Into the Wilderness

I know I have been painfully absent from writing for the past few days - I have tried a couple of times but to be honest I haven't known quite where to start. We have under 120 miles until Katahdin and our time out here is very quickly coming to an end. I feel a million and one things: joy, relief, sadness, anxiety, you name it. My mind races day in and day out - what will I do when there are no more white blazes to follow? When my planning for the week won't involve "where will I sleep" or "what town should I have my mail drop sent to" or "how many miles today"? I just desperately try not to think about it.

The past few days have been wonderfully relaxing, full of easy miles, loads of swimming opportunities and a great group of friends. Coming out of Rangeley we had our last difficult day ahead of us - heading over the Bigelow mountains. The initial climb out of Rangeley was much less intense than we had envisioned and we were able to have a good long break before heading up to the peak of South Horn from which we had a beautiful, unobstructed view of the Bigelow Range. Approximately halfway through the peaks we ran into Chupacabra who was slackpacking south back to Rangeley for another night in the hostel. He let us know that the night before, OB (Old & Busted) had lost his father and had to take an unexpected trip back home for the funeral. He would be returning to Monson to complete the trail in a few days. It seems as though so many hikers have been met with tragedy at home which has hampered their attempts at completing the trail. As we continued to walk I said a silent prayer of thanks that my friends and family back home were all safe and healthy.

Once we descended out of the mountains and came to the road we contemplated going back into town to the hostel that Chupacabra would be staying at. Fortuitously, I received a text from Chupacabra letting us know that the hostel was at capacity so we decided to hike on another mile or so to a campsite along Flagstaff Lake and it was well worth it. The tentsites weren't ideal but, with the sun setting over the lake we decided to set up along the beach. We spent the evening cooking, jumping in the water and sitting by the fire.

At around 4:00am I was violently awakened by the sounds of Chaos and Whistler hurrying to put their rain flies on their tents for what I can only imagine was the rain that was not falling from the sky. In a sleepy haze I joined the club and affixed mine as well, falling back asleep almost instantly. Of course, it didn't rain that evening. 

The next day we finally were greeted with the prospect of no more substantial mountains and we relished the simple terrain. We planned only to go 15 miles and after every 5 we stopped for at least an hour to relax by a lake or river and spend time with our hiking companions. The beach we stopped at 9 miles into the day had clear water and fine sand so we all took the opportunity to strip down and enjoy the cool water. Chaos and Timex got out a frisbee while Red Knees and myself enjoyed the sunshine and read our books. Of course, relaxing can't go on forever, so after a strange altercation between Timex and Chaos we decided to continue walking the final 6 miles to the Lean-To. After setting up our tents (there was a dead mouse smack in the center of the shelter floor and, as we learned later, a very alive one scampering over our food bags), Chaos, Red Knees and myself walked a little ways up the trail to Harrison's Pierce Pond Cabins to reserve a spot for ourselves at his "Red White and Blue" pancake breakfast. 

The shelter we were staying at that night, Pierce Pond Lean-To, was the sight of the drowning of a thru-hiker from 2012, Parkside. Like all of us, he was lured by the temptation of the beautiful water after a warm day but was stricken with cramps when he got out into the water and panicked. Not wanting to tempt fate, I stayed far from the leech-infested waters. Instead, we built a roaring fire and all 15 of us sat around telling stories and wondering aloud what it would be like when this adventure came to an end. 

The next morning we walked just up the trail to Harrison's Pierce Pond Campsites for the pancake breakfast (the pancakes have strawberries, apples and blueberries in them to earn them the name). Everything tasted divine and a hot breakfast gave us the energy that we needed to take on the rest of our day.

Too bad we didn't use that energy. As soon as we had forded the Kennebeck River (there is a canoe\ferry that shuttles hikers across) we came to a road and on that road was a van, offering to drive us the 2 miles into town to spend the day at the brewery and outdoor center. Microbrews, pool volleyball, hot tub, corn hole, free showers and laundry? No question, we were going.

We spent 5 hours relaxing, eating, drinking and playing games to our hearts content. But we really needed to walk more than 3.7 miles for the day so at 3pm we headed back to the trail where we all but sprinted the first 6 miles and decided - at 5:30pm - to push on another 5. Maybe not our wisest option. We had to don our headlamps by 7:45pm as we stumbled our way down the trail looking for a good stealth campsite. Thankfully we found one and were able to squeeze all 6 of us in. 

Yesterday was all about the miles and avoiding the rain. We got in the miles but definitely did not miss the rain. Ah well. Red Knees and I completed 16 miles by 3:30pm but decided to wait at the shelter for the rain to pass. It stopped briefly, so at just before 6:00pm we decided to push on, far too fast, to put in some more miles before nightfall. We were moving so quickly that we sped through the river ford, not realizing it was our only water source until, of course, we had made it up our one "climb" of the day. Neither one of us were thinking straight and got into a spat, me not wanting to hike backwards, sure that there would be an unmarked stream ahead and Red Knees wanting to go back. We both knew that we were being foolish but with dark approaching quickly and the rain beginning to come down harder emotions escalated quickly. There were a few moments of tense hiking but we got over it and were thankfully able to find a decent stealth spot about 5 miles out of the road to Monson.

We were so stealthy, in fact, that there were moose stomping around, shaking the ground beneath our tents. Terrified that I would meet an untimely end by moose trampling, I laid completely still and looked up information on moose on Wikipedia (really, what else was I supposed to do?) only to learn that if a moose was charging I was a goner. I remained paralyzed with terror until I finally drifted to sleep by the sound of moose hooves.

