A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales

part nineteen

Zen and the Art of Thru-hiking


Abrahim
Abrahim
Abrahim
Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah,
Will pray for you.

Queen, Jazz (1978), Mustapha


©Copyright 07/15/02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.

The Agnostic Monk arrived at Sabbath Day Pond Lean-to in the mid-afternoon. This afforded him plenty of time to do some reading. He brought along a book, for just such occasions. Long ago, he discovered how he had an uncanny penchant for reading the right book at the right time and this was proving to be no exception. He was reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig.

Perhaps by the title one might not think it would have much relevance to thru-hiking but he was finding numerous parallels. For example, the author delighted in the fact that on a motorcycle you were more connected to experience, it was more direct, than in a car. In a car the frame of reference was more like a screen, you were removed from the objects of experience. Well, quite naturally, thru-hiking takes this to the extreme. You are far more immersed in reality on foot than you could ever possibly be on a motorcycle. Furthermore, you are quite limited, in your experiences on a motorcycle, by where it can go. In contrast, there are many places on the Trail quite inaccessible to a motorcycle, places which can only be arrived at by foot. A classic example was the Mahoosucs, which The Monk had just passed through. Sure you could get close to them on a motorcycle, but you could not, say, climb Old Speck or Old Blue on one. That singular pleasure was reserved to foot travel alone.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the book, however, was the mysterious character known as Phaedrus. The Monk suspected a deep relationship to the author but was not prepared for just what that might be. Instead, he was led along on a journey which served as a vehicle for discussions into many diverse philosophical topics. One such topic was the differences in the visions of reality between those who are rationalists and those who are artists. This began with a discussion of how one of the author's riding partners had a deep aversion to motorcycle maintenance. In short, he couldn't be bothered. This led the author to conclude that there is a deep-rooted fear of technology amongst certain cross-sections of the population. He distinguished between these two apparently polar modalities as classic and romantic.

"A classic understanding sees the world primarily as underlying form itself. A romantic understanding sees it primarily in terms of immediate appearance. If you were to show an engine or a mechanical drawing or electronic schematic to a romantic it is unlikely he would see much interest in it. It has no appeal because the reality he sees is its surface. Dull, complex lists of names, lines and numbers. Nothing interesting. But if you were to show the same blueprint or schematic or give the same description to a classical person he might look at it and then become fascinated by it because he sees that within the lines and shapes and symbols is a tremendous richness of underlying form.

"The romantic mode is primarily inspirational, imaginative, creative, intuitive. Feelings rather than facts predominate. "Art" when it is opposed to "Science" is often romantic. It does not proceed by reason or laws. It proceeds by feeling, intuition and esthetic conscience. In the northern European cultures the romantic mode is usually associated with femininity, but this is certainly not a necessary association.

"The classic mode, by contrast, proceeds by reason and by laws -- which are themselves underlying forms of thought and behavior."

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, pg 61


While The Monk disagreed with some of the generalizations made by this analysis, he understood the overall distinctions. He preferred to think of these artificial separations in terms of left-brain and right-brain. To him, the left-brain could be thought of in terms of analytical, rational, and reductionist behaviors. In contrast, the right-brain could be thought of in terms of artistic, romantic, and emotional behaviors. The Monk understood that these were just arbitrary classifications for the purpose of investigation and meditation (which were themselves modalities of left and right). They might not be empirical truths but they were useful.

The Monk found that, naturally, a good many of the people he encountered on the Trail, were a mix of classic and romantic types. But The Monk could not describe himself as such. He could not describe himself as purely romantic or right-brained, nor could he describe himself as purely classical or left-brained. For him, such distinctions were fuzzy. He was more than the sum of these parts. He was something different. He employed both modalities, often simultaneously. This sometimes led to difficulties with others when they struggled to keep up. His frame of reference was constantly shifting between various modalities as if struggling to see things from all points of view, like some sort of philosophical cubist. This could perhaps be "explained" with the knowledge that The Monk was a left-handed Libra and was considered representative of the fiery part of air, in certain esoteric traditions.

