The 100-Mile Wilderness and Katahdin

Day 168. September 27th: Monson to Thompson Brook – 10 miles

For our first day in the Hundred Mile Wilderness, we plan a modest fifteen miles. After our easy 9-mile cruise into Monson yesterday morning and an afternoon of rest at Shaw’s, this goal should be reasonable, but it isn’t. The morning’s hike looks straightforward on the elevation profile, but the constant small, steep climbs and descents, reminiscent of the trail in New York, sap my energy. I feel slow and heavy. I’m glad I didn’t bother trying to keep up with Ash, Rob, and Jane at their 20-mile pace. For me, right now, fifteen miles might as well be fifty: simply not attainable.

Day 169. September 28th: Thompson Brook to 4th Mountain – 11 miles

The next day is much the same. The forest is slowly transforming as autumn takes hold, and these dense, quiet woods are some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, but I struggle to appreciate them. Hauling myself up Barren Mountain requires all my effort and attention. We hoped to make it to Chairback Gap Lean-to, but once again, I fall several miles short.

Day 170. September 29th: 4th Mountain to Pleasant River – 10 miles

Before I started this journey, I read every Appalachian Trail book and blog and article that I could find. I thought I knew what physical ailments might befall me in the wilderness. It could be blisters, knee issues, shin splints, insect bites, norovirus, giardia, heat exhaustion, hypothermia… the list was long. But I never anticipated that a minor prescription change would be my downfall. I’ve now been on my period for five of the last seven weeks, including 18 of the last 21 days. I feel like an empty husk of the hiker I was a thousand miles ago.

Etienne observes me continuing to struggle, and between my fatigue and a shifting weather forecast, he suggests sliding our summit date back another day. Like in early New Hampshire, I am flooded with gratitude that he has saved me from saying it aloud: I’m sorry. I can’t make it.

I readily agree to the new itinerary. But we planned to reach our food drop at White House Landing in four or five days. Now it’s going to be six. We don’t talk about it, but at each break, I notice that we’re both choosing our snacks carefully.

Day 171. September 30th: Pleasant River to East Branch Lean-to – 16 miles

We start the morning with a ford, and then the trail is easier. White Cap is the biggest mountain in the Hundred Mile Wilderness, but for once, the path is well graded and maintained. Bad weather is rolling in, but we make it to the summit before the storm arrives. While the wind attempts to tear my Frogg Toggs to shreds, we pose for photos at the summit because of the mountain we can see in the background. Katahdin. It’s mostly socked in clouds, but we can see enough of the base to know that we’re looking at our destination.

Day 172. October 1st: East Branch to Antlers Campsite – 16  miles

We’re both nearly out of food. We need to either push 22 miles to Whitehouse Landing or ration our remaining calories to last until tomorrow afternoon. Etienne is still as patient with me as ever, but there’s tension each time we paw through our food bags for a snack.

That afternoon, we are saved. When we reach a rare gravel forest road, a truck is parked on the shoulder, and a man is unloading white 5-gallon buckets. It’s the Shaw’s food drop, and a small crowd of hikers has gathered around it. Among them is Trish, accompanied by her faithful chocolate lab Toby. We’ve overlapped with them off and on since New York. I resolve not to yogi on purpose (“Yogi-ing” is when a backpacker convinces someone to give them their extra food without directly asking for it), but when Trish offers us some snacks that aren’t fitting into her backpack, we accept with such enthusiasm that she quickly grasps our situation. She asks around the circle of hikers if anyone else has extra snacks, and moments later, we have enough granola bars and crackers to get us to Katahdin, much less to Whitehouse Landing tomorrow. We thank them profusely and keep hiking.

That night, we tent at Antlers Campsite, possibly the best campsite on the AT. There’s a dozen dispersed tent sites and two large fire pits with log seating, all on a wooded peninsula that stretches into Jo-Mary Lake. That night, the moon is a thin sliver. Deep in the most remote section of trail, we are fifty miles from the nearest light pollution, and I have never seen so many stars. The still water mirrors the night sky. Perched on a rock at the edge of the lake, it’s like we’re floating in space.

Day 173. October 2nd: Antlers to Whitehouse Landing – 6 miles

It’s an easy nero to the spur trail to the lake, where we call Whitehouse Landing, the nearby hunting camp, just as it begins to rain. By the time the camp’s owner arrives in a small motorboat, we’re half drenched. We climb aboard, and he shuttles us across the lake to Whitehouse Landing. This hunting camp is completely off the grid. They have the package of food we sent from Andover, so we refill our food bags and enjoy a relaxing afternoon indoors while the rain pours outside. To our surprise, Ed is here, after flipping south from Gorham. We hiked with Ed from Franklin to Hot Springs, so long ago that he doesn’t remember us at first. It’s a fun reunion, and my body is deeply grateful for the opportunity to rest.

