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#48. Mt. Katahdin, ME: August 26, 2024

Updated: Oct 19

When Charlotte Stetson and I reached Baxter Peak on Mount Katahdin in summer 2023, it represented our fifth trip to the summit together: at ages 12, 13, 14, 55, and 74. In the afterglow of achievement, we vowed to try for one final trip up Katahdin at age 75.




 

Alas, in the months that followed, I had injured my knee in October 2023 and most likely further damaged it on our five-day hiking trip in Chile in November 2023. That brash pledge to climb Katahdin at age 75 quickly faded from view. During the ensuing months of PT, I tried to gauge my progress with the question: “if I had the opportunity to climb Katahdin tomorrow, would I take it?” Sadly, for the better part of 2024, the answer had been no.The saga of Katahdin in 2024 took a new twist when in April 2024, my longtime friend (and prize-winning quilt maker) Evie Landry mentioned that she had recently met a newcomer to Maine, Sarah Sheldon, who was interested in climbing Katahdin. Still in my phase of “probably not,“ I nonetheless jumped at the chance to orchestrate someone else’s successful climb to the top. As with many things, knowing the ropes greatly facilitates the challenge. It’s essential to master the system of reserved parking places at the trailheads that Baxter State Park uses to regulate the number of hikers on the mountain. It’s useful to know about Big Moose Inn, the vintage location closest to the Park entrance that serves a hot breakfast at 5:30 AM. So I immediately volunteered myself for logistics coordinator, even though it seemed unlikely that I would try to summit.

 

I had some initial difficulty communicating with Sarah. But I took as a good sign when I learned that she was off trekking in Nepal, then camping in Massachusetts. When we did connect, we identified a weekend in late August 2024 that would work for both of us. The first order of business: reserve rooms at the Big Moose Inn the night before our hike. I encouraged Sarah to bring along someone else so that she’d have company on the trail. Within weeks, the name of Alfredo Vergara, her husband, begin appearing on the emails.



My recommended route for them was to start at Roaring Brook trailhead, hike to Chimney Pond, and continue toward the summit on either the Cathedral or Saddle Trails. Once at the top, they could decide – based on time, energy level, and weather - whether to retrace their steps or attempt the Knife Edge followed by Helon Taylor, which would take them back to the Roaring Brook campground. Meanwhile, I would climb as far as Chimney Pond (3.3 miles), enjoy the fabulous scenery there, and return on my own to Roaring Brook.

 

Although this plan might have been might have worked out fine, I imagined the worried look on hikers’ faces along the trail to see this white-haired lady warily edging down the rocky trail, seemingly on her own. Perhaps more galling was the prospect of having to ask a stranger for help if I did get in trouble.  It occurred to me that Charlotte might also be willing to go for this day hike to Chimney Pond, and I was pretty sure she wouldn’t aspire to summiting. No sooner had I mentioned the idea to her that she then she booked a room at Big Moose Inn. In the days leading up to the hike, we began to obsess over Mountain-Forecast.com for Katahdin, an excellent site that specializes on the weather eco-system on a given mountain, not just a neighboring town. To our dismay, the day we had selected months in advance promised the worst weather in a five-day period: rain showers in the morning, thunderstorms in the afternoon. By now, we were locked into the dates – by everyone’s respective schedule and the all-important parking reservation. We packed our rain gear and hoped for the best.The afternoon before the hike, Charlotte drove in from Hancock Point, Sarah and Alfredo from Portland, to rendezvous at Holbrook Pond. We transferred all our gear into a single car to ride together and “meet” each other on the two-hour ride to Millinocket ME. By the time we checked into Big Moose Inn and had our photo taken under the imposing stuffed moose head mounted on the wall of the lobby, we had already become friends. We enjoyed dinner in the Big Moose Inn, made the mandatory stop by the mountain-themed gift shop next door, and turned in early.



At the appointed hour of 5:25 am, we assembled in the dining room, ready to gulp down breakfast and prepare sandwiches for the hike. Charlotte and I stuck with the classic choice of hikers: PB&J. We were impressed to find Sara slicing green chili pepper pieces for their hummus sandwiches. By 6 AM, we were on the road toward the entrance of Baxter State Park, avoiding comment on the steady drizzle on the windshield.  As we approached the Togue Pond gate, we found a situation I’d never encountered in all my trips up Katahdin: there wasn’t another car in sight. We had anticipated the usual two lines of cars: one for the people with a parking pass, the other for the poor souls who didn’t know about the system or couldn’t get one. Apparently, the inclement weather had scared away many who might have climbed that day.


 

Happily, by the time we hit Roaring Brook, the rain had virtually subsided. Huddled in the parking lot, we discussed the target hour of return for Sarah and Alfredo, deciding on 6 pm. We dared to start hiking without rain jackets, and by 7 AM, we were all on the trail.


