The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Ten

For some reason I woke up Wednesday with a slight hangover.  I guess the Rangeley locals know how to treat a guest.  With my gear dried out and myself clean after a shower (that’s showers in back to back days!), I hit the road to New Hampshire and the White Mountain National Forest.  Matt had directed me to take Hwy 16 because he sees moose on that road often and I wanted to see a moose!  I looked at the map and saw it took me past Mooselookmeguntic Lake, which is now my favorite lake name.  The scenery was beautiful as the evergreens shook off the snow from the previous night.  Sadly, I did not see a moose. 

Entering New Hampshire, I came across the Umbagog National Wildlife Refuge and stopped into the visitor center.  I got a late start that morning, pushing my arrival in the White’s ‘til mid-afternoon, so I thought I’d see if there was any camping in the refuge.  “No,” was the answer so I dallied around the center, learning a little about the area and collecting a few brochures for my archives.  I got back on the road with the compass pointed toward the White Mountains.

Umbagog

Umbagog

The weather report for the evening and following morning called for rain, heavy at times.  Awesome.  As I looked at the maps, trying to discern a good spot to camp, I thought about the motels I had passed a few miles back in Berlin and Gorham.  Boy, it would be easy to take refuge in a motel for the night, staying dry and getting caught up some writing.  Countering the thoughts of the easy way out was the thought of staying in one of the shelters up in the mountains.  This idea was planted in my head by a guy back in Millinocket who said one of his favorite places to stay was Crag Camp in the White’s.  The camp was perched high on the mountainside looking east, granting visitors a spectacular sunrise he said.  I had looked up the shelter and found that it was managed and maintained by the Randolph Mountain Club.  They operated a few other shelters in the area, including Gray Knob, which had a caretaker year round.  So do I stay in a motel or push it up the mountain in the waning afternoon light, not knowing how the trail is or if I can even make it?  Screw it.  Up the mountain it is!

I parked at the Appalachia Trailhead off of US 2 and got my pack in order.  I decided to leave my tent behind so I could move lighter and faster.  This meant I had to make it one of the shelters or somehow make it down in the darkness.  If I ran into trouble and was unable to make it to safety, I’d be screwed.  It was about 3 by the time I started my hike, not sure which shelter I wanted to go to.  With the skies cloudy that left me maybe an hour of solid light with darkness quickly falling after that.  The trail was 3.5 miles to either camp, so it would be a game-time decision on which one to go to.  As I got going, I thought to myself, “this may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”  Did I mention that I didn’t have a map? 

Ahhh, I'm going to call their bluff on this one

I quickly heated up as the trail began its gentle ascent.  The landscape was stunning in the early winter snow cover.  The trail followed a brook that fell over rocks and waterfalls from its origin higher up the mountain.  It was immensely peaceful and serene.  John Muir described a waterfall as “singing Nature’s old love song with solemn enthusiasm,” and the song this waterfall was singing was pure and sweet. 

Onward I pushed as the trail began to ascend quicker. The temp was in the 30’s when I started but I was down to my Mobile Skills Crew Crew Leader shirt before too long.  The higher I went, the more snow and ice I encountered, trying to slow me down.  I didn’t have crampons or even hiking poles to help keep me upright.  I found a good stick to use in the hiking poles stead, but after a few close calls with falling, it broke into a chunk about two feet in length.  Even in its diminutive state the stick came in useful as the trail became steeper and steeper and I was resorting to a partial crawl to make it up the mountain. 

This idiot has no idea what he's doing

A fog rolled in as I climbed in elevation (I guess they call that a cloud), obscuring any view of the valley in the little light that remained.  I had put my knee-high gaiters on earlier to keep the snow and slush out of my shoes and was pleased at how well they were working - my feet were relatively dry!  I came to an intersection where I had to decide which camp to head for.  Crag Camp and the cold solitude it would bring, or Gray Knob and the promise of someone to talk to and a wood stove that was lit for an hour or two a day?  Gray Knob it was.

The trail crossing a small stream

The trail crossed a stream or two, which were treacherous to cross safely in the falling light on ice-covered rocks.  I nearly lost it and took a plunge, but somehow managed to stay upright and dry.  Darkness was closing in around me as I made the final push to the shelter.  The trail was somehow even steeper, probably at a 60 or 70% grade.  The trees became shorter and more rigid and the snow deeper as I moved ever closer to the tree line.  Finally I rounded a corner and saw the most beautiful sight, a small Christmas tree, adorned with a string of lights, gazing out from the window of the Gray Knob shelter.  I made it!

I stumbled in, not knowing what or whom to expect.  A guy about my age with a scruffy beard greeted me.  The caretaker I presume.  He had just lit the fire and I simultaneously tried to stop sweating and dry off while trying to stay warm and not get the chills.  I got talking to the caretaker (I don’t think I ever got his name) and it turned out I’m the only idiot up there that night.  It was in-between seasons and with the weather crappy, not a lot of folks made it up there during the week. 

Gray Knob

I changed into dry clothes and went about making dinner.  After settling in, I was glad I chose Gray Knob over Crag Camp.  Crag Camp had shelter from the wind, but no heat or conversation.  Granted they only lit the stove for an hour or two a day at Gray Knob, never warming the cabin over 50, but it didn’t get below freezing while I was there.  The Gray Knob cabin had been recently rebuilt because the original cabin had began to rot from the humidity, so that’s why they lit the stove everyday, to suck out the moisture. 