This morning we made our final push into Monson where we are relaxing, cleaning up and resupplying before we enter the Hundred Mile Wilderness. Once we enter we have 100 miles until we arrive in Baxter State Park. From there we have 9 miles to the base of Katahdin and a 5 mile climb to the end. How is it that we have come this far? Have we truly walked this far? Is this actually my final resupply? I need a beer.

Tomorrow we set out and I will not post again - due to lack of ability and need to detach - until I have summitted that glorious final mountain. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your unwavering support and love as I have pushed along on this crazy adventure. I might have made it this far but it sure wouldn't have been quite this much fun. Here we go. 

New Outlooks

Lately, I haven't been able to sleep. I've tried beds, shelters, my tent. I've tried to over-indulge to induce the itis, I've desperately tried a beer or two (or four, who are we kidding) to lull myself to sleep but for some reason I continually lay (or, as it were, sit) here, awake, despite my sagging eyelids. Once I finally drift off, succumbing to my exhaustion, I find myself dreaming of the trail but not in the way that I used to. The dreams have turned, somewhat distressingly, to nightmares, but all seem to revolve around a common theme: extending my time in the wilderness. I will dream about trail kidnappings, for some reason always spearheaded by Ms. Janet, becoming lost in the woods for days on end, surviving off of wild mushrooms and the excesses of food in my pack, or injuring myself during a hike, forcing me to slow my pace.

I can only surmise that this means that, despite all of my "readiness" for the trail to come to an end that I am, in fact, going to miss this jumbled pile of boulders, this alleged "footpath" through the forest. Against all odds, and perhaps my better judgement, I have fallen deeply in love with this experience, this trail and these people. Perhaps it is this affection, in spite of my protestations, that has caused all of the growing pains that have afflicted me as of recent. Or it might just been the mud, who knows.

Finally, out here on the trail I feel as though I have truly found myself and fallen into a rhythm with myself and who I am that I am able to sustain. For the first time, I understand my body and the relationship that it has with both exercise and food in the most profound way that, in years of attempting to "eat healthy" and exercise, I have never quite grasped. I am finally confident in myself, my beliefs and what I do or do not know to fully engage myself in the relationships that I form with people. As trusting as I was before coming out, I only now feel able to understand people well enough to trust as appropriately as I should.

I suppose you could say that something happened to me in the past two days - clearly. Honest to goodness, I have no idea what it could be. The trail is largely the same, with its near vertical ascents and rocky, meniscus-tearing descents. I am surrounded by the same group of hikers (Red Knees, Timex, Whistler, Chaos, Wolf Man, etc.) In fact it is likely that my dad will actually NOT be able to join me at the summit of Katahdin. And yet I somehow feel reconnected with my experience out here in a way that I haven't yet in my almost 5 months on the trail.

Yesterday we woke up painfully early so that I could sprint up our first climb - Saddleback Mountain - to call my dad to figure out exactly what would be happening with the conclusion of this adventure. Thankfully I only had to climb 200 feet (instead of the full 2,000) to get signal so I was able to take care of the conversation all before 7:00am. The ensuing climb was seemingly endless. Once we rose above treeline and walked into the brutal winds and clouds that engulfed the summit, the mountain would present a peak and then, just as you crested, would grow before you, laying out a new path of granite to be followed. Despite the breeze and the false peaks that plagued us for a solid half an hour, the views (once the clouds had cleared) were phenomenal. It was almost as if we were back on Franconia Ridge, with the mountains ahead and behind us stretching out for miles with views of the path cutting along the ridgeline.

Two small mountains followed Saddleback - The Horn and Saddleback Junior, both of which paled in comparison to our first climb of the day. Short and steep. After coming off of Saddleback Junior, almost 9 miles into our day, we arrived at the first shelter where Red Knees and I stopped for a long lunch. Slowly, the rest of the crew began to arrive and we all lazed about, gathering crisp, clear water from the spring just outside of the shelter and further speculating about the disappearance of Gerry Largay. Poplar Ridge Shelter, where we were currently relaxing, was - after all - the last place anyone had seen her, well over three weeks ago.

I can't quite explain the fear that comes from knowing that in some way this trail that we put all of our trust in is unsafe. Some things you prepare for and appropriately avoid (sampling questionable mushrooms, poking timber rattlesnakes, trying crystal meth) but the uncertainty that comes from knowing that you could disappear is unsettling in the worst way. It causes you to pause for an extra second at an unfamiliar sound in the woods or take an extra breath after slipping on loose rocks. For me it encouraged me to call known shuttles instead of waiting by the road with my thumb out, desperately hoping for a hitch.

Eventually we realized that we needed to press on so, after a lazy and stiffness-inducing hour and a half, Red Knees and I grabbed our packs and trudged forth. The next 8 miles flew by at a pace which astounded even us and we arrived at the next shelter by 4:30pm. Luckily, it was largely empty so we were able to snag some of the few available campsites and avoid a night in the shelter with the (I would imagine) porcupines and raccoons (I have clearly still not fully recovered from the traumatic experience of losing my food bag while sleeping on Bill Ackerly's porch). We ate geriatrically early and got a bonfire started to enjoy throughout the evening. Yet again I am one of the painfully few women out here so I am often subject to the lewdness of my male thru-hiking companions but part of me has both accepted it and adopted it (more than I would like to admit).

This morning we slept in a bit later, not hitting the trail until nearly 8:00am with a short day planned - only 13.5 miles into Stratton, ME where I would have to spend the night to wait for a mail-drop in the morning. The walking was quick and easy, with only one substantial climb of note up South Crocker Mountain which we managed to tackle handily. We arrived at the road just before 3:00pm and began to hitch. I must be looking pretty ragged or people in this area are tragically afraid of thru-hikers because after an hour of attempting to hitchhike, we eventually threw in the towel and called for a shuttle.

