The Beginning of the End in Southern Maine

Leaving Gentian Pond Shelter we were prepared for a grind of a day. The first 10 miles to Full Goose Shelter were wet, socked in, and tough. Filled with a never-ending cycle of steep and hazardous scrambles paired with alpine bogs with mud up to waist high, the terrain was tough on the body but we were up for it. At one bog crossing, I stepped on a stick that broke in two and fell forward straight into the mud up to my knees. My anger spiked instantly, and luckily Hotdog was able to contain his laughter otherwise I might have blown a fuse.

 

Georgia to Maine

Early in the day, we encountered a long-awaited landmark: The New Hampshire – Maine state border. Over the past few months anytime someone on the trail asked where I was headed I’d give them a simple answer: Maine. We had finally made it to the 14th round. I hugged the sign as soon as I saw it. I hadn’t reached Katahdin yet, but reaching this sign meant that no one could take away the fact that I had just walked from Georgia to Maine.

 

 

The Infamous Mahoosuc Notch

We took a long break at Full Goose Shelter and then prepared ourselves to tackle the Mahoosuc Notch, often touted as the hardest mile of the AT. It was a field of huge awkwardly placed boulders that you had to scramble over, through, and sometimes under. Once we entered the Notch, it felt like entering an industrial freezer. The temperature was cool and in-between the boulders were pockets of ice. We stuffed our trekking poles into our packs and scrambled between the rocks like monkeys. It wasn’t easy, but fun was a much better descriptor than hard. A few times I took off my pack and squeezed beneath some boulders. Hotdog always took the high route, and he always came out first. Near the end of the Notch, we found a section hiker in a sling and an entire search and rescue team. The hiker had injured their shoulder and was getting evacuated via helicopter. The Notch was fun, but its danger couldn’t be underestimated.

 

 

The hurt doesn’t stop at the Mahoosuc Notch. A steep climb up the Mahoosuc Arm and Old Speck is thrown at you immediately. After the difficulties we had faced throughout the rest of the day, I was up for one more challenge, so I gulped down a caffeine packet and began pulling myself up the mountain one step and one pole swing after the other. We took a break to eat a few snacks and admire Speck Pond halfway through and then hiked onward for our final push up. The descent was much nicer and we flowed down to Grafton Notch at 7:40 pm, 20 mins before we were supposed to meet my mom who had our resupply food and my new sleeping pad.

 

 

Lost Mom Saga

We sat with our legs extended on the ground. The minutes ticked by and the sky began to darken. 10 minutes after 8 pm my mom had yet to arrive, so we kept waiting. Each 10-minute increment grew our sense of unease. Cell phone service was non-existent. I was worried about my mom but also worried for our own sake. It had begun to rain and the sounds of thunder began to pick up. We hid beneath a one-foot overhang extending from a bulletin at the trailhead.

 

Around 8:45 pm, an hour after we had arrived at the trailhead, a man came down from the trail and into the parking lot. In a small-town Maine accent, he asked if we needed a ride. We weren’t sure what to do. Our minds were exhausted from one of the most physically difficult days on the trail we had yet to experience. With the pressure of a rising storm, a lack of food, uncertainty on whether my mom would arrive, and the chance for an escape right in front of us, we decided to accept the man’s offer. A decision that would prove to be foolish.

 

Roofless in Bethel 

We hopped into his Chevy Silverado, careful not to stink up his ride with our wet clothing. We told him about our situation and he agreed to bring us to a few motels in Bethel. As soon as we got closer to town and my phone service returned, I sent numerous text messages and calls to my mom, but didn’t receive a response. We spoke to our new friend all about the AT, and he mentioned that on a recent trip to the Whites, he had met a thru-hiker named Salamander at Madison Spring Hut. The name rang in our ears with disbelief. Salamander was one of our first friends we had met in the cold of the Smokies, but we hadn’t seen him in over 1500 miles. We were happy to hear he was still on the journey North.

 

We stopped at a motel just outside of town and headed to the office. The lights were out and the door was locked. The stop was a bust. We drove further into Bethel’s downtown and got out at the Bethel Village Motel. We found the door to the office locked once again. We didn’t want to drag our friend on an endless journey, so we told him we’d figure something out, took our gear, and thanked him for his help. We sat down outside the motel feeling dejected. I tried to reach my mom once again, but no messages went through. It was clear that we must have crossed paths at the wrong time. When we entered into an area with cell coverage, she had driven out of service on her mission to find us.

