Katahdin, a granite massif forged by heat and carved by ice, so dominates the central Maine landscape that it first comes into sight for the northbound Appalachian Trail hiker from seventy-two trail miles away in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness. Fifty-seven miles closer, when emerging from the Hundred-Mile Wilderness, comes the view of the great mountain standing sentinel over mixed forest and the wide West Branch of the Penobscot River. For the next ten miles the trail winds through gentle woods paralleling the stream and passing by glacially formed ponds as the mountain looms ever larger until at the base the peak disappears from sight. The familiar 2”x6” white blazes on trees and rocks lining the way beckon the hiker to the top. For many, Katahdin’s summit is as much a dream as it is a destination.
Katahdin’s peak was the northern capstone to my section hike of the entire Trail. The year before, I had had to wait at the base on the eve of hiking the Hundred-Mile Wilderness with Karen, my New England backpacking friend, while she and her husband climbed to the top so that Karen could complete the entire trail on our trip that would begin the following day. My left knee had required surgery eight weeks earlier and would not hold up to the rigors of the ten-day trip and the climb. This time I had returned with my friend Eli who had significantly supported my effort to complete the AT and wanted to ascend with me. In light of numerous factors, including the distance by car from Charlottesville where we lived, we decided to fly to Bangor, the closest airport, rent a car, and drive from there to Baxter State Park, home of Katahdin. Descending into Bangor on a clear sunny Thursday morning my heart beat with excitement when I saw Katahdin mirage-like nearly eighty miles away.
In the airport what started out as bad news turned into good. The lady at the car rental desk told us that the company no longer had the economy car we had reserved, but out of courtesy and for a one-time minimal fee she could upgrade us to a small SUV, a maroon Ford Escape. Would we mind? Restraining ourselves from outright celebration, we assured the lady we would pay the slight charge and accepted the keys with sheepish grins. We found the car quickly, dumped our duffle bags filled with camping gear in the cargo section, and headed to Baxter State Park by way of downtown Bangor to a hiking outfitters because we needed to purchase a backpacker stove and fuel, the airlines having forbidden us from carrying such potentially flammable items.
At the store, a teenaged assistant helped us locate a stove and fuel quickly. When we paid the bill, the young woman noted that our accents placed us from the South. We chuckled and identified ourselves from Charlottesville, Virginia, adding for reference, where the University of Virginia is. “No way!” she exclaimed. “My sister is going to start college there in three weeks!” We all marveled over the unlikelihood of such a meeting. I gave the assistant my information in case her sister wanted to contact me. Back in the car Eli and I had a laugh. What were the chances that our lives would intersect with anyone having to do with Charlottesville on a weekday morning in downtown Bangor?
About an hour-and-a-half later and eight slow dirt-road miles from Baxter State Park’s main gate, we reached our campsite, a three-sided lean-to at the primitive Katahdin Steam Campground. We could stay three nights, giving us three days for weather good enough to make the ascent. Weather was key. The park had strict rules for going up Katahdin: if the weather is bad—thunderstorms, heavy fog, lashing rain—a Class III day, no one is permitted. Class II, a day of rain and wind is a “no go” to the top, too, because the rangers strongly discourage hiking above tree line in those condition—and the summit is a 1,700’ above tree line. Hikers hope for a Class I day, dry with plenty of sunshine, but overcast and dry will do. To reserve a campsite for those days, I had had to apply four months in advance because Mainers receive priority according to the benefactor’s will. Percival Baxter, a former governor and outdoorsman, beginning in 1930 had bought Katahdin and the land around it, then donated it as a park specially for Mainers. “Monuments decay,” he famously wrote, “buildings crumble, and wealth vanishes, but Katahdin in its massive grandeur will forever remain the mountain of the people of Maine.” Thankfully my application was granted, and we arrived in the early afternoon with plenty of time to set up and soak in the fact that we were at the base of “the big one.”
