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.

Fly By

This story was published in the Katahdin Press in 2006.

FLY BY

By Michael Lee

In the Abanaki language, Katahdin means “greatest mountain”. Legend has it that Pamola resides there. A half-man half beast, he may or may not let you enter his domain near the top of the mountain. He holds the power to send destruction your way in many forms including heat, ice, snow, rain, and wind if you are not to be welcomed there

These thoughts pass through my mind as I pull back the power on my Piper Archer for the descent into Millinocket Airport after a pleasant early evening flight. Landing straight in on Runway 34, I get the usual full frontal view of “the big K” in the near distance. Majestic and powerful she stands in the fading light. My frequent day hikes in Baxter State Park have included several lesser mountains but as yet I have not tackled this 5,267 foot beauty - the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.

Next morning with my weekend guests Carl, Erik, and Andrea, I set off on the AT from Katahdin Stream for the 5.2 mile ascent.

The early morning mist is clearing, there is barely a breath of wind, and the sun begins filtering through the canopy of coloring leaves above us. Excitement pushes us into a pace that is probably a little too fast but the hiking feels great. The hours pass and we approach the tree line along with one of the steepest parts of the climb. Surprised a little, I see two hikers coming down the steep rocks ahead.

“Ahh... you must have been up early to have been to the summit already”, I chirp in greeting.

“We didn’t make it!” says the woman in front. “This is not a hike, this is damn rock climbing. People could die up there!”

I am tempted to say “Madam, people DO die up there!” but censor myself.

They are disappointed and a trifle angry. I’m not sure at who or what. I want to console them but don’t. Everyone has to hike their own hike and when it comes to reaching the top of a mountain like Katahdin “some will, some won’t, and so what”.

“Well have a nice day and I hope you enjoy your hike down”, I offer, as we continue to climb, perhaps just a trifle more apprehensively now from the reminder that death is in the realm of possibility for those entering Pamola’s domain.

But Pamola must have been having a good day. My apprehension is soon lifted by the sound of laughter coming from behind us. Three male hikers having a lot of fun quickly catch up to us. What a surprise to see two of the three dressed in kilts. By the look of the legs under the kilts it is also apparent that these guys have done some serious hiking. They give us a cheerful greeting and stop to chat for a minute.

This is their big day. The last 5.2 miles of their Appalachian Trail hike from Springer Mountain in Georgia to the summit of Katahdin. They introduce themselves by their trail names - Domino, Stilts, and Treetops. For a moment I wish I had a trail name too. My 13 year old son Jack and I had often joked about what our trail names might be if we had them – Jackie Legs and Maine E. Ack maybe? But we couldn’t name ourselves. We had to wait until a “real” hiker bestowed a name upon us. The three guys pose for a picture for one of my friends and then off they go. “See you at the top! On On!!” cheers Domino as they quickly disappear from our sight.

Even with this burst of inspiration, it takes us another two hours to make our own ascent. As we come up the final climb to the summit there are our three new acquaintances on their way down. They have spent an hour or more up there celebrating and we have missed the party. I ask what they plan to do when they get down now that they have finished the AT. “Go to town!” was the quick reply.
“Need a ride?” I offer.
“Sure, if we don’t get one before you finish we’ll look out for you,” said Stilts.

“Damn, of course!” I think to myself. We would be hours behind them and dressed in those kilts there was no way someone wouldn’t offer them a lift long before we got down. We congratulate them on their great accomplishment and set off to achieve our own. There is a brisk wind at the summit, but it isn’t too cold and the vista is awesome. In every direction we can see a hundred miles or more. In close up clarity are the infamous Knife Edge and The Chimney. The beauty of the peaks in Baxter Park to the north and west of Katahdin prompt me to make a mental note to put them on my list for future hikes. To the south is the chain of lakes with which I am familiar. I point out to my friends the island in South Twin Lake in front of my “camp” where we are staying. As a pilot I’ve had some great views, but there is something special about the ones you earn with your legs, one step at a time.

Unlike other mountains I have hiked, with Katahdin there is that awful feeling of anticipation about the long hike down. No leisurely stroll down on this mountain. A little more fear grips your body as you descend the steep inclines covered with huge rocks and try to find just the right place to plant your feet and avoid a costly fall. No one wants to have to be carried off the mountain even if it were possible

For us, the long hike down takes almost the same time as the ascent – partly because of the difficulty and our tiredness but also because we stop frequently to take in yet again the beautiful views continually unfolding before us. Weary, but exhilarated, we make it back to our truck about 10 hours after we had started. It is now our turn to sit, eat, and celebrate.