He recognized that there were some who feared technology and who avoided it. He could call them Luddites but this solved nothing. Nor was there anything to be solved. These people could not be constrained to like technology no matter how much you brought to their attention how deeply indebted to it they were. In contrast, there were those who deeply resented the artistic, romantic types, even though these same people often enjoyed artistic and romantic types of behavior. These people despised those who they perceived as lazy, good-for-nothings, who lived off the government through welfare, etc. The Monk could never explain to these people that, at least when it came to welfare, the vast majority of it went to corporations, not people. To bring this to their attention only increased their ire and risked incurring their wrath as well. To the hardworking classical types, the romantic often appeared to them as frivolous, hedonistic, shallow, and gratuitously pleasure seeking. But, in contrast, the romantic often reflected upon this other modality as being meaningless, devoid of soul, empty and lifeless, a fate worse than death. What was the point of existence if one was to forsake all that gave it meaning? What was the point if one did not stop every now and then to smell the roses?

It was obvious to him that these distinctions were too extreme, too rigid. They were more like caricatures than realities. People tended to prefer one modality over another but this did not mean that they were that modality or, from that perspective, that was all they could see.

But what kept him reading was the unseen character of the book, Phaedrus. Everything linked back to him, yet he was a phantom, a ghost, an enigma whose mystery compelled The Monk to dig deeper. The author explained that Phaedrus was insane, but what remained most compelling was the relationship the author had with Phaedrus. The author explained that one night he went to a party and fell asleep, and when he awoke he was somewhere else. It was very Rip Van Winkle-esque, except that he awoke in a mental hospital and was told that he "had a new personality now." Total personality replacement therapy! This was something The Monk had never heard of, had never thought possible. It was terrifying in a way that could not simply be dismissed as fiction, as much as he might want to.

"This was my first inkling of the existence of Phaedrus, many years ago. In the days and weeks and years that have followed, I've learned much more.

"He was dead. Destroyed by order of the court, enforced by the transmission of high-voltage alternating current through the lobes of his brain. Approximately 800 mill of amperage at durations of 0.5 to 1.5 seconds had been applied on twenty-eight consecutive occasions, in a process known technologically as "Annihilation ECS." A whole personality had been liquidated without a trace in a technologically faultless act that has defined our relationship ever since. I have never met him. Never will."

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, pg 77


With this, the context of the book was set up for the remaining chapters. The book became on many levels a search for self, for identity and meaning. It asked such questions as, what is personality? What makes us who we are? These were questions The Monk had been searching for almost all his life. He was searching for them when he read for the first time Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shay's immortal underground classic, The Illuminatus Trilogy in 8th grade. He was searching for them on tops of mountains, in music, in words and ideas. But these questions lacked a certain mental and moral clarity, a certain idiomatic focus, until his friend and next-door neighbor Dennis killed himself. In that obscenely tragic act was framed the quest for which he has been on ever since.

To a certain extent, Düg had been driven insane by Dennis' suicide. In this respect, was like Phaedrus, a ghost who haunted The Monk. In many ways it was unfathomable. Dennis had seemed to have a lot more going for him than Düg. He needed to know, why wasn't it he that killed himself? His life hadn't been a bowl of cherries either. What was it about him that lived where Dennis died?

Düg had never known his father. In contrast, Dennis had had a fearsome, tyrannical father. Dennis had recounted many stories about him. When Düg first moved in next door, he first got to know Dennis when he'd go out to his back patio and "play the piano." This was a smashed up heap of wood and strings. He would pound on the exposed strings with a stick making a sound like a Harpsichord. Düg found it odd that such a once beautiful piano lay in a pile on Dennis' back patio. Dennis explained that one time his sister had played something on the piano that his father didn't like. So he destroyed the piano. This didn't make much sense to Düg so Dennis tried to explain that his father could not take his anger out on his daughter, but he could take it out on the piano instead.

A similar experience occurred a few years later. Dennis liked the rock group Queen. But one day he forgot to remove the record from the turntable. His father came home, saw the record and played the first song. It was Mustapha, from the Jazz album. His father listened to the first few lines of the song. Then, he calmly stopped the record, carefully put it back in it's sleeve and jacket, and took the turntable out back and smashed it to pieces! Dennis explained that the record was his but the record player had been his fathers.

