Final Recap

Done!  I finished the AT on top of Katahdin yesterday at 3:11 PM just as the first peals of thunder sounded.  On my way up the final half mile, I passed a group of three headed down, the last three lingerers at the summit.  So I had the place to myself for a few minutes of amateur photography, and then a very hurried but very careful traverse of the knife edge and down to Roaring Brook Campground.  The brook, and the trail, were roaring – with continual thunder and a current of water cascading down the mountain.  Under other circumstances, I might have been unhappy.  As it was, wonder and joy poured out of my brain and body and I giggled a couple times on the way down.

And here I sit 24 hours later, thinking I should recap the thing for anyone curious, and for myself before I put the computer away to rest some more. I’ve broken it into segments for organizational purposes.

Part 1: We’re Doing It! 

For 12 days plus a couple hours, Kyler and I were on our way to an Appalachian Trail speed record.  It was exhausting for both of us.  At some point around day 10, we shared with each other that on a few occasions since day 1, we had each, separately, suddenly and spontaneously thought to ourselves, “We’re doing it!”

We averaged over 49 miles per day over the first 12 days, short of Karel Sabbe’s incredible record pace of 52+, but with plenty of easier miles ahead.  My mind, constantly averaging, summing, and otherwise calculating and recalculating by the hour, figured we’d be ahead of Karel’s pace before crossing the Mason-Dixon Line.  Even when hobbling through day 12, I was thinking the quad strain would melt away and I’d be doing a glorious 60 miler through Shenandoah National Park.  Like so many others, those were some rosy predictions.

On day 13, I lamely but gamely set off on a relatively flat, smooth section, and even jogged a little.  But the quad quickly got worse and the trail more difficult.  My stride changed to compensate, something I’d avoided on day 12 with some interesting use of trekking poles and slightly stronger legs.  I whimpered.  I thought about introducing Kyler to the notion of zero days.  I got to our first planned meetup nine miles in having already decided to call it.  Kyler blames himself for not being there (it was one of only a couple meetups he missed the whole summer; ask him about the cliff when you see him), but I was sure.  

I ate some stuff and drank some stuff and we drove off to get more things to eat and drink and rest at a couple of AirBnBs for the next two nights.  It was mostly relaxing and calming, and we treated my quad good with RICE and occasional 10 minute walks scouting upcoming trail segments.  Voiced plans to compete for second place all-time were not acted upon, and we languished.

Still though, this was always as much about doing the Appalachian Trail as fast as I could as about setting the record.  Kyler drove me back to the trailhead on day 15.  He was headed back to Washington for four days to attend a memorial service and relocate his school life to Olympia.  (He got hired on day 7!  We celebrated with sunset bourbon shots at the south end of the Nolichucky River.) He was meeting my Dad between DC and the trailhead; they were to trade cars and places for the next four days.  Kyler walked about 5 minutes down the trail with me to make sure my quad was good enough for perpetual forward [slow-]motion.  It was, so we hugged and said, “Good first chapter.”  He turned around and headed back to the car while I continued northbound, sighing sadly.

An excerpt from a journal entry I wrote for this website on the afternoon of day 13 reads:

Things that stand out for Corey over the last couple weeks are: the ups and downs and flats; the rocks and roots and smooth trail (all well-maintained); views of Virginia valleys; long bouts of semi-delirium; wildlife encounters; ridgetop sunrises; Kyler constantly doing him “another favor” and providing occasional, well-timed, peaceful forest guitar interludes; waterfalls and thick rhododendron forests that sometimes gently pat him on the head when his head is down; and the trail always finding a way to make the evening perfectime hours manageable, enjoyable, and rewarding.

Things that stand out for Kyler over the last couple weeks are: Corey’s ability to keep going; the way it waited to rain until we had to hike to shelters with gear on cold dark nights; the friendliness of people on the trail; and the vast distances and the scope of places the trail covers.

Part 2: The Doldrums

Seeing my Dad for the first time in a year and a half was something for which to be very happy and excited, and after 23 miles that day, in the waning light of perfectime, I was coming down to Big Horse Gap hoping to see the familiar Excargo-topped CRV waiting.  I expected another 1.5 miles in my future to the better-marked-on-the-map/s Sugar Run Gap. Looking for the car as I came down to road crossings was a familiar and practiced routine at this point, and I had already certified this crossing as Excargo-less.  But just as I was crossing the road, here comes the car peeling around the far bend in the gravel forest service road.  Dad parked, happy and a little surprised to have found me.  We hugged and headed for Pearisburg.