Once in Stratton we settled in at one of the hostels in town and went across the street to grab dinner and beers. The evening has been relaxing and rejuvenating - aided in large part by a long, hot shower and clean laundry.

Tomorrow we will tackle the Bigelow Mountains - really the last substantial mountains in Southern Maine before we move on to some almost boringly flat terrain. Tomorrow we officially cross the 2,000 mile mark. I am excited for tomorrow.

Frustrations and Quick-Mud

The mud in Maine isn't just deep and squishy, it isn't the kind that oozes over the top of your shoes and moistens your socks and seeps through to linger uncomfortably between your toes. Well, it is these things on occasion, but more often than not it is something so much more vicious. Suddenly the mud becomes a solid-"looking" mass with perhaps just an inch of water on top but that will quite literally swallow you whole. In one false step you sink - quite literally - up to your knees or, if you are particularly unlucky, your waste. You spend your time walking across degraded bog bridges absolutely petrified that your foot will slip on the damp wood and your body will dissolve into the mucky oblivion. I have not yet sunk more than up to my knees but I continue to live my days in abject terror. If I disappear out here, check the bogs first. 

After our night at the base of Mount Moody we awoke early to begin our ascent up Old Blue - a solid 2,200 foot climb but thankfully our only long climb of the day. The mountain was steep and seemingly never ending but we were able to maintain just over a 2mph pace. Finally we were able to make miles again. 

When we reached Bemis Lean-To halfway into our day I was checked out. I was tired, dirty and covered in scrapes. My body ached and my eyelids were heavy with the culmination of miles over the past few days. I wish I could say this was the first time as of recent that I had felt that way but it has become increasingly more and more frequent. 

I am over the Appalachian Trail. For so long we have focused on "making it to Maine" and by now we have. All of these seemingly erroneous miles feel tedious, boring, pointless and distressingly long. I am impatient as I trudge along each day, literally aching for the consistency of a warm bed, my loved ones and my puppy. I am equally eager, surprising even myself, to return to the rigors of everyday life with the normalcy of employment that does not consist o the words "vagrant" or "drifter". I find myself getting angry at the trail for twisting and turning, forcing us up and down hills at aggressive angles when a path through the valley would have been equidistant. 

I aired these concerns to Danno as we made our way slowly to the next road crossing where his ride was waiting for him to take him into town to see a doctor in regards to his weak and painful knees. Danno - since I have not spoken about him much previously - is a 50 year old Hawaiian retiree who has so far crushed the entirety of the trail. After 1900 miles he has lost 70lbs - what a doctor had previously recommended for him to lost - and intends, much to his doctors chagrin, I would imagine, to gain it all back upon returning home. He is the kind of man that asks the simple questions but that you feel comfortable and almost obliged to give the long answers to. 

When we arrived at the road less than 4 miles from the shelter we again ran into Red Knees, Timex and Chaos who had hiked a bit ahead. Danno found his ride and we parted ways there, him driving due west and the four of us pressing on up the mountain. 

A relatively short and quick 4 miles later we arrived at Sabbath Day Pond and Shelter and set up tents. The night was brisk but, with an inner tube hanging from the roof of the shelter, Chaos and Timex decided to go for a dip in the warm water. I visited the beach but quickly returned to the shelter and warmth of my tent and sleeping bag. 

This morning we awoke early and did - essentially - a death sprint for the 10 miles into Rangeley, ME. The terrain was mindless and at the very end of our descent we found a cooler full of ice cold sodas. The day was off to a great start. 

I wish it stayed there. We struggled significantly getting a hitch and eventually gave up and walked down to a hostel just off the trail and requested a shuttle into the town. On the drive in, the woman spoke with us about Geraldine Largay, the woman who had disappeared off the trail just a few weeks ago in the immediate area and who still has yet to have been found. She speculated that it might have been foul play (it's always the husband if I've learned anything from Law & Order) and relayed her theories to us. As if I wasn't already nervous enough about the abduction threats in this area. 

In town we quickly resupplied at the worlds most expensive grocery store before walking down to the pub to grab burgers and beers for lunch. The restaurant was overburdened with what appeared to be a Harley Davidson convention leaving the one waitress tragically overworked and delayed the caloric gratification for these hungry hikers. I tried to explain to my companions that her tip should not suffer - she was hustling very impressively - but all of my grouchy male hiking companions did not agree so I ended up grossly over-tipping to compensate. 

Finally full, Red Knees and I headed to the library to use computers larger than the iPhone screen that I am currently squinting into so that I could look into the details of my dad's trip out to Maine to rescue me when this adventure us finally over. I composed a massive email and sent it off to him. 

Moments later I received a text from him alluding to the fact that he may not be coming out after all and I broke. My heart dropped into my tragically battered feet and sat there. His visit was, in large part, my motivation to continue walking and though it isn't officially gone, it felt gone. I walked the 2 miles out of town slowly and listlessly with tears silently running down my cheeks, praying that Red Knees wouldn't turn around and see. I knew I was acting like a child but at a point you become so fragile, degrading to a house of cards that takes the slightest breeze to crumble, exhausted from the physical, mental and emotional toll of the trail. 

Though I have toyed with the idea of yellow blazing fairly heavily I am still committed to the walking. I hope that my mind is able to catch up to my feet soon to make the remainder of this journey as enjoyable as possible. 

Less than 220 miles to Katahdin. 

*note: as of this morning my dad WILL be able to come out. Woohoo!

Picking Up The Pace

I hate the tail. I love the trail. The trail provides and the trail taketh away. The trail is serene and honest, the trail is aggressive and unpredictable. But, for all it's schizophrenia, the trail brings together some of the most fantastic and wonderful people that are, ultimately, what keeps you going 99% of the time. 

