Fly, Fish, Feast!

Why would you fly for four hours, drive for three, hike for another three, just to fish for one hour?   For me this past weekend,  the answer is clear - a good catch of native brook trout.

First though, lets clear up some misconceptions.  Native brook trout found in northern Maine are not "trout" like you think of trout.  In fact they are a salmonoid with reddish colored flesh, a legacy of the last ice age.  They are closely related to arctic char but are much much smaller, sweeter, and ever more succulent.  The first time you taste one you will immediately recognize the difference.  These fish will only survive in pristine waters.  Pollution will kill them.  And no, in the ponds we fish, they are not stocked.  These fish spawn and engage their life cycle right there in the clear cold mountain pond fed by natural springs and snow melt. 

Heading to our secret pond last weekend (a lot of Mainers don't even tell their best friends where they fish), we hiked in to find the single campsite there occupied and the canoe that goes with it, spoken for by the campers.  After we chatted a while around their breakfast campfire, they generously offered us the use of the canoe until we got our bag limit.  From past experience that could take anything from  an hour to a full day but our campers assured us it would not take long today.

They were right.  We paddled to the middle of the pond and let the canoe drift down towards the end while we fished.  In Maine a pond is usually big enough to be called a lake in most other parts of the world, and this pond is like that.  It took us about an hour to drift from one end to the other and in that time we had nine fish.  Several small ones were released as it was clear from the outset that this was going to be a good day and fish of 10 to 12 inches (large for native brook trout in this area), were in abundance and easy to catch.   We paddled back a little to get one more fish and have our bag limit of 5 fish each.

We returned the canoe, hiked out to our truck, and got back to camp (aka "house on the lake") just after lunch.  This gave us the afternoon to relax, clean our catch, and prepare for our traditional evening feast of pan fried whole brook trout, fiddleheads, and potatoes accompanied by a bottle of Oyster Bay (NZ) Sauvignon Blanc.  Once more we had achieved what we had come for and toasted our success - fishing, friendship, and feasting on one of the most edible species of fish I've ever tasted.  Priceless!

A MOUNTAIN OF MY OWN

When I signed the trail register at the beginning of the Sentinel Mountain Trail at Kidney Pond, I noticed I was the only person so far signing out of that trail today. I wondered if it would stay that way.

It did. For the next four hours, the trail and the mountain were mine. I had hiked Sentinel several years ago and before I’d ever hiked Katahdin. It appealed to me then because of its relative ease compared to other mountains in Baxter State Park, according to the guide book. Little did I know that then that there are really no “easy” mountains in the Park. Even Sentinel at less than 2000ft, is a solid hour and half of hiking on the typical BSP trail of mostly roots and rocks. Sentinel is a little deceiving though.

The first few miles are not very steep. In fact there are some flat sections around Kidney Pond, some gentle ups, and also a few downs near a couple of stream crossings. But like all large chunks of granite in the area with the name "mountain" attached, the last haul to the summit calls for a few pauses to breathe and to let a little heart pounding subside before continuing.

This time, I chose Sentinel because I wanted to see the view again and get some pictures from the summit. Sentinel gets its name from the fact that it stands like a sentinel in the south west corner, guarding the other mountains deeper into the Park. There was the usual morning fog which I’d assumed would burn off by the time I reached the top.

Realizing I had the mountain to myself gave rise to both excitement and a little trepidation. Hiking alone always adds a little more excitement to the adventure and knowing that nobody else was out there on the same trail added a little more. Some say you shouldn’t hike alone in the wilderness and I can understand that perspective, but don’t always choose to abide by it. Sure, you could have a heart attack, or fall and break your leg, or get attacked by a bear and no one would be there to help or to save you. To me it’s a simple matter of calculating the risks, managing them as well as possible, and enjoying the rewards that come from a little more risk exposure. Even though I’m no longer a spring chicken, as a pilot I’m required to have an annual physical. I’m told my heart health is pretty good for my age. Now if you are on heart medication, or are an overweight smoker, or have done no physical exercise in the past several months that you can recall, then yes, you’d better take a companion on your hike. As for bears, I figure that if a bear wants to eat someone, she’s just as likely to go for a menu of two as a menu of one. All a companion will achieve is to perhaps be first on the menu and give you a little extra time.

Now having said that partly in jest, I strongly believe the chances of being attacked by a bear in the Maine North Woods is pretty remote. I’ve seen several bears over the years and never once did I feel I was in danger. There are a few simple rules I follow that seem to work. Don’t get between a bear and her cub, and give the bear the room and time to move. Mostly they will amble off and leave the trail to you.