Four days of slow get-ups, cautious hiking, fairly low mileage (25+ per day), and hotel rooms followed.  They were restful, as I walked less, caught up with my Dad, and drank coffee in bed while watching sports and reading in the mid-morning hours.  But the days were also sad, as my little kid dream of setting the AT record was in tatters.

Much more heartbreaking was the death of my uncle, who was riding his bicycle into Port Townsend with my aunt Sigrid when he was hit in the back of the head by something hanging out of a passing pickup truck.  Uncle Stan and aunt Sigrid have been my only family nearby since I moved to Washington.  My first summer in Olympia, Stan took me on my first Washington canoe trip down the nearby Black River.  Paddling around a bend, I saw my first wild bald eagle; it was close and big and looked even bigger as it startled and took off.

Unscripted and beautiful nature experiences were a constant in my relationship with Stan.  The second-to-last time I saw him, we took his canoe out and headed south through a windy, choppy Port Townsend Bay. We paddled in silence for about 10 minutes until Stan finally asked how comfortable I was. We both voiced our apprehension and our firm belief that it was, you know, probably fine. Those were among the riskiest conditions I’ve ever canoed in, but the risk was more to our comfort than our safety.

Stan was the one, many years ago, to put a name to something I’d felt since childhood: Suffer Theory.  Safety and security and warm cozy comfort are all the more-so after being in conditions just the opposite.

On day 18, I spoke to Stan for just a few seconds, telling him how thankful and appreciative I am of the part he’s played in my life.  He died two days later.  I thought about him and about Suffer Theory a lot this summer.

My Dad and Kyler did another switcheroo on day 19.  I would see my Dad again soon, further north.  I’d rested a lot, my quad discomfort was negligible, and Kyler was coming back, so there were reasons to smile.  I came down to the parking lot at VA-685, the trailhead for the iconic McAfee Knob, and resupplied myself out of the back of the CRV.  Kyler had left me a note: “I’ve returned to help you bring the ring to Mordor.”  

Kyler  was resting at the knob with an ice cold gatorade he’d obtained from a hiker met on the way up, and happily shared with me.  (In fact, I probably drank it all.  This kind of thing happened a lot, and I would have felt worse about it if we both hadn’t known that Kyler could walk a few miles back to the car and secure any food/drink item he wanted within minutes, eat/drink it, and then take a half hour nap.  So I drank the whole ice gatorade, alright?)

While overlooking a picturesque Virginia valley, we caught up and chatted about our weekends, about TJ and Stan, about our thoughts regarding the remaining summer.  As happened several times (or one continuous time) throughout the trip, no final decisions were made.  But we agreed to meet in Daleville in about 16 miles for the night.  We stayed at the Howard Johnson’s there, ate fajita platters and ice cream and drank a couple beers and probably looked for/watched a Tom Hanks movie on the hotel tv.  We were both tired and sad, and we slept well that night.

Part 3: we’re doing it again

I left Daleville, and Kyler still in bed at the HoJos, around 9 the next morning, “in search of an attitude adjustment.”  It was another sunny day, with easier terrain than the average AT stretch.  Despite the late start, I covered 37 miles and got into Cornelius Creek Shelter before dark, without a headlamp, to find Kyler alone in the shelter strumming his guitar.  That evening, we talked about how we felt happier when we slept outside and got up earlier.

In part by sleeping outside and getting up earlier, nearer the trail and farther from creature comforts, we averaged over 40 miles from day 20 (leaving Daleville) thru day 33 into New Jersey.  We were extremely lucky with the weather, and morning miles were usually beautiful.  My quad injury was completely forgotten, and my momentum was only checked by some sort of ankle sprain for about half a day in Pennsylvania.  We even managed a couple of symbolic 53s (thereby gaining on Karel).

As expected, the trail got easier.  At times, I would be running along for several minutes and think, ‘This is too easy.  Am I on the trail?’ and wouldn’t relax until I saw the next white blaze.  On day 23, the first in Shenandoah National Park, I found myself running on smooth trail along a ridge that sloped gently down with no imminent uphills.  It was glorious.

