Entering Maine felt surreal. Four and a half months, 1,900 miles of hiking, and three pairs of shoes, and we were now at the border of the last state left.
It was a 17-mile day to get to the border, and our shelter was just across the state line. Earlier that day we’d run into Chance, a hiker biking northbound and hiking southbound, who let us know our shelter should be pretty empty. We’d just come off of a needed rest day in our last New Hampshire town, and the adrenaline was pumping through our veins.
Maine. Finally Maine.
Two states on the AT were flooded this year: Vermont and Maine. We’d made it through Vermont before the flooding shut down the trails and reports coming from ahead told us that Maine was still a little soggy but much better than what it had been.
This is going to be cruizy, we thought. A brilliant last 270 miles to end a brilliant 2,198.4 mile hike.
We took a picture at the sign, and continued another half-mile into Maine towards our shelter. Suddenly, the trail ahead of us dropped away, and we found ourselves standing at the top of a washed-out crevasse. The trail led straight down through the rocks in a White Mountain-esque descent. I slid down on my butt, listening my backpack scrap against the rocks as I lowered myself Spiderman-style down the steep rocks.
Maybe this isn’t going to be so easy.
Southern Maine
For all that we had been warned about New Hampshire’s Whites, we were not warned about the technical and difficult climbs that remained in Maine. I remember hearing before the Whites about someone who made it to Maine, and then quit his hike before reaching Katahdin. I’d shook my head in disbelief then; how could anyone make it that far just to quit then? But now, struggling through the remaining mountains of Maine, I understood.
The Whites, amazing as they were, left me feeling weary and worn out. And stumbling into Maine, where I thought I was going to get some well-earned rest and relaxation, the exhaustion I felt only seemed more extreme. Everything was at the edge of its limit: my backpack had holes ripped in the support webbing and pockets, my tent had patches in the netting, the pocket holding my phone and snacks had ripped beyond use, my knife was dulling, the seams on my shoes were shredding. My body as well felt at the edge of what it could take: my knees, my back, my feet–everything hurt, a deep weariness that permeated my bones. “Just hold on a little longer,” I pleaded, both to my gear and my body.
And despite the challenges, Maine was incredible. It had a unique beauty compared to the other states: bog bridges wandering along an alpine mountain bog under the blue sky, balds giving you views over sprawling Maine lakes, blueberries everywhere. For each hard section, there was a section of reward: lunch collecting blueberries on Moxie Bald, the views from the mountains where we’d eat lunch, trail magic of some of the best burgers and Maine hot dogs I’d ever had, ponds to swim in.
Maine felt like falling in love with the trail all over again. But it was a different love this time: not the honeymoon love of Georgia, where everything felt new and exciting. No, this was a love tested and forged, a love fought for. This was a love built out of each footstep that came before, a love of respect and awe.
Maine was also home to new experiences. We crossed the Kennebc River on a canoe. It was a river too deep to ford, and with unpredictable currents from the dams upstream, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy operated a canoe ferry service for hikers.
We also hiked through the Mahoosuc Notch, often called the most challenging (or as we called it, the most fun) mile of the AT. What makes it so difficultly fun? It’s a full mile of boulders! Nestled down in a notch between two mountains, it’s a mile-long pile of boulders, some of which are the size of cars. The trail weaves its way around, over, and in some cases, under these boulders. And when you reach the end of the boulders, you get one of the steepest climbs on the AT, straight up Mahoosuc Arm.
While some people were worried about this mile, we hit it on Stealth’s birthday. If you’re gonna celebrate on trail, you might as well do it with a bang.
The 100 Mile Wilderness
Stretching the last section of our trek, the 100 Mile Wilderness is one of the most remote sections of the trail. There’s few ways in and out, and town is 100 miles apart. Unless you get a food drop delivered in the wilderness by one of the two hostels on either side, you’re on your own for the entire 100 miles. You exit this wilderness at the border of Baxter State Park and from there, hike up Katahdin.
As Stealth and I looked at the weather, it looked like Thursday, August 10, was the only day that would be good to hike up Katahdin. We had only four days to get through the 100 Mile Wilderness.
