©Copyright 10/04/02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved. A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales
part seventeen
Kancamagus Shuffle
22. Mt. Moosilauke: your first (or last) climb above tree line. Please remember that the alpine vegetation in such areas is extremely fragile and can be killed just by walking on it. Stay on Trail. //Your knees will be unamused by the descent to Beaver Brook Shelter. The Trail down is steep, so be careful. Beaver Brook has spectacular falls and cascades.The 1988 Philosopher's Guide, pg 43
The Agnostic Monk awoke to a cool, cloudy day. Many had already headed out. He quickly packed up and joined them. This would not be his first time above timber. He had been above tree line several times before in the Adirondacks; but this would be his first time above timber in the White Mountains.
He turned right, onto USFS 19, then left, onto Sanitarium Road. There, in the distance sat the ominous looking State Sanitarium. He did not linger. After passing through a couple of gates and a farmer's field, the Trail began a long steady ascent through conifers and hardwoods. As he gained altitude he could see that the mountain was completely engulfed in cloud. The thick cloud bank sat perched atop the mountain like a vagabond claiming squatter rights. It wasn't going anywhere. The Monk continued his ascent, past South Peak (4,523 ft), into the omnipresent whiteness. He had some minor difficulty following the cairns. These are big piles of stones which mark the Trail above timber. They were all but invisible in the fog. He had hoped for some breathtaking vistas but when he arrived at the summit of Mt Moosilauke (4,802 ft) all he could find was the remains of an old summit house and a few fellow thru-hikers who had lost the Trail.
But then, as they descended together, big, giant handfuls of cloud were scooped away. As the AT descended through scrub and wet trails doubling as streams, the view came out and they were afforded excellent sights to the northeast of the magnificent Franconia Ridge. Beyond that, in the distance and still smothered in clouds, was Mt Washington.
The Trail edged around the side of Mt Blue affording them awesome views down into the steep Jobildunk Ravine. From there the Trail reached the col between Mt Blue and Mt Jim before descending ever more steeply beside a series of cascades. This was prime terrain for The Monk. He felt more like Tigger, from Winnie the Pooh, than a thru-hiker as he bounced joyfully down the mountain. Then, he passed an unfortunate scene which gave him pause. Apparently, a member of a Dartmouth Orientation Group which had been heading up, had slipped and fallen. She had suffered a serious concussion and required medical attention. The Monk felt empathy for her. But there was nothing he could do, help was already there. So he said a silent prayer and continued on. He hoped she would be alright. He took it slowly the rest of the way down. Minutes later he reached Kinsman Notch and Beaver Brook Shelter in the mid afternoon.
As he approached, several other thru-hikers were just returning from an easy hitch to the Lost River Valley Campground and a snack bar there. They had ice cream and milkshakes at the snack bar and, as it had become a rather hot day, that sounded like a mighty good idea.
The Monk was not so lucky with the hitch. But as it was only a half mile away, he found himself there in no time, just as Buddy Bear and Bare Bait arrived via the hitch he had been looking for. They enjoyed greasy food and ice cream but Buddy Bear did not find what he was looking for in the nearby camp store. They were about to head back when one of the short-order cooks insisted on taking them in to North Woodstock to a real supermarket. They could not refuse and soon found themselves in town. They picked up supplies and much needed beer then the kindly cook returned them back to the Trail junction. They thanked him and said goodbye. They retired to the shelter to carbo-load bushpig style for the remainder of the evening.
The next day began with an exquisitely steep but short ascent out of Kinsman Notch. From the top of the ridge the Trail continued on with very little elevation change for the next three miles. After a short ascent over Mt Wolf (3,478 ft) the Trail descended quickly to Eliza Brook Shelter before beginning the formidable ascent over Kinsman Mountain. The Philosopher's Guide described this as "one of the roughest climbs on the A.T."
