Date: 2017-08-21
From: The Stratton Motel and Hostel

To: West Carry Pond Lean-To
Miles today: 23.0

Back to the trail by 7:30 after a quick breakfast stop at the Flagstaff General Store (gas station). I ride out with Scoop. She's a northbounder getting slackpacked by the hostel. The weather is gorgeous.There's a cop at the trailhead. They found a dead hiker last night on the northbound trail and will be helicoptering him out soon. They think it was a heart attack. The news doesn't make me think of the dangers of hiking or poor health. It makes me want to see Sara and the kids. No matter how much you love hiking, I don't think you want this to be where it ends. More than ever I feel like I am ready for this hike to be over.The climb up Bigelow is long but not overly taxing. The terrain is somewhat improved. A couple of miles in I pass two game wardens waiting with the body. A large backpack lies nearby. As I continue up the hill the rescue helicopter swoops overhead, turns back, and hovers over the spot. I march on, trying not to think about it. I text Sara not to worry if she hears the news.The Bigelows have the last 4000 footers and last 3000 footers until Katahdin. The north peak and Avery peak (named after AT pioneer Myron Avery) are above treeline and have commanding views of Flagstaff Lake, Sugarloaf, and the ridge I climbed up. I break for lunch on Little Bigelow's rocky summit and view the solar eclipse through my sunglasses with quick glimpses. I can see the disk of the moon taking a bite out of the sun. It's about 50% covered, but the sun is not dimmed at all. If I wasn't looking for it I'd never know there was a partial eclipse.I bump into Matt, the Wounded Warrior from the Cabin in Andover. He's eager to be done with Maine and is pushing as far as he can today. Possibly as far as the Kennebec River 25 miles away. You need the ferry to cross and it only runs from 9 to 2, so it requires some planning. Matt seems to be unhappy despite the nice weather and doesn't seem to be enjoying his hike. On top of Avery I meet a girl just out of college with a very large four-month-old mixed breed puppy. She plans to thruhike next year with the dog and this is a practice outing. It's much better practice then I got for sure! She already has her plane ticket to Georgia purchased for February. The dog is having a hard time and lies down every chance he gets. She will cut this outing short to avoid overtaxing him.I pass Sunset, a flip-flopper who skipped to Katahdin from Virginia and headed south. She's dreading the southern Maine mountains and Whites, a 200 mile stretch she's just entering. I empathize, and she could be in it for much longer than I was. One day at a time, take it slow, I tell her. I push the slackpacking opportunities in Maine. Her pack looks enormous.After descending Little Bigelow the trail improves even more. There are still rocks and roots and mud, but there is more leafy and pine needle surface. Instead of 5% nice trail it's 50%. And almost no more ledges or huge boulders to navigate. I make about three miles an hour down to West Carry Pond shelter.West Carry Pond is a 200+ acre lake once used by Benedict Arnold's army to port boats on their way to attack Quebec. The sun is setting over the hill beyond the lake. Loons cry out over the water. An ATV rumbles in the hills.I am the only one sleeping in the shelter, while three or four others tent nearby. I'm surprised it's not more crowded, I must be a step ahead or behind the bubble tonight. The tenters are no doubt avoiding mosquitos. There are a few and they like my headlamp and phone screen. One of the tenters is a girl named Rad from Schleswig-Holstein in northern Germany doing about half the trail. She wants to visit the west coast before her visa expires. Another is a middle-aged guy named Bahala-na which means "what will be will be" in New Guinean. He's done the entire trail before and large sections since, working on Gorham to Monson at the moment. He's not very chatty so I decide not to ask why he chose the brutal terrain of southern Maine.Tomorrow, on to the Kennebec ferry and a milkshake Sunset promised me in Caratunk.