Paul Travers on Mt. Katahdin

Go tell it on and from the mountain - MOUNTain KATAHDIN that is! As promised, it’s time to backtrack (That’s the last thing an AT hiker wants to do, but we do as we must.) and fill in the gap between Monson and Millinocket. After arriving in Monson, I quickly grew restless (That’s an AT affliction that makes the transition to the civiiian world difficult.) while waiting for the arrival of Rainbow Brite (RB), also known as Mrs. T, Mrs. Travers, or simply Cathy. So instead of relaxing and recupurating for a couple of days, I decided to hike part of The Wilderness so that RB and I would have only 50+ miles to go. This proved to be a wise decison because it definitely saved time and some wear and tear on my new hiking partner. The first 50+ miles of The Wilderness had some mountains that reached a top elevation of 3,650 feet at White Cap Mountain, but after The Whites, the difficulty of climbing any mountain in the north seemed to decrease. No doubt, most of this was psychological because after New Hampshire and Southern Maine, anything and everything seemed less difficult. So for a seasoned AT hiker, “The Wilderness” was in reality “The Milderness.” However, once again, I kept chanting in the back of my mind the AT mantra “there are no easy miles on the AT.” The main difficulty with this 100 mile stretch was resupply. Basically, a hiker is on their own until the White House Landing, a lodge and hostel that requires a boat ride across a lake, about 48 miles from Katahdin. There were a number of deserted logging roads that crossed the trail but they were 16+ miles from the main road and any chance of hitchhiking to civilization was non-existent.

After meeting with RB in Monson, we drove to Millinocket, our departure point south for the rest of The Wildernerss. Except for two days of rain and one rainy and cramped night in the woods (Thank goodness for the Big Agnes. The SL2 tent once again proved to be waterproof.), the hike was a sheer delight, a dream-come-true for AT hikers. For the last 50 miles, the trail snaked around a number of ponds and lakes on “relatively” flat ground with a trail bed of pine needles and leaves. Throw in an occasional glimpse of Mount Katahdin and you had a hiker’s paradise. Of course, there were sections of R&R, rocks and roots, but nothing like the past 300 miles. At Abol Bridge, a squat, unimpressive wood traffic bridge across the Penobscot River that looked like it came out of the movie The Bridge on the River Kwai, we were able to get a panoramic view of the mountain only fifteen miles in the distance. It was almost as if you could reach out and touch it. It seemed that close after hiking over 2,000 miles. Inspiring and intimidating were my immediate thoughts! So close and yet so far away! But RB and I were confident about finishing. At last, I had my old hiking partner by my side and all was well. For the past week, I had spent most of the time hiking by myself, catching up with some other hikers at one of the shelters or hostels. Hiking by yourself is good at time, but it gets old in a hurry, especially in The Wilderness.

After spending a restless night at the Katahdin Inn, RB and I headed out at 5:15 a.m. on Wednesday morning to pickup Squeezecheese (SC) and hike to the summit. We had met with SC, my sometime hiking partner in Maine, the night before at the Appalachian Trail Cafe. If anybody gets a courage award for hiking the AT, it’s SC. When I first met hiim in Andover, ME, his legs were wrapped in braces and Ace bandages. “My knees are shot,” he said wearily at our first meeting, hobbling to his room as if ready to lie down on his death bed. Instead, he rose from his AT deathbed to become the AT Lazarus. What an inspiration! SC was a most welcomed addition to our summit party. He was refreshed, rejuvenated, and re-energized now that the end was in sight. I was glad that we now had another experienced hiker with us. Despite the lack of sleep over worrying about RB and I making it to the top of the mountain, the adrenalin was pumping at 4:30 that morning without chocolate doughnuts and/or coffee. To guarantee a spot in Baxter State Park, RB and I had stopped by the park HQ to reserve a parking space at Katahdin Stream Campground (the trailhead for the Hunt Trail on the AT) for Wednesday morning. Due to the summer popularity of the park and the mountain, that’s how the system works. To ensure a chance to hike, you reserve a parking space, not a camping space for a fee of $5.00. If you don’t have a reserved space and the lot is full, then you have to wait until 7:30 to see if there is a no-show. Then if you’re lucky enough to be the next in line, you get the space and a chance to summit. There are only about 25 or 30 parking spots so competition is keen. In addition to the reservation fee, there’s a $14.00 entrance fee to the park entrance. So if you finally get into the park and can’t summit, you’re out of luck and have to repeat the process. Lucky for us, the park attendant at the toll booth saw the magnetic Herm’s Hike signs on the side of the SUV and waived the entrance fee after we explained that were were hiking as a fundraiser for the Alzheimer’s Assocation. I didn’t get the attendant’s name, but, once again, thank you for your trail magic and God bless you. Your generosity gave us an emotional boost that we were doing something meaningful for the families suffering from the disease.