The ascent began by passing the numerous falls and cascades of Eliza Brook. Eventually this brought The Monk to a marshy area known as Harrington Pond. From there it was an incredibly steep climb with some difficult bouldering to the summit of South Kinsman Mountain (4,358 ft). But it wasn't over yet. The Trail quickly dropped through scrub and evergreen to a small col before ascending once again, this time to the summit of North Kinsman Mountain (4,293 ft). There, The Monk paused to reflect on the climb. He stopped at a cliff overlooking Kinsman Pond and soaked in the scenery. It had indeed been the toughest climb on the Trail, so far, and he loved it! He had come all the way from Georgia, just for climbs like Kinsman. It was a good thing he had started in Georgia too, The Monk thought to himself, because he needed that much time to prepare.
It was late in the afternoon and everyone else had pressed on to Kinsman Pond Shelter for the evening. The Monk discovered himself alone. He picked himself up and began his descent but somehow managed to miss the junction to the shelter. When he realized what he had done it was too late. He was too tired to hike back and search for it. Instead, he continued down into the ensuing darkness. He reached Lonesome Lake Hut well after dark. For some reason the place seemed deserted so he unrolled his sleeping bag and fell asleep there on the deck. He didn't have money to stay inside anyway.
The next morning he was awoken by the caretaker who expressed surprise that he didn't spend the night inside. The Monk was at a loss to explain himself and stammered something about a lack of funds and the need to conserve money. The caretaker laughed and told him it was getting late in the season and there was a good possibility he could work for his lodging at some of the other huts along the way, if he wanted to.
"In the White Mountains, the AMC hut system extends along the Appalachian Trail for some 60 miles, from Carter Notch in the Carter-Moriah Range to Lonesome Lake just below (northeast of) Kinsman Ridge. The huts are closed structures with dormitories and blankets. Dinner and breakfast are served. Use of the huts permits crossing the White Mountains with minimum equipment..."The hut system was introduced to reduce impact on the fragile and delicate desert artic tundra which permeates much of the land above timber. As the White Mountains see more than their fair share of tourism, the hut system was determined to be the most expedient solution to the problem. The system has ten huts and are the only facilities of their kind along the entire Trail.Appalachian Trail Guide to New Hampshire-Vermont, Fifth Edition, pg 29.
The caretaker offered The Monk to come inside for some coffee and they chatted for a bit. The caretaker gave him a quick lesson in the plant life of the White Mountains. He distinguished between sub-alpine plants and alpine plants. Sub-alpine plants included the mayflower, goldenthread, starflower, woodsorrel, aster and many others. At about 4,000 ft, the spruce and fir become dwarfed and are called krummholz. At about 4,700 feet, the true alpine vegetation begins. At that altitude grows a wide variety of rare and fragile plants. Mountain heath, dwarf willow and painted cup are just a few of the varieties of plants which grow in the alpine region. One particularly interesting specimen, he told him, was the round-leaved sundew which was insectivorus.
The Monk thanked the caretaker for the cup of java and the interesting information about flora. Then he said goodbye. He could stay and talk all day but that wouldn't bring Katahdin any closer and time was getting short. It was already closing in on 8 am and The Monk still had 370 miles to go.
The descent to Franconia Notch and US 3 was quick and easy. From the summit of Kinsman he had enjoyed stellar views of Franconia Ridge and now he was about to climb over them. He couldn't wait. He crossed US 3 and began a steady ascent. As he approached Liberty Spring Campsite, the Trail became increasingly steep. By the time he reached Liberty Spring he had climbed over 2500 ft in about 2.4 miles. He stopped at the spring to camel up and met the caretaker. This turned out to be a thru-hiker he met back in Damascus. Apparently he had gotten off the Trail sometime thereafter and took a job in the Whites. He was especially glad to see The Monk as The Monk was someone he recognized from way back in Georgia.
Crossing the Willey Range, and Zealand, Garfield, and Franconia Ridges, this is the longest section of uninterrupted footpath on the A.T. in New Hampshire and Vermont.Appalachian Trail Guide to New Hampshire-Vermont, Fifth Edition, pg 135.
