Clear Skies, New Eyes: The Journey to Katahdin

What could that winking dot of light be? Was it changing color? My trail buddy and I squinted across Nahmakanta Lake at the low, glowing edge of northeastern sky. There was no tower under it—this was truly an Unidentified Floating Object in the wilderness. ‘Nahmakanta’ is the Abenaki word for ‘plenty of fish.’ The lake is a spring-fed jewel of Maine’s North Woods and we were there on its sandy shore with a fire, plenty of dry wood, food, libations, and a log to sit on after slogging all day. It doesn’t get any better. Or so we thought.

We were halfway into our 100-mile, nine-day trek on the Appalachian Trail which would include the summit of Katahdin, Baxter Peak—the iconic northern terminus of the trail. Our husbands and a friend were staying at a lakeside cabin 2.5 hours from the trail by car. The logistical labor involved in planning such a trek, let alone the trek itself, is epic, and the devil is always in the details. The night before our shuttle ride (my hubby), I realized I did not have my long-handled titanium spork with me. Luckily the cabin was stocked with plastic utensils (apologies to marine ecosystems) so I threw a short-handled plastic fork and spoon into my kit. I had packed everything I needed and more, including my Hike for Mental Health shirt which I was saving especially for the climb up and down Katahdin, to honor the life of my cousin Alex who died by suicide a few months earlier.

Finding the trailhead at the Pleasant River’s west branch had gone smoothly thanks to downloaded gps data. This was shortly followed by a successful ford of the river in sandals which kept our boots dry. But experience had taught us to expect the unexpected, and the first night was no exception when my buddy’s sleeping pad sprung a leak and I had to pick half-melted plastic fork tines out of my dinner. All part of the adventure.

To lighten our nine-day food load as much as logistically possible, we both had shipped the bigger half of it to the folks at Shaw’s (hostel and gear shop) which they would deliver to a gravel logging road crossing on day three. Atop White Cap Mountain on day two, my buddy found just enough cell service to confirm this rendezvous and purchase a new sleeping pad which is a pretty essential piece of gear. My cheap plastic utensils would do. The fine summit weather gave us a clear view of Katahdin and the vast expanse of land we would traverse to get there, a land teeming with more-than-human life.

We saw plenty of moose poop, but no moose, alas. Beaver woodcraft, but no beaver. Red squirrels were abundant as were their squealing demands to get off their turf. Chipmunks, chickadees, woodpeckers, garter snakes, bull frogs, and pet dogs all showed up, including a concrete memorial of the latter—a Dalmatian sitting high on a bafflingly inaccessible ridge. An unexpected delight. Also oddly delightful were the white fuzzy caterpillars of the native hickory tussock moth who seemed to follow us everywhere, hanging out with us around the campfire—autumnal wanderers just like us.

On our second night, a barred owl and coyote medley gave way to an endless drone of logging machines, a grating reminder that ‘wilderness’ is a relative construct. We didn’t come to this forest to hear the mechanized harvest of its tallest inhabitants. And yet. My house and furniture is made with wood from trees like these. Here was one of the front lines where the fates of the forest and humankind entwine. How can I hike across bridges and boardwalks and use paper for writing and wiping without some reverence for the labor involved in bringing such products into being? But did it have to be at two in the morning?

Needless to say we were sleep deprived for day three, all 16-ish miles of it—mileage which is no small feat for section-hikers hauling packs filled with six days of food (and an extra pound of sleeping gear for my poor buddy). Groaning our way at last to the already well-populated Antlers campground, we were barely capable of setting up our bedding let alone building a fire or socializing. The toil continued the following day but it wasn’t lost on us how lucky we were to have dry weather and river crossings, no biting insects, and beauty all around. We savored it all—the fairy wonderland of boulders terraformed with untold species of moss and lichen, the sublime scent of balsam fir, the haunting calls of loon, and the soft whirring of pine needles as they dropped from high above us.

