Travelieve: Open at the close

To those of us who grew up on Harry Potter (hmmm, it sounds like a drug when you phrase it that way), the quote "Open at the close" conjures up images of the golden snitch. To me, I have realized what I set out to do so many years ago. I have hiked the entirety of the Appalachian Trail. In this sense, I close. Yet at the same time, I am open. With this way-point reached, I look ahead to a road that is now open. Open with possibility, open to a new goal, open and unwritten. But before I charge ahead into the unknown, I'll share the final savory moments of the trail, the 100 Mile Wilderness and Katahdin.

I was carrying a mere 4 days of food and relying on a bucket left in the woods by a man with a beard for the remaining three days of food I needed.

One of the first things that comes to mind when I think back over the 100 Mile is Dry Shoes! This requires capitalization and exclamation points. If you have ever been out on a multiday trek and had wet feet you will understand my elation.

(Side note: For the past two summers I have been developing a new scientific tool as I hiked. It is called the soggometer. It is a diagnostic tool that can be used to qualify the level of wetness your feet are experiencing and the sogginess of your shoes/socks and this level can then help extrapolate to other variables such as trail conditions, historical weather, or the state your feet will be in when you take off your shoes and can more loosely extrapolate to hiker mood. Soggometer readings range from "blissfully dry" through "squelching with every step.")

Prior to the 100 Mile my soggometer reading had been consistently between "soggy beyond belief" and "squelching with every step" due to wet trail conditions, river fordings (yes I removed my shoes, but the river was up to my hips and my shoes got wet anyways), and slippery wet rocks that led straight down to bog pits as deep as my calf. Therefore, you can understand my elation that throughout these seven days my soggometer readings ranged merely from "damp with sweat" to "transient wetness" but never reached "noticeably wet." This miraculous occurrence does not mean there was no rain, (in fact I was chased off the summit of Whitecap Mt and my first up-close view of Katahdin by a thunderstorm) but that through a combination of luck and skill I managed to maintain dry feet on the the trail; a feat which on a ordinary trek may have considerable influence on hiker morale, though in this particular situation was merely the cherry on being near the end of the trail.

Can you find the beaver at this river crossing?

The final days were punctuated with blissful sunsets,

Antler's Campsite on Mary-Jo lake

breakfast in bed with the sunrise,

Antler's Campsite

cool lakes for swimming,

View of Katahdin

and beautiful panoramas.

Tiny rowboat on lake. View from Nesuntabunt Mt.

I emerged from the 100 Mile Wilderness onto a bridge full of people taking in the view of Katahdin, whose first question to me was "Oh, are you out for a day hike?" and then "No, then just for an overnight?" I have come to realize, a dress signifies society. A person hiking in a dress must therefore not be long away from society. I must admit to secret glee at flouting cultural expectations when responding "No, I walked here from Georgia." And the inevitable second response "No, I'm alone."

View of Katahdin from Abol Bridge.

Yes, these feet brought me here from Georgia. Here being Big Niagara Falls in Baxter State Park.

At long last I packed up my gear that final morning and set off to climb. Up.

White Blazes, they end here.

The climb, for it is a climb, not a hike, was sunny and gorgeous though the final climb after the tableland was socked in with clouds. Climbing Katahdin was a rather gymnastic feat and I'm glad that I am very flexible given how short I am. On multiple occasions I found myself putting my foot up near my shoulder because that was the only place for a foothold. On this note, I do not recommend climbing Katahdin in a dress if you are very short. No, there is not an amusing story lurking in this comment, just a lot of people on a mountain and a feeling of self consciousness usually absent in the woods.

And then finally the mist parted and there I was. At the top. At the last white blaze. At the sign telling me I was closed. And that I was open.

I followed blue blazes down off the mountain. I had a time of quiet and reflection, alone with a flock of my little birds at Chimney Pond. Then my mom and sister arrived.