Given that the trails in the area are mostly rocks and roots with the odd stream crossing and several muddy patches, you really do have to focus on where you put your feet to avoid injury. This is not the place to hike with your head up. Sounds simple enough, but a friend who works in triage at the local hospital tells me that most falls on the trail happen because people simply don’t look where they are placing their feet. When asked how it happened the reply often includes “I was looking at ..(a bird, the trees, the trail up ahead, my brother coming behind me……) and I didn’t see the (rock or root) and I fell.” I’ve done enough rock hopping in Maine to know that if I want to look around, I stop and look. When my feet are moving so are my eyes but not too far from where my feet are landing. There’s always the danger of slipping on slippery rocks too, but the most dangerous is wet feet landing on what appears to be a smooth dry rock. I’m always aware of how wet my boot soles might be and take extra precaution when I know they are wet.

I see a lot of newbie hikers trying to imitate the pros with their shiny new hiking poles. Let me tell you, unless you plan on doing some serious long distance hiking, you do not need hiking poles to day hike most of the mountains in Baxter State Park. If anything they are more of a hindrance and are totally useless on mountains like Katahdin. On the other hand they do make an excellent lightning rod when strapped to the back of your pack. But if you really want to get struck by lightning you might as well also put a sheet of aluminum foil inside the back of your pants. Then when you do get zapped you’ll cover five miles of that ten mile hike in a single heart beat. Forgive my Maine sense of humor that I've acquired from my friends at the local watering hole.

Jokes aside, a better alternative to poles is a single solid staff. My preference is a five foot length of birch sapling. It serves to steady my upper body when I need a little more support but leaves my other hand free to grab tree trunks or rocks as well. And as for lightning, people do get hit. The odds are in your favor but I still always check the forecast before I hike and make sure I get below tree line if there is a storm.

The most serious danger in my book, weather hiking alone or with others, is the risk of hypothermia. Several people over the years have fallen prey to this one. It’s important to stay hydrated and to carry more than enough water for your hike. You also need appropriate clothing. Avoid cottons and go for polyester which doesn’t cling to your body when wet and make you cold. Carry rain gear and some extra dry clothing. I always take at least an extra pair of socks, an extra shirt, and a flashlight, in a dry sack, just in case. The temperature on the tops of many mountains can be ten to fifteen degrees colder than at the bottom. If circumstances do arise that you’ll need to spend a night on the mountain, make sure you’ll survive it.

So much for the risks of hiking alone and how to manage them. What about the rewards? For me the best part of hiking alone is that I get to choose my own pace. I don’t have to play catch up, I don’t have to stop and wait, and I get to feel my stride and go at the pace that is just right for me. I noticed today on Sentinel that my pace varied. When my second wind kicked in, I felt that wonderful feeling of a surge coming into my pace. When I began to feel the strain of the final accent to the summit, I noticed myself slow and breathe more deeply to accommodate. They say that everyone hikes their own hike, regardless. To me it just seems easier when hiking alone. I also enjoy being with my own thoughts without interruption. Like anything, too much of this would probably not be a good thing. For most of us though, I’d guess we don’t get enough of it. For me, when hiking alone, I begin to actually notice what I’m thinking about. I become a witness to my own racing mind and get to see all the things that seem to come to the top of the tree. I guess this is a form of meditation in a crude sort of way. And it works like it too. After a while I see the speed of my mind beginning to slow and I start to become more present to each moment and more present to what is around me.

On this particular hike I began to notice the different varieties of mushrooms I encountered along the trail. Being alone, I could take the time to stop for a closer look if I wanted. I even took a few photos with my digital camera to show a mushroom savvy friend. I know there are basically three kinds of mushroom. There are those you can eat with your steak, there are those you feed to your enemies with their steak, and there are the kind that will provide an inexpensive trip without needing to leave home. I don’t trust myself to know the difference so when I hike and see mushrooms I look at them for their visual appeal and not their food potential. Perhaps if I learn a little more about them it could add a little more excitement to future hiking adventures. After all, I do like mushrooms with my steak.

I did stop to pick the blueberries though. Being the second week in August, and after an abundantly wet several weeks (some say too wet), it was a perfect season from Maine’s wild blueberries. Around the summit of Sentinel I discovered a huge patch of heavily laden bushes exposed to the southern sun. The only container I had was an empty water bottle which I quickly filled with blueberries. I then went about devouring as many berries and I could possibly load up on. This was lunch. Anything I’d brought in my pack could wait till later.

