August 10.

After a couple of rest days spent at a hostel in Bethel, Maine, I started hiking again on the Appalachian Trail.  A hostel owner dropped a group of us at Grafton Notch, where we began hiking north towards Bald Pate Mountain.

  My pack felt heavy after a town resupply.  On the bright side, it was an absolutely beautiful sunny day.  The climb was steep with rock steps at times, but nothing like the worst of the climbs.  I came out to a rock outcropping and could look ahead to Bald Pate, unique and so-named because of being covered by large areas of granite.  It was a neat mountain to climb, offering open views on the way up and at the summit of surrounding Maine lakes, mountains and valleys.  Still yet, I could see Washinton and the Carter range in the distance, and closer, Goose Eye Mountain and the fire tower atop Old Speck.  I loved seeing these mountains again and reinforcing their unique traits and summit views in my mind.  A mountain like Bald Pate is so distinct.    

After a lunch break at Frye Notch Lean-to, I hiked through lower elevation hardwood forest.  It looked like the Appalachian Trail anywhere: striped maples, ferns, beeches.  Home sweet home.  I enjoyed some easier hiking, with roots breaking up the trail but no significant bouldering.

 I reached the Sawyer Notch camping area among scattered beeches by a brook.  I set my tent up, then walked over to eat dinner with a group of hikers at a picnic table.  There weren’t many picnic tables in New Hampshire or Maine, which I’d been missing.

It was a nice evening.  One hiker had even built up a campfire, then roasted Vienna sausages over it.  I laughed and joked that it seemed like a lot of effort for little reward, and he said, “A lot of effort for little reward is my middle name”.  Then he struggled to keep the fire alive on damp kindling, proving it.  It was good to end the day laughing by a campfire.  

August 11.

I woke and packed up, then started the climb up out of Sawyer Notch.  It was steep, as you might imagine climbing up out of a notch would be.

Later I took my shoes off and carefully crossed Black Brook, flowing a couple of feet deep.  Some hikers chose to hike through with their shoes on, but I was glad to have mostly dry shoes the rest of the day (aside from a few slips off rocks into bogs or mud)!   

The climb up Old Blue Mountain followed.  The switchbacking path stuck out to me as surprising, after mostly climbing straight up and down mountains throughout New Hampshire and Maine.  It had been a long time since I’d seen a switchback!

I took a lunch break between the summits of Old Blue Mountain and Bemis Mountain, further along the ridge.  Three female hikers around my age caught up and sat with me to eat.  It was a breath of fresh air to meet them and chat easily.  They were funny, curious and laughed easily, and reminded me of my friends at home.

After lunch, I continued hiking, happy to know that they planned to end their day at the shelter I was shooting for.  The rock outcroppings were particularly beautiful in the following miles, a variety of colors at my feet, bright sunlight overhead.  Moss grew green and red, reindeer lichen a pale gray-green, grasses yellow, wet rock with a purple sheen.  Moss and small plants filled every nook and crevice, the moss often lining the tree roots stretched out across the trail.  Walking there was like walking through artwork.

The moss was so well-adapted to the conditions- when I pressed a hand against peat moss, it squished down like a dense sponge and then sprang back again.  Using my phone, I identified: creeping snowberry, Red-stemmed Feather-moss, Magellan’s peatmoss, and Broomfork moss.  These grew alongside the ever familiar blueberries, bunchberries, and clintonia.    

I hiked down to a few more streams (Bemis Stream) that required careful barefoot crossing, then up to Maine Route 17.  Traffic was sparse.  I sat on a bench and looked out at the mountains of Old Blue and Bemis, and beautiful Mooselookmeguntic Lake, silvery surface reflected under dark clouds and mountains.

I continued the hike to Sabbath Day Pond Lean-to, where I could hear the loons calling over the water.  I set my tent up and started eating dinner in the dusk.  The three hikers from earlier hiked up in the dark.  They were bright and cheerful, asking if I wanted to swim with them in the lake.  I loved the enthusiasm.  Ultimately, we all ate in the dark as a misty rain fell.  No one swam, but we chatted and ate.  

One hiker said to another that their tents were kissing, and she responded, “Or something.  History will remember them as roommates.”  I ended another day laughing with other hikers.

August 12.

It rained overnight, but thankfully, was only cloudy in the morning.  I began hiking, stopping throughout the morning to sit and filter water into my cook pot to drink.  It was a little pathetic.  I had somehow lost my water bottle yesterday, and so had to filter water into a cook pot to drink.  It was time consuming, compared to filtering into a water bottle to drink and store for later.  I was happy to get my hands on another water bottle a few days later.

