I gazed down upon Klondike Pond from the Northwest Basin Trail. Earlier in the day I had summited Hamlin Peak and now I was on my way to Davis Pond, and eventually, to Fort Mountain. The route to the pond looked straightforward enough from my vantage point. Almost certainly, this would be the only chance to reach the pond during my lifetime. I dropped my pack and planned my way. I vaguely recall a very faint path that would soon peter out as I descended. Admittedly, my memory has faded during the intervening decades. In those days I hardly ever carried a camera, so I have no photos to jog my memory. I did write down the date for later reference: August 10, 1975.
I retain memory of the lake itself, but the thing that sticks in my mind is the surrounding terrain. There were these strange pits in the ground, a few meters deep, a few meters wide, covered with vegetation. Moss and luxurious vegetation lined the pits. I actually considered the possibility there might be hidden pits covered over with vegetation, analogous to hidden crevasses on a glacier. What if I fell in and was severely injured? As soon as they found my pack back up there on the trail, it would be obvious where I had gone. But it would be days before anyone would reach me. This worried me.
(I have seen similar pits only once. I encountered them while bushwhacking near beaver ponds on Camels Hump. I was worried then about falling into hidden pits, just as I had been on Katahdin. The beaver ponds, situated on the north shoulder of the mountain, are readily visible afar from the Long Trail.)
I had signed out for this trip as required by Baxter Park regulations, but with knowledge that I was almost certainly breaking the rules. Itinerary: Chimney Pond (overnight), Hamlin Peak, Davis Pond (overnight), Fort Mountain, the Brothers. I made no mention of Klondike Pond in my written itinerary. But my route would obviously require a major bushwhack traverse of Fort before ending up at the Marston Trail trailhead. In fact, when I reached the end of my journey the next day, a park ranger awaited my arrival to ensure my expulsion from the park. I was aware that solo bushwhacking was probably illegal based on something I read somewhere. If true, I figured that park officials would stop me at the trailhead or at Chimney Pond. When they didn't, I carried on.
For more see the thread, Expelled From Baxter State Park.
http://www.vftt.org/forums/showthread.php?57749-Expelled-from-Baxter-State-Park&p=431982#post431982
Klondike Pond, such an enchanting destination. I savored the experience, alone in that mysterious place. In days gone by, caribou had looked down upon Klondike Pond. They roamed the Tableland, Katahdin's alpine zone, in the 1950s. That experiment at reintroduction had failed (as described in an old Appalachia article). The caribou found too little to eat, it was assumed, and migrated north to Canada. Now, hikers were the primary animal roaming the Tableland, gazing down upon the pond. Very few would ever make the trek down a thousand feet to the narrow body of water situated at 3400 feet. I felt privileged to have experienced the pond and its strange surroundings, which few others ever had or ever would see close at hand. On my way back up to the Northwest Basin Trail, I recall ascending a rock slab. The way back was never truly difficult or dangerous in my recollection.
Today what bothers me most was the dangerous situation I placed myself in. My itinerary was known and my pack parked on the Northwest Basin Trail. But in the event of a serious accident, help would not arrive for several days. Furthermore, a rescue would place park rangers at risk. I would not repeat those actions and intentions of my youth. Instead I would work through standard channels to stay within regulations. If that meant never visiting the pond, so be it. One can enjoy the charm of Klondike Pond without seeing it close at hand, without letting its waters slip through your fingers. Klondike Pond and the nearby swamp of The Klondike, what other places in New England hold such deep fascination in the imagination and dreams of backcountry travelers, knowing that so very few will ever visit in person?
In those days of youthful enthusiasm, however, I placed myself in even worse situations. So many hikes, too many bushwhacks to out-of-the-way places when not a soul knew where I was going. Instead of days to find me, it might be months or years before anyone discovered my final resting place.
One last thing.
I never told the park rangers where I had gone that day.