Mr. Krusty Goes to Baxter
Nonetheless, here I was, clipping in the skis for yet another winter adventure into Baxter State Park. Many of the same players from last year were once again in on the trip - Dave, my co-worker, Mark, the organizer of the trip, and his son, Ethan. Dave's son, Ben, could not make the trip this year due to a football injury. His stand-in was Connor, a friend of Ethan's. Connor had the good fortune of taking over my position as the "new guy," and was thus fair game for four days of mental and physical abuse. Also along was one of Mark's co-workers and an old friend of Dave's, Rob.
This year, instead of starting out at the North Gate and heading to South Branch, our plans called for starting out at Abol Bridge and heading to Roaring Brook campground, which we would call home for the next three days. Not only did this offer new terrain to explore, but it also added about a mile and a half to the trek compared to last year's - 12 and 1/2 miles of sled-pulling fun.
The weather on day one was very cooperative -- sunny and mid-teens for temperatures. As we pulled up to the parking lot where our adventure was to begin, we saw that another group of trekkers was in the process of heading out on the same trail we were about to. We recognized some of them from the restaurant we had eaten breakfast in earlier. We didn't know then where they were headed or for how long, but that would change.
Dave was the first one in our group to head off, and I followed about 10 minutes later. The first part of the trail was well-packed, having been travelled by countless snowmobiles. Last year, I packed most of my stuff on my sled and carried a few things in a small backpack. This year, I decided to try a different strategy, packing most of my things in a backpack and using the sled for just a few of my awkward, more bulky things. In truth, I tried to get away without using a sled at all, but my pack wasn't big enough to carry everything, so the sled had to come along.
About a mile and a half into the skiing, I came upon one of the members of the group that had started out ahead of us. He had stopped to make adjustments to whatever it was he had to make adjustments to, so I skied past him, amazed that I had caught up to him when he had started out well ahead of me. Apparently, the heavy pack/light sled strategy was working.
From the topo maps, we determined that this year's ski in had 900 feet more elevation gain than last year's. Even over the course of 12 miles, that's a significant gain when you are carting and dragging 50-60 pounds of gear. Yet, for some reason, this year's trek in did not seem as technically difficult as last year's. At least not up to this point. As I crested a hill and turned a corner, I came across the rest of the group that had started out before us, all of them taking a break. I skied past them, and shortly had Dave in my sights for the first time since we had left the parking area. I was making great time.
As I approached Dave, I glanced down and noticed that the hat I had removed earlier and tucked into the strap on my backpack was gone. Not a good thing to lose at the start of a winter trip. Looking back, I saw a black blob on the trail about a quarter mile back. So much for forward progress. I dropped the sled and skied back to retrieve the hat. I wouldn't see Dave again for quite some time.
About five miles in, I was passed by a group of people on snowmobiles. I assumed they were rangers since mere mortals were not allowed to snowmobile this far into the park. I came to find out later that some were, indeed rangers, but that they were also part of a television crew that was doing a story on winter camping in Baxter. Some of the members of our group who left the parking area after I had were "caught" by this crew and interviewed.
As a journalism major, I found it a bit incongruous that these reporters were purporting to bring the winter camping experience to their viewers, yet they were unwilling to actually partake in the experience themselves. Why weren't they skiing 12 miles to get their story? Perhaps the perspiration would have messed up their make-up.
About halfway in, I decided to stop and have lunch. I gave myself the luxury of about 15 minutes of break time and then continued. Around the next bend, I came upon Dave, who was stopped to eat lunch. From here on in, we skied the trail together.
Towards the end of the ski, or what we were hoping was the end of the ski, a new skiing vernacular popped into my head. As each bend in the trail led to yet another bend in the trail, the coveted "end" nowhere in sight, I determined that the skiing had declined from being fun to being just plain annoying. I was tired, but not exhausted. I was hungry, but not starving. But I was definitely ready for it to be over. Annoying.