I passed by several pretty lakes, and hiked over many bog board bridges.  I was glad to whoever had put them down, but sometimes they had decomposed to the point of being more of a hazard than a help.  An angled board could see-saw underneath you, you could get a foot stuck in the protruding nail heads, a floating board might sink under your weight.  It was precarious footing, often leading to a surprise and wet feet for at least part of the day.

I crossed Maine Route 4, then began the long climb up to Saddleback Mountain, a mountain high enough to break above treeline for three miles.  It was a mountain of much exposed rock, similar to Bald Pate or the White Mountains.  Another big one, a 4000 footer.     

I worked hard and then enjoyed the expansive view at the summit.  It was windy, with clouds all over, hundreds of mountain peaks, lakes.  The sun shone in some places and rain fell in others, a silver sheen on a valley and a distant peak. I hoped it wouldn’t hit this peak.  It was amazing to see so much sky and land and weather all in one view.

I hiked over The Horn which also offered incredible views, then down to Redington Stream Campsite.  My legs felt heavy.

The camping area was rather deserted-looking, with fallen trees all over the trails and two decomposing tent platforms.  Wind blew through the treetops and it was cool.  I was the only camper there, and preferred camping around others, but felt too tired to hike another three miles to the next lean-to.  Oh well, at least there was a privy and several clear sites.  I slept well that night, in spite of being on my own.  

August 13.

It was chilly and damp overnight, and I was glad I was so warm and comfortable in my sleeping bag liner and sleeping bag.  Mist swirled around the camping area, but thankfully no rain.  

In the middle of the night, the wind started to pick up.  I felt as if I were below a wind tunnel, as the gusts blew sequentially one after another right above the treetops.  I was glad the wind seemed to stay above tree level, as I was surrounded by moist trunks and deadfall.  I lay awake for a while wondering if I should be worried, and what the coming day would bring.

I was really glad that the wind had changed to breezes by morning, mellowing down from the powerful gusts.  It was a cool morning.  I put on long pants for the first time in months, to start the day.

I hiked up Saddleback Junior, a steep climb that I hadn’t been ready to take on the night before.  The summit was socked in with mist, and I was glad I had seen these summits underneath a clear sky yesterday.  It was windy, and I hurried to descend back into the protection of the trees.   

By noon, the clouds had cleared to scattered sunshine.  It was a great day for hiking.  I hiked over Lone Mountain and Spaulding Mountain, then descended from Sugarloaf Mountain to the South Branch Carrabassett River.  The descent from Sugarloaf was the toughest part of the afternoon, hot and exposed in the sunshine, and included several large boulders that required care and caution.

It was good to walk into pretty Crocker Cirque Campsite, so much nicer than Redington Campsite had been.  Numerous hikers had tents there.  I made my ramen dinner and ate watching a quick squirrel race around the site.  He raced up a tree, chattered, ran down to pick up a pinecone, then ran back up to chisel the outer husk from the cone.  Like eating corn off a cob.  He was an incredibly fast eater. 

 In the night, he or one of his companions would chew through my tent in search of food.  Luckily I woke up to the sound of gnawing, and scared him off.  It was a nuisance, but the hole was patchable.

August 15.

After another stay at a hostel, this time in Stratton, Maine (The Roadhouse), I was dropped off with a group of hikers in the morning.  I was tired, and had signed up for their slackpacking option: I’d hike over Bigelow Mountain with a light pack, and they’d drop my heavy gear at a road crossing ahead, which I’d cross by the end of the day.  A sufficient number of other hikers had signed up for the slackpacking option, driving the fee down to an affordable $10.  It was well worth it to me to spend a day hiking without a heavy pack.

Even without my full pack, I stopped for several breaks as I climbed up Bigelow Mountain.  It was a tough climb in any circumstances.  It made me appreciate how strong we all are, to be able to hike in this terrain with a full pack day after day.

It was a misty day.  Bigelow Mountain included several peaks.  I descended from South Horn, climbed the west peak, then continued up to Avery Peak.  Looking back, South and North Horn disappeared up into the clouds.

It was a long descent from Bigelow Mountain to the road ahead where our gear had been dropped.  It wasn’t particularly steep, but my knees were sore by the time I reached the road.  I was glad I’d descended without any extra weight.