And here we were in the waning blush of day four, watching a mysterious celestial body grow larger and brighter as the moonless sky grew dark. A wisp of cloud had formed underneath our UFO, a glowing pillow ready to catch its fall, and all this reflected in the lake. Doesn’t get any better? This was beyond better, and the night was young.

We sat there way past hiker-bedtime, captivated. The whole arc of human ‘progress’ was laid bare around us, from the taming of fire to the thousands of orbiting satellites on which this ongoing ‘progress’ now depends—objects so profuse they actually hinder astronomical research. Yet a stronger force beyond the human arc was at work this evening, embodied by a glitter-bomb spectacle coalescing into the upward spray of the Milky Way. Never had we seen a night sky so exquisitely etched. These were Carl Sagan moments, what can I say. Star stuff contemplating the stars.

By the time we were ready to sleep, we had decided our UFO might very well be Venus. But when I crawled out of my tent in the wee hours to pee, I saw in the still-dazzling sky what could only be Venus rising far away in the west. Solving the mystery would have to wait until I was home.

Oh, the sweet joy of an unobstructed dawn with the promise of another sparkling day. Milkweed plants stood tall in the morning light, the last of their seeds aloft. To top off our lakeside stay, an unassuming privy box with a real toilet seat appeared like magic in a tiny clearing in the woods nearby. May blessings be showered on the Bureau of Parks and Lands for providing this highly-coveted amenity, not to mention the picnic table with its little sign: “Just another day in paradise.”

Shortly after the final views of Nahmakanta Lake were behind us we found a map on the ground which featured the topographical details of its watershed. The map was well-loved, taped at the seams. My buddy resolved to carry it in her pack for the rest of our trek, hoping to find the owner. Katahdin beckoned us onward. This is the home stretch for northbound thru-hikers, those who begin in Georgia and take six months, on average, to complete all 2197 miles of the trail. We greeted a number of these intrepid souls who breezed by us like gazelles with their hard-won ‘trail legs.’ But we held our own, blisters, bunions, bruises and all. Maine is the most densely forested state in the country—ninety percent of its land is covered with trees—which is why much of the trail looks like this:

Pennsylvania may be ‘where boots go to die’ but by day five, Maine was ‘where roots kill your feet.’ The truth is that too many feet can kill the trees, trampling on their support systems, making them more vulnerable to falls. It is not easy to live lightly on a well-loved land, but therein lies the purpose of a blazed trail and staying on it. For the sake of all the other trees. Of course a few heavy footsteps has nothing on the damage done centuries ago by colonial conquest. After decimating their own forests, Britain laid claim to the all the biggest eastern white pines in New England to make masts for its Royal Navy fleet, which pissed off the American colonists to no end, sparking the revolutionary fire to come. Virtually all the old growth is gone, which is why an encounter with the odd giant is extra special.

My feet were less furious with me after a long rest at Rainbow Spring campsite, our last night in the so-called 100-mile wilderness. I arose early to find the water source and enjoy a few moments alone with Rainbow Lake. A restorative vision of calm, the mist on the lake lifted gradually while I filled up our vessels with the clear elixir gushing from a piped spring. I drank it all in.

It was a chilly morning, a cue to break camp promptly and warm up by moving on. Around two miles later, while enjoying our hot tea and breakfast, two young and smiling thru-hikers came bounding along. Tough and Tang were their trail names, and they asked us ours. Our usual response, ‘Hot Sauce’ (my buddy) and ‘Don’t have one yet’ (me), was getting old. After almost 1000 miles of section hiking the AT it was high time I joined the ranks.

‘Hot Sauce’ was born from my buddy’s conversation with a fellow hiker who called himself O.B. (Old Bastard) about the Melinda’s Hot Sauce brand (her real name is Melinda). This was during a 36-mile section of ‘rock vomit’ in northern PA including Lehigh Gap which I had organized to be her maiden backpacking voyage (what was I thinking?) which (unbelievably) cemented our friendship. Now, seven years later on the peaceful shores of Rainbow Lake, Melinda offered a suggestion for mine: Mandala. For the past couple of years since my mother passed away I’ve been drawn to the practice of making them in the woods and radial symmetry in general. It was a name that felt right, like Cinderella’s long lost glass slipper. If only my boots fit that well.