After our short day in the boulder pit of Mahoosuc Notch we decided to do a solid 15 miles to get us into Andover. Descending the first mountain, however, I began to have the familiar twinge in my right shin and my mind began to race, repeating an internal mantra of "no, no, no, PLEASE no". When we arrived at the parking lot at the bottom of the mountain 5 miles into our day I immediately sat down and began to rub the afflicted area, hoping it was just a fluke. 

When Danno finally arrived at the bottom of the mountain and mentioned severe knee pain and we heard word of rapidly approaching thunderstorms we decided to call it a Nero and head into Andover from the parking lot. Thankfully, Pippin's dad and brother were there and were able to take us about halfway before dropping us off at an intersection. Before we could even throw out a thumb a woman in a red truck pulled over and asked if we needed a ride to town. That was easy. 

We went straight in to the center of the sleepy town of Andover, passed the "we can do it all" General Store (also functions as a restaurant, movie rental store and a gas station) and arrived at the Pine Ellis Inn - an old home that has been converted to a hostel for hikers. 

After removing our shoes on the porch we took the grand tour of the house and we nearly skipped with bliss and excitement when we saw our room: these weren't bunks, these were proper beds with actual linens. LINENS. We didn't have to sleep in our sleeping bags?! This was an AT miracle. 

We spent the day lounging around, doing laundry, getting clean and watching the rain fall outside while we let our tired and bruised bodies rest. As the day went on more and more hikers arrived including Whistler, Timex and Chaos who I was sure were ages ahead of me. 

The next day we set out early with the intention of covering about 16 miles. The Baldplate Mountains were exposed and windy on top and we were instantly thankful that we hadn't attempted to summit them in the rain. The descent off them was, despite the lack of rain presently, still slick and treacherous so it was yet another slow climb down for Red Knees and myself (Whistler, Chaos and Timex had sped ahead - little monkeys). 

When we reached the first shelter we rejoined with the speed demons and had a snack. After an hour went by and Danno hadn't joined us we began to worry so we headed on down to the road. There, Dave - the older Native American man who works for Pine Ellis - was waiting for Danno who would be calling it another short day (and he had in tow my headphones which I had carelessly left behind). 

I think it was me that proposed that we slack pack from there to the next road, adding 4 miles but taking away 30lbs each from our day. It didn't take much convincing, especially after negotiating the slack pack down to $4 per person with Dave. We threw our packs in the van, grabbed a snack and a water bottle each and headed out. 

The first 6 of the 10 miles were a cinch. Gradual ups and downs (but mostly ups) on a dirt path leading to the next shelter. We stopped briefly to enjoy the shelter and eat our snacks before heading down to tackle Moody Mountain - a near vertical mile-long ascent. I've been looking at the topography map of this one nervously for at least a month now. 

Without packs it was tough but manageable and we finished the four miles by 6:00pm sharp as planned to meet Dave with our packs. The day had come from me hating the trail on the way up Baldplate - telling RK how much I was looking forward to being home and maybe we should yellow blaze? - to laughing and joking as we forded rivers at the end of a very successful 20 mile day. Plus we (well, I) found a beautiful patch of black trumpet mushrooms on the trail that would have done The French Laundry proud. This called for some beers.

Thankfully Dave was obliging and offered to drive me into town to pick up some beers for our group. The air was cold so we promptly made a fire and enjoyed beers while we all made dinner and discussed/argued the difference between graffiti artists and street artists. Eventually we ran out of daylight, beer and firewood so we called it a night. 

I am truly ready for the adventure to come to an end, it becomes more and more clear every day, but I still can find ways to enjoy it and that makes all the difference. As I said before - thank goodness for these people. 

No Pain, No Maine

Everyone warned us that southern Maine was worse than the Whites so I don't know why I didn't believe them. I should've heeded their warnings about the jagged, exposed ascents and the knee-grinding, slippery descents. Maybe then I could have prepared, at least mentally, for the terrain that we have been tackling the past two days. But probably not. I think in this instance perhaps ignorance truly was bliss. 

Yesterday we set out early from Gorham, packs laden and oppressive with our bulky resupplies, with one goal in mind: Maine. The first climb up was a gradual 2,000 feet up relatively tame trail that felt substantially more difficult with our full packs, especially considering our slack pack the day before. 

Everything seemed slower for the entire day and, thankfully, my hunger was insatiable so I was able to knock some ounces out of my pack early on. About halfway through our day as we stopped to grab water and down the hill came a petite girl with multiple ear piercings, a mohawk and a day-hiker sized pack. I immediately took her for a section hiker but gave the courtesy of asking if she was hiking the whole trail. She introduced herself as Green Bean and finally I put a face to the name of Cliffnote's prior hiking buddy. Shortly behind her was our buddy Danno who stopped to grab some tea-colored water at the stream with us as well.

We hiked the remainder of the day as a foursome, scrambling hand-over-hand up giant rock slabs and sliding down the other side, gripping desperately to trees and roots to keep from plunging to our deaths and/or breaking our shins. When we finally arrived at Carlo Col Shelter just after the New Hampshire/Maine border I was convinced I couldn't walk another step - and of course the shelter was three tenths of a mile off trail. Damn you, AMC. 

After a blissful night of sleep we awoke early to tackle what promised to be the most challenging day of hiking: crossing over the jumbled mile of boulders that is Mahoosic Notch followed immediately by Mahoosic Arm, a near vertical 1,000+ foot climb up a sheer granite rock face. 

