Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (39 page)

The trail wove downhill, toward the river, which I began to hear surging by. Then I cleared the hilltop and the Kennebec River presented itself in full. It looked more like the Potomac River, than some of the waterways we had been able to negotiate by rock-hopping. And a cursory glance both upstream and downstream didn’t reveal any significant rock outcroppings to gain traction.

The canoe ferry operator approached, and from the shore I shouted out, “Is it fordable?”

“Oh don’t go committing suicide, now,” he yelled back. “You see the water where you’re standing, now?”

“Yeah,” I replied looking at the water under my hiking shoes.

“That will be up to your waist in a half-hour,” he shot back. “They just released the water from the dam upstream about twenty minutes ago.”

“How deep is it?” I asked.

“Maybe twelve or fourteen feet when you get half way across,” he answered. “Just last week two people tried it and ended up floating one hundred yards downstream before they were lucky to catch a rock.”

I was chastened as my chance to distinguish myself among my peers was jettisoned.

Disillusioned, I joined the others in loading my backpack in the canoe. It soon became clear that he was right, as we struggled mightily to help him paddle upstream and then across the powerful, streaking currents.

Our first challenging fords came the next day in heavy rain. “Skywalker, this must be a piece of cake for you,” Foamer shouted out.

“No way,” I shouted back. “A high center of gravity is no good in this.” As best I could tell the biggest risk was taking a step into an unknown deep spot and then toppling over. I unbuttoned my backpack straps, per Warren Doyle’s advice, just in case I did fall over.

The fords often came unannounced; they weren’t even listed in the guidebook. We would arrive at a wide creek or narrow river, and look left and right before somebody would spot a blaze on the far side of the water. Dutifully, everybody would pull off their hiking shoes and put on the crocks to wade across. The bottom was usually rocky, and the natural urge to hurry could cause one to careen over. In just a few days Hurricane Rita would have these streams jumping their banks and they would be anywhere from dangerous, to completely impassible.

The trail also kept coming up on rickety bog bridges and fifty-foot puddles. Hikers had a choice of splashing through the mud and water or trying to skirt around through the bushes and trees. Inevitably, our shoes and boots were filled with mud and water. I was thankful for the company. Getting lost in these rural parts, in heavy rain and with several streams to cross, would have been a grave matter.

Finally, three days after crossing the Kennebec, I came to Maine Highway 15. A sixtyish lady, who gave the impression of nobly performing a grim duty, gave me a ride into Monson. This was the last northbound hiker town on the AT and the entry point into the Hundred-Mile Wilderness.

Monson is another nondescript one-street town in which AT hikers resupplied, but Shaw’s Boardinghouse is anything but ordinary. It is a picturesque two-story house located off the main street that has been putting up hikers for thirty years. Several rooms are available at reasonable prices, and a fabulous breakfast is served at six o’clock.

The first person I saw upon entering was Baltimore Jack. After his unexpected dropout due to injury, Evan was helping out with the late-season rush of hikers. They were full, but I agreed with his suggestion to sleep out on the lawn. It was to be about the only thing we agreed on.

Downstairs, Baltimore Jack began holding court in trademark fashion in front of a captive audience. Stitch had told him about his rival Warren Doyle’s trail register entry about fording the Kennebec. But Evan didn’t find it amusing. He was even threatening to hike out to the West Carry Pond Lean-To Shelter to retrieve Warren’s entry and show it to the ATC Board of Directors. Apparently, Warren had been taken to task by the ATC for advocating that hikers ford the Kennebec, despite the fact that he was a board member himself.

“What’s wrong with his fording the Kennebec, if he chooses to?” I asked Evan in what some took as an act of lesé majesté.

“He can ford the Kennebec all he wants,” Evan fired back. “But he tries to shame and humiliate others into doing something dangerous.” Well, maybe Evan had a point, but Doyle’s journal entry had specifically taken issue with the idea that the Kennebec was unfordable at all times. It was all pretty esoteric stuff and the passions it aroused would show what a bubble thru-hikers live in.

“Look, he’s a maverick with a bit of a swagger,” I said taking a philosophical tact. “No, he’s not ‘a maverick with a bit of a swagger,’” Evan thundered back. “He’s a fraud.”

At six-thirty Baltimore Jack called out, “Silence. Jeopardy time.” For the next half-hour he demonstrated a stunning command of minutiae and historical facts going back hundreds and thousands of years. The amateur Freud in me couldn’t help but wonder if it all wasn’t linked: eight thru-hikes in nine years, heavy drinker, chain-smoker, fixation on Jeopardy trivia, obsession with Warren Doyle. A classic addictive personality.