The clouds had lifted a little but not enough for a clear view of Katahdin and its surrounding ridges. I shot a few photos anyway and began my descent, slowly at first to let the blueberries settle. On the way down I noticed that slightly exhilarating feeling I sometimes get when I hike. Some say its endorphins kicking in. I don’t know what causes it but I do recognize it. It’s a feeling like “all is well with life and with the world around me”. When I feel it gives rise to a litany of appreciation. I’m grateful for my health, for my life and all I have, my wife and family, my friends, and this great place in Maine where I’m now so fortunate to be.

The distance passes quickly now and soon I find myself back close to the shore of Kidney Pond. I know I’m close as I see the sky through the trees and hear the sound of the loons on the pond. From the shore of Kidney Pond there is an awesome view across the water to Katahdin’s bulk planted firmly behind it. I love this view and even though I have several photographs of it, I pause to take yet another. As I sign out at the trail register, I add one more gratitude to my mental list. Thanks for giving this mountain to just me today.

Fishing for Brookies

Unedited and unpublished but plan to work on it.

by Michael Lee

He leapt out from behind a tree along the trail like cat pouncing on his prey. “Warden Walter Wishoneke” read the name badge on his soaking wet uniform. We were his prey - three very tired and very wet fishermen about a mile into the long three mile hike back to the road after our day of fishing in an isolated pristine pond in the North Woods of Maine.

“OK boys,” said Game Warden Wally, “open your creels and get out your fishing licenses!” The surprise on our faces surely showed and he grinned and added, “Kind of wet day to be fishing isn’t it?”

It surely was. It had started raining on our hike in early in the morning. I had been looking forward to this day. In my three years of fishing in this part of Maine the native brook trout had eluded me. I wasn’t a fly fisherman which limited the number of places I could legally fish for ‘brookies’. I had met Sam and Jeff some time back on a chat forum about fishing in Maine. They both used to live in a small town some 30 miles north of my place in Maine and were returning for a weekend of fishing. They planned to hike in to this remote pond that they used to successfully fish as kids and teenagers growing up in this wild and beautiful part of the state. Although the weather had somewhat dampened my spirits after we met at the gas station in their town, I was reinspired by Sam’s assurance that “This is great weather for catching brookies.”

By the time we got to the pond we were all very well soaked. Although we wore rain gear the rain was so heavy at times the water found its way in. Our boots were no match for the puddles and small streams we trudged through. With the rain came strong gusty winds and even with the temperature around seventy, our wet bodies braced for the chill of each gust. We made it to the pond, assembled our poles, baited our hooks and began to fish. I had a strike almost immediately and hauled in the first fish for the day – a six inch brookie. I was about to throw it back when Jeff reminded me that it was at the legal limit to keep and the small one’s tasted great. Into my creel he went but I hoped to land some bigger ones. We moved spots a few times over the next hour to try to find the bigger ones. Finally we hit the right spots – places along the lake shore where small streams fed by the morning rains were flowing in. With the flow of water came tasty grubs and insects that the brookies came looking for. Our worms must have been additionally attractive as we began to catch some beautiful eight to ten inch trout. We spread out a little so as not to cramp each other and so didn’t really know what each was catching other than we were all fully engaged in baiting worms, removing trout from hooks, and becoming oblivious to the persistent rain and chill winds blowing across the water. The hours passed and being more selective now, I released many smaller fish, keeping only those that came in at ten inches or more.

My mind wandered to the descriptions I had read of these beautiful fish we were catching. This particular variety of trout is a true native – not a stocked variety. This was its natural habitat and thanks to careful management and the remote location it has survived and even thrived to the extent that fishing with worms is permitted here. Most other ponds in the area allow fly fishing only. I wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the strenuous hike but we were the only ones here on this day. By early afternoon we gathered and decided we had enough fish, each with our bag limit of five. Sam remarked however that even if we had cheated and taken a few more who would be out here on a day like this to check on us? He imagined the game wardens would all be snug in their cabin playing cards on a day like this. As Sam and Jeff ate the last of their lunch before the hike out, I allowed myself one final cast. I immediately felt a strong strike and carefully played the fish to shore. It was a lunker and looked to be bigger than any I had caught so far. My mind kicked in as I thought to myself, “I’m going to keep this one. Who cares if I have six fish in my creel instead of the five limit. Besides the first one I caught was barely legal size”. I was fishing this time from a rock a few feet above the pond. I brought my prize fish to the surface and decided that rather than try to lean over the rock and risk a plunge into the lake, I would hoist the fish up on to the rock. As I lifted it, I was once again in awe of its beauty and size. “He’ll have to go on the grill,” I muttered to myself. “Too big for the frying pan”. Just then the fish gave a flip of his tail and released himself from the hook with a splash and disappeared from sight.