My accommodations at Gray Knob

The caretaker and I talked into the night on a wide range of topics, from trail construction standards, to how to deal with human waste in the woods, to local beer, and to Rhode Island basketball with Tyson Wheeler and Lamar Odom.  He switches off with another caretaker each week and when he’s off the mountain, the folks who employ him have a place for him to stay.  He collects the $13 fee that is required at the shelter and goes around to the other two shelters in the area each day to see if anyone is staying there to collect their fees too.  That sounds like an awesome job. 

It was a great evening in the White Mountains.  I had climbed over 3000 feet in 3.5 miles, the most I had ever climbed by far, through snow and ice to a destination I wasn’t sure of, but I made it and enjoyed every minute of it.  It was another memorable day in a trip littered with them.  My trip was slowly coming to a close, but more memories and stories were waiting for me before my return to Wisconsin.

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Nine

To catch people up with where I am on my road trip, I started out visiting Penn St. and then moving to New York for a Packer-Giant game, up the coast to Walden Pond, met a guy, Matt, at a bar in Portsmouth who let me tag along to a Cornmeal concert in Portland where I met Jess, traveled further north up to Acadia National Park where I was the first person to see the sunrise in the US and finally over to Millinocket, Maine where you now find me waking up on the Appalachian Trail in the 100 mile Wilderness.

I woke to the most beautiful sight, a snow-covered landscape that had lain hidden from me in the dark of the night.  Shafts of light from the early morning sun fell through the cedars, hemlocks and spruce to emblazon the boughs weighted down with snow.  I went for my camera to take a picture, only to find it didn’t work.  While reading the trail register the previous night at the Hurd Brook shelter, I thought it would be a great idea to have my camera fall off my leg onto the wooden floor.  I didn’t think anything of it at the time.  I now turned the camera on, but the screen was black.  Ugh.  I discovered that I could see the pictures I had already taken so it must’ve been something with the lens.  Fearing the worst, I did the only reasonable thing; I banged it against the wall.  Voila!  She was back up and running!

I thoroughly enjoyed the hike back to my car, it’s not every day you can wake up and hike on the Appalachian Trail by yourself in the majesty of early winter splendor.  Back at the car, I had to figure out where the rest of the day was going to take me.  Rangeley was my ultimate destination but I didn’t know how to get there.  Roads are scarce in the winter in the interior of Maine.  I decided I should head back through Bangor because I wanted another bottom base layer for whatever lay ahead the rest of my trip. 

I found the mall and a Dick’s Sporting Goods in Bangor, which had the base layer I wanted (it might get cold later!).  While I was waiting in line, I got a phone call and message from a number I didn’t recognize so I ignored it.  On the way to my car, I listened to the message and it was Matt from earlier in my trip!  Boy did he have some news for me.  He had been tooling around on Craigslist Maine and came across a listing in the “missed connections” section that he thought had to be directed towards me.  I went to McDonald’s to use their Wi-Fi and check out Craigslist.  Here is what the post said:

Met you at Cornmeal - w4m

Date: 2011-12-10, 3:41PM

It was so nice meeting you Thursday night. I enjoyed talking to you about road trips and geology. Wished I'd given you my number if you are heading back through Portland on your way back from Acadia. I hope you are enjoying your time in the north woods. 


•   Location: Portland, Maine

Holy Cow!  I guess I left an impression with my hoboness.  What the hell do I do now?  I’ve never used Craigslist and I didn’t have plans to go back through Portland, but plans have a way of changing.  When I called Matt back, he invited me over to his place a few days later when I was in New Hampshire so I looked it up and Portland was only an hour or so from where I was going to be.  Maybe this could work!  I was nervous to all hell trying to figure out this Craigslist thing and what to do.  I emailed her back to say her post actually worked and see what we could work out. 

The afternoon was getting on so I had to hit the road up to Rangeley, still planning on sleeping in the woods that night.  On the drive up, I was in disbelief at the chances of what just happened, happened.  I had to meet Matt at a bar in Portsmouth, then tag along with him to Portland for a Cornmeal concert, had to meet and talk to Jess, had to exchange numbers with Matt, Jess had to post on Craigslist and then Matt had to see the post and call me.  Wow.  That’s my life I guess.  Helluva trip!

It was dark and drizzling by the time I rolled into Rangeley.  Screw camping in the woods tonight.  I found the cheapest (and only) motel in town to spend the night.  My gear needed a good drying and I hadn’t showered in a week (I think I was more concerned about my gear than my smell…).  I checked my email and found Jess had responded.  We planned on meeting up in a few days so she could show me around Portland and check out her favorite beaches in the area.  Crazy!  After cleaning up and eating, I knew I needed a drink.  There were two choices; the bowling alley that had a packed parking lot or a townie bar called Sarge’s located on Main Street.  What do you think I chose? 

I walked into Sarge’s, completely unaware of what was inside.  People were packed in the back of the bar, singing karaoke and having a great time.  What the hell did I get myself into?  I took the closest seat to the action, which happened to be at the end of the bar, behind a pillar, blocking myself from the craziness.  I kept to myself, watching the Bruins game and not really caring.  People were going behind the bar, serving up drinks when the bartender went to sing karaoke.  Did I mention there were multiple good-looking ladies at the bar having a good time?  Did I also mention that it was a Tuesday?  This did not seem like a regular Tuesday.  I learned from the bartender that it was the bar’s holiday party.  That makes more sense.

