Monso(o)n, ME

Here I am in my last town on the whole AT. I don't have a lot of time for blog amazingness, so this is the jist.

We hiked out of Stratton and made it to the little burg of Caratunk, which is not really a town, but a post office. Except that nearby is the awesome outfitters, Northern Outdoors, complete with incredibly cheap accommodation, restaurant, microbrewery, and most importantly - giant hot tub. We got a ferry across the Kennebec River from a crazy guy named Hillbilly Dave, and then spent the entire day being lazy and clean and soaking in big bubble baths.

As I mentioned before, we have determined an ending date that I have to meet my parents by. Also, this weekend there is supposed to be some major rain blowing in from all these fabulous tropical storms and hurricanes and whatnot. Who wants to hike in that? I rarely want to hike on nice days, so obviously not me. This being said, we decided that rather than hike out of Caratunk, we would hitch ourselves all over creation one last time to get to Monson. Incidentally, it was perhaps the best hitch I've had on the whole trip, as it was from a logging truck driven by an old guy with the greatest Mainer accent ever. After Monson is the last stretch of the trail, called the "100 mile wilderness," which happens to actually be about 115 miles. This will take us approximately a week to complete. Therefore, once we see how the weather goes, we'll be embarking on our long-awaited final days.

Good Lord, I can't wait to stop hiking.

That's about all the news there is. In just a couple of weeks I'll be back in Virginia, still being a bum, but without wearing a backpack all day.

See y'all then.

Uh, yeah.....

Welp. Made it to Stratton. Bumped into the whole gang of kids again. Watched a bunch of movies at a nice little hostel. Went to the post office and found out my Camelbak wasn't there. I don't know if it's because it didn't make it here in time, or because it was shipped UPS or FedEx or carrier pigeon.

Also, Leki's entire customer service department seems to consist of a voicemail box, which I have left messages on to no avail.

Anyway - all of this is slightly frustrating, but it's nothing major enough to detain me from hiking. Or finishing, for that matter. I can make it with one pole and a water bladder wrapped in a plastic bag.

Off to the last stretch of civilization! Next stop - Monson. Then a mad dash for a big mountain and the last of my sanity!

The Third: We make it to Maine!

Back again and away we go!

Heading out of Gorham, we struggled over the last of the Whites and spent one more night just within the AMC's grasp (luckily they let you get away with a few free shelters right at the end). The next morning we awoke eager with the knowledge that we were only a few miles from reaching the final leg of our journey - Maine. That long-fabled enigma of a state did in fact exist. And on top of that, our last mountain in New Hampshire was Mt. Success. What a morale boost! Mt. Success! How can you climb it and not feel accomplished?! And as we descended from that physical and mental high, all I could think was "Man, why am I not in Maine already?" Until finally we came across that little, blue, anticlimactic sign, marking our crossing into the home stretch.

In Maine we left the White Mts. and headed into the Mahoosuc Range, but this does not mean that the there was a reprieve from the extreme terrain. If anything, it was even crazier than what we'd experienced in NH. Alternating between scaling sheer, slippery rock faces on the acsent and slip-slide-falling down them on the descent, besides maneuvering across/around mud bogs that will eat your boots whole. We made it about five miles into the state before finally calling it an exhausting day. Plus, lying it wait for us at the bottom of the next mountain was Mahoosuc Notch, known as perhaps the most strenuous and difficult mile on the entire Appalachian Trail - basically a ravine covered with the biggest, baddest boulders, which must be climbed over, under, around, through, or however you can manage. We decided to stop, get a good night's rest, and tackle the demon in the morning on a beautiful day. Unfortunately, meteorology was against us. Sometime during the night the rain started and continued through the morning. Besides the fact that I hate hiking in the rain, I hate the thought of hiking the most arduous part of the entire 2176.2 miles in the rain. So what did we do? What do you think?

