step I earned its worth, a fair trade leading to ultimate satisfaction. The only other comparison would be leading traffic on Broadway and timing the lights perfectly. For the first time on my trip, the goal of finishing (even on the day's level) was irrelevant, as each mountain and meadow was a gift that never spoiled or became dull before the next one arrived. It was excruciating, numbing, stunningly beautiful--it was and is the purest reason why I hike.
After finishing the Mahoosucs, me and some other hikers I had hiked with before decided to hitch into town and resupply. There we met a rafting instructor named Spencer, who chatted with us about hiking in Maine and invited us to his lake house for a barbecue. We talked and played with his cats on the dock that night, illuminated by the full moon. The next day, I hiked up Baldpate mountain, which had smooth, exposed rock on and around the summit, which would've been very treacherous in rain. Even with good weather, going down required full trust in my shoes' tread. A couple miles after the descent, rain looked like it make an appearance, but I was able to wait it out underneath a rock outcropping that I found right off trail at the perfect moment. I met a section hiker named Caption, who has somehow jumped the learning curve and fits in well with thru-hikers. We heard about an adventurous and hospitable husband and wife in the next town called Rangeley who has let hikers stay at their place, so we booked it only to find out that they were out of town that day. And to make matters worse, it started raining again. Only, this was the most furious storm on the entire trip and possibly in my whole life. The almost constant claps of thunder left our ears ringing while traffic and pretty much the town in general came to a halt. All of the streets turned into rivers, and the wind tore off and mangled branches, shingles, flags, and even some powerlines. Trying to talk over the sound of rain pounding on an ice cream parlor's tin roof was impossible as we repeatedly committed to and chickened out on dashing to different hotels in town. I don't know how often storms like these pass through Maine, but I can honestly say that it was the closest thing I've ever experienced to a natural disaster (after a quick google search, this storm even made national news, I'm not kidding. Side note--I was in Michigan during Hurricane Sandy). Thankfully, none of our friends on trail were hurt, but it was a key conversation point from here on out in the hiker community.
Eventually, we found 2 bunks at an overpriced hostel (sort of undermining my mental budget), but we were glad to be in in enclosed space for the night. The next day, I spent most of the day relaxing and then headed up the Saddleback ridge in the incredible evening light, having the mountain all to myself. The next day was a severely over-ambitious 22 miles of trail and a proverbial cliff that shouldn't have been the trail to get to the next road crossing, where I hitched for a while sore as hell. After almost a hour and a half of standing with my thumb out (a personal record, whoopee), a real estate agent from southern NH picked me up and started asking me questions about the trail. We got along really well, and he invited me to his cabin which he was renovating for his family. There, we barbecued, watched for moose, and told funny jokes around a bonfire. The following day, I traversed the sharp ridge of the Bigelows and munched on blue berries the way down. I met a flip-flopper named Veggie Viking, called so because he looks like a viking but is somehow incongruously a vegetarian. We got along due to our West Michigan connection. While we were settling in at a shelter, a SOBO told us about some trail magic of cold sandwiches at the next road crossing about a mile away, so I decided to push farther to check it out. Unfortunately, there was no trail magic (I guess they didn't want to risk leaving spoiled sandwiches out for long), and I really could've used it due to not having much buffer food on me (wasn't keen on spending even more money in Rangeley).
At the next shelter though, and what I can only assume to be a blessing directed by God, was a plastic crate full of cereal bars and brownies! It really helped take the stress out of possibly not having enough food. I had a great rest of the day on dramatically flatter terrain, and I caught up with some friends that I hiked with back in NH. It was great to hike with them again, but they were moving fast according to one guys' schedule to start college soon after the trip. We got to town of Monson and parted ways, but I decided to wait up for another friend of mine, so I did work-for-stay at Shaw's Hostel recently bought by a younger couple named Poet and Hippie Chick. It was probably my favorite hostel on the entire trail, and I thoroughly enjoyed staying there and getting to know the owners. Me and other hikers watched movies including the Wizard of Oz (inevitably responsible for my mental soundtrack the rest of the trip).
I started the 100 Mile Wilderness later that day, which is considered to be the most remote section of the entire AT. A sigh at each end warns hikers and strongly advises them to pack 10 days of food, even though about 4 dirt roads and a rail line slice through the so-called wilderness (allowing food drop options for slow-moving hikers who don't want to carry 20 lbs of food). The first road had a sign pointing to trail magic put on by two older guys at a cabin, which was done in memory of a friend who recently passed away. They had a great life story, and I was able to learn some valuable history of Maine. The next day, I was able to explore a lake using a canoe left on shore for hikers to use, and I randomly saw a guy named Finn who I hiked a while with near the beginning of the trip, but then zoomed ahead. It was great to catch up, and we took a blue blaze to see "The Grand Canyon of the East" called the Gulf Hagas. The sheer cliffs and waterfalls were incredible, and we were caught off guard by day hikers also enjoying the scene (so much for wilderness). The next day I had my first view of Katahdin (aka, the end of the trail!) from White Cap Mountain, and I saw my first moose along with her calf from across a lake. I quietly observed for a while, and even tried out some moose calls.
The following day, I met up with two other friends that I haven't seen in a while and met some new ones, and we finished out the 100 mile wilderness. The last night, we camped by a lake and watched leaches and crawfish fight among the rocks, betting little morsels of food and cheering on our respective choices. Right before entering Baxter State Park (where Katahdin is located), we stopped at a camp store at Abol Bridge and gorged on food for the last time (historic because Henry David Throreau and his party set up base camp there on while ascending Katahdin in the early 1800's). Entering the park signified the last of many things, which we named off in solemn memorial. After signing in at the ranger station and securing our day permits for our big ascent tomorrow, we settled in at the last lean-to and and reminisced over our trips that were about to end. It was certainly an emotional evening followed by a restless night not much different from Christmas Eve.
To be honest, my emotional moment came when I got up before dawn and put my hiking shoes on for the last time. I knew that after today, it just wouldn't be the same. I was ready to finish up the trip of a lifetime and finally see my friends from back home, but I would be lying if I said that I was ready for it all to be over. Breaking treeline fairy early and scrambling over boulders to the top, we came upon the sign marking the end of the Appalachian Trail atop Katahdin. We kept a brisk pace on the ascent and made it up in about two hours, having the summit completely to ourselves. Each of us got pictures standing above and next to the sign, letting out many a victory yell. Everyone's emotions were completely real, because how could you keep on a mask after discovering yourself after five months in the woods? It reinforced the fact that despite very different backgrounds and upbringings, we all had one achievement in common that we would pride ourselves on for the rest of our lives. As I write this now (way overdue), I still think about the trail constantly, and only some of the experiences I have been able to put into written form and shared through stories. The trail took five months pain and drudge, but I believe that the trail gave me a lifetime of self-achievement and satisfaction, and I cannot thank you all enough for your encouragement before, during, and after my experience. Though the trip is over, I can say with full honesty that my thirst for adventure is not. With that, it has been a pleasure writing this blog for all of you, and as my namesake would say--you've been a great audience.