Eventually, of course, Roaring Brook campground did spread before us like a beautiful oasis. Dave and I were the first to arrive. The cabin was cold, so the first order of business was to get the wood stove started. The second order of business was to get the sweaty, dripping-wet clothes off my body.
About 20 minutes after we arrived, one of the guys from the other group showed up. Turns out that group would be sharing the cabin with us for the night. Over the course of the next hour or so, bodies continued to trickle in. By the time everyone had checked in, the cabin was filled with 12 sweaty bodies and piles of gear. Soon, sweaty clothing was hanging from every available hook, line, and railing. I'm not sure how this would have smelled to someone coming in from the outside (where are those TV reporters when you really need them?), but since we were all in the same boat, it wasn't really noticeable. And soon, it was masked by the wonderful smell of fresh garlic as the "other" group proceeded to make their dinner.
The "other" group turned out to be a bunch of guys in their early 30s from the Boston area. They were going to spend the night here and then head up to the camp at Chimney Pond, about 3 1/2 miles "up," where they would spend the next four days ice climbing and hiking. I envied them, having never had the opportunity to ice climb at Baxter. But at the same time, the knowledge that I would not have to haul my sled up another 3 1/2 miles was comforting.
The evening and night went amazingly well considering we had a dozen men stuffed into a very small space. The Boston contingent were all very respectful and well-behaved - not a loud lout among them. And all of our group were so tired from the ski in, sleep was pretty much all we could focus on. Well, except for Connor. Being 15 years old and having just skied 12 miles, he was firmly focussed on food. If it was edible and out in the open, it was fair game for Connor. We quickly learned not to keep too much food out in the open.
Day 2
The Boston crew were up and out by about 8:30. We, on the other hand, were in no hurry. Breakfast was utmost on our mind, and it was here, at breakfast that the trip's mascot, "Mr. Krusty," would make his first appearance. Having split up the meal preparation duties among the adults, I was tasked with supplying a breakfast, and after carefully scouring the grocery store for things that would be both edible and easy to transport, I settled on having kielbasa and chocolate chip pancakes. To all of our amusement, the chocolate chip pancake mix was named "Krusteaze" and a smiling pancake, which we dubbed "Mr. Krusty," appeared on the front of the box. Mr. Krusty's pancakes were quite tasty, so he quickly endeared himself to our group. Too bad the little cardboard guy couldn't pull a sled.
Our adventure for the day was to be a hike up to Chimney Pond - the same area where our bunkmates from the night before were headed. Chimney Pond lies within the "bowl" of Mount Katahdin and offers some spectacular views. Due to the elevation gain, we would be using our snowshoes rather than skis to make this trek. Dave also had the idea that he was going to haul an empty sled up the trail so that he could then ride down the trail on the way back. Having hiked this trail many times in the summer, I was skeptical that much of the path would be sled-able, in that it would be too steep. Thus, I opted to let one of the teenagers borrow my sled for the trip (only three out of the six of us had brought sleds).
The rangers (and TV crew) had made the journey to Chimney Pond the previous day on snowmobiles, so the trail was well groomed, making for fast hiking. Unlike the torturous three feet of snow I had to snowshoe through the previous year, this was pure heaven. Feeling a bit anti-social, I pulled on out ahead of everyone and steadily made my way up the trail. About two-thirds of the way up, the trail opened out onto a frozen pond. Upon emerging from the trees onto the pond, one was immediately greeted by ridiculously ferocious winds. It was a good thing that the snowshoes have crampons on them, or the wind probably would have made it nearly impossible to cross the ice. It was maybe a quarter of a mile across the pond, but with the wind whipping down on you, it seemed like forever.
I made it to Chimney Pond were I was again greeted by winds, but they weren't quite as bad as on the other pond. Eventually, the rest of our crew made it as well and we warmed up by joining our Boston friends in their bunkhouse, where they already had the wood stove cranked.