The Monk continued on another .3 miles to the ridge. From there the Trail continued to ascend steeply over rough ledges. Breaking through the last of the krummholz, he made his way to the summit of Little Haystack Mountain (4,760 ft). There, he was duly dumbstruck. Never before had he seen anything like it. To his right the mountainside dropped steeply away into the massive Pemigewasset Wilderness. To the left, the mountainside dropped just as steeply down into Franconia Notch. Ahead lay a landscape unlike anything he had seen before. It was like being taken to another planet. The Monk stood beside himself with joy. He felt like he had just exploded through his Sahasarara Chakra into the Kancamagus Chakra. He had reached a place beyond all words and was spellbound by it's sheer, utter magnificence. And, he could not ask for finer weather. He continued on, savoring each step. He reached the summit of Mt Lincoln (5,089 ft) in mid afternoon and there enjoyed a leisurely lunch. He saw clearly how the ridge off Mt Lafayette, on which sat Greenleaf Hut, was the same ridge he had descended yesterday, off Mt Moosilauke, cut in half as if by a gigantic chain saw. It was of course, the mighty Franconia River. Water and hundreds of thousands of years had cut through an impressive wall of rock to either side. Somewhere down below sat the Old Man in the Mountain. This was a configuration in the shape of a man's head as seen on many of New Hampshire's highway signs.
He continued on to Mt Lafayette (5,249 ft) and should have turned left and headed down to Greenleaf but did not. He was intoxicated. So enraptured was he by all that he beheld, that he had lost all sense and sensibility. He continued on over the north peak of Mt Lafayette and descended steeply. He had the idea that he would catch a spectacular sunset from the summit of Mt Garfield. But as he reached the swampy col in between he became aware of the full extent of situation he had just put himself in.
He began to race the clock, pushing himself harder and harder up the summit of Mt Garfield. Behind him the sun dropped like a rock. He had tarried too long enjoying the fine views on Mt Lincoln and Lafayette. Needless to say, he did not reach the summit of Mt Garfield (4,488 ft) before the sunset. Now he was in quite a predicament. Exhausted, he climbed the last of the way in the fading light then began running down the mountain in the hungry darkness. He was looking for the seemingly hidden Garfield Ridge Campsite. He could hear voices coming from somewhere to his left, buried in the thick krummholz, but could not find the trail junction. It was so dark, he was afraid he'd miss it. But then, there it was, a wider splotch of gray in a towering wall of darkness. As he approached he could discern one splotch of gray going left and another continuing down. He followed the splotches left. He passed several tent platforms, many occupied, as he trudged back up the mountain towards the shelter.
The moon was just starting to rise when he arrived. He was more than a bit of a surprise to the other campers who were there. They expressed something akin to bewilderment, especially when they found out he was a thru-hiker. But The Monk had heard it all before. He remembered his morning at Rod Hollow Shelter. They expressed trenchant disbelief there too. In the darkness, by the light of his stove and candle, they asked him numerous questions until at last they became convinced that he was in fact a thru-hiker. He passed the test. He would have thought his thru-hiker musk was evidence enough. No one else smelled like he did out there except other thru-hikers. That was axiomatic.
The caretaker approached via flashlight and was relieved to find that The Monk had made it. Apparently, the caretaker at Lonesome Lake Hut had radioed to the folks at Greenleaf that he would be heading there. But when he didn't show, they radioed around and found out that he had passed by Liberty Spring in the early afternoon. The caretaker radioed to Greenleaf that he was accounted for. The Monk paid the shelter fee and soon fell fast asleep. It had, indeed, been another very long day. But, what a day!
The next morning he awoke refreshed, if not still somewhat jittery from yesterday's after dark hell-hike. Taking care he descended steeply from Garfield Ridge, past the trail junction of the Franconia Brook Trail which led steeply down to 13 Falls campsite. Years later, he would, in his later incarnation as Düg Fresh, return to this area several times. It was one of his favorite spots in all of the Whites. He heartily recommends the entire Pemigewasset Wilderness, especially the 13 Falls Campsite area, as one of the best kept secrets in the White Mountains. Look for the Trilliums!
Continuing on, he reached the col marking the end of Garfield Ridge. This turned out to be rather treacherous as a frozen rock wall had iced over a narrow portion of the Trail. The ice had made the entire area very slippery and there was no way to go around. To the left, the Trail hung over quite a fall. To the right, the bare leaky bottom of the mountain he had just descended. He tried to grab at the rock but there wasn't anything to grab onto. It was perplexing. He was either going to have to go back the way he came or learn how to dance.