 

We walked to the gas station, one of the only businesses that seemed open in Bethel around 10 pm. With chips and drinks in hand, we walked over to the 24-hour laundry spot next door and sat down inside trying to sort out our next move. My mind spiraled in frustration at the situation. There was no doubt we had made the wrong decision. We should have waited for my mom to arrive, but the damage was done, there was nothing to do about it now but let it go and move on. I’ve never been the best in uncertainty, so as we sat inside making no progress in our situation my mental unease spiraled upward.

 

 

It eventually became clear to me that I wasn’t going to be able to reach my mom, there were no options for lodging left this late, and we could not sit inside the laundromat all night. I found a park in town on my GPS and told Hotdog I was going to set up camp. We walked over and set up our tents aside a few trees as we attempted to find spots that were out of the streetlights and as far away from the sight of the road as possible. I could only assume it was illegal, and the thought of waking up to the shine of a police officer’s flashlight spiked my nerves.

 

Second Breakfast

I heard cars pulling into the park around 4:45 in the morning. It was just around sunrise and I slept poorly overnight, paranoid we’d get kicked out of the park at any moment. Me and Hotdog quickly packed up our gear and walked over to Dunkin Donuts. One donut, two breakfast sandwiches, one avocado toast, and two large coffees later, I still found myself tired and hungry, so we then went to the diner across the street. I still hadn’t heard from my mom at this point. I knew she had to have stayed the night at the trailhead worried about us, and our inability to get in touch was frustrating. After the diner, I noticed a call on my phone from a Maine phone number and instantly picked it up. It was a trail angel named Candice and she had met my mom at the trailhead. She turned out to be right across the street from us at the time of the call and gave us a ride back to the trailhead.

 

 

Reunited with Mom

Candice is an older lady who thru-hiked the trail in 1978 and offers trail magic to hikers nearly every day at the Grafton Notch parking area. She had a beautiful old dog named Doug and was an interesting person to talk to. She always had an opinion to offer. When we arrived back at the trail, we found my mom taking care of Candice’s trail magic stand. She had ended up sleeping in her car all night worried that she would miss us. None of our messages had gone through, so we must have missed each other at just the wrong time the night before. Having people visit you on the trail is nice, but it can also complicate things, especially as you perfect your hiking methods over hundreds of miles.

 

We sat around at Trail Magic for a while without a worry since we only had 10 miles planned for the day. Several familiar faces came through including Canada Dry, Spare Change, and Hoot. Before leaving we gave my mom two trail names, Hockey Mom & Momcat. She could pick whichever she liked best. We left the lot mid-day and were the first of the group to leave.

 

Shifting Weather on the Baldpates 

The big objective of the day was a climb up and through the Baldpates. We first headed up the west peak and looked out to the east peak, a beautiful large green mound scattered with grey rock. We descended down and across mostly open trail to then ascend the slab rock trail up to the east peak. The summit was wide open and beautiful, giving us panoramic views, including a view of the peak we had just come from. A slight rain had started to come down and I jokingly said we had nothing to worry about as I looked off at the rain clouds in the distance that were coming our way.

 

 

The rain picked up but didn’t last long, although it was long enough to leave us and the trees above soaked and slimy. There is nothing more frustrating than being unable to operate your phone, and therefore your navigation tool, because everything is wet. A true lesson in patience and acceptance. Hoot caught us on the descent off Baldpate and we all raced down to our campsite at a small stream a few miles away. We nearly immediately fell asleep after setting up camp. I had finally gotten my new inflatable sleeping pad that my mom had picked up from the post office, and after weeks of deflated sleep, I couldn’t have been more excited to put my new gear to the test.

 

 

I was thankful to wake up elevated off the ground in my tent for the first time in a couple of weeks. Although I did have a restless night, I chalked it up to getting used to the new brand of pad. Everything aside from my sleeping pad and quilt was wet and slimy. Par for the course at this point, but like someone in the city complaining about traffic we still find a way to complain about being wet every time.

 

Gutsy Chipmunk 

The terrain we encountered in the morning was a walk in the park compared to the Whites and the Mahoosucs from the days prior. The first 5 miles of the day quickly melted away. We took a snack break at Hall Mountain Hut and found our entertainment in a fearless chipmunk running figure eights between us and over our backpacks.

 

Moody to Bemis 

Around midday, the trail became more difficult with some steep ascents and descents on Moody Mountain and Old Blue Mountain. While climbing ahead of Hotdog I heard a loud snap and quickly looked back to see Hotdog angrily holding two pieces of a broken trekking pole. I figured he had accidentally jammed it in a small crevasse or something similar, but would later find out he had angrily smacked the pole against a rock after a fall and a sudden burst of anger. Recognizing his angry mood, I hiked ahead and gave him some space before I too ended up in two pieces.