As we place our order at the Scootic Inn, a young guy comes over to our table and says, “Thanks for the offer of the ride up on the mountain today.” It’s Domino. At first I don’t recognize him. Minus the kilt, with hair washed and brushed, and clean shirt and pants, he doesn’t look much like, or even smell like, the thru hiker we had seen earlier in the day. It sure is great to see him again. I have a deep appreciation of thru hikers and am fascinated by their dedication, courage, and commitment. I’m also curious about what they must learn in six months on the trail, particularly about themselves. I want to talk more with Domino but he has friends to be with and a celebration to enjoy so I simply ask “Where to from here, now it’s over?”

He tells me that he and Stilts are planning to head to Hanover, New Hampshire for an AT Gathering while Treetops is heading south to hike some more of the southbound trail in warmer weather.

“Mmm... New Hampshire?” I offer. “Maybe I could give you guys a ride as I’m heading that way in my plane.”

I can tell that my last word has made an impact. I don’t think Domino is quite sure he can believe or trust what he is hearing me say, but after chatting a few more minutes he and Stilts know it was for real and accept what they say is their “ultimate hitch”.

Monday dawns. Another brilliant Maine weather day – perfect for flying. Around ten I pick up Domino and Stilts in Millinocket and we head to the airport. We stow their gear, do our preflight and are soon airborne. I decide to begin our flight with a close up look at Katahdin. How magnificent she looks on this beautiful morning. Knowing of my experience hiking up on Saturday, I can only imagine what it must have been like for my two passengers to have also climbed Katahdin that day but at the end of their very long hike. I believe I detect a slight moistening in their eyes as they look at the mountain and back at each other in amazement and awe. Then they get out their cameras and click away at Maine’s greatest.

Once again Pamola must be been doing some work for us but this time with the Air Traffic Control Gods. As luck would have it, neither of the two large military operations areas that cover much of Western Maine is active today. This means we can “fly the trail” at low altitude. For the next hour or so we fly over the 100 mile wilderness, Gulf Hagas, The Bigelows, Old Speck and numerous other mountains along the trail as well as the towns of Monson, Caratunk, Stratton and Rangeley - trail towns they have visited for rest and re-supply. For Stilts and Domino each vista holds memories and stories, too numerous to tell in this short time. As we pass Baldplate Mountain I hear them chuckle as they recall the French Canadian hikers they met and befriended there. It is obvious that what they are seeing is taking them back to many days and nights they have experienced in their last few months on the trail in one of the biggest and most difficult states it traverses.

I tell them that we were doing a “fly by” not only of Katahdin, but of all the mountains in Maine on the AT, in honor of their accomplishment and explain that in military aviation a “fly by” is often granted to a returning flight crew after a difficult mission is completed. These two guys have most certainly completed a mission many may dream about but very few accomplish. All too soon it seems, we pass by Mt Washington from the Maine side, then cross into New Hampshire and land at Lebanon airport. After an exchange of email addresses, some profound thanks, and hugs, my friends mount their packs, bid farewell, and hike off the airport ramp.

That evening I tell Jack the story of our meeting and our flight. Also a hiker, a prospective pilot, and someone who hiked Katahdin with his brother earlier in the year, he listens with great interest and is clearly wishing he had been there. At the end of my story he says “Dad, you should have asked them to give you a Trail Name. Those guys are real hikers and they could have given you one.”

Well, I like Jack’s thinking and maybe it isn’t too late to ask. I zap off an email to Domino and Stilts to tell them about Jack’s suggestion and find out if they would have time to consider giving me a name..

Next day comes their reply. They have presided for two hours in the Dirty Cowboy Café in Hanover (clearly an appropriate establishment for a hiker naming event) to ponder and decide on a name for me. I am honored. After considering suggestions like Wingman, Birdman, Maine Man, Trail Flyer and many others they finally come up with the winner from their short list. From this day forth, I will forever be known on the Trail as “Fly By Mike.”
Thanks guys, and happy trails! I hope Pamola brings you back to Maine sometime soon.


Michael Lee is an author of two books and a freelance writer. He commutes between his homes in Maine and Massachusetts in his private airplane and loves to explore Maine from the air and on foot.

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.