Date: 2005-12-14
From: Wilson Valley Lean-to

To: Day 2 of the 100-Mile Wilderness
Miles today: 0.0

Ookaaay. After that (rather lengthy) jaunt down Memory Lane, it¢s time to return to the tale at hand. Namely, the Pod¢s exploration of the 100-Mile Wilderness. Consider the lesson in bear-bagging a re-run; now, it¢s time for a new episode. One thing: although these last few entries have carried a flippant and frivolous tone, don¢t let this fallacious fa§ade fool you; these days were some of the best, most meaningful, days of my life, and my seemingly cavalier attitude isn¢t meant to detract from that. And now, w/o further ado¢¦ back to the Wilson Valley Lean-to, 10 miles north of the southern boundary of the 100-Mile Wilderness:Emerging early the next morning from my solitary haven, after a largely sleepless night, I retrieved my food bag, which I had haphazardly hung the previous night. It was still quite early, a ghostly hue imbuing the small clearing we were camped in, the sun not yet arisen from its nightly slumber, a misty fog swirling in the chill pre-dawn air. As w/ every morning, the internal battle ensued, b/t trying to snatch a few more winks of shut-eye (or, more accurately, a few more moments of warmth in my toasty sleeping bag), and being driven from my cozy berth w/ the need to get moving, before succumbing to inactivity-induced boredom (or boredom-induced suicide). The debate had been waging for the last hour, a repercussion of my sleep-depriving jitters, and, I had a sinking suspicion, this would become the status quo in the Wilderness, that I would be preceding the sun in wakefulness every morning, waiting for dawn to break, so that I could break¢¦ camp, that is. As soon as the light was adequate enough to negate the need for a headlamp, I knew the battle was lost. Heaving a sigh as I resigned myself to the lost prospect of further sleep, and bracing myself against the inevitable chill, I began the extrication process, by now a daily ritual that could be performed in a semi-somnambulant state. First wiggling out of my sleeping bag into a semi-recumbent position, I shed my camp clothes and donned my hiking attire. Shoving a tentative arm outside my tent to test the ambient temperature, I quickly yanked it back, riddled w/ goose bumps: this was definitely a fleece-and-rain-pants morning. Adding these 2 items to my wardrobe, as well as a temporary pair of socks and my wool hat, I felt properly equipped to face the day. It was now time for food, as further fortification. So, awkwardly crawling out of my tent (after 6 12 months, I¢ve determined that there is no graceful way to do this), I stumbled over to where my food bag dangled, hanging from a branch of a nearby downed tree, about 10 feet from my tent. I immediately espied a freshly-chewed hole in the stuff-sack, and knew that my food had been violated overnight by voracious vermin. Hauling the victimized bag over to the shelter area, I up-ended it and all of its contents, to assess the damage. The Ziploc bags, bursting w/ my provisions, tumbled out w/ resounding thuds ¢ my food bag still exceeded 10# -- and then there was a positive snow-flurry of shredded, partially-chewed and semi-regurgitated plastic. Mice really are remarkable creatures. It never ceases to amaze me, how they can wiggle and wriggle through such prohibitively small openings ¢ the hole in my food bag was dime-sized at most. Likewise astounding is how one, tiny little mouse, can impart so much destruction. My overnight visitor had, apparently, determinedly sampled everything in my food bag, viewing it as a personal smorgasbord of sorts. However, based upon the damage, the mouse had decided that the Ziploc bags were the tastiest morsels. There¢s no accounting for taste, I suppose¢¦Examining each of the sullied Ziplocs, I ascertained that nothing was irrecoverable, except for my GORP. Apparently the cashews were simply irresistible, as almost every single one had a mouse-sized dental impression. (Much like my sister¢s cat Cleo, when left w/ an unattended loaf of bread. She (the cat, not the sister) will take, methodically and meticulously, exactly one bite, from each and every slice. And, when you return, finding the surgically nibbled loaf, she answers your glare w/ a look of smug satisfaction.) And, even the defiled cashews would not have prompted me to dispose of the GORP indiscriminately (after all, the cashews could easily have been removed), if I had not also detected some additional, tell-tale pellets mixed in w/ the nuts. Tainted cashews I could handle; I drew the line at mouse poop.But, disposing of the contaminated GORP could wait; what was crucial at this moment was breakfast. And, although the gallon-sized Ziploc housing all of my morning morsels had been breached, apparently the plastic was adequate to assuage the avaricious appetite of my assailant, b/c all of the edible contents were untouched. (Although I did detect a few more pellets. Evidently, this particular mouse mistook my food bag for its own personal toilet.) Once I had determined that the food was still consumable, then began the mathematical process of deciding what to