Rangeley in the daylight

I hung by myself, out of the action, because striking up a conversation involved me escaping from my hiding place and joining the fray (It’s easier to talk to one or two people than a bar full of strangers).  I paid my tab and got up to leave when this girl came over to ask if I was the person she sold her car to last year.  Being new to the area, I thought this was implausible.  I said no, but we struck up a conversation.  She invited me to join the party and, being a drifter, I could not pass that offer up.  The first person she introduced me to was Sarge, as in Sarge’s Sports Pub and Grill.  “What do you drink?” he asked me. 

Not wanting to be rude or imposing, I said, “whatever you want.”

Sarge looked at the bartender and said “3 shots of tequila.”

Well it looks like the party was just starting.  The shots came and I took mine like a champ.  A few seconds later, Sarge turned around and pushed the last shot in front of my face. 

“Here’s your shot!” Sarge proclaimed.

“I already had my shot,” I said in less than forceful terms.

“Here’s your shot” he repeated.

Shit. “Yes sir.”

The night progressed and I got talking to my new friend’s dad.  He used to coach basketball for the Maine Black Bears and, being a college basketball nerd, I knew all about Maine and the teams in the America East Conference.  I was having a great time talking to the locals and learning a little about the area.  We migrated out to the patio where a gentle snow had begun to fall.  They were complaining about the lack of snow up in Maine too.  The ski hill down the road was finally opening the coming weekend so people were getting ready for the winter tourism season. 

After more drinks and merriment, I decided it was time to head out.  On my way back to the motel I noticed a sign I had missed earlier.  Turns out Rangeley is also halfway between the North Pole and Equator.  If I headed west along the 45^th parallel into Wisconsin, I’d end up in Cadott (the place God forgot).  Interesting.  

I went to bed after another crazy day on the East Coast.  My next few days were tentatively planned out.  I’d head to the White Mountains for a night, then onto Matt’s the following evening, maybe back into the White’s for another night and then finally return to Portland to get the grand tour from Jess.  What mischief could I get into with a schedule like that?  Turns out plenty.

A Day of Farewells

I awoke stubbornly, still drunk and not ready for the day ahead of me.  It was Sunday, August 12 and I had to say goodbye to two completely different, yet amazing people by the end of the day.  My new friend Nimblewill Nomad was on the last day of his thru-hike of the Ice Age Trail and I was going to meet him to guide the way home and make sure his last day went well.  After hitting snooze a dozen times on my alarm clock, I finally arose from my slumber at my buddy Fields house in the Twin Cities.  When you wake up drunk from the night before, you are usually feeling great because the hangover hasn’t hit you yet and so was the case with me.  I packed up and said goodbye to Bryan and Melisa.  They are two of my favorite people on earth and always treat me better than I deserve. 

I hit the road, heading towards St. Croix Falls and Nimblewill.  The night before, I had talked to Nimblewill and the plan was for me to meet him by the end of the Gandy Dancer segment of the IAT in Centurdia.  This plan sounded ridiculous as I trucked north, but after stashing my bike at the western terminus (and getting a McChicken and large soda from McDonald’s to counter the impending hangover) I met up with Nimblewill in Centurdia.  I was not alone hiking with him this day as Gray Ghost and newly minted thru-hiker Paul and his cousin Nate joined the fray, quite the motley crew.  I was about to text former resident Professor Englund about how crappy Centurdia still was when; of course, Pete, Trish and the rugrats pull up.  Holy Cow!  They hadn’t been back to town since they left for Iowa in the spring so the coincidence of our crossing paths was mind-blowing.  We all talked trail for a while before we parted ways.  The trail wasn’t going to finish itself!

Paul on his hike.

The Gandy Dancer was finished in short order and we turned onto 160^th for a couple mile road walk to the final section.  Conversation moved freely between the hikers as we talked about the weather and shared stories about our hikes.  When a quiet moment floated up, we kept walking because hikers become comfortable with silence when spending long days, weeks and months on the trail.  Our mouths may by shut, but our minds are still at work taking in the scenery and thinking about the trail that lay behind us and what may be awaiting us around the bend. 

My favorite Gray Ghost picture

Paul had finished the trail, 3 short weeks earlier, and was eager to get back out and do some more hiking to help out a fellow thru-hiker.  Chet “Gray Ghost” had thru-hiked in 2009 and I followed in 2010 so we had group of well-versed Ice Age Trail hikers.  We made it the start of the St. Croix segment where Paul’s cousin Nate, had stashed a cooler with snacks and beverages.  Perfect!  We refueled our bodies and refilled our water bottles while talking about the trail ahead.  This was the start of the last segment of the Ice Age Trail, a measly 7.4 miles stood between Nimblewill and the completion of his thru-hike. 

Scrambling along the St. Croix River

From my hike

We set off down the trail with the St. Croix River guiding us on our right.  It was a nice day for hiking with temps around 80 and cloudy skies, with just a whisper of breeze occasionally floating by.  We made good time, only slowing down to hopscotch on the rocks across the few clear, gurgling streams that flowed into the river.  Arriving at the campsite in the St. Croix National Scenic Riverway, I asked Nimblewill if he wanted to set up camp here for the night.  I mean it was 3 in the afternoon and getting late…  He chuckled “not a chance” and we continued on up to Lions Park.

