Date: 2005-12-07
To: View Entry
Miles today: 0.0

Warning! Exceedingly (and excessively) long entry upcoming. (And this is coming from me, so... think Tolstoy, think Dickens¢¦) Got your coffee on hand? Proceed at your own risk¢¦So, the time had finally come, all of the waiting and anticipation were about to be resolved -- I was standing on the southern boundary of the 100-Mile Wilderness. Down in Georgia, many many moons ago (6, to be precise), the Wilderness seemed to be some faraway land, an illusive fantasy, a place that everyone talked and dreamed of visiting, but that no one had actually seen, a place that existed solely in the imagination. And yet, here I was, one mere footstep separating me from that Wonderland. And it seemed so¢¦ anti-climactic? I mean, it wasn¢t like I expected trumpets and fireworks, but, there was just¢¦ a big, whopping¢¦ nothing. My stomach, usually an excellent gauge by the rambunctiousness of its resident butterflies, was strangely quiescent. The trail ahead, across that unseen boundary, looked remarkably identical to what we¢d been enjoying for the past fortnight in Maine, namely: mud, mud, and, oh yeah, MUD. The running joke amongst the Pod (well, the four members present and accounted for, anyway) was that ¢Maine¢ was for ¢Mud¢. Or ¢Maintenance¢¦ and its transparent absence¢. We were becoming connoisseurs of the stuff -- you have your standard mud, and then there¢s bog mud, extra-gooey mud, sludgified mud. Seriously, pigs would have been in heaven. But, peering ahead into the Wilderness, there wasn¢t some instantaneous transformation, serving as a physical representation of the psychological milestone I was about to cross. Not that I guess I really expected it. But, I expected something¢¦ anything¢¦ a wooden sign at the very least. (Oh, to be back in Connecticut, w/ their over-zealous sign-makers¢¦) Well, I don¢t think there was a sign; I don¢t remember one, at any rate, which means that, even if it did exist, it couldn¢t have been very memorable. But¢¦ nothing. Where were those jittery nerves of anticipation? They¢d certainly prevented me from sleeping the night before, but now, now I was feeling¢¦ pissed? Why was I irritated? What weird, Freaky-Friday alternate-universe had I entered?¢¦Of course, my peevish temper may have been due to more than just my letdown over the absence of metaphorical fireworks; I was reeling from the ungodly weight of my pack, most of my concentration spent focusing on maintaining a semblance of my characteristic grace and balance. (That¢s sarcasm, by the way¢¦ Not the description of my struggle for balance, but rather the idea that ¢grace¢ would be the status quo in the first place.) My backpack was un-friggin¢-believably heavy. And top-heavy. I hadn¢t felt this inept in my packing since those early, awkward days in Georgia. Of last year, when I had nightmarish visions of setting the woods on fire b/c of my mishandling of my stove. Back when I didn¢t know how to pack my pack. But, in the past 6 months, I¢d developed a system, dammit! So, what was wrong? And, why did it seem like everything was suddenly wrong? My pack had apparently developed a mind of its own, contorting itself into some monstrosity only vaguely reminiscent of its former self, doing its darndest to topple me w/ the slightest breeze, and making every step an agonizing misery. Of course, it wasn¢t really my pack¢s fault; it was all of that bloody food I had to carry. And whose idea was it to go an entire week w/o resupply anyway? And why did it have to be so freakin¢ cold? Freakin¢ wind. And just look at all that mud. Stupid Maine, for having so much stupid water everywhere. And the blasted trail is a blasted trench of mud. It¢s not a foot-path, it¢s a bloody mud-path. And I¢m going to be slogging through that stupid mud-path for the next hundred miles. It¢s not the 100-Mile Wilderness; it¢s the 100-Mile Mud-Path. And¢¦ And¢¦ oh¢¦ my¢¦ I¢m here¢¦ at the boundary of the 100-Mile Wilderness. I really made it. And, suddenly, my mental rant cut-off mid-thought, all of my disappointment over the lack of fanfare vanished, as I was blinded by the figurative fireworks, the trumpets blaring deafeningly away, the butterflies bruising my ribs in their joyful frolicking. The Wilderness¢¦My pissy mood evaporated, as I realized that all of my (thoroughly injudicious) anger was a direct result of an angst-ridden Freak-Out. Suddenly, I didn¢t care about the