At the campground, all three of us packed our daypacks with cameras, water, Gatorade, snacks, sandwiches, and some foul weather gear. After registering at the ranger station and signing in at the trailhead, we headed to the summit under a perfect weather day, sunny with a high temperature predicted near 80 (minimum of 10 degress cooler on the mountain) and winds at 5 to 10 MPH. For the first miles, it was hiker heaven, a flat walk through a mixed pine forest and not too much in the way of roots and rocks. To me this was a scary situation because I knew the trail companion book and maps listed the 5.3 mile hike from the campground to the summit with a elevation gain of 4,188 feet over 5.3 miles. Throw out the first mile and that leaves an elevation gain of 4,188 over 4.3 miles Throw out the last mile on the mountain tabletop, which had an elevatoin gain of 600 feet from the mountain ridge to the summit, and that leaves an elevation gain of 3,588 over 3.3 miles. Now that’s getting rather steep, especially going up the side of the mountain above the treeline. I walked in silence, keeping my calculations to myself for fear of spooking my fellow hikers. After we reached Katahdin Falls, a mile into the hike, we started to climb, and climb, and climb. At first, it was a series of rock steps above the waterfalls and then some serious rock outcroppings about every 10 yards. With every step, the rocks got larger and the mountain steeper. As we slowly ascended, I started to worry. RB and I were having trouble climbing the larger rocks. To ascend, we had to throw our hiking poles ahead of us, climb hand over hand, and retrieve our poles. Ten yards later, repeat process until exhausted. It wasn’t too long before the hiking poles were folded up and stuffed in the daypacks. Progress was slow but steady until we reached The Gateway, an 8 ft. rock ledge with re-bar handles about halfway to the summit. Had we reached the trail’s end? It sure looked like it. There was no way RB was going to be able to climb up the gateway, a forboding and menacing wall of rock that led to the spine of the moutain that led to the summit. Maybe, she could have done it, and, most likely, she could have done it, but it wasn’t worth the risk. From the beginning, I insisted that any chance of serious injury was not worth the risk since we were so close to the finish. Safety was paramount. I was afraid that RB would fall and get hurt and that wasn’t worth the risk. Once you get hurt on the side of the mountain, it can be a most perilous trip back down. You either have to be carried down by rescuers or pulled out by rescue helicopter. There was no way I was going to leave my hiking partner of 30 years on the side of a mountain. And we were literally on the side of the mountain, huddled in a rocky notch above the treeline surrrounded by rocks the size of tractor trailers. What to do! What to do? That was the question. Frustrated, I bellowed this question to the neighboring mountains. My echo received no answer, but what followed was a philosophical discussion between RB and myself about the goals of the hike. After a few expletives deleted about our predicament, I repeated to RB that I could not leave her alone on the side of the mountain. She urged me to continue with SC, stating that she had food, water, extra clothing, and enough common sense not to climb donw the mountain by herself. She emphasized the goal of the hike was to finally place the Herm’s Hike memorial rock at the summit and repeated that she wsa more than content to patiently wait for our return. Poor SC, all he could do was listen. At one point, we considered letting him take the rock to the top, an idea that he readily endorsed. But sanity prevailed, or should I say RB prevailed, and after a kiss for good luck from RB, SC and I continued to climb without RB. We quickly realized the decision to leave RB was the right one. The climb was even more difficult past The Gateway. RB could relax and take some great pictures of the great views from her rocky perch. But despite the reassuring thoughts, I worried. How could I not. How could I leave the love of my life stranded on the side of a mountain while I pushed forward to the summit. But push on I did with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