We packed up and headed down into the Notch of Doom. Well... at least to the beginning of it. Then we dumped our packs and went weightlessly rock-skipping around for a good 20 minutes or so, before we came back out, grabbed our stuff, and blue-blazed our way out to a road, like sane people. The road was an incredibly desolate gravel road, which eventually connected with a highway, according to our estimations of the map. However, we really had no idea exactly how far down the road we had to travel to get to the highway. Luckily, after a mile or two of walking, a lone car containing two very lost fishermen came to our rescue. With the combined efforts of our rudimentary orienteering and a GPS system we finally made it to pavement and our heroes dropped us in the tiny "town" (more like "building") of Upton. Turns out it would have been quite a long walk, indeed. Our ultimate destination was the slightly larger (but not much) town of Andover, which we discovered was about 15 miles down another remote byway. In fact, a woman who actually lived on the road described it as "desolate." Of course, we really had no other choice, so we got to steppin'. I'm not exactly sure how far we walked down that road, but it was a fair ways. Four cars passed us the whole time - three going in the opposite direction, and one that flew past, I'm pretty sure mocking us. It wasn't the highlight of the day, but where else were we gonna go? Finally, I caught sight of a Jeep pulling onto the road just ahead of us, and flagged him down with all the pathetic arm-flailing I could muster. The driver and his beagle, Baxter, had pity on us and thankfully whisked us away to Andover, where I began this incredibly rambling triology of blogness.

We spent the night in Andover at a quaint little guest house, with several other hikers, including the Gatlinburg kids from Gorham. Movies were watched, food was eaten - a good time all around. On the morrow, we did our hiker errands and once again walk/hitched out of town to a campsite near the trail. That night, as we sat marveling at the fact we were in our sleeping bags at 7pm, I heard the rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs nearby. Peeking outside the tent, I saw a huge bull moose - antlers and all - headed in our direction. It came withing about 20 ft. of our camp before noticing we were even there, upon discovering which, it merely turned around and lumbered back from whence it came. Unfortunately, we didn't get any pictures, due to the dwindling light, but hopefully there will be more sightings of this kind before the end.

Can I just stop for a moment here and comment on how baffled I am that I can write so much about these things? When did that happen?

Maine. Goes. On.

Now I am sitting at the Rangeley Public Library of Rangeley, ME. We left Andover. We climbed some more mountains. We camped some more. The detailed stories of the last several posts have tired me, but here are the significant developments:

• The horrors of the Mahoosucs have diminished somewhat. There are still a few significant peaks between here and Katahdin, but we've had at least a little relief for now. Lots of lakes and ponds. More bogs than rocks, which I guess is alright.
• I bent one of my hiking poles. I took an awesome face-first spill on one of the few slippery-rocked uphills and fell right on top of it. Hopefully I will be able to somehow get it replace before the end, although it almost hardly seems worth it. It's just the principle of the thing.
• My Camelback water bladder is slowly leaking somewhere. I discovered this when my tent, the bottom of my pack, and my butt were perpetually soaked even after drying out overnight. I should be able to get this replaced also, but I've managed to jerry-rig it in the meantime.
• We scored some awesomely random trail magic, slackpacking, and a free place to stay in Rangely from some former thru-hikers who live/work in the area.
• We have 220 miles of trail left and three town stops.
• We will be summiting Katahdin around Oct. 5-6, which means that there are less than three weeks left of this insane 6 1/2 month adventure/trek/journey/escapade/quest/vacation/pilgrimage /amazing, terrible, fantastic, trip.

I think I feel like most thru-hikers do at this point along the way, which is to say, I'm not really sure how to feel. I certainly am tired of hiking, and I definitely do not want to continue doing it for several more months. But at the same time, it's all I have been doing (more or less) for the last six months. And suddenly, as soon as I come down of that last mountain, it's over. I'll be in a car, and then a hotel, and then on the way home - out of the woods, totally broke, away from hikers, trying to figure out how to continue existence in the rest of society. Not to mention the fact that I will have spent every day of the last two month with a person that I really love and then after a couple of weeks it'll be splitsville until a date TBD. All of this looming behind the immediately pressing issue of actually getting to the finish line in the first place. So I've got an interesting couple of hundred miles left ahead of me. I will probably savour and lament every one of them. But I definitely wouldn't trade them for anything.