He had joked, “I’m a drunk with a hiking problem.” Humor was his saving grace.

Chapter 22

T
he remnants of Hurricane Rita blew a powerful storm into the area, pouring sheets of rain all night, with no letup the next morning. We glumly realized it would be practically insane to head out as Wilma lashed the area all day. Meanwhile, Baltimore Jack gave us a brief primer on the streams to be forded in the 100 Mile Wilderness. “Watch out for the Little Wilson,” he said in words that would soon gain great significance for us. “It can be a problem after heavy storms.”

The Shaws dutifully shuttled us back to the trailhead early the next morning, where the sign said:

YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER THE 100 MILE WILDERNESS. YOU
SHOULD HAVE 10 DAYS OF FOOD TO COMPLETE THIS JOURNEY.

I had about a seven-day supply, which I thought would be sufficient. My backpack now weighed forty pounds, the most ever. This was a far cry from the low twenties it weighed back in Georgia. I felt myself swaying and “back heavy” the first couple rock climbs. It immediately became clear that the trail conditions had changed dramatically in just thirty-six hours. In the wake of the powerful storm, long stretches of puddles and thick mud presented themselves right in the middle of the trail. Hikers were trying all manners of bushwhacking, straddling, and the like. Still our feet and socks were a mess after one mile, with ninety-nine more to go. Travel was slowed dramatically, and I quickly began wondering if I had brought enough food.

One reason I wanted to hang with a group was to avoid getting lost in the most isolated stretch in the entire eastern United States. But with my long, gangly physique I consistently had trouble keeping up with people in rocky, wet, and muddy areas. And that was to be the case on this day as the trail traversed around ponds and over slippery slate rock and through quagmires. Fortunately, the Maine Appalachian Trail Club (MATC) had once again done a fantastic job blazing the trail, even in the most remote wilderness areas.

Leeman Brook Lean-To—mile 2,064

9-19-05
: Has anybody seen the fountain of youth?—
Skywalker

A short, middle-age man with a clipped moustache appeared from the opposite direction. It was surprising to see a southbound hiker this time of the year. As usual, I planned to debrief him on what lay ahead, but he beat me to the punch. “Hi, I’m Cocomo. You might want to go back with me,” he said flatly. He had a frozen, stunned look on his face.

“I just left from Monson,” I said, confused.

“Those streams up ahead are dangerous,” he stated succinctly. “I almost drowned in the Big Wilson yesterday.” His face looked ashen.

“How high was it?” I asked anxiously.

“At one point it was over my head, and I thought I was going to die. Thankfully, the current washed my backpack ashore downstream.”

“Did you make it across?” I asked.

“No, I slept on the south bank and this morning the current was still so powerful I decided to turn around,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Is that the only fordable stream ahead?”

“No,” he answered. “This big, burly guy just saved my life getting me back over the Little Wilson, just ahead.”

“So you don’t recommend that we try to get over the Little Wilson or Big Wilson today,” I pressed him.

“No way,” he flatly replied. This was not going at all according to plan, and again I wondered about my seven-day food supply.

“So where are you headed?” I asked.

“Monson.”

“Are you thru-hiking?”

“I was,” he sighed.

“Well, God, I hate seeing it end like this for you,” I said, more in amazement than anything.

“Yep,” he said looking down. And off he went, south, with a grim look on his face.

I later heard he had decided to attempt an AT thru-hike to recover from the tragic death of his twenty-one-year-old daughter. On this day he indeed did return to Shaw’s in Monson, where he had been just a couple days before this. There, the Shaws and Baltimore Jack had apparently tried to break through his adamant refusal to get back on the trail. After a few days they succeeded. He went back out and eventually completed his thru-hike.

Soon I cleared a hilltop and saw the Joy Machine, Hit Man, and the Honeymooners (thru-hiking on their honeymoon—damn risky) among others. They were standing on the edge of the Little Wilson, a narrow, but surging, body of water. It was only about ten yards wide. I looked over and saw a blaze on the other side. This was where we were supposed to cross.

“Did ya’ll meet Cocomo back there?” I asked.

“Yes, I felt sorry for him,” Cackles said.

“What about us,” I responded. “How in the world are we supposed to get across?’

“This looks like home for the evening for us,” the male Honeymooner said. “We’re going to hope it goes down enough by morning.”

A compact-looking fellow said, “I just led Cocomo back across by hand; both of us nearly went down. That current is powerful.” One look at this burly fella’ told me that if he had any trouble with it I would be foolhardy to try. He finally said, “I’m going to try a horse trail somebody mentioned.”

“I’ll tag along if you don’t mind,” I said.