It was more aggressive than we had predicted. The Notch was enormous boulders, appearing to have been dropped from the sky from the arms of god and left without further thought. Between rocks there was no ground only either more boulder or a gaping hole in the absence of one, occasionally with the haunting sound of running water emanating up from the deep crevasses. More often than not climbing over these rocks was not an option so we hugged, straddled, balanced, slid and crawled our way, twice UNDER precarious boulder caverns for the entire mile. If I had any doubt that I would need some semblance of upper body strength for the trail, this squelched that doubt. My arms and shoulders burned by the time we clambered over our last rocks from the exertion of hoisting my body and pack up so many times. 

The Arm may have been worse. The slabs of rock seemed to never end and only become more slick with each step. My calves were on fire by the time we finally reached the summit but the promise of a shelter less than a mile away had me in high spirits. 

The same, perhaps, could not be said for Red Knees. Something has been off with us - perhaps just overexposure - but it seems as though nearly everything I do irks him beyond belief. One day I feel like he is angry that I am going too slow, the next I am forcing him to do too many miles. I am tempted to bring it up but as soon as I do things seem to go back to normal and it seems pointless to bring up. My hopes are high that this will pass and the remainder of our hike - just a few short days - will end on a high note. 

Today I gave some stunningly awful advice. Slow and Steady, an older woman who I met for the first time in the Notch, commented in the shelter that she was running low on Aqua Mira and was concerned that she would need to borrow from other hikers by the end of the trail. While others offered rational suggestions I piped in telling her to just roll the dice with water sources and sprint to Katahdin - giardia takes 3 weeks to show symptoms, right? 

I am becoming apprehensive about the conclusion of this journey. Part of me cannot wait to the point of wanting to drive up to Katahdin just to be finished to return home to get back to the life I have put on hold back in California. Another part of me wants to slow down drastically to both enjoy my time here and because, quite frankly, I am just so damn tired of hiking. By the end of each day my knees are stiff and sore, my ankles and shins aching. But, thanks to our acclimatization to life on the trail, our bodies can nearly heal themselves overnight giving us no viable excuse not to hike on the next day: it's just what we do. 

Either way, I'm making it these remaining 270 miles, if I have to crawl up that final mountain. 

Redemption

The Appalachian Trail is like an exceptionally manipulative beautiful woman. She knows exactly how to play you, keeping you humbled by the rain, mud and otherwise abusive elements but ensures that you always come back for more with her often stunning beauty and random acts of kindness. After our days in the pouring rain I was through - so prepared to walk out of the Whites and good riddance. And then yesterday happened. 

We had the opportunity to slack pack the 22 miles from Pinkham Notch back to Gorham and, after the days that we had, that sounded like an amazing opportunity to just get it over with (since we had, I'm ashamed to admit, toyed with the idea of just skipping that section all together). We began our hike around 7:30am and things did not get off to a good start; before we even began our ascent up Wildcat Mountain (which I kept wanting to call Thudercat Mountain like that cartoon show with the warrior cat-people...Thundercats, assemble!) Red Knees slipped on a still wet rock, soaking his feet and falling hard on his ass. Following that we began a near vertical 2,000ft ascent up into the Wildcats, often crawling hand over hand up steep, rocky crevasses, but without packs it truly wasn't that bad. 

The day followed suit from there with a series of dramatic ups and downs over rocky terrain but by the time we had reached elevation the sun had broken through and managed to slightly tame the wind and with light loads the walking felt effortless. After a steep descent we arrived at the last hut in the Whites, Carter Notch Hut, which is situated on a beautiful lake, nestled back amongst the pine trees. The hut is the oldest on the AT, built in 1914 but still absolutely beautiful. There we treated ourselves to blueberry coffee cake and applesauce cake with caramel buttercream icing. After a brief chat with the hut master which was cut short by my anxious hiking buddies we pushed on for another near 2,000ft ascent up Carter Dome. 

Again, not that bad and the sun was still shining over clear skies - from Mt. Hight after Carter Dome you could see back to the Presidentials and, indeed, it was perfectly clear all the way to the top of Washington. Despite my jealousy over those with the privilege of summiting that day I was still elated to have the unbroken views of all of the peaks we had struggled over and the gaping Tuckerman's and Harriman's Ravines cutting swathes out of the side of the mountain. 

I should also mention that prior to leaving on our hike we had unofficially bet Bob, the owner of White Birches Campground, that we could be done with this challenging terrain in under 10 hours. Despite being slightly behind schedule this kept us moving forward at a good clip for the entire day. 

When we finally climbed Mount Moriah, the last true mountain in the Whites, I breathed a sigh of relief. All of the nervous energy, the fear and the apprehension flowed out of me in that moment: we had done the Whites. Or maybe they had done us. Either way we had made it through those pages on the map that I had feared for so long in one piece - a bit bruised but otherwise none the worse for wear. The rest of the hike was a 6 mile descent down into Gorham - smooth sailing. 

At the bottom of the hill we stopped briefly at Rattle River Shelter and the 300 mile to go mark on the AT. Under 300 miles - by the end of the day we would be at 298. My head was spinning. No more than a mile after the shelter we are walking along jamming to some music when a packless but gloriously bearded man rounded the bend. I recognized him immediately as Rock Ocean and I just about lost it. We had not seen him since Buena Vista, VA when he reunited us with Headstand and took us all in his wonderful blue Volkswagen camper van to Devil's Backbone Brewery. I dropped what little I was carrying and ran to hug him and immediately grilled him with questions of how the Tribe was doing (they are quickly approaching New Hampshire about 200 miles back). 

After Rock Ocean continued on his hike, Drop Bear - an older Australian man that we had done the slack pack with - asked if I had seen AWOL walk by with a GPS device. AWOL?! As in the author of the thru-hiker bible? Whose account of his hike on the trail was my first true information on what challenges lay ahead of me?! And they didn't interrupt my conversation?? I was still thrilled. What a day. 

