Appalachia, December 2000

But for the three late-twentieth-century hikers this was autumn—long past azalea blossoms and blackflies.

At first they found the climb gradual. At a little over a mile they passed a short side trail leading to Katahdin Stream Falls. Here ascent became steeper. By two miles they had crossed O-Joy Brook—the last sure water in dry weather—and at 2.7 miles they came to the Cave, a small slab fortress offering shelter if the weather turned bad. But the sky was clear and they were eager.

Then ascent became even steeper. At nearly three miles and 3,000 feet, they began to see the first signs of winter. Rime, oriented with the wind, crusted twig and boulder. It had become fairyland, a world of crisp, spun sugar in the colder air. Soon they reached Hunt Spur, a steep, rough ridge leading upward to a huge plateau called the Tableland.

By 4,600 feet, at a point called the Gateway, the temperature had plummeted. Green and golden fall patched with bright red blueberry leaves had changed to crusted white winter. A gentle walk across Tableland tundra brought them to Thoreau's spring, its unremarkable seeps flowing a few feet before freezing solid.

Clouds swept down. Breath became frozen the moment it was exhaled. It was necessary to search carefully for cairns that marked the trail. Getting lost would be dangerously easy, since the white trail markers had disappeared from view.

Then the far end of the plateau grew gradually steeper. Moving slowly now, accompanied by one or two other shivering hikers in a swirling smother, the three skittered up an extra 500 glittering feet, reaching Baxter Peak at last. To the east, they knew, would lie the Knife Edge leading to South Peak across a narrow arete to Pamola. To the west was Saddle going downhill to Chimney Pond Campground in the mountain's great cirque. But all this was hidden.

Standing on the summit at 5,267 feet, the cold so intense even their eyes seemed to freeze, they huddled briefly amongst the crags, nodding, grinning, saying little; then they descended quickly.

In spite of numbed toes and fingers, they felt as Thoreau might have 150 years ago when he wrote: "What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star's surface, some hard matter in its home!"⁶

—J. A. Pollard is a freelance writer living in Winslow, Maine.

¹ Marion J. Bradshaw. The Nature of Maine, As Seen by a Teacher of Philosophy. Published by the author, 1944, p. 143 ² Henry David Thoreau. The Maine Woods. New York: Bramhall House, 1950, pp.262, 264-5 ³ Thoreau, p. 270 ⁴ Thoreau, p. 267 ⁵ Clayton Hall & June Thomas. Chimney Pond Tales: Yarns Told by Leroy Dudley. Cumberland Center, Maine: The Pamola Press, 1991, p.xi ⁶ Thoreau, p. 278.

Previous:
Katahdin rime