have for breakfast. I had a delightful array of delicious delicacies to choose from: 2 Honey Buns (a recent discovery of calorie-jammed goodness), a bag of chocolate-frosted donuts (which I intended would suffice for 212 mornings), a chocolate ©clair-pie thing (which had looked so disgustingly obscene in the Monson General Store that I simply had to sample it), a bagel (leftover from my last resupply, and now approaching a level of stale-ness capable of substituting as a hockey puck), and a granola bar (to be used only as a last resort). (I had bypassed the Pop-Tart aisle when resupplying in Monson; I simply could not stomach the thought of ingesting that sucrose-laden sweetness. Now, considering the sugar-content of my breakfast entrees, I realize that I had absolutely no grounds for complaint. Be that as it may, Pop-Tarts never were a consideration on my menu; just one of those completely irrational prejudices.) I was rather pleased w/ the smorgasbordal variety laid in front of me; Free, instantly recognizing the Honey Buns¢ incomparable calorie-to-weight ratio, immediately snatched up 7 in Monson. I hypothesized she¢d be sick of them by Day 3¢¦ But, w/ this dazzling array of edible options afore me, how was I to choose? Well, I simply applied the standard thru-hiker rule of thumb, the Law of Diminishing Pack-Weight: eat the heaviest item first. Studying the packaging, I ascertained that the ©clair-pie narrowly beat out the Honey Bun. Although I must confess, it really wasn¢t very good. (The layer of dust coating it at the store should have been my first clue¢¦)Happily fed (or at least, properly fueled), it was time to get hiking. By this point, the sun had crested the horizon, and shafts of light were beginning to pierce the ghostly fog. The temperature had risen sufficiently to allow me to shed my extra layers, and the day was rapidly evolving toward meteorological perfection. The neighboring tents of my fellow Pod-members were quivering and quaking, as their occupants wrestled into wakefulness. When I departed the shelter area, Free and Poet were stumbling in quest of their food bags (which fortunately were unravaged), but Serenity¢s tent was suspiciously quiescent. I didn¢t expect to see her until reaching camp that evening; Serenity was notorious for her ability to sleep in. Well, not as notorious as Freedom and Thatch, but, amongst the current Pod-ites, Serenity could out-sleep us all. So, w/ a wave to Poet and Free, I headed up the marshy slope, dodging the smaller mud puddles, and resignedly slogging through the larger, unavoidable ones.It was an unparalleled day. W/in half-an-hour, the fog had completely dissipated, the sun blazing gloriously away under skies of the deepest, unadulterated blue. The birds chirped and twittered chattily away, fussily imparting the morning¢s latest avian gossip. The intense, vibrant reds and oranges of the changing foliage were an artist¢s palette splashed haphazardly across the landscape. Everything was so ALIVE, so unconditionally present. This was the Maine of my dreams; the beauty, the magic, the intangible ¢here-ness¢ and ¢now-ness¢ of it all. The hand-painted sign greeting us at our last state-line seemed particularly apt today: ¢Welcome to Maine! The way life should be.¢ All it lacked was water, some of those plentiful ponds and streams I¢d become accustomed to, a dearth soon remedied.According to my trusty and (mostly-)reliable Wingfoot, today¢s hike would include only one ford, at Long Pond Stream. However, this planned river-crossing was supplemented by two unplanned fords, at Wilbur Brook and Vaughn Stream. Free caught up to me at the latter, as I enjoyed an impromptu POBO break (Pack-Off, Boots-Off (or sandals, in my case)), basking in the mid-morning sunlight, warming my soul and filling my tummy. I LOVE Maine! Mud and all. The angst of yesterday was forgotten, my fear of fords faded into dim memory. Katahdin, while precipitously close, was still an invisible, unidentified speck on the horizon; reality could be suspended a little longer, at least until nightfall, when my thoughts could take hold of me w/o distraction. But, under such fabulously brilliant skies? Hw could your troubles and fears and cares not melt away, into the ever-diminishing shadows?Free and I hopped across Vaughn Stream, which was mercifully short as the water was frigidly cold, and followed the pleasantly meandering trail to Long Pond Stream. Split into 2 channels around a central island, I mirrored Free¢s footsteps through the thigh-high water. (My fears of fording may have abated, but I had no desire to taunt fate¢¦) Safely on the far shore, we sunned our frozen extremities, greedily absorbing the warmth that the sun munificently offered. Shortly thereafter, an unknown male hiker appeared, w/ Poet fast on his heels. Using gestures and hand signs (as the tumbling current prohibited conversation), we directed the pair to the best route across. (At least, we guided them to our route. Whether it was the ¢best¢ or not¢¦ they survived unscathed.) The new face introduced himself as Grenade Boy, adding another trail name to our repertoire of thru-hikers. (Back