Date: 2004-09-29
From: Katahdin

To: Katahdin
Miles today: 0.0
Weather: overcast clouds

Sept 29, 2004Maine's 100-Mile WildernessWe have achieved maximum escape velocity and are moving outward into the furthest reaches of Nobo space with all the style and finesse of a tortoise two-stepping to Nirvana's ¢Smells like teen spirit.¢ We are limping, in essence. Limping, stumbling, bumbling, swaggering, tripping and slipping in mud and roots and sunken puncheons `oer truck-sized stones and bridgeless rivers fording. We are malnourished, under-funded, broken-hearted, bereft of body fat and fast metabolizing muscle mass. We are sick of the forest and our one ripe set of clothes, yet terrified more of what lay beyond Katahdin's close. We're in the Hundred Mile Wilderness, the last stretch of the Appalachian Mountains, the terminus of the AT. We're ecstatic, exhausted, horrified and pale. -RSMNext a.m.The condoms slip. They are of the lubricated variety and it has been so longsince I've had any consistent occasion to use condoms that I musta plum forgotthat these don't work for me. Forgot that lubricated condoms don't stay on an uncircumcised "Tool," can't be trusted in a pinch. And it's definitely a pinch down there. The woman is young and strong. She's a helluva good hiking partner and I'm both honored she chose to join me on this final stretch this ¢green mile¢ to Henry David's ¢Kaatdn,¢ honored and proud of my moment of good sense the voice, the urge, the calling, the nickel coin-flip-in my favor that led me to stick out my thumb and make the jump ahead. One small chunk of Maine, one large leap for companionship-kind.So why bring up condoms? Because like Pop Tarts, they're hard to come by out herein the 100-Mile Wilderness. I bought the wrong kind and now I'm screwed.Or not screwed, as it were. You got the idea. Sex or no, I'm happy.If it weren't for the girl, I think I might well have hopped a freight south and then west about a week ago. I am THAT DONE with this belabored journey, this ¢oops! I forgot what the point was¢ long-ass walk halfway around the sun. I am Forrest Gump, suddenly just done running. I have physically and emotionally reached my limit. But unlike Forrest, I have one last mountain to climb, and he's only 99 miles away. Seven days tops. Spiritually, I am not done. Nor topographically. So here I go. Morning campfire smoldering, coffee drunk, sun finally crackin' through the wall of woods. We walk another day.11:22 a.m.Trailside at one of a zillion ponds up here, this archipelago of water and pulpmill fodder called the Great North Woods of Maine. Three go-getters pass us,the Blues Brothers and Ranger Dan. Before them this a.m. went Swix andSquatter, checking out of Leema Brook Shelter early, tip-toeing by our tentunheard by us and thus likely privy to our morning coitus cacophony, a loonand a barn owl trapped in a double-zipped mummy bag thrashing about.Maine public radio escorts me gently through today's first mile with a lullaby¢lied¢ (song) of sweet-sounding strings: cello, viola, violin. I think ofLuci, of Paz & Anna. I lament that I may have offended the latter, so lovely,so volatile, so stunning and soft the day her brother died. The forecast calls for sun and scattered clouds through Sunday. It is Thursday.The sky is blue, the sun warm, hiding from us the approaching tempest of Mainewinter. I am grateful. Just one more week, God. Just give me one more week. Last night another soft bed of moss. Yellow birch, balsam, fir, the latterknown by their flat leaflets, unlike pine needles that can be rolled betweenfingers. So says Yazzy. And ferns. Forever ferns the rich green carpet ofthe forest. These are our neighbors this morning, and they make not a sound.Yazzy has the legs of a horse, the strength of a Himalayan sherpa. She is a good partner, a good woman, an Alaskan dreamer, a pretty blue-eyed breeder. Is she my type? I didn't think so. But perhaps I think again.2:27 p.m.I sent my Piglet fleece to Tinker after giving up on ever making it into anotherJester hat. I told him to, if nothing else, take a small swatch of it with himto Iraq as a good luck charm from me, as a reminder of childlike innocence andsoft cuddly things. Innocent as Piglet & Pooh.I am disenchanted with our pace. The autumn foliage apparently so brilliant inNew England now, appears dull and lackluster in the bright light of midday, andI sense it is my eyes that lack. My jaded eyes that have been awash in theendless timber for six months now. I cannot see the foliage for the trees. Iam bone tired and lugging an impossible burden. Ten days of food, the signrecommends. I have eight. With every step, especially downhill, the addedweight rattles my knees and sore ankles, loose bolts in creaky hinges. My daysof 20-mile races are over. We will be lucky to make 12 miles today.At Big Wilson Stream, the ¢ford¢ turned into an Oldsmobile and halfway acrossthe water, she listed badly to the right like a boat punctured and sinkingsideways. The ¢ford¢ was Yazzy, fording yet another bridgeless stream up herein the Maine woods where it appears they have yet to invent the bridge. Theycan't build walking bridges tall enough or formidable enough to withstandspring floods.And so no bridge. Yazzy wanted to cry. Can't blame her. Pack half-submerged,sleeping bag and tent soaked, camera drowned. It took me forever, theunbuckling of a dozen straps and unplugging of headphones from ears anddisentanglement, but I finally managed to drop my pack and run to her aid,trekking poles firmly in hand and probing the rocky bottom, depth-finders &crutches-in-one navigating the fast-flowing, slick-rocked waist deep water. After some argument, I managed to unburden her of her pack (and pride) and get at least the former safely to the far shore. Successful in this, I went back and retrieved mine. Yazzy was wet and unhappy but agreed to hike on to get as close to our neededdaily average. We made it 11.4 miles to Vaughn Stream & Falls where CherokeeTears had a fire stoked and ready and welcomed us.-RSM