 

 

We hiked much of the day apart, but would later meet on Bemis Mountain to finish up our day. It was a beautiful sunny day, which we took advantage of to dry our tent flys and clothes. Bemis Mountain offered a nice section of trail on its open and rocky summit and ridges filled with alpine conifer trees. We had a nice view off to the Rangeley Lakes. We noticed an increase in bodies of water since reaching Maine. We camped near a fast-flowing stream at the bottom of the mountain, thankful to have some relaxing white noise for the second night in a row.

 

A Trip to Rangeley

Hotdog was already ready to go when I unzipped my tent in the morning. We were planning to meet my mom for resupply a mile ahead at Route 17. The mile climb felt never-ending, but there were fantastic views of Mooselookmeguntic Lake where my mom was parked at the top. We left Hotdog behind to enjoy the views and drove into the town of Rangeley. We bounced from the grocery store to the local upscale coffee shop and then to the local outfitter where I found a single Leki trekking pole in the hiker box for Hotdog.

 

When we arrived back at the trailhead I scanned the parking lot for Hotdog but didn’t see him anywhere. Then I looked down at the sidewalk where I found him laid out inside his quilt on a fully inflated sleeping pad with a bag of Fritos next to his face. He was out cold. I added another legendary sleepy Hotdog picture to my camera roll before waking him up to an excellent surprise of a quality hot coffee, an egg salad sandwich, and a replacement pole. I hugged my mom goodbye, we would plan to meet again in a few days at the Maine Roadhouse Hostel, and then we set out on a sunny and relatively flat day.

 

 

Reminders of Home

The amount of ponds we encountered had begun to pick up exponentially. As we came up on Long Pond I was startled to hear the sound of waves lapping. I hadn’t heard the sounds of waves since I left the shores of Lake Superior back home. Between the waves, the evergreens, and a distant loon call, I was feeling at home in Maine. I couldn’t resist jumping in for a swim and made sure to tease Hotdog for only going up to his shins.

 

 

Reaching this stage of the hike put me into a complex emotional state. The homesickness had hit me hard a few hundred miles ago and I was excited to finish and get home, but the reality of the journey being near Its end was also starting to set. Soon the daily camaraderie and the simplicity of the lifestyle would be over and the saga of Hotdog and Tomcat would conclude. As much as I wanted to get home, I knew that a month after summiting Katahdin I would likely be looking back wishing I could be back on the trail. I was constantly torn between desire and grief. The only right thing to do was enjoy the trail in front of me.

 

An Unlikely Encounter

I hiked most of the day alone, ahead of Hotdog. I entered into a flow state as I moved along the trail and I didn’t want to stop. I tracked my mileage on the day based on which ponds I had passed: Sabbath Day Pond, Little Swift River Pond, South Pond, Ethel Pond, and eventually our home for the night, Eddy Pond. There was already a tent set up when I arrived at camp, and when Hotdog arrived we said hello to the fellow hiker. In a flash, we heard the familiar British accent and saw the C on his cap and quickly pieced together that it was our good friend Quick on the Draw. It had been 800 miles and nearly 2 months since we last saw him in the middle of Pennsylvania. So many of our meetings seemed to be in rain storms on mountain tops, but for once we were able to meet and enjoy each other’s company on a beautiful day on the shores of a pristine mountain pond. Fate had allowed us to meet again, and this time it had rewarded us for all the miles we had put behind ourselves.

 

Quick on the Draw’s beard was even bushier and burlier than it was the last time I saw him. We had a lot to catch up on and we traded stories for most of the evening. He told us about the toll the Whites had taken on his body and a scary fall to his head that he was lucky to walk away from unharmed. We talked about mutual hikers we knew like Branches, Ghost, Salamander, and Bahama Mama, trying to piece together where each one was. We also did some reminiscing on the early days of our hike, freezing our butts off several days in a row in a snowstorm in the Smokies and getting caught in freezing rain near Franklin, NC.

 

Paddlin’ 

Me and Hotdog got into a rowboat we found on shore and paddled out to the middle of the pond at sunset. Hotdog hopped out onto a small rock outcrop as a joke for a photo. I quickly rowed the boat away, pretending to ignore him and eat my dinner in the boat. I looked back at the shore where Quick on the Draw was taking a photo. I could have never imagined that a man I met at mile 100 slightly after the Georgia border would later be watching me row a boat in Maine near mile 2,000. I couldn’t shake the specialness of this moment. I went to bed with a smile on my face.