From the vantage point of a small open field near the campsites, I studied the mountain: trees flanked its side up to a point and then its intimidating boulders protruded bare against the sky. The sight reminded me of the hard climbing Karen and I had done in southern Maine when we decided half-humorously after days of clambering up, down, over, and around rocks, slabs, and boulders that our definition of a trail was “a path with dirt in it.” Karen told me that Katahdin was not as hard as that, more like a stretch in New Hampshire which traversed a peak called the Kinsman for which the trail guide had cautioned “allow for extra time in bad weather,” though she and I agreed it should have said “in all weather.”
While I stared at the mountain my anxiety arose along with my urgency to reach the top. Stories from the Penobscot Indians that told of three gods or spirits who inhabited the mountain ran through my mind. The most colorful and best known was about the most threatening, Pamola, the giant Storm Bird who guards the mountain with the head of a moose, the torso of a man, and the wings, legs, and feet of an eagle, his gigantic body corresponding to three of the great creatures that visit his land. According to legend, Pamola becomes angry, whipping up treacherous weather when someone disrespects the dangers of the mountain or violates the surrounding forest. I had also read Lost on a Mountain in Maine, a true story famous among Mainers about a 12-year old boy who became separated from his Boy Scout troop when a fog rolled in during their ascent. He spent a couple of nights alone and exposed on the mountain, eventually scrambled his way down, and wandered for two-weeks facing starvation and delirium until he was found. Park information stated repeatedly that Katahdin’s weather could change without warning and that the hiker had to be prepared for all conditions. The trail up promised plenty of challenge itself. In studying our route, I had seen photographs of the most extreme parts that showed iron rebar handholds for scaling vertical boulder-and-slab configurations too difficult to manage otherwise. I also had seen pictures of the AT while blazes painted as arrows pointing around massive rocks on one side with precipitous drop offs on the other. This mountain demanded respect. With due fear and trembling and yet with joy at the thought of reaching a dream that had taken me over 2,100 miles and fifteen years to reach, I kept staring at the mountain. But, I would have to wait one day longer. The forecast at the ranger station showed clouds, drizzle, and light rain for the following day at base level, worse at higher elevations.
Although we awoke the next morning to heavy mist and a solid gray cloud ceiling, Eli and I decided that instead of hanging around our campsite we might as well do a warm-up hike to get the kinks out of our bodies from the previous day’s travel and prepare for the “big one.” Such a walk would further help us appreciate our surroundings—after all, Baxter State Park held more than Katahdin. We read about the flora and fauna in booklets we had purchased at the park’s visitor center and grew curious about some of the ponds south of the campground that I had passed a year earlier hiking with Karen. Eli and I decided that a four-mile hike would do the trick. After a slow breakfast and securing our food from chipmunks and squirrels, we walked down the main dirt road and turned south following the AT. The clouds hung thick and low. We passed Tracy Pond, the smallest of the ponds, and soon crossed its outlet heading on through the woods. At the appropriately named Elbow Pond we passed along one of its lengths, marveling at the trees and grassy vegetation framing it in detail. We continued on through the forest until we reached Daicey Pond, our goal, where we could see the park’s rental cabins on the far side tucked in among the trees with their pond-front views. We followed the brush-covered shoreline and came to the Grassy Pond Trail ready to take it as a return loop to Elbow Pond. The trail, however, was closed for rehabilitation. Disappointed, we walked back the way we came, commenting that at least we managed to stretch our legs, enjoy the fresh air, and take in as much scenery as the clouds allowed.
