[at-l] Roughly twenty years ago today.....

[tmcginnis@ucclan.state.in.us (Thomas McGinnis)]

     Well, this is about it!
     Saturday, September 11, 1999 was the twentieth aniversary of my hike 
     up Katahdin and my completion of the AT.
     
     I had been tootling toward the looming Big K for a few days, hiking 
     over the Rainbow Ledges area at 03:00am for variety, and having great 
     weather the whole week, but as I got closer to Katahdin on the 10th, 
     the clouds seems to gather toward it from all points of the sky. They 
     turned from white to gray and to black over the length of the morning, 
     and by the time I hit the Abol Bridge store, it looked truly gruesome 
     -- you couldn't see anything above treeline, as it was obliterated by 
     swirling, brooding cloud. I was truly worried, as I HAD to climb on 
     the 11th. I bought a Pint of Naragansett beer for the climb, a loaf of 
     bread and a pound of honey, and a quart of milk. I was now broke.
     
     The next morning I woke promptly, breakfasted, went to the porch of 
     the Ranger Station and dropped off some gear to lighten my pack, and 
     then left. It was shortly before 7:00am, I think. Shortly after, they 
     posted the weather/climbing conditions as "5a" -- or whatever the 
     worstest mix of nasty is -- and effectively closed the peak. I never 
     knew. I was wearing everything I had: scivies (and having gone 
     "commando" for six months, this was weird), T-shirt, wool shirt, heavy 
     fleece, GoreTex shell, cotton judo pants, gaitors, and a thin, too 
     small watch cap that I found in a leanto near a stream before Rainbow 
     Ledges.
     
     Everything was hunky-dory till I stuck my head above treeline -- the 
     most sudden treeline I've seen. For the next few hours, my world was 
     described by 20-30' of visibility, 75 mph winds *before* gusts, 30* 
     temperatures, and an invisible coating of ice over EVERYTHING. I 
     climbed up the Hunt Spur questioning my sanity with every step, 
     telling myself that while I had encountered plenty of nastiness on 
     this hike, Katahdin's nastiness was into new territory, and I needed 
     to consider turning back. And with every step higher, I answered 
     myself -- rather unconvincingly -- "Just a little more. The mountain's 
     got to send me just a little more of a message to turn back -- it's 
     just not clear enough yet." And so I struggled up and up, waiting for 
     that "clear, undoubtable message."
     
     The climb up Hunt Spur was the worst part. The rocks were incredibly 
     cold without gloves -- years later I realized I could have used a pair 
     of spare socks -- but barehanded, by the time I got back down, I had 
     no finger prints -- would have made a great burglar for the next 
     month. So my fingers were freezing, my parka shell's hood drawn so 
     tight that the adjustment cords were long enough to be whipped by the 
     wind into my left eye (going to Baxter Peak) and my right eye 
     (climbing back down). I was unable to take in any food or water on the 
     way up, because I was literally fighting with all four limbs to keep 
     my tenuous hold on the mountain. The winds held sufficient gusts to 
     loosen me on regular occasion -- I'd be trying to clear some van-sized 
     boulder, friction climbing along its spine (HA! remember the ice all 
     over everything? Pooh!), and a gust would come, pick me up, I'd loose 
     my grip, and go sliding back down with toes and fingers uselessly 
     scraping and searching for a grip. I'd slide down to a break in the 
     rocks -- where my toes would dig into a crack or 'tween boulder space, 
     and I'd be stopped. If I ever fell backwards, I think I would have 
     tumbled all the way to Elbow Pond. Yet I never got that clear message 
     that "this is too much," and so I climbed on, wrestling with mortality 
     as much as anything else.
     
     It continued like that till I reached The Gateway. From there I could 
     stagger across The Tableland toward Baxter Peak with the wind howling 
     at my left shoulder. Periodic gusts would pick me up, without warning 
     of any kind, and toss me lock, stock, and barrel, 10 or 15 feet to my 
     right. Since the trail traveled along the western face of the peak, 
     more than once the gusts left me with my hands on rocks and my face 
     looking over the edge of the 1000 foot shear drop into nothingness. 
     All I could see was cloud...I'd shimy backwards, turn on my hands and 
     knees, search for the featureless trail, struggle to my feet, and 
     stagger on.
     
     Thoreau Spring came and went. I thought of all the stories I'd been 
     told of hiking up that far with friends or parents -- SOME company. I 
     saw the sign for Baxter Peak loom suddenly out of the cloud, and 
     thought of Thoreau's description of the surrounding landscape as a 
     "broken mirror" -- I thought "Well I'm missing that! Tough shit." I 
     thought of the pint of Naragansett beer in my pack, picked up at Abol 
     Bridge in lieu of champagne, and thought "Nooooooo. Prob'ly not a good 
     idea." I took some pictures, froze my way through half a loaf of bread 
     and honey while hunkered down next to the plaque, and found my fingers 
     continuing to loose function. I had to get moving or face disaster.
     
     Somewhere before Thoreau Spring I met someone else climbing up, and he 
     managed to take a picture of me on the mountain. It's the only one I 
     have, and it's off kilter because of the wind. But soon after I left 
     him, the cloud cover which had reduced my world to a claustrophobic 
     hemisphere lifted suddenly and without warning. WOW!!! And all the way 
     back down (which was like floating against gravity with the wind 
     hitting me smack in the puss), I could see "for miles and miles and 
     miles and miles and miles. Oh yeah." (Except that even in the 
     freneticness of the moment, the song in my head was John Denver's 
     "Sunshine on My Shoulders") Went through an entire roll of film, and 
     was MUCH warmer without the water vapor to contend with.
     
     I started up around 7:00am, got to the top around 1-1:30, and made it 
     back down by 5-5:30. I was exhausted. Wiped out. Drank my Naragansett, 
     ate Minute Rice and bullion (Blech! even twenty years later this makes 
     me sick -- these were the emergency rations I tried to avoid for six 
     months). I'm now broke and out of food.
     
     Hitchhiked home on the 12th/13th, did the doctor/dentist thing on the 
     14th/15th, then took a bus (from Manhatten's Port Authority Building, 
     no less) out to northern Wisconsin on the 15th/16th, then registered 
     for and started college classes on the 17th. 500 student college, AYCE 
     100 yards away, all classes within sight of dorm room, unlimited hot 
     showers, beeeeeer, ice creammmmmmmmm. Walk in, sit down, listen, 
     write. What "word hunger?" Life stayed simple. Life was good.
     
     And now it's twenty years later. What did I learn? For me, the Trail 
     obviously saved its best lessons for last. That "final exam" was a 
     doosey.
     
     Showers remain a quasi-religious activity. Food remains precious -- 
     I've been a member of The Clean Plate Club for two decades, and 
     *voluntarily* consume green and leafy vegetables to this day. And I 
     learned that in a struggle, even a potentially mortal one, stopping 
     kills. Going forward, going backward -- they're the same motion, and 
     may get you the same results. But stopping kills. Don't quit.
     
     
     
     Have a really profound, life changing day, OK?
     Sloetoe'79
     
     
     (What a Longggggggg, Strange Trip It's Been.)
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
* From the Appalachian Trail Mailing List |  http://www.backcountry.net  *

==============================================================================