sleeping bag? I don't think so. All we take is cold food, water bottles, maybe one change
of clothes. I figure we can get the load down to five pounds. And"--he waggled his hand
delightedly in the empty newspaper bag--"we put it all in here." His expression begged
me to drape him with plaudits.
"Have you given any thought to how ridiculous you would look?"
"Yup. Don't care."
"Have you considered what a source of uncontained mirth you would be to every
person you met between here and Katahdin?"
"Don't give the tiniest shit."
"Well, has it occurred to you what a ranger would say if he found you setting off into
the Hundred Mile Wilderness with a newspaper delivery bag? Do you know they have the
power to detain anyone they think is not mentally or physically fit?" This was actually a
lie, but it brought a promising hint of frown to his brow. "Also, has it occurred to you that
maybe the reason paperboys don't get hernias is that they only carry the bag for an hour
or so a day--that maybe it might not be so comfortable lugging it for ten hours at a
stretch over mountains--that maybe it would bang endlessly against your legs and rub
your shoulders raw? Look how it's chafing against your neck already."
His eyes slid stealthily down to the strap. The one positive thing about Katz and his
notions was that it was never very hard to talk him out of them. He took the bag off over
his head. "OK," he agreed, "screw the bags. But we pack light."
I was happy with that. In fact, it seemed a perfectly sensible proposal. We packed
more than Katz wanted--I insisted on sleeping bags, warm clothes, and our tents on the
grounds that this could be a good deal more demanding than Katz appreciated--but I
agreed to leave behind the stove, gas bottles, and pots and pans. We would eat cold
stuff--principally Snickers, raisins, and an indestructible type of salami product called Slim
Jims. It wouldn't kill us for a fortnight. Besides, I couldn't face another bowl of noodles.
Altogether we saved perhaps five pounds of weight each--hardly anything really--but Katz
seemed disproportionately happy. It wasn't often he got his way, even in part.
And so the next day, my wife drove us deep into the boundless woods of northern
Maine for our trek through the Hundred Mile Wilderness. Maine is deceptive. It is the
twelfth smallest state, but it has more uninhabited forest--ten million acres--than any
other state but Alaska. In photographs it looks serene and beckoning, parklike even, with
hundreds of cool, deep lakes and hazy, tranquil miles of undulating mountains. Only
Katahdin, with its rocky upper slopes and startling muscularity, offers anything that looks
faintly intimidating. In fact, it is all hard.
The trail maintainers in Maine have a certain hale devotion to seeking out the rockiest
climbs and most forbidding slopes, and of these Maine has a breathtaking plenitude. In its
283 miles, the Appalachian Trail in Maine presents the northbound hiker with almost
100,000 feet of climb, the equivalent of three Everests. And at the heart of it all lies the
famous Hundred Mile Wilderness-- 99.7 miles of boreal forest trail without a store, house,
telephone, or paved road, running from the village of Monson to a public campground at
Abol Bridge, a few miles below Katahdin. It is the remotest section of the entire AT. If
something goes wrong in the Hundred Mile Wilderness, you are on your own. You could
die of an infected blood blister out there.
sean pound
(Sean Pound)
#1