Katahdin
Katahdin looms — imposing, intimidating, unnerving — its implausibly enormous bulk dominating the skyline. Katahdin is no singularly outstanding feature of this wild landscape; it is the landscape, and all the rest — forest, stream, foothill, me — we all lurk in its shadows.
The enchanting voice of my Maine muse, Carolyn Currie, cantillates from the speakers of my Santa Fe: “Red hawk’s rising on the back of the wind and she’s circling with an answer and I finally understand how to begin.” Red hawk’s rising. I play the song again and again as I make my resolute approach to the campground and trailhead at the base of the mountain. Red hawk’s rising. It is my mantra, my rallying cry, my anthem, as I steel mind and body for the quest that awaits me. I will not soar like a hawk on the back of the wind, but I do intend to rise. If it will allow me, I intend to rise to the top of this fabled mountain.
Fabled, renowned, iconic, Katahdin surely is, but, today, none of that matters to me. Today, Katahdin is not Pamola’s mountain or Thoreau’s mountain or even the mountain of innumerable Appalachian Trail thru-hikers celebrating the denouement of a two thousand mile odyssey. Today, it is my mountain. Even surrounded by dozens and dozens of other hopeful summiteers, I climb alone — not to conquer an adversary or meet a challenge or check off an achievement on some life list. No, any such motive would demean, demystify, devalue the majesty of this mountain. I climb not to overcome Katahdin, but to be deemed worthy of meeting it, of learning some of its secrets, of being welcomed for a few unforgettable moments into its numinous space.
The trail begins, beguilingly beautiful, following dazzling Katahdin Stream as it ascends gently among birch and spruce and hemlock until reaching fifty-foot Katahdin Stream Falls cascading over a series of granite ledges. The impressive cataract is well worth the mile and a quarter hike from the trailhead. Undoubtedly, many a casual Baxter visitor ends the journey here, contented with traversing this splendid wilderness path and rewarded by the spectacular visage of the falls.
Beyond the falls, the climb begins in earnest, ascending four thousand feet in five miles. The trail is relentlessly steep, up and up and up, not walking a steady incline, but scrambling over ledges and boulders among scattered glacial erratics. I feel strong and stronger yet as the path grows steeper, taking some pride as my sixty-something body overtakes more than a few twenty-something or thirty-something bodies along the way.
I emerge from the trees at the base of the Hunt Spur, the crux of a Katahdin ascent via the Hunt Trail which also serves as the terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Steep and long and difficult, the Hunt Spur is a naked ridge of jumbled boulders — car-sized, bus-sized, boxcar-sized. Though marked by blue blazes painted on the granite, the way up is not always clear; every step must be carefully puzzled out, clambering over and around and between the massive boulders. The climb is physically demanding, but even more mentally exhausting. The immensity of the mountain, the unsettling exposure, the demanding route-finding, and the unrelenting steepness make an ascent of the Hunt Spur a daunting endeavor.
And a profoundly satisfying endeavor. I crest the top of the ridge and step out onto the Tablelands, a wide, flattish, tundra-like landscape. I walk steadily, part of the long procession of hikers following the trail roped off on both sides to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem. We wind our way over the plateau, pass Thoreau Spring, mount the short summit ridge, and we are there.
I am there, standing atop Baxter Peak, surrounded by dozens of other happy climbers, but still very much alone, alone surveying the breathtaking panorama — Pamola and the Knife Edge, Chimney Pond and the Cathedrals, alone steeped in the joy of this moment, alone celebrating this mountain which has now become a part of my story and I a part of its story, Katahdin, my mountain.