In the middle of a long day heading into Harper’s Ferry and a much needed zero, slugging coke and oily veggie wraps, Kyler and I continued our ongoing discussion of future summer plans.  No decisions were made.  I remember looking at him and telling him, with a deep conviction I rarely feel for anything, “I’m so tired.”

I got into Harper’s Ferry after dark and Kyler whisked me to an AirBnB in Sharpsburg.  I slept well, woke up, and went downstairs to read on the expansive couch with a cup of coffee.  Kyler went out for a few minutes and came back with a large box of large donuts from a Mom and Pop shop a block away, then commenced making a huge breakfast for us.  I clipped my nails and soaked my feet while drinking wine and reading more, then took a nap.  We walked a few houses down the street for some local ice cream and then rallied into Harper’s Ferry for 11 northbound miles to buy us some leisure time the following morning.  On the way back to Sharpsburg, we stopped for dinner supplies.

On exactly one occasion during each of my 2006 and 2021 hikes, my stomach questioned what the hell I was up to.  In 2006, I was on my way out of Delaware Water Gap when I thought, ‘Just one last trip to that gas station,’ and ended up five minutes later with five 100 Grand bars and a Milky Way.  Two and a half minutes after that, the candy was gone, and about one minute after that, my stomach clenched up kinda tight for a minute.

That evening in Sharpsburg, Kyler and I capped our rest day with game 6 of the NBA finals and a massive dinner: two steaks (each), a large potato fried up with some onion and scapes, five ears of corn to split, a large bowl of salad, and some chips and salsa for filler.  I was finishing my third dessert popsicle when my stomach hurt and I wondered if I’d maybe overdone it.  I called it quits after the popsicle and slept well that night.

On day 28, refreshed from our nero day, we wrapped up the south with a pretty quick 31 miles to the Mason-Dixon Line, and hammocked right on the border.  On day 29, we started our brisk transit of Pennsylvania, which has a reputation for being flat and rocky.  By day 31, PA and I had come to a truce: I tolerate the slow rocky sections with minimal mental breakdowns, and every once in a while, the state gives me some easy runnable miles.  

On day 33, PA broke that truce at the worst possible time, giving me 30 miles of unbroken rocky ridgeline when I expected an easy day into Delaware Water Gap and 12 hours in bed.  At one point, a deer and I startled each other from about 10 feet away.  It leapt away from the trail exactly twice, then turned to look at me.  I knew what it was thinking: ‘Come kill me if you want, but I’m not running on this shit.’  I doubled, or perhaps tripled, my daily temper tantrum allotment, but with the help of a large mid-day meal, music, and a healthy dose of resignation, I made it to Delaware Water Gap.  Traffic was crawling across the bridge, and I delighted in passing cars as I left the state.  We averaged 47+ miles over five days in Pennslvania.

The  past 14 days had been extremely difficult.  I was a long ways from Katahdin, we weren’t chasing any record, we were still doing big miles, and I was wicked, wicked tired. I had passed up an opportunity to see a long-time high school friend because of our hustle through PA. I find it hugely rewarding now, sitting on my parents’ couch, but at the time I was mostly just tired and pissed and not enjoying myself, although I still held the, “Nowhere I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing” mentality that somehow stuck with me all summer. 

But Kyler’s cold drinks, club sandwiches, and generally positive attitude shined light on the circumstances.  I was also getting closer to New England, and to trail company for the first time.

Part 4: Visitors, at the Worst Possible Time

A late start the next morning (comfortable beds, coffee, air-drying clothes, local pastries, etc.) meant falling short of the day’s High Point State Park goal, but we got close enough.  We pulled up to our campsite right before Aaron, Trevor, and Ryan arrived from New York City with a bunch of food and drinks and a huge tent to play Monopoly in.  I greeted them with longer-and-more-deeply-felt-than-usual hugs, and I ate pizza while they set up their tent.
The next day’s miles were the most upbeat in a long time.  Kyler’s great and all, but he was rarely able to run north with me, and the loneliness I’d felt since Springer had grown less fun.  My DooM Haus buddies all took turns running and shuttling over the next couple days, and I really enjoyed spending time with them.  We even had some runnable forested miles in New Jersey!  It felt amazing to run through the woods again (all of PA’s runnable miles were on forest service roads, or through fields), and we did 35 miles that first day, finishing just north of that long boardwalk through the NJ wetland, where we saw lots of dragonflies.  Weather, fatigue, and not knowing where we were going to stay prompted us to drive to Ryan’s cabin in the Catskills.  It was a couple hours out of the way, round-trip, but it was worth it to finally see the place, and in the morning, over a leisurely cup of coffee, we all reported the best night’s sleep we’d had in a while.