Now standing in front of Warden Wally with my open creel, I thought again about that fish. “Thank you, fish” I thought. “If I had landed you, I would be in big trouble right now.” Wally checked our creels and licenses one by one. He looked a little skeptically at my first fish and I thought he would probably bring out his measure to check him, but he didn’t. We all seemed to pass muster, each with the bag limit of five and current Maine fishing licenses. He decided to hike the last two miles out with us and became quite jovial about the miserable day and lack of fishermen for him to check. Even when we reached our truck he hung out for a bit to chat some more. Eventually he departed and we began to change into some dry clothes we had left in the truck.

Sam also took off his wet boots and pulled down his socks. Our eyes popped as four more brookies, two from each sock, fell to the ground. “Damn,” I laughed, “Seems I have a lot more to learn from you local guys about fishing for brookies.”

Duck

As yet unpublished work in progress. Please leave me a comment if you like it or have any suggestions or publication possiblities.


Mostly I look at them swimming by on the lake but sometimes I like to eat some. I’ve never hunted ducks so until now I’ve relied on the supermarket for my supply. Last Saturday on my ritual stroll through the supermarket for the weekly groceries I happened to spy a tasty looking piece of the said bird - “Maple Leaf Farms – Half Roasted Duck”. In its beautifully enticing red and cream package with seasoned duck showing through the cellophane window, the directions said “fully cooked” - just pop it in the oven for 25 minutes at 375 degrees and dinner is ready. “That would be great for Monday night when I’d be dining alone”, I thought.
On my way home from the supermarket I stopped by our local CSA Farm. “CSA” is intellegencia speak for “Community Supported Agriculture”. Our farm known as Farm Girl Farm sells shares each year for around 400 bucks which entitles the shareholder to pick up a “share” of produce once a week. This week with the tomatoes long gone and not much else left in the field as I drove in, I did not expect a whole lot, but I was wrong. Bunches of baby beets along with lots of greens and winter squash were amongst the pickings laid out on the farm table. Happy with my harvest my mind turned to Monday’s dinner. Duck with steamed beets and braised bok choy seemed like the right combination along with a bottle of Aussie Rutherglen Shiraz that I knew I had stashed away.
I don’t mind eating alone but I’m not the “hunt in the fridge for some crappy left over and hope for the best” kind of guy. For me eating alone means “dining alone” and the selection and preparation of the repast is a big part of the fun.
So the duck went in the oven as prescribed, the beets were trimmed and set to steam and the bok-choy was in the pan to braise with a little garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice. The wine was open , the table set, the candles lit, and I was ready to dine.
“Excellent choice of wine”, I remarked to myself as I took the first sip. The beets attracted the first bite and that too prompted the remark to self “Tasty beets!” The duck looked great and so a little portion of the leg was forked and brought to mouth. “MMmmm….. so, so.” Another bite not much better. It looked good but had no real flavor. The meat was also stringy even though seemingly moist. It wasn’t dry and the preparation directions were probably right on. But something was missing here. Try the greens. “Ah, yes! I love them!” Another sip of wine. “Goes well with the meal except for that damned duck!”, came the inner voice.
For a while I went back and forth trying each until deciding to forget the duck and just focus on the beets and greens and enjoy the wine. Always adept at making good from a bad situation, I took my time to relish those parts of the meal that grabbed my palate and forego the rest. But my thoughts went elsewhere.
“Our food supply is really fucked for those of us who can taste the difference” came one voice.
“Don’t be friggin’ snob!” came another.
“But I’m not! I just want to eat things I enjoy and that duck really sucked! It was not worth the six bucks I paid for it and I feel I was cheated.”

“You were!” said a third voice. “How do you think a company can make money today with the high cost of product not to mention the huge cost of distribution now that gas is more than three bucks a gallon. Something has to get compromised in all that if you want the convenience of buying duck in your supermarket. They probably try to do it well but with mass produced product to begin with and freezing it for a long shelf life, don’t you think you’d be sacrificing something in the way real taste? Like what the fuck were you expecting?”
“Ahh.. how about something like the taste of the bok choy or the beets?”
“Dreaming! Unless you want to grow your own ducks you idiot. Haha!”
I poured another glass of wine. Damn, the decision was made. Next year was going duck hunting for the very first time.

Neighbors

This story is a work in progress. If you know a place that might want to publish it, let me know and I'll do some more work on it.

Neighbors
By Michael Lee

I was sad to hear that my neighbors are gone. Dani had a stroke and was taken off to hospital. Hopefully he’ll recover. But he and Joyce won’t be at their camp on South Twin Lake where they’ve lived for last 50 years. They didn’t waste time after Dani’s stroke and sold the place to a guy from further down the lake.