 

 

Along the Saddlebacks

We ascended the Saddlebacks in the morning. The climb was tough, but nothing compared to what we’d been through in the Whites. We made it above the tree line within the beautiful glow of the early morning light. We paused and turned around for a moment to look far beneath us at Eddy Pond where we had just come from. It so often felt like our views were socked in while on the trail, so when you’re presented with a crystal clear day, you make sure not to take it for granted. We finished our ascent up to the top of Saddleback and then began the descent down the exposed ridge toward The Horn.

 

 

Just before the ascent back up toward The Horn, we heard a man talking to himself ahead. His name was El Flacco. He was a triple crowner who had done the AT 3 times and was now headed SOBO for his 4th completion. He loved the trails out west but said that the hikers out there bag on the AT. He mentioned that the AT was the only trail he gets homesick for. El Flacco had a chill but excited energy and unzipped his rain jacket to show us his name embroidered on his shirt, as well as a patch for the non-existent state of Jefferson. At a point where the trail was filled with anxious-looking SOBOs and homesick NOBOs, El Flacco had exactly the energy I needed at the moment. A reminder to enjoy the trail for the little time I have left with it.

 

 

As we ascended the Horn I looked back at the majestic Saddleback Mountain protruding up toward the sky and the rocky alpine ridge we had just traversed. The views were fantastic. At the top of The Horn, we chatted with 3 young SOBOs. The SOBO crowd generally seemed younger, which we presumed was due to time constraints and starting after completing a Spring semester of school. I could imagine myself going SOBO about as well as I could imagine myself becoming a dentist or an astronaut. I could respect it, but it wasn’t for me. The promise of Maine and the Whites had pushed me through despair in the Mid-Atlantic, and when all else failed, visualizing myself standing on the Katahdin summit sign with Hotdog served as a shot of espresso to motivate me to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

 

 

We moved on to Saddleback Junior and then began a long descent down. I led the charge through most of the day. My physical well-being and energy levels had rebounded remarkably from where I was just a couple of weeks ago. Near the middle of the day, we stopped at Spaulding Mountain Lean-to to re-up on water.

 

Primo 

As I squeezed water from my Sawyer filter and into my Smart Water bottle, I heard a familiar voice from behind say, “No way”. Me and Hotdog excitedly turned around to see our old friend Primo, who was just as excited to see us. We originally met around the Virginia Triple Crown, and we had last seen each other in Duncannon, PA nearly two months ago. He introduced us to a fellow NOBO he had been hiking with since New York named Ice Queen and then we caught up a bit and discussed our plans for the night and the following day. We were all planning to stay at the Maine Roadhouse hostel the next day, so there’d be plenty of time to chat then.

 

I sped off down the mountain and toward camp. I beat Hotdog there and set up my tent before having dinner. For a short while, I imagined what it’d be like to hike the trail solo. When Hotdog came strolling in with a smile and we immediately dove into our typical banter, I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Out of the Woods 

We had a quick climb up the Crocker Mountains in the morning and then a smooth and quick 5-mile descent to the trailhead where we found Primo. Hotdog and I had run our food bags dry in the morning, and the call of town food beckoned us. So, the three of us hopped over to the side of the road and stuck our thumbs out. Within 2 minutes a nice young local guy pulled over and called us in. Moments later we were sitting at the Loony Moose, a diner in the town of Stratton, stuffing ourselves with pancakes, home fries, and eggs. Afterward, we walked down to the grocery store for some beer and called in a shuttle to the hostel.

 

 

The Maine Roadhouse

The Maine Roadhouse was as good as they come. With large & plentiful common areas and an incredible bunk room with memory foam mattresses, privacy curtains, and personal fans, it would be hard not to feel relaxed. Even better was that we were reunited with several familiar faces. Hockey Mom was there, along with Primo, Quick on the Draw, Hoot, and even Bruiser, one of our favorite characters from the Mohican Outdoor Center in New Jersey.

 

 

Hotdog and I sat out on the hammocks, enjoying a beer and planning out the rest of our trip. We had counted the miles, made a rough plan, and came out with our summit date: July 31st. We were only 10 days away from the end. I spent the rest of the day taking it all in at the Roadhouse. I made a few small gear repairs and then hopped on the bus to pick up pizza in town. Me, Hotdog, Hoot, and Hockey Mom sat outside eating dinner and chatting. Hoot had told us about Cloudberries he had foraged a few days ago within an alpine zone, and we talked about the complicated logistics of reaching the Katahdin summit and getting back home. Most of the trip had been remarkably simple, but figuring out the finale was not. The rest of the night consisted of more beer, ping pong, and petting dogs.