 

As planned, Alfredo and Sarah would hike at their own pace, Charlotte and I at a slower one. As we knew all too well, the trail to Chimney Pond was not difficult but it presented challenges of its own. Especially after the morning rain, the trail of rocks, small boulders, and tree roots was wet through not as slippery as would have been the case under constant rain. Charlotte and I reminisced over our first trip up to Chimney Pond in 1960: eighteen 11-year-olds from Camp Natarswi and their three camp counselors (who might have been all of 19) trudging up this same trail in the rain.


 

 

A recurring theme on the trail was the condition of our respective knees. Charlotte had struggled with knee pain for several years and had a knee brace for protection, but on the day of the hike, her knee was doing well. I was moving very cautiously when confronted with a major step up or down, trying to avoid “impact” that might further damage my knee. With heavy reliance on my trekking poles and extreme attention to where I was placing my foot, I managed to limit the number of “painful impact steps” to five on the ascent (and three on the descent). Even better, the quick jolt of pain I’d feel in my right knee/upper calf would subside almost immediately, with no apparent ill effects afterwards. Given my caution, Charlotte was often in the lead. But we were well-matched as hiking partners on stamina and speed. Even more important was the tacit understanding of support, should one of us run into problems.

 

En route to Chimney Pond, we stopped by the two small ponds along the trail: Basin Pond and Dry Pond. On a clear day they afford the first views of the peaks above. Despite the fog enshrouding much of the mountain, Charlotte was able to catch a few moments when the neighboring peaks emerged from the clouds. We wondered how Sarah and Alfredo were doing, and how far into that fog they had gotten. The greater concern was the prospect of a thunderstorm near the summit, which causes many a hiker to wisely abandon their attempt to summit. We pushed on… 

 

 

After three hours after hiking, we reached Chimney Pond, which gets its name from the significant gulley (couloir) that rises dramatically to the notch between Pamola and Chimney Peaks on the Great Basin’s ridge line. On past hikes, Chimney Pond had always been just a waystation that required a signature at the Ranger station and a quick photo of the spectacular view, but rarely was it a destination. This time we had all the time in the world to admire the crystal-clear water, the wrap-around granite slopes encircling the pond, and the clear divide produced by the tree line.

 

 

We found fellow hikers enjoying lunch along the rocks by the water, obsessed with something moving just below the surface. After they left, Charlotte had to look for herself. No sooner had she mentioned how much she was enjoying just “hanging out” at Chimney Pond, when I indicated I was getting cold and was ready to head down. 

 


My desire to get on the trail and leave Chimney Pond in the rearview mirror was vindicated by a sudden deluge of rain that began soon after we left. A bolt of lightning was quickly followed by a clap of thunder, a very unwelcome combination (inducing a certain PTSD from my experience with lightning on a family hike in Connecticut years earlier). The storm passed as quickly as it came on, and within minutes we were in the clear for what proved to be the rest of the afternoon. Yet we couldn’t help but wonder, and worry, about our hiking companions who would have been near the summit when the thunderstorm hit.

 

Two hours later we found ourselves on the final stretch into Roaring Brook. My eye caught the sign “swimming after lean-to 10.“ We had spent 7 hours on the trail and had at least 2-3 hours of time to kill before Sarah and Alfredo would return. I gathered up a set of clean clothes, and we made our way to lean-to 10. The swimming hole was nothing more than an extension of Roaring Brook but beyond the area where people were camping. The sandy bottom didn’t extend more than a few yards into the brook, and the fierce current in a stream dotted with boulders was in no way conducive to swimming. Yet it did afford the chance to cool down and remove the first layer of sweat. Charlotte dangled her ankles into the icy water and kept watch, while I stripped down to indulge in a skinny dip sponge bath. It was so worth it.

 

Two hours after our return to Roaring Brook, Sarah and Alfredo arrived back at the parking lot. We barraged them with questions: did they make it to the top?  (Yes) Where were they when the thunderstorm hit? (Huddled under a rock, but they still got soaked). Did the clouds pass so they could see the view from the summit? (Yes, they had gotten the 360-degree glorious view of northern Maine wilderness). But it hadn’t been easy. “That mountain was so hard,” exclaimed Sarah, as though this would be news to others. Alfredo, a non-complainer, acknowledged the pain in his knees. But both were euphoric to have summitted Katahdin. 

 


As we headed back on the two-hour drive to Holden, my knee seemed no worse for wear. Just being in Baxter State Park had triggered my competitive spirit. My mind was racing: “If we made it the 3.3 miles to Chimney Pond, why couldn’t we make it the 4.4 miles to the Baxter Peak (the distance from the trailhead to the summit via the Abol Trail)?” I probably wouldn’t attempt it without Julie Hernandez (hiking coach and mountain rescuer par excellence). But I wasn’t ready to rule out that one final hike to the summit of Katahdin with Charlotte.



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