So higher and higher, we climbed, hand over hand up the spine of the mountain that rose nearly straight up. We were dwarfed by the size of the rocks. All you could see was the next big rock directly in front of you. The layers of skin on my palms and fingers were peeling off with all of the pushing, pulling, sliding and scraping. Finally after about a mile of this mountain wasteland, we crested the spine and laid eyes on the mountain plateau. The summit of Katahdin was just over a mile in the distance. Our paced quickened, and SC dashed ahead, leaving me behind on the rocky dirt trail. He caught the scent of the finish like a bloodhound and raced forward while I cheered him on. At least we had a trail where we could now actually hike/walk instead of climb. A half an hour later, we were together at the summit. Finally, we had reached the end of the trail! Tears welled in our eyes as we thought back to the many months and thousands of miles. Emotionally, I was numb for the first few minutes on the summit. All I could do was just stand in front of the sign and stare at it in disbelief. I had reached the end of Herm’s Hike! After gathering our thoughts and emotions, we took turns taking pictures. Luckily, we met Dan, photographer and musician from Lancaster, PA, (visit him at http//: smithfactory.com) who took some pictures with his professional camera equipment and the promise to send us copies via e-mail which he did. Thanks Dan for the great pictures.

After a few more pictures, I finally opened my dayback and gently lifted the memorial rock which I placed beneath the summit sign. What is the memorial rock? A flat faced rock about 5 inches wide and 12 inches long that was given to me by a Lakota medicine man for the specific purpose of placing it on Mount Katahdin, the sacred mountain of the Abenaki Indians. The rock was reportedly from Bear Butte in South Dakota, a sacred mountain to the Lakota nation. RB first painted the rock white and then hand-painted the logos for Herm’s Hike and the Alzheimer’s Associaiton and the names of remembered Alzheimer’s victims. Needless to say, my fellow hikers were impressed with the history behind the rock. After placing the rock in view of all hikers along with my prayer bundles signifying the four directions and the cycle of life, I then placed memorial cards with the names of Alzheimer’s victims in one of the cairns along with one of the poems written by my nephew Justin. Another emotional moment that left me with tears in my eyes. As I turned around to look back at the Mount Katahdin, my fellow hikers were gently clapping their hands in tribute to Herm’s Hike. A tear or two or three rolled down my cheek. Life does not get any better than that.

After a quick snack, SC and I headed down the mountain with a song in our heart and a spring in our step. Since the trail ended at Mount Katahdin, we now had 5 dead miles to backtrack down the mountain. Along the way, I couldn’t help but worry about the fate of RB. Minutes later my fears were quickly relieved after I questioned some of the hikers heading to the top. They had all met the lady at the bottom of The Gateway. For over 2 hours, RB had greeeted hikers with a smile and enthusiastically cheered them to the top while waiting for her husband to return from the summit. That is the epitome of an AT hiker, whether is be thru-hiker, section hiker, 1 day hiker, 1 hour hiker, or 1 step hiker. After informing the passing hikers that I was the husband from the summit, they reassured me that RB was fine and in good spirits. My fears were relieved, but I stilll had to get down the mountain. And slowly I did, mostly by the seat of my pants. After about an hour, I finally reached RB and together with SC, we slowly and carefully hiked triumphantly down the mountain, finally arriving at the campground parking lot about 9 hours after we had left. We then headed to the Appalachian Trail Lodge for a victory dinner and few victory beers to toast our success. After dropping off an exhausted but jubilant SC at the AT Trail Lodge, we headed back to the Katahdin Inn. For RB and myself, the day and the hike had been a success. We had started the hike together at Springer Mountain, Georgia, and we ended the hike together at the Katahdin Stream Campground.

The fact the we did not summit Mount Katahdin together was immaterial and irrelevant! We had hiked our own hike. What a sense of accomplishment! What a sense of relief! It seemd all too surreal to be back in the hotel room knowing that my journey had come to an end. The numbers were mind boggling, 2,178 miles and over 5 million steps. Yes, I had hiked the Appalachian Trail. Herm’s HIke now belonged to AT legend and lore. Now all I had to was adjust to civilization, and from last year, I knew that could be a difficult process.

Stayed tuned for the next trail journal entry. As promised, I’ll discuss how the spiritual journey of Son-Dance on the AT ended. I think you’ll really enjoy it! Thank you for your prayers and donations. As always, hike in peace and hike with your angels!

Son-Dance

Son-Dance, a thru-hiker who also goes by the alias of Paul Travers, summited Mount Katahdin on Wednesday at 11:26 a.m to finish his hike of the Appalachian Trail. The trip took 9 hours in near perfect condtions, sunny and clear with temperatures in the 70’s with moderate winds at 5 to 10 MPH. Details on the climb and the hike through the 100 Mile Wilderness to follow. _____________________________________________________________

Dear Herm’s Hikers,

Yes, Herm’s Hike is now part of AT history and lore. Mount Katahdin was summited on Wednesday. Had a magnificent hiking day with Rainbow Brite and Squeezecheese, my hiking partner throughout parts of Maine. After many, many months, I was finally was able to place the memorial rock and prayer bundles under the Mount Katahdin sign on the top of the mountain. More on the rock and hike later when I return home. All is all, it was a very, very emotional day. Not a dry eye was to be found on top of the mountain. Thank you for your prayers and support. More later, and I mean more later. The hike came full circle, spiritually and emotionally, in the town of Monson and Millinocket when I met fellow hikers from last year’s AT adventure. STAY TUNED for the next trail entry. It shoiuld be the most interesting, fascinating and intriguing of all entries.