 

 

We were treated to a beautiful breakfast of blueberry pancakes, hashbrowns, watermelon, and a veggie egg scramble as we all sat around a large dining room table together. It was a hectic morning as I tried to wrap up my resupply and remaining camp errands. Just before we left, Trickle, who we had met at Woods Hole in Virginia and was now working at the Roadhouse, snapped our picture with a Polaroid and we added our photos to the wall. We looked among the photos at several familiar faces including Ghost and Maia who were long gone ahead of us. Before we threw our gear in the shuttle we got a group picture with Primo and Quick on the Draw and then another with Hoot and Bruiser. Against all odds, we found ourselves in the same room in Maine with our best trail friends. Lightning never strikes the same spot twice, so we had to capture it for the memory books.

 

 

The Bigelows 

We rushed into the 8 am shuttle back to the trail. Once at the trailhead, all of the other hikers got ahead of us. We had always been slow to start. It was a bit emotional to reach the start of the climb up to the Bigelows. We were now in the realm of counting lasts. Until we reached Katahdin these would be our last major climbs and the last 4,000fters we would summit. I cherished every quad-burning and lung-busting step on the way up.

 

 

We reached several fantastic viewpoints. First, we stood on a rocky outcropping to view Horns Pond and the North and South peaks of the Horn. After a tough climb up to the North Horn, we then looked on to our next destination, Bigelow Mountain and its twin peaks. It was a fantastic mountain with two steep-looking sides coming to a sharp point at the top. The scene felt all the more wild with the large scattered lakes all around us.

 

 

The End is Nigh 

Leaving late worked out to our advantage. At the top of Bigelow’s West Peak, we met with Quick on the Draw for lunch. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day. After so many meetings in terrible weather in North Carolina, the Smokies, and Pennsylvania, it felt poetic to finally be rewarded with the opportunity to enjoy some nice weather together. At mile 100 we were together when the journey was beginning to feel real on Albert Mountain, and now we were together with the end rapidly closing in. Looking off to the Northeast we stared at a large hazy mass off in the distance. It was Katahdin. Still 100 miles off as the crow flies, but the end was officially in sight.

 

 

We took off with a rather lackluster goodbye with Quick on the Draw. The big climbs were over and now it was time for a long descent. I knew I would miss the climbs, but the descents would not get the same treatment. At the bottom, we stopped at Little Bigelow Lean-to to fill up water and in typical Hotdog & Tomcat fashion we killed far too much time. Just as we were heading out Quick on the Draw came by. I was happy that our previous meeting wasn’t our last. We talked about the Kennebec River Ferry crossing, which only operates earlier in the day, and realized we had no shot at making it there on time, 20 miles away the next day, so we planned for an easy day to enjoy a stay at a shelter where a man supposedly cooks you pancakes in the morning. We hoped to see Quick on the Draw there the next day, and then we took off to our campsite.

 

Loon’s Lake 

We arrived at Flagstaff Lake during golden hour. The lake was large, quiet, and beautiful in the late-day glow. We hopped in the water for a swim before we even took our tents out of our backpacks. Afterward, we sat on shore in the fading sun to dry off and eat dinner. I checked my phone and saw that I had no cell phone service; I was forced into a peaceful freedom. I looked out onto the lake and watched the sunset turn from orange to pink. A loon floated out in the middle of the lake, periodically disappearing beneath the surface to search for fish. It would later come rushing by as it beat its wings on the surface of the water. Zipped away in my tent I heard the beautifully haunting call of the loon echo throughout the lake as I slowly drifted off.

 

 

We woke up to an endless stream of rain pouring down on our tents. With a shorter day ahead of us, due to scheduling around the Kennebec River ferry, we had hoped to have a slow morning on the beach and in the water. Instead, the water came to us, and our slow morning was spent in our tents enjoying the feeling of staying dry while we still could. It was around 9 am when the rain finally trickled out and we began packing our bags. I still felt called to hop into the lake, partly in defiance of the rain and partly to soak up every ounce I had left of this trip, so I went for a quick swim before hitting the trail.