on the NH/ME border, I had asked Poet how many previously-unmet hikers she predicted that we would encounter in our final state on the AT. Rather naively, we guessed 5. Grenade Boy pushed our count over a dozen¢¦) After re-donning his boots (which were full leather, a rarity at this point), he quickly jetted off, in search of Lady Scarecrow and THX. Having an inspirational role model in the forward-movement department, I followed GB, although w/in 10 strides he and his ponderous heavy boots had outpaced me (in my feather-light sandals), and w/in 50, he was out-of-sight. No matter, I was content to have the trail as company. We paralleled Long Stream for nearly a mile, cutting through Slugundy Gorge, a soft bed of pine needles blanketing the path, cushioning my footfalls. The trips and falls of the stream provided a symphonic backdrop to my wanderings, and conveniently muffled the sound of my labored breathing ¢ I was still feeling the effects of my 3-week hiatus. The trail branched off to a few viewpoints, overlooking some waterfalls. Unlike yesterday¢s Little Wilson Falls, which dominated the landscape w/ their breath-taking majesty, these falls of Long Pond Stream acquired their beauty through their seamless integration and harmony w/ their surroundings.This peaceful stroll through the Storybook Forest-esque setting was all-too-brief, as I stumbled abruptly on the lean-to. The reunion b/t Grenade Boy, Lady Scarecrow, and THX was on-going, and they imparted to me their (ambitious) plans for the Wilderness ¢ they were hoping to summit on October 6th, which meant, as Lady Scarecrow nonchalantly performed the arithmetic, averaging a mere 25 miles-a-day. Pfft, I chuckled good-naturedly at their joke. Until I realized that they were decidedly earnest and sincere in their declaration. Whhaat? 100 miles in 4 days?! 25 miles-a-day? Yes, certainly, I¢d performed a marathon-day on the trail. Once. And could barely take two consecutive steps the following day. In fact, over a week went by before I resumed hiking. (Of course, that was the week of the Great Canoeing Incident of 2005, but still, it was a much-needed respite. For my feet.) While silently questioning their sanity, I wished the trio luck, as Free joined our conversation. In response to her query regarding bathroom facilities at the lean-to, THX informed us that the privy was rather precariously perched on its foundation:¢It won¢t fall off or anything,¢ he hastily assured us. ¢It¢ll just feel like it will.¢Well, w/ a warning like that¢¦ Free and I both personally investigated the unbalanced WC, concluding that, while it was indeed a rocky seat, there was no actual danger of falling in. We¢d experienced worse privies. Far worse.At Long Pond Stream Lean-to, in the foyer of the shelter, there was a large, flat rock, ideal for lazing on, perfectly positioned beneath a gap in the canopy, affording an unobstructed view of the sky. Laying there, gazing up at the heavens, I was immediately mesmerized by the endless sea of cerulean blue, defying gravity and falling in a reverse vertigo upwards, into the sky. Free eventually broke me from my reverie, and, feeling the need to get a few more miles under my hip-belt, I began the ascent of Barren Mtn. Wingfoot¢s elevations and mileages (if accurate) alerted me that this would be a rather relentless climb, 1000ft in a mile. Nothing we hadn¢t seen before, but not exactly something I spend the day eagerly anticipating either. However, accustomed as I was in Maine to skirting mud puddles rivaling Lake Superior in size and dodging ankle-eating bogs, this 1-mile stretch was a welcome anomaly. A complete and utter absence of mud. Moreover, every step seemed to be carefully sculpted, rocks painstakingly crafted into a stone staircase, spiraling to the mountaintop. That¢s not to say that I wasn¢t completely breathless by the time I reached the summit, b/c I was; but my oxygen-deprivation was in no way a reflection of the trail maintenance. Rather, it was evidence of my desire to get the climb over w/, as rapidly as possible, at the expense of my lungs if need be. B/c, Wingfoot had been off, and it was actually two miles, which meant that the climb was only half-as-steep as I¢d expected. Unfortunately, it also meant that it took me twice-as-long as I¢d anticipated. B/c, after 2000 miles, I had acquired a fairly accurate internal gauge of how long a mile was and, when you¢re expecting to reach the end of a climb, and it doesn¢t come¢¦ and doesn¢t come¢¦ and doesn¢t come, well, you could say that a slight degree of frustration might develop.And so, huffing and puffing, I reached a sign directing me to the ¢Barren Slide¢, 100 yards to the right. And thus ensued the inevitable debate ¢ Much like the Law of Diminishing Pack-Weight, balancing the scales b/t the calorie-to-weight ratio and the desire to have something other than Snickers bars in your food bag (b/c, while nothing can pack in the calories like a Snickers, it really is possible to have too much of a good thing), blue-blazes are likewise analyzed and mathematically assessed: Is the overlook worth the expenditure of time and effort? Is it a