OLD GUYS ON THE MOUNTAIN

By Randy Randall

Mount Katahdin is a rock. A mighty unforgiving pile of Maine rock. I’d forgotten just how rugged the mountain is until last fall when I climbed it again for the first time in ten years. I’d climbed Katahdin back when I was a forestry student at the University of Maine, later with friends, and later still as scoutmaster leading my troop to the summit. But I was a lot younger then, and it had been years since.

Then I received an email from an old fishing buddy. He was organizing an “over-the-hill climb” for all his friends over fifty-five. Would I like to go? I wasn’t sure at the time why I responded so quickly, but for some reason I wrote back immediately telling him “yes.” I had no idea if I could still climb that rock pile.

One reason I was so quick to sign on, I think, was my impending retirement. I had made my decision to retire from corporate America, and somehow the climb seemed a fitting way to inaugurate the next chapter in my life. It would also be a test, a test to see how out of shape I was or was not. Also a test to see if I would still feel the joy I used to experience as a younger man when I would go hiking, and canoeing, and camping in the Maine woods.

Greg had assembled a great bunch of us oldsters for the trek—old college buddies, old friends, old fraternity pals. One guy even flew up from Kentucky. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, he said.

We all stayed in the bunkhouse at Roaring Brook. Back on January 2, 2004, Greg had driven the long snowy miles to Millinocket to personally reserve the cabin for this weekend. Even then he had to provide a range of dates; such was the demand for the use of the bunkhouse. It was mere coincidence the date he got was September 11.

Greg and I had not been on any adventures together since we had been raising our young families in the same Hampden, Maine, neighborhood years ago. But it was only a matter of a few minutes driving before we had rediscovered the old, easy camaraderie that had made us friends in the first place. The ride to Baxter Park was accomplished before we knew it. We arrived at Roaring Brook first, but shortly after other friends began to wander in from points all across Maine. The prospects for a memorable weekend were glowing brighter and brighter. I began to think to myself that maybe I really could do this, that I still had it in me to tackle Katahdin and even enjoy the trip.

As we unpacked at Roaring Brook, it was obvious everyone else had gotten the “equipment memo” except me. They had all kept up with advances in hiking gear, it seems, and came equipped with hi-tech boots, engineered clothes, hiking poles, camel back packs, water bottles, and GPSs. And all of it weighed slightly more than duck down.

I, on the other hand, had dragged out my old, venerable and very well-used hiking gear. A medium-sized ash splint pack basket (the Mainer’s “Kennebecker”), surplus army canteen, wool shirt, work boots, and my trusty bamboo hiking staff, scarred and beat up from numerous other Scout hikes and walks.

That night as we slept in the bunkhouse, I thought again and again about how old I had become and whether I would be up to the climb. I tried to recall the characteristics of the various trails—Helon Taylor, Cathedral, Saddle, and Abol but could not, even though I’d hiked every one of them. I drifted off to sleep trying to remember which Tupperware container held the Ibuprofen.

We started at 6:00 A.M.

The hike into Chimney Pond seemed to take forever. It’s a beautiful trail, and the climbing is fairly easy, but for those of us who had not climbed much more than stairs for the past few years, it was a stern wake-up call. One of the gang opted to go no further as his artificial hip was bothering. A friend whose arthritis was acting up volunteered to also stay behind, and the two friends would make their way back to Roaring Brook. I still felt pretty good. For those who've never made the climb to Chimney Pond, the views and peeks you get of the mountain can be awesome. We had a perfect September morning with clear skies and brisk air. Old Katahdin did not disappoint.

Our self-appointed guide and trek leader, Hank, had suggested we take the Hamlin Ridge trail. He said the views into North and Great Basin were glorious and not to be missed. But the trail turned out to be brutal, much more difficult than we had anticipated. Once we topped out above the tree line, the trail wound its way between giant boulders, and we had to hop from rock to rock. All of us fared about the same. We’d climb a little ways then rest. Gasp for air. Drink. Check our heart rate. Look up. Climb again. Over and over again.

Ah, but once we did get above the tree line...my oh my. The whole wide world stretched out before us. We could see clear to the edge of the earth. Our hearts felt like bursting just for the sheer joy of being on top of Maine and seeing the wilderness spread out far below. Still we climbed. We had gradually fallen together into little groups, automatically paired up by our similar fitness levels and rest-stop needs.

Greg and I were in the middle. Old Katahdin didn't give an inch. We fought and struggled for every stinking foot of elevation. Just the three of us—Greg, me, and Ibuprofen. We thought we'd never get to the top even though we could see it there, just up ahead. Only a little further. Always a little further.

But you know, even if old age doesn't bring stronger muscles, it brings wisdom that knows when to rest and take it slow, and it brings perseverance. Good old dogged determination. Grit as my mother called it, and that’s what got us to the top—grit.

And I still felt good. The summit that day was crowded with gangs of kids and other hiking parties. We could see and hear them all crossing the Knife Edge and clustering around Baxter Peak. We were honest with ourselves. We were not about to take a number for our turn sitting on the summit we had all perched on in years past. That’s not what we had come for.

By now my GI canteen was empty. Hoping against hope, we stumbled on to Caribou Spring and were rewarded to find a strong flow of icy cold water bubbling up from under the rocks. Hank, our guide, remarked he’d been following this route for years and had never seen Caribou Spring so full and running so well. Refreshing is hardly the word to capture how it felt to kneel there beside the water on top of Katahdin and take a long quenching drink. When we looked up from our cups, we saw fleecy clouds, other mountaintops, and broad blue lakes in the distance. Thus we refreshed both our bodies and our spirits, and I filled my canteen.

We started back down the Saddle Trail, another brutal rockslide. Youngsters passed us going and coming and were soon out of sight. What for them with their youthful legs was just a playground was for us oldsters a real obstacle course. I kept stabbing the old bamboo staff at cracks and pockets searching for the secure hold that would keep me from making a face plant on some gigantic boulder.

At Chimney Pond we rested and formed a short line at the only backhouse anywhere around. By now our legs were rubber and there was no bounce left in our steps as we stumbled from rock to rock. We hurried along, not wanting to get caught in the dark and still be on the trail. The ranger had warned about the dangers of trying to make it out in the dark. We made it a photo finish. We hove into Roaring Brook just as it became too dark to see our friends in front of us. Those who had turned back at Chimney Pond had started a campfire and set up lounge chairs. Greg and I slipped off our packs, flopped into a chair, and kind friends brought us each an ice-cold beer.

We’d made it. I’d made it. I was elated. I still felt good, but sore—oh so sore. My thigh muscles ached. My shoulders ached. But I’d climbed that darned rock pile again. Just when I needed it.

It’s funny how things come together. Sort of like that old Zen saying about when the student is ready a teacher will appear. Right when I needed some reassurance that I wasn’t too old and that retirement held more for me than quiet days in a rocker, Katahdin appeared. I will be forever grateful to my old friend for asking me along. Not only did the climb set me on top of Maine, it put me on top of the world.  

 

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