The wide-open views atop Rainbow Ledges were excellent, apparently due to a devastating fire in 1923, kindled by copious dry piles of slash—remnants from a century of extensive logging around the lake. Skies were still clear and Katahdin was getting bigger. The entire mountain is sacred land for the Penobscot people who still live in its vicinity. Its name means ‘Greatest Mountain,’ signifying new life and spiritual enlightenment. But as tribal lore asserts it is also the home of Pamola, a storm-bringing winged spirit who threatens to consume all those who would dare to climb to the summit. We were on a dare alright, and how many more days could this perfect weather last?

At the end of day six we left the relatively inaccessible ‘wilderness’ behind and scored some trail magic thanks to Cruel Shoes, a seasoned thru-hiker who regaled us with snacks and stories of his good ole days on the trail. It was a fine evening at Abol Pines campground with its five-star privy and picnic areas and we embraced an evening of campfire camaraderie with Tough, Tang, Troy-is-Alive, and Cruel Shoes who clearly had no other place he’d rather be. Tang had picked up some hot dogs at the camp store and he generously offered to cook them for anyone with a hankering. I rarely eat hot dogs. But after force-feeding myself a concoction of instant mac n cheese and unsuccessfully-dehydrated string beans with a plastic spoon reinforced with duct tape, my level of hankering was off the charts. I had two of them—best I’ve ever tasted.

It is well-documented that what thru-hikers value most about their journey are the bonds forged with others. The sharing of joy and pain. Being part of a ‘tramily’ of folks who look out for each other along the way. As section-hikers, my buddy and I have had a few tastes of this, not a full meal. But tasting is fun. We also have each other and our shared experience of the vivid and intriguing personalities we encounter. The trail itself exists because of the hikers and volunteers who built it, appreciate it, and continue to take care of it. As for building a truly diverse, more-than-white-privileged community of wanderers, there are miles to go before we sleep…

Hiking solo also holds a special spot in my heart—it’s how I began this AT project 17 years ago. I’ve had meaningful, confidence-building experiences which have helped me gain a more intimate relationship with the land and myself. I’ve learned from my mistakes and the kindness of strangers. But the rewards of getting out there alone only deepen when I come home to tell the people I love all about it.

On day seven the trail hugged the Nesowadnehunk (swift stream between mountains) with its abundance of beautiful waterfalls. It’s hard to imagine these waters chock full of huge pinewood logs as they were in the ship building days before the civil war. It is not hard to imagine how treacherous a job it must have been to drive those logs down the river to the mill. Not a good time to be a fish either—the impact of log drives was devastating to river and riparian ecosystems. By the turn of the 20th century, logs were getting shorter and smaller to feed the pulp and paper mills and could be moved by rail and then truck. The practice of log driving finally ended in 1976.

Katahdin loomed larger by the hour, as did our concern about weather. Let the rain come now, not on the mountain was my inner plea to Pamola. But there is no bargaining with such spirits. The young woman at the trail entrance to Baxter State Park told us the rain was on its way and to heed the advice of the park ranger at Katahdin Stream campground. This was to be our base camp for two nights allowing for the climb to Baxter Peak and back down again in one long day. The mile-high mountain has a very steep elevation grade of over 4000 feet in only 5 miles of distance. We REALLY didn’t want to do that in the rain.

After setting up camp and recovering from the shock of seeing people’s cars parked beside their tents, a small tribe of hikers, including us, gathered around Ranger Pete to get schooled. Yes, the rain was coming tomorrow but likely not until later in the afternoon—his sage advice: start early! Congratulations were due, especially to the thru hikers, but he emphasized the importance of showing respect and sharing the summit. No alcohol. Celebrate inwardly. He gave us ID tags for our packs which would be blessedly lighter in weight for the out-and-back climb.