We arrived at the parking lot a few minutes later and called up White Birches for a shuttle back to the campsite. While we waited for our ride, who should appear from the woods again but AWOL. I froze with nerves but thankfully Drop Bear, who had met him at trail days, called him over. We spent a few glorious minutes chatting with him, drinking Coca Colas he had in his car (we got trail magic from AWOL?! WHAT?! Best day ever!) before the van arrived. 

Once back at the campground we threw down our things and got ready to head out to go to Walmart for resupply when who should walk in? AWOL. Again. This guy just can't get enough of us! In all fairness he wanted to check out White Birches to update the bible for the coming year but still. I had the opportunity to show him my well loved (aka tattered) AWOL Guide and inform him that the topography line for the climb up to McAfee Knob is incorrectly steep. 

With our ride waiting we had to depart but I was still very much on cloud 9. We resupplied aggressively at Walmart and had a relaxing evening watching Avatar and eating all of the food we realized would be far too heavy to carry. 

Today we walk into Maine. After today there are no more states to check off, only miles to cover and then Katahdin. Lets do this. 

The Slippery Slope

The Whites are beautiful, please don't get me wrong. For nearly the entire Presidential Range you are in an Alpine Zone, high above tree level with nearly 360 degree views of the surrounding valleys and mountains. It is truly stunning.  That being said, I'm going to rate my experience in the Whites to date at a 6 (granted we still have to slack pack the Wildcats today and from the looks of it the day will be beautiful). 

Above tree line, for all its incredible views, is exceptionally difficult terrain, looking like God picked up armfuls of boulders and dropped them haphazardly in an upside down "U" shape with the top of each pile forming the mountains. There is absolutely no rhyme or reason, with rocks jaggedly sticking up at odd angles, begging you to put your foot down just awkwardly enough to potentially slip and break ankle or two. Not only that but the rocks are all covered with a thin layer of lichen that, when dry, can cause the rocks to be slick and dangerous which is, to a person with a well established fear of heights, a nightmare, especially while climbing hand over hand with nothing behind you but a whole lot of air. Now add water. This terrain in a thunderstorm is like walking out into a tornado and asking the storm to give you all its got (read: scary, slippery and stupid). We had two and a half days of thunderstorms. 

We woke up in our tents relatively early after the night outside of Mitzpah Hut and began the climb up to Mount Washington. The day began in a misty fog, again moistening the rocks just enough to slow our pace, but we made decent time to the Lake of the Clouds Hut, just over Mount Pierce/Clinton, Mount Eisenhower and Mount Monroe, sitting squarely at the base of Washington about 2 miles from the summit. Though the fog had broken several times on our hike up, providing spectacular views of the valley, by the time we arrived at the Hut we were very solidly encased in a opaque cloud wall. After a quick snack break we began the actually fairly easy push to the top of the mountain, passing some fairly ominous warning signs regarding the weather on our way up. 

The weather in the Whites, especially Mount Washington is known for being volatile, with the highest recorded wind speed in the world being recorded atop Mount Washington at 231mph (it might have been even faster but the recording device broke). We learned the reason for this back at Mitzpah: every weather pattern follows a jet stream and, in the United States, nearly all of the jet streams converge in one place - in the Whites - causing unpredictable and violent weather here for the majority of the year. 

We almost missed that we arrived at the top with the fog as dense as it was. Huge buildings arose in front of us that we couldn't see until we were probably 75 feet away and even then they looked foreign - like aliens had landed on the mountain and set up base camp. The whole scene was scarily silent and shrouded in white. Of course, minutes later we walked up to the visitors center and were overwhelmed by the throngs of tourists waddling around enjoying their $3.50/slice pizza and checking the time for when the train would be back to take them down the mountain. And here I was, drenched in sweat, smelling to high heaven when I could have just taken a damn train to see the non-existent view. A bit frustrated, yes, but that I had worked to climb all 6,288ft of that mountain gave me a sense of pride that I knew none of the tourists could feel, nor could they truly appreciate the magnitude of the mountain. Not in the same way, at least. 

After scrambling to write a few letters home we headed out for what looked to be a relatively tame 6 miles to Madison Spring Hut which would put us there solidly between 4:30 and 5:00pm, just in time to get work for stay almost assuredly. The first three miles went by smoothly and we were keeping an excellent pace. But then the rain started and we must've gotten flustered because somewhere in there we took a wrong turn and ended up going around the outside of Mount Jefferson instead of flanking Tuckerman's Ravine as we should have. About a mile in we realized our mistake and desperately tried to figure out the best way back to the AT. It began to rain harder and I became terrified. This is how horror stories about people dying in the Whites begin and here we were. 

We eventually decided that the best way would be to go straight up and over Mount Jefferson (yet another gloriously jumbled pile of rocks). 

I was defeated. Here we were, adding another 4,000 footer to our day (the AT doesn't go over Jefferson - for once it gives you a reprieve and doesn't send you over absolutely every mountain), in the rain, over rocks. I wanted to scream at Red Knees in sheer frustration though I knew that it wasn't his fault so I kept it to myself, save for a few snide remarks that managed to slip by. Every step and every stumble I desperately wanted to give up: to sit down and just call 911 and wait for rescue. 

Though we eventually got back on the trail and made it to the Hut, every step was a struggle. When we saw another pair of northbounders ahead of us by about two tenths of a mile on the trail we knew that they would get the work for stay and that, had we not gotten lost, that would have been us. Thankfully, though they were full, the Hut allowed us to pay $10 each to stay there without the work for stay and we agreed in a heartbeat. 