cold or the wind. The mud? That was just one of those things that you learn to complacently tolerate. And my pack, although it didn¢t miraculously become lighter, would get lighter, every day, w/ every meal, and, really, that was just an added incentive to eat more food, which means taking more breaks, and what¢s not to love about something that necessitates more-frequent break-taking? The sun wasn¢t shining -- no, the skies remained stubbornly overcast -- but suddenly, my day was brightened from the inside, by metaphorical sunshine, and my disposition became correspondingly sunnier: I was about to enter the 100-Mile Wilderness. I didn¢t need some silly wooden sign to tell me that, b/c the acrobatics that my stomach was performing were indication enough. I fully expected my sleep schedule to suffer another reduction that night (and I was not disappointed), as yet another barrier b/t me and Katahdin was demolished, and yet I was content to simply wallow in the moment (though not, however, the mud), drunk w/ exhilaration. That¢s the pattern -- immediately after a Major Freak-Out Incident (MFO), I experience a Zen-like calm and tranquility. It doesn¢t last long, and when the frazzled nerves resurface, they resurface w/ a vengeance, a heightened intensity. But, at that exact moment, life was good. Yeah, life was good¢¦Venturing into the unknown depths of the Wilderness, despite my recent epiphany and MFO, the trail was outwardly its old, reassuringly familiar self; there were still hills to climb, rocks to avoid, streams to cross, and as much mud a pig could dream of to wallow in. The weather, unpromisingly bleak in the early morning, was performing a transformation rivaling my abrupt mood-swing (pissy to peaceful in 0.25 seconds; ticked to tranquil; choleric to calm¢¦ Hey, this is fun¢¦ snarky to serene; querulous to quiescent; okay, back to business¢¦). The sun was filtering through ever-widening gaps in the clouds, and by the time we reached the first shelter, it was blazing gloriously away. We ran into Seeker there, the tail end of the morning¢s mass exodus from Monson. Speaking of which -- getting to the trailhead from Shaw¢s had been a skit worthy of a circus act. There were 14 of us, I believe, headed to the trail that morning (my apologies if I omit anyone): Timshel (sp?), Traildawg, Moonshine, Holden, Bulldawg, Sal Paradise, History, Pizza the Hut, Seeker, Linus, and our four-some. Now, as anyone who has ever attempted to corral hikers, rounding up 14 of us, simultaneously? An exercise in futility. Or, as Phoenix Rising once said, ¢It¢s like trying to herd butterflies.¢ But, somehow, eventually, miraculously, we were all present and accounted for, 14 hikers, w/ 14 packs, all bursting at the seams w/ over-flowing food bags. All of us, standing around, our gazes shifting from the mound of backpacks, over to our transports -- a beat-up sedan and an SUV (a Suburban, maybe?) -- and back again. It seemed physically impossible, that everyone and everything would fit; that law of physics comes to mind, the one that states that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. But, there must have been a black hole in the trunk of that SUV, b/c, mimicking P.T. Barnum¢s clown cars, we all piled in and, 5 miles later, we all piled out, in a near-endless stream.But, w/ 14 hikers simultaneously embarking into the Wilderness, the Pod was, as usual, bringing up the rear. We¢re rather proud of our ability to dawdle and procrastinate; we like to think that we can out-dawdle and out-procrastinate anyone, but we¢re honest enough to admit that we do have some room for improvement. But, dilly-dallying is something of a trademark for us. Shortly after we strolled in to Leeman Brook Lean-to -- (The first rule of becoming an expert dawdler: stroll, amble, meander, saunter; these are all acceptable forms of locomotion; but try to avoid: walking, hiking, trekking; they imply purposeful movement toward a proscribed destination, which a dawdler never does. Okay, lesson over¢¦) -- Seeker pushed on, and we entertained ourselves, reading entries from the shelter register out loud and watching the overly aggressive chipmunks make feint attacks on our packs. The rodent populace in Maine had, in general, been superlatively agile and zealous in their food-snatching capabilities, but those in the Wilderness, we were to discover, were brazen on a whole-¢nother level. (In case you were wondering, that was a deliberate teaser of events to come¢¦) We also left a message for our fellow Pod-ites, the ever-elusive Freedom and Thatch, still MIA after their last sighting in Stratton. Serenity¢s friend Val was coming to meet us on one of the logging roads, in about 4 days. It established an exact date and time for our whereabouts, no prevaricating, no wishy-washy-ness. ¢We would be there, on the logging road at mile 2105.1, at 3pm, on Monday, October 3rd.