Georgia or bust: Local couple braves the Appalachian Trail — Part 2

By Abby Noble
Sun contributor
Abby (Chatfield) Noble, of Leland, set out to hike the Appalachian Trail with her now-husband, Kenny, in the fall of 2003. She recounts their awe-inspiring journey in this (and in the next) issue of the Glen Arbor Sun. Abby honed her writing skills at the Interlochen Arts Academy. She and Kenny were married this year on June 27.

The Appalachian Trail is the oldest continuous long-distance hiking path in the United States, stretching over 2,160 miles through 14 states from Maine to Georgia. For six months, my fiancé and I studied stacks of maps and books in preparation for our first long-distance hike. The goals: To complete the entire Appalachian Trail, “thru-hike” it in hikers’ lingo, while we learned the challenges of subsisting outdoors and experiencing the East Coast’s physical geography.
We began the journey in San Francisco, overlooking the Pacific Ocean from our apartment balcony one last time before a long drive across the country. Everything we owned fit into our 1992 Nissan Pathfinder, but everything we would soon need fit into two hiking backpacks.
In Leland, friends helped us through 24 hours of vacuum-packing and boxing 500 pounds of dried food into 14 strategically planned mail drops. These goodie boxes could sustain us along the trek if we correctly calculated how much food we needed between drops. While studying maps in our cozy living room, we had to guess how far our legs could carry us each day for five months. Based on the terrain, our fitness levels and an obscure Knowles equation, we stuffed each box with enough food to last us until we received the next package. My mother would mail them to specific zip codes along the trail about two weeks before our estimated arrival at each town.
Just two weeks after leaving the west coast, Atlantic waters swept over our feet in Hampton, New Hampshire. A Connecticut friend volunteered to drive us to the Appalachian Trail’s northern terminus in Baxter State Park, Maine. The night before we began the hike, the three of us and a black lab stayed at a campground near the Atlantic Ocean. This campground more resembled someone’s backyard, and its occupants seemed solely there to hang out in comfort. It became obvious what liberal meaning people use to define the word “camp.” Our camping supplies consisted of two outfits each, rain suits, sleeping bags, a tent, water filter, propane stove, bug lotion and ten-day supply of dehydrated food. The Hampton campers stocked up on fast food, refrigerators, televisions, picnic tables, and full-size inflatable couches inside their nylon mansions.
Our reality struck hard the next afternoon when a park ranger refused to let our vehicle inside Baxter State Park as long as there was a dog present. The only viable alternative meant hiking for one and a half days from outside the park borders just to reach the Appalachian Trail’s actual start at Mount Katahdin’s summit. So, our friend and his dog left us at a green log cabin store under a fluorescent “Schlitz Beer” sign with no trails in sight. Immediately, we walked in the wrong direction and found ourselves only 200 yards from the general store just an hour later. Thanks to a passerby, we uncovered a trail that supposedly leads into the park, although no signs actually confirmed this. We did not know that we were on the right trail until we passed a sign four miles later. A local soon told us he was glad the trail was hard to navigate, because it kept the visitors away.
After seven and a half miles carrying 40-50 lb packs, we stumbled into Katahdin Stream Campground with bruised hips, tight shoulders and throbbing feet. Only one day down, and I had already learned some lessons. First, we can all survive, and even thrive, with much less than we carry. Second, always break in boots before beginning a 2,000-mile hike. Finally, flying insects are a great motivation to keep moving, even when the body feels like it might shatter under a heavy pack’s pressure. Trudging through forests of Paper Birch, Yellow Birch, Red Birch, Black Birch and Cedar along swampy grounds provided abundant mosquito breeding grounds but an entertaining show of diversity we would continue to find the entire trip. That day, as every day, we walked trails constructed of roots, rocks, boards, bridges, logs, dirt, pine needles and leaves. In just one day, we had already spotted moose, frogs, snakes and butterflies; wild raspberries and strawberries breaking into bloom. We saw six rabbits that first day, and I contemplated the potential meaning in this. According to some Native American tribes, rabbits symbolize facing one’s fears, so I made a note to remain brave and meet this adventure with an open mind.
I needed this insight the next morning, when we climbed 5.2 miles up the Appalachian Trail just to reach the actual terminus and then turn around and walk back down again. Mt. Katahdin offers some of the best views along the Appalachian Trail, but a grey mist surrounded us and limited our vision to 15 feet in all directions. We ascended through conifer forest, ash, maple, birch and cedar before reaching a mile of massive boulders at tree line. We scaled the rocks by gripping small cracks and strategically placed iron hooks. It occurred to me then, and many other times, how much the Appalachian Trail journey is based on faith. White blazes mark the entire trail’s route, and hikers just trust these spray painted lines will lead them to the intended destination. With such limited views on this mist-shrouded mountain, we threw our faith into the maze of white blazes. A week prior to our climb, a teenage boy died of dehydration on the mountain. We kept this grim fact in mind as we reached the Appalachian’s northern terminus, marked only by a peeling wooden sign that said, “Springer Mountain, Georgia: 2,100.2 miles.”