Düg did not know if any of this by itself was reason enough for suicide but felt that perhaps it had something to do with it. In a strange way, Dennis could not kill his father, but he could kill himself.

However, whatever the reason, and Düg was not compelled to believe than any reason could justify suicide, he was deeply shaken for many years to come. He did not like how others could so simply fill the hole Dennis had left in their lives with pat, easy answers. To him this was just a form of waking sleep, a way to avoid further inquiry, a way to shut off, to tune out. If there was one thing about Dennis he knew, he was not about shutting off or tuning out. So the easy answers were not available to him. This left him with no simple way to resolve the emotional turmoil he felt because of that insanely selfish act.

So after spending much time in meditation and contemplation Düg began his vision quest. He joined the military, though he could not fully fathom why, at least not rationally. He simply wanted to see the world and found this the most efficacious way to do so. It took him to Germany and Texas then dropped him off outside it's revolving doors, four years later. But this was precisely where he needed to be to find the next step on his journey, the next blaze on the path for him to follow.

The next day, with the Mahoosucs behind him, it was a comparatively easy hike past Little Swift River Pond Campsite and South Pond to Me 4. They arrived before noon. Buddy Bear and Bare Bait had a food drop in Rangeley so The Monk and The Lemondrop Kid joined them for an easy hitch into town. There, they met up with a group of others and they all went to the Red Onion Restaurant for pizza and beer. After, Buddy Bear and Bare Bait decided they would spend the night at the Farmhouse Inn so The Monk and The Lemondrop Kid, hitched back to the Trail without them.

They arrived back at the trailhead in the mid-afternoon to begin the next section of Trail. This was the Saddleback Range, part of the Longfellow Mountain Group, a 30 mile stretch considered to be the most difficult along the AT in Maine. It had a total elevation gain of 9600 feet for the section and crossed such prolific peaks as Saddleback, Mt Abraham, Spaulding, and Sugarloaf, to name a few. This would be one of the most outstanding sections of the Trail in western Maine.

The Trail began with a steep ascent up and out of the valley before a gradual incline brought them to Piazza Rock Lean-to for the evening.

Piazza Rock was a very interesting formation. Accessible by a short side trail behind the shelter, Piazza Rock was a massive granite slab projecting from the side of the cliff. It was held in place by a much smaller boulder and in such a way that the whole thing looked like it could come crashing down at any minute. At the very top, on a bed of moss grew a small forest. To The Monk, Piazza Rock was a temple and this was church. Silently he attended mass.

The next day began with a full frontal assault on Saddleback Mtn. The Trail ascended steeply to the shore of Ethel Pond then continued on to Eddy Pond. From there the Trail shot up over 1200 feet in the next mile before continuing on another mile to the summit of Saddleback Mtn (4,116 ft). The last three miles were all above treeline. From the summit The Monk enjoyed perhaps one of the finest views in all of Maine. It was a glorious day so he lingered for a while to soak it all in. Amazingly, there was a spring up there so he cameled up as well. He wondered how on Earth water could defy gravity to produce such a tasty spring on such a high peak.

But as beautiful as it was from up there, The Monk was disconcerted to learn that it was also something of a war zone as well. There was an effort on behalf of ski and real estate developers to turn the fragile pine areas into ski-runs and condominiums. Thankfully, a consortium of conservations groups, including the ATC, were fighting to prevent this. He wished them luck.

From the summit, the Trail dropped steeply to the col between Saddleback and The Horn, some 600 feet in about .6 miles. Then it shot up even steeper to the summit of The Horn (4,023 ft). This whole range was extremely difficult but also extremely beautiful. Add to that the fact that autumn was slowly inching it's way across the landscape far below and you had a picture perfect September day.

From The Horn, the Trail dropped steeply once more then once again shoot back up, this time to the summit of Saddleback Junior (3,640 ft). From there it was a difficult descent for the first few tenths of a mile. Then it evened out for the remaining distance to Poplar Ridge Lean-to, where The Monk stopped for a brief rest. He signed and read the register then bounced down the mountain to Orbeton Stream nestled in a deep canyon. There did not appear to be an easy way to cross, so he jumped right in and got his boots wet. He then climbed almost vertically up and out of the canyon. The Trail crossed an old railroad bed before ascending the ridge to cross Perham Stream. Then it climbing steeply to the thinly wooded summit of Lone Mtn (3,280 ft). It was late in the afternoon when he at last reached the junction of the Mt Abraham Side Trail. He was exhausted. It was a good 2 miles up the side trail to the summit so he decided to skip it and instead continued on to Spaulding Mtn Lean-to for the evening. It was just about dark when he arrived. It had been a very long day so he quickly made dinner, cleaned up and went to bed.