¢ (When dealing w/ the Pod, especially regarding (the possibility of) unification, you need to utilize declarative statements, leaving no detail to chance.) ¢We would be there, and we hoped that, reading this message, they would find some way of being there too.¢ As an added incentive (not that it was in any way necessary; the hourglass of time was, after all, running out on the Pod Challenge), Val was going to bring pizza. Now, I ask you, what could be better than the prospect of pizza to a thru-hiker, especially a thru-hiker isolated in the 100-Mile Wilderness, the remote and isolated Wilderness? Nothing, that¢s what. Of course, we couldn¢t explicitly say that pizza would be present, b/c then every hiker in a 30-mile radius would show up. (And honestly, I half-expected a cadre of hikers would be loitering there anyway, no matter how carefully we spoke in code. It¢s that ESP food-radar thing that all hikers possess.) No, we left a sufficiently (we hoped) cryptic mention of ¢gifts¢, carefully avoiding description of the edible nature of said gifts. And then, it was out of our hands. We could only hope that Freedom and Thatch, receiving the message, would perform one of their trademark appearances. (And you¢re just gonna hafta wait and see whether that was the case. To heighten the suspense, I will tell you that the road Val met us on was not the road of the infamous coin toss. Yeah, gotta work that pesky coin back into the story¢¦)Eventually deciding that maybe we should resume that hiking activity (we did, after all, have a whopping (and ambitious) 10-miles planned for the day), we continued our northward trek¢¦ ummm¢¦ stroll. As the weather continued to improve, the Wilderness continued to grow ever-more magical. The woods were permeated w/ a tangible expression of autumn -- the brilliant foliage; the rich, earthy, damp pungency emanating from the forest floor; the brisk bite to the air, creating a sharp crispness to everything. And there was water everywhere -- ponds, their mirror-smooth surfaces reflecting the dazzling sunlight; brooks and streams, chattering merrily away. Coming across Little Wilson Falls was breath-taking. The falls were audible, long before they came into view. And when they did, they were majestic in their power. Sunlight was filtering through the vibrant canopy, dancing on the surface of the water. Inching out to the edge of the falls, perched on the walls of the canyon that had been carved by countless centuries, innumerable millennia, watching the water trip and tumble, in a mesmerizing, hypnotic vertigo, into the tidal pool, 50 feet below.A lengthy break ensued at this point, as the magic of the falls enthralled us, supplanting the need for conversation, the murmur and chatter of the cascading water filling the silence. (Plus, it had been a solid 90 minutes, nearly 2 hours since our last siesta, back at the lean-to; time for a snack!) Have you ever noticed that quality of water, that it sometimes seems to carry voices in its very current, at times only mere whispers but sometimes burgeoning into veritable roars? It¢s transient and fleeting, a phenomenon that is only evidenced in conditions of utter stillness, and one that I have not been often privileged to witness, w/ either actual voices in conversation disturbing the obligatory tranquility, or simply being distracted by my own thoughts. It is only in rare moments, such as this one on Little Wilson Falls, that the ghostly voices of the river reach my ears. It¢s a spine-tingling sensation, eerie and thrilling, and awe-some. Just 3 days before, as I hiked along the Piscataquis River, a solitary hiker alone w/ my thoughts (which were atypically quiescent), when I distinctly heard two voices, a man and a woman, in muted conversation. The owners of the voices sounded just distant enough, that I could not distinguish individual words, a frustrating muffled-ness blanketing the exchange. I kept thinking to myself: ¢They must be nearby, just ahead. Or just behind.