09/12/00
Day 173
Katahdin Stream Campground
2161.9 miles

Sir Galahad is only 5.2 miles from his Holy Grail.  The forecast calls for rain tonight and in the morning, but clearing by afternoon.  Even if the summit stays stuck in the clouds, I don't care at this point.  I've been up there before on sunny, clear days and I remember the beauty of the view.  I live close enough that I can come back again during fine weather.  What will matter to me tomorrow is what the summit represents:  the attainment of a goal that I've strived to reach for nearly half a year - the end to a long, arduous quest.

I arrived yesterday afternoon at Abol Bridge, the Northern end of the 100-mile Wilderness.  The Abol Bridge Campground store offers the first and only opportunity in the area to resupply on food before entering Baxter State Park.

The husband, Gene, of a nurse, Loretta, that I used to work with extensively rents a campsite there for most of the summer.  I stayed in their trailer last night and had a fresh cooked dinner and breakfast, and a badly needed shower.  After I come down from the summit tomorrow, Loretta is going to pick me up from the Park.  And on Thursday I'll catch a ride back to Portland with her.  Loretta has always been very supportive regarding my aspirations to hike the AT.  When I mentioned to her long ago that I was thinking of doing it someday, she loaned me a couple books on the Trail she had.  She even gave me a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods" when it came out.

I guess the only other thing I care to write about tonight is the loveliness of this State I call home.  I get wrapped up in reporting the day-to-day logistics of this hike, and I feel I don't do justice to what someone described as the "little beauties" along the way.

The dark green moss.  The blue-green lichen.  The tangle of roots in the ceder swamps.  The majestic white pines.  The curious chickadees.  The quiet carpet of brown needles beneath your feet.  The rush of white water spinning in potholes in the rock.  The dwarfed, twisted spruce as you near treeline.  The occasional whiff of a balsam fir.  The shocking, smooth whiteness of a birch.  The fragments of voices talking in a river.  The distant roar of a waterfall as you approach.  The stars tearing holes in the clouds.  The gust of breeze that cools your brow.  The wry humor in the design of an outhouse.  The first red/orange/yellow leaves that mark the end of a season.