The next morning began with a quick ascent to the summit of Spaulding Mtn (3,988 ft) before descending along a narrow ridge which led to the junction of the Sugarloaf Mtn Trail. This led to the summit of Sugarloaf but as there were numerous communications facilities and a gondola building for the ski resort on the other side, he decided to skip it and continue on instead. The Trail dropped steeply down into a deep ravine cut by the south branch of the Carrabassett River, then began a long steep climb to the summit of the South Peak of Crocker Mtn (4,010 ft). Along the way it passed the Crocker Cirque Campsite at the floor of a large glacial cirque. This was a deep steep-walled mountain basin shaped like half a bowl.

From the summit, the Trail descended into a col then ascended up to the summit of the North Peak (4,168 ft). He lingered to enjoy the breathtaking views afforded him in all directions. Then he began the long descent to Me 27 where he hitched a ride in to Stratton, Maine, for a much needed shower and rest.

An easy hitch dropped him off at the Widow's Walk Bed and Breakfast in the mid-afternoon and after a long hot shower,he joined a group of thru-hikers already there. They decided to go to Cathy's Restaurant where The Monk met a living legend for the first time. None other than the Maineak was there. He joined them for dinner and regaled them with numerous larger than life tales of his larger than life life. This would be his fifth or sixth time sneaking into Baxter. He had to assume a false identity to do so as they were always on the lookout for him. He recalled one incident when they pulled him down off the mountain in winter because he did not have a proper permit.

Talk turned to the infamous Kennebec River crossing which lay a few days ahead. Maineak mentioned his plan to make the crossing via an inflatable life raft. He had mailed this to himself in Stratton and was bringing it along special just for the occasion. This had the appearance of being a questionable idea but where the Maineak was concerned, people took a wait and see approach. No one rushed out to purchase a rafts anyway.

The Kennebec River was perhaps the most challenging and daunting of all the obstacles on the Trail. It had to be crossed before 8 am or a dam upriver released it's flood gates and made the river uncrossable. A thru-hiker had drowned attempting the river crossing in 1985 so a ferry service was made available. It was free and was said to operate between 10 am and noon daily. Still, no one had any intention of taking a ferry across if they could help it.

Late in the evening they all stumbled back to the Widow's Walk for bed. The next morning over breakfast many discussed getting back to the trailhead. Jerry, one of the proprietors of the Widows Walk, was providing a shuttle service for a dollar and many planned to take that. The Monk however, always fond of his ever trusty Philo Guide, was considering other options.

"20. Phil Pepin, caretaker coordinator for Bigelow Col, says the best hike on the Bigelow Range is the Bigelow Range Trail out of Stratton, but warns that camping is not available at Cranberry Pond which is an environmentally fragile area. Note: Bigelow Mountain gets dry by midsummer, so pack water."

The 1988 Philosopher's Guide, pg 48


This sounded like a plan. Granted it didn't conform to so-called Purist standards, at least not those of the Wingfoot variety, but The Monk long ago gave up on conforming to the standards of others. Besides, he liked the idea of going off the beaten path, so to speak. Wasn't that why he was here? Perhaps he would see things others would miss. Perhaps he would see a moose! That, besides reaching Katahdin, was one of the top items on his to-do list. Ever since Strider told him his moose tales, way back at Addis Gap Shelter, he had wanted to see a moose.

So when the others loaded up for a ride back to the Trail, The Monk found the trailhead to the Bigelow Range Trail and headed out on that instead. Leaving Stratton behind, he enjoyed a leisurely ascent up the ridge. It was a beautiful day and the signs of autumn were encroaching upon the landscape. He didn't run into any moose but he did reach the summit of Cranberry Peak (3,213 ft) in good time. He stopped to enjoy the fresh air and a fine view of Bigelow Mtn which lay directly ahead. It was quite a sight. It intoxicated him. He felt drunk with Maine. He descended from Cranberry peak to the shore of Cranberry Pond, then continued on to rejoin the AT.