We made it back down safely, and figured that the 5.2-mile descent was the only distance that officially counted out of the 18 miles we had already hiked. The next day met us with another adventure into the 100-Mile Wilderness. At its entrance, a sign warns hikers who dare enter that they must carry at least 10 days’ supplies to safely complete the 110 miles of trail between the Penobscot River and Monson, Maine. Just minutes into the wilderness, all unnatural sounds cease as the conifer forest closes in around the trail. The trees increase in size and human interaction transforms into a novelty.
“Wilderness,” like the word “camping,” is malleable in definition. The 100-mile wilderness remains the most isolated stretch along the Appalachian Trail, but it is a far cry from the deep, mysterious wild one might expect. We followed the root and rock pathway through miles of forest and lowland lake areas, meeting our first friend somewhere in the middle.
Billy Flip-Flop inspired us to walk 16.3 miles one rainy day. He earned his name because he hiked in flip-flops but could still keep a pace twice as fast as anybody else. He carried an umbrella, which gave an appearance like he just walked out of his front door for an afternoon stroll. Although we were in so-called wilderness, the sound of boats carried across the ponds, and we crossed over several old logging roads. The biggest surprise was word of a secret camp two miles off trail across Pemadumcook Lake. After a long day with soar legs and wet clothing, we found a landing on the lake with an air horn strapped to a tree. A sign said, “Blow horn just once.” Within five minutes, a man in a plaid hunter’s cap snaked across the water by boat and motored us to his lodge and home called White House Landing, This man in the cap named Bill, his wife and son were the only folks who lived in the 100-mile wilderness but, contradictory to the sign at its start, there were other ways to permeate this wilderness besides by footpath. Bill made the point clear when he said, “Any place you can drive a Cadillac to five points is not a wilderness.” If this were wilderness, I would have slept in the rain that night instead of in front of a woodstove fire under a roof.
However, this might be the closest place to wilderness the Northeastern United States has, and it was still beautiful. The remaining stretch of wilderness led us out of the lowland woods onto several mountainsides that required free climbing, such as Chairback, Moxie Bald and Pleasant Mountains. Wild blueberries, strawberries, watermelon berries and Lilly of the Valley spilled over the trail. Loons yipped and wailed from the ponds. We found the best swimming holes in clear, snowmelt streams cut into granite and slate hill slopes, before we stumbled out of the forest into the blinding sunlight on the highway near Monson nine days later.
Maine’s Appalachian Trail passes through several small towns like Monson and Stratton, where we met some of the kindest folks along the entire hike. In one day, we met Monson’s preacher, postmaster and general store clerk, Tim. Just to buy a bag of groceries, Tim required us to pause between checking through each item and listen to in-depth stories. In Stratton, some locals invited us to play pool and join in their weekly Friday night karaoke party. Across the eight states we hiked, locals greeted us with unmatched kindness. After living in a city for almost two years, where people get accustomed to walking past each other without so much as a glance, the Appalachian Trail restored my faith in human kindness. Whenever we needed a ride into a town or a place to lay our heads, some thoughtful stranger pulled through.
In fact, the entire trail only exists because thousands of individuals volunteer to maintain it and fight constant legal battles to ensure the Appalachian Trail keeps a secure passage. Near Caratunk, Maine, the Kennebec River rolls with such force that hikers are required to canoe across it. This would not be possible without the volunteers who sit at the river’s edge in shifts and wait to paddle hikers to the opposite bank. One hiker, determined to walk even the rivers, declined the canoe ride and attempted to swim against the Kennebec current with his pack above his head. We met him a few days later and learned that a man had plucked the hiker from the water about a quarter-mile downstream of the trail and saved his life.
We opted to accept a canoe ride and safely reach the biggest physical challenge along the entire trail, Maine’s Mahoosuc Range. Our lowland travels, broken only intermittently by random isolated peaks, turned into the most continuous series of ups and downs on the Appalachian Trail. The Mahoosuc alpine territory offers extensive views on clear days. From The Horn, the Atlantic Ocean is visible. From all peaks, I could watch the approaching weather. On Saddleback’s summit, we leaned into the 30 mph winds and observed, far off, rain showering down in metallic curtains, connecting the clouds to patches of hillside basking in the sunlight.
— Abby and Kenny continue their trek down the Appalachian Trail in the September 16 issue of the Glen Arbor Sun