The campsite from my hike

The trail led us through the Mindy Creek section, which is one of my favorites.  There is a deep, narrow gorge with some fantastic rockwork and views and all of this only a stone’s throw from some houses.  They probably don’t even appreciate it.  We wound through town, mixing between roads and trails passing by schools, hospitals (and a few of Chet’s friend’s houses) and woods on our way to the Western Terminus. 

Mindy Creek Section from my hike

Finally, shortly after 5, we entered Interstate State Park.  This is where I opened a beer on my hike, but sadly, no beer was present today.  Nimblewill’s gait quickened as he sensed the end.  It was day 45 for him and was ready to be done and get home.  The rest of us followed behind, trying to keep up with the legendary hiker.  Being a state park, signage was dismal (although not as horrible as Devil’s Lake) so Nimblewill had to slow down a few times to make sure he was on the right path.  He wanted a picture of the last blaze on the Ice Age Trail and it happened to be the one I campaigned for after my hike when I was a few hundred yards from the end but had to stop at a trail junction because I had no idea where to go (at least there was one good thing that came out of my hike). 

We crossed the road to join the Potholes Trail and walk the last few yards.  I wasn’t sure what to expect as I retraced the last steps of my hike.  Some of the same emotions swept over me, but this time I wasn’t alone.  I was in the company of hardened long-distance hikers who have been down the same road as me.  We turned the last corner and stopped, letting Nimblewill walk the last 20 feet by himself.  This was his hike and the penultimate step in his quest to hike all 11 National Scenic Trails.  There was no hoopla, no balloons or streamers, just an old man with his pack, gazing at the plaque affixed to a rock declaring that this is the western terminus.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but I felt honored to be with him at the end, to watch this 73-year-old man with more trail miles behind him than most anyone else take his last step and genuflect on his journey.  It was a moment I will not soon forget.

We congratulated and hugged Nimblewill and posed for the obligatory pictures.  Phone calls were made and texts were sent to let folks know Nimblewill had finished.  After a few minutes we headed around the loop trail and back to the waiting cars (It seems kinda goofy that the western terminus is in the middle of a loop trail so even after you finish, your hiking isn’t over).

Nimblewill, Gray Ghost, Paul and I

After saying goodbye to Nimblewill, my thoughts turned to the next person I’d be saying goodbye to before the day was over, Jess at the Come Back In.  It was 7:30 and I was in St. Croix.  It was going to be a push to stop in EC to snag some food from the rents and make it down to Madison before the night was over, but I had to make it.  It was Jess’s last night working at the Come Back before moving out to Portland.  She may be one of my absolute favorite bartenders, but she’s more than that.  Sure, she did a great job remembering my beer of choice and time card number, but to call her just a bartender would be doing a disservice to her.  Jess is one of the coolest girls I’ve met and a welcome sight for sore eyes after a long day (Yes, beauty is in the eye of the beer holder).  Not to mention she has the brains to boot. She is a math nerd (and I say that endearingly) and always up for a good conversation or stay after her shift to have a beer or two.  When I’d come across an interesting math article (not an oxymoron) like this recent one in the New York Times asking if Algebra is necessary, I’d print it out for her.  I’d stop by the Come Back to have a beer just because she was working.  She was always great at turning my day around if I was having a crummy day.  Yes, Jess will be missed.

I finally rolled into the Come Back at 12:30 and the place was rocking.  Sunday nights are karaoke nights and the crowd is pretty enthusiastic about its karaoke.  I took a seat on the side of the bar away from the singing (I’m more of a sinner than a singer) and gave Jess a high 5.  She was in good spirits to say the least.  Jess didn’t have to ask if I wanted a beer or what flavor, she turned around and promptly poured a Bell’s Two Hearted for me.  Ahhh, nothing like a great beer from your favorite bartender after a long day.

We talked a bit before she had to tend to other patrons and I sat there like usual, staring blankly at the TV’s showing replays of the sporting events of the day.  As I get older, I’m caring less and less about sports, they don’t seem very important anymore.  I think ESPN and its TMZing of sports has been a big factor in that (I don’t care what Tebow wore at practice today, he still sucks).  Anyways, sitting alone at the bar has made for great contemplation time.  When alone on the trail, your mind can wander and lead you in many different directions, but, living in Madison, those opportunities elude me.  I don’t have those quiet moments of reflection with work and the seductive nature of the TV at home.  The bar may not be quiet, but it somehow helps stimulate my mind (beer may have something to do with this).  When I’m working on a blog post or article for Mammoth Tales and I get stuck and waste my time not writing, I’ll go to the bar to free up my mind and the words start flowing again.

Jess came back around and offered up a shot, which I gladly accepted.  We talked off and on while I whittled away at the beer in my mug.  She’d stop over and relate a story about a fellow patron acting stupid and I’d try to pretend that I wouldn’t be that stupid. 

A good bartender keeps you coming back, not just because of their drink making skills or looks, but also from the interactions with the patrons.  Anyone can serve a beer, but a well-placed smile or word can do wonders.

