Baxter State Park, Maine – Day 2

With day-one successfully written in the history book of epic memories, I was softly jarred awake by my alarm.

It was now 4am: game time once again.

For days leading up to my Baxter State Park road trip the weather waxed and waned, clear skies with low wind to heavy precip with plenty of gusting winds. As I sat motionless, waiting for my eyes to adjust and my mind to comprehend that I heard no wind, no rain.

The cries of 10,000 peepers confirmed that the rain was holding off for me, even the loons tried to coax me out of my sleeping bag from Millinocket Lake.

In a pleasant state of disbelief that clear skies were greeting me overhead I began my typical morning ritual of French press coffee. I was on a low autopilot as to not wake my neighbors who seemingly had a much more celebratory evening than I.

The previous evening found me on a mission to find drinking water. As I searched, three other campers joined my hunt. With empty Nalgene bottles and a glass jug dangling from fingertips like ornaments to a well-stocked Christmas Tree. I roamed the disorganized summer camp with my new found band of thirsty camp friends, keeping the lake water as a very last resort.

Finally, with none of the kitchen staff coming over to advise yes or no on the subject, I tramped into their wet bar area with my slew of containers (which advertised it was an “employee only” area) and filled up off their cold tap water.

Mission accomplished.

With coffee firing up on the stove and to my very pleasant surprise – a moon overhead, the camping gear swiftly began vacating back into my trunk from whence it came.

I could sense the minutes ticking by, increasing my excitement level with each moment as 6am grew near - like a theme park opening the gates at sunrise, this was time day-trekkers were allowed into Baxter State Park to begin their adventures.

I could not believe my luck, a purple and orange sherbet colored sunrise cast directly on the slopes of Katahdin, my lovely view as watched others cook pancakes on their trunks while swatting the onslaught of biting bugs and patiently waited for the gates to open. I found myself a part of a regular boondocking Woodstock scene as we waited patiently for those green gates to let us go play!

Once cleared for entry, my black Subaru was eagerly parked next to the only other car in the Abol day-lot. Gear once again got jammed into my Salomon hydration vest, water flasks all filled, gaiters attached to Altra’s which were laced up, and my COROS watch was awake, searching for satellites to ping, tracking my trek down the trail and back.

Gently warming up and stretching the quads through the sleepy Abol campground, it sure seemed like a Sunday as other trekkers were already awake, packing their vacation homes into bundles of tent and various other gear piles.

First mistake of the day came when the cut-off for the Abol trail was missed. Finding the added 0.8 mile out-and-back a beautiful section of single track to Abol Falls, I simply returned to the campground in search of the correct trail which, upon finding, was basically camouflaged behind a lean-to, with signage down the trail beyond.

The first ‘oh shit’ moment of the day occurred a little over one mile down the Abol trail after departing the campground for the second time in the form of one super-sized thunder clap. I stopped briefly to collect a few thoughts: the rain had yet to begin. In hindsight, this is where my day should have ended, but I stubbornly continued down the trail, convinced that I would simply turn back when the rain fell.

It did not take long before there were several flashes up above, more booming and then came the rain drops one by one.

I pressed on into the storm.

First, a father with three daughters passed by, retreating to safety. Within minutes several other trekkers had passed as well, we were all going the opposite direction.

The rain intensified now into sheets blowing through the trees, the thunder remained steady which had me settled once again, this time, when I became nervous I would return, defeatedly back to the trail head. For now though, I was okay, selling myself the idea that I was, “simply exploring new trails”.

Peering up the switchbacks I could see a neon green pack cover, moving slowly, still ascending. The hiker also appeared determined. I set my short-term goal to just catching up and saying “hello” to this other crazy trekker out in a thunderstorm on the shoulder of Katahdin.

This fellow with the green pack cover was named, “Joe”.

Joe was section hiking the Appalachian Trail and trying to grow his “trail legs” before retiring from his 9-to-5 job and adopted the trail-life full time. Today, Joe was ascending up to the Thoreau Spring where the trail converges with the AT and stated if he felt the conditions were safe enough, he would ascend Baxter, and if not – well, he still had to reach the AT where he would descend west and cut down to Daicey Pond where his wife would be waiting for him with a warm, dry car.

Offering his tarp to cover up, my new friend stopped to add a rain jacket to his layers and as I proceeded out onto the open rock slide, this would be my last encounter with Joe for the day.

Thunder continued but now seemed to echo in the far off southeastern distance. The torrent of rain drops had ceased. The mountainside was completely silent. Hand over hand, boulder by boulder, I slowly put this rock slide below me.

