I’m no stranger to a new challenge. Two years ago, after two decades as a carpenter and building contractor, I took a chance and changed my life. Though sawdust runs in my veins and I’ve always imagined myself as a builder to the end, the only other profession I thought I might like is teaching. In October 2019 that notion became reality when I became an instructor in the Building Construction Technology Program at a local Community College. That’s when the challenge began.

The idea of teaching inspired me on many levels: training the next generation of builders, being part of a learning and teaching community, and, I won’t deny it, a steady paycheck (with benefits!). But above all, and for the first time in my adult life, I’d have the summers off. Then two things happened – one good, one bad. First, a global pandemic – the bad. Then, a promotion to Department Chair – the good. Both new challenges, both pulling me out of my comfort zone, both impacting the first magical summer off I'd dreamed of.

Summer of 2020. Homebound. Home improvements. Summer hints at fall. One of my three sons, Milo, also about to head back to college and thoroughly sick of going-nowhere-doing-nothing pulled a promise out of me: Next summer, Papa, we’re going backpacking, and we’re going big.

I’d be lying if I said we spent the next year planning our epic adventure. It wasn’t until spring break, when my wife caught wind of our scheme, that the planning really began, because, you see, she saw this as an opportunity – to get rid of me, her firstborn, and her testosterone-addled identical teen twins for some well-deserved peace. Katahdin, Milo said, I want to climb Katahdin.

Maine’s crown jewel, Katahdin is also the northern end of the 2,193-mile Appalachian Trail (AT). It stands a mile high and is enshrined by the pristine wilderness of Baxter State Park. And the approach to Baxter, the final section north-bound thru-hikers on the AT traverse, is the 100-Mile Wilderness. That would be our adventure, our challenge.

You’d think we’d be daunted, one forty-something man and his three teenage sons. But five years ago, as a family we thru-hiked the 500-mile Colorado Trail through the Rocky Mountains – 45 days straight. One hundred miles in our backyard could not possibly be any more difficult.

A Hike through Maine's 100-Mile Wilderness Begins

We collected our gear, I dropped half a paycheck on trail food, and we stuffed our packs for a ten-day adventure. First week in August, my Dad dropped us off at the trailhead in Monson where the AT crosses Maine Route 15, the last paved road we would see for 100 miles. He snapped a photo of us, beaming with ambition, then drove off. Nothing to do now but walk. Trees grow like weeds in Maine, and it took only a moment to be swallowed up into the lush, dense mixed-deciduous forest. All the noise of civilization, the stench of society, and even the pandemic faded away with each step. We were free.

The first day rolled by, the sun dried the previous day’s rain from the leaves, mushrooms and lichen grew on every surface, colorful exceptions to the green world we hiked through. Several hours and six and a half miles later our first trailside attraction halted our march – 60 cascading feet of water, Little Wilson Falls. Lunching with my bare feet in the stream, I watched the boys plunge into the pool at the base of the falls. Recharged and refreshed, we felt we were good for a ten or twelve-mile day, half-way there.

Unlike the Colorado Trail, the AT has lean-to shelters conveniently located every five miles or so. But given the popularity of the trail, securing a spot in shelter is never a guarantee. After consulting a map, we targeted the Long Pond Stream lean-to. The afternoon’s hike was punctuated by a break in the canopy at Big Wilson Cliffs. Our first view, a carpet of leaves, a hazy sky. We didn’t get a lean-to that night – ultimately would only get three nights out of ten with a roof over our heads the whole trip.

Hiking the 100-Mile Wilderness from south to north is the hard way. We were doing it the hard way. After day one, the Barren-Chairback Range rises and drops 750 feet at a time as it blazes over the peaks of Barren (2650’), Fourth (2,383’), Third (2,090’), Columbus (2,350’), and Chairback (2,190’) Mountains.

I had basically had an office job for the past year and a half, so peak physical condition was something I only saw on Netflix, certainly not in the mirror. I quickly realized keeping pace with three strapping lads would be a challenge. Glad I had poles. On the uphills I pulled up the proverbial rear, red, panting, and dripping. But descending, I managed to keep up with the bounding youths – straight down, jumping from rock to rock. This I would later regret.

Following the Barren-Chairbacks we crossed the West Branch of the Pleasant River and entered the mythical Hermitage, an old-growth pine forest with trees five feet in diameter. The Hermitage gives way to Gulf Hagas – the Grand Canyon of the East. The chiseled-slate canyon, carved by the Pleasant River, is an unending string of pools and waterfalls with cliffs steep enough to warrant respect. We didn’t have the time or energy for the eight-mile loop.

Another scramble of peaks – Gulf Hagas (2,690’), West Peak (3,178), Hay Mountain (3,250’), and White Cap (3,654’), where we got our first distant view of Katahdin, still so far away. How could such a massive mountain appear so small?