It was an end of an era at the Come Back.  When I first started to frequent the bar a few years back, the triumvirate of Roxanne, Andura and Jess kept the mugs full and put a smile on everyone’s face with their great service and friendly personalities.  Roxanne was the first go as she left for a “real” job, but we still had Andura and Jess to slake our thirsts.  You could head down to the Come Back at any time and chances were, one of the ladies was working.  Then Andura left for the greener pastures of the Great Dane.  And with Jess leaving, the final leg of the beautiful bartending trio is no more at the Come Back. 

I finished the beer, but Jess was busy trying to get all of her duties done so she could get out of there and start drinking herself so Duly filled up my mug.   Last call was made, signaling the end of karaoke and people started making their way to the door.  I slowly finished my beer, trying to savor the last few sips.  With my beer gone, I had no choice but to leave.  I gave Jess a final hug and ambled out the door.

Nimblewill and Jess may not have a lot in common on the surface, but they both play an integral role in two of my favorite things, hiking and drinking, respectively.  Much wisdom is to be gained from walking even a single day with Nimblewill and spending enough nights getting served by Jess will make your life a little more enjoyable and wholesome.  Sure, there will be other bartenders and hikers, but Jess and Nimblewill will always hold special places in my heart.

My Day with a Real Nomad

You may know that I have a soft spot in my heart for the Ice Age Trail.  I may not care about a lot of things in life (who needs housing or financial security when you have a tent and a packet of rice?), but the Ice Age Trail is something I care dearly about.  So when Nimblewill Nomad decided to hike the Trail this year, I jumped at the chance to help him.  There are 11 National Scenic Trails in America and Nimblewill has hiked 9 of them, leaving the Ice Age Trail and New England Trail as the final missing pieces of the National Scenic Trail Crown.  No one has ever hiked all 11 trails so Nimblewill taking up the IAT is a big deal.  Any publicity and awareness for the Trail is a good thing.

I emailed Nimblewill before his hike to put forth my services through the Devil’s Lake area because that’s where the Trail Crew is supposed to be stationed this year.  The Trail Crew would have to be up and running by mid-July right?  You would be sorely mistaken because spring and summer are not good months for trail work in Wisconsin.  The weather has been a little too perfect to let the Trail Crew work outside… 

Anyways, Nimblewill was bearing down on the Devil’s Lake area so I gave him a call still offering a hiking compatriot and whatever help I could provide.  He accepted.  We were going to meet around the Merrimac Ferry and figure things out from there.  I woke up “early” (morning comes quick after being tempted by a beer or two served by Jess at the Come Back the night before), threw my things together and headed towards Lodi.  It was only supposed to be 101 (“can’t be much more than 114.  Dock that guy a days pay for sleeping on the job”) so the temps weren’t going to be a problem. 

I parked at the ferry, loaded up my daypack and headed into the Gibraltar Segment.  I slipped across Hwy 113 and flashed back to my hike when Luke showed up at this point with a cold beer for me.  From reading Nimblewill’s journal, I concluded we have different priorities when it comes to beverages.  I was nearly to the top of the hill when this old, scraggly fellow came bounding down the trail.  This must be Nimblewill Nomad.  Experienced hikers have a certain look about them that distinguishes them from regular trail users.  We exchanged pleasantries and headed down to the ferry.

We just missed the ferry, but that was OK as I brought out a Sierra Mist for Nimblewill and a plate of homemade banana blueberry bread I had appropriated from my parents house the night before.  We planned out the day while waiting for the ferry to return.  We’d have breakfast at a café in Merrimac and then I’d drive my car up to the north shore of Devil’s Lake and ride my bike back to the Rozno’s Meadow parking lot and hike the rest of the day with Nimblewill.  Well, the café was closed so our plan was on shaky ground to start.  I headed off to enact my part of the plan while Nimblewill did the short road walk and started the Merrimac Segment. 

With my car parked, I hopped on my bike to get back to Rozno’s.  Holy cow was I struggling.  The first mile or so was all up hill and I’m apparently in pretty poor shape.  Getting off my bike to walk up the hill actually crossed my mind.  I survived this sad showing of fitness and was soon zipping down to the parking lot.  I stashed my bike in the woods and headed into the Merrimac Segment to meet up with Nimblewill.  As soon as I crossed DL heading towards the new 300-foot boardwalk constructed in April, I noticed a fence with a herd of goats grazing.  Hmm, they must be trying to contain the invasive species.  I walked up to the fence that crossed the Trail, wondering if it was electrified.  There was a group of people looking at the goats and said it was safe to cross.  Sure enough, I knew the guy who owned the goats.  It was Jesse from Driftless Land Stewardship whom I had a few beers with when I worked at Wyalusing.

I met back up with Nimblewill and we retraced my steps through the goat enclosure and the April Merrimac MSC project.  I had one more trick up my sleeve as I had left a cooler with water, Gatorade, apples, peaches and other snacks for us at the end of the Merrimac Segment.  We hydrated and ate a little before heading into the shade-less meadow. 