They were there when I bought my lakeside camp next door some 4 years ago. Not only were they great neighbors but have provided me with a lot of inspiration for living fully into old age. I was also in awe of their simple and happy lifestyle. I was able to celebrate their eightieth birthdays with them and always enjoyed their company along with their families and friends. They chose to make their camp their home sometime in the fifties when Dani still worked at the mill. He retired at least a decade before it downsized some five years ago. He still gets a small pension payment and social security which gave them enough to get by on if they kept life simple – and they really did.

I miss their presence and it’s lonely ‘up at camp’ now without my familiar neighbors next door. Whenever I was there hardly a day would go by without us exchanging greetings and spending a little time in each others company. I recall one such day from last winter and the adventure which followed.

“Well what do you think, Mike?” calls Joyce as I stick my head out the door around seven in the morning after over a foot of heavy wet snow had fallen overnight. Joyce is already out shoveling around the door outside of their place. She’s in pretty good shape and could easily be taken for ten to twenty years younger. Dani had been hanging tough too although recently bothered by accidents and few health problems, all of which in typical Maine fashion, he made light of.

“I don’t know Joyce,” I respond. “We could get a few more inches before it’s all over but I think I’ll get started on the plowing.” Little does Joyce know that I’ve never driven a plow truck in my life before. The previous night I visited with them after I had arrived. I had planned to spend a few days getting my place ready for summer but hadn’t anticipated the late winter extending into mid-April. There was still two feet of ice on the lake and snow drifts a good fifteen feet high around my camp. The pipe from my well was still frozen and although I had heat from a propane heater, I had no water. I’d survived for a few days like this before and it was no big deal but I had not anticipated an overnight snow storm dumping this much snow. In conversation the night before, I learned that Dani had an accident back in late February getting pinned between his plow truck and another vehicle in our shared driveway. Luckily Joyce heard his screams for help even above the sound of her vacuum cleaner, was able to back the plow truck up to get him free and then wrap his bloody legs in towels and drive him in his truck ten miles into town and to the hospital. They stitched him up and sent him home and everything seemed to be OK until one of his wounds became severely infected through to the bone. He went back for surgery and then had a vacuum inserted in the wound to help it drain and heal. “Look at this damn thing they put on me!” he said with a grin as he lifted up the tube, red with his blood, and bared his leg to show me the device.
“Geez! That must have kept you laid up for a while?” I say thinking about how they could have dealt with a Maine winter out here in the middle of no-where with not even a permanent neighbor close by.

Like me most of their neighbors are seasonal residents and stay away when the 50 knot norwesterlies blow drifting snow across the frozen lake in temperatures in double digit negatives. Dani and Joyce heat their camp with a wood burning furnace and Dani cuts and hauls the six or seven chords they need for a winter all by himself. Luckily it’s always stored away “down cellar” long before the first snows. Joyce tells me that in the last storm another year round resident from about two miles up the road came and plowed them out but they are not sure if he’s coming again after this next storm. Joyce is concerned about how I will be able to get out if the driveway isn’t plowed. “Don’t worry about me,” I tell her, “but how can I help get it done?”
“Well if you can get that god damn son of a bitch truck of mine started you can plow us out,” says Dani.
“Sure… why don’t I see if she’ll start”.
Dani gives me starting instructions. The truck is about fifteen years old and over the years has been modified by Dani every time something on it needed “fixing”. I scrape the snow from the last storm off and hit the starter. With a reluctant and sluggish sound it gives a cough and the engine springs to life. I run it a few minutes and return to tell them all is well and in the morning I’ll “plow us out”.

My oldest son Chris has done some plowing so after I get back to my camp I give him a call. “Anything I need to know about snow plowing other than just driving it with the plow down and pushing the snow away?” I ask. He laughs when I tell him what I’m planning to do but gives me a few pointers anyway.

This morning I’m excited to begin and head for the truck. She starts again just like last night. By the time I’m ready to drop the plow and begin Dani appears from his place with tube and bag slung over his shoulder. He’s not there because he’s worried about how I’ll do. Just wanting to be part of it all and help out. He advises me not to drop the plow too low for the first run and I follow his advice. What I don’t know is that the truck has very bald tires and there is a good thick layer of ice beneath the heavy wet snow. The result is that the truck doesn’t move when I drop the clutch and there I sit, truck roaring, wheels spinning, and no forward progress. By this time Dani has a shovel in hand and is ready to dig around the wheels, tube and bag still slung over his shoulder. I dismount from the truck cab and race over to grab the shovel from him which he hands over with a little reluctance and a big grin and says “OK then”.