Back to the trail the next day and I immediately knew something was wrong with my leg.  The injury that briefly popped up in Pennsylvania returned in a more debilitating way.  I could only walk all day (heartbreaking considering the much easier terrain), and called it early after 22 miles.  We drove Trevor and Ryan back to the city, dropping Ryan off at the subway and getting a hotel room with Trevor for the night.  I tried to RICE my leg real good, and was still optimistic about the next day.

The next ten days or so were all about the leg.  Kyler had by this point resolved to continue with me as long as he could, and I was optimistic we’d get to Katahdin together, but I was forced to shorter and shorter days.  I couldn’t run at all, and even walking could be painful if I stepped wrong.  We got to the NY/CT border (we finally reached New England, even if it was Connecticut!) and I told Kyler I needed another Sharpsburg-type situation.

It was unfortunate, because some dedicated visitors were scheduled to join us.  But on the plus side, Steve, rather than running 50 miles through CT with me, brought the whole family, and his 1.5-year-old son Manny was able to do 10 miles with us (in Steve’s backpack).  Manny was freed from his pack on a small Connecticut peak and I swear I’ve never seen such a sure-footed 1.5-year-old.  He and his Dad (along with his Mom, Jen, until their second child was born) were nearing completion of all the 4,000 footers in New Hampshire, so it was a practiced routine for the two of them.  The family also exposed some deficits in Kyler’s crew game by providing me with an umbrella-shaded chair to sit in and a tray full of cinnamon rolls.  I enjoyed the pit stop and talking with Steve about his new book (The Quiet Zone: Unraveling the Mystery of a Town Suspended in Silence) while we hiked together, and Kyler and I both enjoyed the meal Steve and Jen treated us to afterwards.

We checked into a hotel for the night with the prerequisite pints (of ice cream) and I looked forward to an easy 10 mile day the following day, with lots and lots of resting.  I was also very much looking forward to a visit from my parents and Hannah.  It was wonderful to come across them on the trail the next day.  I Boom-goes-the-dynamite-d Hannah, and we hiked down, drove back to the hotel, and rested some more until dinner.  Dad diagnosed a stress fracture in my leg and got me an ankle brace that, along with my high-top boots, helped a lot.  I was able to walk without painful steps all the next day.

My parents went home, but having Kyler and Hannah along meant that I would always have company on the trail (unless it was really buggy).  It was nice to spend time with Hannah doing one of our favorite things: running (well, walking) through the woods and mountains, though she [rightfully] poo-pooed the “mountains” of southern New England.  And it was nice to walk with Kyler all north, rather than him having to drive ahead and backtrack, drive ahead and backtrack all day long.

I was still optimistic about getting to Katahdin with Kyler, but I knew we needed to up the mileage again.  I tried in Massachusetts, putting in a 30+ mile day 42 without any painful steps.  The next day was close to 40 miles and although I was tired (always so tired) at the end of it, there were no painful steps that day either.  

However, that night my leg hurt just lying in bed, which I took as a bad sign.  I’d planned to do 45 miles (into Vermont!) the next day as the last real chance to get back on track, but ended up lying in bed instead.  It was well into morning when we finally started the nine mile leg from Dalton to Cheshire.  It was hot, and I was tired, and I didn’t feel great, and my leg might still have been hurting, and about halfway to Cheshire I resolved to quit that day.  I didn’t tell Hannah, who was hiking with me at the time.

We met Kyler at a snack stand.  He brought delicious veggie wraps and baked goods, and I ordered a couple of milkshakes and a banana split from the stand, and told Hannah and Kyler I was done for good.  I didn’t want to hurt my body anymore, and it felt arbitrary whether I struggled to the VT/NH border, or the MA/VT border, or just stopped right there in Cheshire, so I might as well just stop right there in Cheshire.

