The beginning of the end

Yesterday I crossed the Kennebec River. A very distinct point in the trail. I did not walk a single step, but rather paddled a few dozen strokes. It felt like the beginning of the end. It was also very wet. Umbrellas and canoes don't work well together.

A rainy river crossing of the Kennebec River.

I have been back on the trail for ten days and have fourteen more to go; less than 150 miles of trail.

The post I never wrote last year was titled "On Fallling..." At t-minus 250 miles from Katahdin I slipped on a wet rock and fell, breaking my left ring finger. In rural Maine, that meant hiking another four miles down and up over another mountain before reaching the road and having an hour and a half drive to a hospital. Of course, true to trail spirit, I met an ER doctor on the top of the next mountain, who taped my finger up properly before I continued on my way. The x-ray showed a complex fracture and the doctor's statement, "I think you need to see a specialist," in a drawn out manner said it wasn't a suggestion. So homeward I traveled with the help of my amazing friends and family to be patched back together with pins and a few months of healing.

So once more this summer I have set off, into the wilds of Maine, on a quest, being drawn onward by the loadstone, the mountain that draws all hikers, Katahdin. Having journeyed by ferry across the unpredictable Kennebec, it is as if I have crossed the threshold. The end is close. By setting foot on the north bank of the river I have entered the magnetic pull of Katahdin and every step northward I take is eminent with the knowledge that it puts me a fraction closer to the completion of my goal. 

Katahdin is calling; I will answer that call. 

~Little Bird

My feet have grown wings and onward to Katahdin I fly.