The rain came late that night. At 4 am I was wide awake and uneasy. Pamola was lurking. Then came a ‘knock’ on my tent as my buddy in her dripping rain gear crawled inside, even more uneasy. We discussed our options and decided to make our tea and breakfast under the pavilion nearby and discuss further. I changed into my Hike for Mental Health shirt, the only clean item of clothing I had at this point. Katahdin’s Hunt Trail (the AT) was a key piece of my life-long project. Baxter Peak was a long-anticipated part of this trek for us both. But were these last miles worth the risk in bad weather? Dawn was now imminent as we packed up our food and cookware, and then it dawned on us: the rain had stopped! The air was calm and mild. Turning back was always an option. This was a now or never moment, and so day eight began.

A little later, as we stepped carefully through the mud and rocks in full rain regalia, Tough and Tang came skipping along, Tough donning a bikini top, all smiles: What a great day for a hike! Buoyed by her ebullience, we stashed our rain gear and carried on. The rocks got bigger and the trees got smaller, at which point we stashed our poles and scrambled hand over hand. This was expected. At another point there was a slab boulder which required technical skill and mental fortitude to ascend. This was a surprise. So was the sight of none other than a hickory tussock caterpillar, inches from my face, with its tiny tufts of ghostly armor, clinging to the same rock I was. What? How? Above treeline in this jumble of granite? I had to stay focused…

The crux involved hoisting up and over car-sized, terrifyingly-exposed boulders using a couple of rebar protrusions embedded in the rock. At least the clouds obscured our view of just how far down we could fall. The only thing worse than the thought of falling was the thought of my buddy falling—my buddy who is a skilled rock climber. Fear doesn’t hear reason. But like a storm, it (mostly) passed as we clambered over the final rocks—the Gateway—onto the Tablelands, a vast and beautiful alpine tundra full of lichen-covered pink granite and rare sub-arctic plants, where the trail follows a long, gradual incline to Baxter Peak.

When we finally reached the famous A-frame sign, I was not compelled to stand on or above it as others deservedly do in triumph. I felt so incredibly humbled by this land, this climb. By the thought of how some people have journeys which are indescribably harder. Like my young cousin, resting now in peace. Oh, how fraught the human experience can be. And how vital the bonds that lift it up. Sitting there underneath the sign, next to my friend, I was honestly just relieved to be alive.

We did not linger too long at the summit which we shared with a small bunch of mostly younger hikers. As the sign stated at the base of the mountain: Your destination is your safe return to the trailhead. Clouds parted on our descent, revealing the sublime beauty of the tundra, its weathered rocks like sleeping animals cradled in verdant cushions of smoldering color.

The huge boulders were not quite as intimidating going down. We had met them before, and a reverse crawl butt-over-hand method worked for me—to hell with style. Besides, I enjoyed the closer inspection of the lichen and rocks, the high-friction feel of them. What was five hours up was five hours down, the latter a brutal affront to the knees, ankles, and feet. My head remained above treeline for a while. I thought about the caterpillar stranded on the boulders, a brief life made briefer, missing out on metamorphosis and flight. It can happen to anyone. Maybe it hitched a ride on someone’s pack. I’ll never know. Did it matter? The caterpillar itself was a marvel, with value beyond its ecological role. In a fleeting but memorable moment I was witness to a particular individual’s intricately articulated beauty. That mattered.

The intrinsic value and rights of Nature mattered greatly to Percival P. Baxter. In 1920, shortly before becoming governor of Maine, his profound experience of hiking to Katahdin’s summit reinforced his life’s mission to ensure the mountain and its surrounding land remain a ‘forever wild’ sanctuary. No match for the sway held at that time by the Great Northern Paper company who owned the land, his legislation was repeatedly defeated. But Baxter persevered, spending the rest of his life figuring out ways of buying the land with his own personal wealth, one piece at a time, then deeding it to the state. He also established a trust to sustain the park’s ongoing care.

