A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales
part twenty-one
Quality Time
I was born not knowing and have had only a little time to change that here and there.Richard Feynman
©Copyright 08/08/02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.
The Agnostic Monk awoke in Monson to the sound of Steve -n- Jerry, "It's a beautiful day and you're part of it." Except, Steve was nowhere to be found. He had imagined it. Infectious vibrations, he thought, as he stumbled downstairs for breakfast. This was his second night at Shaw's Boarding House. The Shaw's had laid out yet another splendid array of fresh juice, coffee, milk, cereal, eggs, French toast and country ham.
Later, outside, it was shaping up to be a beautiful fall day. A small gathering had formed in the yard. Ken Bushpig was sunning himself as was Zero. Ken wore these candy striped sunglasses which did nothing to de-fang his uncanny sensibilities. The Great Descenders were perched on the steps nearby reading the local paper, while Mr. Rogers and the Lemondrop Kid stretched out on the lawn. Steve -n- Jerry just returned from the PO sporting a bottle of alcohol-free champagne care of his mom. He plopped down and opened the bottle. He took a swig and passed it to the Lemondrop Kid who followed suit passing the bottle around. Eventually the bottle returned to Steve who took another hearty swig. His bright crimson whiskers danced in the sun. The Monk felt the enormous pull of the vortex and wandered off to the store for a six-pack.
When he returned he watched as Pablo and Mom approached. They wanted an extra day to explore the Gulf Hagas region two days north of Monson. This was a fabulous area unparalleled along the Trail. Considered by many to be the "Grand Canyon of Maine," the area boasted numerous waterfalls cut long ago by the steady patience of the West branch of the Pleasant River. It sounded like something not to be missed.
The group said goodbye to Pablo and Mom, then they were gone. The Monk felt a tinge of regret for not having joined them but stayed put. He wanted to engaged Steve -n- Jerry in a discussion about the book he was reading, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig. Steve had confessed before that he had read it and the Monk wanted to know what he thought of Phaedrus' rants about Quality.
According to Phaedrus, "Quality is shapeless, formless, indescribable. To see shapes and forms is to intellectualize. Quality is independent of any such shapes and forms. The names, the shapes and forms we give Quality depend only partly on the Quality. They also depend partly on the a priori images we have accumulated in our memory. We constantly seek to find, in the Quality event, analogues to our previous experiences. If we didn't we'd be unable to act." (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, pg 224)
The Monk was having trouble with this. He felt Phaedrus' Quality was a static archetype nowhere found in nature. Like Plato's perfect circle, all we could ever encounter were imperfect replicas. But the Monk did not feel that this accurately reflected his experience with Quality. He felt Quality was dynamic. It changed as one's relationship with it grew. He felt the whole thing was an enormous feedback loop. One started with a baseline. This could be a random point in a sea of noise. At this point this baseline defines one's relationship with Quality. If one chooses to remain at this level, then yes, this definition of Quality would appear to be static. However, if one grew or changed, took a journey or learned new things, by nature this relationship would change. New Qualities would emerge which replaced the old baseline. One's old sense of Quality would be exceeded and a new one would take it's place. These shifts could be characterized according to Thomas Kuhn's Paradigms. The Monk felt it was precisely when no analogues are present that a paradigm shift has the greatest potential to occur. Indeed, contrary to Phaedrus, he felt it was those very moments which allowed one to become aware of Quality in the first place.
The Monk could only conclude that Quality, or at least our relationships with it, is dynamic. It changes as new experiences exceed old analogues, modalities, or frames of reference. Furthermore, there does not appear to be any end insight! To all intents and purposes, the potential for discovering Quality is infinite.
This seemed to return him to what Phaedrus was talking about. You could replace the word Quality with God, Tao, Void, Nirvana, or a host of other words pointing the way, but the idea itself was ever beyond a completely rational grasp. It was a platonic archetype in every sense of the word. The Monk wasn't so sure this is what Phaedrus had in mind so he wanted to discuss it with someone.