As always, hike in peace and hike with your angels!

Son-Dance

Greetings from Monson, Maine, the gateway to Katahdin and the beginning of The Wilderness, the last 100 miles of the trail. Southern Maine has been a hiking adventure. The mountains are not as tall as the Whites, but at times, they are just as difficult. Hiking in Maine can be best described as rocks, roots, and stretches of something that resembles a hiking trail. The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful! There have been a number of steep mountain climbs with hiking above the ridge line for a few miles. Descending the mountains, there have been numerous bogs, marshes, and muddy boots, but NO MOOSE sighting to date. I do have a rather fine collection of moose (metal, plastic and wood) from various commercial establishments in the trail towns. Everybody’s cashing in on the moose craze. Now I just have to see one. Guess, I will have to take one of those moose sightseeing tours when the hike is over if I don’t see any between Monson and Katahdin. But there’s more to Maine than moose and lobster? Yeah, I know rather hard to believe. So the question remains - what does Maine have that the other states on the trail do not? Ponds ponds and more ponds,hundreds of scenic ponds tucked against the mountains. If Minnesota is the land of a thousand lakes, then Maine is the land of a thousand ponds. Seems that many New Englanders have waterfront cabins as a summer getaways. What a fantastic way to spend a summer vacation. And surprisingly, the water is not that cold. Believe me, after being in the green tunnel for over 1,500 miles, it is emotionally and spiritually refreshing to see water. Ah, clear, cool water (Hey that’s what the Beach Boys once sang about). Water, a baptism a rebirth, the essential of life.

Stayed at the Gull Pond Lodge in Rangeley, a great little hostel right on a pond, Gull Pond as a matter of fact. Even had a chance to take out the kayak in search of the elusive loon. Talk about a tough bird to capture on film, it’s the loon. Every time I got within camera range, the duck would dive and surface about 30 to 50 yards away. I did manage to sneak up and take a great picture of a beautiful duck which looked like a loon. For some unexplained reason, the duck set on the water floating rather casually. Upon closer inspection (I was wondering why the duck didn’t dive or fly away), I quickly discovered, my duck was a decoy that was anchored to the bottom of the pond. You can take Son-Dance out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of Son-Dance. At least I got a great picture of a decoy. What a wonderful stay at the Gull Pond. My special thanks to Bob, the owner, and Bonnie for their hospitality. However, there’s was some sadness mixed with the happiness. While at the hostel, Bob’s 14 year-old Chocolate labrador named Gwendy (now that’s one old dog) started to experience difficulties in walking and standing. It was a tender and heartfelt moment to watch Bob care for his faithful canine companion of so many years. The next day I drove with Bob to the vet’s in Farmington. They keep Gwendy overnight, and since I was back on the trail that day, I didn’t find out what happened at the vet’s. But Bob had come to terms with the likelihood that Gwendy would have to be put to sleep. She was suffering, and it was plain to see that Bob was also suffering.

Finally after 100 miles of mountains, I reached the Kennebec River, another milestone on the trail, in addition to reaching the 2,000 mark. The ferry runs from 9 to 11 and 2 to 4. Arrived at about 1 o’clock and had to wait an hour for Dave, the ferryman to arrive. Well, the vessel is not exactly a ferry but a 16 ft. canoe that ferries hikers across a rather dangerous stretch of river. The Kennebec has a dam upriver that releases water for rafters and kayakers. As a result, the river is prone to sudden surges in depth. IN 1985, a hiker got caught in a surge and was washed downriver to their death. Even at low level, the water at the crossing is knee to chest deep over a bed of slippery rocks. I would have hand cut a grove of trees with my Swiss army knife and built a raft of logs before attempting to ford the river with a backpack on my back or held over my head.