For the next two hours or so we follow a similar routine. A little plowing, a lot of digging and sanding around the wheels to get the truck moving. A break in the routine comes when I slide the truck into a snowbank and we have to do a lot of digging. By this time Dani has found another shovel and there is no taking that away from him. Joyce observes from a distance knowing better than I that it is useless to try to talk Dani into putting down the shovel. Next thing without saying anything he climbs into the cab and decides he’ll try a little plowing himself. I look at Joyce and she just smiles and shrugs. I admire his skill in knowing just how much to rev the engine before engaging the clutch and how he gets the truck moving before lowering the plow blade. He makes a great long run up the driveway giving me a look and see lesson on how it should be done but on the reverse stalls the truck on the road. It won’t restart. “Too damned hot, goddambed truck!” he mutters as he looks for jumper cables. I’m not sure how he plans to use them as it would seem impossible to get another vehicle anywhere near the disabled plow truck parked across the access road. Just then a neighbor and his wife come driving along the road and stop where I’m waiting by the truck. ”What the hell is Dani up to now?” asks the woman. I explain.
“That man! I tell you, he’s tougher than nails!”
I nod in agreement.

The neighbor uses his truck to jump start the plow truck and I get in and continue a few more runs up and down the driveway. By now we are down to dirt in patches and it’s easier to get traction. We’re almost done when this time I stall the truck and it won’t restart. Fortunately it’s at the bottom of the driveway. “Leave the friggin thing there!” says Dani. “We as good as done anyway.” Joyce agrees reminding Dani that the visiting nurse will be coming by in a little while to check his wounds. I’m not sure she’ll make it as the access road in from the main road is awful messy. “She’ll be here all right!” says Dani. Dani retires inside and I shovel a little more before retreating to my place for cup of coffee and the removal of clothing wet on the inside from sweat and on the outside from wet snow. I notice that it is ten-thirty. How time flies when you are having fun.

