1976.1 miles, 3,498,416 steps

My last entry was a tale of elation and awe. The abundant blessings of inspiring landscapes, immaculate skies, and warm hospitality lifted my spirits. Though the terrain demanded great exertion, the challenge was invigorating and the rewards immediate.

As I previously discussed, the characteristics of the White Mountains continue for the rest of New Hampshire and well into Maine. But this time, the weather flipped. It rained for a few days and most nights which, when combined with a blanket of clouds and oppressive humidity, produced constantly slick and sloshy conditions. I was constantly slipping on damp rocks, roots, and soil. I crashed to the ground at least once per day, grunting and recollecting myself. The treacherous footing required extra patience on the harrowing cliffs. Often, it took whole minutes to plan, test, and ease my way through a simple 5-foot drop. Thank God I took no serious tumbles, but high caution meant meager progress. By Friday morning, when the mountains finally accordioned into gentler inclines, I needed to cover a staggering 48 miles in 48 hours.

This is not to say I was in total misery. The AT threw the whole book at me, except for biting insects. This was doubly fortunate, since I decommissioned my bug netting pants after tearing a large hole in them on Franconia Ridge. In fact, the black flies that were promised to swarm in Maine have not presented themselves for battle. Maybe it’s a false sense of security, but perhaps I managed to miss their main season of activity all together.

Furthermore, each day brought a unique gift. Whether it was a new bird, a break in the clouds, or a chat with a fellow through-hiker, I had regular reminders of good things. In fact, I think the prior week was so awesome to prepare me for the coming trials. My journey into Rangeley was not really about my sorrows — every one of us has crosses to bear —  but the triumph of patience over circumstance, of trust over doubt, of hope over despair.

Day 139: Monday, July 8

Carter’s Notch Hut to Rattle River Shelter – 13.3 miles

After a hearty egg, bacon, and oatmeal breakfast, I departed the hut in great spirits. Constant gentle sun and a relaxed descent to the Rattle River made for an easier day than those that would follow.

I spent much of the time admiring the woods themselves. Canada’s Boreal Forrest is one of the world’s largest intact forests, spanning the width of the continent and dipping into the northern regions of the US. The trees are overwhelmingly conifers, though stands of deciduous varieties appear from time to time. I noticed surprising diversity in the ground cover. Ferns, grass, moss, and lichen each took their turn populating the forest base. You know me, I already love the fir and pines, but the subtle rotations of the flowers, berries, fungi, and other supporting plants keep the surroundings fresh and interesting.

Day 140: Tuesday, July 9

Rattle River Shelter to Stream between Wocket Ledge and Bald Cap – 10.9 miles

Today, I was just out of it. I was far more fatigued than typical, yet unable to pinpoint the exact cause, whether it was poor sleep or an insufficient breakfast. Starting in the late afternoon, I’d stop dead in my tracks at the base of an incline and pine for a return to normal life. “I just want to be down with this. I miss good food and my family. I want to go home.” Grappling with rock-bottom energy and motivation, I made camp quite early at 6:00 PM. Whatever was going on, I was right about needing extra rest. I was conked out for 10.5 hours!

Day 141: Wednesday, July 10

Stream between Wocket Ledge and Bald Cap to Between Goose Eye Mountain east and north peaks – 10.8 miles

I woke to a damp, gloomy, cold morning. At midday, the after-effects of hurricane Beryl blew in. Thankfully, 90% of the storm was far off to the northeast, but there was a steady moderate rain through most of the afternoon.

This new dump of precipitation pushed the swelling water table over the edge. Hundreds of run-off rivulets overwhelmed the path. Springs, streams, and rivers all surged an inch or a few above their normal levels. At a water crossing, I usually hop rock-to-rock to preserve my dry feet. But the levels were high enough that most stepping stones were submerged, and eventually I accepted my shoes would be soaked and stomped through the flow.. Even without high water, you have to ford most creeks in Maine (I was warned long ago that “they don’t believe in foot bridges up there”). For the rest of the week, the only time my feet could dry out was at the end of the day inside my tent.

