Days 156-167: A Tramily Reunion
Day 156. September 15th: South Arm to Bemis Mountain Lean-to – 8 miles
Day 157. September 16th: Bemis Mountain to Sabbath Day Pond – 9 miles
Day 158. September 17th: Sabbath Day Pond to Rangely – 9 miles
We’re slowly chipping away at the remaining distance to Katahdin. I wish I could move faster over this challenging terrain, but my health continues to deteriorate, so for three consecutive days, our mileage is in the single digits. The utter fatigue is demoralizing, but every time we pause, I half-expect Rob, Ash, and Jane to appear behind us on the trail.
Our food supply from Andover is running low, so we plan to hitch into Rangely for the night. It’s mid-afternoon when we round a curve and spot the road. Two hikers are already standing on the shoulder to hitch, and one of them is a familiar-looking blonde, but I don’t know how our friends could already be ahead of us. But as we draw nearer, I recognize Jane from our Smokies tramily, whom we haven’t seen since Tennessee, just after Trail Days. That was 1500 miles ago.
After greetings and hugs are exchanged, we figure out that Jane must have passed Etienne and me while we were stopped for lunch at the edge of a pond just out of sight from the trail. She explains that Rob and Ash are somewhere behind, but they all have a plan to stay in Rangely tonight, too. She introduces us to her companion, a fellow thru-hiker named Hobbit. “You can just call me Brian,” he says, “since none of you actually use your trail names.” It’s true. Perhaps it’s because we met before we had trail names, but unlike most thru-hikers out here, the five of us have always just used our real first names with each other. I only use “Possibly” for new people and signing shelter logs.
Rather than wait here, we stick out our thumbs and find rides into town. A friendly nurse picks us up and drives us to the grocery store. Before we finish shopping, I encounter two more familiar faces. Ash and Rob must have arrived at the road only minutes after we departed. “I’m so glad you guys caught us!” I say, hugging them both tightly in the middle of the ice cream aisle. That means they’re moving a lot faster, I remind myself. And you’re already going as fast as you can.
I push these anxious thoughts to the back of my mind. I’ll worry about keeping up later. For now, it’s a joyful reunion. We squeeze into two motel rooms with the rest of Rob, Ash, and Jane’s friends, hikers that we don’t know. I’ve been content to be a tramily of two with Etienne for the last six weeks, but it’s fun to have the gang back together. It feels like a full circle, now that we’re so close to the end.
Day 159. September 18th: Rangely to Piazza Rock – 2 miles
After a lazy morning, Rob, Ash, and Jane decide to spend another night in town. As much as I would like a zero, for the first time in ten days, my body has seen fit to stop menstruating, so I feel like I should hike while I can. I don’t want to fall behind so quickly after our reunion, and my town stay budget is getting thin, so I convince Etienne to hitch back to the trail with me that afternoon, and we hike just two miles to Piazza Rock. Unused to so much remaining daylight, we set up camp and then explore the blue-blazed trails to an impressive rock formation and set of narrow caves and tunnels.
Day 160. September 19th: Piazza Rock to Orbeton Stream – 12 miles
It’s rainy today, but I’m not suffering from the same bone-deep exhaustion as earlier in the week. Still, with the frequent scrambles in Maine, my weak knee and general lack of sure-footedness slow me down. It’s a good day anyway. It’s fun to convene with our friends during breaks, and periodically the rain clouds part to reveal the views. At higher elevation, the trees are changing colors. Thanks to our head start, I manage to cover twelve miles, and we camp with Rob, Ash, Jane, and Brian on a disused fire road near Orbeton Stream.
A lot of our Maine views
Day 161. September 20th: Orbeton Stream to stealth site – 15 miles
Day 162. September 21st: Stealth site to Horn Pond Lean-to – 9 miles
Today, we pass the 2000-mile mark. We’ve hiked two thousand miles since Springer Mountain. Less than 200 remain. We’re 90% of the way.
