I flew back to New England for this trip, and boy, it was a doozy. I was yearning for volcanoes, glacial views, desert and beautifully maintained trails after the first day of this wacky, wet, and unexpected adventure.
You can skip to the pictures, or read the story below.
At the northern reaches of the Appalachian Trail in Maine is the remotest stretch of walking: almost 100 miles without any towns or major road crossings, just the occasional long, private gravel road. My dad thought this would make a great backpacking trip after reading Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. And so, for the past two years, we planned on tackling this lonely stretch of trail. After flying from Portland to Newark to Providence, I met my folks at the airport and got ready for a 6 hour drive into the heart of Maine. Our plan: to hike north from Monson to Baxter State Park, 100 miles, in 8 days.
Day 1 (June 26, 2009)
We awoke from a good night’s sleep at the Appalachian Trail Lodge in Millinocket, Maine and head a nice, hearty breakfast before meeting Paul, our shuttle to Monson. One of the owners of the lodge, Paul basically shuttles AT hikers all day long, does their laundry, handles mail drops, and pretty much accommodates whoever, whenever, and whatever all through the hiking season. The guy is an angel.
We arrived at the trail head before noon and did one final check before embarking on our journey. The skies were overcast, the ground was damp, and the trail was surrounded by thick vegetation. At last, we were off.
Not five minutes into our walk we encountered a pond overflowing into an outlet stream that we needed to cross. The environment reminded me of a previous high water hike I’d done in the Whites years ago. The familiar plant life, smells and terrain came rushing back to me as we proceeded along the trail. As we sloshed through mud, clambered down wet rocks and gingerly stepped over, on, and between roots, I tried to snap out of West-coast hiking mode and back into East-coast hiking mode.
In the first hour of our hike we came across 5 or 6 hikers heading southbound to Georgia. They ranged from a single guy with his dog who was cruising along, to a cheerful couple who didn’t look like they’d been hiking for a week, to a guy who looked like he’d been hiking through a war for a month. We stopped for lunch mid-afternoon at a small opening in the woods, where we looked at the map to see how far we’d gone. The map, as we’d learn time and time again, was very difficult to use to gauge our progress. The trail has so many minute up and downs that do not show up on the map; however, when carrying 40 pounds those ups and downs feel significant enough to be seen on the map.
Shortly after our break, we reached the Leeman Brook Lean-to and then passed by the pretty North Pond. Calculating our speed at about one mile per hour left me feeling defeated already. I hoped that we would be able to pick up the pace in the coming days, or we’d never have a shot at finishing in our allotted time.
There are few points of interest along the trail. When we reached one, Little Wilson Falls, we used it as an excuse to take our packs off and check out the scenery. The waterfall blasts through a narrow gorge made of parallel slats of rock. The recent month of constant rain produced a high volume flow over the top of the falls. Hearing the loud pounding of water reminded me of home. But we had miles to cover, so we loaded up and went on our way.
Up to this point, the air had been heavy with humidity and the skies above looked ominous. It was inevitable that rain was on its way. And so, rain it did. I had a pack cover protecting the contents of my backpack but I skipped the rain gear for myself in fear of sweating to death. At the next river ford, we changed into water shoes in hopes of keeping our boots from getting soaked through. The rain broke for just a short while, and started up again as soon as I began to cross. The water rushed swiftly through the central river channel and tried its best to take me out. Once safely on the other side, we changed into boots and went on our way. The rain picked up and we exited the cover of forest to walk along more open, rocky ledges. We decided to move as fast as we could to get to the lean-to before dark. That was 3 miles away. Three miles sounded to me like a very, very long ways away.
But I put my head down, revved up my motor and went for it. My dad struggled along behind, moving as best as he could. We didn’t talk much as we negotiated nasty roots, slippery rocks and steep ups and downs. The next landmark we reached was a stream crossing. Looking at the map, we saw that the lean-to was still one mile away. It was now past 7 pm. We decided to camp here for the night. Fortunately we had just passed someone’s old campsite not 100 yards down the trail, so we called that home. The rain subsided a little bit as I set up my tent and my dad tried, unsuccessfully, to get a fire going. We were right beside a great big river so we filtered water, made dinner, and changed into dry clothes.
I slept on and off that night, listening to the rain pelt the tent, and wondering if my hips were going to make it through this in one piece. my pointy little hip bones get destroyed by heavy backpacks. I was using my custom made pads (Brad’s crafty handiwork) but I had my doubts. Friction sucks.