On the trail pain sneaks up on you. You can’t point to a single injury-incident. It’s the repeated and cumulative effect of the joint-pounding downhills. As long as you keep hiking, ignore the pain, focus on the next step, you can keep going. But once you stop, the pain rises to the surface. Halfway through the trip, I started waking to a slightly broken body. Lame. Ibuprofen helped. Of course, the boys fared better than I. Oh, to be young again.

Coupled with the pain, something else creeped up on us – the funk. Dirty, sweaty, smelly clothes, shoes, and bodies. The only solution was swimming. The 100-Mile Wilderness is riddled with ponds and lakes, some small enough to skip a stone across and some so large they have surf. My favorite was Lower Jo-Mary Lake.

We got into Antlers Campsite on Jo-Mary before any other hikers and set up camp in a prime spot at the end of a peninsula dotted with wind-blown pine. We swam, washed clothes, and waited for sunset. The wind continued through the night, howling through the trees above our tent.

The next day and our last mountain before Baxter – Little Boardman (2,017’). At the peak, Katahdin appeared bigger, closer. We could do this. Bolstering our optimism, the map showed the next 30 miles were basically flat, a rolling plane of monster trees parading through the Katahdin Forest and Nahmakanta Public Lands. I read somewhere that when the first European settlers landed in North America the forest scared them. It was dark, towering, foreboding. The trees were the legs of giants, standing at a scale greater than the world they knew. Their only defense was to chop them down. Most of Maine’s forests have been cut to the ground at least four times. But these tracts of land we hiked over have not been mowed down, many of the trees have stood for over a century, linking arms, proud, safe.

A night of rain gave way to overcast and drizzle in the morning. It was our last 14 miles of the wilderness. Pushing your body to its physical limit causes calorie-deprivation. The brain’s natural reaction – fixate on food. Imagine what you could be eating instead of trail mix and jerky. Make up new food. Compose menus. Stomach grumble – eggs, sausage, bacon, fresh fruit, pizza…

Struggling to keep our footing we passed over the rain-slicked Rainbow Ledges. Off the trail, under the conifers, a continuous mat of moss sponged up the water dripping from the needles above. We were wet and miserable. And then in an anti-climactic moment we approached a sign marking the northern end of the 100 Mile Wilderness. A few hundred yards later and we were dumped out onto Maine’s infamous dirt highway – the Golden Road. Pulp trucks lumbered by laden with logs. We crossed the bridge over the West Branch of the Penobscot and into Abol Bridge Campground just outside Baxter State Park.

We planned to spend our last night in the park at a lean-to site reserved for thru-hikers. But at the privately-owned Abol Bridge Campground, where RV’s and bunkhouses occupied a loop road under the birches, we learned from a ranger that the lean-tos were full. And because we didn’t have a reservation in Baxter, we wouldn’t be able to hike to the foot of Katahdin – base camp for our long-awaited ascent. The twins and I wanted to call it quits, to call their Mama to come pick us up a day early. I felt defeated.

Milo would have none of it. He insisted, if we weren’t hiking Katahdin, then he’d go it alone. The twins were fine with that, but it didn’t settle well with me. I couldn’t let Milo down; we had to go on. It meant we’d have to shell out $140 for one night in the private campground, get up early and hike 5.5 miles into the park to the start of the Hunt Trail, and get there with enough time to hike up and down Maine’s largest mountain.

Katahdin and the end of a Backpacking Trip on the Appalachian Trail

The last day dawned with vestiges of the previous day’s clouds shrouding Baxter Peak, Katahdin’s high point. We donned our packs and were off. Katahdin is a pile of broken rock. At times the trail is nothing more than slabs of barely navigable granite sharp enough to cut a bare leg or knee. At elevation, trees are short and stunted. The sky opens up, crows struggle in the wind, and the land below becomes a mosaic of leaves, needles, and water. It is literally sacred ground.

A steady stream of hikers varying in levels of preparedness swarmed the mountain. A precipitous rise leveled off onto the Table Lands, a gradual slope of tundra, the approach to the peak. At the top, 360-degrees of splendor captivated us. Held us quiet. Meanwhile the peak-scene resembled an Instagram photo shoot. Selfies, group photos, panoramic camera sweeps, even some phone calls. We tipped our greasy hats to the mountain and hobbled our way down to meet Mama. It was over.

I lost nine pounds in ten days, and it took another ten days for me to recover full operation of my knees. But what I gained overshadowed the loss. It may sound trite to say it, but the distraction-free time I spent with my boys – without screens, without obligation to society, jobs, and chores – is something I will cherish for the rest of my days. To think, none of this would have happened if I didn’t take a chance on change, rise to the new opportunity as a teacher, accept the challenge. Are you ready for a change? Where is the trailhead to your 100-Mile Wilderness?

Information

Resources for hiking this section of the Appalachian Trail include the 100-Mile Wilderness Map & Guide as well as Hiking Maine's 100 Mile Wilderness, a Falcon Guide.

Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in Issue 52 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.