Date: Mon, 18 Sep 2000
Subject: AT Update - Final

Greetings from "Real Life",

On Wednesday, Sept. 13th, I reached the summit of Mount Katahdin and the end of my long journey to hike the Appalachian Trail.

It had rained during the night and it was still falling as I began the ascent that morning.  The overcast sky didn't matter to me, though, as it wasn't the view from the top which I was seeking but the completion of a long quest.

Some daypacks were available at the campground, but I ended up taking my regular backpack, though burdoned only with the gear I would need for that afternoon.  It felt so light it was like carrying nothing at all.

The beginning of the ascent from Katahdin Stream campground is pretty easy (and pretty!), following the stream up to a falls.  As I continued up, however, I began to encounter some of the boulder scrambles that the Hunt trail is known for.  Frankly, I was surprised at just how tough the last few miles of the AT is.  By the time you climb above treeline, you are using your hands almost as much as your feet.  I pulled myself up, over, and between the rock slabs, and was grateful the wind seemed to have dried out the surface of the rock so it wasn't as slippery as it could have been.  Ah yes, the wind.  My estimate is that it was gusting to maybe 30 or 40 miles an hour.  It was particularly strong on the narrow, steep climb up to the Tableland.  I had to stop and add a few layers to keep warm, even though the climb required considerable exertion.  I could see above me where the ridgeline disappeared into the blowing mist.  But the view to the surrounding hills, ponds, and lakes below was opening up and I was encouraged that each time I checked, the clouds on the mountain seemed to be a bit higher.

In a way, I was glad that Katahdin wasn't giving me a calm, sunny, walk in the park.  Hiking above treeline always deserves your attention and respect.  It was good to feel the power of the mountain as it buffeted me around with each step.  I thought of the principle behind most initiation rites:  that we tend to value something more when it is difficult to obtain.

The wind subsided somewhat as I passed through the "Gateway" and onto the relatively flat Tableland.  Like the upper slopes of Mount Washington, the place has an "other-worldly" feel to it.  Lichen covered rocks jutting up between patches of rust-colored grasses.  The summit was somewhere off in the fog, so I did as I had done since the beginning and followed the white blazes.  Occasionally the sun would start to burn through overhead, and then be swallowed up again in the white.

After what seemed like a long while onward and upward, I finally made out the outline of a wooden sign up ahead.  As I neared I saw that there was a woman already at the summit, who was sheltering from the wind behind the enormous rock cairn.  I waved "Hi", but stood in a daze looking at the sign.

At this point I should mention that I had a couple fantasies about this moment that had recurred in my thoughts of late.  Since I am a hopeless addict of the boob tube, both of them have their roots in television shows.

In the first, as I touch the wooden sign lightning crackles overhead (i.e.: "Highlander") and I am struck by pulsating bolts of AT Trail Magic energy, suffusing me with power until I am transformed into "Hiker Man"!  Perhaps with a big "H" emblazoned on my chest.

The second fantasy comes from the world of Star Trek (Next Generation? or Deep Space Nine?) and involves the character of the Klingon named Worf.  In one episode another Klingon is killed and Worf performs a ritual in which he holds the deceased eyes open, rears back his own head and then lets forth with a bellowing growl/scream/battle cry.  The purpose of which is to warn the heavens that a Klingon Warrior approaches.

I walked over to the girl on the summit and warned her that I was about to make some noise, and not to be alarmed.  I stepped up on the rocks behind the sign.  I took a deep breath, then another, and another.  Then I clasped both hands atop the sign and stood for a moment in stunned disbelief that this event had finally occured.  Then I tilted my face upward and belted out a blood-curdling yell that surprised even me with its volume and duration.  Even the wind and fog could not contain it.  It felt great!  It felt right.  And thus I said goodbye to the spirit of "Trudge" that had carried me so long and so far.  And then it was time to eat.

Of course, the annoying thing about Katahdin is that after you reach the summit, you can't just throw up your hands and say, "Somebody carry me down, 'cuz I ain't walkin' no more!"  You have to hike your own butt back down.  And then you have to get from there to wherever you're going next.  There's probably yet another life lesson in that, but I won't hit you over the head with it.

I hung around the summit for awhile and more people began to show up.  The clouds began to part with more frequency.  By the time I started down I had seen the startlingly beautiful views down to Chimney Pond and accross to the stark outline of the Knife Edge.  The whole of the Tableland was revealed in its vastness.  And the climb down the boulders was every bit as difficult as it had been on the way up.

I want to express my deepest thanks to Loretta and Gene Rogers.  Loretta is a nurse that I worked with extensively at Mercy Hospital.  She and her husband Gene rent a campsite at Abol Bridge, with a beautiful view of Katahdin, for the summer.  They allowed me to stay as their guest when I arrived there on my way North, and Loretta met me on the Trail as I was coming down and drove me back from Katahdin Stream to their trailer for yet another delicious, home-cooked meal.  On Thursday I caught a ride with Loretta back home to Portland.  In the same way that Rick and Connie Dement made my turn-around in Georgia so easy and pleasurable, Loretta and Gene made the end of my trip a delight.

Since returning, I have done nothing!  Well, nothing except eat and watch TV.  My backpack is still in the middle of the living room floor where I dropped it, with dirty laundry festering somewhere inside.  I haven't yet begun to sort through the 6 months worth of mail that has piled up.  I suppose I needed a bit of rest, but this is ridiculous!  After 3 days of laying around, my legs and back feel awful.  Life wasn't very complicated when it revolved around the simple grind of putting in 8 to 10 hours of walking everyday.  Now I need to replace one big challange, with a host of smaller ones.  But I guess I'm up to it.

One of the things I will try to accomplish in the near future is to post some pictures from my trip on the web.  My thanks go out to Phil Poirier, Paul Toth, and Don Myers, who clogged up the internet with some of my incoherent ramblings.  In addition to photos, I hope to complete the monumental task that Don took on of transcribing my journal entries, including the letter I sent him from Caratunk, Maine wherein I finally attempt to address the question of "why" I did this.  Although some of you have probably long since reached the saturation point for news of my trip, I will notify this email list when I have anything completed and leave it to you to peruse or not.

Thank you all for your interest and support.