This time when we passed Tracy Pond we beheld a sight we could not have scripted. Cresting a small hill as we neared the end of the pond, Eli glimpsed something moving and tapped my shoulder. “Look, Heb!” he whispered and pointed a hundred yards distant. A moose! We stopped and stared as the great, brown beast ambled, taking her time knee high in the water. Unaware of onlookers, she immersed her head and neck, then reemerged chewing grass she had taken from the bottom of the pond. She moved a few more paces into the water, immersed her head and reemerged chewing, but this time we heard a strange bleating sound. A calf walked into sight! The calf moved ever closer to its mother until it nuzzled beneath her…and nursed. The mother’s hunger soon trumped the calf’s, and she walked farther into the pond, paused, bent her head beneath the water, and fed again. None too happy, the calf made its cry, but the mother kept feeding. The calf caught up and nursed again. This happened repeatedly while the mother worked the pond for food. Eli and I watched mesmerized. Suddenly the mother went into deep water and swam away leaving the calf in the shallows. Eli and I glanced at each other in momentary panic. As if the calf heard our worry, it started to swim, following its mother surprisingly lithely through the water. Within seconds they both rounded a bend and vanished from sight. We stood in silence. Not wanting to leave the moment but nodding acceptance, we took several deep breaths and headed back up the trail. From time to time one of us would say to the other, “Can you believe what we just saw?!” On this trip, we had expected only one amazing sight, the one from the top of Katahdin; but we were wrong, and we had Katahdin to look forward to the next day, a Class I forecast.
We arose at 5:15am needing to start early because we faced a ten-hour hike—five hours up one way, five hours down a different “easier” way—and a tricky return back to our campground requiring at least an additional hour or as much as three-and-a-half depending on whether we could get a ride. We ate a high calorie breakfast by flashlight, stowed our supplies, and double checked our rucksacks. Dawn began to break and a few minutes before 6am we set foot on the trail and signed the register so that in the event of trouble the rangers would know where to begin their search.
The first mile was a gentle, noticeable grade on a broad path lined by trees and occasional boulders paralleling the fast flowing Katahdin Stream. Roots and rocks usual to the Maine AT crossed the trail, but because of the many pine needles from the fir trees, the path underfoot made for comfortable walking in the cool morning air. My hiking poles and I fell into a comfortable rhythm. As the sun rose, the first mile seemed to fly by in a short half hour taking us to the wide wooden bridge over the stream and only a few minutes later to side trails for better viewing of the Katahdin Stream Falls. No waterfalls for us, however: we were on a mission.
Up we went. The trail rapidly became steeper and narrower, the rocks larger, each of our footstep a bit more intentional. Though trees still lined the path, their density thinned. Eli and I huffed and puffed and our pace slowed to match the changing terrain. We stopped for our first break because the sweat started to roll from our foreheads. Off came our hats and fleeces, and we stuffed them down into our daypacks. Over the next seven-tenths of a mile, our pace slowed even more, at times to a literal crawl, owing to the incline and ever increasing size of the rocks. With fewer trees and such significant elevation gain we took occasional pauses not only to catch our breath but to view the neighboring mountains—the sight of them shrinking below us showed just how quickly the elevation was rising. According to our map we were to gain about 1,500’ in 1.6 miles. In my rush of excitement and fear, I left Eli behind until he called out. I had not meant to be so self-centered, chasing my dream and forgetting the person who had supported me over several crucial years. I stopped and apologized profusely, but it took a bit of time to repair the breach as we worked our way together through the rocks, mounting elevation, and the small boulders. At last, we reached our next major milestone, The Cave, vertical rock slabs that offered a bit of shelter. With the map showing that we had about two hundred feet to go until tree line and my hiking poles becoming increasingly useless, I stowed them and pulled out my gym gloves to protect my hands from the roughness of the rock scrambling. The climbing had begun in earnest.