At midday, we hitch into Stratton for a quick resupply and lunch break. Bad weather is rolling in, and most of the hikers we see in town intend to wait it out at the local hostel. But my Canadian tramily is feeling the pressure of their visa deadlines, and we hitch back to the trail just as the storm begins. The rain isn’t that heavy, but the wind is gusting at least 30 or 40mph. After a 2000-foot climb over two and a half miles, we reach Horn Pond Lean-to. It’s still fairly early, but the winds are howling, and we decide not to cross the exposed ridgeline of the Bigelows in the storm. Instead, we hunker down at the recently remodeled shelter. The temperature plummets as the sun goes down. Jane and Brian decide to tent, while Rob, Ash, Etienne and I huddle together in the shelter, cinched into our sleeping bags like burritos. The wind continues to howl. This is one of the fiercest storms I’ve witnessed on the trail, but with good company, it feels like an adventure.
Burrito Rob is all of us
Day 163. September 22nd: Horn Pond to Little Bigelow – 10 miles
You have got to be kidding.
It’s midnight, and I just woke up with familiar, twisting discomfort in my abdomen. I unzip from my warm cocoon and strap on my headlamp for the short journey to the privy. Sure enough, it’s back. After only a three-day break, my time of the month has returned-- except that instead of one week per month, it was two weeks, and now it’s three. Of all the non-lethal ways that my body could go haywire during such a huge physical endeavor, this would be my last choice. I swallow some ibuprofen for the cramps and go back to bed. I’m not going to let this slow me down, I tell myself. I’m going to keep up.
I wake again at dawn, but we’re all reluctant to get moving in the freezing cold wind. I just barely stayed warm enough overnight in my 32-degree bag with my “thermo reactor” liner that supposedly adds 20-degrees of warmth. The rest of September can’t get any colder, or I’ll be in trouble.
Eventually, we get moving, and the Bigelows are some of my favorite views on the entire trail. Last night’s storm has dissipated, leaving bluebird skies above green landscape punctured with broad lakes. The wind careens across the ridge at 40mph or more, so we don’t linger, but Guthook said that you can see Katahdin from here. We scan the horizon to the northeast and decide upon a distant silhouette. I have no idea if it’s actually Katahdin, but even if we’re looking at the wrong mountain, I feel a thrill at the thought that our destination is visible from here, where we’re standing.
That night, we sit around a campfire at night like we’re back in Georgia. Who would have thought we would be together here in Maine? So many of our original Smokies crew have dropped off the trail. Overuse injuries, accidents, the Virginia Blues, the relentless heat and bugs of the mid-Atlantic… friends have either chosen or been forced to bow out for a myriad of reasons.
But us? Somehow, we’re still here.
Day 164. September 23rd: Little Bigelow to Pierce Pond Lean-to – 17 miles
I feel worse the next day, but the terrain begins to flatten out. In AWOL’s elevation profile, it looks like the Bigelows were the last serious mountains between here and Monson. That night, we reach the shelter and sign up for a pancake breakfast at a nearby hunting camp. I’ll feel better once I’ve had blueberry pancakes.
Day 165. September 24th: Pierce Pond to Pleasant Pond stealth – 14 miles
We wake up before dawn to make it to the hunter’s camp in time for our breakfast. We are each served a plate of thirteen pancakes stuffed with blueberries, raspberries, and apple. Half-dazed from the food coma, we spread out throughout the rest of the morning, and Etienne and I reach the Kennebec River on our own.
The Kennebec is the only waterway on the trail that requires a boat. While hikers sometimes ford the broad, mostly-shallow river, the dam upstream sometimes opens the reservoir gate without notice, and people have drowned in the suddenly rising waters. The ATC’s solution is a canoe ferry. The ferry operator is on the opposite bank when we arrive, but as soon as we wave, he crosses back to get us. Etienne and I strap on our life vests, and I settle into the middle of the canoe to take photos while he paddles from the front seat. There’s a white blaze painted onto the canoe to prove that it is a designated part of the route.
On the opposite side of the river, we purchase a small resupply from the tiny town of Caratunk. Rob, Ash, Jane, and Brian are all there, but once we keep moving, they pull ahead.
At dusk, we are still behind, but I ask Etienne if he’s willing to stop. This time it’s less utter exhaustion, and more that I am nervous about navigating the coming bog by the light of our headlamps. If the bog bridges are well-maintained, we’d have no problem crossing in the dark, but what if it’s like Smarts mountain in New Hampshire? I have no desire to fall into another bog, especially not at night.