So he quickly learned to do the Kancamagus Shuffle. It looked very similar to those old Saturday morning Roadrunner cartoons where gravity waits for the coyote to realize he just ran off a cliff before kicking in. The feet are just running in the air, then he falls. For the Monk this was a technically accurate assessment. But somehow, he fell safely to the other side and not off the cliff. He doesn't know how he did it but somehow he managed to navigate the danger, Kancamagus Style.
Kancamagus meant fearless one. He was the grandson of Passaconaway. Passaconaway (Child of the Bear) was a peace-loving chief who in 1627 united over 17 tribes of Central New England into the Penacook Confederacy. As first "Sagamon," he ruled wisely until his death in 1669. Kancamagus succeeded his uncle, Wonalancet, around 1684 as third and final Sagamon of the Penacook Confederacy.
The Monk arrived at Galehead Hut shortly thereafter. He was still jittery from his nerve-racking dance on ice. He stopped in briefly to relax before continuing on. The Trail ascended steeply to the summit of South Twin Mountain (4,902 ft) before continuing over to Mt Guyot (4,560 ft). It was another beautiful day and the scenery was breathtaking. As he continued on, he did all he could to soak it all in. The Trail descended to a minor col before ascending to a knob. There he discovered numerous grouse and wild turkey hanging out in the krummholz. Years later when he returned to this area with a friend, they stayed at Guyot Campsite where they met a pair of professional bird watchers who worked for the Audubon Society. They were out cataloging the apparently numerous species of birds who called the White Mountains their home.
The Monk stopped briefly to enjoy the view overlooking Zeacliff Pond before continuing on to the impressive edge of Zeacliff. He stopped there for lunch then descended to Zealand Falls Hut before continuing on along the eastern wall of Whitewall Mountain, above the Whitewall Brook. This was an old railroad grade so The Monk made good time to the junction at Thoreau Falls. There, the Trail continued on to Ethan Pond Campsite where he would spend the evening. Along the way he passed a few hikers who reported seeing a moose at Ethan Pond. This excited him as he very much wanted to see a moose. But when he got there, no moose were none to be found.
That night he shared the shelter with a few hikers out for the weekend. In passing conversation they asked him why he was thru-hiking the AT. He didn't really have an answer, there really wasn't one. When asked why people climb mountains, they often reply, because it's there. He replied that he had just gotten out of the military, but this really explained nothing. So they tried again, well, why did you join the military? This was the mother of all questions. He realized it was, more or less, the same question just asked another way. How could he explain it in a way that made sense? He could not. There was no way to disentangle the multitude of threads which wove together to form the fabric of his life. He could well have told them the answer was 11 or 23 or 418.
It was like in Douglas Adams' book, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. A very big super computer was built to answer the question to life, the universe, and everything and it's answer was the number 42. The characters in the book realized that they never really understood the question.
The Monk explained he was on a vision quest of sorts. He had seen the horrors of the world only in small detail but it was more than enough. It was too much. He needed to know, was there nothing he could do? Was there nothing he could do to help make the world a better place? He needed to know that he did all he could do. But before that he needed to know what he could do.
He quickly realized, he could do nothing. He was ruled by chance, not by will. He realized all he could hope for was to be was of service. In this he saw that love is the law, love under will. In this he saw his duty.
The next day the Trail descended rather steeply to Crawford Notch, and US 302, then ascended even more steeply to Webster Cliffs. In the first mile of ascent, the Trail climbed over 1900 feet. It was 1.8 miles to the first viewpoint from Webster Cliffs, then another 1.2 miles to the summit of Mt Webster (3,910 ft). Altogether, in three miles the Trail rose over 2600 ft. From the summit of Mt Webster, it was a short distance to Mt Jackson (4,052 ft) where the Trail then descended over ledges, through woods and several meadows, to the Mizpah Spring Hut. There The Monk enjoyed a leisurely rest. He chatted with the Caretakers and asked if there would be room for him at Lakes of the Clouds Hut. More importantly, he needed to know if he could work for his stay. They called ahead to see if it would be alright and the caretakers at Lakes of the Clouds said it would be ok. So he thanked the kind people at Mizpah Hut and headed off.
