Chapter 15
Mount Katahdin, Baxter State Park, Maine
2168 miles
"Blackbird singin' in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life you have only waited for this moment to arise. Blackbird, fly into the light of the dark black night."
John Lennon/Paul McCartney
At
midnight Wayah put out his little fire and started nudging the scattered
sleeping bags as the Vikings quietly began to stir. They packed up
their
bags and gear and put on all their layers of clothing; the night air had
turned frigid while they slept. Some put on the Viking Warpaint. Wayah
pulled
out his mask, the red-brown leather face bearing the scowl of the Wolf,
and tied the leather straps loosely behind his head. The Vikings slid
over
the two miles to Katahdin Stream campground and stopped to make hot tea
before they dropped their packs. The crisscrossed beams of the headlamps
lit the steam as it rose from the pot over the stove, and they drank
the
tea and filled water bottles with the steaming liquid and looked at the
map one last time before stuffing it into a pack. Katahdin was like
a great
wall on the profile map. It was the steepest, toughest climb on the whole
trail and the profile map had an extra fold out three times the regular
height to record it. The climb was 4,200 feet of vertical gain, most
of
it in the first three miles, and they were going to tackle it in the dark.
They quietly leaned their packs inside the ranger's porch, but somehow
he
woke up anyway and ambled into the night trying to show more authority
than weariness. The
Mountain embraced them like its children, Their bodies were heating up from
the climb and the woods wrapped around them, shadows dancing in the weaving
lights. They stopped briefly where the trail broke away from Katahdin Stream
for a drink and then continued on in single file, saying little. Up and
up they went, the trail steep and jagged. They had to use their hands often,
and scrambled up sheer faces, trying not to slide down on top of each other.
Whoever was leading would often stop on a ledge for a moment to catch his
breath and let everyone catch up. The night was cold, but occasionally a
phantom wind would blow down the face of the Mountain carrying warm air
from some faraway tropical land.
Half
way up they broke out above treeline. They could see to the sides as
far as their lights would reach, and all around them was rock. Clear
stars
lit the clean fabric of night and ended in a great arc of black where the
Mountain waited above them. Now the climb was all on rock. From boulder
to boulder they scrambled and leaped, always up, sometimes so steeply
there
were metal bars drilled into the stone to grab on to. From the front Wayah
would stop and turn off his light. Behind him he could see the trail
of
six headlamps weaving up the rocky slope. With the light back on, the rocks
around him were lit, and beyond them the world trailed off into cold
darkness
and sky. The wind blew cool across the rock face, refreshing them as they
grew hotter from the continual climb. They had worried before they
began
that the night climb would be dangerously cold, but the temperature couldn't
have been more perfect. They climbed hand over hand as if the mountain
were
a play structure, and each new rock was a puzzle to be grappled with.
Then the rock leveled. The climb up the mountain face was over and
they emerged onto the Table Lands on top. They had less than two miles to
go. In front, Wayah could see the eastern sky beginning to slip from black
to dark blue, a halo of color breaking the night, and in the center of it,
the peak of the mountain stuck up as if it were the source of that dimmest
of lights. In the back, Squirrelfight could see the silhouettes of his friends
winding along the rock-strewn plain, their lights dancing at their feet.
The procession moved quickly, hopping over the rocks as they appeared out
of the black and watching the sky ahead grow slowly brighter. The stars
that crowned the mountain's approaching peak started to fade.
Contrast grew in the cracks between the rocks as dawn approached
and Wayah turned off his headlamp, picking his way toward the top as his
eyes adjusted to the dimness. Ahead he could see the silhouette of the wooden
sign that was imprinted in his head from so many photos on the walls of
post offices or trail stations. It was barely distinct from the tangled
rocks of the slope, but the shape was so hauntingly familiar as to be unmistakable.
It was the end. He turned on his light and read the ancient, weather beaten
planks. They had passed hundreds of wooden signs with arrows pointing up
and down the trail, giving distances to the next spring, road or shelter,
but all the arrows on this sign pointed back the way they came.