 

Easy Walking 

The trail had flattened out significantly compared to the days before, which made for easy miles to cover. With nothing but time on our hands, Hotdog and I stopped to eat lunch at West Carry Pond Lean-to. I had a jar of peanut butter and a huge bag of peanuts in my food bag. This trail had tested my peanut-eating limits, and I was nearing the edge. I promised I would treat myself for my final resupply in the 100-mile wilderness by not buying anything with the word peanut in it.

 

I found myself greatly enjoying the lowland forests we traversed throughout the day. Boardwalks traversing open swamps led into a pine needle-covered trail surrounded by vibrant green moss and skinny evergreens which eventually led into trail that bordered the perimeter of ponds. When we reached a small but beautiful beach area at the East Carry Pond I found Quick on the Draw eating lunch. He was surprised to see that we were behind him. He was with a flip-flop hiker named Zeke who was hiking the trail supported by her Husband following along in a van. In his spare time, he makes hemp bracelets with natural stone beads for thru-hikers. Zeke gave Hotdog and me one, and we felt honored to join the club.

 

 

We left the pond and hiked the remaining 6 miles to camp with Quick on the Draw. The terrain was mild and flat. We found a nice flat spot among the cushy pine-needle-covered ground outside of Pierce Pond Lean-to and set up our tents. The view out onto the adjacent pond was beautiful and we took a moment to admire it before setting out on a side quest to secure our breakfast plans for the following morning.

 

An Evening with Tim 

Hotdog, Quick on the draw, and I followed a blue blaze up to Harrison’s Pierce Pond Camp, a classic Northwoods-style deer camp. The building was a large 100-year-old rustic log cabin. We knocked on the front door and were welcomed in by a nice older man named Tim. We came into the Kitchen and he took down our orders for the following morning: 13 pancakes, coffee, and a plate of eggs. Then he poured us some lemonade and invited us into the main dining area. The interior was cozy, filled with taxidermied deer on the walls and stained glass portraits of loons and woodpeckers on the windows. When Tim mentioned a guitar, Quick on the Draw and I immediately volunteered Hotdog to play us some tunes. We all enjoyed listening to Hotdog play and we chatted about music. This seemed to open something up in Tim and he volunteered to play a song on the Piano. He played us a beautiful rhapsody that he had written for his son. We all left the camp that evening feeling touched.

 

 

Back at the shelter Hotdog and I were eating dinner when Quick on the Draw called us over to watch the sunset over the pond. The clouds and orange hues beautifully reflected off the water like a Renaissance painting. Before departing to our tents for the night Quick on the Draw said something along the lines of, “Being so close to the finish I’ve been wondering If I’ve spent enough time reflecting about the things I meant to think about when coming out here”. I found it an interesting thought.

 

I know that I hadn’t made any breakthroughs that I was consciously aware of. Many people seek out the trail for deeper reasons, like processing a divorce or pondering a career pivot. My purpose for traveling North wasn’t nearly as grand. The truth is that I have a loving partner and live in a place I love while being surrounded by good friends and family. I suppose I simply wanted an adventure. My subconscious pulled me out of my comfort zone like Gandalf dragging Bilbo out of the Shire. I would imagine myself 50 years in the future, and I wanted to make sure I could look back fondly on a life that was varied and well-lived. So far I think I’ve hit my marks. I’ve practiced resiliency and met all sorts of characters while on my journey. Who can say what else there is to uncover as I process my travels in the weeks ahead? As my thoughts tired out, I was grateful for the sound of a loon call emerging to lull me to sleep once again.

 

 

The Breakfast Club 

In the morning everyone in camp quickly scurried out of their tents to pack up their bags. Coffee would be ready at 6:30 am and breakfast at 7:00 am. For once, me and Hotdog had no issues getting up and moving early. Back at Tim’s Camp, we had the same crew as the day before along with NOBO thru-hiker, Canada Dry, as well as 2 SOBOs. Tim brought out each of us a plate of eggs and a large plate stacked to capacity with pancakes. We ate until there wasn’t a crumb left on our plates, and then we packed up and began the trek to the Kennebec River.

 

 

Unfordable 

The Kennebec River is too dangerous to ford, mostly due to a dam upriver that can unpredictably change the water levels. The AT’s solution to this problem is a canoe to ferry hikers across. We arrived at the river to find a ferryman with a tight goatee and a golden retriever by his side. We exchanged pleasantries and he handed us a couple of waivers to sign. Then we put our life preservers on and hopped in the canoe. I took the role of paddler to help out our ferryman, while Hotdog hitched along for the ride. The journey was quick and before we knew it we were back to walking.