Steve felt that Quality, like life, was what you make it. It held no existence apart from experience and thus was not a platonic archetype but a work in progress. Quality was a scaffolding edifice to the towering achievement of man, it was the very cathedral itself built brick by brick. It was the house that Jack built. Steve rejected the notion of Quality as being an independent arising. He also rejected it as being a noun.
The Monk found this interesting. He had long ago classified art as a verb rather than a noun. To him art was a living breathing process, not a stale, lifeless product. He had, while in the military, thought up a Zen Koan which expressed this view. He said, if a painting hangs in a museum but there is no one there to see it, is it art? Similarly, the experience of Quality was very much a process of developing finer and finer degrees of appreciation. In this respect, Steve felt Quality was a verb. It required a sentient, living, thinking being, capable of apprehending it, to exist. Quality exists at the user-interface between object and observer, he said.
Steve -n- Jerry seemed to be a material realist. He did not believe in any metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. He did not accept platonic realms as having existence outside of the imagination. To him, the world was his pearl and he was it's oyster. Quality existed solely because he made it exist. It had no independent existence outside of time and space. It was merely a random walk through an unknown landscape in which certain peaks of experience were either discovered or not.
Buddy Bear and Bare Bait pulled into orbit on their way back from the store. They had arrived yesterday and were staying down the street at the Old Church Hostel. They were going to catch up on some laundry then stop back later in the afternoon. The Monk looked down at his six-pack. He had three beers left so he said he thought he'd still be there.
But as he sat drinking the fourth, he grew restless. An inner alarm clock was ringing and he couldn't shut it off. He was torn. Part of him felt the nervous worry that he would not make it to Katahdin if he stayed. The other part wanted to hang out and hold onto the moment for all it was worth.
He likened the vortex which pulled at him to that of a black hole. If he strayed even a bit beyond the event horizon, he would be sucked in and there would be no escape. In the end, this image, more than anything else, compelled him to consider "cashing in his chips" and move on. He went inside to "count his winnings" and ponder alone.
A little before two, the Monk returned to resume a temporary orbit. This time he had a pack properly fastened to his back. He was heading out. He felt the nervous knives of tension shoot out from those around him. He had not stayed the requisite number of days! He was cheating! They pulled at him to stay. It sounded tempting, like the sweet songs of sirens luring his ship toward calamity. "It's a beautiful day and we're all part of it!" He said sweeping his arms wide. Then he was gone.
It was indeed a beautiful day, a fine, sunny day with full fall foliage. Indian Summer. The Monk pulled out his map and examined it closely. He was now on map three. The Maine guide book contained seven maps for the Trail through Maine. They counted down from seven at the Maine-New Hampshire border to one which ended at Baxter Park. He was hiking through the last three maps of the Trail. The words echoed through him like the resounding force of a powerful mantra. A strange detachment engulfed him. Everything seemed to exist on the periphery of an enormous wheel and, for a brief moment, he stood at it's center.
Nevertheless, it was Thursday, the 29th of September and he was still 116.1 miles away from the northern terminus of the Trail. He was aware that time was drawing short. Winter comes early to the north country and if it snowed they would probably close Katahdin for the season. The window of opportunity was closing. If he delayed even a single day, he might miss his chance to finish the Trail at the finish line. Having come so far, it was a risk he did not want to take. Indeed, part of him felt he should have left yesterday.
Still, he felt slow, leaden. Each step seemed heavy, fully weighted, like there was a giant magnet back in Monson and he had not yet escaped it's grasp. It might have been the beer. He was heading out with two cans of Heineken, having in the last few hours drank the other four. It was already late in the afternoon and he was not sure just how far he would be able to go.