Walking with Nimblewill, I played the part of tour guide as I rambled on about the history and geology of the area.  I’m not sure if this was useful (or welcomed), but I kept at it (apparently I can talk about the Devil’s Lake area for a long time).  We crossed the park road and began our ascent up to the top of the East Bluff.  When I wasn’t talking about the park, we talked about hiking and the shared experiences long-distance hikers have.  The places and people change, but the underlying story is the same; strangers going out of their way to help the wandering few continue their trek with food, water, a shower or even just a conversation.  His stories come from a lot larger reservoir than mine so they are more impressive and awe-inspiring, like the day he hiked 54 miles (I guess that happens when he’s hiked 25,000 miles and I’ve only stumbled for 1,100). 

As we approached the top of the bluff and the accompanying views, I began to worry that maybe it wasn’t as impressive as I thought.  I mean Nimblewill has hiked all over the country (literally) and seen sights that few have seen, what does little ol’ Wisconsin have that can compare?  My worries were unfounded as the trees fell back and the full view presented itself.  “This is really nice,” claimed Nimblewill.  I pointed out the Wisconsin River and where he had walked so far that day.  He was particularly interested in all the rock climbers populating the bluffs.  Taut ropes at our feet were tied to rocks and other anchors as the climbers were defying gravity. 

We continued our amble along the bluff with the glacial plug to our left at the base of the bluff.  I coaxed him into taking the short Devil’s Doorway detour and when the feature came into view there was a girl squirming her way into the Doorway, her rear end prominently in view.  “Now I know why you wanted to come this way,” chuckled Nimblewill.  People don’t say Devil’s Doorway has one of the best views in the park for nothing! 

We joined back up with the East Bluff Trail and continued to the west end of the bluff.  People stopped us to ask for directions because they didn’t have a map and apparently we looked like we knew where we were going.  I directed them where they needed to go and we began our descent down Balanced Rock Trail.  I was excited for Nimblewill to walk through the talus field only to find that he’s been on other trails that have the same thing.  Does anything surprise him anymore? 

Our next destination was the South Shore Concession Stand.  I was expecting we’d get something to eat but Nimblewill isn’t a big eater (my stomach looked longingly at the ice cream sandwiches).  He had 3 sodas from the soda fountain and we were back on the trail.  I tend to putz around and take my time, but Nimblewill is like the breeze, never pausing for long in any one place (I’m assuming this is one of the reasons he’s able to pack on way more miles than me). 

We huffed it up to the top of the West Bluff to get a different perspective of the area.  Quite spectacular!  I pointed out the glacial plugs holding in the lake and how an old river had once flowed through the bluffs.  The view would’ve been awesome on that river because before the glacier advanced this far, the gorge was 300 feet deeper so 800-900 feet deep.  Those damn glaciers and their debris!

If there were one aspect of hiking that I’m quicker than Nimblewill at, it would be going up and down stairs (Take that old-timer!).  It was a sight to see when we got down to the beach, as this bedraggled hiker walked amongst the throng of beachgoers.  It would be safe to say, we had different priorities than the people at the beach.  We stopped at the concession stand on the north shore for more soda and to plan out the evening.  Nimblewill offered to buy me dinner for hiking with him so he asked a worker where a good spot to eat was.  I told him we don’t need to find a place to eat because we were going to The Barn.  Fat chance we’d go somewhere else in the Devil’s Lake area! 

He was going to continue hiking while I retrieved my bike and meet him at Solum Lane.  After thinking about how to describe the route through the campground, I decided it would be easier for me to just hike with him.  He would’ve gotten lost otherwise (well taken the wrong turn at least).  Signage was sparse throughout the Devil’s Lake Segment and Nimblewill was glad to have someone guiding him.  I’d be willing to bet it’s the most poorly signed segment along the entire Ice Age Trail.  This needs to be rectified.  Devil’s Lake has nearly 2 million visitors a year, with a great number of those hiking on segments of the Trail and not even knowing it.  It’s a huge publicity possibility that is currently not utilized. 

I picked up my bike and cooler and headed over to Solum Lane and meet up with Nimblewill.  It’s a different feeling hiking by yourself after hiking with someone all day.  Your thoughts stay inaudible and in your head.  Earlier In the day, Nimblewill told me that the Appalachian Trail would gnaw and bug me until I hiked it.  The AT is the Trail in the United States and your hiking career isn’t complete until you’ve reached Mt. Katahdin via Springer Mountain.  I had told Nimblewill about my East Coast road trip last winter and how I only saw Katahdin and would like to go back someday to explore more. 

He asked, “Do you know how to get to Katahdin?” 

“No,” I replied. 

“Start at Springer.”

I suppose he’s right.  While walking to meet him, thoughts of the AT danced around my head.  I have other trails I’d like to hike first though.  I’m doing the Border Route Trail up in the Boundary Waters with Brad this fall, maybe the Florida Trail this winter, maybe, and then the Superior Hiking Trail next spring.  I need to make money somewhere to fund my adventures so the AT is off in the future.  Nimblewill appeared and we headed out to my car. 

Me with Katahdin in the background.  Hopefully I'll be able to take this same picture at the end of a thru-hike. 

We got to The Barn and Nimblewill was amused that The Barn was actually a barn.  We like our barns in Wisconsin (especially ones that serve beer).  Amber greeted us when we walked in and took our spots at the bar.  Amber and The Barn are great supporters of the Ice Age Trail and the food is great to boot.  I got a beer while Nimblewill got his soda and we ordered our food (it’s rare for me not to have a beer after a day on the Trail).  Our conversation on hiking and trail magic continued through the meal as we passed stories back and forth, never silent for long.  It was a great time. 

