Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, September 12, 1993 TAG: 9309120292
SECTION: HORIZON PAGE: F-6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MELISSA DeVAUGHN STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: CARATUNK, ME. LENGTH: Long
As I looked around the rock-covered summit with magnificent views in all directions all I could say was "Wow . . . "
That was my first time above treeline on my Appalachian Trail journey. I had been looking forward to this point for months and there I was, seemingly on top of the world, looking down to the path below where I had just climbed, feeling very small indeed.
Since I left home almost six months ago to hike the entire 2,146-mile Appalachian Trail there have been many firsts for me.
Back in Georgia I experienced my first blisters. In North Carolina I had my first backaches and ate my first of many ramen noodle meals. By Virginia my knees first started to ache. Pennsylvania was the first time I ever cut my own hair with Swiss Army Knife scissors.
But up here in the North Country, where the mountains have no mercy and the terrain is varied as the weather, the "firsts" I am experiencing are much more significant and undoubtedly will be the most memorable parts of this adventure.
This is my first time in New England. I pushed hard to reach Connecticut because I was anxious to be in a part of the country that I had only read about or heard about from other people.
I imagined picturesque scenery - the kind you see on postcards - neat country farmhouses, wildflower-covered fields and gently sloping mountains. Friendly mountains.
As I hiked out of New York and crossed the Housatonic River I thought, "Here I am at last - New England."
I quickly learned, though, that the New England mountains are definitely not gently sloping. I endured Connecticut and Massachusetts, continuing to hike the same long days over increasingly rougher terrain. But once I reached Vermont, for the first time I was getting tired.
I remember a particular day in early August. My boyfriend had just returned home after a week of hiking together, so I was especially missing him. It had been raining for several days, so everything I owned was wet. And I was wearing new insoles in my boots, which caused the tops of my toes to become raw and sore.
Hiking up Killington Peak, the first mountain above 4,000 feet since Virginia, the weather was cloudy and cool, but with just enough sun breaking through to cause the sweat to drench my clothes.
The farther up we hiked, the worse the weather got. The grayness turned misty, then rainy and all of a sudden the sweaty T-shirt I wore felt dangerously cold.
Luckily we were climbing a mountain owned by a ski resort so my partners and I found shelter at the summit in the resort's cafeteria.
My spirits weren't lifted, though. The rain continued as we hiked down the mountain and the rawness on top of my toes got worse in my wet boots. By the time we reached the road crossing, I was wet, achy and mentally exhausted. I looked across the road to see a Bed & Breakfast.
"Welcome," the sign read.
I crossed the road, sat down on a picnic table and announced to my hiking partners, "I'm staying here."
For the first time since I had been on the trail, I realized I was depressed. I missed my parents. I missed my boyfriend David. I missed my friends. I missed my nephew Zachary. They were in Virginia; I was in Vermont.
Although it took a few days to get out of this slump, I never once got so depressed as to want to get off the trail. I told myself that the blue days would pass and they did. The rain passed too, my feet healed and eventually I began to feel excited about reaching state # 13 - New Hampshire.
I thought about my days in Georgia, back in March when me and another hiker, Mercury Mark, would talk about what it will be like to hike the entire White Mountains. Now I was here with no more time to wonder. It was time to experience these majestic mountains.
I hiked with Food Dude through the White Mountains. I recalled how proud I was to show off the beauty of the Virginia mountains when hiking through my home state. Food Dude, a native of New Hampshire, began to do the same thing going through the Whites. He was like a tour guide, filling me in on what to expect of the day's terrain and pointing out various mountains at viewpoints.
Up north, treeline is around 4,000 feet. Beyond this point, the trees cannot live under the harsh winters of New England. Although there are mountains this high in the South, they are covered with trees, since treeline in the south would be as high as 9,000 feet - and there are no mountains that high in the South.
The Presidential Range in the White Mountains is particularly impressive because for practically 25 miles one can hike above treeline, going in and out of the characteristic `crumholz' (German for twisted tree) alpine growth, hopping from rock to rock and enjoying the views in all directions.