Overnight the thunderstorms that had been promised the day before materialized in all their splendid glory. From my view by the window I could see long bolts of lightning stretching across the valley as the rain came down in sheets. I was thrilled to be inside. 

In the morning when we awoke it was still raining slightly but we decided to head out. Of course, as we arrive at the ridge line, again, the thunderstorms pick up and the rain fell in sheets, pelting us with what might have been hail but I was too focused on not breaking my ankles to tell for sure. It took us three hours to do the first three miles of our hike, hands down the slowest we have hiked to date. As the rain continued and we walked below the tree line the trail gradually turned from dirt and roots to mud and roots to a solidly flowing river, occasionally interrupted by hidden rocks and roots. The massive amount of runoff from the tops of the mountains also caused all of the rivers to swell violently and pick up pace substantially, going from babbling brook to intense waterfall. The rocks that we were supposed to use to traverse the  rivers were all tragically under water so time and again we had to literally ford the rivers, sacrificing what minute level of dryness (or at least not-squishy-ness) we had in our shoes. I was over it. 

We were supposed to go another 6 miles to the next hut but with an intense (read: dangerous) climb out of Pinkham Notch I threw in the towel and found a hostel near the trail that would come pick us up. We stopped briefly at the post office to grab my mail and then again at the general store to grab some beer. We spent the rest of the day doing laundry and relaxing, watching the rain fall in torrents outside and being glad for the roof over our heads and dry clothing. A few beers in Red Knees and I apologized to each other for being snippy because of the weather and general frustration and all was right again. 

Today we are going to finish up the Whites with a slack pack from Pinkham Notch up over the Wildcat range and back to this hostel in Gorham. The skies are clear with a nice breeze and I am hopeful - let's see how it goes. 

Whoops

Some days you wake up planning on walking 18 miles and you end up doing 12. Some days, like today, you plan to go 10 miles and end up doing 22 over some of, arguably, the most difficult terrain on the trail in order to have a roof over your head when the pending rain comes in and when you get there you have to tent anyways because the hut master is a prick on a power trip. Or he's just following the rules but whatever I'm peeved. I'll come back to that.

The morning after our zero at Chet's we woke up early only to discover that Red Knees's rain jacket had disappeared in the night. We searched high and low to no avail and ended up in the predicament of having to wait until the outfitter opened at 9:30am before we could get a new jacket before we could hitch before we could get back on the trail. It was a long morning. (Note: breakfast sandwiches from Subway are a terrible idea. My digestive system is still recovering from their pre-cooked egg white fiasco.)

We finally got back to the trail around 10:15am and began the steep climb out of Franconia Notch and up to our frat exposed ridge line. The climb began gradual and became increasingly steep until we hit the ridge going almost hand over hand. Giddy with excitement for the views we were about to see we nearly sprinted through the pine trees and up Little Haystack Mountain until we burst forth from the forest and were treated to one of the best sights I've seen to date: rising in front of us was Mount Lincoln, the trail cut into the exposed ridge with hikers slowly moving up, like the blood pumping through the veins of the mountain. No picture I could ever take would do justice to the magnitude and awesomeness of that view. 

From the top of Mount Lincoln you could see the remaining climbs for the day rising in the distance, looking almost close enough to touch - Mount Lafayette and Mount Garfield. Hikers have a terribly difficult time judging distance and change in altitude above tree line and we were no exception. We used our energy poorly and early leaving us spent by the time Garfield and the ensuing vertical descent were upon us. 

By the time we arrived at Galehead Hut RK and I were spent. Our knees were locked up in pain, our feet throbbed and we were absolutely famished. Before I could even inquire about work for stay I downed three glasses of water and at least two of pink lemonade. Though the hut typically only allows two hikers to do work for stay (and McJetpack was already there) they generously agreed to accommodate both Red Knees and myself. 

We sat patiently while the paying patrons enjoyed their dinner and once they began to dissipate after dessert we sprang into action to aid with the cleanup. When all 3 long picnic tables were cleared off the hut "croo" invited us back for pasta, two kinds of soup, homemade crusty bread, veggies and mocha-caramel cake. We feasted until we couldn't possibly fit in another bite and then went about earning our stay by deep cleaning the storage cabinets and finishing up the last of the dishes. 

Tired and full but unable to put out our sleeping bags in the dining area until after lights out at 9:30pm we lounged in the corner out of sight counting down the minutes. By 9:35pm we were set up and asleep, sprawled across the benches in the dining hall. 

6:30am came far too soon as we hurried to finish packing our things to clear room for the guests to enjoy their breakfasts. We hung around just log enough to snag some delicious leftover multigrain pancakes before heading out on the trail. 

The first climb up to South Twin was aggressively steep for our first climb of the day but we took our time and hammered it out. From there it was all downhill into Zealand Falls Hut where we had the opportunity to work for fresh baked peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies. Damn right I did those dishes. 

Somewhere between Zealand Falls Hut and Crawford Notch we decided to make a serious dent in our climb up to Mount Washington and the 3 miles to Webster Cliffs somehow became 6 miles to Mitzpah Springs Hut. The climbing and descending was steep and terrifying across the board. I wiped out several times, being rescued largely by my pack which took the brunt of the fall on more than one occasion. The late afternoon views of the valley, however, were magnificent, with the dwindling light bouncing off the mountains and lighting our way up the cliffs. 