We looked at the terrain. We looked at each other. We nodded. “We can do this.” And thus began the hardest, and last, challenge on the Appalachian Trail.
Day one will remain imprinted on my memory for a long time to come. Because of the late start we got out of the hostel and the terrain coming up, we chose to do 19 miles that day. It’d rained the day before, and all of the rocks were slippery and wet. We also had multiple rivers to ford that day. I remember the elation I felt leaving the hostel that morning, the adrenaline, the determination. We’re really gonna do this, I thought. We’re so close.
And then I slipped. And then I fell. And then he tripped. And then I fell again. It was a slow day, of carefully placing our feet, waiting for the next slip of our feet. I tripped in a river crossing and got soaked before we’d even made it to noon. Blueberries scattered the trail on either side of us, and we used them as morale boosters, grabbing little handfuls of them as we walked along.
By the time we reached mile 17, it was already late. There was a mountain peak with a tower between us and our shelter, and Stealth pointed it out. “It’s only a mile from there to our shelter,” he said. “Why don’t we just camp up there and get one last sunset on trail?”
How do you say no to a sunset?
It involved getting water in the little notch between us and the peak, and then hauling the water up the climb. But it was worth it.
Day two. We had 23 miles to do today since we camped a mile early the night before. But we were up early and on our way shortly after the sunrise, confident in our ability to get there. But once again, the trail proved tough. This was our last day of real “mountains.” After we made it past Whitecap (our shelter for the night was just past that), the trail was relatively flat until we reached Katahdin. It was over 6,000 feet of elevation gain and decent across the day, and by the time it was six p.m., we still had three miles to do.
Back at the hostel, we’d ran into Homemade again. We hadn’t seen him since Standing Bear after we came out of the Smokies. And yet, here he was, eating an ice cream and laughing with us over shared experiences. He’d flipflopped and was now hiking southbound from Katahdin to Harper’s Ferry. “You guys,” he told us. “If there’s any way possible, you have to camp at this stealth spot right before Whitecap. It’s a mile to the top, and you can see the sunrise with your first view of Katahdin.” He paused here, awe crossing his face. “Seeing that mountain there, the sun glinting off of it… You have to.”
We found the stealth spot just as it got dark. Flicking on our headlamps, we built camp and started supper. I wasn’t confident that we’d get a sunrise. Multiple times we’d tried for one: Clingman’s Dome, McAfee’s Knob, Mt. Washington. And yet, not once had we gotten one. However, the forecast looked promising, and if there was ever a spot to get a sunrise, this seemed the place.
Day three started at 4 a.m. As we rolled out of bed and started getting ready to go, the stars twinkled above us. It was clear. We’d have a sunrise. We didn’t eat breakfast, opting to do that on the mountaintop. Headlamps on, we packed our bags and started up the trail.
It was worth it. The wind whistled around us, prompting us both to put on our coats. As we ate breakfast, the sun slowly rose over the horizon, bathing the Maine mountainscape in a golden hue. And yes, there, below the sun, was the needle-sharp form of Mt. Katahdin.
We finished our breakfast, and then stood up to go. We had 30 miles to hike that day, making it the longest day we’d ever hiked.
Since we were now over Whitecap, the terrain changed. Rather than the ups and downs of before, we had one smaller hill and then followed a mostly flat trail alongside a river. We cruised like we’d never before cruised on the AT. Nevertheless, 30 miles is a long day. By the time we reached our shelter that night, my feet were rubbed red and starting to blister, and my legs trembled as we dropped our packs in the shelter.
Stealth gave me a fist bump. “Did you ever think you could walk that far before?”
I shook my head, too tired to talk.
He laughed and grinned. “Now you know you can do anything, if only you push through.”
Day four. We slept in a little bit that morning, worn out from the past 73 miles. When we woke, it was raining.
I don’t remember much about that day, just that it turned into a blur of lakes, the trail moving up and down the mountainside, closer and further from the same lake for what felt like the entire day. It rained and rained, without giving us a break. Each shelter we passed was full with other hikers, leaving us to take a quick lunch break huddled under the eves of one of the shelters. The weariness soaked through my rain gear with each drop of rain, and by the end of the day, we were both egging each other on to keep our pace going. It was still raining that night when we finally made it to our shelter for the night, the last shelter in the 100 Mile Wilderness. We arrived late, just past 7 p.m. We made supper, chatted with the SOBOs who were already there, and slipped into our damp sleeping bags.