The effects on flowing water doubly apply to standing water. All of the previously dried-up mud pits were rehydrated. The bog boards in this section were exceptionally worn out and overdue for replacement. Many of them sagged inches below the surface. When I first encountered sunken boards, I thought it wasn’t worth the time to locate them and blindly stepped into the muck. My foot sunk like a rock through the mushy earth, plunging my leg knee-deep. It took quite a tug to free my foot from the depths, shoe coated in a half-inch of grime. From then on I tested the mud with my trekking pole to locate a hidden plank or fallen log that would keep me aloft. It was like a reversed game of minesweeper. I misjudged a few more times, once again sinking my entire lower leg.

When a break in the rain came, I huddled under a rock overhang for my lunch break. As I resumed the trail, a northbound through-hiker named “Atlas” caught up to me. We did our best to make light of the terrible conditions, laughing at ourselves as we slipped down the descent toward the NH-ME state line. We split ways at the shelter just a mile or so after that, but it was nice to have some brief company.

Checking my radar at 5:00 PM, I was alarmed to see that thunderstorms were now forecasted to hit in just an hour or so. I was not fully up the west peak of Goose Eye Mountain, and I’d have to jump over two more peaks after that if I wanted to reach the lean-to in the next valley (in Maine, a shelter is called a “lean-to”). But one thing was certain, getting caught in the alpine zones on any of the three peaks when the lighting starts up is a huge no-no. I urgently desired to pick up the pace, but safety required methodical footing on slick boulders and slopes. Ultimately, I was two-thirds of the way across the second alpine zone when the heavy drops were unleashed. Huge gusts ripped over the open ground, nearly stealing my hat. Running when safe, I dashed for the cover of the trees. The path dipped a few hundred feet between the east and north peaks. The bottom of this saddle had substantial tree cover, softening the winds. I spied a cramped patch where I might be able to set up my tent. I deliberated whether to take shelter here or press on to reach the true valley. Thunder rumbled in from the distance. Not wanting to gamble on when the lightning would close in against how quickly I could clear the next bald spot, I decided this location was sufficient protection and scrambled to put up my tent fly.

Once out of the rain and unpacking my bag, I was dismayed to learn everything was damp, if not soaked. My guess is that the super-humid air produced condensation at lunch, lining the inside of the pack with moisture and compromising its water resistance. It had even gotten into my sleeping bad, which was now wet enough that the down provided no warmth. Still, I slid into my sleeping bag, hopeful that my body heat would eventually dry the material out enough. As I lay patiently, I listened to the thunder booming from all directions. The closest bolt touched down on the north peak, and I was instantly relived I hadn’t pushed my luck and tried to cross. As the racket died away into the distance and my bag began to reciprocate warmth, I drifted off to sleep.

Day 142: Thursday, July 11

Between Goose Eye Mountain east and north peaks to Grafton Notch – 10.4 miles

Early in the day was Mahoosuc Notch, which is labeled by my guidebook as “the hardest or most fun mile of the AT. The notch is a valley, flanked by near-vertical slopes that are crowned by dark grey cliffs. It seems to me that, over the ages, boulders chipped off of the cliffs and deposited into the notch. The result is the most intense and dramatic rock scramble on the whole trail.

Dropping into the notch, the temperature cooled by 10 degrees. Not quite chilly, but some sort of natural air conditioning. There were actual remnants of snow in the deepest recesses that sunlight could not penetrate. I theorized that a cave system beneath the boulders brought cool air up from the depths. At times, I caught the muffled sound of trickling water far underneath my feet, further stimulating my imagination of mysterious fathoms below.

Regardless of what lie beneath, I had to navigate the stone labyrinth on the surface. Most obstacles were conquered with standard climbing procedure: alternate between moving a hand or a foot to a higher grip. But there were more than a handful of complex situations. For a gap too wide to safely stride across, I’d grab two waist-high points on either side of the gap, lean forward, and swing my legs across. But my favorite move is the “shoe slide”. Several times, I was concerned about shuffling down a slippery incline. I’d lower my torso against my left leg and extend my right foot forward (imagine the lowest position of a pistol squat). Leveraging the reduced traction,  I’ll controllably drift down on my left shoe, using my hands to regulate the rate of descent. My right foot was like a bumper that would come to rest on the next rock down.

Aside from a sprawling jumble of boulders, three other notable features presented themselves. The first was two on-end sheets of rock that form a gap barely more than a foot wide at shoulder height. One removes their pack, slings it through the wider opening at the bottom, and then shuffles sideways through the squeeze. There was also a full-on tunnel, several yards long (though not nearly as tight as the squeeze). Here, you put your pack in front of you, pushing it forward by the straps as you worm along. For the less flexible or slim, there were bypasses for these two, but not the last one. At the very end of the notch, the path was flooded by ice cold water. By the time I waded out from the knee-deep pool, my legs were almost numb.

