A Walk in the Woods

exceedingly worthy distance in the circumstances, and might have gone farther, but at
half past six we came to a broad ford called Wilber Brook and stopped. We were too tired
to cross--that is to say, I was too tired--and it would be folly to get wet so near sundown.
We made camp and shared our cheerless rations with a kind of strained politeness. Even
if we had not been at odds, we would scarcely have spoken: we were too tired. It had
been a long day--the hardest of the trip--and the thought that hung over us was that we
had eighty-five more miles of this before we got to the camp store at Abol Bridge, 100
miles till we reached the challenging mass of Katahdin. Even then we had no prospect of
real comfort. Katahdin is in Baxter State Park, which takes a certain hearty pride in its
devotion to ruggedness and deprivation. There are no restaurants and lodges, no gift
shops and hamburger stands, not even any paved roads or public phones. The park itself
is in the middle of nowhere, a two-day hike from Millinocket, the nearest town. It could be
ten or eleven days before we had a proper meal or slept in a bed. It seemed a long way
off.
In the morning we silently forded the stream--we were getting pretty good at it now--
and started up the long, slow climb to the roof of the Barren-Chairback Range, fifteen
miles of ragged summits that we had to cross before descending to a more tranquil spell
in the valley of the Pleasant River. The map showed just three tarns in those mountains,
remnant glacial ponds, all off the trail, but otherwise no indication of water at all. With
less than four liters between us and the day already warm, the long haul between water
sources promised to be at the very least uncomfortable.
Barren Mountain was a strenuous slog, much of it straight up and all of it hot, though
we seemed to be getting stronger. Even Katz was moving with a comparative lightness.
Even so, it took us nearly all morning to hike the four and a half miles up. I reached the
top some time ahead of Katz. The summit was sun-warmed granite, hot to the touch, but
there was a wisp of breeze--the first in days--and I found a shady spot beneath a disused
fire tower. It was the first time in what seemed like weeks that I had sat anywhere in
relative comfort. I leaned back and felt as if I could sleep for a month. Katz arrived ten
minutes later, puffing hard but pleased to be at the top. He took a seat on a boulder
beside mine. I had about two inches of water left, and passed him the bottle. He took a
very modest sip and made to hand it back.
"Go on," I said, "you must be thirsty."
"Thanks." He took a slightly less modest sip and put the bottle down. He sat for a
minute, then got out a Snickers, broke it in two and extended half to me. It was a
somewhat odd thing to do because I had Snickers of my own and he knew that, but he
had nothing else to give.
"Thanks," I said.
He gnawed off a bite of Snickers, ate for a minute and said from out of nowhere:
"Girlfriend and boyfriend are talking. The girlfriend says to the boyfriend, 'Jimmy, how do
you spell pedophilia?' The boyfriend looks at her in amazement. 'Gosh, honey,' he says
'that's an awfully big word for an eight-year-old.' "
I laughed.
"I'm sorry about the other night," Katz said.
"Me too."
"I just got a little ... I don't know."