Katahdin

I just got back from a two week trip to Maine in the very Northeast corner of the US.  We drove all the way there from Florida.  It was my first time seeing many of the Northeastern states.  And while I didn't get much time to understand them, my initial impression based on traffic, road conditions, interactions with a few people, landscape, etc, is that most of those are places I never desire to go again. 

Ironically, the states I thought would be the worst were actually pleasant.  Namely, New Jersey and New York.  The roads were well maintained.  The people were friendly, drivers were efficient considerate, etc.  But my absolute least favorite state was Connecticut.  If you live there, I'm sorry for you and you can be reasonably certain you'll not see me there ever again if I can help it.  Pennsylvania is a close second.

But travel issues aside, Maine was a beautiful place.  I was surprised by the intense amount of pesky and biting insects for such a cold climate, but I guess they can only survive for such a short time, they come out in force.  Interestingly, in Florida, the bugs are more common in the shade because the sun is too hot.  In Maine, it was the opposite.

I was also struck by the profound impression that Maine is composed almost entirely of rock...various sizes and constructions, but it was by far the rockiest place I've ever been.  I took particular notice since I favor the barefoot style of shoes, so I felt EVERY stone.  My feet are now much tougher.

We stayed one afternoon and night in Bangor.  I found this to be a delightful city and could easily see myself living there.  Even the culture seemed to be very suitable.  I've never seen so many piercings, tattoos, and dyed hair outside of little enclaves and gatherings. It was pretty much everywhere there.

But then we camped at the base of Katahdin, the highest peak in Maine.  It's a great thrust of rock covered in more rock.  It generates its own microclimate, making the area an unpredictable mix of rocks, clouds, and trees.

My goal was to reach the peak, but on the first day, bad weather was predicted.  So we climbed South Turner Peak, which looks over at Baxter Peak (the highest).  It was a short trail, but went virtually straight up across...of course...large rocks.  (I'm pretty sure the trail designer was a mountain goat who owned stock in steel shank shoes.)  But my Tabi boots held good and my son and I had lunch atop a sunny peak in a cloud of black flies before rock hopping back down.

Turned out the bad weather didn't show til about 7pm, so we would have had ample time to get to the top of Baxter, but we were listening to Rangers and trying to play it safe.

What followed was a full day of rain.  So that day, we ascended part way up Baxter to Chimney Pond, which is a picturesque glacial pond surrounded by soaring granite cliffs that make up Baxter Peak.  On the way up, we met a Ranger who I instantly hit it off with.  He was lean like us and dancing from rock to rock like us.  He wore soft soled shoes, like us, and loved my boots.  He realized our experience and determination and didn't try to dissuade us from climbing Baxter, even in the rain, though he told us good options.  We had decided to skip Baxter that day since it would be shrouded in cloud so he recommended Pamola Caves, which was a branch off of Chimney Pond.

So we took that route and quickly found this guy was serious!  Pamola was a series of huge boulders that we had to, alternately and in combination, jump, scramble, spin, slide, skirt, and crawl under.  There is nothing like straddling a four foot gap in the rain with cliff on one side, and a dark hole filled with uneven rocks 20 feet below.  My 12 year old son, did beautifully, even where we had to climb down a waterfall.  But the most intense place for me was the narrow squeezes in which we had to leave our packs and shimmy sideways and up through crevices where even my slim 90cm chest touched one face and my back the other.  Then we had to crawl through a tunnel and climb up a pipe of rock.  I did it with ease, but realized, I have no love for caving.

After awhile we returned and bounded our way through rocks and mud back to our campsite.  It was here that I realized these trails were like none I have hiked in Japan, Hawaii, or Appalachia.  Essentially, they remove vegetation, and then leave the rocks and all for people to navigate.  It's like walking in a rocky stream bed, which indeed it becomes in the rain.  Even where the inevitable washouts occur, most trails install a small pipe, a horizontal ladder, or log bridge to cross them.  Here, they simply pile up some rocks in the trail and let the washout flow between.  The hiker has to climb over the rocks, into the wash, and back out the other side, or jump the gap.

So after two days of this intense hiking, our feet and legs were baked.  But the next morning was fair and we determined to do Baxter Peak, come what may.  It was our last opportunity.  So foot sore, and leg tired, we ascended the Chimney trail again.  Then we chose the Saddle trail up to the peak.  Though it was a bit longer, it was the least intense and we were tired.  Of course, by least intense we mean that the vertical portion of the climb was only about a kilometer over loose gravel and rocks.

We were slow moving when we finally crested the ridge and entered the alpine tundra.  Then we were treated with another surprise, which Thoreau described as if raw materials for a planet were dumped up there, awaiting incorporation.  Millions upon millions of grapefruit sized loose rocks were strewn everywhere.  The trail was like walking of sharp edged, shifting softballs that adjusted and settled with each step like giant sand grains.  About 2km later we reached the peak.  Which on this first sunny day in a week, was full of people.  There was an Appalachian Trail through-hiker ending his journey. A couple south-bound starting theirs.  A guy proposing to his girlfriend at the peak, about 35 kids of varying ages up with a few summer camps, and sundry others.

I was sitting on the rocks exhausted with throbbing feet.  But I was there.  I sucked water, gnawed beef jerky, and chomped some nuts.  Then we started down.  It was a slow painful walk and I was certain it would have been much better if I wasn't three days into some serious hikes on backpacker rations.  The climb down was without event.  We took it slow and all four of our legs were noodling, but we did it without injury or incident.

I was not surprised by the peak, though the trail certainly was unexpected.  Peaks are usually crowded in high season.  I partly wish I had done it in the rain, but that climb up the slide would have been tricky.  At least then we'd have been more alone at the summit.  But in the end, I know for me, hiking is about the journey.  And I don't mean that in the cleche since.  Quite literally, I don't care about the views.  I don't even want to stop at the top.  I'm content to reach it and keep right on moving.

The reason for this hit me profoundly as we started back down the sunny tundra.  Dancing along those loose stones, my son asked my why I never want to stop at the top. We had quickly left the crowd (all still at the summit) and I looked out over this alien landscape with clouds sweeping up like something from a Miyazaki movie.  I was impressed dramatically with a simultaneous sense of relief at having accomplished the hardest of three difficult hikes in as many days, wonder at the scene, and a distinct sense of 'now'.  I explained the above to him and told him of Augustine's description of time:  That the future does not exist, the past is gone, and all that exists is the present moment.  If you focus your attention down on the smallest unit of time you can perceive, you'll realize that reality is flying by in an ever-present and infinitesimally small 'now'.

That was when I slipped into that attention and was palpably impressed with the living sublimity of the moment.  My eyes teared up and overflowed, I almost lost my balance as I beheld for the briefest moment the way God sees the world.  This place, this distant, alien, unfriendly place was not made for us.  It was made by and for God himself.  And in it was a glorious thriving of motion and activity and life.  The ever-present now is where God lives.  I said this to my son.  And as sudden as it came it was gone, like the mists blowing across the dappled lichen.  Like Moses, I had climbed to the high place and glimpsed God as he passed by.  I was left with salt-stinging eyes, throbbing legs, and a profound sense of joy.  I had found something on that mountain, but as usual it was not where anyone would think to look.