“But I still want to hike while I’m here!” Hannah said.

“You and Kyler can hike up Greylock and I’ll be the support driver,” I replied.

“But,” Hannah sputtered…  “Your leg doesn’t hurt on the uphills right?”

“No.”

“So let’s at least hike up Greylock.”

I’d thought about this even before voicing my preference to quit, and didn’t really have a good answer as to why I shouldn’t climb Greylock at least.  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

I did think about it while I ate my banana split, and still couldn’t come up with a good reason to not climb Greylock.  So we did.  Mostly in silence.  Hannah and I have only been together for half a year or so, but she’s developed a knack for managing my whims and stubbornness, and probably knew that my internal voices would be much better at convincing me to keep going after Greylock than she would be.  And that’s what happened: my leg felt a little better, the miles weren’t so bad, we were getting closer to the parts I was most excited about, and there just wasn’t a good reason to quit.  Kyler and Hannah and I hung out on top of Greylock for a while and enjoyed the view, and I sheepishly told them I’d keep going after all, and we should camp at a road crossing some miles ahead.

Despite the continued forward progress, all three of us still felt down.  We agreed to get another hotel room to rest comfortably and be down and come up with a plan to make it better.  “Buy some strong beers,” Hannah told Kyler.

We got cleaned up and Kyler and I talked about how we weren’t going to make it to Katahdin together.  We talked about needing to camp more instead of staying in hotel rooms.  I talked about how tired I was – something Kyler had been hearing all summer.  We came up with a plan that involved camping out the next day, taking some zero days to bring Hannah to the airport and visit some friends, and then backpack through Vermont together.  Afterwards, Kyler would head back to Washington and I’d finish up on my own.  

Part 5: A Taste of Thru-Hiker Life

Days 49 to 53 were lived according to the more relaxed rhythms of thru-hikers: later starts, frequent breaks, chatting with other hikers, food-related side trips, getting water, early finishes.  Kyler did an incredible job making the miles each day.  Backpacking up and down the hills of Vermont for 20 miles a day isn’t easy work, but he did it cheerfully and capably.  My stress fracture pain was erased with a combination of the ankle brace, boots, and not running.  At night, we played Yahtzee and talked about what we’d do differently, FKT-wise.  The terrain got more familiar and homey-feeling as we got closer to my parents’ house.

On day 54, Kyler and I slackpacked the last few miles of Vermont and across the Connecticut River into New Hampshire (New Hampshire!).  It was wonderful to be in New Hampshire; the long road walk through Hanover wasn’t the greatest, but sitting outside the Co-op eating sandwiches and oreos, and drinking ice coffee, was more than pleasant.  Refueled, Kyler and I hiked our last few miles together to my waiting mother, after which I hiked another 10 doubleshot espresso-fueled miles to my last meetup with Kyler, getting to Goose Pond Rd. around 7:15.  The darkening sky was a reminder of just how much of the summer had passed.  We took a picture and headed back to my parents’ house for the night.  The next day, after yet another resounding Yahtzee defeat, Kyler was on his way back to Olympia by way of a train to New York City.

Part 6: Four Days in the Whites

After another zero day to rest and prepare for a self-supported push through New Hampshire and Maine, I slackpacked one last time (or so I thought) to Jeffers Brook Shelter, at the base of Mt. Moosilauke, the southern end of the AT through the White Mountains.  Ahead was the most physically demanding section of the entire Appalachian Trail, and the part I was most excited for.

The next four days were amazing.  I imagined myself, over the previous year, doing 50 mile days in the Whites.  That didn’t happen (and I’m now even more in awe of those who do it), but I put in some solid, hard, beautiful days, averaging 25 mostly self-supported miles a day in the process.  On the morning of day 57, above tree line on Mt. Moosilauke, I saw Smarts Mountain, Mount Cube, and the other smaller hills I’d just come through over the last couple days.  North and easterly like, I could see Franconia Ridge and the Presidential Range ahead.  There were big clouds and patches of blue sky, an empty summit – everything one might hope for when one climbs Mt. Moosilauke.