Baxter’s generosity was formidable, but it also hinged on a colonial framework which paid no attention to the intrinsic value and rights of the people who had been stewarding the land for millennia—a framework from which the very concept of ‘untouched wilderness’ arose in order to justify the takeover of the land and erasure of indigenous ways of life. Federal laws loosely intended to regulate land grabs by settlers were ignored by the states. 12.5 million acres of land was seized illegally from the five indigenous nations of the Wabanaki Confederacy, including the Penobscot people who resided and still reside in the watersheds of our 100-mile journey.

In 1980, to settle the legal claim by the Passamaquoddy and Penobscot Tribes to what was two-thirds of the land in Maine (including Baxter State Park), the feds paid them $81.5 million while awarding all control of tribal lands to the state. What may have helped in the short term was ultimately crippling for the Wabanaki tribes who haven’t benefitted from any of the subsequent federal protections given to all other tribes in the country such as the Clean Water Act and various disaster-response laws. As Penobscot Nation elder Donna Loring explains: “Essentially, the state became wealthy while the tribes were rendered impoverished. Generations of tribal people were told they were dependent on welfare, when in truth, the so-called ‘assistance’ came from the sale and lease of their own land.” Their struggle for sovereignty and justice is ongoing.

All hikers may have Baxter to thank for their elemental experience on the mountain but with all humility should understand they are visitors on sacred and stolen Penobscot land.

We made it to camp in one piece with daylight to spare and no sign of more rain. Pamola, for whatever reason, had given us a pass. We had easy access to water with Katahdin Stream flowing by the campsite just a few steps down a rocky bank, granted those ‘few steps down’ now felt painfully hard. Every muscle, ligament and tendon of my body raised its voice to me at the same time. I reminded them of their able-bodied privilege and older-bodied choices. They had asked for this. They will heal. The same could not be said of my plastic spoon with its broken handle now splinted with a stick and medical tape. I thought that was clever until it broke at the neck on the first scoop. It was fitting in a way, to take turns with one good spork for our last meal which was enhanced by a sonic blend of rushing water and crackling fire. None of this adventuring would have been feasible, let alone enjoyable, without sharing the load—the planning and mapping, the chores, the grind, our hopes, our fears, and our wonderment in it all.

The last day’s hike was a relatively easy few miles of gentle terrain, ending at a picnic area where we lay on a patch of sunny grass, awaiting our ride back to the comforts—and discomforts—of ‘real’ life. But for now, I can’t think of anything more real than the feel of those miles on that land. And writing about it. From the clear skies of Nahmakanta Lake to the rain-washed forest and rocks of Katahdin, the journey gave me new eyes—a new way of understanding why I am so drawn, again and again, to this long and winding trail. It’s not about the top of the mountain, nor is it just about the getting there. It’s about how, by such a journey, I can learn in an embodied way about a particular land and its story, about the whole complexity of its being and my own entanglement with it.

Shortly after I got back home, a fellow stargazing friend identified the Unidentified Floating Object at Nahmakanta Lake. It was Capella, the 6th brightest star in our night sky, known to twinkle and appear to change color when rising in the northeastern sky. The name Capella is Latin for ‘little nanny goat.’ Most interesting to me is this ‘star’ is not just one star, it is four—a quadruple star system of two binary stars, one pair of giant yellow stars, the other cool, red dwarfs. Apparently most of the stars in the universe are gravitationally bound to one or more companions. Perhaps an auspicious reminder that nothing and no one is ever alone in the dark.

We never did find the owner of the topo map we found, but I am glad to have it in my collection. It was fun to incorporate scans of it into my latest card art ‘Capella Rising’ which honors that remarkable sky, a couple of nanny goat hikers and their fire, the eastern white pine, and other life in and around the lake. The fish, loon, and butterfly are elusive… can you find them?

More to come around the bend…