Food Dude, myself and our dogs Ruby and Dune hiked slowly through this tedious but beautiful section of trail. Not only did we want to stop at every scenic viewpoint but the terrain was rocky and steep, and we had to hike carefully. Also, as the White Mountains are heavily used by tourists, we were often stopped and `interviewed' by curious day hikers.
The White Mountains have a system of huts operated by the Appalachian Mountain Club to accommodate the thousands of tourists that visit each year. The huts are enclosed cabins that offer lodging, meals and running water for a hefty fee. Thru-hikers rarely can afford to pay this fee, or make the necessary reservations far in advance. After all, it's impossible for hikers to know their schedule more than a few days at a time, much less than the year it takes to reserve hut space.
Food Dude and I climbed Mount Washington - the highest of the White Mountains at 6,288-ft. - on a fog- and tourist-engulfed Sunday, then sprinted off the mountain in seach of some solitude. We were tired and the day's climbs had been tough. So instead of going to a campsite three miles farther, we stopped at a hut to see if they had any work available.
"Sure," said the hutmaster. "Just settle in, get something to eat and you can help us in the morning."
Food Dude and I smiled at each other, not believing our luck. Instead of putting up with a tent, eating ramen noodles or mac and cheese, and sleeping in the rain, we had fresh veggies, homemade brownies and a dry place to stay.
The next morning we cleaned out the bunk rooms and for the first time, I worked for a place to sleep on the trail.
Sometime during my hike through the White Mountains, I experienced another "first."
I had stopped at one of these huts to refill my water bottles. Food Dude and I were sitting at a table when about ten tourists - most of them females in their late teens - came in from a day's hike. As they filed past me I smelled perfume, shampoo and deodorant.
I smelled myself. Yuk.
I looked at their hair - braided, ponytailed, permed and styled. I wondered if my bangs, hacked off at an agle with those Swiss Army Scissors, looked remotely normal yet.
I noticed their clothing - all sorts of trendy outfits that matched perfectly. I looked down at the same old pair of blue shorts I've been wearing for 2,000 miles and the same gray hiking socks, functional but drab.
"Not too trendy," I thought.
And to top it off, the group of hikers were so clean. My clothes hadn't been washed for a week and I still had another week to go until I would reach a town with a laundry mat.
All of a sudden, I was overcome with a feeling of despair.
"I'm not a woman anymore," I thought, and immediately longed for clean hair, clean fingernails and shaved armpits.
It was then that I first thought of my comfortable blue jeans and green wool sweater packed away at home. I wanted my colorful cotton socks and my earrings and my sun dress and all the other things that made me feel female.
So when Food Dude found a big cotton button-down shirt on top of a mountain and gave it to me, I was thrilled. It was big but it was cotton and soft and even stylish - unlike my polypropylene pullover and dingy sweaty T-shirt.
In terms of "firsts" in the natural world, I haven't seen a bear yet but I did see my first moose near Crawford Notch, N.H. Ruby and Dune saw it first and barked, not knowing what the big clumsy creature was.
The moose, accompanied by her half-grown calf, looked at us complacently as I fumbled for my camera, then ambled off into the woods.
I saw my first porcupine back in Massachusetts. He was a pudgy, slow-moving creature, climbing up a tree. Luckily, Ruby didn't see him until he was out of reach, so I didn't have to deal with removing quills from her face.
I saw my first loon and heard its unique calls just the other night at a pond in Maine. Never got a picture, though.
And my latest first? I stoop atop Little Bigelow Mountain and fed a couple of Canada grey jays right out of my hand. They were tame as a cockatiel as I held out crackers and watched them pluck the morsels from my hand, then fly off to stash them away in the surrounding spruce trees.
Now that I'm less than 200 miles from my goal, I think back to these "firsts" and realize it's all part of the journey, the big picture that I will remember for the rest of my life.
And pretty soon, before I know it, I'll be able to talk about my first climb of Mount Katahdin, the end of the trail.
by CNB