Happy Katahdin Day!

It was two years ago today that M and I made it up Mt. Katahdin and touched that last white blaze on our 2,174 mile hike. I remember it like it was yesterday. The night before, we shared a shelter with Caveman of Ohio, and he was so excited I think he must have got up at about 4 am! If I recall correctly, it was only a 5 mile hike from the Birches campground up to the summit, and the trail started out gently winding through evergreens. But soon, we were above treeline, with misty clouds swirling around us, and we hit a portion of the trail that was incredibly steep. I remember I had to take my pack off and throw it up over a rock ledge so that I could pull myself up on the rebar ladder that was driven into the rock. Soon, we made it to the plateau at the top, crossing Thoreau Springs, and the cloud cover faded away. For the last mile or two, the endless lakes and mountain ranges of Central Maine spread out around us.

We had unusual weather that day...it was clear with very little wind, which gave us an opportunity to sit and enjoy the panoramic views with our friends: Lucky and Packrat, Caveman, Hemlock and Rio, Umbrella Lady and Habitual Hiker.

And then...the Holy Crap moment....what do we do next? With no more white blazes to follow, no food left in our pack and forty miles from the nearest town, we couldn't sit on that mountain all day. We went down the other side and stuck our thumbs out when we got to the parking lot at the bottom.

And the next thing we knew we were homeowners with a baby on the way. I've wondered often what would have happened if we had made different choices on that journey away from Katahdin. Maybe we should have followed Caveman to the Hiker Feed in Monson. Or gone to Harper's Ferry and volunteered for the ATC for a while. We could have headed back down south to Damascus and joined the motley assortment of hiker trash that worked the hostels and bummed their way up and down the southern stretches of the Trail.

Instead we hitch-hiked to Bangor and rented a car, and followed the AT back through New England, crossing over the trail many times. It felt so different moving at 55 mph. At the time, I was simply reveling in daily showers and wearing clothes that didn't smell like plastic and old sweat.

I remember thinking how strange it was when it started to rain in Vermont and I was inside the car...I could see the rain, but couldn't feel the dampness, or smell the fertile stench of wet bark and decomposing leaves, or hear a million tiny drips all around me. It was like watching a movie of rain.

Two years later, I know the way I usually talk about the AT is somewhat romanticized. The pictures show a series of tan, strong, grinning hikers perched on impossibly beautiful rocky outcroppings and lounging next to clear mountain streams. But that's just because we never took the camera out when it was raining or foggy or we were desperate to get those last few miles in before camping for the night. I never stopped to take a picture of myself when thunder started to rumble, or my feet hurt, or when the only water source for miles was a yellowish-brown beaver pond. I have no pictures of uneven campsites or soggy tents or poison ivy. But those memories are just as real as the scenic stuff.

From Springer Day to Katahdin Day in 2007 I have six months and six days of incredibly vivid memories...pleasant and unpleasant. I can take myself back there like it was yesterday...my first glimpse of the Smoky Mountains, stretching out in gray-purple waves across the horizon; hopping over tiny, neon-bright red efts laying all over the trail after a rainstorm; and of course, running my fingers across the weathered wood of the Mt. Katahdin sign, on my very last day as a thru-hiker.