Was my time and Baxter State Park an escape from the real world or was it an escape into the real world? Was going to Baxter waking from the dream of reality or was it a dream within reality?
Low on the steep shoulder of Katadhin, I stopped to put on my shell against the growing wind, and to eat and drink a little. I set my pack down against a rock, and I looked out at the view and suddenly and distinctly realized where I was at in relation to the rest of my life, and I realized that not only was I in this really great place, but I was in a place that I did not expect to be for a very long time.
I’d driven over a thousand miles, I’d bagged four high points in a day during peak fall colors. I was in Baxter State Park. I was near the end of the Appalachian Trail. I just sat down and cried; I was overcome with emotion.
This trip had been a journey into a new way of thinking, a new way of looking at myself, and a new way of experiencing the world in that I decided to do a thing and I did it. It was much easier in planning this trip to push past the fears that it always held me back than it had been even with the trip to Wyoming a month before. It was significantly easier than pushing through the fears that I encountered on the Pine Mountain trail in July. And make no mistake—there were similar fears on Pine Mountain. I lost track of how much bear scat was in the trail, and I was hyper-aware there was probably a bear behind every tree just waiting for me to slow down enough to become a snack on that trail.
When I set out from Katadhin Stream Trailhead at 6 AM on Tuesday morning in the dark—on the advice of the Ranger at the entry gate—to beat the crowd, I walked into bear and moose country alone with a dim headlamp because I’ve been unable to find my LED light. Swiping back-and-forth as I hiked along, every shadow seeming to growl like a bear, though the murmur of the wind was not any growl or gruff. By the time it was light enough to turn off my headlamp I had stopped looking for bears. I had let myself focus on my foot placements and moving my legs to propel my body forward. I had awaken from my fear, and I left it behind—so far behind I wasn’t even sure where it was.
I sat there on that shoulder and cried, the rims of my eyes cold in the wind, laughing through the tears in pure joy, crying because of the emotion I felt at overcoming so much. I had been overcoming things I never thought I would overcome. I didn’t defeat my demons through violence, but simply by turning my back and walking away. I think I answered my own question when I realized I was not worried about waking from this dream and having to go back to the old reality because it was no dream.
I ate a couple of handfuls of trail mix and drank deeply from my water bottle. Then I shouldered my pack, zipped up my jacket, and I started climbing. In that moment I knew I had surpassed the trip of a lifetime with a new trip. Maybe it was a new lifetime; maybe I had transcended that old life. I had not considered the possibility of turning back from the summit that day. It wasn’t a thought or any kind of factor in my decisions in my steps as I climbed up the Hunt Trail, climbing over rocks, pushing relentlessly with my legs, slowly but surely gaining elevation, though it felt as if I were running up the trail. I moved steadily and constantly felt as if I were miles ahead of where I had just been.
Above that spot I got past treeline for the first time, and I traversed a ledge that switchbacked past the white blazes. I could see much more under the cloud cover, and it seemed as if the sky was beginning to part somewhat, though the world was still moody and heavy with the rain that ultimately would not come.
I got to the first section of rungs and was giddy with the exposure and the movement over the rock as only someone who has been a rock climber and has fully experienced that state of flow above the ground can be. I didn’t feel the normal creaks in my joints as I pulled myself up and then slipped through a notch and came to the last rung which was a little bit tricky as I mantled up onto a damp down-sloping ledge. That was the only point I noted in my mind for the return trip, hoping that it wouldn’t feel as awkward coming down as it was going up.
After the rungs I just moved over the land, over the rock, and the mountain I passed each obstacle intuitively and fully enjoyed the movement. I gained a broad flat area, and I could see the mountain above me. I couldn’t help but grin and laugh. Even though I knew it wasn’t the summit from having looked at the map I knew I was getting close, and I could see a significant portion of the difficulties ahead. Instead of fear or dread I simply felt the joy of being on the mountain, being in that place and having that path before me. When I gained the top of the shoulder and looked out across the broad tableland, the clouds had settled in, obscuring the view of the summit that I knew was off in the distance.
The wind blew and pushed the heavy moisture across the table lands where it dropped off to the south, and it obscured the view of the rocks and the alpine tundra ahead of me and reduced visibility to an eighth of a mile. It wasn’t cold but it was chilly. I made my way across that broad flat area knowing that up ahead was Thoreau Springs.
I was hiking through this landscape of shadows in the mist, in the wind, and it was like something out of fantasy novel like Lord of the Rings or some fantastic story in medieval times. I expected to come up on a castle or see a dragon lumbering at me in the mist. Maybe I had died and this was the afterlife and I was crossing over. Maybe I climbed into the sky some ascendance, it was truly a soul wrenching experience, the beauty and the peaceful mystery of that trail.
I approached Thoreau Springs and saw the first person of the day gliding out of the fog, clad in a yellow rain jacket, walking toward me from the summit. The figure reached the four-way intersection of the Hunt Trail and the Abol Trail ahead of me, murmured something, and turned down the Abol Trail without truly acknowledging me. The form disappeared into the mist like some ethereal figure, like some spectre, like some sailor castaway from a ghost ship. I shook my head and laughed and continued on toward the summit. Then I followed larger cairns through the dense cloud cover. They seem like dolmen guarding the trail. Then the mist began to lessen after five or so minutes of walking.