Katahdin again

Late Fall 2007

“Da-a-a-ad! Dad! Where are you? “
I stirred from my half asleep state wondering which of my offspring was calling my name. In seconds I realized both who it was and where I was. It had been hard to sleep anyway in Shelter #5 at the Chimney Pond Camground at the base of Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain. My first born daughter, now a 35 year old mother, had hiked in the 3.2 miles with me in the afternoon and we were spending the night here to make our ascent of the big mountain a little easier next morning.
“Over here!” I tried to respond loudly enough for her to hear me but hopefully not loud enough to wake up the rest of the almost full campground. It was mid October and the last week before the camp would close for the season. The night had a fall chill to it and a gentle little rain was falling.
Last year I had hiked the mountain with my three son’s and my grandson (Keiron’s son). We had a photo now mounted on the living room wall as a memento of the occasion. Keiron had only been to Maine once before with me about the time I bought our “camp” there some four years ago. A few weeks earlier she had expressed an interest in hiking Katahdin with me – now an annual ritual for me and what was becoming a rite of passage for our family. How could my oldest be denied such an opportunity? And I needed company for my hike as well. So we made plans and here we were.
The 3.2 mile hike in to Chimney from our truck at Roaring Brook had been somewhat of a shock for Keiron. I guess I had told her it was “fairly flat – maybe a little uphill but with the usual roots and rocks that go with any trail inside Baxter State Park”. She soon discovered that it was indeed uphill, the rocks were bigger than expected, and the 35 pound pack she was carrying felt a lot heavier. But we made good time and after a few hours and made our destination , checked in with the ranger, set up our lean to for the night and had an early dinner of food we had pre-prepared and carried in with us. By 7pm there was little else to do but turn in for the night and get a good sleep. I had noticed Keiron did not roll out her sleeping mat when we had been setting up. She’d claimed that for “just one night” she didn’t think she’d need it and could save the extra weight of carrying it. I could tell from her stirring she was having a cold and restless night. She had ventured out to the outhouse and had become lost on the way back to our shelter unable to read the small signs with numbers on them at the corner of the trail to each shelter. But she heard my response and found her way back. Within a few minutes I had returned to a state of semi-sleep while I listened to her continued stirring until sleep took over.
Perhaps a few hours later I thought I heard the same calling…. “Daaaaad!” Was it déjà –vu, was it a dream, or was it Keiron out there again. It was her, once again lost on the way back from the outhouse. This time her call had a little more energy to it and I was sure our fellow campers had heard it as I had. Again I responded as quietly as I could, she heard me and once again found her home for the night. I began wondering what the lack of sleep might mean for us next day as we made our assult on the big K – a difficult climb with the best of conditions and preparation. I encouraged her to try to sleep. The rain had become softer I thought but then as I myself got up to pee I noticed small flakes of snow mixed with rain and sleet. Indeed it felt colder and so no surprise that the precipitation was semi-solid. And if it was snowing here at the base of the mountain I was certain the precipitation higher up would be snow for sure. Not only that the earlier rain would have frozen on any surface it had contacted and that would be all the large granite boulders we would be scaling in the morning. I managed to grab a few more hours of sleep and I think Keiron did too. At least she didn’t get lost again and so hopefully the whole camp got some sleep as well.
At daylight we brewed some coffee on our butane stove, munched on a variety of whole food grain breads that Keiron had brought as a treat for us both. I smiled as I felt the weight of my chunk of bread and made some comment about it being about as heavy as a sleeping mat. Keiron smiled and it was re-assuring to see she hadn’t lost her sense of humor as a result of her nocturnal ordeals. That was good because in past ascents of Katahdin, I had found a sense of humor almost a mandatory hiking companion. When confronted by a 10 foot vertical rock with a blaze upon it indicating “up and over is where the trail is”, it helps if you can laugh before figuring out how to scale it.
We checked in at the Rangers Cabin to check the weather report and tell him of our plans for the hike. “You realize there is going to be some snow and ice up there, “ he cautioned. “Be sure to watch your footing and take it slow.”
I told him our plan was to go up the mountain by way of the Cathedral trail and down the Saddle trail. He thought that was a good choice but and asked “Have you done Cathedral before?”
“Saddle yes, but Cathedral no!”
“No problem – Cathedral is a more aggressive climb but you both look like you can handle it.”
I wondered what he was thinking and how he might handle the situation when someone standing before him would most certainly not look like they could handle it. Would he say “Listen you fat ass there is no way you can make it up there!” Or would he choose a more politically correct turn of phrase.
Anyway it was reassuring to know we had passed muster on our looks. I wonder if he knew what I was thinking, having heard that Cathedral is one of the most challenging ascents to the summit going up some three thousand feet in less than two miles with much hand over hand bouldering and rock climbing. But no time for thinking now. We picked up our day packs with our several extra layers of clothing, more food than we would probably eat, and the mandatory two liters of water each. At least at this time of year we wouldn’t need any bug repellent.
The first half mile was a gentle ascent with the usual rock hopping. Then we began the big climb of the First Cathedral. The Cathedrals are so named for the three separate mini-peaks or spires that stand out of the side of the mountain. Each one is an almost vertical, hand over hand, rock climb. Blue blazes mark the trail and are placed in such a was as to supposedly indicate not only the safest route but also the most favorable. To me the people who mark the trail also have a sense of humor with blazes often painted in places that make you simply stop and declare “No f….g way! How am I supposed to go up THERE!” Usually with a little patience, trial and error, and creativity a way emerges and up you go.
I laughed when Keiron looked up at the summit of the First Cathedral and joyfully announced that we were almost at the summit. She couldn’t see the next two Cathedrals and the actual summit of the mountain even further behind that. We had barely reached a quarter of the distance to the summit. Soon we also began to see and feel snow and ice on the rocks we climbed. Luckily we had both brought gloves. I remember the first time I hiked Katahdin without gloves and ended the day with many small cuts on my hands from the sharp edges of rock. Now with the cold as well it was even more important to have covering for our hands. We had been so focused on our climb with our face to the wall that we hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the view behind us. It was only when we stopped to drink and turned around that we noticed and it was great to hear Keiron emit a grateful “Wow!” The view was even more awesome as we were sitting just under a cloud and would soon be plunging upward into it’s mist. The valley below was bathed in patches of sunlight coming through the clouds and lighting up the fall colors at full peak. It was indeed a good time to hiking Katahdin and I hoped at the summit we would be afforded a view but suspected we might be in cloud with only a few yards of visibility in any direction.
The second and third Cathedrals came and went and we found ourselves at that “almost” place. Every time I’ve hiked Katahdin I have noticed this deceptive “almost “ place. You think you are almost there. You can sometimes even see the summit. Yet between you and your destination remains some more arduous and challenging hiking. On this trail it was some more bouldering – steep bouldering – maybe even steeper than each of the Cathedrals behind us. At last we broke onto the tableland for the final fifth of a mile and through the mist could make out the infamous sign marking the summit and a handful of people milling around. It felt good to arrive and greet our fellow hikers. The mist rolled across the summit but every so often would clear and we would find ourselves sitting in sunlight looking out over the top of the cloud bank surrounding the summit on the North side. To the South it was totally fogged in with no view at all. I had hoped to see our camp and the island in front of it on South Twin lake, some 20 miles to the south, but today it was not to be.
As we broke open our lunch we could hear the cheers of a lone hiking ascending to the summit via the Appalaichan (Hunt) Trail. He immediately raced to the sign, kissed it, and declared “I made it. Now I’m just a bum again!” He went on to tell us that after completing his 2,174 mile hike from Georgia to Maine he was now no longer a “thru-hiker”. Now he was just a “bum” again. I could see the sense of his logic but couldn’t help reminding him that he was perhaps a “bum with a resume” as many may dream of hiking the AT but only about ten percent of those who start ever make it.
Several more finishing thru-hikers arrived as we ate our lunch and chatted amiably.
After a few photos to commemorate our ascent we began the hike down across the tableland and to the head of the Saddle Trail. This was a relatively easy descent or at least not too difficult when compared to other trails I’ve used to get off this big mountain. It was good to reach Chimney Pond but then we had to shoulder our packs for the final 3.5 miles. It was this last haul that challenged me the most but Keiron seemed to be loping along eager to be done and clearly wanting to make sure there was no possibility of us spending another night in a shelter.
We made it back to our truck and into Millinocket for a meal at the Scootic Inn before heading back to our “camp” for a long and comfortable sleep after a father-daughter adventure that neither of us will forget.