NORTHBOUND, this is the start of the "hundred mile wilderness" (actually 97m.) which ends at the Abol Bridge over the West Branch of the Penobscot River, just south of Katahdin. Hikers should not attempt this section unless they are in good condition and are carrying 8-10 days supplies. The Trail does cross a number of logging roads, but they all involve long road walks out to main roads.After rounding Buck Hill, it was downhill to Spectacle Pond. Crossing the outlet, he stepped into the heart of the Maine wilderness. It swallowed him whole. Dense layers of spruce and Douglas fir welcomed him. A short distance further brought him to Bell Pond then to Leeman Brook Lean-to where he could go no further.Map 3 West Branch Pleasant River to Maine Highway 15
As he approached he heard voices over the delightful melody of the brook. When he turned the corner he was surprised to see Phoenix and Zero. Phoenix had left early that morning, he expected him to be long gone. As for Zero, the last he knew, Zero was still sitting in front of Shaw's drinking beer. He must have taken a short-cut out of town, The Monk thought to himself. The two were deeply involved in conversation. Zero looked up and smiled. He and Phoenix were just grabbing some quality time, he said.
They were talking about a registry entry Phoenix had left a ways back. Phoenix liked to quote the Bible in his entries and this had provided a springboard for Zero to explore the subject in his own idiosyncratic way. Phoenix was an intelligent man. He knew quite a bit about Physics and Thermodynamics and often sited examples from those fields to support his theology. Zero was also a fan of Physics.
Zero was just as surprised to see the Monk as the Monk was to see him. From the look in Zero's eyes the Monk intuited that he too had thought he left Monson with the other sitting on the grass outside Shaw's. Clearly parallel Universes had converged.
In this Universe, Zero had momentarily dropped his mask. He was engaged in a rational, intellectual conversation and now that the Monk had arrived he looked worried he'd have to get back into character. Zero offered him a beer. He had hiked out with a full six pack and was now no longer thirsty for them. The Monk thanked him but told him he had a few of his own he had to work on.
He went about cooking dinner as another conversation simmered. Phoenix tried to involve the Monk in a discussion about Pascal's Wager. This was a rational argument, proposed by Pascal which said, basically, given the odds, it is better to believe in God than not to. The Monk had not heard of Pascal's Wager before but did not like that a belief in God could be reduced to a game of chance. The Monk replied it isn't that I believe or don't believe but that I search for something more. I am not content to leave matters to an issue of mere probability. I just think that anything which explains everything really doesn't contain much information. This dropped their buckets. Zero sat up. He was a computer programmer. He knew information.
So you're saying God contains no information? I don't believe that. I think God contains all information. Zero said. Phoenix remained silent.
No. The Monk replied. I meant as an explanation. It explains only the things we don't know or don't understand.
Feynman, Phoenix said. Richard Feynman once said something to the effect that once I discovered gravity, I realized I took something away from God. I didn't need him to explain gravity anymore but I still needed him for the things I didn't understand, the mysteries of life and death.
The Monk hadn't yet heard of Richard Feynman either. That would be years later. After dinner, he cleaned up and returned to listening to the Leeman Brook. He found inspiration in it's continuous song. He was reading his book when he turned and said, hey Zero! You're in this book I'm reading.
He found the paragraph and teased, "This is the zero moment of consciousness. Stuck. No answer. Honked. Kaput."
Zero wouldn't believe the book really said that until The Monk showed it to him. He still could not believe it. He said he had just been sitting there with Phoenix discussing how he felt stuck, how he had escaped from being stuck by hiking the Trail, but how now he was going to have to go back to stuckville. He laughed out-loud that the book called this a zero moment. He found this to be more than a little eerie. The Monk told him he had a word for moments like this, he called it Synchronicity. He wasn't sure if in Zero's case this applied, but Zero assured him it did. Zero asked if there was anything else the book had to say. The Monk thumbed through a few more pages and read:
"Let's consider a reevaluation of the situation in which we assume that the stuckness now occurring, the zero of consciousness, isn't the worst of all possible situations, but the best possible situation you could be in. After all, it's exactly this stuckness that Zen Buddhists go to so much trouble to induce."Zen, pg 256
They chuckled. So The Monk found another bit and continued:
"But now consider the fact that no matter how hard you try to hang on to it, this stuckness is bound to disappear. Your mind will naturally and freely move toward a solution. Unless you are a real master at staying stuck you can't prevent this."p257
Zero laughed, I don't know. I'm pretty good.