We have two big days ahead of us to reach Baxter State Park, and then on Friday, we will climb Katahdin. It seems impossible that in three days, it will all be over. For better or worse, it seems impossible that a journey like the Appalachian Trail can ever actually end.

Day 174. October 3rd: White House Landing to Rainbow Lake – 19 miles

Day 175. October 4th: Rainbow Lake to Katahdin Stream Campground – 22 miles

It’s the second of two long days. We’re in Baxter, and the trail is broad and flat. The sky is gray above us, but somehow the autumn leaves are glowing like gemstones. My feet are moving of their own accord, but not without effort. It takes monumental effort at this point, a 22-mile day in Maine, even on easy trail like this. Every part of me feels heavy. I’m still on my period. At this point, it’s been six of the last eight weeks, including 23 of the last 26 days, and I already have a doctor’s appointment a week from now. I’ve begun to worry that something is seriously wrong with me, beyond the side effects of a new prescription. This can’t be normal.

For a moment, I forget my exhaustion in a rush of delight when a pair of round black ears appears at the crest of a hill. Bear! As we draw nearer, the juvenile black bear, the same size as Toby the Labrador, lopes up the trail and out of sight. A bear sighting on our last day of the trail serves as a reminder that despite my unfortunate health complications in the last six weeks, I am still lucky to be out here.

Then the trail returns to dense woods encircling a lake. I feel like we should have reached the campground half an hour ago. How, on Day 175, am I still always convinced that I must have somehow walked past the campsite already?

Then, we’re here. Katahdin Stream Campground. We register with the ranger and set up in the small shelter no sooner than the raindrops begin to pelt the metal roof. That night, I need every degree of warmth my sleeping bag can offer. I fall asleep in my cocoon alongside Etienne in his own quilt burrito. All night long, the rain pours, and pours, and pours.

Day 176. October 5th: Katahdin Stream to Katahdin Northern Terminus – 5 miles + descent on Abol Trail

My alarm wakes us before dawn. This is it. I pack up, expecting to feel different, but I don’t. There’s exhaustion and anticipation, but in a way that’s oddly detached. Mostly I just feel gratitude: grateful for this experience, and grateful that it’s about to be over.

It’s cold this morning. The puddles are crusted over with ice. We leave a few belongings at the ranger station and start to climb.

Up, and up, and up. By the time we reach the red-gold treeline, the sun has risen, and the sky is bluebird clear. Katahdin is a fitting final hurdle of this endeavor—this is the most challenging ascent of the trail. In a few places, rebar handholds are fitted into the boulders, but mostly we are left to find our way up the spine of the mountain on our own, the white blazes providing only rough guidance. I pack my poles away to use my hands until we reach the tableland.

Once we reach this broad, flat section of the mountain below the peak, the views expand in every direction. Unlike most other mountains on the trail, Katahdin is not part of a range. Katahdin rests in the center of Baxter alone, with no rival peaks nearby. I look upward and my heart skips a beat. We can see it. A small crowd of people, and at the center, the sign.

The summit disappears again as we cross the tableland and then start up the final incline. When we crest the ridge once again, we’re there.

People are cheering, whistling, clapping as we approach. There’s a line for photos, and an overwhelming, joyful camaraderie as we witness each hiker’s reaction to reaching this summit. I expected to cry – heaven knows I’ve cried enough on this journey, and this once, at least I wouldn’t feel like such an idiot, because this moment is worthy of any and all emotion—but I don’t cry. I approach the wooden sign and touch it, tracing the white paint of the “K” with a fingertip. I can feel my smile stretching my face, but it all seems like a dream, a not-quite-real thing. I climb clumsily on top of the sign and pose for my picture.

If I’d expected the Appalachian Trail to provide me some great revelation on Katahdin, I would have been disappointed. But I was never really on the trail to *find myself* or discover the *meaning of life*, so it doesn’t trouble me that neither is waiting for me here at the summit. Instead, I am struck by who is at the summit. I feel a sharp pang of regret that it can’t be Ash, Rob, and Jane, our friends from so many weeks and months, but this is good too. I lean against Etienne as we sit on a boulder, eat a snack, and watch more hikers arrive. There is shouting, laughing, weeping, hugging, and kissing. Some sprint to the summit sign, and others kneel before it. The joy and gratitude overflowing from every person on this mountaintop is palpable, and beyond the adventure and physical challenge, that’s all I was hoping to find out here.

We could not have asked for more perfect summit weather, and even when we’ve been up here for half an hour, I still can’t quite believe that this moment is real. I’m here. Etienne is here. We made it. After so many rainy days, the sun is shining, and we’re standing on Katahdin, the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. We walked here from Georgia.

We made it.