Katahdin: A Native word meaning, roughly, biggest mountain; a place to be dreamed of; a destination to be earned.
Mount Katahdin: At 5,269 feet it’s a middling peak by world standards. But it’s the highest by far in these parts, and a Maine icon. Simply getting a reservation to climb it is something of a triumph.
As the centerpiece of Baxter State Park, Katahdin is ascended by hundreds of hikers each summer, all of whom must negotiate the park’s reservation system before setting foot on any of the steep, rocky, sometimes manageable, sometimes heartbreaking trails—every one of which passes through a piece of the wildest country in the East. Two years ago I tried and failed to get a camping and hiking reservation. Last year I snagged one but had to cancel when my hiking partner (Jeff) injured himself while sailing. And so a few weeks ago when we finally shouldered our backpacks and hit the trail under the bluest of skies, our spirits were soaring.
Why was I so set on climbing the mountain? A fair question. It was partly the lure of the challenge and partly the rite of passage: Most everyone I know who’s lived in Maine for a while has made it to the top. But there was another reason.
Three years ago, on our second visit to Baxter State Park, we had just come through the southern entrance when we saw a hitchhiker by the road. There were no other cars around. How could we not stop?
He jumped in the backseat and told us he’d just been come down from the mountaintop. He’d hiked up the west side and down the east; now he needed a ride back to his car. He couldn’t stop smiling. He had the expression of someone floating ecstatically through the world, in love with life. I decided then and there that I’d someday climb the mountain. I wanted to be where he’d been, and see what he’d seen. I wanted that aura of happiness and achievement.
Now Jeff and I were hiking the trail to the Chimney Pond campground with food and gear for a three-night stay in a mountain cirque a mere two miles from Katahdin’s peak. We reveled in the cool, clear air, the moist feel of the forest around us. Sure, our backpacks were a little too heavy. But the campground was only 3.3 miles from the parking lot where we’d left the car. We had no doubt we could manage the climb.
I had backpacked in my twenties and thirties but not since. I knew better than to go out with a too-heavy pack. That morning, after loading up everything and hoisting my pack, I began tossing stuff. Not needed—extra flashlight; not needed—bird book. Camp shoes. Two pairs of binoculars. (Jeff argued that we didn’t need any.) Why hadn’t we thought this through a little more thoroughly? (I thought we had.) There was nothing for it now but to keep putting one foot in front of the other, ascending alongside fast-flowing Roaring Brook and into steeper country, where the trail was lined and strewn with boulders. Jeff’s pace slowed. I began resting often with my pack propped on a rock. Hours passed. Three-point-three miles: Hadn’t we already come that far, and more? I studied the forest around us, the spruces and firs and the occasional large maples and birches. I rejoiced when the trees grew shorter and the view opened to alpine lakes. A few steps later we both nearly cried when we reached a sign informing us that we still had a mile to go.
We made it, of course, and the pain was worth what we found.
Chimney Pond is a small jewel set in deep forest and encircled by three peaks. A smooth joining of mountainsides. We stood on the shore, marveling. To the south, Pamola Mountain curled into the long form of Katahdin, which melded into Hamlin Ridge. In many places the walls were streaked with beautiful vermilion stone. Watching the colors fade as the sun dipped below the towering ridges, I wanted to be nowhere else on Earth.
That night the stars were the brightest I’d seen in the East.
Our plan had been to continue on to Katahdin’s peak the following day. We woke knowing this was a bad idea. We were too sore, and too depleted.
Luckily we were not too worn out to take short hikes. We explored the first section of the difficult Cathedral Trail, which began with a steep but manageable climb. We hiked the rising trail through damp forest, passing over a rushing stream we could hear but barely see, buried as it was beneath piled rocks.
We heard the buzz of a mountain chickadee. In full sun now, we hoisted ourselves around and over pale boulders taller than we were. They had been rolled together like marbles by glacial ice. At the base of the first cathedral, the point at which serious rock climbing would have begun, we sat down and reveled in being here, here, on the side, if not the peak, of Katahdin.
Hiking back to camp, Jeff found a pile of spruce cone scales where an animal, perhaps a squirrel, had left them piled in a tidy circle. Bright mauve on their insides, they were as beautiful as bits of amethyst.
All the while I knew that this sunny day of relaxation might cost us our chance to reach the summit. The next day’s forecast was for clouds and fog and spitting rain. Even if we managed to finish the climb in such conditions, we probably wouldn’t be able to see past the end of our hiking poles.
We hiked toward Pamola Caves, moving slowly along, sometimes sitting still and just looking, examining small things we would have missed on a more purposeful, destination-driven hike: the lichens on the rocks. The small shrubs pushing stubbornly from cracks between boulders. I told myself it was enough to be on Katahdin’s flank, that the chance to pause and revel in the beauty of this country was a gift we wouldn’t have received if we’d been hellbent on getting to the summit.
Back in camp, I sat on the bench in front of our lean-to, looking up for a long time. Three big white birches, older and grander than most I’d seen, enclosed our campsite. Their branches waved in a spunky southern breeze (a sign, I knew, of weather possibly changing). Just beyond them, barely visible, was a steep, treeless, vermillion-streaked cliff: the top third of Katahdin.
Jeff asked me if I could feel the spirits of the place—meaning the life pulsing through the trees and rocks and bushes around us. An interesting question, and one on most days that I might have answered yes. I realized that what I felt here was more expansive, a wholeness born of the entire landscape. I hoped it would be enough, should we be stranded in camp by weather on our last day.
The weather forecast did not improve. As darkness gathered I crawled into my sleeping bag—content, though I knew this would probably be as far up the mountain as we would go. What a gift, to be here, here, if not on the summit. I had a suspicion that I would be glowing after we made our way back to civilization. I slept deeply and well.
As often happens, the weather forecast was utterly wrong. We woke, astounded, to bright sun. Instead of packing up and packing out, after several hours of hard, beautiful, exhilarating, excruciating hiking and climbing, at last we reached the top of Katahdin.
The view from the top—and a sign of the wind’s srength
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