Tim Seaver
Well-known member
So there we were, standing aside the van at the Stratton Pond Brook Road.
Waiting for a few Mean Girls.
Supposedly, Jon and I were to meet them at 12 noon for an afternoon hike up West and Avery peaks in the Bigelow Range. Supposedly, the Mean Girls had abandoned their AM plan to hike Saddleback and the Horn due to the extreme cold forecast for that morning. Supposedly, we would all do the Bigelow thing together, and then continue to Millinocket for an early start on Hamlin and Baxter.
Well, that isn't exactly what happened.
It seems that the Mean Girls had awoke to temperatures that were not as arctic as called for, and headed off to dispense with the Horn and Saddleback, still hoping to meet us by noon. A message left on my cell phone to that effect was lost in the Great North Woods, never to be seen again.
So we wait. And ponder. And deduce: " Ya know, it really wasn't that cold out this AM...I bet those crazy broads went for it!" ( No, we didn't really say that)
So at 12:30, we left a note on the dash ( "see ya at the Col?"), and headed up the road/snowmachine trail, certain that Team MG would appear sometime that afternoon. The Firewardens Trail was broken out fairly well down low, but as the woods opened up, the trail trench became increasingly invisible until it disappeared completely, at which point we were breaking trail through a crusty surface over 6-14" or so of soft stuff. We made the col a bit before sunset, and headed up West Peak first, then retreated to the col and up Avery just as the sun was setting.
A bit below the col, from out of the darkening shadows, appeared the MG contingent, all spunky from their morning climb. They were determined to bag West and Avery in the dark. Never argue with a Mean Girl hell-bent on bagging a summit or two! We commented how clever it was for them to allow us to break trail for them, and quickly ran for the exit, making the road by about 8:30 or so. Team MG had skinned in, and were sure to be nipping at our heels, so it was a good thing the young man operating the snow-groomer offered us a frosty but fast exit down the road!
Evidently, MG's do not require much sleep ( food, that's another thing!), as their logistics called for a 3+ hr. road trip to Millinocket beginning at 9:30pm, followed by gear sorting and drying, and then a 2:30 am wakeup call to make the Abol Stream parking lot by 4 am. Do the math, it's not pretty. Jon and I were shaking our heads at this dawned on us, when suddenly the phone rings. Yup, it's them, on the road, attempting to outmanuever us through the maze of zig-zagging, dilapidated driveways that pass for roads in Maine. Jon, playing ace navigator from the passenger seat, did some quick calculations, and gave me the nod.
"We are WAY ahead of you....don't even TRY to catch up!" was the gist of our taunting reply. Unfortunately, Team MG could not take such a challenge lying down, and soon were getting a $panking from Johnny Law for their leadfooted ways on I-95. Oh the shame! But their misadventures for the evening had just begun! Rolling into the Terrace Inn way past their bedtime, they find the owners have already retired for the evening, and now are without a place to stay. So they move on, and eventually settle in at the Pamola Motel for a long nights sleep (ok, an hour nap).
At 2:30, sure enough, the phone rings ominously, and Jon and I struggle to come to our senses and get organized. Adding to the fun, the battery in my remote for the van had died, so using the key to open it triggers the alarm, which I have no idea as how to stop. So we roll into the Pamola Inn parking lot with loud sirens blaring at 3:30 am, appearing somewhat like an undercover ambulance. I am sure the other hotel guests were entertained, but we didn't stick around long enough to find out just how merry of a mood they were in.
Arriving at the Abol Stream lot at around 4 am, I disconnected the battery on the van, and finally shut the damn yelping off. We headed up the snowmobile path, psyched to finally be here after so many weeks of false alarms as to the date of this trip. Sleep? Who needs it?
The snowmobile trail was firm, and before long we rolled into Abol Pond, where we put on shoes for the approach to the slide. As we approached the base of the slide, the clearing skies gave a boost to our spirits, giving us hope that we could have a good enough weather window to boogie over to Hamlin via the Cutoff and return over Baxter. The base of the slide resembled a close-out sale on snowshoes, helmets, and even headlights, something I am not sure the Alpine Ranger would be too thrilled at seeing. But who am I to be a ninny or nanny on such matters?
Moving up the slide, we began to catch up with some of the others in our loosely-knit group, and we all paused at the Tableland to chat and gaze at the marvelous landscape around us. We then headed over to Hamlin under sunny skies with snowshoes afoot, intersecting the trail between the Saddle and Cathedral trail junctions. The trail up to Hamlin was a mix of snowfields and threading through rocks, and soon we were at the summit taking goofy pictures.
As we turned around for the return trip down Hamlin and up Baxter, the wind picked up noticeably, kicking up small ground blizzards as we made our way up Baxter. Curiously, at the summit, the winds dropped off, and we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of helmeted, axe-wielding, crampon-footed CLIMBERS! Or at least hikers looking the part. And there we stood, like misfits from some cheap North Pole B-movie, feeling a bit silly in our snowshoes and ski poles around such an impressive collection of sharp instruments. We took off just as Spencer was climbing the summit cairn for his Supeman impression.
Well the rest isn't all that interesting, so I'll go with the short version:
We went down. Down the slide. Down the trail. Across the snowmobile trail as the patter of raindrops fell. Back to the now-silent ambulance/van as the mountain disappeared under a misty blanket. Back to the hotel. Sore toes. Tired bodies. You know the rest.
Later that evening, we all met at the Terrace for their overpriced and insubstantial menu, the wind-burned faces looking in disbelief at the scrawny portions. Rumor has it that the Mean Girls, after dinner was over, stole off to Hannaford's to pig out on unmentionable foodstuffs. Several empty 55 gallon drums of Stonyfield 10w-30 Industrial Grade Smoothies dumped outside their motel told us everything we needed to know.
All kidding aside, it was a fanstastic weekend. Many thanks to the Mean Girls and John Swanson for putting this together and patiently waiting for the right time to strike. I can hardly wait to go back
Some pics from the event
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