Above tree line under almost blindingly bright blue skies we maneuvered mostly hand over hand for the next mile. The pitch was so steep that at times we had to tilt our heads to see the blazes above us. We would then study the respective rock or slab configuration, figure out how to climb it, glance at each other, and go for it. As indicated by the pictures I had seen, we came to a place that required us to grab onto iron rebar in the stone. We had to grip the rebar, haul ourselves up to the next stone handhold, and then use the rebar on which we stood as the place press off from as we pulled ourselves up onto the next rock. It reminded me of my time in southern Maine when I gave thanks for the rebar, but short as I am I worried this time if I would be able to reach the key grip points. Eli and I saw some people ahead of us negotiate the sequence: if they could do it, so could we. Shaking with nervous energy and not looking down, I took an anxious breath and scrambled my way up as quickly as possible using momentum to pitch me through the rebar-rock-zig-zag. I exhaled when I reached the upper ledge, trembling with relief, gratitude, and a feeling of success.
In this most vertical, boulder-packed section Eli suffered a near disaster. A stiff breeze had picked up and the occasional 20-30mph gust blasted across us. We were so exposed and sun shone so intensely that Eli had put on his sunglasses. Then, something bothered Eli’s vision and when he went to adjust his sunglasses, he accidentally touched his contact lens, barely lifting it from his eye. The wind did the rest, blowing the lens away hundreds of feet down the sharp drop offs alongside us. Did Eli tell me immediately? No. He kept going for at least fifteen minutes, even with significant loss of depth perception. Fortunately, we soon reached the crest of the trail. Although the trail followed an exposed ridge and still demanded hand over hand “hiking” at times, it no longer required us having to wind our way between boulders or make extreme vertical transits, and it gave Eli time to adjust a bit to his compromised vision.
When I popped out onto the ridge, I could see two large granite stones half a mile away standing guard at what look like the top of the mountain. It was The Gateway, the opening to a long, wide plateau that sloped slightly upward half of the remaining way to the summit. As I continued to scrabble up the ridge with Eli nearby my excitement and fear mounted: excitement because we were truly getting that much closer to the top, fear because the ridge we were on, though buffered by the sloping mountain, had drop offs that looked too close for my comfort with such a stiff wind. I kept my head down, focused on the trail, and climbed. Soon after picking my way through a final rock jumble I reached the two large boulders and passed through The Gateway. The Tableland indeed opened before us—a mountain top area that looked as if it had been randomly covered with giant flag stones. The summit remained 1.6 miles ahead, and as keen as I was to get there, we both needed a break. Eli and I dropped our daypacks, sat on nearby rocks, and with relief dug out our food bags and water bottles. As if by magic the wind had ceased, and the sky continued to hold clear blue—still a Class I day. We took in the stupendous view: the deceptively beautiful ridge we had just climbed, the surrounding forest far beneath, the glorious sky. There we sat snug and secure. We rested for fifteen-to-twenty minutes and chatted about Eli’s sight, what we had just covered, and what lay before us. Then, the time came to move on. After a few steps, I told Eli to go ahead, that I needed to adjust my poles and I would catch up. It did not take long to fix my poles but the view that caught my eye near the edge of the mountain held me in place. With open sky above, I looked down 3,500’ below, taking in the mature green of the tree-carpeted land and the deep blue of the ponds. I could see the elbow shaped pond we had passed the day before and the adjacent aptly named Kidney Pond, both distinct and completely within sight from this bird’s eye view. Beyond, I could see ever so slightly wending tree lines where hidden streams carved their traces to the sea. The horizon shimmered. As I breathed in I heard, “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof…” (Ps.24:1) and as I breathed out, “This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes” (Ps. 118). Somewhere out there the animals I had seen over the years went about their lives: the moose and her calf wading in a pond, a porcupine waddling where rock slab and foliage met, a hawk diving in a field for its kill, a black snake slithering across the path, a bear rumbling down the mountain side. There I stood on the huge mountain, a small speck against the boundless sky, privileged to participate, and feeling like I truly belonged to everything I saw and to a nameless “more” that included and transcended all that I had lived and imagined up to this moment. All time seemed present but there was something time-less about it, too. I could only utter a silent, trusting “Yes” to the “Yes” that was so clearly present to my sight, my breath, beneath my feet, above my head, behind me, beside me, even in me. The depth of gratitude that I felt found no words that could match such glory.