¢ I kept expecting them to appear, around each bend. But¢¦ nothing. The voices neither approached nor faded, the volume a constant murmur, tantalizingly just below the level of comprehension. And then, then I realized that the voices were coming from neither ahead nor behind, but rather, from my right. But, the only thing to that side of me was the river. And, as I leaned closer, mouth slightly-open in concentration, listening intently, I found that I could detect the ¢voices¢ in the trips and falls of the babbling brook. (Aha! -- hence, the origin of that phrase¢¦ Alliteration is such a powerful literary device¢¦) The higher-pitched ¢woman¢ arose from the lapping of the current against small rocks and other obstacles in the stream, while the deeper baritone of the ¢man¢ derived from rumbling white-water cascades. Even as my mind absorbed this, made the connection, linking the ¢voices¢ to the river (and my over-analytical brain immediately kicked in, examining the physics of it all -- the sound, being distorted by the water ripples, eardrums absorbing the sound waves, neurons sending a signal to the brain, which processed the information, and came to the most logical (albeit erroneous) conclusion: these particular sound waves were made by human vocalizations); even as the evidence stared me in the face, that the ¢voices¢ were non-existent creations of my brain, even still I retained this unshakeable conviction that, turning a corner, I¢d come across two hikers in conversation. B/c it just sounded so real¢¦ so human¢¦Little Wilson Falls likewise carried the hum of humanity in its tumultuous cascading swells. But rather than a subdued exchange b/t two people just beyond the edge of sight, the falls carried yells and roars, words indistinguishable not b/c they were muted, but instead their volume was too prohibitive, the words strung together in an incomprehensible staccato stream. This was no dialogue; it was a vehement monologue, an angry rant. The ghost swept along by Little Wilson¢s current, the voice born in its cascades, was intensely emotional, consumed by fervent passion. It was captivating, wholly engrossing, just to stand (well, ¢sit¢) as a silent bystander to this phenomenon, in this hallowed place, this exemplary testimony to Nature¢s multi-layered intricacy and profundity. And then, just as suddenly as the voice emerged from the clamorous thunder of the falls, it vanished. Like a radio swiftly turned off, the voice was abruptly swallowed by the tumultuous roar of the river. The mesmerizing spell woven by the inscrutable (and vociferous) orator was broken; it was as if I had been jerked unmercifully back to reality, harshly yanked back into wakefulness from the realm of dreams. Suddenly conscious that the day had progressed well beyond the noon hour, in its relentless daily march toward dusk, I reluctantly bid my farewell to the falls of Little Wilson Stream. My hesitation in leaving this waterfall aerie extended beyond the enrapturing quality of the locale; it also stemmed from my awareness of what lay ahead, just ahead, on the trail. As majestic and magnificent and magical as the falls were, their magnetism was tempered by the knowledge that, a short hop, skip, and jump down the AT, we would be crossing this very river. Every ounce of water, pouring over these cliffs, contributing to the thunderous appeal and majesty of the falls, was also one more ounce strengthening the current and raising the depth of the river downstream. The river that I would soon be plunging into. The river that I would soon ford. My impromptu tumble into the Carabassett River notwithstanding (refer to my Nov 30th entry for the whole story), the fords to-date had been unexceptional non-entities. (Well, the Kennebec ferry was pretty unique, but that¢s a story for another day¢¦) Non- adrenaline-inducing events, for the most part, typically w/ the water level not even reaching mid-calf. But, having watched the relentless power of the Falls, my anxiety had been gradually building in a crescendo. I had yet to actually see Little Wilson Stream (at least, the section where we were to cross), as we still had to descend the height of the falls, but my imagination had been busily conjuring images of ferocious white-water and raging currents. My fear of the upcoming ford, while irrational (as most fears are), was justified; at least, I felt justified in harboring it.I had never