Not wanting to get too comfortable, I left the bunkhouse and headed back down. I fully expected to be passed by the "sledders" at some point, but that never happened. About 10 minutes after I arrived back at Roaring Brook, the sledders arrived. It turns out I was totally wrong in my assessment of the reasonableness of the Chimney Pond trail as a sledding venue. The steepest parts of the trail were the most fun, they said, which the less steep parts almost brought the sleds to a stop. I had missed a wild 3-mile sledding adventure. The only comfort I could gain from my decision was that both of the teenagers got to experience the fun, which wouldn't have happened if I used my sled myself.
The rest of the day was focussed on eating and playing endless games of Uno. Life in the bunkhouse was a bit more reasonable with only six people rather than the 12 of the previous night. If it weren't for the fact that you had to venture out into the 10-degree weather to go to the outhouse, this winter camping thing might even have been considered pleasurable.
Day 3
Mr. Krusty greeted us again this morning. Mark made pancakes for breakfast, and we decided to use up all of the remaining Mr. Krusty as well. Amazingly enough, we managed to have more pancakes than even Connor could eat!
Today was another snowshoe day. It was also an "iffy" weather day. Predictions were for things to turn unstable as the day progressed, with the threat of freezing rain moving in. With this in mind, we debated whether to take on an extended hike, or stick closer to home. Dave and I decided that we would plan on making the hike up South Turner mountain, with the understanding that if things started to turn, we, too, would turn. The others opted for less ambitious hikes closer to "home."
The hike up South Turner was a lot more like what I remember snowshoeing being like the previous year. This time, there were no snowmobile paths to follow - we had to cut our own trail. The snow was about two feet deep, so this was no easy task. We took turns leading, the one in front breaking trail until the point where fatigue and sweat dictated that the other one take over.
About a mile or so in, as we were stopped to catch our breath, we heard rustling from behind. Ethan and Connor had decided to make the trek up South Turner after all. This proved to be quite a relief, in that Ethan eagerly took on some of the trail breaking duties. Further on up the trail, Mark caught up with us as well.
As we approached the top, trees rather abruptly gave way to granite. Wind whipped the exposed cap of the mountain, blowing both snow and granite sand into our faces. And while snowshoes are great for walking through snow, they are quite the pain when walking on granite boulders. It was too cold, however, to take the time and skin exposure required to remove the snowshoes, so we had no choice but to continue the awkward scramble to the summit wearing the snowshoes.
The celebration at the summit was brief - just enough to stand on the top before retreating behind a boulder to get out of the wind.
The hike down was a knee-torturing glide through the snow we had parted on the way up. Countless times, the end of slide down a particularly steep part of terrain ended with an uncontrolled flop into the snow. When we eventually did make it back to the bunkhouse, we found Rob there along with a warm wood stove.
I had planned to hike up the Chimney Pond trail as well this day and try the sled ride down, but discovered that my body would not permit it. Enough was enough.
Later that afternoon, a ranger visited the bunkhouse and let us know that the weather report was calling for freezing rain or possibly snow that night. Tomorrow, we would be skiing out - in what, we couldn't be sure.
Day 4
The morning greeted us with six inches of fresh snow. This was a great relief in that it was far preferable to freezing rain. It did mean, however, that we would have to break trail skiing out rather than have the luxury of skiing on trails "groomed" by a snowmobile.
Not wanting to leave Mr. Krusty behind, Mark cut him out of the pancake mix box. After a close brush with death via a butane lighter, Mr. Krusty was given a brief skiing lesson and then was fastened to my backpack for the ski out.
As expected, breaking through six inches of snow was a bit of work. The worst thing about it was that if you were in front, you didn't get to enjoy the few downhill stretches on the route - the depth of the snow provided enough friction to prevent you from gliding.
For the most part, though, the trip out was fabulous - fresh powder, bright blue sky, and awesome mountain views. It wasn't until we got to the last few miles of the trail that the powder more or less became crusty ice - our snowstorm was indeed an ice storm at the lower elevations. The last mile was the most uncomfortable of the whole trip, as a very as brisk wind made for an extremely cold finish.
It's tough to say whether I'll have gained enough wisdom by next year to avoid this trip. It's a pretty good bet that Mr. Krusty will be there, though.
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