But then it struck me that this day was August 6, the day that the atomic bomb destroyed Hiroshima. As I looked out, I imagined a mushroom cloud rising in the distance. The sun continued to shine even as it did on that day in 1945, when the wide white cloud climbed high into the sky while far below with a sudden flash issued agony, death, and utter destruction. That such terror could exist in the same world as the grandeur I beheld on the mountain made me ache.
Suddenly I also remembered that August 6 was the Feast of the Transfiguration. I saw Jesus go up a high mountain with three of his disciples. At the summit he stood in dazzling white clothes and his face suddenly shone like the sun—ironic because the atomic bomb’s mechanism was likened to the nuclear reaction fueling the sun, some even saying that with the bomb the sun had now come to earth. In my vision of the transfiguration, Jesus engaged in conversation with Moses and Elijah. I had always assumed the three talked joyfully—after all they were standing in glory—but it now occurred to me that perhaps they talked about something sadder, too. Maybe they talked about the hard times that likely lay ahead for Jesus and with no more guarantee of success than Moses or Elijah had. In the gospel accounts, the transfiguration is preceded by Jesus speaking about taking up the cross as a mark of discipleship, indicating the real possibility that crucifixion lay ahead for him and anyone who followed him. Moses had known hard times—he had killed a man and fled for his life; he had faced a hard-hearted, mean-spirited pharaoh; he had led a complaining wayward people through the wilderness; and he did not get to enter the promised land. Elijah had known hard times, too: he was hunted down by the spineless Ahab and wicked Jezebel to the point of starvation and dehydration. When Jesus looked out from his mountain top was he seeing the tremendous splendor of life in its fullness and the destructive depths to which people can descend? Were he, Moses, and Elijah talking about something that can withstand and even enfold pain, hurt, and tragedy to the point of transforming it? The previously calm air stirred when a gentle wind blew—spirit, breath, ruach—as if to say, “Yes, even greater mystery–Yes.” I stood for a few more seconds looking at the trees and ponds below and again out to the horizon, feeling the little breeze. I gripped my poles tightly and began my last push to the top.
It did not take long for me to catch up with Eli and take a slight lead. We chatted over the next twenty- to twenty-five minutes as we drew closer to the summit. A few hikers passed us on their way back down, and true to what they said, the trail grew steeper as we neared the top. When I first sighted the large wooden sign on Baxter Peak in the distance, I turned to Eli and shouted excitedly, “I can see it! I can see it!” We both quickened our step. A few minutes later, about an arm’s length away, I stopped and Eli stood next to me. After a look of near disbelief, on the count of three we touched the sign together and hugged. Next came the long anticipated pictures at the sign: we each beamed with smiles. To cap off the photo session, I pulled out a cave man’s wig and beard from my daypack, put them on (not exactly a transfiguration), and had some photos taken as a goof on all of the men who finish the AT with bushy beards and long, wild hair. Eli and I had indeed made it to Baxter Peak, and a fellow hiker photographed us clasping hands over the sign before we stepped away and headed off down the mountain by a different route.
There is a saying among AT hikers: everyone hikes their own hike. Everyone goes at their own special speed, hikes the distances and the ways appropriate for them—in other words, no judgment. The angel, not the devil, is in the details. My dream had come true of hiking the entire trail with so many unimagined details filled in along the way: brushes with exhaustion, traversing difficult terrain physically and personally, sheltering from fierce storms, life friends met in the most unlikely ways, extra help when needed, beholding sublime vistas, creating songs, laughing, dancing, and praying. Also among the details were those quirky, uncanny, poignant moments of blessing—Godhits—reminding me reassuringly that God’s creation is fundamentally good, we are privileged to be part of it, we belong each in our own way, and we are truly kindred, often in unexpected ways, in this great mystery we call life. Deo gratias.