The Mountain Beckons

It is less than five months before I journey to Aconcagua in Argentina in an attempt to stand atop the western hemisphere, and I'll be the first to admit that I'm not sure if my preparations, at least physically, are sufficient to meet the challenge. How does one prepare for a 22,000 foot mountain when they live in a 6000 foot mountain world?

Climb, I say. Climb, again and again, until it feels like I can climb anything. There's not much I can do about the altitude - that will have to come when I get to Argentina - but I can get in as much vertical as possible between now and December. And so it was with this in mind, and the promise of plenty of beer and camaraderie, that I jumped at the invitation to hike Katahdin in Maine's Baxter State Park.

This hiking trip was unique in that it was planned almost entirely by e-mail. We used e-mail to figure out when we could all get together, to figure out what we were eating and who was bringing what, and to figure out where we would meet to carpool. Amazingly, it all worked out - almost a bit too well - we had quite a bit of food, and yes, even beer, left over.

Our home for two nights was Abol Campground. Tucked in on the south side of Katahdin, Abol is one of the few drive-in campgrounds available at the park. The ten of us would stuff ourselves into three lean-tos - wooden structures with an elevated platform, a slanted roof, and three walls - the front is open. Prior to coming on the trip, I worried about the possibility of being eaten alive by mosquitoes during the night, as has happened on other trips when no tent was involved. But it's been a hot, dry summer, and apparently even the mosquitoes couldn't handle the heat - they were nonexistent the whole trip.

The outing got off to an auspicious beginning, when we sited our first moose blissfully munching away on vegetation in a pond bordering the perimeter road. No matter how many times you've seen a moose, you somehow feel compelled to stop and gawk when you come upon one. This one was a decent size bull, with small, fur-covered antlers that noisily dripped water every time he'd lift his head out of the water.

Two of the lean-tos were situated on the edge of Abol stream. This was fortuitous in a couple of ways - the sound of the rushing stream drowned out noise from surrounding camps, and, likewise, it (hopefully) kept our boisterous talk and laughter from reaching other camps (well, we didn't get any complaints, anyway).

After a "light" meal of hamburgers, hot dogs, corn on the cob, and blueberry/raspberry pie, we gathered around the campfire to trade insults, drink a few beers, and plan for the next day's hike. Wanting to get in a decent workout, I planned to take a "loop" route that meant climbing up and down the mountain twice - giving me about 7000 feet of vertical for the day. Upon hearing this, the others in the group graciously declined to join me. That is, if one considers the statement "what are you, nuts?" as gracious.

A good nights sleep is imperative to a productive hike the next day,so we all turned in before 11 p.m. Unfortunately, getting to bed at a decent hour doesn't guarantee a decent nights sleep, as so it was once again proven on this night. For one thing, I forgot a pillow. For another thing, the mat that I have for placing under my sleeping bag is woefully inadequate. And finally, when you have four people wedged into a lean-to like sardines, with one of them intent on breaking the sound barrier with his snores, sleep comes in fits and spurts. And, to be honest, I was told that more than one of us was contributing to the snore-fest, but I can't hear myself so that doesn't count.

With an aching back, I welcomed the daylight and crawled out of the sardine can at about 5:30 in the morning. I thought it had been raining all night, but it turned out that that was merely the rushing of the waters in the stream. It was a bright, sunny, plesant day - perfect for hiking. I purposely went light on breakfast, limiting myself to a single pancake, a couple of pieces of bacon, and a glass of milk. The dinner from the night before would have to carry me through the day - I had hiked enough to know that a big breakfast only means big trouble when it comes to climbing.

I took off quietly, and alone, at 7:15. The last time I had hiked Abol trail, it was covered in snow and ice. This time, Mother Nature was much more forgiving. Fortunately, I was able to pass by the group of about 25 kids early on in the hike, so I didn't have to contend with a mobile "crowd" on the way up. Unfortunately, another smaller group of people followed not too far behind me, close enough so that I could hear the group leader's nearly constant chatter. I was determined to pull far enough ahead to put them out of earshot, but for awhile it felt like that wasn't going to happen - they kept up with me pace for pace. But I had the advantage of hiking alone, which meant I could stop or go when I pleased. About a third of the way up the trail, I at last lost the rather vocal group. The last thing I heard was someone saying "do you mind if we stop for some water?"

Abol Trail is by no means easy, or even moderate. It is, in fact, the most direct, and steepest, trail to the summit. Much of the trail follows a natural rock slide up the side of the mountain, making for loose footing and providing plenty of potential for spraining an ankle. Add to the mix a selection of interesting boulder maneuvers, and you have all the makings of a strenuous, "memorable" hike. I passed two more groups of hikers on my steady ascent up the trail, and from what I could see, there were no others to attempt to overtake. But I could not be sure of that until I reached the tablelands. On the Abol Trail, the tablelands - a gentle rising plane of granite chunks that lead to the summit - appear abuptly as you at last top the final boulder on the trail's vertical rise. And, indeed, when I reached the tablelands, two more hikers came into view. But no sooner had I seen them than they decided to stop and rest. I pushed on, only countless chunks of granite lying between me and the summit.

At precisely 9:35 a.m., I stood at the summit. Amazingly, I was all alone - almost unheard of in the tourist-heavy months of July and August. For 10 minutes, I was alone on the top of Maine. That wasn't to last, however, as a rather energetic young hiker, striding confidently with a hiking stick in each hand, reached the summit, leaned over, and kissed the sign marking the northern terminous of the Appilacian Trail. He carried a rather light pack, so I inquired as to where he had started his hike from.