I finished my beer and wondered if I should get another one so when Nimblewill stepped out to take a phone call, I quickly motioned Amber over to get me another beer.  Whew!  While he was out, I paid the tab.  I wasn’t going to let him get away with paying for our dinner (most readers will find this hard to believe).  He greatly appreciated the gesture and we headed out to find a campsite.  I brought my tent just in case I hadn’t overstayed my welcome and Nimblewill wanted the company.  We found a spot and set up camp.  I laughed when I saw his pack compared to mine.  I was only out for the night and he was hiking 1100 miles, but his pack was a third the size and weight of mine.  

I didn't get a picture of the packs, but I think this gives you the idea

My tent was also a lot larger than his noseeum mesh tent, specially made for him.  His trekking poles were used as tent poles, giving him more room than most single person ultra lightweight tents.  With camp set up, we resumed our conversations.  With a long day of hiking behind us, we soon retreated back to our tents.  I was caked in sweat as the heat persisted.  Eventually I passed out, only to be woken up an hour later by a crazy noise.  What the hell was that?  Here's a video with the sound.  I heard footsteps rustling around in the dry leaves and decided it was a deer, but that noise was crazy!  The deer must have been interested because it kept walking close to camp only to scamper away and return shortly to repeat it, all while making that weird noise.  Oh well.

Dawn arose and so did we.  As Nimblewill broke down his tent, I went through his maps writing in good places to stop (Strawberry Lady and Johann’s) and drawing in places where new trail has been added because he was using the old maps.  With that all squared away, Nimblewill said his daily morning prayer and we said our goodbyes.  It had been a wonderful experience hiking with the legend Nimblewill Nomad.  He was extremely welcoming and a great person to talk to.  I learned a lot from the veteran hiker and I hope I was able to make his walk through Devil’s Lake more enjoyable.  Perhaps our paths will cross again, perhaps not, either way, my day with a real Nomad was one I won’t forget.

As Nimblewill ambled away I thought of our conversation the previous night.

“Why did you hike the Ice Age Trail?”  That was Nimblewill’s question to me.  My token answer of “because I can” or “it was a goal” seemed shallow and weak when they flowed from my mouth and he didn’t buy it.  So why did I hike?  Deep down, I hiked because I needed to push myself.  Taking the easy route was/is second nature to me and has led me nowhere.  Hiking is primeval and humans have always done it.  They followed game into new lands and never stopped exploring what was around the corner.  This continued with the advent of boats, enabling humans to explore further and quicker than before.  When this wasn’t enough, we looked to the poles, space and the depths of the oceans.  The great explorations have ended so we need something to catch our imagination, something to celebrate.  Strapping a pack on your back with everything you need to survive and walking for hundreds or thousands of miles can fill the void of exploration.  Were exploring the land and ourselves.  So why do I hike?  I don’t know, I can’t put it into words.  Yet.

The Great East Coast Road Trip Vol. Eight

It was Monday, December 12^th and was time to bid Acadia National Park adieu after staying there the last three nights.  I seriously thought of scrapping my plans and head north along the coast, perhaps to Canada to see what other mischief I could get into.  The rugged coast struck a chord with me and I wanted to explore her more deeply.  The locals had been great and I expected more of the same if I hugged the Atlantic.  Maybe I could find a captain who’d let me catch lobster with him for a day.  That would be a lot of fun.  Ahhhh.  What to do?  After thinking it through and looking at camping options along the coast, I broke down my tent, packed my car and started my drive inland.  The ample land around Millinocket and Baxter State Park was a cheaper and easier bet than figuring something out elsewhere.

Before making it to Millinocket, I had to swing through Bangor and pay homage to Stephen King, where he lives in a fairly modest home.  Talking to a guy in Bar Harbor, I learned that the previous owner of the house had committed suicide by jumping off a bridge, strangely fitting of the horror writers’ macabre books.  A new book in my favorite book series, his Dark Tower collection, is being released this spring!

Stephen King's House.  Note the bats and spiderweb theme with his wrought iron fence.

After the quick snapshot, I hopped on I-95 and headed to Millinocket, with something less than a plan.  Huge swaths of forest whirled by the further north I went.  Arriving in Millinocket, I stopped by the Baxter State Park office.  Perhaps, the folks in the office could give me an idea of where to go.  I struck up a conversation with the office lady and name-dropped Lester Kenway.  Lester is one of the most well respected authorities on working with and transporting rock in the trail building community.  He pioneered the techniques used around the county while working at Baxter State Park.  I had attended a training of his in late September at Devil’s Lake so I felt name-dropping was appropriate.  She responded favorably by handing me an application for their trail crew.

Lester drilling into a rock

Rock split in half with nice flat sides

The lady gave me a rundown of things to do in the area that were open in the winter.  I couldn’t camp at Baxter because to camp in the winter, you have to submit an application with a list of all your camping gear at least a week in advance.  Baxter is a 200,000-acre wilderness park and home to Mt. Katahdin the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.  Needless to say, it’s a big chunk of land with no road access in the winter so you are on your own if tackling it in winter.  She told me the park road was not plowed but there hadn’t been much snow so far so I could drive all the way to the gate and check things out from there.  I bought a map and headed to an outfitter in town to get a bottle of iodine tablets just in case I got lost without a good source of clean water. 