Katahdin
The next day was filled with a wide variety of terrain. It began with a short hike around North Pond to Mud Pond. From there the Trail hopped up onto Bear Pond Ledge where it continued along to a ledge overlooking Little Wilson Falls buried deep in a slate canyon. After crossing Little Wilson Stream, the Trail climbed a short hill before dropping down to Big Wilson Stream. This required fording like all the other streams and rivers in Maine. The map warned that in times of high water Big Wilson Stream could be difficult, even dangerous to cross. It noted as an alternative that you could walk three miles down stream and cross at the Elliotsville Road bridge, then walk three miles back upstream to rejoin the Trail. As if that was an alternative!
From Big Wilson the Trail crossed the tracks of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. This was an active line and again the map warned to stop, look, and listen before crossing. On the far side, the Monk stopped at a "small but headache-cold spring" and cameled up. It tasted fresh!
The Trail continued on to more ledges, some overlooking Bodfish Intervale, others with views of the rockslide on Barren Mtn. Then it descended to Bodfish Intervale before crossing Wilber Brook. There, Phoenix amazed the Monk and Zero with his mutant powers to keep his boots dry.
The Monk, with much less grace managed to keep his mostly dry but didn't really feel it mattered. A few tenths further and it was necessary to ford the knee deep Long Pond Stream. Indignant, Phoenix took his boots off and managed to keep both pairs of shoes dry. The Monk noticed, strapped to the side of Phoenix's enormous Gregory Casin, sat a pair of sneakers he wore as camp shoes. Earlier he had asked Phoenix about the pack. He replied that it was excellent. A very comfortable and sturdy rig. The only problem was that it had so much room he had to be careful not to over fill it.
After fording the stream, they continued on together into Slugundy Gorge. This was an outstanding series of waterfalls where Long Pond Stream drained out of a slate canyon at the base of Barren Mountain.
They continued to climb, past a side trail which led to Long Pond Stream Lean-to. At the next side trail the Monk was led to the head of the Barren Slide. He stopped to enjoy fine views of autumn's art, then continued on to Barren Ledges. There, he was offered excellent views of Boarstone Mountain and Lake Onawa beside it. It was getting late so he continued on to the summit of Barren Mtn (2660 ft). This was the fifth of five peaks, all in descending order. He descended from the summit then turned right to Cloud Pond Lean-to for the evening. This sat beside the shore of Cloud Pond, a beautiful mountain tarn. The entire area had a deep pervading aura which filled him with a quiet bliss. Also there that evening was Toothpick George and the Mad Norwegian. That evening they enjoyed a small fire in silence.
The next day was October 1st. The race was on. Suddenly everyone was in a hurry. The Monk kept in the fine Sandbagger tradition and was the last to leave. The Trail quickly dropped down, up and over Fourth Mtn (2,378 ft), then Third Mtn before reaching the open ledge of Columbus Mtn (2,342 ft). From there it descended steeply to Chairback Gap Lean-to. He stopped to fill his bottle at a deliciously refreshing mountain spring. He continued on over Chairback Mtn down the "chairback cliffs" to the West branch of Pleasant River and the end of Map Three.
But this did not stop him. He stepped into the mighty river and kept right on walking. On the far side he was greeted by The Hermitage. This was a stand of white "King's" pine, owned by the Nature Conservancy. These trees towered well over a hundred feet tall. They stood as though to guard entrance to the Gulf Hagas region. The Gulf was a magnificent gorge with vertical walls 300 to 400' deep. It was added to the National Natural Scenic Register in 1968.