really been afraid of water before, learning to swim at an early age. (And anyway, passing a swim test was a graduation requirement at my alma mater. Just one more of the crazy quirks of Swarthmore.) I always retained a healthy respect for water, as w/ all aspects of nature, but it was never something I shied away from. However, the Great Canoeing Incident of 2005 instilled an exponentially greater respect for water and its raw, unadulterated, unpredictable power. I won¢t embark on a detailed description of that event (again, a story for a later day), but suffice it to say that it was traumatic. No, it was bloody terrifying; although, interestingly, when it was actually happening, I felt no terror, no real emotion whatsoever, just a strange, calm detachment. The Shenandoah River et (Pod-speak for ¢ate¢) a considerable portion of my gear and belongings -- wallet, camera, cook-set, tent poles, journal (although fortunately it spat the latter back to me); but, I kept my life, and I was happy w/ that trade. I was extremely reluctant to get back in the canoe again, but, like falling off a horse¢¦ I did, and, slowly, regained my confidence on the river, my comfort w/ water, and everything eventually returned to normal. Well, once I replaced my lost gear, things resumed normalcy. (It¢s kinda difficult to feel as if all is hunky-dory when your tent has to be jerry-rigged to a tree every night, and you have no way of proving your identity.) It was only in very rare moments that memories of our capsizing and my near-drowning would well up inside me, sometimes nearly suffocating me w/ their ferocity.Unfortunately, standing on the banks of Little Wilson, staring at the swift current afore me, was one of those times. I was virtually paralyzed, the same water that had just mesmerized me in its tumultuous cascading waterfalls, was now mesmerizing me w/ visions of my pack (and me haplessly still attached to it) being swept downstream. In reality, the current, while unmistakably the swiftest we¢d yet encountered, was not treacherous. And, while this stream was the deepest we¢d faced to-date, it was only knee-high. So even if I had lost my footing, the worst outcome would have been a thoroughly waterlogged backpack. Which is, admittedly, more than a slight nuisance, especially as it was nearly dark, and the prospect of spending a night in a soggy sleeping bag is never palatable. But, the weather was still surprisingly warm, for late September, in Maine; a true Indian summer, in fact. So, logically, fording Little Wilson presented no real danger, other than another blow to my ego should I take a second spill during a ford. (But honestly, nothing could rival my ineptitude in crossing the Carabassett River, floundering around in less than 6-inches of water, yet somehow managing to soak all of my clothing. Yeah, that takes real skill.) However, my mind was resolutely and resiliently ignoring logic; and, while that may be advisable in situations concerning the Pod Challenge, most of the time, logic is a pretty decent guide. But, in this instance, rationalization had no residence in my mind, not w/ a raging river in front of me, the muted thunder of the falls a timpanic backdrop, hypnotizing me into a near-trance of escalating anxiety.And then, then Free arrived, joining me on the banks of Little Wilson. And, for the second time in 30 minutes, a mesmerizing spell was broken, and I was able to see the stream as it really was, an innocuous fording, no perilous white-water, no gear-snatching current. The visions of calamity and disaster fled, the psychological pall vanished, the illusory black cloud I had conjured in my mind dissipated, the sun once again trickling through in golden droplets. It was just another ford, just another part of the trail. And so, I did what hikers do -- I hiked. That initial plunge into the stream banished the last vestiges of my fear (or perhaps in was the frigid water, simply numbing me to them), and the ford proceeded w/o incident. The trail continued on, uneventfully, following my silent Major Freak-Out (my second of the day -- gawd, at this rate, was I going to be able to survive the Wilderness?). Thanks to my ever-present Wingfoot, I knew that, a few scant miles past Little Wilson Stream, we would be required to ford Big Wilson. However, in spite of the adjectival indication, logic had resumed its normal supremacy in my brain, and my irrational fears were swept back