Katahdin—it’s still a bitch

My memory of the climb was spot on. My impression of how I would do was 180 degrees off. It was so much tougher than I remembered my last climb of Katahdin. I thought I was falling apart then. I had just walked 2,187 miles to the base of the mountain. My knees hurt. I was mentally drained. I wanted cake. 

Turns out, compared to now, I was a physical god. After the first boulder field this time, I seriously wondered if I would survive. I found a shady spot, sat down, pulled out my phone, and deleted my browser history. 

I made some tactical errors leading up to this day. About 3 months ago, I quit working out. About the same time, I started eating more. The one-two punch of dumbass. 

Up until my dad died in December, I was actually making gains physically through CrossFit and eating healthy. When he died, I was left alone to face my guilt from how I had not been a good son to him over the years combined with the failure of my second marriage. 

I went into a depression which I tried to pretend didn’t exist. I still worked out, but half-assed (my natural level of effort in all things). I started drinking more. I tried to keep eating healthy, but my appeal for pizza grew while my fondness of avocados dropped. I put on 30# between my dad dying and me starting the trail. I’m lucky I made it to the top and down in a single day even if I set a new speed record for SFT (Slowest Fucking Time) at 14 hours 47 minutes. 

I knew I had to make it to the top today come hell or high water. Today was my dad’s birthday. I thought about him all the way up except for the times where I made the further dumbass move of trying to keep up with people who were passing me. Misery usually likes diversion and conversation keeps the mind off of self analysis. 

Unlike my last ascent, I had blue skies. The weather said 80 degrees at the base and 60 at the summit with 5-10 mph breezes. In reality, it was over 80 at the summit (when I finally staggered up at 2:30p—7 1/2 hours after starting), no air movement at all, and unbearable flies. I started down as soon as I got a few pictures in. 

The plan was for George to pick me up at the base of the Hunt Trail around 4p. At 3p, I was only at Thoreau Springs a couple hundred feet below the summit. I was dehydrated from the unexpected heat. I forgot to throw in my electrolytes for the day. I was cramping like mad—even my hands. I kept dropping my poles when my hands got cramped. 

I could see a group ahead I had talked to on the way up. I knew the big guy had a trail name of “Cheers”. I was hoping they would rest long enough for me to catch up. Fortunately, they did. They were going down the Abol Trail which I was not interested in sliding down again. I did ask them to contact the ranger there to contact George to let him know I was, unfortunately, still alive and basically ok, just fat, slow, and way late. 

There had been over 30 people at the top. I had even been passed by 3 guys smoking and drinking beers on the way up. They were up and down almost a mile before they passed me a second time. That does wonder for the ego when the old guy gets lapped by these guys that aren’t even winded. 

By the time I got to the “gateway”, the last person from the summit passed me. It was almost 4:30 and I had the most arduous 2 miles of bouldering to go. I asked him to get hold of George and tell him not to expect me before 8. 

Going down the shoulder and spur solo while being afraid of heights, dehydrated, and weak was no easy task for me. I started talking to my dad and asking him to keep me calm. I had not brought enough calories with me for this day. I also hadn’t brought my headlamp which George told me to. I told him if I’m still walking after dark, I shouldn’t be out here. Instead, I’ll be well after dark on the SECOND LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR. 

I would climb down 20-30’, rest, eat a date, swig some water, and repeat. I only had to do this another 400 times and I’ll be to tree line. That was my focus. I lost the “trail” a few times and was looking over an abyss I didn’t remember from the climb up. Thank goodness for FarOut to get me back on trail. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to because I was so tired. 

My biggest fear was having search and rescue come get me. I wasn’t in any danger, just fat, out of shape, and stupid—the hiking trifecta. Once I made tree line, I set my goal on water. I remembered the trail actually had a stream running down it not too much lower. The boulders were more manageable now and I could use both hiking poles to assist my descent. 

At the water, I camelled up, rested about 10 minutes, and set a new goal of Katahdin Stream Falls by dark. From the falls to the ranger station is less than a mile and a half, but actually a trail. I could probably manage hiking it in the dark. There’s also a pit latrine at the falls—worst case, I could sleep in the shitter if I decided I couldn’t go on. 

I got the last glimpse of the mountains to the west in sunset just as I made it to the falls. I decided to not sleep with the turds at this time and continued on. As long as I wouldn’t look at my phone or turn on my phone flashlight, I knew I’d have good night vision if I would just walk slow (that’s been my pace all day—I’m golden there) and watch the ground. I asked my dad to magically propel me to camp to get the distance reduced. After tripping a few times, I decided to use my flashlight and check my position. My dad had come through. I was only 0.3 miles from camp. 

I signed the register at 9:36p and went to find George. Everyone had found him and told him I was running late. The ranger said since I had made contact a couple of times, they would not initiate a search and rescue unless George approached them. He had set in his mind that at 10 he was going to get the ranger and decide the next steps. I had made the cut to stay in the “pathetic” class instead of being thrown into the “must be rescued first day, go home” class of hikers. It used to be, when I was young and you got stopped by a train, there were two cars you always noticed—the engine and the caboose. Kids (by kids I mean anyone under 40) these days probably don’t even know what a caboose is. They better figure it out because there’s a caboose heading to Georgia. 

EFG