The Monk was now entering the Presidential Range, the highest mountain group traversed by the AT since Clingman's Dome in North Carolina. But, while Clingman's was the highest point on the AT, it was not, by far, the best. In stark contrast, The Presidential Range was some of the most breathtaking scenery of the entire trail.
For most of the 13-mile distance between Mt Madison to Mt Pierce (Mt Clinton), the Trail is above tree-line."
Appalachian Trail Guide to New Hampshire-Vermont, Fifth Edition, pg 109It was a short distance from Mizpah Hut to the summit of Mt Pierce/Mt Clinton (4,310 ft). From there the Trail followed along the narrow ridge to Mt Eisenhower (4,761 ft). It was like walking through a carefully guarded garden of the gods. To his right, the mountain fell steeply away into the Dry River Wilderness. The Trail passed just west of the summit of Mt Franklin (5,004 ft), then tried to skirt around the east side of Mt Monroe, but The Monk would have none of this. Instead, he took the Monroe loop over the summit of Mt Monroe (5,385 ft) before rejoining the AT for the final leg to the Lakes of the Clouds Hut for the evening. He arrived after dinner and quickly cooked and cleaned up before nightfall. Several guests were staying at the hut that evening including one, an astronomer. After dark, he invited everyone out for a fun-filled tour of the cosmos before bed. The Monk was thrilled to tag along.
Back inside, he did some dishes but since he didn't arrive in time for dinner, there was no need to make him do too much. He found a bunk and went to bed.
The next day, a caretaker asked him to go around to the side of the building and sluice some grease from the surface of some water which collected in a big box. This didn't make any sense to him but he complied. There, he discovered "The Dungeon", a nasty looking basement where were crowded several others. The Monk was shocked to discover anyone living down there, especially as there had been plenty of room up above. He also felt more than a little guilty for not having joined them.
His chores complete, he packed up and prepared to ascend to the summit of Mt Washington. But the entire region was completely consumed by cloud. He could barely see his outstretched hand in front of him, let alone the cairns which led the way. Nevertheless, he plodded blindly along as best he could. Then, just as he was within a hundred yards of the summit of Mt Washington (6,288 ft) the mighty hand of God, just like on Mt Moosilauke, took huge handfuls of cloud and scooped them away. It was unbelievable. Within minutes, the thick cloud cover was gone and a gusty summit revealed itself. He smiled to himself at his good fortune then made his way over to the summit house. It was a beautiful sunny day but he could not keep from being blown over by the icy wind. It was one of the few times he was actually thankful to have a building on top of a mountain to go into. From inside he watched as a train made it's way along the ridge up to the summit. He thought it was the biggest oddity of the Trail. It was certainly the last thing you would expect to see up there.
Then, he found someone to unlock the PO and shocked them all to retrieve the oldest box there. He had mailed himself this food drop all the way back in March. The folks could not believe it. They thought never he'd come. They acted as if they had placed bets and someone lost.
The Monk stayed briefly to enjoy hot chocolate in the cafeteria, then slipped into his cold weather gear and continued on. It was far too fabulous a day to waste it indoors.
The Trail dropped down from the summit and crossed the cog railway to follow along the ridge towards Mt Clay. In the distance specks of people dotted the landscape. To his right, the world fell away revealing the Great Gulf Wilderness far below. He would return several times in the years to come. He returned twice just to explore the Great Gulf and to enjoy perhaps the most difficult trail he has ever been on, the infinitely perilous Six Husbands Trail. Other times, he discovered the many wonderful side trails maintained by the Randolph Mountain Club. To those looking for a few good hikes he heartily recommends Kings Ravine, and the Castellated Ridge on the northern slopes of Mt Adams and Mt Madison.