into their dark, recessed corner. The only aspect of the ensuing ford that I dreaded was the fact that we would be hitting it right at dusk, which meant that it was gonna be cold, w/ no sun to warm us afterward. Which is exactly how it happened: Free, Poet, and I had gotten slightly ahead of Serenity, and so, after the (completely uneventful) fording of Big Wilson, we opted to wait on the far bank for her. I needed to filter some water, while Free and Poet were hoping that their feet could air dry, at least marginally, before having to don their socks and trail runners again. Witnessing the rigamarole they enacted at every river crossing, trading shoes for crocs, my selection of sandals as my primary (and only) footwear was once again reinforced. A fact that I wasn¢t shy of reciting to Free and Poet. (Some might term it ¢rubbing it in¢¢¦) Until, that is, Serenity appeared, on the opposite bank. She briefly studied the stream, calmly assessing the route she would take. Then, she nonchalantly plunged in, trail runners and all. Reaching the other side, she offered us a ¢See ya up at the shelter¢ before serenely hiking on. Scrambling to gather errant water bottles, pack up filters, and don footwear, the three of us watched in silence as Serenity vanished up the trail. I petulantly thought, ¢Well, at least I won¢t have squishy shoes in the morning.¢ Serenity¢s rationale in bathing her trail runners, as she edified us later that evening, was that the omnipresent layer of mud in Maine ensured that her feet were constantly sodden anyway; they might as well be clean too. And really, who can argue w/ logic like that? (Although I still remain overwhelmingly partial to the sandal-school of hiking.)And so, hefting our packs, turning our backs to Big Wilson, we followed Serenity¢s footsteps northward, in the increasingly deepening shadows, as the sun relinquished its reign in its daily trek across the sky. The shelter was a short 34-mile jaunt from the banks of the stream, and I was actually looking forward to our dusky stroll, as a relaxing and subdued ending to this emotional day. But wait! The excitement wasn¢t over yet. Not too far from Big Wilson, the AT crosses a railroad track. Nothing overly unusual about that; we¢d had a handful of RR crossings over the past 6 months. What was unique about this particular set of parallel rails was that there was a train occupying them. Yes, we were stalled, on the Appalachian Trail, waiting for a train to pass. In the 100-Mile Wilderness. The remote, isolated, ¢rediscover Nature away from the trappings of civilization¢ Wilderness. A friggin¢ TRAIN! Could this day really get any more surreal? Thankfully, no, it couldn¢t. (Which is good, b/c I don¢t know if my poor little heart, my poor little brain, could take any more d-rama.) Arriving at the shelter, following a quick dinner, I retreated into my tent, mentally exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of the day. It was almost unfathomable to me that, just that morning, less than 12 hours earlier, I was waking up, in a bed, under a roof, in a town. That I was cooking breakfast w/ Tim in the General Store. That I had finally entered the 100-Mile Wilderness, a place I¢d been imagining since Georgia. And then a train appears? I felt like Alice, like the day had begun w/ me falling into a rabbit-hole, and I wasn¢t sure when my descent would stop. There was no telling what would happen next.Whew! Yowza! Take a breath. Give yourself a big ol¢ congratulatory whack on the back -- You did it! The saga is over (at least for today). I just wanted to end this entry w/ a quote, an excerpt really, that seemed superlatively appropriate. It¢s from a book that my sister gave me when I graduated from college, by a very wise, very sage man, the inimitable Dr. Seuss:¢And when you¢re alone, there¢s a very good chanceyou¢ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.There are some, down the road between hither and yon,that can scare you so much you won¢t want to go on.But on you will gothough the weather be foul.On you will gothough your enemies prowl.On you will gothough the Hakken-Kraks howl.Onward up manya frightening creekthough your arms may get soreand your sneakers may leak.On and on you will hike.And I know you¢ll hike farand face up to your problemswhatever they are¢¦¢¦And will you succeed?Yes! You will, indeed!(98 and 34 percent guaranteed)¢-- Oh, the Places You¢ll Go!, Dr. Seuss