KATAHDIN
"Its a little late for a midnight hike, don't
you think?" the ranger boomed, shattering the silence.
"Actually," said Wayah, checking his watch through his mask, "it's
the perfect time. We'd best be movin' on."
Baxter Peak - Elevation - 5267 ft.
Northern Terminus of the
Appalachian Trail
A Mountain Footpath Extending Over
2000 Miles to Springer Mtn. Georgia
< Thoreau Spring 1.0m
< Katahdin Stream Campground 5.2
< Penobscot West Branch At Abol Bridge 14.5
< Maine - New Hampshire State Line 274.0
< Mt. Washington, N. H. 323.6
<Springer Mtn., Georgia 2135.0
Behind
him came the other Vikings, stopping in silence to see the sign and
to think their own thoughts. Katahdin was more beautiful than they
could
have dreamed. On the horizon the blues that drifted into the starry sky
were growing bright, and edges of purple and pink were giving way to
reds
and oranges. They gathered there on top, silent but for the quiet congratulations
and warm embraces. Their giddiness was overcome with awe as they sunk
into
the landscape and waited for those first rays of the sun. The sky grew
ever brighter, drowning the stars and casting light down into the valleys
that
swam in milky lakes of mist. The minutes went by with all their eyes fixed
on the horizon, waiting for that first speck of light as the mountain
they
had blindly scaled slowly revealed itself below of them, the megalithic
rocks dropped sharply and endlessly, the walls veined with the gashes
and
wrinkles of the teeth and claws of glaciers and countless years. To either
side, like the bowed wings of an angel, stretched the arms of Katahdin.
The Table Land from which they had come, wide and flat, and the Knife
Edge
where they would descend when they saw the masses approaching the summit,
its path narrow and jagged and magnificent.
Then it jumped the horizon, a pinprick of brilliant white and fire that began slowly to unfold. They put their hands up high and felt those first rays on their fingertips. On October 1st, 1995, the sun slid over the ocean to find Vikings waiting on the summit of that most beautiful of mountains.
* * *
I untied the straps that held the leather mask to my face and slid down to a seat among the rocks, setting it gently in my lap. The cold wind that curled across the summit caught the thin layer of sweat that had gathered under the mask during the climb. I looked around at my friends smiling and at peace, watching the sun, which was still slipping gently out of the mist, and wondered who I was. Would the Wolf and the Viking Lord die when there was no more trail, or would I carry them always with me in the world? For hours we sat there with the sun's warmth cutting through the hard breeze, filling the sky with an unwavering blue, igniting the wispy clouds that drifted above and beyond us. Truly there has never been a peace so pure as those hours when we sat on the earth's throne, kings and children, watching the world turn around us.
When we spied the specks of hikers and reporters scrambling across the Table Land, we left the summit and the white blazes. The Knife's Edge danced up and down, the trail along its edge, one of the most exciting sections of trail we had found yet, but it was no longer the trail. We weren't heading for camp or the next spring, we were headed to a parking lot where cars and family waited with food and drinks, and then back to the unchanging world that we suddenly felt like strangers in.
I returned home, to school and study, to my house and dog and bed, my friends from the trail so far away that only an airplane or days in a car would bring me to them. Life settled back in and routine infected my days, making schedules, taking vacations, and paying bills. And sometimes it seems like the trail has faded into the dark and shadowed comers of my mind, but now and then I hear the Wolf stirring the leaves and those days come back to me in all their passion and laughter and strength. The sun on a field, or a breeze trough the trees can bring it all back, as can the unencumbered laughter of my friends. The trail gave me a chance to live an entire lifetime over six and a half months, to look at it from the outside and see it clearly. What is this life if not another trail, winding along paths we can only hope to chart, pushing toward our goals and pausing for a moment of perfect awareness where the earth drops away into beauty? I raise my glass to all the Vikings, even those who have never set foot on the trail. Here's to good friends. Here's to laughter. Here's to days off, ice cream, new socks, mountain springs, and the random kindness of strangers. I can hear the Wolf call, "It's time to get movin'".