I talked with the guy at the store for a while.  He was the first person who had heard of the Ice Age Trail!  He explained why the rules for winter use at Baxter were so onerous.  In the 60’s, the park manager lost a friend when he went into the park to rescue some folks who were not prepared.  I laid out my tentative plans for the rest of the trip and he suggested a place to go in the White Mountains.  His suggestion was a fantastic addition to the trip, but that’s for another post.  The folks I met on top of Cadillac Mt. the day before told me about camping along the Golden Road, which is a logging road that is kept open year round.  The guy at the store backed the information up and I headed out.

Katahdin loomed on the horizon, beckoning me closer.  It felt like driving to Flagstaff, AZ from the east where the mountain dominates the landscape for miles and miles.  I wasn’t sure where the Golden Road (to Unlimited Devotion) was but figured I could wing it and find it.  The road ceased to be plowed 15 miles from the park, but it wasn’t too bad so I kept going.  I made it to a gate and stopped to walk around and take some pictures.  It was a crystal clear day and the snow-covered Katahdin was beginning to blush in the late afternoon sun.  I had better find this Golden Road before too long. 

Baxter State Park

Katahdin in the distance along the icy park road.  I really failed at taking pictures this day.  Many times I saw what could be a great picture only to drive by without snapping a shot.  Fail.

Here's the view driving into Flagstaff and what it looked like driving to Katahdin, well Maine had trees, but you get the idea.

I headed back the way I came and got a little too confident on the icy road.  My car started fishtailing wildly.  Shit.  There was no cell coverage and it was 15 miles to the nearest house.  The prospects of someone coming along to pull me out of the ditch were somewhere in the range of the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series this year.  The rear end touched both sides of the road.  I was only seconds from disaster, when my Wisconsin skills kicked in and I miraculously regained control of the flailing Intrepid.  I think I should slow down a bit.

The map I had wasn’t the best and I turned down a “road” which turned out be an old logging road or tote road because the ruts started causing my car to bottom out.  I turned around and had to gun it down the hill just so I had enough speed to make it up the next ice-covered hill.  My car and I survived and I finally discovered the Golden Road.  I’m not sure how I missed it the first time.  It was a nice, wide paved road that was plowed.  I passed a few logging trucks on my way to the Abol Campground which the guy in Millinocket had pointed me towards.  Turns out it’s not open in the winter, but the logging company has campsites all along the road, opening up their land for public use. 

The Golden Road is maintained by the logging company and is similar to other roads around Maine, a lot of them charge you to use them.  I’m not sure if there was a fee for this road because I snuck on and off via an access road.  The guy I talked to at the campground, pointed out the Appalachian Trail had camping and was just a hundred yards down the road.  I drove up and parked on the side of the road and headed into the woods.  Dusk had arrived and not even the summit of Katahdin found the last rays of the day.  

Golden Road (To Unlimited Devotion)

I threw together my backpack and set off into the Maine Woods.  This was the last 3 miles of Maine’s fabled 100-mile Wilderness.  Nowhere to resupply or get help for 100 miles.  Awesome.  I was excited to stay at an official Appalachian Trail shelter and the Hurd Brook Lean-to, 3.3 miles down trail, provided me that opportunity.  The trail was rough with roots and rocks, but easy to follow in the darkness.  My days seem to becoming more and more crepuscular in nature.  An inch or two of snow covered the ground, illuminating the trail, but eventually the cedars and hemlocks blocked out the snow and light, forcing me to turn on the headlamp.  I started out excited, but soon my brain started working against me.  “What am I doing out here?  Hiking a crappy trail at night in the middle of nowhere and for what?”  My feet never turned against me and soon enough I was at the lean-to.

Entering the 100-mile Wilderness

Hurd Brook Shelter

I made dinner and started to peruse the trail register that sits on a shelf inside, protected from the weather.  After reading a bit, I realized that the Hurd Brook campsite is the last night on the AT for a lot of the thru-hikers. The register was filled with hikers named Swift, Witch Doctor, Happy Pappy, Bumblebee and the Bearded Jew.  From their entries, a lot of the hikers were trying to outrun a hurricane while others were reminiscing about the previous 2000 miles.  One guy said this was his 17^th thru-hike!  I hope to be back someday, I just need a trail name (I was always partial to Chimp, in reference to Rick Moranis’s character in Strange Brew [Here's the clip!])!  

One of many trail names scratched into the shelter's walls

Reading through, you get a sense of the community that is created over 2000 miles.  You keep seeing and talking to the same people as you trek north and leave notes for one another at registers along the trail.  It seems the hard part of the AT is physical, not mental, because someone is always there to pick you up if you’re feeling down or having trouble.  Maybe I’m wrong.  A few people who’ve hiked the AT had trouble with the Ice Age Trail when they got to the Northwoods because it is filled with solitude.  I’m a lonely guy in general so the IAT wasn’t too bad (wait, I talk to everyone…)

Hurd Brook

I kept seeing lights through the trees, which made me think town was close, but I realized it was just the stars, acting as my streetlights.  I dozed off with clear skies overhead and a gurgling stream providing the soundtrack.  Tomorrow my voyage was headed to Rangeley, Maine.  I didn’t know what I was going to find there, but I sure didn’t expect the craziness that ensued.