 

 

We soon met my mom at a road crossing where she provided us with a resupply of food for the next push to the town of Monson. As we were chatting an older SOBO came from the trail and talked with us. My mom gave him a few spare cosmic brownies, and he was overjoyed, inundating her with thanks. It was the hikers first time receiving trail magic, and it was my mom’s first time offering it out to someone other than Hotdog and me. It was a spontaneous moment that was simple, but special. My mom had become a trail angel and the hiker had experienced the first of many experiences with generosity on the path ahead.

 

Wet and Happy 

Back on the trail, we found ourselves hiking and chatting with Quick on the Draw once again until we found ourselves forging quickly ahead. We were on a mission to carry out a long 25-mile day to set ourselves up for a nearo to Monson the following day. The weather was getting gloomy. We pushed past Pleasant Pond and up the mountain of the same name. By this point, the gloom had progressed to a light rain. We found ourselves encountering a bubble of SOBO thru-hikers, some with sad demeanors, but most in high spirits. One of these hikers was named Captain Jack who, after hiking NOBO from Georgia and reaching Katahdin, was now walking south to do it all again in reverse.

 

The rain only got worse as the day went on. By the time we made it to Bald Mountain, we were soaked. We traversed carefully up wet rocks and at the summit, we sloshed through extended puddles that were calf-high. Despite the objectively horrible conditions, we found ourselves in a goofy upbeat mood. With any chance of staying dry stripped away, the only action we could take now was to control how we could react mentally. Thus, we frolicked through the puddles as if they were a field of flowers.

 

My mom called as we were rounding out the day. We had told her about our plan to stay at Shaw’s Hiker Hostel, the most famous hostel along the AT, the following night. She traveled there to check out the availability and found out that all the bunks had already been booked. However, a large glamping tent to share was the sole remaining option available. We took it in a heartbeat. Hockey Mom had come to the rescue.

 

With tired legs, we continued until we reached Bald Mountain Stream. We forded through the calf-high water and hardly even noticed our already soggy shoes. On the north side of the stream, we peeked through a clearing of trees to find a small clearing for two tents. It was tight, uneven, and among the worst spots we had ever chosen to set up our tents, but that made no difference in our decision. We sloppily set up our tents and crawled to bed.

 

Monson on the Mind 

The promise of town beckoned us for the final time. We woke up early and got after it. The elevation map showed a smooth slight downhill to our ending spot at Route 15, so we expected to make quick time.

 

 

We hiked mindlessly except for a few instances where we reached the bank of a river and found that the trail came to an abrupt end. With a slow raise of the head, we looked across to the other side of the river where we saw the next white blaze. Hiking with wet feet isn’t fun, but fording rivers feels exciting and wild. We stepped into the water and carefully waded across as the water grazed our shorts.

 

 

By the end of the day, I was fed up with being wet and just looking forward to being off my feet. The atmosphere brought along a light mist and my pace slowed as I agonizingly slipped in a pile of mud, step after step, until finally I heard the sound of cars whooshing by. We reached Route 15 and found a few camp chairs and a table set up with snacks in the parking lot. Two nice older day hikers were visiting the area and decided to set up some trail magic, valiantly braving the rain. We graciously finished off a box of their cookies with a SOBO and then hitched a ride to Shaw’s with a nice man in the process of building his hostel across the street named Leapin Lenas.

 

Shaw’s Hiker Hostel 

We walked onto the property of Shaw’s Hiker Hostel with a feeling of awe. Aside from Mt.Katahdin, this was the promised land for all AT thru-hikers. A SOBO’s first respite after tackling the 100-mile wilderness, and the NOBOs final touch point in civilization before ascending Katahdin, making it a place not only for careful preparation but also a place of celebration and joy. Once we depart Shaw’s there would be no doubt that we were going to finish this journey together.

 

Shaw’s was made up of a few homelike buildings spread out around a property in the town of Monson. We toured around the grounds and then found my mom who showed us to the large canvas tent which would be our home for the night.

 

Poet 

Hotdog and I walked into a building that read “Poet’s Gear Emporium”. Inside we found a space packed wall to wall with fine gear from big outdoor gear companies and cottage brands alike. At the center of it all was a large man with the haircut of a west coast surfer. He greeted us in a kind and calm demeanor and offered us a PBR. His name was Poet and he was the owner of the hostel and gear shop.

 

We headed upstairs to scope out the resupply options. I held nothing back as I stuffed my basket with protein cookies and name-brand candy to supplement the package my partner Chey had sent me, which included my holy grail: a heartfelt note tucked into a ziplock bag that she had doused in her perfume. Poet then helped me weigh out a supply of dehydrated beans and brainstorm cold soak recipes.