After crossing the Keenebec, it was back on the trail at the town of Caratunk. Caratunk has a post office and a field office for the forest service, and that’s it. There were some great old buildings that could be used as a set for a Clint Eastwood western, but that was it. Not even a soda machine. Looking for a place to rest my weary head, I hitched a ride to Northern Outdoors Resort about 2 miles north of the trail crossing. With the weekend, not a room was to be found at iMaine’s northern capital of whitewater rafting. But it sure looked like a fun place to go rafting! It would be the perfect set for a whitewater rafting movie starring Rodney Dangerfield, Bill Murray and Chevy Chase. It was wild and crazy! A lot of estrogen and testosterone in the air! Also couldn’t find a room at the Sterling Inn a miles west of the trail (they were having a wedding), so I hitched a ride to Bingham, 16 miles south to stay at the Eagle’s Nest Lodge. What great advice from a day-hiker! What a great stay! For 30 bucks a night, I had a house to myself, bedroom, kitchen, living room, and TV. Ah. life is good on the trail so good in fact the next day I hiked about 13 miles to Moxie Pond Road and then accepted a ride from a day hiker for another ride into Bingham and another night a the Eagle’s Nest. Never turn down “trail magic’ or a “trail angel.” That’s a commandant of the trail. Had a great, but slow ride, into town with Peter Davis, who provided the narration for a history tour of life in Bingham, the Canada Road and the Somerset Railway. Thanks Peter for a great history lesson! A fellow local history buff (that’s me) salutes you! And thank you Cathy and Mike for your hospitality at the Eagle’s Nest, the best kept secret on the trail! And Mike, thanks for the home-cooked dinner. It was a real treat to eat real food.

Time to go and explore the town of Monson and wait for Rainbow Brite (that’s Mrs. T) to arrive! We started the hike together and so we shall end the hike together. As the miles dwindle so do stories from the trail, but I still have some great ones to tell. I always wondered how my spiritual journey would end. I think I have found the answer in Monson. And, once again, it involves Paul (Paul the Apostle and Paul the Thur-hiker) on the road to Katahdin. The irony is just fascinating! Intriguing! Spellbinding! As the hike reaches its end, I’m glad, but sad, to see it come to an end. My days as a gypsy hiker are numbered. Before long, it will be back to civilization.

Keep me in your prayers for these final miles. Hike with your angels and hike in peace!

Son-Dance

Greetings from Rangeley, Maine! Finally crossed New Hampshire/Maine border (There was a sign on the trail to let you know.) to enter the last state on the trail. If New Hampshire chewed us up, then Maine is quickly spitting us out, and we are only in the southern part of the state.

Entered Maine with some anxiety (Nah, entered Maine with a lot of anxiety) about the toughest mile on the trail. Well, I’m hear to tell you that all of the stories about the toughest mile on the trail are absolutely true. No false advertising here! After hiking five miles across three mountain ranges above 3,500 feet, I finally arrived at the Mahoosuc Notch, the infamous toughest miles on the AT. Tough, not really! Impossible at times is more like it, especially for a Greyhound hiker (over 50) like myself. What the literature doesn’t tell you is that to get to the notch trail you have to hike down the side of a mountain, a 1,000 ft. drop in exactly a mile. It’s a thousand feet of rocks, roots, and loose stones, a deadly combination. It took me just over an hour to navigate this section of the trail. I only stumbled once when I slipped on some loose gravel which resulted in a slight ankle sprain. Once at the bottom, the real work began. The Mahoosuc Notch is a gap, maybe 10 to 20 yards wide, in a walled-canyon. The only way out is to crawl over, under and around the boulders that range in such from a sedan to a tractor-trailer. There are no side exit trails unless you climb straight up a 300 ft. canyon wall. So for just over a mile, I worked my way inch by inch through the notch with a bum ankle. Hey, gang talk about true grit and guts and glory. This was it. Every few yards, I had to stop and plan the best way to attack the next series of boulders. It was all climbing, leaping, and then sliding down on the seat of my pants. I believe that I have just about worn out the backside of my hiking pants. Had to place my sleeping pad inside the backpack to save it from being shredded. Two hikers before me forgot to do it, and it cost them a sleeping pad or mattress. The leaping from rock to rock was something that took a lot of very, very, very, careful consideration because I had to consider the weight of my backpack and the shifting of the weight. Pretty dicey stuff at times! Once thing I found is that people over 50, especially me, do not have the agility and balance of people under 30. I mean the hand and eye coordination is still there, but the balancing ability faded years ago. Yep, I should have retired 30 years ago. I keep telling the Youngbloods (hikers in their 20’s) that they should have seen me 35 years ago. Geez, I’d giv’em a run for their money and show’em how to hike the damn mountains. Okay, I’m digressing and daydreaming here. Son-Dance, you aren’t getting any younger so hurry up and get this trail journal entry finished.

