146 GOURMET TRAVELLER
of Stratton. The Carrabassett Valley is ski country,
which, by definition, means it’s hard hiking country- vertical more often than not. “You in good hiking
shape?” asks a man at an adjoining table when I ask
for advice. He’s Jeff from Georgia, and he’s been hiking
the Appalachian Trail every year for 18 years, a week at
a time. I estimate that he’s in his 60s, and he says he’ll
continue the ritual for three more years. “What will
you do with yourself when you’re finished?” I ask.
“Be thankful it’s over,” he chuckles.
I’m not in the greatest hiking shape, I admit to Jeff,
I don’t have walking poles, and, yes, I’ll probably polish
off these fried oysters and then a few beers at a barbecue
joint down the road called The Rack. Jeff pauses for a
moment and suggests a hike to Horns Pond. “It’s hard,”
he says, eyeing me doubtfully as I order another cocktail,
“but you can always turn around when it gets too much.”
We drive to the start of the 12-kilometre round-
trip trail. The sun seeps through the thick canopy and
scatters like glitter on a shallow beaver brook, and
I trot easily over a narrow wooden bridge. Toadstools
erupt from logs at awkward angles, as though a fairy
has sat on them too hard, and squirrels dart up and
down the spruce and firs.
Wearing headphones while hiking is not considered
trail etiquette – it inhibits the communion with nature.
But I have Bill Bryson’s A Walk In The Woods as an
audiobook, which surely gets special dispensation. I
bounce along rather confidently until, as Jeff predicted,
the going gets quite tough. The Maine Trail Finder
website labels this hike “advanced, strenuous” and
I start to wonder why I didn’t take more heed of
a man who’s hiked the Appalachian for 18 years.
I trudge a few more miles, but from my recollection
of Jeff’s description the pond is still a long way off.
Reluctantly I retrace my steps until I find the little
beaver brook at the trailhead. The sun is still dancing
across its rippled surface. I sit with my legs swinging
over the edge of the bridge and dispense with the
headphones. I watch the water, and the squirrels,
and the dappled beauty of the woods. The spirit can
be revived by simply looking at nature rather than
conquering it, I discover.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Boston, when we arrive, is all freeways and traffic jams.
Taylor Swift is playing tonight at Gillette Stadium, the
Red Sox have a big game at Fenway Park, and the blaze
of horns from every side suggest most people are trying
to get to one or the other. We pull up at the Boston
Park Plaza as valets shout instructions to each other,
or us. Tired, unwashed and wearing the dirtiest shoes
this elegant lobby has ever seen, I’m swept up in a sea
of well-dressed people and jostled into their slipstream.
Perhaps only now, fresh from the Appalachian but far
from it, do I feel like a forgotten outdoorsman. Clockwise:
Omni Mount
Washington
Resort; Mount
Washington
Cog Railway;
shishito peppers
with brown butter
and parmesan,
beetroot and
blueberry salad,
and lobster
mac-and-cheese
at 20 Railroad
Public House in
Great Barrington;
The Rack in
Carrabassett
Valley, Maine.