 

Hiking Friends 

As the day went on, familiar faces began to trickle into the hostel. Hoot was already there when we arrived. We expected him to be long gone, but he had decided to take an extra zero. Hotdog and I agreed to split a food drop with him in the middle of the Hundred Mile Wilderness to lighten the load of our packs. The hiker we were most shocked to see, however, was Ultra, the ultra-light, ultra-fast, and ultra-distance hiker whom we had first met in Connecticut and last seen in Vermont. Slowed down by a few trips back home he was now ready to finish off his journey. He had invited a friend along and had a grand plan in place. Most hikers take around 8-9 days to traverse the Hundred Mile Wilderness, but a hiker with well-developed trail legs can do it within about 4-5 days. Ultra was planning to get it done in 2 days, forgoing his pack for a running vest and stopping only for a quick nap in a shelter if needed. He was truly living up to his name.

 

I sat at a picnic table for a while as I eyed a hiker couple in the corner of my eye. They looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I had seen them; then it hit me. I had met them once on the trail when they strolled into a shelter in the middle of a rainstorm in Georgia, less than 50 miles from Springer Mountain. As mice scurried along the ground and wind and rain ripped around outside they set up their sleeping pads right next to me and 8 of us slept side-by-side like a can of sardines. They had recently flipped to the Northern terminus of the trail and were heading South now to avoid the heat. When I told them that I recognized them we all looked at each other in disbelief.

 

The final and most joyous meeting of all was the arrival of our old friends Primo, Quick on the Draw, and Ice Queen. Every time we meet, I approach it with the perspective that it may be our last, so I was surprised and thrilled to see all of them again. With a collective of awesome hikers all in one place, our final night in a hostel was sure to be fantastic.

 

 

Out on the Town

Dressed in eccentric loaner clothes, Hotdog and I headed to the general store to order a few hot sandwiches and grab a few pints to bring back to the hostel. While there we also found our beloved maple syrup candies that a trail runner had first given to us near the summit of Mount Washington. We sat and ate our sandwiches with Hockey Mom and Ultra and then walked over to the gas station where Hotdog ordered a monstrous Dagwood Sandwich and I bought a large pizza and a quart of vanilla milk that was colored blue.

 

 

Celebration 

Back at the hostel, the sun began to set, the beers washed down, and the good times rolled. Bonfires were lit and I sat around the table with Hotdog, Quick on the Draw, Primo, Ice Queen, and a few new faces, including a young and bubbly hiker named Faith. He was a NOBO, but we had never seen him before due to his speed, as he was going to finish his thru-hike in under 100 days. This evening at Shaw’s there was no sense of worry or thinking too far ahead or in the past. I was simply carried along in the moment, which comes easy when you’re surrounded by good friends.

 

 

In the morning we headed over to the dining area in one of the bunkhouses for Shaw’s famous hiker breakfast, which includes all the breakfast staples along with an endless supply of blueberry pancakes. We found our crew from the night before, and with coffee in hand, we enjoyed one final hurrah. One of the topics of discussion was how to transition smoothly from trail life back to normal life. Focusing on spending time outside, remaining active, and finding community all seemed to be important pieces for everyone.

 

The Final Swig 

As we were getting ready to leave Shaw’s, Poet came over to wish us well. Living up to his name he left us with a haiku:

 

“Drink your deepest now,

for the richest stuff settles

with the final swig”

 

The haiku had come from a literal experience he had while on the trail, but the allegory was not lost on me.

 

We once again said our final goodbyes to Quick on the Draw and Primo and took a few pictures together. It’s never fun to say goodbye, not knowing when or if you’ll see someone again, but there was an aura of positivity at Shaw’s. Barring something tragic happening in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness, we were all going to make it to the finish. For a monumental undertaking that sees a higher rate of failure than successes, you can’t help but feel happy and grateful to be nearing the end and seeing that your greatest trail friends were going to finish too.

 

It was an especially fitting way for us to leave Quick on the Draw. We had met each other for the first time at mile 100 and were now seeing each other for the last time with only 100 miles to go. There were several times along the trail when we had thought we’d seen the last of each other, but this time we knew that it was for good. The trail had written our story and capped it off with a well-crafted conclusion. It was time to enter the fabled Hundred-Mile Wilderness and inch ourselves closer to the great mountain that had lived within my head for years. We were picking up our bottles and about to take the final swig.