I cannot say this rock slide scared me; I only remember being hyper-alert to my every movement, ensuring every footstep was meaningful and secured to the rock below. With each step I reminded myself that I was now alone up on the highest peak in Maine.

The images of colorful warning signs posted up back on flat ground reminding hikers that self-rescue was a necessity began to float through my mind, all worries of my car, my bank account, my rent, everything that was not right here in front of me in this minute, on this mountain had slipped away and my mind elevated to a most “in the moment” state.

Hand over hand, I climbed.

The weather continued to just float on by, skirting through the surrounding valleys as I reached the top of the slide and leveling off onto a flatter alpine garden.

Glancing toward the west, searching for my Brothers from yesterday’s adventure, I could not believe what I saw - a feathering of blue sky through the dull, grey overcast.

From left to right my eyes scanned the now mostly flat horizon from 4,600ft. What an absolutely stunning landscape laid out before me. Directly northeast was my path, but beyond all of that I could pick out a speck of A-frame.

This was the summit of Baxter – the very northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail!

I could not waste any more time. I ran along this martian terrain, bouncing off the tops of rocks, splashing through the red mineral-rich puddles; next stop, the 5,268ft summit that I searched for in so many of my childhood dreams.

My watch showed 9am as I stood atop Baxter Peak and Katahdin, the highest location in the state of Maine. I had done it!

The rain continued to hold off as I snapped photos of the bronze-colored USGS survey marker, the distant ‘Knife Edge’ trail, and beyond the valley to Hamlin peak. Time to pack up and move on.

That’s when the loudest, ear drum shattering thunderclap I had ever experienced rang out just above my head, somewhere within the thousand cloud layers just above my head. I leapt up, hair on my neck stood straight, I figured this was mother natures cue to stop screwing around on her mountain top and move along. I was lucky today.

A full on sprint began as I turned away from the summit rocks, descending toward The Saddle about a mile away. It seemed that I encountered every type of rock on earth here, the most brutal being the section of red softball-shaped rocks that merely disintegrated underfoot. I made a game of skiing through, over and around these over-sized ball bearings.

From The Saddle around mile 6.5 I motored through the next, gradually ascending wet rocks, new puddles of red mud, and soon disappeared into a scrubby alpine forest where all branches had it out for any unprotected eyes.

Minutes later, heading down the Hamlin Peak spur trail and over a quarter mile sea of jagged rocks, I stood at the cairn marking the high point of this landmass. It was still early enough in the morning to roam around, take in some sights and walk over toward the trails drop-off point before making my return to New Hampshire.

The high point of Katahdin where I had stood only thirty minutes earlier was now shrouded in cloud cover. My timing could not have been any better.

The rain picked up, my cue once again to move along and keep warm. Upon returning to the col of The Saddle, I glanced back to where I had just stood, another high point in which I once stood now tucked deeply into the opaque cloud layer.

Finger joints grew stiff as I made my way back up those red softball-like rocks from earlier, searching for the cut-off and fearing I’d be fucked if I missed it, I simply could not ascent the mighty Katahdin once again now that the rain had picked up!

Now, my trek was completely in a cloud with vision limited to maybe 25ft in any direction as I came upon the cut-off trail back to the Abol, and took off sloshing through every puddle, fingers grew stiff in the chilly alpine air as the rain beat down in soaking sheets all around.

So relieved to come upon signage! Finally, back at the Thoreau Spring junction. I looked around but found nothing but dense cloud, nothing else to do now but continue back where I had ascended earlier this morning, back down the wet Abol Slide.

This was even more of an upper body ordeal now that the rocks had been soaked, puddles had formed and one could even see where thousands of mini-streams had pushed aside sand particles, rushing off the cliffside in the dumping rain as I was on the other side of the mountain only minutes earlier.

It was nice to be back, making good time on familiar turf, running the graded switchbacks.

I snickered to myself at the sight of flat-bottomed Converse All-Stars coming at me and said a warm “good morning!” to three men making their way up the hillside, I wished them a nice day and good, safe hike.

Five hours and fifteen minutes after departing the lot I was able to put a check mark next to my name at the trail register. Nearly thirty years of pondering this moment and I finally defied my fears and safely stood among on the summit rocks of Maine’s high point, Mount Katahdin.

At this point, the dream of ascending all New England 4000-footers was becoming a reality; the remaining peaks were basically in my backyard.

Overall stats for the day:
13.45miles
5hr 29minutes
5,833ft elevation gain

Baxter Peak, - 5,268ft
Hamlin Peak - 4,756ft

Baxter State Park: Mount Katahdin

Finishing the NH48

Baxter State Park: The Brothers