Climbing Mt. Katahdin – Notes From My Appalachian Trail Journal

Mt. Katahdin

Humbling. That was the word for the day.

I woke at 4 a.m. and rolled over in my fart sack, trying unsuccessfully to find another piece of sleep. I had spent the night at Daicey Pond Campground at the foot of Mt. Katahdin in Baxter State Park, and the mosquitoes had serenaded me all night long, trying to find a chink in the armor that was my mosquito head net.

Leaving the relative warmth of my bag, I stumbled to a nearby stream where I filtered water while sitting on a large rock and listening to the birds wake up. It was a very private moment and one that will not soon be forgotten. I said a prayer, thanking God for bringing me to this place and this beautiful morning.

After eating a quick breakfast of G.O.R.P., I got my pack set and walked up the hill to the Ranger Station. Alex (who did half the trail last year and is finishing this year) was on her way to the station too and about 20 feet in front of me. Suddenly she stopped and just stared at the ground. There in the middle of the path, was a bright orange gecko, just hanging out. Too Cool!

After signing in at the Ranger Station, I hiked to Katahdin Stream Campground, where the trail to the top of the mountain begins. The hike to the mountain trail-head was a nice one, and as I wound my way around two small lakes, I started to feel a change come over me. I wasn’t looking anymore, but I was seeing. Under the canopy of the Maine old growth forest, I saw the delicate blanket of pine needles covering the trail, for the first time. I saw moss of the deepest green, covering rocks and the sides of trees. I saw roots, some as big as fire hoses, crossing the trail at every angle imaginable. I had read about the roots in Maine along the A.T. Local wisdom has it that you do not want to tread on them, especially while going downhill, or you will find yourself sliding and then ski’ing down them. (Not something you want to do with a 40 pound pack on your back!)

As I stepped from the trees and into the clearing that is the campground, God decided to impress us humble earth dwellers with a fiery and fierce show of light and noise. The rain fell from the sky and then it flew, as if it were being thrust down upon me. “This isn’t fair”, I thought. “I have an agenda, I have a time table!” I was soon to learn that such things are for those in civilized society, and when in nature, you must alter your time table to match the allowances that nature gives you.

After taking shelter under an outhouse overhang and eating some more GORP, I made my way to the trail-head and looking up, realized I could not see the top of the mountain. I was going to climb into the clouds.

I wont pretend that it was an easy climb, or even as tough as some of the climbs I’d done in Colorado. I didn’t need any ascending or repelling gear, and I knew that I wouldn’t be put in a situation like the one I had endured in Colorado, where I had gotten the my jacket caught up in my carabiner about 10 stories off the ground. No, this was a symbolic climb for me. I knew that somewhere up there at the top, amongst the clouds and rain, my new life started.

Like a lot of other A.T. hikers, I learned much later that I was running away from something. I was running away from myself, from my life. I wanted to start over, which was something that I had become very good at, and this was just my latest way of doing it.

Katahdin Falls

The journey up started deep in the trees and the ascent was more gradual than I anticipated, but within an hour or so, I found myself reaching up to grab a small tree or rock above my head to help pull me up the trail.  Sections were muddy, and there were multiple attempts at gaining a good footing, sometimes using roots as ladder rungs up the steeper sections.

I took my first break near a waterfall and listened intently as the tweets and chirps of the birds fought to overcome the sound of my own heart, beating thick and heavy in my ears.

I seemed to lose myself in the revelry of the uncontrolled outdoors. Nature has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? One minute you are looking at the toes of your boots as they forward and backward and the next, you find yourself almost waking up, looking instead of seeing, not remembering turning that last curve in the trail, but knowing deep inside that it was a beautiful curve.

As I came up past the treeline, and the world started to take on the look of a slightly green rock-field, I looked back and saw a cloud layer that I had traversed through. It was a breathtaking moment, and I tarried at the spot for what was a thankful Ado to my old life.

Near the top, the topography becomes a jumble of strewn boulders, some as big as houses, and felt as if I was a Lilliputian in a Gulliver’s Travels story. At one point, the trail actually breaches the cleft between two building size boulders, and you are left to climb up the almost two story cleft through the rocks, unassisted except for a couple pieces of re-bar, strategically placed for hand and foot holds.

Looking down from treeline

Time warped, and being fresh from the city, I started to get impatient, while knowing that the emotion was a silly one. My pace quickened and as the clouds enveloped me and the wind and rain ravaged me, I kept on until at last I was there.

There was no view to speak of, as you can see in the picture. I’ve found that often times, there is no view, and the true reward for the hard climb is the climb itself. This was a case in point.

I stopped, heaving breath to look at the sign I had seen on so many web pages and books. It looked old. It looked as if it were about to fall over. I looked as if it needed some help. It looked just like I did, and it looked just right.

There were a few others there, hikers who had come north from Georgia and were finishing their hike, instead of starting it like me. Some of them screamed when they saw the sign. Some of them cried. All of them were effected, this being the termination of their 2,160 mile walk through the woods.

Just the beginning

One of them was kind enough to take my picture, and before I left, I looked for a small stone. I wanted something shiny or unique. Something that I would carry to Georgia with me and put at the base of the Southern Terminus at Springer Mountain. But in the end, I decided on a small, average stone. Just like millions of other stones. Just as common, yet as unique as I.

Standing atop that mountain in Maine, I turned around, and putting one foot forward, took my first step toward Georgia and my new life.

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1. Photo Journal of the US Capitol Powerplant Protest
2. Photo Sunday-The Appalachian Trails 100 Mile Wilderness
3. Saving 272 Acres of Appalachian Forest – Thanks to The Nature Conservancy