Then the rain came, and it didn’t stop.  I was warm enough and not unhappy, but realized at some point all my stuff was probably getting soaked and I didn’t have a firm plan of where to spend the night.  I latched onto Lonesome Lake Hut as a good option, and arrived around 5:30.  The hut was nearly empty and I got a bunkroom all to myself.  I discovered that all my stuff was, in fact, soaked, so I draped it over whatever I could before my all you can eat dinner.  I devised a drying space using some extra bunkhouse mattresses, my sleeping bag, and my body heat, and woke fairly rested to the sounds of the Hut Croo singing about lakes and coffee.  Cue all you can eat breakfast.

With dried stuff and slightly better weather, I started out from Lonesome Lake intending to go 27 miles to Ethan Pond.  It was a glorious day going over Lafayette Ridge and the Twins.  I took quick snack breaks every now and again to trace my route backwards and forwards through the mountains.  Always so many mountains to look at.  I felt sorry for Hannah, who was promised mountains and received nothing more than the hilly, forested views of southern New England.  Even though I kept a steady pace, I started to worry about making Ethan Pond, and just when I was sure I’d be hiking in the dark, the trail gave me some flatter, faster miles (a rarity in the Whites).  I made it to the shelter headlampless and feeling accomplished.  I dined on my bag of mixed nuts and M&Ms and went to sleep.

Day 59 started with easy miles down to Crawford Notch and then a wickedly steep climb.  The rest of the Presidential Range was much easier than that initial climb – never completely smooth or easy, but a generally flatter profile.  While hiking and thinking about my pack-and-food situation, I decided to call the parents and see if they could meet me at Pinkham Notch that night with my bigger, more waterproof backpack.  If it meant a night in a hotel and some extra food treats to boot, then so be it.  My Dad, retired, loving, and probably a little bored, jumped on it.  

Now having a firm destination in mind, and that destination still being multiple steep climbs and descents away, I hustled up and over Mt. Washington (walking right past the picture line at the summit, which is part of the AT), traversed the ridge to Madison Hut for a quick break, climbed the wickedly steep (but short) Mt. Madison and descended the wickedly steep (and not short) other side.  This was another beautiful day, sunshine and clouds and row upon row of mountains, miles and miles above treeline, and really, really hard.  I finished those 29 miles in the dark, arriving at Pinkham Notch around 9:15.  My Dad showed me some pictures of a moose and calves he’d seen while waiting at the visitors’ center (no moose sightings for me on either of my AT trips) and took me to Gorham.

Dad gamely stuck around to slackpack me my last day in the Whites, over the Wildcats and Carter and back down to the Androscoggin River, and even decided to stay around another night.  Apparently, he, my Mom, and I all had the same idea that wet and windy day: we should stay in a hotel and get a dry start the next morning.  Finishing the shorter day around 5:30, I had plenty of time to shower, sit in the hotel hot tub, lie in bed, eat dinner, and lie in bed some more before falling blissfully asleep that night, now a resupply and a mile and a half ahead of a schedule that had me summiting Katahdin on September 2nd.

Part 7: It was in Maine

Dad sent me off the next morning with a full, and fully protected, backpack and about 21 miles to hike until Full Goose Shelter, five miles into Maine (Maine!).  And it was in Maine that I broke.  The weather, iffy at first, got worse throughout the day.  The terrain, which started with about a mile of road walk, turned into a never-ending mess of steep slick granite slabs, bog boards through wetlands, and short rooty stretches.  After the first several miles, there was not an easy quarter mile the rest of the way.  Still 290 miles from Katahdin, tired, weighed down by a fully-loaded pack, I was despondent.  Even the border didn’t cheer me up.  I cried.  I screamed “FUUUUUUCCCCCCK!” at the top of my lungs from a socked in mountain top, and shortly thereafter ran into a group of youths, clearly not experienced hikers, making their way along the trail.

“How’s your day going?” one of their leaders asked.

“Pretty shitty,” I replied.  “You might have heard me swearing earlier.”

“Yup,” he smiled, sympathetically it seemed.

I smiled back and apologized, then hurried past the group with about a mile to go to the shelter.  I made it around 6:45, much later than I expected (expectations not matching reality was a constant source of frustration all summer), and realizing along the way the group of non-swearing hikers wouldn’t be arriving until well after dark.