From there the Trail ascended quite steeply to the crest of the range. He soon reached the Horns Pond Lean-tos in an area so intense he wanted to stay. The pond had incredible mojo. The elevation made everything incredibly breathtaking and serene. But it was still early yet and the climb had enthused and invigorated him like the Mahoosucs had failed to do, so he continued on up the steep slope to the small, open summit of South Horn (3,831 ft). It was like stepping out onto another world. He was spellbound by the incredible, majestic beauty of Maine. To the northeast glistened the silver sheen of Flagstaff Lake. He was so excited, he could not stand still, so charged was he by the high magic of the Bigelows. He continued on and ascended up the West Peak of Bigelow Mtn (4,150 ft) as if on wings. He wished it was like this all the way the Katahdin. So exalted were the views that he never wanted to leave. He spent the rest of the afternoon up there on the summit in a state of extreme euphoria. It was like there was something in the air. It was as if he had reached a supreme Samadhi, a state of profound and bottomless enlightenment.

As the afternoon grew late, he finally continued on, descending steeply into Bigelow col. He arrived at the Avery Memorial Lean-to just before dusk. There sat Steve -n- Jerry, his flag of Jerry Garcia proudly hung on the wall with care. Also, there for the evening was Ken Bushpig and The Lemondrop Kid. As if words were no longer necessary, the four sat around a small campfire in silence.

Crossing Kennebec

The next morning The Monk slept in. He did not want to leave. The others took off for points north while he took his time and made coffee. The air was crisp, charged with energy and the smell of pine. As he sat there, he came to the attention of some rather large blue birds known as Canadian Jays. They were very forthright and unabashed. One came down and landed on his hand like a trained eagle. He had never before see a wild bird behave so bravely. He was happy to offer it a piece of bread which only encouraged the others to befriend him as well. He enjoyed this time in the company of his new found friends but knew he could not stay. He had a hot date with a peak named Baxter and he didn't want to miss it.

With the efficiency that comes from doing this almost everyday for the past five months, he soon packed up and headed out. No sign of his presence remained. He passed the caretakers cabin then stopped briefly at the spring before making the final ascent to the summit of Avery Peak (4,088 ft). As he broke through the last of the scrub he beheld again the ultimate magic of the land. He stood there soaking it all in when he heard a noise behind him. He turned and who should he see but Bare Bait making her way up the Trail. He was surprised. He thought she and her husband, Buddy Bear, were still at least two days behind him. She explained that they spent last night at Horns Pond and had made an early start. Soon Buddy Bear made his appearance and together the three continued the last several feet over to the stone lookout cabin. When they arrived, they found it locked. Still, they couldn't complain. It was a gorgeous day and they were afforded striking views in all directions. It was perhaps one of the finest vistas in all of Maine. And there! Off in the far distance, barely visible beyond the other peaks along the way, was Mt Katahdin! The fabled northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail was at long last in view. It was unbelievable. They stood there speechless for some time. It was a living dream come true.

They were a short distance away from Old Man's Head, a spectacular viewpoint at the top of a large cliff, so they decided to head there for lunch. No sooner did they pass by the other side of the stone cabin than they discovered Ken Bushpig sitting there. He had been there the whole time! He smiled at them but said nothing. He looked as though he had been there all morning. His eyes stood transfixed on the fabled view of the journey's end peaking above the mountains in the distance.

Continuing on they began a rather steep descent, dropping over 1200 feet in under a mile. This brought them to Old Man's Head where they stopped for lunch. From there, the Trail literally fell away beneath them, dropping more than 400 feet in barely a tenth of a mile. At the bottom of the cliffs the Trail descended further into Safford Notch then continued on over Little Bigelow Mtn (3,040 ft). From there it was downhill all the way. They stopped briefly at Little Bigelow Lean-to then followed a small brook down to East Flagstaff Road. It was a short distance further to Jerome Brook Lean-to for the evening.