In 1986 the National Park Service acquired nearly 2000 acres in the Gulf area, including land on both sides of the three mile canyon and a long finger of land along Gulf Hagas Brook to the summit of Gulf Hagas Mountain. It assures that the "Grand Canyon of the East" will remain forever wild and remote.Appalachian Trail Guide, Maine, pg 54
It was still mid morning and since he didn't know if or when he'd every be back there, he decided to enjoy a leisurely excursion along the Gulf Hagas Trail. To start things off right, he was quickly greeted by Screw Auger Falls, not even in the Gulf proper yet. This was a twenty-six foot drop through a narrow rock four feet wide, worn into the shape of an S.
The Trail made a long loop through the Gulf then circled back along the top of the ridge. He turned left then right and followed the lower trail as it wound it's way along the shores of the West Branch. He passed Hammond Street Pitch, then The Jaws, Buttermilk Falls, Stair Falls and Billings Falls. It was amazing.
At the far end the Gulf Hagas Trail turned back and began it's ascent up and along the upper deck of the Gulf before reaching a junction with the Gulf Hagas Cut-off Trail. There the Monk turned left and rejoined the AT. It was a few miles more up the side of the Gulf Hagas Brook to the Carl A. Newhall Lean-to where he stopped for the evening. It had been a long day, but worth every step.
It was a full house. Besides the crew from last night, two other thru-hikers, The Traveler and SoarFoot, were there. Everyone was gearing up for the big hike tomorrow. Once they cleared White Cap Mtn, it was smooth sailing all the way to Nesuntabunt Mtn. They were getting close, they could feel it. 76.9 miles to go.
The next day began with a brisk ascent to the partially open summit of Gulf Hagas Mtn (2,683 ft). This was the western point of the White Cap Range which includes West Peak (3,181 ft), Hat Mtn (3,244 ft), and White Cap Mtn (3,644 ft). This was the last big peak on the Trail for the next 71.6 miles, minus the little nipple of Nesuntabunt 26.2 miles away. It didn't look like much but The 1988 Philosopher's Guide wrote "Hiker in '87 called it [Nesuntabunt Mtn] the most ridiculous climb on the A.T."
But these were tough, formidable climbs for which The Monk's muscles had been properly annealed by something around 1778.6 miles of rambling. And there, from the open summit of White Cap sat the grand-daddy view of all, the crowning vision of Mt Katahdin. It was a sight to behold.
After a time, a short descent brought him to Logan Brook Lean-to where he stopped to read and sign the Trail Register. These were notebooks filled with the immortalized words of many of the thru-hikers on the Trail that year. They were often left in curious places like shelters and Lean-tos, outhouses, POs, and Hostels along the way. Many in the shelters had return addresses on them for when they were full. He wondered if people actually mailed them back or just kept them. He wished there was some way to collect them all and publish them. He decided it was impossible but wished for it nonetheless.
From there it was a pleasant descent to the East Branch of the Pleasant River and a ford of it's waters. The Trail then ascended steeply to the summit of Little Boardman (2,024 ft) before reaching the quiet, still-life shores of Crawford Pond. This fed into Cooper Brook which the Trail followed to the Cooper Brook Lean-to for the evening. It was still mid afternoon and Phoenix and Zero pressed on. The Monk rather enjoyed sitting there so he stayed. He felt a powerful confluence of energy beside those waters. He realized, it was the direct experience of Quality which he had been just reading about. Here it was surrounding him, infusing him. Pure Quality. He just sat there like an idiot child the rest of the afternoon.
Near evening Toothpick George and The Mad Norwegian stumbled in. A peaceful silence pervaded. No politics. No religion. Just Quality. It was a priceless, immortal moment.
The next day was a long easy cake walk to the shores of Pemadumcook Lake where The Monk paused to enjoy more incredible views of Katahdin. And, each time they were closer!