I hiked into the dusk, finding a camp spot along East Flagstaff Lake, by other hikers.  The lake was pretty.  I washed my legs off and looked around at the silvery blue mountains before lying down for the night.     

August 16.

Today I hiked through lower elevations, often by pretty lakes.  Though slowed by roots and large mud puddles, the miles passed quickly without large mountains to climb.

I saw a moose through the trees near East Cary Pond, standing so high and big.  It seemed half magical to see such a large creature wandering through the forest after mostly only seeing chipmunks and squirrels.

I stopped with other hikers for a long break on a pretty beach off of East Cary Pond.  It was a laid-back day, as we wouldn’t make it to the Kennebec River until after the ferry had stopped carrying hikers for the day.

The ferry consisted of a river guide in a canoe who shuttled hikers from one side of the Kennebec to the other from the hours of 9am-2pm during peak season.  Hikers were strongly discouraged from attempting to cross the Kennebec themselves, given dams above and below the crossing and changing water levels.  

I camped within a few miles of the river that night.  It was kind of nice to have a limit on how far I could hike that day.

August 17.

I reached the river before the ferry hours began, put my bug net and rain pants on to deter gnats, sat on the bank and watched the hovering mist, clouds, river’s flow, and an eagle(!) while I waited.  Other hikers slowly gathered until there was a line of ten of us waiting. 

Eventually the canoe came towards us with the river guide and two southbound hikers.  They reached our shore, and two of us northbounders took the place of the southbounders.  We set off for the north shore, the guide telling me to paddle on my left side.  I could feel him matching my strokes from the back of the canoe.  It was a short ride, relaxing enough that I almost wished it were longer.  We reached the shore and stepped out, gathering our packs and preparing to hike again.  It was a neat trail experience.  A white blaze painted on the canoe floor marked it as a part of the AT.  (Ferry pictured, small in photo.) 

Over the next several miles, I hiked by lots of mud puddles and boulder-strewn path that required much balancing and careful stepping.  There were no terribly difficult climbs, but my legs grew sore from the careful maneuvering.

 I took a lunch break at Pleasant Pond Lean-to, where I ate and stretched.  I talked with a friendly hiker.  She boiled water for coffee and offered me a cup, which was the highlight of my afternoon.

The view at the top of Pleasant Pond Mountain was hazy but featured a few floating silver lakes out among the tree-filled valleys.  Neat looking.     

August 18.  

I hiked up over Moxie Bald Mountain, then down to Moxie Bald Mountain Lean-to.  I lingered for a while at the picnic table there, eating snacks.  Under gray skies and among muted colors, a loon wailed from the pond and waves lapped onto the beach.  It was a moody and yet also a beautiful morning. 

 I crossed a river ahead, took a lunch break on a rocky beach along W Branch Piscataquis River, then hiked several miles along the swimming holes and falls of the river. 

I camped with another hiker by the East Branch Piscataquis River.  We got in our tents early, away from the mosquitoes.

Hiker Silverman crossed the creek by our site and came over to chat with us.  I enjoyed talking with him.  His son was coming to hike the 100 Mile Wilderness ahead with him.  I asked if he’d be able to keep up and Silverman said he thought he would, “I’m so depleted at this point, it shouldn’t be a problem.”  I thought that was funny, though I often felt weary myself, lately.

My campsite neighbor and I continued to chat as we lay in our tents until evening.  We talked about trail legends like Dragon Fly the 83 year old who is hiking this year, and hikers who were out for their sixth or greater thru hike.  She had met Dragon Fly near Mt Washington.  It was amazing to think about, when I felt so cautious and fatigued myself in this area, as a 31 year old.       

August 19.

A persistent white cloud cover remained over the skies this morning.  The white smoky ceiling had persisted for the past several days, broken at times by rain.  I missed the sun.

I chose a popular shortcut (an old AT route that had been relocated) to hike into the town of Monson, skipping three miles of the current AT so that I could hike into town and not rely on a hitchhike or shuttle.  The opportunity to get off the damp, close, mosquito-filled trail, where little wings bumped against my legs anytime I paused, felt like a gift.

I enjoyed my hike along the airy gravel road to Monson.  I walked by cabins, Lake Hebron, a quarry, and then into the small town.  I walked by Shaw’s Hiker Hostel and Leapin Lena’s hostel, the lawn of Shaw’s covered with tents.  It was a small town, but had everything a hiker could need.

It felt great to stop and rest before heading out for the final section of the trail, the Hundred Mile Wilderness.