Date: 2009-08-28
From: Pierce Pond Lean-To 

To: Caratunk, Maine (Route 201) 
Miles today: 3.7

Fortunately, I set my alarm for 5:30 am so I could brew some coffee, pack up leisurely, and head over to Harrison¢s Camp located about 14 mile from the shelter. Last night, ¢No Reservations¢ went over there and put our names on the sign-up sheet tacked to the door, making a reservation for their deluxe hiker¢s breakfast (which is only available if you make reservations the night before, even if your trail name is ¢No Reservations¢). I didn¢t want to miss this breakfast ¢ 12 large-sized blueberry pancakes, bacon, two eggs, coffee, and juice for $10. And yes, I ate the whole thing! Tim Harrison, like his camp, (cottages and a main lodge situated on a small bluff above a rapidly flowing stream) is 100% a Maine original ¢ roughhewn, completely authentic, and lacking any frills, but still very warm and personable. There were only four of us to enjoy this breakfast feast: Tim and "No Reservations" a NOBO Thru Hiker named ¢Skunk Ape,¢ and myself. As we ate and enjoyed a bottomless cup of coffee, the four of us enjoyed leisurely conversation covering a host of topics. If you are ever looking for a true Maine backwoods getaway, this would be the place to go (but bring your own T.P.)! It took only an hour or so to hike down to the Kennebec River, where another Maine icon, Dave, paddled ¢Skunk Ape¢ and me across in the canoe-ferry service provided by the ATC (Appalachian Trail Conservancy) that is the governing body for the Trail. Normally, the river is low enough to ford on foot, but as part of a contract with the 16 whitewater rafting companies that use the Kennebec River, the dam operators release 500 million cubic meters of water at various times of the day, and once the river starts to rise, there is not enough time for someone on foot to make it across to safety, as one unfortunate Thru Hiker found out the hard way in 1985 (he drowned when the river surged unpredictably). Dave ferries hikers across the river two at a time between 9:00 am and 11:00 am and from 2:00 pm to 4:00pm, seven days per week. He wears a 1700s-style trappers hat, flannel shirt, well-worn jeans, water-proof coveralls and well-worn boots; all the while talking up a storm in as heavy a Maine accent as I have ever heard. In the off-season, he is a hunting guide, and I suspect he wears the exact same attire for that line of work as he did today (it certainly smelled that way at least).Just to satisfy the ¢AT purists¢ (those who never want to miss a step on the designated Appalachian Trail), there is a white blaze painted on the bottom of the canoe. I arrived in Caratunk around 10:30 pm and ran into a very forlorn ¢Mountain Goat¢ whom I had met at the ¢Trail Magic¢ cookout and then again at Shaw¢s in Monson, where he had been delayed while waiting for a new pair of boots to be sent to replace the ones he bought at the beginning of his trip at Katahdin ¢ the soles of both of them had torn off during the 100-Mile Wilderness. Today, he was sitting on the curb outside the post office, head in hands, trying to figure out what to do since his drop-box containing his food and tent had not arrived as planned. Poor guy! He is less than 150 miles into his SOBO journey, and he¢s already one week behind his friends with whom he had started out. The post mistress insisted on calling the Sterling Inn for me, and a few minutes later a friendly river guide named Adam, who lives at the Inn but was on his day off, came and picked me up and took me there, whereupon I immediately took a hot shower and a quick nap. At noon, Adam and Wallace, whose wife owns the inn, and I piled into one of their trucks and hit the local pub for lunch. I spent the afternoon airing out my clothes and sleeping bag in the sunshine on the porch. I then sorted through provisions for the next three days on the Trail (my drop-box did arrive as planned!), and then took a second nap. I¢m now sitting on the porch of the inn watching the sunset over the mountains and enjoying my version of ¢happy hour¢ ¢ a bag of ripple chips, salsa, a liter of club soda, and a cigar. A loon is crying its distinctive call somewhere in the distance. The sky is starting to cloud up, which could mean rain tomorrow as the locals are expecting, which would be a real bummer for my friend, Dick Hurd, who is coming up from Boston tonight to join me for my last three days in Maine. I¢m about to cook some hot dogs on the inn¢s BBQ, then write out some postcards as I wait for Dick to arrive. After yesterday¢s long hike, this has been a wonderful respite for me, as I had anticipated.