Throughout the morning, I remembered a comment on the blog that I should make a show for Food Network about hiker foods. I occupied my mind in the notch by inventing a fun name and some of the jokes/tropes I would incorporate. Ultimately, I decided to give it a shot at lunch time. I was making it up as I go along, but I hope you nonetheless enjoy episode one of “The Trail Trough”. Depend on your feedback, I might produce more episodes based on the other meals I eat, but with a bit more humor scripted in. It’s uploaded to the Google Photos album… tell me what you think.

In the late afternoon, the clouds began to part. For the first time, I had a suitable prospect of the new state. The surrounding mountains are still grand and imposing, though they are thinning out somewhat as I reach the northern end of the Appalachian Range. In fact, I recognized a ski resort, Sunday River, where my father and I snowboarded before! One detail unique to Maine is the plethora of lakes. Rarely is there a view that doesn’t catch a body of water. To see the surface glittering in the sun lifts my heart, reminding me that I’ve reached the final state and that the journey is nearly through.

Day 143: Friday, July 12

Grafton Notch to Hall Mountain Lean-to – 17.2 miles

After Grafton Notch, the trail eases up significantly. I was still surmounting the same height of mountains, but the elevation change was more spaced out. There were still technical climbs, but these were limited to one or two spots rather than proliferating the mountainside. Progress was now easier and swifter.

I was much relieved to discover this, since I struggled through the first half of the week far slower than anticipated. Upon rising this morning, I realized I had 48 hours to cover 48 miles. I knew this wouldn’t be possible alongside getting all my sleep, but I was determined to push through late nights. I resolved to still get decent rest tonight, if not quite a full 8 hours, and stay up as long as needed the next night. So it was that I strode past the lean-to about 10:00 PM, setting up my tent as quietly as possible. Reluctantly, I set my alarm for 5:00 AM.

Day 144: Saturday, July 13

Hall Mountain Lean-to to Swift River Pond – 25.9 miles

Sleepily shouldering my pack at 7:00 AM, I was determined to do whatever it took to reach Rangeley by Sunday. Thankfully, the topology was on my side. There would be three separate 1000-foot climbs… and that was it. The rest of the way was overwhelmingly flat.

Though the monotonous progress of the hours somewhat runs together, two positive moments stick out in my memory. First, in the morning I glimpsed a Blackburnian Warbler in a high branch. I’d sought this particular bird since my app first detected its call in the Shenandoahs, longing to admire the blaze-orange coloration of its face. Second, I stopped for lunch nearby two other hikers. “Wolf Man” was frowning at his phone and emitting a frustrated “hmmmmm”. When I asked what was the matter, he explained that a Wordle was stumping him. As my family and former college roommates will know, I have a special enthusiasm for word puzzles, especially this rendition. Though Wolf Man was having trouble, he’d actually made some good guesses. It didn’t take long to deduce the target word was “enact”. When the letters flipped to all-green, I involuntarily stepped forward and flexed my arm. My undefeated streak remains.

At 7:30 PM, I paused at ME 17 to consume my final handful of oatmeal, barely assuaging my hunger. If I stuck to my original plan, I needed to cover 14 miles in the next 12 hours. Completely out of food and at the last possible extraction point, I reviewed my reasons for continuing on to ensure I wasn’t (entirely) insane. After all, I could camp nearby and hitch into Oquossoc tomorrow. But would I find a ride in time to make the 7:30 AM mass? Almost certainly not. I’d already shipped my Walmart order to Rangeley and scheduled the necessary shuttles. Finally, not getting all my miles in this week would seriously jeopardize the logistics of the next two weeks. The only reason to bail now was a dire emergency, which this was not. From my prior experience in Exodus90, I knew my limits when in a fasting state. Rangeley was well within reach, I only had to man up and get it done.

After ME 17, the way was entirely flat, except for two ~500-foot hills. They weren’t remotely steep or tall compared to the geography from earlier in the week, but in my exhausted state they were monstrous obstacles. I took a 10-minute break before each one to muster the will and energy to drag myself over them. I got atop the second hill around 12:30 AM. With a few downhill miles left, I knew I had time for a little sleep. Finding a suitable clearing off to the side, I dropped my pack, laid the tent body on the ground, and collapsed inside.