We’ll get up early and catch them. We will.
Day 166. September 25th: Pleasant Pond to Horseshoe Canyon – 18 miles
We start hiking early, but by the time we reach our friends’ campsite two miles ahead, they are already gone. I am feeling bad again today, now on the fifth day of my third period in a single month, but the rolling hills make for quick hiking. It’s pouring rain when we arrive at Horseshoe Canyon Shelter, but I have managed 18 miles today, my biggest day since Vermont. There are voices and headlamps in the lean-to and tents scattered around, but I don’t recognize any of them.
Our friends aren’t here. Rob, Ash, Jane, and Brian must have decided to hike the remaining miles into Monson.
Day 167. September 26th: Horseshoe Canyon to Monson – 9 miles
It’s still raining when we wake up the next morning. The terrain is easy, but I feel glum. Unless our friends are going to stay the night in Monson tonight, I won’t be able to catch up. Halfway through the morning, I sit on a fallen log to eat a snack. Etienne and I are chewing in silence as a small, dark figure approaches on the trail from the north. At first, I think it’s a housecat. It has long, soft-looking hair and a puffy tail held aloft like a cat. But as it draws closer, seemingly oblivious to our presence, I realize that it’s bigger than a cat, and the head looks more like a weasel.
When it’s about 10 yards away, the creature notices us and veers into the woods without changing pace. In moments, it’s gone.
“What was that?” I ask Etienne. I have never seen anything like it before. We float a few theories, but it’s not until we arrive in Monson and I can Google “mammals of Maine” that I can identify the creature as a fisher cat, an animal I’d never even heard of. Apparently, we’re lucky to see one up close without any issues. These weasel-like critters are highly elusive, and by all accounts, somewhat vicious. I still haven’t managed to spot a moose, but I feel lucky to see and learn about a new species altogether.
It was raining when we saw the fisher cat, so I couldn’t get my phone out to take a photo, but here is a photo of a similar-looking one from a google image search. Source: https://orangectlive.com/tag/fisher-cat-in-orange/
In town, we find Rob, Ash, Jane, and Brian. I’m hoping that they’re willing to stay the night and start into the 100-mile Wilderness tomorrow, but even with an afternoon of rest, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up with their pace on this final push to Katahdin. So, it’s just as well when they explain that they are leaving now. They just finished resupplying, and they are about to head back to the trail. They expect to cover the remaining distance to the Birches campground at the foot of Katahdin in five and a half days. The last time I hiked at that pace was briefly in Massachusetts, and I am much weaker than I was then. Our friends encourage us to hike out with them, but after a week of fighting hard to keep up since our reunion, I am forced to confront reality. Knee issues aside, with the side effects of my prescription ever since Connecticut, I can’t make it from here to Katahdin in six days. I want to, so much that it hurts, but I just can’t. I’ve asked my body for so much on this journey, dipping into reserves that I never knew I had, but this week I’ve tried to rally my remaining strength, and it simply hasn’t been enough. My legs might still be coaxed to carry me 110 more miles, but not in six days.
So, we say goodbye. We hug and wish each other luck, and I try hard not to cry. Then, they catch a ride back to the trail, while Etienne and I remain behind in Monson. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, as we walk to Shaw’s hiker hostel. “I wanted us to finish all together. I’m sorry I can’t.” Even while it’s thrilling to be this close to Katahdin, right now all I can feel is frustration at my malfunctioning body and guilt for holding Etienne back with me. He could keep up easily, if he wanted to.
He assures me that it’s okay. He’s as patient and kind as ever, but I can’t help wondering if he regrets partnering up with someone who has held him back this much. Without me, he might have finished a week ago. I take a deep breath and push these doubts aside. We stop by the visitor center, register for our Katahdin summit date— October 4th—and resupply for our last section of trail.
Shaw’s turns out to be one of my favorite hostels on the AT, and I try hard to let go of my disappointment and instead relish this final town stop. I am thankful for a mostly favorable weather forecast, and for the company that I still have left. We couldn’t finish the AT with our whole tramily, but I’m still with the person who has mattered the most in the last five and a half months.
In the morning, we will embark on the final leg of this adventure.
