Date: 2013-07-23
From: Redington Campsite, mi 1,973.5

To: Stratton Plaza Hotel, ME 27, mi 1,997.7
Miles today: 24.2
Weather: scattered clouds

I awoke to the sound of tapping on the walls of my tent at 5am. I did not want to believe it was rain. At first, with a good dose of optimism, I thought it was just the dew condensing into rain drops from the canopy above. After poking my head out of the vestibule and seeing a window of sky through the canopy, it was evident that a storm had crept in during the quiet of the night. This took me by surprise, given how warm and calm the evening was when I had settled in for the evening the previous day. It wasn't that rain was something anomalous in the Appalachian, but that it crept in surreptitiously without a flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder, or even the gusty warm wind common with orographic storms, when rising warm air is forced to climb at the wet adiabatic lapse rate into billowing cumuli in the stratosphere, by the imposing monolithic barrier of a ridge or mountain. I had also not heard a weather forecast for what seemed weeks. Within 10 minutes of stuffing my dry bed continents into their respective dry sacks, the tapping on the walls of my tent became a steady pitter-patter. I managed to get everything packed before the rain dropped heavily. It was a gloomy morning, darkened by both the dense clouds and forest canopy. I was still in the steep Saddlebacks of southern Maine, characterized by precipitous, glacially polished outcrops of black slate, rocky balds and sections of dense forest in the topographic saddles between peaks. I hiked as fast as I safely could out of reddington on the narrow, rooty trail to the intersection of the AT, continuing a short descent before climbing over Saddleback Junior, a slightly longer and steeper climb than the Horn to the south. The trail was slippery and treacherous! My focus had to shift to the simple task of placing every foot-step on the slippery rock cautiously to avoid the inevitable breaking of limbs from a hard fall on the rock. I made it to the Poplar Ridge Lean-to by 8:30 am. It had taken me a little more than 2 hours to hike under 3 miles! My normal pace had been reduced to less than half! The shelter had only one occupant, likely because it was a pleasant evening the night before. Hikers were stirring in the large geodesic dome-like tent not more than 30-ft from the corner of the lean-to. The tent appeared to be in a depression, the small slopes around it, funneling rain water to the floor of the tent. The rain was heavy. The young man sleeping in the lean-to, had spread his stuff across the shelter. I sat on the edge of the floor, dripping wet, and now hugry for breakfast. The snoring ceased and the young man rose, startled to see me sitting in the shelter. A short moment later, an older lady wearing a transparent poncho and glasses, approached the shelter. She appeared to be in her 60's and was hiking solo it turned out. I remembered her face well, perhaps because I had not seen an older woman hiking solo before. In Georgia and Tennessee, I saw many older woman hiking, but always in groups. The woman who had arrived at this shelter around 8:30am was bold to be traversing some of the most dangerous terrain of the AT in treacherous conditions. She had politely asked the young man in the shelter if he could afford her some space to organize and pack gear. She had grabbed everything inside the tent and had carried it awkwardly to the shelter, her tent still standing, somewhere out of sight from the shelter. I did not stay long enough to engage in conversation, but knew she was heading north to meet her husband in Stratton. I left the Poplar Ridge Lean-to by 8:45, in pounding rain, now cold and wet, and on the cusp of hypothermia. While hiking through many storms prior to this one, I had always tried to be cognizant about moving constantly to keep my core warm. I found myself taking longer and more frequent breaks however, as I closed in on the final stretch through Maine. My body was exhausted and moved more torpidly regardless of what my brain instructed it to do. I knew that my options for escaping hypothermial, once leaving the Poplar Ridge Lean to were to set up camp, change into dry clothes and climb into my down bag, OR keep a steady, fast pace. The later option, however logical, could fail, particularly if the body had advanced too far into hypothermia. Hiking fast down wet, slippery, vertical rock, was also not possible. After 15 minutes of rapid hiking from the shelter, I found myself still shivering. I continued, with hope that the fuel I had nourished myself with would kick in. A half-hour passed and I began to finally feel residual warmth between my Smart-wool layer and ArcTeryx jacket. The descent to the prominent notch before the Crockers was tretcherous. Near the top of the notch, I met an