A Limp in the Woods (Day 164)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 164: Wednesday, September 4th, 2013
KATAHDIN = 5 miles, then back down
Miles to date: 2,186

Nein mehr weiß lodert

It wasn’t pretty, but it was beautiful.

Done.

Relieved of duties. 

It’s in the books. (Or here in this blog.)

At last. 

My last journal entry. 

And then a vow of silence. 

But first, the part prior...

~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve served my sentence in Millinocket. Today’s the day. I am released, and I am relieved. I’d wished to wipe clean this most onerous of odysseys the day before yesterday, Labor Day. It seemed rightly suitable to finish an Appalachian Trail thru-hike on such a day(1). But then the weather won, as it would again yesterday--as it forever does. And who gives a hoot about any such official designation, when the calendar itself is completely arbitrary?! Every day on the AT is Labor Day. Capital L, capital D.

Capitalizing on an early start--‘twas damn near dark-early when the encephalon cells began to clank and clash--I was easily able to secure a ride from town back to Baxter State Park, a distance of about twenty-eight miles. Easily able, because I shelled out for the shuttle that the AT Lodge offered, in their ten-seater beater. 

I asked the van driver if he’d drive there in reverse, so instead of me having to pay, he’d owe me the money. He didn’t take the suggestion seriously. Oh well, for a fairly fair sum, I was back where I belonged: anywhere but Millinocket. Another day there and I would’ve paid for prison admission. Three hots and a cot. Shawshank Preemption.

Back at the Birches Campsite, tantalizingly close to this toll road’s long-targeted exit ramp, I’d meet up with a German thru-hiker named Restless Cowboy. Male, thin-ish, grin-ish, thirty-ish. 3.72% Neanderthal. The two of us decided, with nary an utterance, to tackle the mountain collectively. We weren’t a big collection but we did just that, pausing persistently to lasso our breath, only to take in another breath-taking view whilst doing so. Respiration, perspiration, inspiration. Pant, pour, roar.

Even by AT standards--a vertical yardstick--the mountain’s a monster. It’s as though every day’s walk leading to it is but a shakedown. 2,181 miles of groundwork. Katahdin the killer, it is a minefield of a mountain. Labor Day #164.

As it’d been with countless peaks to the south, one does not hike Katahdin. Walk-in appointments are not allowed. The hiker must clamber, employing other bodily parts than just the feet to continue forth, to continue north, as per the master plan. Hands, butt, knees, elbows, back. Only near the summit do things mellow, and the hiker can safely return to his feet. Safely, of course, depends on conditions. The winds can lash and lacerate up hither. On the AT you earn every mile. No one is an AT thru-hiker; they are each an AT survivor.

We stopped and slurped some liquid at yet another majestic mountaintop leak, Thoreau Spring, before continuing forth. No filtering or chemical doctoring required. “Only one mile left,” I said to my latest and last hiking partner. “Two thousand one hundred and eighty five down!” Our feet hovered a foot off the ground; it was the first time we hadn’t felt them in months.

“Now was a good time, wasn’t it?” smiled Restless Cowboy, his English on par with my German. “It was,” I replied. “It always was, now and then.”

And then, just like that, there were no more white blazes in sight. Nein mehr weiß lodert! The experiment was a success. (You hike one Appalachian Trail, you’ve hiked ‘em all.)

The summit was bleak, windswept, and repellent. It also had unnourishing air. But it was oh so seductive. Multitudes of mountaineers loitered and reconnoitered. It was rush hour and very much a rush. Just as it had been with the uncontrolled exuberance back during the first few weeks of this odyssey, the exhilaration here was palpable. The views were endlessly tremendous, a panorama addict’s paradise. The wind wailed, enlivening the experience. A true summit. Fueled by the gusts, a fleet of pretty serious-looking clouds came and went as though behind schedule, but it was a relatively diplomatic day otherwise, given the peak’s proud history of hellish hardship. Most everyone was on his or her feet, but a few were on their backsides seeking shelter, set to stay a while. No one was going to die on this day, not here, not now.

The planning hadn’t been mastered as I had hoped three days ago--for that perfect peak day, a day above and beyond reproach (mainly above). I’d long since learned that the path and the conditions enveloping it are the ones in control, not those of us passing through. You hike the trail on its terms. We picayune little beings are only visitors, blessed beyond belief, striving to survive its worst, whilst awaiting its best. Individually, collectively. 

The AT always wins of course, for it is indifferent(2). And hikers aren’t just the visiting team--we’re also the perpetual underdog. But every so often the underdog prevails, as we dozen thru-hikers at the top had. We didn’t win by completing the AT; we won by having the opportunity to step foot on it. The jubilation persisted. A moment of catharsis struck. I barked wildly. Others wept.

Restless Cowboy looked my way, as we hunkered down behind some knee-high, lichen-coated boulders and divvied up the last of our remaining snacks. We were waiting for some of the horde to abort their jubilee, so that we could get some decent pictures alongside the deteriorating, defaced summit sign, without the droves milling about behind it. We both felt when summits are shared by so many they tend to carry less significance. One more reason never to attempt that human conveyor belt called Everest.

“Das vas sweetly bitter, yah?” he asked, smiling. Restless is a smiley type. Quiet and contemplative (still waters run deep, even in Germany apparently), but constantly smiling. I hadn’t known him but a few hours and already I liked him. Our paths had crossed as far back as Virginia, but we never had the chance to speak. I wished we had, but at the time his brother (who returned to Deutschland due to visa constraints) was with him, and I was with Backstreet and bunch.

“The snack?” Weird, I thought, this doesn’t taste bitter at all. We were chowing on cheese and crackers. Neither bitter, nor sweet.

“No, I mean finishing das trail.”

“Oh, for sure” I answered, “it is sweetly bitter,” failing to emend his English. And although the Appalachian Trail is a hard trail to love, I meant what I said: it was bittersweet. When my morale was in the lost-and-found, the path always helped me find it. Always.

I went on. “Ya know, it’s funny, but for the longest time I wanted nothing more than to be off the goddamn trail, but now that it’s time, I almost hate having to leave.”

“And do you have to?”

“Nah, not really. But I’m ready. Besides, there could be no better place to leave, up here.”

“Ending on a high note,” Restless smiled. “I believe in happy endings. But I think I’d’ve enjoyed das trail a lot more if I knew I was going to survive it.”

“Well. All’s well that ends well,” I replied, cheesily. I was too tired for any kind of emotional valediction. 

The ruck would eventually disperse and when there were just the two of us remaining we took our customary summit shots. Neither of us cared to pose much--it felt somewhat strange to stand there and act cheesy, saying cheese. Sweetly bitter, indeed. It had been a heck of a trek, full of tough times, and strange and wonderful occurrences, and strangers-cum-friends. Restless summed it up nicely, in an unexpected twang of slang, when he said, “das hike was a trip.” This hike was a trip.

We paid our final respects, turned our backs on the mound, and began going down for the last time. It was good timing; a storm of menacing intent was brewing. If there was a better way to end a 2,200-mile walk than by not stopping, I couldn’t think of it.

Long live the AT!

So long trail. So very long.

A Photo Finish

"Fool's"note 1: I enjoy Labor Day 365 days a year, except on Leap Years, when I enjoy it 366 days. I should've started this parade on Fool's Day.

"Foot"note 2: If there's anything the trail--and indeed Mother Earth--teaches you when you're out that much closer to it, it's its indifference toward us. Along with these three 'its' in a row, I share this indifference.