From there it was a few miles further to Wadleigh Stream Lean-to. There he decided to stop for the evening. Rainbow Stream was a few miles further but Nesuntabunt Mtn sat in the way and he decided to save this for tomorrow. He would be climbing this first thing in the morning. In the mean time he decided to relax and just enjoy the powerful confluence of energy he was coming to realize was synonymous with Maine. Whereas, much the remain wilderness areas in the world had been encroached upon or compromised, Maine seemed to have fended very nicely for itself. It was a robust powerhouse of what the Chinese called Chi or Qi and what Wilhelm Reich called Orgone. It was the living manifestation of what Steve -n- Jerry had been saying all along. It was a beautiful day, and he was part of it!
38. Nesuntabunt Mountains: this is the last climb before the Big K. Hiker in '87 called this the most ridiculous climb on the A.T. (quite a statement!). Let me know what you think and I'll relay the info to MATC.The 1988 Philosopher's Guide, pg 50
The next day, The Monk lingered to make coffee before gearing up for the big climb. Soon he was under way. The mountain was shaped like a big cork-screw and the Trail twisted and turned up into it's folded arms. It was like a joke, a funny, final geological oddity care of nature. But it wasn't so bad and when he got there a short side trail from the north summit led to even more outstanding views of Mt Katahdin. It was now so close he could taste it.
The Trail descended to Crescent Pond before passing through Pollywog Gorge. From there it continued on to Rainbow Stream which it followed to Rainbow Lake. This was a large body of water and the Trail continued along it's shore for quite some ways before climbing up to the fantastic Rainbow Ledges. These were exquisite formations colored bright by autumn's hand. From the top, Katahdin loomed in the distance. It was a spellbinding sight to which The Monk gave special thanks.
Then, it was a short distance further to Hurd Brook Lean-to for the evening. Tomorrow he'd make it to Daicey Pond Campground and the day later, God willing, he'd summit the final mountain on the Trail. It was all coming together nicely.
At the shelter that evening was only one or two other thru-hikers. The others were out on vacation. They chatted casually. They seemed to be just as excited for the northbounders they were. Apparently one of the others had hiked a large section of the Trail before so he understood just what reaching Katahdin meant.
October 5th, The Monk skipped breakfast and continued on. It was a short distance to Abol Bridge where he stopped at a store for a soda. Then he continued on a little bit further and arrived at Daicey Pond Campground. There before him stood the mountain he had been hiking six months to see. It was awesome. Reflected in the crystal waters of Daicey Pond, it was a stunning vision.
Registration was required so he went to register. After, he stumbled over to the shelters and grabbed a spot. Several thru-hikers were already there. Many had just come back from the summit including Pablo and Mom. They were speechless. It truly was a religious experience, everything they had hoped it would be and more. Sadly, there wasn't too much more to talk about. They said goodbye and headed out. For Pablo and Mom the thru-hike was over and the journey home had begun.
In the silent space between their departure and fresh arrivals, The Monk found the Canadian Blue Jays had returned. He was sitting there eating a peanut butter sandwich when one grabbed the whole sandwich right out of his hand and tried to fly away. It was too heavy but when he retrieved the rest of his sandwich a good third was gone. He was amazed at the unmitigated audacity of those birds. Clearly they knew who was boss.
A few other thru-hikers had arrived earlier and were gearing up for an ascent in the morning. As more straggled in, the shelters filled up and tents were raised. That night, a quiet excitement filled the air. It was like Christmas Eve. No one could sleep. This was it, the moment they had all been waiting for.
But then, the next morning when they awoke, they discovered it had snowed in the night and a thick white blanket now covered the mountain. Katahdin was closed! They couldn't believe it. They had come so far. What were they to do?
The Ranger said they'd have to wait and see, if it warmed up enough and it didn't snow again that night, maybe they'd open the mountain tomorrow. But that would probably be it for the season, she said. They'd have to play it by ear, depending on weather conditions. Meanwhile more thru-hikers stumbled in. It was getting crowded.