Following along the Mt Clay Loop over the summit of Mt Clay (5,532 ft) he climbed down to rejoin the AT. From the smooth grassy plateau known as Monticello Lawn, he again diverged from the Trail to take the Jefferson Loop over the summit of Mt Jefferson (5,715 ft). He'd like to say he didn't know when he might be back and did not want to miss such a grand opportunity but the fact was he had followed the wrong trail. From the summit, he descended to Edmands Col before continuing on to Thunderstorm Junction, a massive rock cairn more than ten feet high. The Trail continued along the north side of Mt Adams. This time he stayed on the AT which brought him to Madison Hut in the late afternoon. He found that the caretakers did not have a problem with him working for his stay so they put him to work. Also there that evening were two other northbounders, Suzie Q and Snowbird. He had not met them before so they traded tales into the evening. Way back around Duncannon he had gotten the idea of having thru-hikers sign his pack so he asked them if they would be so kind as to do so.
The next day began with a delightfully easy descent to Osgood Tentsite. The Trail continued on to Pinkham Notch but The Monk thought it did not make much sense to go there as Gorham, NH, lay in the opposite direction. Instead, he decided to follow the Osgood Great Gulf Trail down to the Dolly Copp Campground. Years later he would complete this section when he returned to do Mt Jefferson a second time. He crossed the Peabody River over to NH16. There, after a bit of a road walk, managed to find a hitch into town.
The Race Is On
It was the early afternoon when he arrived in Gorham. He quickly made his way to the Gorham House Inn where he sought lodging. Outside, he met Ronnie Orso, husband to Maggie Orso, the owners, who was watering the lawn. He directed The Monk to the second floor of the barn which he said was for thru-hikers. The Monk made his way up the steps to behold a scene which took him completely by surprise. There were 20 maybe 30 thru-hikers, sprawled everywhere, many in various stages of recuperation. He could not believe it. They looked as though they had been through a war. Some had a distant shell-shocked look in their eyes. Apparently, many of them had not had so good a time as he, in their journey through the Whites. It was almost laughable as he had had such fine weather. But he decided to keep that to himself; no sense adding insult to injury.
Still, he was glad to run into so many familiar faces. Many he had not seen in a long time. Pablo and Mom were there as were Chris and Beth, The Great Descenders. John, one of the Sandbaggers was there as well. The Monk asked him where Rick the other sandbagger was. John informed him that Rick had gotten off in Duncannon. The Monk was both surprised and saddened by the news. He had grown to rely on the Sandbaggers fore their limitless energy and gusto.
Also there was Ken Bushpig, The Traveler, The Mad Norwegian, Steve -n- Jerry, The Lemondrop Kid, Toothpick George, Beaner, and many others whose names have been lost to memory. It was a veritable gathering of ALDHA, the Appalachian Long-Distance Hiker's Association. Everyone was gearing up for the final hike to Katahdin, a mere 285 miles away. From the looks of things it was going to be more like a stampede.
The Agnostic Monk showered and enjoyed a leisurely afternoon milling about town. Later in the afternoon he discovered that a couple of thru-hikers would be slackpacking over the Carter-Moriah Range tomorrow. The Monk wasn't quite sure he was ready yet but it was an opportunity he could not afford to miss. That night he tried to go to bed early. But the second floor was ground zero for party central. Eventually, he tied a bandana over his head and fell asleep.