Quite a few thru-hikers were there. They were all excited about the approaching Kennebec River crossing. One note they read in the Trail Register emphasized making sure they had two sturdy poles for the crossing, as they would need them against the strong current. Some were nervous and debated whether they should just take the ferry. It was agreed they'd take a wait and see approach.

After a night's rest, The Monk awoke refreshed and energized for the journey ahead. A quick, minor ascent over Roundtop Mtn (2,240 ft) got his juices flowing then a nice, easy cake walk rounded out the remainder of the day. Fall was coming along nicely and the foliage was continuing to turn bright autumn colors. At West Carry Pond he ran into Ken Bushpig who sat beside the shore. The water was a sheet of glass reflecting the distant colors of fall on it's surface. Ken was just getting ready for a quick dip into the icy waters before heading on. The Monk watched as he jumped in like a true Mainer.

The Trail continued on through some marshy areas past East Carry Pond before arriving at Pierce Pond Lean-to in the mid-afternoon. The Monk stopped to enjoy a leisurely read of the Register then continued north. He passed a couple of waterfalls as the Trail followed along the side of the Pierce Pond Stream before finally bringing him to shore of the Kennebec River in the late afternoon. A small party of thru-hikers were already there.

23. Kennebec River:
Alice Ference, to whom the 1986 PG was dedicated, drowned in 1985 while attempting to ford this river.

The 1988 Philosopher's Guide, pg 48


That night beside the fire, everyone waited in nervous anticipation. This was it. The biggest, most dangerous obstacle on the entire Trail was right beside them. No one knew quite what to expect or even what to say. Even the Great Descenders, elite literary moguls extraordinaire, were too nervous to read. They sat silently gazing into the fire reading the coals instead. Soon it grew dark. The fire was allowed to burn down and everyone turned in early.

September 25th, The Monk was awoken by the nervous packing of others putting away their tents. He had slept out in the open. He had no tent so he had no tent to pack. A few were already packed. They gazed silently into the mist which clung to the river like velcro. It turned the far shore into a collection of hazy pastels. A few were still gathering the gumption to step into those frigid waters. Some had begun the walk upstream in search of a more suitable crossing point. The Monk, packed and ready to go, two stout poles in either hand, joined them. He noted the gravel bars and after walking upstream a ways turned sharply left and stepped into the river. It was very cold. This side of the river was shallow. It barely reached past the calf. The others continued farther upstream, beyond where they needed to go. Most of the river was shallow, not a problem. It was the far shore, where the river rounded the bend that it cut deep. The Monk gained the farthest gravel bar and stood looking at the shore barely five more feet away. But the gravel bar dropped sharply into the deep icy current. He could not cross there, it was too deep. There were two gravel bars and part of the river cut between them. He had walked too far upstream and found himself on the upper bar. He walking back down the bar to the end and made a tentative step further. It dropped sharply away and the river reached up to his hips and then his waist. He was mere inches away from the other gravel bar. He thought that perhaps he had reached the deepest point. He took one more cautious step and the river grew deeper. The current pushed at him trying to force him fully into the icy waters. He felt the stones beneath his feet begin to slip and he fought hard with all his might to keep from going in. He pushed against his poles and somehow managed to take a step back up onto the gravel bar. One more step and he'd have been a goner!

Back on the bar he breathed an audible sigh of relief. He paused to reflect on the situation. Clearly he could not use this bar to cross. He waded back out towards the middle where it was shallower and found that a few feet farther downstream it was shallow enough for him to reach the other bar. Meanwhile, the others watched safely from a distance in mid-stream. He followed the other bar downstream to a point where it was closer to shore. There, the river was not so swift nor deep and he was at last able to make it safely to shore. It had been a close call, but he made it. He pointed out the right sandbar for the others then pulled his camera from it's plastic bag and took pictures. The fog made everything a hazy pastel blur but this only added to the glory of that rare, picturesque moment.

Next to reach the shore was Ken Bushpig and The Monk managed to capture a rare smile on his face as he made it safely onto dry land. Then came Buddy Bear and Bare Bait followed by the Great Descenders. Finally, everyone made it safely across and a collective sigh of relief was had by all.

©Copyright 07/21/02001. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.


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