UPDATE: Camelbak is sending a new bladder to Stratton! For free! Woohoo! Thanks, Camelbak, you're the best!

The Saga Continues

So now that I'm back and off my soapbox...

We left Zealand Falls bright and early, intending to do quite an ambitious day reaching the hut at the base of big ol' Mt. Washington - the second highest peak on the AT and famed for it's year-round terrible weather. About a mile into our blue-blaze (what did you expect?) the sky took a turn for the worse and opened up with thunder and lightning and fury. We sat it out under cover of tarp for as long as possible, but couldn't wait forever, so we slogged on down the unexpectedly difficult trail to Crawford Notch, where we stumbled dripping into the AMC Highland Center gift shop. Now supposedly there's a hostel at this place, but us hikers are po', so we figured why pay to sleep when there's a place for free? Previously, my very good friend and former thru-hiker, Becka Lee Rankin, had given us a hook-up with a hiker friend of hers who happens to work at the AMC center in Pinkham Notch, which was on the other side of Mt. Washington and one very long hitch away. Miraculously, at almost the same moment we made the executive yellow-blaze decision, out of nowhere popped a guy I'll call "Dave," a friend of a friend of Voodoo's, who he had met once before, not on the trail, but at Bonnaroo. With a little cajoling he agreed to drive us around those silly mountains to Pinkham Notch, and just like that we were there. Turns out Becka's friend wasn't. And wouldn't be for several days. We just missed her (thanks a bunch anyway, Tracey!). So we had no other choice but to hitch it on up to Gorham a few days earlier than planned. Once in town, we checked into a nice shoddy hostel/motel, got cleaned up, and headed straight to fast food. We actually ran into quite a few hikers about town, including some of the old G'burg gang - Spidey, NoAmp, Cookie Monster, and Thinker! Hadn't seen most of them in quite a long time. It's nice to know that some people from way down south are making it.

The next day's weather was set to clear up, and for once the forecast was right. We set ourselves up for another hostel night and commenced to hitch back down to Pinkham to tackle the beast that is Mt. Washington. Instead of the AT, we hopped on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, which has actually been the site of many of Washington's recorded deaths. Needless to say, it's a fairly tough four miles up the side of a mountain. But incredibly beautiful. It took us about three hours to drag ourselves up there, clouds racing by all the time. Turn around one moment and see the whole mountainous horizon before you, and the next it's lost in a sea of white. At the summit, we were greeted not only by icicles and blasting winds, but also by lots and lots and lots of tourists, since the top 'o' the mount is the site of a weather station, museum, gift shop, snack bar, post office, another gift shop, and something called the "Tip Top House," which we never explored because it was closed. Oh, and let's not forget the road AND the train that travel up there, too. Let's just say Mt. Washington is a definitely a significant peak on the trail, and by far the craziest. We got up, took all our photos, got back down, and pigged out on Chinese food back in Gorham.

On Day 3 in town, we eagerly headed to the post office (for the third time in three days) to check for the many packages we were expecting - a resupply from my parents, an mp3 player from Shawn's friend, and an oh so precious two-person tent (from another hiker friend), which would lighten my pack and simplify shelter situations, since Shawn only has a tarp. I got my huge box of food, but the others were nowhere to be found. Actually, the mp3 player showed up later after we discovered it was misplaced at the post office, but alas, still no tent. The rest of the day was spent organizing and roaming and annoying librarians (another story for another time) until finally we made it back on to an actual trail that actually led back into the mountains. It wasn't the AT, of course, but at least it was free.

And the tales after that, my very patient friends, shall have to come in an amazing third installment. Continue to wait with bated breath!

Maine: The Final Frontier

That's right. State 14 of 14. I actually made it. Yippee doo!