The next morning a pre-arranged drive dropped the trio off at Pinkham Notch. They thanked their driver then began an early morning ascent up Wildcat Ridge. This turned out to be an exceptionally steep ascent. They soon reached the summit of Peak E (4,041) but like one of those tests in college, this mountain came in several parts. They passed near the Wildcat Mountain Gondola terminal building before dropping down then up to Peak D (4,000 ft). From there they continued to be nickled and dimed over to Peak C (4,298 ft), then Peak B (4,320 ft) until at last they reached the official summit of Wildcat Mountain (4,422 ft). Already The Monk was exhausted but they had a long way to go. They descended to Carter Notch and stopped in to Carter Notch Hut where the caretaker insisted they stay for his black bean soup. This turned out to be absolutely delicious and The Monk would have loved to spend a day in the notch, just enjoying the sheer magic of the area. But without his gear, he had no choice but to move on. The soup powered him up and he reached the summit of Carter Dome (4,832 ft) with little difficulty. The Trail then dropped down to Zeta Pass before ascending to the summit of South Carter Mountain (4,458 ft). It continued on along the ridge over to Middle Carter Mountain (4,600 ft) then Mt Lethe (4,584 ft) before descending into a boggy area. This would be the first taste of what the Mahoosics would be like. Somewhere around South carter The Monk lost his hiking companions and so continued on to the summit of North Carter Mountain (4,530 ft) alone. It was getting late so he did not tarry. He descended steeply to a spring where he cameled up before continuing on to Imp Campsite. This would have been an excellent place to stop for the evening as he had already had his fill of hiking for the day. But he could not stay. Indeed, once again he felt as though he had bitten off more than he could chew. He was thoroughly spent but still had quite a ways to go. He had planned to turn left at the summit of Mt Moriah but could not bring himself to do so. He did not think there would be enough sunlight left in the day to do all that so he was forced to re-evaluate his situation. He had neglected to bring a flashlight. He decided his best course of action was to descend via the Stony Brook Trail and hope he could get down and out before night fall. As it was he was forced to run down the mountain. Around dusk he was able to reach an old logging road and follow that out to NH 16 which he reached well after dark. He followed the road back to Gorham. At long last he returned to the Gorham House Inn where he stumbled up the stairs in total exhaustion.
During the day, Buddy Bear and Bare Bait had arrived and they, bless their souls, had an ice cold beer waiting for him. A shower helped him to recover somewhat and he stayed up for a while listening to the banter of stories bouncing off the walls like so many ping pong balls. Nostalgia hung heavy in the air and he enjoyed a moment with Pablo and Mom reminiscing about Wilburn Ridge. Then, at last, he succumbed to exhaustion and sleep consumed him.
The next morning he awoke to find that many had already departed. He was torn between staying an extra day or moving on and eventually moving on won out. It was September 11th and he knew, not many people make it up Katahdin in October due to snow. The race for Katahdin was on.
He found a hitch which brought him to where the Trail crossed US 2 3.6 miles out of town. He imagined quite the herd would be descending upon Gentian Pond campsite, his planned destination for the evening. As he was traveling without a tent it behooved him to find a spot in the shelter but as he was starting late and was still plenty exhausted from yesterday's hell-hike, he needed another approach. He consulted his Philosopher's Guide.
2. Alternate Route: when crossing the Adroscoggin River, go straight on road one mile or so to Peabody Brook Trail on left which ascends to meet A.T. at Dream Lake.He pulled out his map to check out the Peabody Brook Trail. It looked ideal. He preferred ascents which followed water to those that followed ridges and this one included something called Giant Falls. How could he pass that up? So he took the Peabody Trail.The 1988 Philosopher's Guide, p46
The Peabody Trail led into a steep ravine holding back on it's ascent up the ridge until the last possible moment. This made the last part of the climb extraordinarily steep. He enjoyed Giant Falls. He was left with the impression it was seldom seen and this trail seldom used. Continuing on he soon reached the south side of Dream Lake around mid-afternoon. This was a boggy area and he was thankful when he at last rejoined the AT. From there it was a short distance to Moss Pond, then Gentian Pond Campsite for the evening. As he suspected it was going to be a crowded night. Thankfully, a few had decided to press on to Carlo Col. As it was, Steve -n- Jerry was already there as were a few other but there was still room in the shelter. The Monk took a short nap as the rest of the gaggle straggled in. Later he was better able to appreciate the lay of the land and the surrounding area. One particularly notable feature was, again, the outhouse. This time, it was a bizarre two story structure, a one-of-a-kind, solar powered, self-composting outhouse.
The Monk returned to the shelter and began to cook dinner. More hikers arrived and the shelter quickly filled up. A few pitched tents. In spite of the crowd, it was strangely quiet. Someone built a fire and everyone gathered around, captured like moths to a flame. The Monk ate and cleaned up, then went to bed. He was excited. Tomorrow he would be in Maine. He soon fell fast asleep.
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