In the relative warmth and dryness of the shelter, and with fellow hikers to commiserate with (one of whom had taken a really nasty fall that day), I felt better.  I ate and hydrated and wrote in my journal that I’d managed to stay on pace for five days, but that I needed to ease the schedule.  Then I went to bed, warm and cozy.  The group of kids trickled by in the rain, headlamps on, at 10:45, and were up before me the next morning.

It was in Maine, starting on day 62, that I lapsed into a more relaxed, thru-hiker-type pace.  Fifteen miles that day, 24 the next, and 17 into Rangeley after that.  There were some hard miles, but the hours on my feet were shorter, the views beautiful, the final, easier stretches of the Appalachian Trail getting nearer.

It was in Maine I suffered my final injury, in the mountains just north of Rangeley, which I thought, and maybe even hoped, would end the suffering.  It was the same day, cutting the day short at Spalding Mt. Lean-to, hurt and forlorn, that I caught my 2006 ghost for the first time.  I slept for about 13 hours and my leg felt better in the morning. It stayed well long enough for me to get up into the final mountain of southern Maine before the pain resurfaced. I cut the day short again, and spent another night with the ghosts of Hot Springs and Donkey Love.  With rain pitter-pattering my tent, I called the 2021 version of Donkey Love and told him how much I missed and appreciated him.  And I called my parents, once again, for help.  They were just about to start a canoe trip in the area before eventually picking me up at Baxter State Park, and agreed to meet me the next day.

It was in Maine that I took my final zero day, getting out of my bed in the Stratton hotel room I shared with my parents only long enough to take short test walks, stretch, go to the bathroom, and eat.  We diagnosed my leg pain as nothing more serious than shin splints, which could be treated with ibuprofen and rest.  My parents slackpacked me one last time, right up to the Kennebec River, which they ferried me across in their own canoe.  It was just like my daydreams from the Spring, albeit about a month later than I pictured it.  After the crossing, I shouldered my backpack and headed north, while my parents drove and then paddled back to their campsite on Flagstaff Lake.

It was in Maine that I slowed down enough to actually see the same people for a couple days in a row.  Antonio right before and after Rangeley, who should be summitting today or tomorrow.  Green and Big Bird, who I hiked with for several miles in between Caratunk and Monson.  Honeybuns and Daddy Long Legs, who I sat and chatted with at Pleasant Pond, after an afternoon swim while we ate dinner and watched the sunset.

It was in Maine that I remembered how much I loved backpacking, and the woods and mountains, and Maine.  My shin splints didn’t worsen and my confidence in finishing grew.  I knew halfway through the 100 mile wilderness was the point of no return, no stopping, and I hitched in and out of Monson to resupply without pause (other than to gobble a pizza, large order of onion rings, and ice cream bar – hardly a pause).

It was in Maine, on day 72, that my competitive spirit was rekindled, in part by sharing a shelter with a 70-year-old thru-hiker named Grandpa Fuzzy.  His wakeup routine started with a 4:30 alarm – just the motivation I needed to get out of bed and put in a long day myself.  This was it – this was my trip.  All I needed to do was wake up early for three days and do about 30 miles each day.  That morning, I was giddy with the idea of getting over Whitecap Mountain, the last big climb until Katahdin.  I was so close.

Those last three days were three of the most beautiful of the trip: the small mountain views looking out over a vast expanse of ponds and Maine north woods, knowing I was going to make it.   So close to the end and mostly flat (though almost always rooty and rocky), the miles flew by quickly.  I designated the second-to-last day as one of reflection, and thought back on each of the previous 73.  After two days of hiking, I was 26 miles from Katahdin’s summit, with my parents waiting at Roaring Brook Campground 5 miles after that.

Inspired, I woke to an alarm and hiked with a headlamp on day 75 for the first time since early in the summer.  The first 11 miles flew by as I continued reflecting on my summer and looked around in vain for a moose.  My parents refueled me at Abol Bridge and I continued on to the Baxter State Park entrance checkpoint, where the ranger gave me some cautionary language about starting a summit attempt so late in the day and approaching thunderstorms, and advised me to hustle to Katahdin Stream Campground.