Of course, I still have over 200 miles of trail left. But that's irrelevant, right? For the last six months my polite exchanges with strangers have gone something like this:

"Where ya headed?"

"To Maine."

And here I am. I did not tell a lie. What's that you say? I've come this far, I have to finish, I have to get to that Big K? Well... okay. Just because I love you so much, I shall soldier on.

Now that that's all settled, let me quickly fill you in on all the ridiculous escapades of the continuing saga of Twinkletoes and Voodoo.

Way on back in Lincoln, NH we spent a couple more nights at Chet's Place, to wait for the weather to clear and because it was awesome. There we reconnected with Voodoo's former hiking buddy, Last Minute, who had just returned to the trail after heading home for a few weeks to battle a case of mononucelosis. Again dragging ourselves away from the comforts of civilization, we dove headlong into the big bad White Mountains. First up was Franconia Ridge. The weather did not seem ideal (at least to me), as it was fairly wet from previous rain and the treeless mountaintops were mostly in cloud cover. But when those clouds parted the views were everything they had been made out to be. Spectacular, in a word. And made all the more dramatic by the opening and closing of foggy curtains. We topped some hefty mountains - Little Haystack, Lincoln, Lafayette - in some seriously gusty winds, before climbing a whole mile back down just to get to Greenleaf Hut. Many props to Last Minute for conquering the terrain after such a big hiatus. They killed me without having any breaks (basically), much less illness.

In my last post, I mentioned that I'm not particularly fond of the Appalachian Mountain Club, or AMC. The Whites are particularly popular mountains to hike (for very good reasons), and the AMC had all the foresight to reap the monetary benefits of this popularity. Throughout the Whites, the choices for overnight stay are limited exclusively to AMC-run campsites, for a cost of $8, or "huts" (read "really big cabins"), for a cost of about $90-$100 per night. However, the AMC has decided that during a certain season every year when they are, for some reason, overrun with these "through hikers", they will be oh so gracious and accommodating as to allow two AT hikers to eat some leftovers and sleep on the dining room floor in exchange for a couple of chores around the hut. Now on the one hand, this is in fact very helpful of them, because if we couldn't stay at the huts, then there would hardly be a place to stay at all, and Lord knows that hikers are far too poor to afford their prices. On the other hand, you would think that, being the stewards of these precious natural wonders called mountains, the AMC might have a little more regard for people who have willingly chosen to fully experience these wonders for the last six months or so. You know, enough to at least offer a bunk. Even the leftovers I can forgive, 'cause honestly the food is really good and they shouldn't have to make extra when they don't even know who's coming.

Greenleaf Hut really wasn't bad. The "croo" was amiable, the work was light, and they even made us some pancakes for breakfast. Our second night at Zealand Falls Hut, though, left us feeling slightly more outcast. In a hut that houses close to 40 guests, there were a total of seven, yet we were still asked to sit outside in the chill wind and oncoming dark until the rich folks finished their dinner. As we scraped together what was left of some burritos (still delicious), we were told we could share half of an eclair for dessert - you know, just in case someone else wanted to eat another one. Our chore was a little more strenous - cleaning the stove - but that's not really even an issue; at least it's something to pass the time. However, after another night on the floor in a nearly empty bunkhouse, we were told (not asked) by the same guy who was stingy with the pastries, that we would get to wash some dishes before we left. Fortunately, a more level-headed crew member informed him we had done our fair share and we escaped (without any pancakes).

All this excitement is far too much to be contained in one blog. The gripping conclusion in yet another two-parter...

BAM!

I'm in Gorham, NH! This library sucks! We finally left Chet's and tried to hike the Whites! Some of them...

Franconia Ridge, Mt. Washington. That's about it. Lots of blue/yellow blazing. I don't like the AMC.

I don't know what's going to happen next. Packages, stupid stuff, etc. to worry about.

Really freaking close to Maine.

Stories and details in the future.

How's life?




Love, Murry