Read the rest of the story on my blog.
You can skip to the pictures, or read the story below.
At the northern reaches of the Appalachian Trail in Maine is the remotest stretch of walking: almost 100 miles without any towns or major road crossings, just the occasional long, private gravel road. My dad thought this would make a great backpacking trip after reading Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. And so, for the past two years, we planned on tackling this lonely stretch of trail. After flying from Portland to Newark to Providence, I met my folks at the airport and got ready for a 6 hour drive into the heart of Maine. Our plan: to hike north from Monson to Baxter State Park, 100 miles, in 8 days.
Day 1 (June 26, 2009)
We awoke from a good night’s sleep at the Appalachian Trail Lodge in Millinocket, Maine and head a nice, hearty breakfast before meeting Paul, our shuttle to Monson. One of the owners of the lodge, Paul basically shuttles AT hikers all day long, does their laundry, handles mail drops, and pretty much accommodates whoever, whenever, and whatever all through the hiking season. The guy is an angel.
We arrived at the trail head before noon and did one final check before embarking on our journey. The skies were overcast, the ground was damp, and the trail was surrounded by thick vegetation. At last, we were off.
Not five minutes into our walk we encountered a pond overflowing into an outlet stream that we needed to cross. The environment reminded me of a previous high water hike I’d done in the Whites years ago. The familiar plant life, smells and terrain came rushing back to me as we proceeded along the trail. As we sloshed through mud, clambered down wet rocks and gingerly stepped over, on, and between roots, I tried to snap out of West-coast hiking mode and back into East-coast hiking mode.
In the first hour of our hike we came across 5 or 6 hikers heading southbound to Georgia. They ranged from a single guy with his dog who was cruising along, to a cheerful couple who didn’t look like they’d been hiking for a week, to a guy who looked like he’d been hiking through a war for a month. We stopped for lunch mid-afternoon at a small opening in the woods, where we looked at the map to see how far we’d gone. The map, as we’d learn time and time again, was very difficult to use to gauge our progress. The trail has so many minute up and downs that do not show up on the map; however, when carrying 40 pounds those ups and downs feel significant enough to be seen on the map.
Shortly after our break, we reached the Leeman Brook Lean-to and then passed by the pretty North Pond. Calculating our speed at about one mile per hour left me feeling defeated already. I hoped that we would be able to pick up the pace in the coming days, or we’d never have a shot at finishing in our allotted time.
There are few points of interest along the trail. When we reached one, Little Wilson Falls, we used it as an excuse to take our packs off and check out the scenery. The waterfall blasts through a narrow gorge made of parallel slats of rock. The recent month of constant rain produced a high volume flow over the top of the falls. Hearing the loud pounding of water reminded me of home. But we had miles to cover, so we loaded up and went on our way.
Up to this point, the air had been heavy with humidity and the skies above looked ominous. It was inevitable that rain was on its way. And so, rain it did. I had a pack cover protecting the contents of my backpack but I skipped the rain gear for myself in fear of sweating to death. At the next river ford, we changed into water shoes in hopes of keeping our boots from getting soaked through. The rain broke for just a short while, and started up again as soon as I began to cross. The water rushed swiftly through the central river channel and tried its best to take me out. Once safely on the other side, we changed into boots and went on our way. The rain picked up and we exited the cover of forest to walk along more open, rocky ledges. We decided to move as fast as we could to get to the lean-to before dark. That was 3 miles away. Three miles sounded to me like a very, very long ways away.
But I put my head down, revved up my motor and went for it. My dad struggled along behind, moving as best as he could. We didn’t talk much as we negotiated nasty roots, slippery rocks and steep ups and downs. The next landmark we reached was a stream crossing. Looking at the map, we saw that the lean-to was still one mile away. It was now past 7 pm. We decided to camp here for the night. Fortunately we had just passed someone’s old campsite not 100 yards down the trail, so we called that home. The rain subsided a little bit as I set up my tent and my dad tried, unsuccessfully, to get a fire going. We were right beside a great big river so we filtered water, made dinner, and changed into dry clothes.
I slept on and off that night, listening to the rain pelt the tent, and wondering if my hips were going to make it through this in one piece. my pointy little hip bones get destroyed by heavy backpacks. I was using my custom made pads (Brad’s crafty handiwork) but I had my doubts. Friction sucks.
Read the rest of the story on my blog.
