I’m a little tired and a lot grateful. And I’ve made it to New Hampshire.
It took me 8 days to get here from Caratunk and each one could be it’s own short story.
Like the uniqueness of the Kennebec Ferry. A canoe with white blazes freshly painted and a steward who loves his job like he loves his life in Maine. Robert Starbird paddled us across the river and told stories of the loons and eagles he sees every day. He emphasizes that the AT is less than one percent of the beauty this state has to offer. “Come back and explore Maine.” He says. “There’s so much more too see.”
He recommended a place just up trail to climb down to a waterfall and see an old mortar and pestle made of a hollowed rock. Which I did. And enjoyed a quick dip in a pool of cool water.
In a few short miles I came to this…
Which leads to this…
It’s a sporting lodge. There are many throughout Maine and they are places where one can stay while they hunt or fish and be fed by a caretaker. If there is one thing I am learning about Mainers, it is that they live with their land. Everybody I meet from here has a relationship with life outdoors, and depends on it for peace of mind as well as the life it gives. This lodge is on Pierce Pond and its caretaker, Tim Harrison, is as abundant in spirit as the woods themselves.
I sat with him for a bit, talking about birds while he provided a glass of cold strawberry lemonade. It might have been the most delicious beverage I’ve ever had. We played songs for each other on his electric piano. I played “Through” and he offered the most sincere and touching song I’ve heard in a long time, “Tucker’s Rhapsody.” He had written it as a tribute to his son who passed away. I listened with all of me.
The wilderness is soft around Pierce Pond. I walked on feeling full. Before long, I came upon a familiar sight…
This is West Carry Pond. I never imagined it would be the cover of my book when I stopped there four years ago to scoop up water. And today, it’s good to know its name. East and West Carry Ponds got their namesake from the endeavors of Benedict Arnold on an expedition in 1775.
I appreciated the beauty among the historic tales and thoughts of what is today.
Before long, the soft landscapes gained edges, and the next day I found myself climbing Little Bigelow Peak. From that point to Mount Moosilauke (227 Miles), the steps along the Appalachian Trail are their most strenuous.
I fell pretty hard that day, an epic trip where I sort of super-manned for an instant and then was body slammed onto the path by the weight of my pack. I laid still for a moment to make sure I was still alive then peeled myself off the ground. My right wrist had taken more of the blow than I wanted it to. Maine is not the state to decommision a wrist. You need those for all the handholds and hoists necessary to get over the many rock piles and root scrambles, not to mention the hardware of rebar and fine crafted ladders. Most of my functionality has returned by now, but for a few days, I had to get creative with my three points of contact. Here are some of the obstacles.
Overall, there has been a lot of beauty. I was able to slack pack for a day with the help of my friend AT Gracie. It was wonderful to see her, though I could have talked with her for days and wish we had the time. She dropped me off at a hostel known as The Cabin, where a 93-year-old woman, Honey, is still hosting hikers and sharing stories that shaped AT history. She cooks dinner for her guests and drives shuttles to the trailheads. Her dining room table is covered in hiker signatures and her walls have pictures of Warren Doyle and Earl Schaffer. Her husband’s trail name was Bear and though he is no longer with us, the love of what they built together is quite alive. It’s also represented in symbols all around the house of bears covered in honey.
I caught up to most of the south bound hikers I met in the 100 Mile Wilderness. One of them I was able to go through Mahoosuc Notch, the hardest/funnest mile of the AT. It was enjoyable to share that part of the journey, and with Dragonfly I was honored to be in the company of a vibrant New England enthusiast who had a personal history of building a bog bridge at the notch’s north entrance when she was 16. Ten years later, I got to witness her nostalgic return. Plus, it was extremely helpful to have a buddy to pass your pack to when crawling through the caves.
I called my mother on my last camp out in Maine. I’d been missing her. In 2011, she was here with me doing road support and memories of getting to be with her are still at every road crossing. It’s amazing, the memories in the air. Noticing my own, one little life in three little crossings makes me wonder just how much the trees have witnessed. I hope to witness them. Along with the rocks and the lily pads.
It’s rest day today. Much needed. And my dear shoes have reached retirement. I’m happy for them, maybe a little jealous. Even though I know it’s an honor to keep walking.