This put The Monk in a bit of a situation. He was out of food. He needed to hitch into town if he was to stay another night. He found the road which led out to Millinocket and started walking. An elderly German couple stopped and offered to take him in to town.
Then, as they drove down the road, they noticed a good many cars pulled off to the side. They grew curious and pulled over to investigate. Several people, some with giant telephoto lenses the length of their arms, were shooting pictures at something in the marshy area off to their right. They looked and there in the middle was a giant bull moose. It was huge. It's rack had to be more than six feet across. It was so heavy, it looked as though the moose could barely lift it's head. Surrounding the moose were several cows. The Monk retrieved his camera and happily snapped away. He had been wanting to see a moose since Georgia. Having reached Daicey Pond without seeing any, he worried he might not. But there, he saw several. One cow, scampered out onto the road and these two old ladies huddled together in the middle with their Kodak disc cameras taking pictures. The cow was headed right for them but they didn't move. They had no idea the danger they were in. It could have plowed them down with ever realizing what it had done. But then, at the last instant, the cow turned and stumbled into the woods.
After a time, the German couple continued on and The Monk found himself in Millinocket. He stopped briefly at a store for food and a bottle of wine, then hitched back. He returned late in the afternoon to a wild circus. There must have been thirty thru-hikers or more, converged on Daicey Pond like it was Mecca. Everyone was there, Buddy Bear, Bare Bait, Ken Bushpig, Mr. Rogers, Steve -n- Jerry, The Great Descenders, Phoenix, Zero, Toothpick George, The Mad Norwegian, The Lemondrop Kid, John Sandbagger, and many more.
Phoenix was saying something most counter-intuitive. He was saying, if you made insulation too thick, you could freeze to death. There was a limit to how thickly you could insulate someone before they would die because they would not be able to radiate heat away from their bodies. It didn't make a bit of sense but Phoenix insisted he did the math to prove it.
The Monk offered everyone a glass of wine. One thru-hiker refused saying he didn't drink alcohol because of his religion. Phoenix asked him if he was a Christian, he said yes. So Phoenix asked him what Jesus drank at the last supper. Phoenix enjoyed a small cup of wine.
Phoenix had just finished beating a fellow thru-hiker in Chess so The Monk sat down. He had been honed to a Chess Juggernaut by many a day in Benchstock with Sgt Holcombe. Benchstock was a portion of Supply charged with keeping track of stock on often used, regularly re-supplied items, such as dog food for the kennels and paper for Main HQ. It was a job that had been stretched and hydrogenated from a few hours hard work to a weekly affair. In the meantime, Sgt Holcombe would order Airman Page to play Chess. Page got to be pretty good.
The game started off both opponents evenly matched, both exhibiting strong offense. The pieces danced and fortified, each attack deftly defended. But somewhere along the way, it slipped away from Phoenix and he lost. There were plenty of distractions so The Monk counted himself lucky.
Phoenix announced his itinerary for tomorrow. He was getting up at dawn, jumping naked into Daicey Pond to start the day, then hiking to the summit of Katahdin. He welcomed everyone to join him.
Zero laughed. I don't believe you'll really do it, he said. Phoenix said he didn't make bets but Zero was welcome to join him. Zero said it would be too cold and wanted to know how Phoenix could prove he'd jumped in if it was too cold to get up and see. Phoenix pondered a moment then said, they would be able to tell by the wet footsteps on the dock coming out of the water. Then he went to sleep.
The next morning The Monk heard Phoenix get up but stayed right where he was. It was a frosty, crisp morning and he did not want to move. But he could not get back to sleep. He needed to pee. So he got up. The morning air invigorated him and when Phoenix returned all wet, packed his things and left, The Monk became charged with energy almost as if he had jumped in. He emptied his pack. He planned on carrying it to the summit for symbolic reasons but felt it did not need to be full of gear. In a few minutes he was ready. He passed the dock beside Daicey Pond. There, like Phoenix had said, lay his wet foot prints running out of the water.