Day 145: Sunday, July 14

Swift River Pond to ME 4, Shuttle to and from Rangeley ME – 4.6 miles

Three hours later, my alarm sounded. Closing the gap to the parking lot was agonizing, but there was nothing really stopping me. Victory was in my grasp. I entered the gravel lot and slumped onto a bench an hour ahead of my pickup time. Nothing could make me get up again until my shuttle driver’s blue Toyota rolled into view. On the drive in, I learned the fun fact that Rangeley is halfway between the Equator and the North Pole.

Given there’s no hostel in Rangeley, I was back to relying on various facilities for my town chores as I did in Phase 3. After a $10 shower at the rec center, I strolled the mile into downtown for mass. It was a small rural parish, but packed with summer visitors who vacation at the lake. Needless to say, I was tired out of my mind and nearly dosed off during the homily. Yet, I was content to just sit and listen to the prayers, relieved to secure the sacrament yet another weekend.

After mass, I paid a visit to Rangeley Outdoor and Adventure Co. It’s the main hiker hangout in down, offering good WiFi, ample charging ports, and a hiker box. I’d shipped some resupply items there, since the last Walmart was in Gorham and a few of my items are hard-to-find in smaller grocers. In fact, I’d like to order all of my supplies ahead, if it weren’t for the ridiculous prices on one item. A 10-pack of fajita-size tortillas is $3 at Walmart, but to buy that anywhere online is $10 with $9.99 shipping. What nonsense.

Anyway, after packing the provisions into my bear can, I decided to loiter there until the restaurants opened at noon. Since I was positively ravenous, I did indulge in some overpriced Oreos and an oatmeal cream pie. When I overheard they can fulfill the Darn Tough sock warranty (even without the socks being washed first), I promptly handed over my two sopping, worn-out pairs. They had some fun patterns in their selection: the two sets I selected have the ATC logo and a privy launching into space like a rocket, respectively. I can’t explain why on earth that last design exists, but I just had to have it. Yay for new socks!

I originally set out for the Red Onion to secure a large 1-topping pizza, as you do, but the darkened interior and removed exterior sign defeated that notion. I went back the opposite way to the Pine Tree Frosty for a classic burger and fries. The coffee shop next door sells day-old baked goods at a discount, so there I snagged a $2 cinnamon roll.

The laundromat was a ghost town. For some reason, everyone would wait in their cars for their machine to finish, head inside to move their clothes, then return outside to wait on the dryer. I mean, I just showered, I couldn’t smell that bad. I was glad to have space for alone time. To be entirely honest, I’m kind of over random strangers interrupting whatever I’m busy with to ask “Are you a through hiker? How’s the trail going?”. I try to respect that person’s dignity and politely answer their questions, but it’s exhausting to run through the same basic topics, especially when I’m trying to make the most of precious town time.

Clean clothes in-pack, I had an hour or so to shop at the grocery store. After locating all of my trail foods, I began the hunt for cheap but nutritious dinner options. I was this close to buying an entire loaf of butter bread, but I wouldn’t finish it in time and I needed more than empty carbs. Protein is what I chiefly sought, so I settled on securing a half-pound of salami from the deli counter. I passed the 15 minutes until my driver arrived in front of the store, munching on meat slices and washing it down with chocolate milk.

I got back to the trailhead at 4:00 PM. Normally, I’d do the 2 easy miles to the lean-to with this much time left in the day. But I’d really put myself through the ringer this week, so I backtracked south 30 steps and pitched my tent next to a stream. I rotated between writing and relaxing until I fell fast asleep. I was out so hard that my Garmin watch gave me the elusive 100/100 sleep score the next morning.

On the Horizon

Two weeks left! Two weeks left!

Pebbles

New birds: Blackpoll Warbler, Spruce Grouse, Blackburnian Warbler

I have no more podcasts or audiobooks to mention. I’m focused on finishing up the books I started, and I cycle through all the shows I described.

Songs in my Head: “Learning to Fly” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, “4:12” by Switchfoot, and “A Place Called Earth – Live” by Jon Foreman. These three songs conjure a perfectly balanced portrait of my mood this week.

🎶 Oh the wars we haven’t won / Oh the songs we’ve left unsung / Oh the dreams we haven’t seen / On the borderlines 🎶,

Maxwell “Oatmeal” Stelmack