100 Miles of Wild

Tuning in from the infamous Shaw’s Hiker Hostel, in Monson, Maine, you’re finding me full of whimsy. My smiles are bent with tears. My giddiness interrupted by pensive pause. My strength, crippled by my worn body, is nourished by my resolute mind.

Yesterday, as I descended from Buck Hill and onto ME Route 15, I hiked into “town” for the last time. I purchased my last canister of fuel. Picked out my last set of ridiculously mismatched loaner clothes while my laundry spun in the foyer of a bunkhouse. Bumped elbows over an electrical outlet for the last time. Salivated over a handful of mail dropped quart-sized Ziplock baggies. Was offered a charitable cold hot dog. Introduced myself as “Dips”.

For the last time.

There are only 114.5 more miles that lay before me.

I’m completely jazzed.

This morning, as I washed my camp dishes in the communal steel sink that calls the center of the living area home, I had a vivid flashback. A flashback to a memory of watching my very first Appalachian Trail documentary from my loveseat on Gross Street in 2019. Hikers were washing their dishes at an outdoor trough while their washboarded laundry dried on clotheslines. They grabbed clean sheets on their way in and proceeded to make their own bunks. There were 20+ to a bathroom. “I just could never DO that.”, I declared to Katie as I was very softly entertaining the idea of a thru hike in the years to come.

Now here I stood. Cast in the leading role.

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing that you think that you cannot do.”, said Eleanor Roosevelt.

I was one decision away from a completely different life.

I jumped.

And the net appeared.

But first we must be willing to leap without the promise of rescue.

That, my friends, is called faith.

I had faith when I decided to hike the Bigelows alone on September 29th, knowing that its 4 summits were a robust goal for the hours of daylight that I was constrained by, given my pace. Atop the summit of Little Bigelow’s peak, it was time to don my headlamp. I was 2.2 miles from the shelter where I planned to land. Click, click, click to the lamp’s brightest setting. The setting that also sucked the most life out of its battery. I wanted high beams, can you blame me?!? It was pitch black. And I was alone. Hadn’t seen another human since breakfast, in fact.

With a mile left to the shelter, my guiding light began to dim. Dim to darkness, that is. Managing the flashlight from my iPhone with my left hand, I clenched both trekking poles in my right, rock hopping. Praying. In between intentionally meditative breaths, I rehearsed plans B, C, and D aloud. Perhaps I would believe in them if they echoed back to me. Little Bigelow Lean-to was fenced in by a stream. One that I would have to ford to reach my destination. I would cross this complete lack of bridge when I came to it, I thought. One step at a time, I reminded myself. Left. Right. Left.

As the babbles of the brook grew nearer, so did foreign conversation. Laughter. Light. 2 headlights, to be exact. I turned to my rear, “Who’s there? You thru hikers?”. I was not fearful of the incomers; instead, I celebrated them. “It’s Big Cat and Grandpa.”, they yelled ahead. “Big Cat! Grandpa! It’s Dips!!!”. “Dips! Whatcha doin’ out here this late all by yourself?!?”, they asked, concerned.

My escort across the brook and safely into the walls of the shelter was sandwiched between the headlamps and hearts of Big Cat and Grandpa, despite the quarter mile side-trail being categorically out of their way. This was nothing short of a red carpet level entry.

I leaped.

And the net appeared.

The trail provides. Again. And again. And…again.

This afternoon, I will enter The 100 mile Wilderness, the most remote section of the Appalachian Trail. Once entered, there are no paths, no roads on which to exit. You go baaaack to mile 2078.6 or you keep craaaawling ahead to mile 2178.6. The challenge lies in planning for and securing all of my meals, fuel, first aid- the gamut, to be successful in my longest stretch yet. I will be mostly unreachable, outside of blips of cellular connection when above tree line. Once complete, I will be 9 miles from the base of Mount Katahdin herself with a mere 5 miles to her peak, to follow.

From the sign.

From the thing.

I met Show, formerly known as Ryan, on the morning of March 18th as I was checking out of the Lodge at Amicalola Falls. His nervous energy was palpable. As was mine. His backpack, the size of a conversion van. As was mine. “You heading to Maine?”, I asked. “I’m gonna try!”, Show responded with humility. “You say, ‘yes, yes I am heading to Maine’, when you are asked.”, I retorted. And as serendipity would have it- he was from…Pittsburgh. He felt like family. He felt comfortable.

Show’s run came to a screeching halt outside of Rutland, Vermont at mile marker 1704.1. His shoulder had failed him, and he was forced to fly home to the Burgh, only to receive the news that surgery was imminent. We continue to keep close tabs on one another as I walk farther and farther away from home but towards his dream.

“Finish this thing, Dips.”, Show said.

Roger that.

Just an inch left!

9/24.

Saddleback Mountain, 9/26.

Roots heavily slow down one’s pace, especially when wet. Slick!

Gourmet and 4th Quarter flipped north to Katahdin from Southern New Hampshire. They chose to summit early to alleviate the pressure that loomed surrounding its potential closure on October 15th. They will finish their trek hiking Southbound to their finish; therefore, I got to intersect with them as we crossed paths!

9/27.

Polaroid at The Maine Roadhouse hostel, 9/28.

I hit 2,000 miles marched on September 28th!

Alpine foliage, 9/28.

View of Sugarloaf Mountain from the Bigelow range’s West peak, 9/29.

View of the Avery peak of the Bigelows from the West Peak, 9/29.

Avery peak, the last >4K climb until I reach Lady K 🏔!

Flagstaff Lake, 9/30.

Surfing for water alongside West Carry Pond, 9/30.

Harrison’s Pierce Pond Camp, 9/30. An extremely primitive cabin, only reachable by quad or snowmobile and is 16 miles to the nearest town. Owned and operated by Tim Harrison, he opens his doors to hikers and hunters alike.

Preparing his notorious breakfast of…

TWELVE blueberry/raspberry/apple pancakes, 3 eggs, 3 sausage links, orange juice, and coffee. I licked my plate 🥞!

Charlie, Tim’s miniature poodle, who completely stole my ♥️.

Tim, 10/1.

The Kennebec River is 70 yards wide and impassable by foot, taking the lives of hikers past. The sole way to cross is by canoe, which is a surveyed part of the trail, 10/1.

My first spin in a canoe 🛶!

Jealous, Katie?

Ridge of Moxie Bald Mountain, 10/2.

Cairns atop Moxie Bald Mountain.

A stitched blaze.

I disrobed from the thighs down as I forded the Piscataquis River. Its current fierce and its waters ice cold, I recited, “I can feel. I’m alive. I’ve made it this far.” Instead of focusing on the numbingly freezing water, I chose my thoughts, and the discomfort faded.

My Mom is cuter than your Mom 🎨! Care package to Shaw’s Hiker Hostel, 10/3.

Aunt Sandra and Uncle Roy will meet me after my finish in Millinocket, just as they saw me off in Georgia. See yinz soon! Thank you for the box of goodies 🧻 🍪! XO ♥️

With a private room & breakfast gifted by Joseph Triebsch, boxes of MREs, salami, Fireball, and a fleece hoodie from my Shenandoah boys Ron Woolett & Steve Morrone, and generous donations from Suellen Gallegos, Tina Lasica, Julie Dixon-Ernst, Chan Skiba, Diane Johnston, and Matthew Caldwell, it was Shaw’s for the win!