There was no indication the mountain was closed so he joined a group of excited thru-hikers itching for the final climb and began the final leg of his journey. It was a fine, blue-sky day, October 6th, 01988, and he was part of it.
The Trail skirted Daicey Pond before bringing them to Katahdin Stream Campground. There they converged with another group also heading up. Either the mountain was open or they'd need to call in the National Guard to keep them all from climbing up.
The Monk continued on, past the Owl Trail junction, to where the Trail began a steep ascent. He passed several side trails leading to views of a spectacular 50 ft cascade. Then the Trail climbed straight up. He gained altitude quickly. He passed "the Cave," a stone slab known to offer good protection in foul weather and continued very steeply through some difficult bouldering to arrive at Hunt Spur. The map warned him not to proceed beyond this point in bad weather as the remainder of the Trail was above treeline and exposed all the way to the summit.
From the spur he was now afforded excellent views across the tablelands. This was a near level traverse, covered in nearly three feet of snow. He saw a path where Phoenix had gone before. Indeed, there he was up ahead, heading back. Behind him, Buddy Bear and Bare Bait were making their way past "the boulders" and he waited. Soon they joined him as did Phoenix. Phoenix had the look of someone having been to the promised land. He was beatific. They smiled and said good-bye then continued on.
They reached the rim of the Tableland called the "Gateway." There they were afforded excellent views of the Owl and Witherle Ravine. It was windy and cold. They continued to trudge upward through the snow to Thoreau Spring. The Monk stopped for a drink. The water was crisp and fresh. He shared some with Buddy Bear and Bare Bait.
They examined their situation. They were a mile away from the summit. They could see colored dots ahead and behind as large parties of hikers made the holy pilgrimage. The snow grew to about four feet in depth but they continued on. The Monk pushed ahead. The goal was in sight. He was maybe thirty or forty feet from the summit.
He could see a group of thru-hikers already there, The Great Descenders, Mr. Rogers, Toothpick George and The Mad Norwegian. Chris yelled down. Damn, I was hoping you wouldn't make it!
His wife turned to him and slapped him on the shoulder. Honey, that wasn't very nice, she said. What? He asked. He knows I'm only joking. The Monk didn't know he was joking but had come too far to let the wind be taken from his sails now. He let it slide on by and just kept closing in, his goal in sight.
Then he was there. A weather beaten sign marked the summit. It said: Katahdin. Baxter Peak. Elev - 5267 ft Northern Terminus of the Appalachian Trail. A mountain footpath extending over 2000 miles to Springer Mtn, Georgia. It then gave mileages.
- Thoreau Spring - 1.0
- Katahdin Stream Campground - 5.2
- Penobscot West Branch at Abol Bridge - 14.5
- Maine - New Hampshire State Line - 278.3
- Mt Washington - 327.9
- Springer Mtn, Georgia - 2134.3
He stood in silence for a moment, trying to let it all sink in. He could hardly believe it. He had made it! It hardly registered. There beside the sign sat a small pile of pebbles and rocks people had carried with them, some all the way from Springer. He reached into his near empty pack and removed a sole item. It was a small stone he had picked up in the Smokies. He added it to the pile.
John congratulated him as did Mr. Rogers. He returned the compliments. He gave thanks for this most precious moment and thought about the many travails along the way. There were too many. He would need to sit and write them down someday. He didn't ever want to forget. It was all too precious.
He looked over at the Knife's Edge. This was a razor thin ridge which connected Pamola Peak with Baxter. It was closed due to weather. He had been looking forward to the Knife's Edge but looking at it now, he was glad it was closed. It looked too dangerous.
Toothpick George and the Mad Norwegian started to head back down as Buddy Bear and Bare Bait arrived. Everyone was taking pictures when Buddy Bear pulled out a rather large bottle of expensive champagne. He passed it around. There was plenty for everyone. He smiled to The Monk and said, Life is good on the Appalachian Trail! Yes. It certainly was.
Then they descended back down the way they had came.
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