Suddenly, the sky above me turned blue, and the light increased into full daylight for the first time, and I looked up and saw the broad ridge of the summit of Katadhin. I stopped and laughed again I could see figures on the summit near the sign. I knew I was close I could gauge the scale, I looked down and it was earlier than I expected to be, and I kept moving up the easy slope through the rocks and talus, and then I found myself on the summit of the highest peak in Maine the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.
And what do you do or say or think in that moment? I was simply on top. I had not found a wise man to convey the mysteries of life to me. I found them myself in that moment. I was the wise man on the summit. I didn’t need anyone’s counsel. I had the answers—I had woken from the dream.
I waited until the three young men that were there when I arrived finally collected their things and moved on toward the Knife Edge, and I reverently walked up to the sign. I took my photos, and I decided I would take a video panorama of the summit to send back to everyone at home. So I positioned my feet, turned on the camera, flipped it around to selfie mode, and hit record. The words congealed in my throat, and I couldn’t speak. My eyes watered and I shook my head at the camera and slowly panned around to show the view, thinking I would find words, and finding nothing but supreme joy and contentment, and just overwhelmed with finding myself standing on the summit of one of the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen—in the moment, fully awake, having realized… I don’t have words really to describe what I felt—what I knew in that moment. It goes beyond words and language, and is simply the energy between the atoms in my soul.
I had followed my bliss. All of my efforts over the previous few months and years and throughout my life had led me finally to that place. In a spiritual sense the summit of Katadhin was my Everest, my Chomolungma, and I was stunned speechless in awe of her. I was stunned to find that to be true; it came unexpected.
I dried my eyes, and watered my tongue sitting beside the plaque mounted to a boulder near the summit. I ate a few handfuls of food to fuel my descent, but I was in no hurry to leave.
Katadhin—the Great Mountain—had blessed me with a sapphire blue day, whispered truth to me in mist and cloud, and had held my soul in a comforting embrace as I ascended beyond the world I had known. If my heart’s desire were fulfilled I would not have left the summit of that mountain. I didn’t need anything else from life in that moment.
I looked up and saw a couple of women walking toward the summit from the direction I had come. One of them called out “we made it!” I couldn’t help but grin. And as they collected themselves at the summit icon I stowed the remains of my snack in my backpack and took another sip of water before offering to take a photo of them with the sign.
“That would be great!” one of the replied. “Do you do shots?” It took a second for that to register, but then I laughed. They’d brought a local Canadian salted caramel vodka called “Fiddle” with the to the summit. It made sense, one of them was from New Brunswick and one was from Nova Scotia. Andrea and Kelly said they’d come to climb Katadhin to celebrate being fifty years old. I laughed and said I was fifty too. Well, fifty as well. We chatted on the summit and eventually began hiking down together for a bit—they had come up the shorter, but steeper Abol Trail—and and talked as we encountered about half a dozen other aspirants to the summit.
Of course when we reached Thoreau Springs we parted ways and for a little while I was back in my own head, with my own thoughts, as I tried to process this experience. But eventually I stopped trying and just went back to having the experience. The sky was clear as I crossed back over the tableland to the top of the shoulder. The precipitous edge came closer and closer with each step west I took. I stopped at the top, looking down and across the majestic landscape to the northwest, across the smaller peaks and the broad, high bowl called “the Klondike” on my map. I couldn’t see any of that on the way up for the low cloud cover. And I could see so much more of the lakes and the autumn colors of Baxter. I began to make my way down the shoulder, enjoying the movement and the process of descending.
As I approached the broad, flat area lower on the shoulder before it dropped down the steepest part into the trees I noticed a single figure silhouetted against the landscape beyond. I paused to take a photo. It was a dramatic and picturesque scene. Then I continued on, my belly rumbling and my feet antsy to stay on the move.
On the last knoll before the final above-treeline part of the descent sat a white haired gentleman, eating from a cup and taking in the view. We exchanged greetings and chatted for a moment, but before long we were in a full conversation. Gary had first summited Katadhin fifty years prior on an AT trip. At the summit clouds had socked everything in and he didn’t get the memorable view. He had finally made it back on a trip from his home in California back east to visit family. He had been sitting on the shoulder taking it all in but had aborted his summit attempt due to the lateness of the day. It was about 1:30 and Gary had decided 1:00 was his turnaround time.
Gary and I had a good conversation as we descended back into the trees and down the steep and rocky trail. We finally parted ways when he said he was going to sit down and let his tendons rest and finish eating. We said goodbye, and I set to finishing my climb.
The descent of Katadhin felt as timeless as the ascent. I was outside of the rush, the press, and the demands of my normal life. Nothing except the turning of the earth dictated my speed or sense of urgency. It was a different feeling than what I experienced on Cloud Peak. There had been a nagging sense of distance between every point on that Wyoming climb and the relative security of the trailhead.
As I got closer to the trailhead in Maine my belly chimed in, and my feet began to make known their need of respite. I looked up, and I was at the registration box. I signed out, and continued the short distance to the parking lot.
After stowing my pack and jacket in the Jeep I stood beside it and started stretching my legs. I looked back across the parking lot and saw the naked stone of Katadhin high over the bottoms. I paused in my post-effort maintenance work and walked over to get a clear view and photo of the mountain I had not yet seen from afar.
Katadhin. The Great Mountain.
My summit journey to the high point of Maine was nearly over. My week long trip was barely halfway done. But my soul felt as if it were taking the first steps on a new path—as if somewhere on Katadhin I crossed over into a different life.
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