fair trade-off? Of course, these are unanswerable questions, until you have actually viewed the afore-mentioned overlook, creating a Catch-22 of sorts. So, there is some element of educated guesswork involved. (Taking into account current meteorological conditions, for instance. If it¢s foggy, chances are you ain¢t gonna see much.) I almost uniformly accept the premise that the overlook is worth the investment, simply b/c I assume that there must be some reason that all of the folks preceding me trotted off to investigate it. (And keep my fingers crossed that it isn¢t just the jump-off-the-bridge effect. You know, the age-old rhetorical question: If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you follow?) But I confess, leaning on that sign pointed to the Barren Slide, as I vainly sought to recapture my elusive breath, my blue-blazing resolve faltered. Momentarily, but there was definite wavering. However, quickly regained my exploratory curiosity (along w/ my breath), I deposited my pack and tripped spryly down the side-trail toward the Slide. (It¢s amazing what shedding 40# of excess baggage can do to your momentum.) And was monumentally rewarded by the effort. A football field¢s length of steps, but what a transformation in the scenery. Back where my pack sat, the trail was enclosed, only occasional glimpses of blue filtering through the plush canopy. But here, where I now stood... My breath, so recently reacquired, was stolen once again, this time by the sheer magnitude of the scene afore me. The Slide was precisely that ¢ a tumbled jumble of angular boulders, dropping precipitously into a forested valley, hundreds of feet below. A giant lake, w/ elongated fingers piercing into the wooded hillside, occupied much of the basin, sunlight glinting off of its mirror-like surface. The horizon stretched like an endless ocean, as far as the eye could see and beyond, the sky melting into the earth, dissolving boundaries. I felt as if I was perched on a Lord of the Rings set, that places such as this didn¢t really exist. But here I was. Not as a passive onlooker, but a physical part of the landscape. I felt a connectivity to this place that transcends my ability to verbalize it. The kind of place that creates a physical ache inside of you, b/c it is so beautiful. I just sat there, not thinking, just feeling, just being. Nothing more. Nothing less.Eventually, I was roused from my communing trance by Free¢s voice, trickling into my consciousness gradually, as if from a great distance, but in reality only from the nearby Appalachian Trail: ¢Scholar? Scholar, you down there?¢Responding in the affirmative and pre-empting her next question, I informed her that it is most assuredly worth the trip, though I did advise her to ditch her pack next to mine. Moments later, she joined me in silent admiration and awe of the unending vastness before us. Some things don¢t require words for communication or comprehension. As w/ all things however¢¦Concern for our unattended packs (more specifically, our unattended food) eventually intruded, and prompted us to take our leave of this hallowed place. Before I left, though I knew it to be a futile effort, I took a few pictures, fully aware that a camera could never capture the essence, the presence, of this place. And it didn¢t. But still.. I have my photo album in front of me, as I write, and I flip through the corresponding pictures. And the pictures¢¦ It¢s as if the picture serves as a window, and when I step up to it, to look through it, it¢s as if the proscribed field of view, the limitations of the window frame, just¢¦ fade away, and I¢m treated to this panoramic, 360, full-immersion memory, complete w/ sounds and smells, and touches and tastes.Free and I retrieved our packs, which luckily had not been ransacked by hungry chipmunks. And we continued our way northward, walking a whopping quarter-mile, before reaching the Barren Ledges. The chatter of voices indicated that this was a break-worthy spot and, regardless of how short a distance we had come since our last respite, we wouldn¢t be the Pod is we bypassed the opportunity to take our packs off (again) and laze in the sun (again). And so we did, joining THX, Lady Scarecrow, and Grenade Boy in some quality inactivity. Although the Ledges afforded a nearly identical view as the Slide, the aura of the two places was starkly dissimilar. Not that either was ¢better¢. The Ledges just had a very social, lively energy, whereas the Slide was subdued, more individual. We engaged in some good-natured ribbing of the trio, commenting that they didn¢t seem to be making much headway in their 25-mile quota for the day. They unconcernedly pshawed our doubts, remarking that the day was still (relatively) young, and the terrain easy. Ah, if ever there were words to make a meal out of, these would have provided a veritable feast. For we all found ourselves eating those words, before the sun had set.And, having said that, I realize that this is a perfect place to end this entry. I really had hoped to get through Day 2 of the Wilderness in this entry, but as I¢ve already taken up enough of your time already¢¦