The day before, with the sunrise on Whitecap, I’d been mourning how close we were to the end, how close I was to being done. But today, going to sleep wet and sore, I was rejoicing. You’re almost there, Sparks, I reminded myself. And then you don’t have to deal with this anymore.
Baxter State Park
We left the shelter at 4:30 again. The signups for entering Baxter State Park and getting a spot in the Birches shelter didn’t open until 7 a.m., but we wanted to make sure we were there in plenty of time. We slipped through the muddy trail to the road and cruised down the road (“the golden mile,” it’s called) to the entrance of Baxter. There we met two other hikers as we waited for the ranger to come sign us in.
I thought that with the days of big milage behind me, this day would be easier. The terrain was very simple, with almost no elevation change at all, and it would be a quick nine miles to where our campsite was.
But instead, it turned out to be one of the hardest hikes mentally I had all trail. Both Stealth and I were thoroughly worn out from the mileage we’d pushed the last four days, and though the trail was physically easy, my body was not having it.
And so we wandered that day. I let my mind wander through the memories on trail, the good days and the bad days. I let my feet pick their own pace through the roots and rocks. And when the mosquitos got too annoying and I was ready to by done, I picked a song and moved my feet forward along with the beat.
Church Mouse was able to get a campsite in Baxter State Park, and so she and my Dad drove up to met us there Wednesday night. I fell asleep sometime after lunch, and woke up to the sound of their car door slamming and the smell of the McDonald’s they brought us.
We finalized our plans for the next day over supper, and then I quickly fell asleep again. Tomorrow was the big day, the day we would go up Katahdin.
Hello Katahdin
I’ve been home for two weeks, and still have not found the right words for this day. None of the words I’ve played with have the right power. What word, after all, can encapsulate each footstep from Georgia that led to here? The cold nights, the freezing rain, the heat, the drought, the floods, the rain? What sentence displays the sunrises and sunsets, the path leading ever forward, the lazy clouds drifting below you? How can I explain the satisfaction of a tent placed just right, the joy of sleeping in a new place every night, the community found on the trail? How do I describe the wet days, the miserable days, the good days, the long days?
Hiking Katahdin was hiking through each one of those memories, each footstep echoing the thousands of footsteps behind me. I scrambled up the rocks of Katahdin, seeing fresh the brilliant mountain before me and equally the mountains behind me.
And the last five days, the miles that we’d pushed, so hard, so far: all of it was to make this day possible, this glorious day with the sun shining so brilliantly, without a trace of fog or rain.
I nicked my knee on a rock, scrambling up it, but I didn’t feel the pain. Someone had to point out to me the small line of blood before I noticed it was there.
We were on Katahdin.
When we reached the top, two hikers were already there. Crushin’ It, who’d already summited and came up today just for fun and to bring snacks for the other thru hikers summiting that day, and Gorp, a flip-flopper who we’d met on his first day on trail and who was now there for our last day on trail. As they say us, they both started cheering. I raised both hands above my head and shouted back as I made it, finally made it, to the last steps of my trek.
And like that, it was over. 2,198.4 miles of hiking, a trek stretching across 14 states, a hike of 5.5 months: complete.
We stayed at the sign a little bit longer, drinking in the views of Katahdin, laughing with the other hikers there, reminiscing on the past miles of hiking. When it was time to start moving again, we headed towards the Knife’s Edge trail to come back down, following a narrow, rocky ridgeline towards the parking lot where my dad would pick us up. Gorp came with us; we were giving him a ride into Millinocket, where he’d meet his mom and get a rid back down to where he’d finish his flip-flop.
As we drove out of Baxter State Park, Katahdin remained in our rearview mirror, fading slowly as we hit the highway to town. I breathed in, breathed out, shifting my body in preparation for the long drive back to Ohio.
It was time to come home.
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