We arrived at Mitzpah Springs Hut just after 7:00pm after a grueling 21+ miles and waited patiently to inquire about work for stay so that we could have a roof over our heads when the rain comes in tonight. The hut master quickly turned us away saying that they were "full". From the last hut we knew that the huts, especially those at or above tree line in the Presidentials, will almost always bend the rules since there is really no place else safe to camp that is accessible in the remaining hour of daylight. But not this guy. Some combination of power trip and rule follower had him sending us, and me on the verge of exhaustion tears, out to the tent site. Thankfully the tent site attendant took pity on our plight and gave us a platform for free (well, work for stay technically but it got too dark to pick up trash tonight so we will do it first thing in the morning).  

Tired, we set up quickly and ate dinner in silence. Here's hoping it doesn't rain or, if it does, that it gets it all out overnight tonight. 

Zeros for Heros

Everyone warned me that we would have to slow way down in the Whites - that our usual 20 mile days would be cut to 12 or fewer, 15 at most. And as much as I took what I was being told to heart, I really didn't believe them. 12 miles a day? Please. That's a good morning for us usually! The concept of having to slow down so drastically was so far beyond my comprehension that I largely dismissed it. Until yesterday. 

After a cozy night at the Hikers Welcome Hostel we woke up to the smell of bacon, eggs and blueberry pancakes wafting up the stairs. Foggy-eyed we stumbled down the stairs and enjoyed a hearty breakfast, needing the fuel to power us from Kinsman Notch all the way to Franconia Notch. Thankfully we had arranged to slack pack the 16 miles and to stay at Chet's Place that night - a "secret" word-of-mouth advertised hostel in Lincoln, NH. 

With our tiny backpack fully loaded and our packs ready to be dropped at our destination we headed out for Kinsman Notch. The climb in the beginning of the day was steep but manageable and we reached some kind of a ridgeline in good time. Though it looked relatively easy, the rolling, gradually ascending ridge up to Wolf Mountain was jagged and aggressive, sharply ascending and descending, catching us surprisingly off guard. At the top of Wolf Mountain we stopped to enjoy a beer that we had saved from the night before but the dark clouds were moving in towards us quickly so we knew we needed to move. 

Early in the day I began to feel a bit of tightening in my right shin so I shared this with Red Knees, telling him that I may need to slow down to stretch. Immediately his attitude towards me shifted only slightly but perceptibly. With the rain starting to fall there was nothing to be done except continue to hike on and push up Kinsman ridge to the top of the southern peak of Kinsman. 

The view from the top was lackluster as we sat surrounded entirely by cloud but the thickest air was that hanging between Red Knees and myself. Not wanting to bring it up, I desperately tried to be funny and excessively optimistic. I tried to commiserate. I tried being silent. But we continued our hail-pelted, view-less scramble down the vertical rock faces of north Kinsman in tense silence punctuated by occasional conversation or the smack of my trekking poles hitting the ground below as I threw them section by section down the mountain. 

At the bottom of the steep ascent about 13 miles into our day we finally arrived at our first of the AMC Huts - Lonesome Lake. The hut was beautiful with an incredible view of Lonesome Lake just down the hill. We stayed for a few minutes enjoying lemonade and eating the last of our snacks before more ominous clouds pushed us on down the last 3 miles along Cascade Brook Trail - the only section of the Appalachian Trail that I have previously hiked, two years previous with my family on a vacation up to Newfound Lake. There was something so comforting about knowing the trail, knowing where we had gotten lost before, knowing where we had struggled across a river or down a muddy slope. 

At the bottom of the hill we merged with dozens of tourists all out to mill about the bottom of the mountains and check out what sights there were to be seen from the one mile bubble surrounding their cars in the parking lot. In said parking lot we ran into Betterman and Smothers who were awaiting a pick up by OB to head back to Chet's - the same place where we intended to go. What luck. When OB arrived we piled in 6 deep to the tiny car and marinated in our own funk for about half an hour before arriving at the hostel. 

After dropping our things we headed down the street to a garden party being held by one of the neighbors to raise money for the local theatre that was, oh so generously, admitting hikers for free. We feasted on an amazing spread of fresh bread, pasta salad, fried chicken and salad and enjoyed a cocktail while watching live entertainment from the local theatre troupe. Tired and a bit wary of the drunk southbounders that were getting out of hand at the party, Red Knees, SoWay, Cliffnote and myself headed back to the hostel to claim our spaces.

After too much awkward silence had passed I finally lowered myself out of my chair and scooted over to Red Knees to try and hash out what was going on. To be honest I'm not even sure what he or I said but what it really boiled down to was fear of being out here alone. With a group you have a cushion - one person can fall back, another can get off trail and you still have some semblance of "group". We just have each other and for him to hear me talk about pain in my shin - an injury which previously took me off trail for a week - must have been petrifying. Hurt by what felt like rejection from my best friend (but which had dissipated by morning) I crawled back into my chair and tried to drift to sleep. 

Somewhere between sleep and awake the lights flicked back on and an officer walked through the basement with Chet to the back porch, looking for one of the Southbounders who had - after we had left the garden party - punched another hiker so violently in his drunken stupor that he was knocked unconscious. I don't know exactly what happened but I do know that there was screaming and I am shocked that any of us were allowed to remain at all. 

After a fitful night of sleep I awoke and moved from the chair/floor to a mattress that had been abandoned by and early riser and continued to rest. An hour later Red Knees lumbered over and we got up to begin a load of laundry and resupply. 

Once we were fully resupplied and ready to go we decided that a zero would be in our best interests - to let our knees and shins heal from our decidedly foolishly fast descent of Kinsman Mountain the day before. We spent the day walking through town, purchasing necessities at the outfitter, napping, writing post cards and attempting to compile a list of all of the trail angels that have aided us along the way (it took hours and so far the list is 50 people long - yikes!). Tomorrow we head back to Franconia Notch to tackle this next ridgeline. I am nervous for our first day in the Whites with a full back but thrilled for the views it promises to bring.