Learning from Loons

I first saw them in May about a half mile down the lake from my cabin – a pair of mating loons. I turned my boat away from them, giving them room and not wanting to interrupt their ritual. They were close to the island that sits in the lake in front of my place and I wondered if they were planning to nest there thinking it would be nice to have them as neighbors for the summer. I heard later from a friend that this year we had about a dozen or more pair of loons setting up home on our lake – a good sign that the ecology was once again turning favorable for this delicate and beautiful species of bird.

I’m attracted to loons because of the unique way they live. When they mate, the male and female share almost every aspect of the mating, hatching, and raising of their young, usually a single chick or a pair. The male takes turns sitting on the eggs and when the young are hatched they take turns seeking out food for their young.

For a time I didn’t see them but at night I often heard their calls. I wondered if it were the same pair and wasn’t sure in the still night air how close or distant they might be. Then a few weeks later I saw one of them again alone with two chicks on a very calm water day. The chicks looked fuzzy and new and periodically she would allow them onto her back to hitch a ride. I admired her patience and persistence as a teacher. She took care of their needs and safety, helped them when they needed a hand, but also pushed them to their learning edge. She had just one short summer to teacher them all they needed to know to survive. They needed to be competent swimmers and to learn to dive for fish. At the same time she had to keep them safe from predators. Our lake is now home to two or three bald eagles and loon chicks make easy prey for them if their parents are not forever vigilant. Large pickerel that inhabit the weedy sections of the shore have also been seen to snatch a young chick for a tasty meal.

They gave me pause to think of our modern day parenting of our own human species. All we have is a few short years to help our kids learn the skills, attitudes, and knowledge they need to be able to safely navigate the river of life. We have to keep them out of harm’s way but at the same time we must engage them in learning experiences that will strengthen their capacity to handle the bad weather days and the ever changing nature of life. Successful parenting has many edges too it. Too much safety and not enough experience won’t work just as being thrown to the wolves too soon without protection doesn’t work either. Mother Loon seemed to have just the right balance. An occasional dunking of the chicks didn’t bother her but when they strayed too far she quickly gathered them to her.

A week later they were back again but this time as a foursome. Mother and chicks who were already much bigger were together right in front of my place while the male was further down the lake seeking out juicy baitfish for the family. From time to time they called to each other – a call that seemed to be simply checking in to let each other know they were close at hand. After a time mother gave the well known tremolo call to which her mate responded and began swimming back towards her. Was she asking for help? Or had it been long enough and now she wanted to return the chicks to dry land? Either way they she got his attention and the foursome swam away together toward the island.

I wondered how well we parents of humans instinctively communicate with each other like this when its time for a change of activity. Do we simply heed and respond to the call or do we try to create a different outcome with logic and persuasion. How much more simple might life be if we just recognized the need and responded?

Within the next few months the chicks grew in size and became big enough and skilled enough to fend for themselves. By early September they had left their parents to team up with other juveniles on the lake. The teenage pack roamed the lake together for another four weeks or so before reluctantly flying off to the coast for the winter. Their parents had long departed by then with now nothing to lose, having completed their parental obligation and gained their freedom. That one seems to be a tough lesson in parenting - letting go when the job is done. In seven years the young will return here to mate themselves and continue the cycle of life. I feel blessed to have had this little family of loons as neighbors and teachers this year.