Hop off trail in Caratunk, Maine.
Skip my way down to Harpers Ferry to walk north for a spell.
And Jump all the way back with the help of a man I consider legendary.
All of this has happened in the last four days.
Mateo and I walked from Monson to Caratunk. Views were gorgeous and fords were high, hip level at their most on the Piscataquis River. My hiking poles vibrated under water in a similar way that one might play the saw as an instrument. For a second, I wondered about myself. Then I saw Mateo standing steady downstream and felt safe to move along.
That last sentence sums up how it was to have him walk with me. His companionship and respect for nature combined with red cedars and loon calls have made my first 12 days on the AT this year the most enjoyable thru-hiking I’ve experienced so far. I’m honored to get to be with nature in this way, and more so, to have someone deeply listening with me.
We hired a ride from Caratunk to Augusta and talked about paranormal activity in forms like Big Foot, plasma, dark matter, and alien encounters. I couldn’t imagine a richer and more intriguing conversation. Our driver was a documentary film-maker and public speaker on such matters. Bill Brock. Nary a dull moment in Maine.
From Augusta, we sat by a replica of the liberty bell in front of the Capitol building for a short while and I read my book out loud to Mateo, Where the Water Goes by David Owen. After a riveting chapter of water politics my hiking buddy, Cookie Monster, arrived. He drove up from Massachusetts to take us back to his phenomenal home and then to the Boston airport the next morning.
Cookie Monster was part of my PCT and CDT thru hikes in 2013 and 2015. I ran into him at Trail days last month. After a pleasant greeting, he gave me a package of dark chocolate-covered espresso beans and introduced me to his amazing company, Triple Crown Coffee. Connecting with him again was a real treat. And I can honestly say, I have never had a better cup of Joe in the backcountry.
He brought Mateo and I to the Boston Airport the next morning, where I boarded a plane to Washington D.C. and Mateo to Denver. It was great for Mateo and I to get to travel together, and then it allowed me to make my way to Harpers Ferry and hike north for a few days. I could walk my way into my first on-trail gig; The Appalachian Trail Arts and Culture Festival.
It was a smooth transition to ride the metro to the Amtrak. Through quick flashes in the train windows, a world of monuments and museums transitioned to houses and forests. I was stunned by the sudden view of the Potomac River, and when I stepped off in Harper’s Ferry, I could feel the presence of a dear friend, the Shenandoah.
Harpers Ferry is a confluence like non I’ve seen elsewhere. Not just in rivers. Three landmasses come together like a trinity and nature has established a deliberate mark on time. One that human history has experienced as drastically as the landscape. Where change flows in and out like tidal waves and people crash like symbols.
I sang a medicine wheel song before I started walking and introduced my intentions to the converging rivers. And to the geese who pecked at the park grounds under the fort of John Brown.
Perhaps this is romance at its finest; to stand on grass that remembers and believe in beauty.
I walked north across the Sandy Hook bridge and hiked until after dark. I was jumpy in the night, having forgotten what a ruckus falling acorns make. It’s astounding to be surrounded by acorn bearers suddenly, from pinecones and poplars. I look forward to witnessing the transition at a more natural pace.
For the next two days I went between historic markers such as civil war battle sites and the original Washington Monument. It looks like this…
Between walks with history, were walks with my hiking body. I wasn’t sure what kind of hiking shape I was in and it was a perfect opportunity to test myself. It wouldn’t have taken two days over 30 miles to get to the museum in time for the gig. About halfway through my first day I concluded that I’m not there yet. And 27 miles felt like plenty. I went 22 the next day, on which I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line.
The “his story” of humanity is gripping. I look forward to kinder times. And I’m glad I’m here to walk with this land. And to listen.
I was scooped up by trail angels on the evening of the 28th. Two enthusiastic trail women, who were part of the group that hosted the event, came to pick me up on highway 233 and hugged my sweaty body like it wasn’t at all disturbing. They took me back to the Ironmaster’s Hostel, a hub beside the halfway point for the trail and a home base for our event. The mansion hostel was once a safe house for the underground railroad.
Warren Doyle pulled up next to us. I met him a little over a month ago, and feel honored to have gotten to know him from the spirit of the trail and the heart of a poet. He has been a dear friend and support for me on this hike, and was the keynote speaker for the event. I probably would have opted not to attend had he not offered me a ride back up to Maine. Having a spot on an authors panel was a fantastic opportunity for my book, yet a tall order for a thru-hiker. Warren really made it possible and filled my heart with excitement to get to drive across the country with a wellspring of trail knowledge. He has thru-hiked the AT 9 times, and section hiked it 9 more. He has also been an educator for many hikers and a support system and sharp tool for those who break speed records. He knows every location on the entire trail. A master of his craft unlike any other.
The event was beautiful. The Appalachian Trail Museum and Earl Schaffer Foundation hosted with gusto. Hikers and townspeople gathered to honor and celebrate the trail we all hold dear. I was touched to arrive just in time on the morning of the 29th to a table already set. My neighbors were three authors I shared a space with at trail days, Mike Raynor –Altered on the Appalachian Trail, John Turner- Killing the Buddha on the Appalachian Trail, and Lee Lovelace- The Last Hike. I’m brand new to the scene and already surrounded by friends. The AT is like that.
There were two more authors panels. One on books about Earl Schaffer, a veteran known for walking off the war as the first publicly acclaimed AT thru hike. The next was a panel of AT historians. The final act was the boisterous storytelling of Warren Doyle, who spoke of many things; conversations with Walt Whitman, discos atop New York Mountains, and frolicking like a dear through battalions of military men in camoflouge.
My takeaway from this event is that we all really love this opportunity to walk. There is no denying that the Appalachian Trail means a lot to the many and I have a sense that it’s untouchable spirit will continue on for many generations; that its heart is too strong to be buried, no matter what we hear on the news about our public lands.
I’m still pinching myself to be back in New England. Back at Shaw’s Hostel in Monson. With the help of Warren I will walk the miles I missed from the flooding over a week ago. Then carry on from Caratunk the next day. Less than 24 hours after the closing of the festival yesterday, we pulled up to Shaw’s.
Warren is truly a magician. He knows how to flow. I hope to learn from him and continue to form a friendship around this beautiful thing we call the Appalachian Trail.