"Georgia," he replied. And indeed, I was bearing witness to the final act in what had to be a remarkable personal journey for this young man. He raised his arms triumphantly, let out a yell that could no doubt be heard across the mountaintops, and then simply looked around with a sense of unbelievability. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to do now," he confessed to me. Over the course of the past 2100+ miles, he had no doubt thought about this moment hundreds of times, wondering what he would do and how it would feel. Now that moment was here, it appeared that it just couldn't be categorized.

I'm ashamed to say that I never did get this hiker's name. I did find out that he was from Connecticut and he started his journey on March 1. He was an engineer and had worked two jobs for the past three years to save up for the trip. And now it was over, and he was broke, but that didn't concern him in the least. I envied him. And I was humbled, because I knew that no matter how much climbing I did that day, I wasn't even coming close to accomplishing what he just had done.

About 15 minutes later, two other through-hikers arrived at the summit. They had not started the hike with the first man I met, but they had shared many a day on the trail together and were obviously happy to be sharing the moment together. I gladly took pictures of the three of them with their cameras, and smiled as they popped the tops off of their Sam Adams beers and celebrated the moment.

There are a number of trails that lead to the summit of Katahdin, and one of the most popular routes takes hikers across the knife edge in the opposite direction of the way I was hiking. Because of this, I, apparently, was the first hiker coming from the opposite direction that most of these people had seen all day. And because of this, most of these people wanted to stop and chat. "Where are you coming from?", "When did you start?", "Where are you going?", "How is the rest of the trail up to the summit?" they asked. Hiking alone, I welcomed these conversations, although after a while I began to wonder whether I'd ever finish my hike in between all of the jabbering.

The Knife Edge trail ends (or begins, depending on your perspective) on Pamola peak. I took a water break here, and was privy to more than a few conversations between groups of hikers in which one or more members of the group was more than a little apprehensive about attempting the Knife Edge. When asked about the difficulty, and danger, of the hike, I chose my words carefully - although I think most people could handle the challenge without a problem, I didn't want to be the one responsible for talking someone into trying the trail and then having them panic and/or fall while attempting it.

Next up on my jouney was the hike down Dudley trail to Chimney Pond. Dudly trail is only 1.3 miles, but it is 1.3 miles that are heavily puncuated by huge boulders that one must traverse over and around. In short, it is a knee buster. Not too many people come up Dudly trail, and even fewer go down it. In the hour or so it took me to pick my way down the trail, I met five other hikers who were heading up it, and no others heading down. One of the "up" hikers proved to be quite humerous, telling me how he was in "awe" of my endeavor and claiming that I was just trying to impress them. Of course I was. I live for them.

Dudley trail did offer something that was growing increasingly scarce - water. I was carrying two quarts, and had already drunk a quart and a half. The opportunity to fill up with cold, pure stream water was a most welcome diversion.

Chimney Pond sits in a sort of ampithatre surrounded by a collection of peaks, including Katahdin and Pamola. It is an extremely beautiful setting, and served as an ideal spot to stop for lunch. As I was chewing away on my Powerbar, sitting on rock on the shore of the pond, I noticed that the "log" in the grassy field on the other side of the pond appeared to be moving. The log turned out to be a cow moose relaxing in the meadow, her ears twitching to shake away the bugs (the black flies were still alive and well in this neck of the woods).

And so I sat, recharging my batteries with the combination of food, water, and remarkable scenery.

After about a half hour, it was time to once again move upwards. This time, it was Cathedral trail, a relatively steep venue that is almost exclusively boulders. I had wondered how I would be holding up by this point, and I was relieved to find out that I was holding up quite well. Scrambling up boulders, while somewhat exhausting, is also intoxicatingly fun. There is no "right" way to climb up a boulder pile, you pick and choose as you go, using your arms almost as much as you use your legs to move from boulder to boulder. It's almost like putting together a big jigsaw puzzle, except that when you're done with this puzzle, the "picture" is far more impressive than any cardboard puzzle.

After topping out on the vertical on Cathedral, I took the Cathedral cut-off to the Baxter Peak cut-off, back to Abol. Reaching the summit once was enough for one day, so the cut-offs were my "long-cut" back to the trail on which I had started.

It had been years since I had gone down the Abol trail, and with good reason. After having done it once many years ago, I vowed never to make that mistake again. Time has a way of numbing one's memory, so I once again found myself carefully trudging down this ridiculous piece of slippery mountainside. The first time I had done this, my soon-to-be wife ended up scooting down most of the trail on her butt, her legs having given up attempting to lead her down the maze of loose granite. This time, there were moments that I wondered if I'd suffer the same fate. But me, and my legs, held up, and at 4:09 p.m., I found myself back at the lean-to, feet aching and body worse for the wear.

The big surprise was that nobody else from my group was back yet. I had been gone for about nine hours and fully expected to see my cohorts sitting around the campfire, beers in hand, swapping tales of their journies. It wasn't until two hours later that the first of the group emerged from the trail. And it would be almost five hours later before the last of them made it back to camp. It turns out that although they only climbed the mountain once and came down it once, they ended up doing more miles than I had - about 13 to my 11 1/2. Of course, the rest of the night I heard about what I slacker I was. So much for glory.