older man who was section hiking, sitting in the rain. I spoke to him briefly. He was heading to a vehicle that he parked on a gravel road outside of Stratton. He was not planning to hike the AT, but to exit on gravel roads leading to where he parked. I told him that I was through hiking the AT and would need a ride once I made it over the Crockers. I had a significantly greater distance to hike with another high ridge to climb over (The Crockers) before reaching ME27, but my pace was significantly faster. I just might be able to rendezvous with him. We said "good-bye", and I was on my way down a precipitous cliff in the rain. Along the way, the AT had taken some sharp turns across talus, zig-zagging its way down sharp, vertical, slippery outcrops. The hike became more of a scramble with a sections that require technical bouldering moves over rock as slippery as snot. I wondered in my mind how this older woman I met at the Poplar Ridge Lean-to would make it down this. Did she expect this terrain, and was she prepared to scramble on wet rock, by herself? I managed to make good time to the base of the notch, despite the terrain. I forded the stream and headed up the flanks of the Crockers. I made it to the summit by late afternoon, close to 5pm. The summit was unsatisfying after the exhausting climb because I was drenched to the bone, cold, and was rewarded with the view of only trees. I had caught up to a young portly woman that I had met a couple days earlier in Andover at the local hostel (I believe, Pine Ellis Lodging) that I had hitched a ride to. She recognized me and said hello. I asked her if she was planning to head into Stratton, and she said that she was planning to camp somewhere down the trail since darkness was setting in rapidly. I passed her by and headed down the slope. It was approximately 7 miles of downhill to ME27, where I was hoping to hitch a ride in the evening, into Stratton. I hiked swiftly, breaking into a run in places where the trail was smooth. Darkness came earlier from the overcast skies and dense canopy. I had no benchmarks along the way to gauge where I was, only my pace, and watch and the simple formula d=rt. At a 4mph avg clip, I estimated that I'd arrive at the highway by 7:30pm. I came close! Waiting at the side of a truck parked on the side of the gravel road the AT intersected, was an anxious older gentleman. The man had asked me if I passed by his wife. I knew then, who he was referring to; the solo hiker, whom I met in the morning, over 20 miles back, at the Poplar Ridge Lean-to. I did not know her by name, but had an impression of her appearance burned in my memory. I could see the worry on his face. I assured him that she was ok when I saw her, but told him she would not likely make the rendezvous this evening, since she'd likely be hiking a half to third my pace. I told him that it was quite possible for her to have made it the South Branch Carrabassett River after the brutal descent from Sugarloaf Mountain, where a generous space existed for camping near the banks of the river. I would guess that crossing the Crockers in inclement weather would've taken Inchworm another day. Her husband offered me a ride into town, but was able to remain at the trailhead, when the man I had met earlier on the trail pulled over. The timing was impecable. I had my ride, but left with a heavy heart, worried about the man waiting for his wife. The Stratton Inn serendipitously had exactly two rooms left, one for each of us, at $100.00/night. I thought of checking into the hiker hostel next door, but needed my sleep and space to spread gear for drying after hiking a long day over steep terrain in the rain. The room appeared as if it was just re-modeled, unlike its weathered exterior. I washed my filthy shorts and shirt in the sink and wrung them tightly with intention to put them on wet again. I enjoyed a long hot shower, and later joined a group of southbounders and the man who had dropped me off for dinner at the Stratton Inn restaurant in the main hotel lounge. It was an interesting and jovial group with there own traveling chef, who was now thoroughly intoxicated and slurring his words at the table. He enjoyed cooking gourmet meals for the group of south bounders he was hiking with, at the expense of carrying more weight. I recollected back in April, after just exiting the Great Smokies, the man called "chief" back at the Standing Bear Hostel. It was unclear whether he was hiking with the group he was cooking for, but he was flipping chili omelets with great passion, which his lucky recipients inhaled like a pack of coyotes consuming fresh kill. I spent a lot of time just listening, and enjoying the company of this dynamic group, not jaded by the term south bounder, like so many north bounders seem to be. I relaxed, slumped into my chair, satiated from a delicious hamberger and beer. The day was done.