I ran!  For the first time since Massachusetts, I ran!  Sort of.  I shuffled, a little bit.  I hiked with purpose, past some thru-hikers and a few 18 year section hikers, all summiting the next day.  Past rivers and waterfalls and ponds sparkling in the late summer sun.  As happened so many times this summer, part of me wished to sit and relax and go slow as I did in 2006; but, as happened so many times this summer, I told myself, ‘That’s not what you’re doing this time,’ and I settled for quick appreciative glances.  I hustled on to the ranger station at Katahdin Stream for a quick check-in and some paperwork before setting off for the last ten miles of up and down.

Katahdin is a hard mountain to climb.  I knew this, and knew I needed to get down, and had been mentally preparing for that up and down all summer.  I knew I’d be fueled by excitement and adrenaline, but I was still completely surprised by how easy it was to fly up that mountain that day.  Scrambling up boulders, swinging from trees, grabbing iron bars driven into the rock, I climbed quickly and steadily.  The clouds looked a little ominous, and I even shuffled some more on the flatter “Tableland” just short of the peak.  I summitted at 3:11, for a total “race” time of 74 days, 10 hours, and 34 minutes, averaging just shy of 30 miles per day – quite a bit slower than I dreamed, but as fast as I could do it.

The lateness of the day and approaching storms meant that everyone had left the summit by the time I got there.  I had little time to appreciate the solitude though, as the predicted thunderstorms arrived just when I did.  The rain and thunder were sporadic at first, but quickly increased as I tried with mixed success to snap a couple of pictures of me with the Katahdin sign.  In 2006, we hung out on a gorgeous sunny day for a few hours, reveling in the completion of our hike, and the beautiful view, before heading over the Knife Edge and down to Roaring Brook.  This time, I was on the top of the mountain for less than 10 minutes.

Despite some fleeting doubts, I started off along the Knife Edge rather than returning along the AT.  It was a combination of a stubborn desire to do what I call the northern terminus approach trail, sticking to the plan my parents and I had talked about, and the fact that the AT trail, wet, seemed about as dangerous as the Knife Edge.

For those not afraid of heights, a dry Knife Edge isn’t so bad. But wet, and with thunder rumbling about, it was scary.  I tried to move as quickly and as safely as I could, all hands and feet on duty, head down, purposeful.  You can skirt the actual spine in a few places, but most of the time, the trail has to go right over the top of the ridge.  Several times in the mist and falling rain, I saw the blue blazes head right up and over the most exposed, difficult-looking thing ahead of me, and I thought, ‘Seriously?!’  Like the entire AT this summer, it was a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other situation.  

I made it across the 1.1 miles to Pamola Peak and quickly turned right for the tree line, still a mile or so away.  There was a break in the storm and I was below cloud level and I looked out across the vast landscape to see a patch of storm moving across the lowlands here and another patch of storm there and patches of storms all around, mixed with blue sky and the green, green, green of northern Maine.  I thought briefly about stopping and snacking and enjoying the view – I’d just finished my AT adventure!  ‘No, I haven’t,’ I reminded myself.  ‘You’re not down yet.  There are thunderstorms about, and you can think about this adventure for the rest of your life.  Give your body and brain the break you’ve been promising them, and get down the mountain.’

So I continued down to tree line, along a trail that became more and more stream-like the further I descended.  I passed some of the time finishing my reflections from the previous day and, when I got to the present moment, looked at my watch and realized I must be close to Roaring Brook Campground.  Thunder sounded.  Lightning sizzled.  Rain fell harder.  My parents and the prospect of seemingly-perpetual rest waited ahead; the summer of suffering behind.  Everything, especially this ending, seemed so perfect, and I giggled aloud several times in that last mile.  I arrived in a downpour at Roaring Brook around 5:40 to find my parents waiting under the porch roof of the ranger’s cabin, a cup of hot coffee in hand.

Part of my reflecting over the previous days had been thinking about the best and worst days of the summer.  Living those days, I was constantly exhausted, frustrated, sad, negative, and so many other hard emotions.  But looking back, the best days were numerous and obvious.  What’s more, the worst days had already become some of the best; they made me tougher, and made finishing feel even better.  I still often think of Uncle Stan, and Suffer Theory.  And ice cream.