A Limp in the Woods (Day 161)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 161: Sunday, September 1st, 2013
Abol Bridge to Birches Campground and back = 10 miles (+ 10 miles!)

(AT) Miles to date: 2,181

Out and Back

Yet another wacky dream last night. I was hooked via a series of wires to a polygraph machine--a lie detector. A faceless clock hung from each of the four cinder-block walls, while a faceless man began asking me a barrage of questions for a crime I did not commit, or did not recall committing. That part of the dream escaped me. One question I remember vividly was rather simple: “Have you enjoyed your experience on the Appalachian Trail?” The clocks ticked in perfect synchronicity.

“Yes,” I said, resolutely. The polygraph vibrated frantically, sounding a succession of alarms.

I retracted my reply: “Oops. I meant no.”

Again the machine beeped furiously, before smoke began to billow out of it.

“I mean, I don’t know. Can I answer this one later? Ten years later?”

The faceless man said nothing.

I awoke to the smell of smoke. It was emanating from a nearby campfire.

~~~~~~~~~~

There were just fifteen miles of Appalachian Trail remaining, discounting the mandatory handful of miles back down the final hurrah. Knowing I wasn’t up for a twenty-miler, let alone such an epic one, I decided on a shorter stroll. I’d end up venturing ten miles over docile terrain up to the Birches Campsite, where the earth tilts skyward toward Katahdin’s summit. A vertical horizon I didn’t care to come to grips with. Grips being the operative word.

From the Birches Campground the scheme was to hitch to the happening hamlet of Millinocket but by way of Abol Bridge, where I was to stash the all-too-heavy supplies. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for a hundred percent chance of rain, which is about ninety-eight percent too chancy for my liking. I want light at the end of this tunnel; light skies, light load. And so I figure I’ll be better off relaxing in town, assuming a ride would come my way on this sunny Sunday, this first of September. Mama K can wait. Will wait.

     Maybe.

I’d camped with Jeff the Felon. We decided for a spot next to the potholed bridge crossing the Penobscot River. We did this to spare ourselves what the local campsite was gouging the rich (ill-advised) folks for, some ten or twelve smackers. For a dirt patch and generator noise! In the early hours it had rained a fair amount, fair or unfair, but by the time we awoke it was a fairly stellar day. Slugs slithered all over our tents and when it came time to flick them off, each tent shone with a silvery-gray spackling that only the most dastardly of downpours would remove. No matter. Extra waterproofing.

After spanning the bridge and snapping photos of Katahdin--eleven feet shy of a mile high--I ate some snacks, re-sorted my pack (hiding my sleeping bag and tent in the area, so I wouldn’t have to haul their bulk for the day, as broached above), and was off. Off, not like a prom dress; off like month-old milk. Rancid, not rapid. I’m well past due for a scour of a shower. Or a dunk to rid the funk. 

The route would end up as scenic and irenic as any I’d moseyed in Maine. I was walking on the happy side of life, socializing with myself as I went. Yeah, I could easily live in Maine, hard as winter might be... At first the path paralleled the icy blue waters of the Penobscot River, then eventually the icy white waters of Nesowadnehunk Stream, before touring Big Niagara Falls. Then it passed the Little Niagara Falls. Neither are the biggest of Niagara Falls, those well south and west of here. Nonetheless: picturesque beyond expectation. Pleasure beyond measure. But since this was still the AT it was all upstream, naturally. Can’t have things too easy.

At the second set of falls I waved at a middle-aged French-Canadian couple. I could tell they were French-Canadian ‘cause they waved back in French-Canadian. They waved me over (in French-Canadian) and asked if I wouldn’t mind taking their picture. “I wouldn’t mind,” I assured them. I didn’t know it, but they’d be the very pair to give me a lift into town later, on the last exit to nowhere. I was glad I could repay the favor ahead of time. The vibe we put out to the world is the one we receive, I believe. My default vibe needs continual readjustment, no question, but I was reminded later that positivity works positively. Outlook affects outcome.

Once I’d reached the Birches Campground, I checked into its ranger station, by jotting my name on a tattered register. I didn’t tally the exact sum, but hundreds of soon-to-be-through thru-hikers had come before me; hundreds of hikers were still somewhere behind, blundering blissfully. Others I knew completed their hikes in the last week. Backstreet finished two weeks ago. My plan, I wrote (as is required), was to top out or tap out tomorrow. (I affixed a fat asterisk. The ol’ T-B-D. To be determined. I was determined not to try for the summit if tomorrow’s chance of rain remained pegged at 100%.) It was still a perfectly sunny day as I sat there at the modest outpost, without even a whisper of a cloud, so I didn’t want to rule the attempt out. I’m ready to stand, or sit, atop Katahdin.

Just five piddly miles remain! (Albeit a high five.) Few things can stop me from summitting now…

*I get injured overnight, masturbating

*I get murdered overnight, masturbating

*I get hit by a (falling) tree, masturbating

*I get hit by a meteorite, masturbating

*I get struck by lightning, masturbating

*I get bitten by a venomous snake or venomous mouse, masturbating

*I get stamped by a moose or large insect, masturbating

*I fall into a bog and cannot extricate myself, masturbating

Am I confident these things won’t happen? No, I am not. The Appalachian Trail does nothing to raise your confidence. Even after all but five miles of it. One way or another, thy will be done.

After engaging in some brainless banter with other hikers--some summitting earlier (high fives all around), some waiting to summit (high fives all around)--I returned to Abol Bridge, the same way whence I came. I jogged most the ten miles back, to the point my feet drew blood. I was able to catch the aforementioned ride into town as soon as I arrived. I was hoping for a real meal and maybe even a roof over my head overnight, so I wasn’t about to pass up the chance when the French-Canadian pair pulled over. I had just collected my tent and sleeping bag but hadn’t even stuck my thumb up. I will now though, giving this glorious day one huge thumb’s up. (This being the AT, it’s a green thumb, naturally.)