There were three spots in the notch where I had to take off the backpack and crawl through the openings in the bottom rocks which were small caves. After crawling to daylight, I had to reach back and drag out the pack. In June, there was still some snow in these mini-caves, but when I passed through the snow was thankfully long gone. I could look down between the rocks and still see some ice formations, but there were no slippery surfaces. At least, it was cool going through the notch. Nature’s air-conditioner! So after about two hours of climbing and crawling (I’m serious when I say that there were times when I looked at the boulders, looked at boots, and thought “how in the hell am I going to climb over or under those rocks? There ain’t no way I can make it.”), I climbed through the last rock wedge and scrambled straight up for about 100 feet, thinking the torture was over.

Over and out? Just the beginning! Am I insane? Nope, the mountains are insane. After the notch, I climbed the Mashoosuc Arm, rock scramble that rose 1,200 feet in just under a mile. Now that’s crazy! Someone appropriately described it as climbing up a rope for a mile. No, my fellow hikers, the notch wasn’t the toughest mile, the “Arm” was toughest mile. Psychological warfare from the mountains! Just when you think that you completed the toughest part of the journey, you’re faced with an even greater challenge. Parts of the climb were over smooth rock ledges and tables that angled around 70+ degrees. It’s a good thing the weather was dry because in the rain it would be impossible to navigate the trail. In the rain, it would have been a waterfalls. To avoid rock scrambling, I had to grab trees next to the trail and hoist myself along, a few feet at a time. You could tell the most popular hiker routes by simply looking to see which trees had the least bark and branches.

There was a reward at the end of the day when I stopped at Speck Pond Shelter. The shelter was just your normal three-sided lean-to, but it was right next to a mountain pond where you could wade and soak your feet. Ah, the sheer joy of a mountain pond, nestled in an evergreen forest. After a dinner of Spam sandwiches (too tired to boil water for the freeze-dried dinner) and a healthy dose of Vitamin I (Ibupropen), I was in the sleeping bag by 7:30, totally exhausted. Ah, a glorious sleep in the mountains. The next day it was long hike down the mountain to Grafton Notch where I received some trail magic, a 16 oz. Rolling Rock and ride down the road to swimming hole in the state park. Thank you Bill and Josh!

The next day I reached Andover, Maine, and the Pine Ellis Hostel, another home away from home run by Ilene and Dave, two of the friendliest people on the trail. Finally, I had a chance to slack-pack and get that 33 pound monkey off my back. Also had some great meals at the Andover general store and dinner. Ate there so many times, I even had my own booth. Of course, so did just about everybody else, but it was nice to be recognized by the staff.

Since the trail did not cross or pass directly through Andover, I had to hitch a ten mile ride to town. No sooner had I crossed the road and stuck out my thumb, then I was picked up by Phil the Bear Man and his youngest daughter who just got her driver’s learning permit and was driving the family pick-up (yeah, what else would you be driving in Maine). Before going to town, Phil said he had to stop in the woods and place his bear bait. Seems Phil runs a hunting service and bow season for black bear is around the corner so he had to place some bait to attract the bears to his acreage. Well, Phil stopped and opened one of those big road gates with the No Trespassing signs that led to his wilderness. About a mile up the dirt road, we stopped and I thought this was the end of the road for old Son-dance. Yep, the thought crossed my mind the bear bait was me (cue to the music from Deliverance). Ha! Ha! Just kidding Phil and fellow readers. In all honesty, Phil was a stand-up, first-rate good guy with some great hunting stories. A day later, he saw me walking to town and gave me a ride to the general store/restaurant. My fellow hikers were amazed. They wondered how I could know so many townspeople in such little time. Guys, you got to take the time to simply talk with people.

Okay readers, time for me to explore the town of Rangeley. It’s a trendy little resort town that’s popular in winter (skiing and snowmobiling) and summer (hiking, swimming, boating and fishing in the ponds). And believe me, there are an abundance of scenic ponds in the area with private cabins and resorts. And today, there’s a street fair and art festival. Finally, I hit a town that’s having an event. This week it’s Andover Days in Andover with a parade and a street festival, but I won’t be able to make that one.

The hiking in Maine is only a little easier than New Hampshire and not by much. The mountains are not as big, but the rocks and tree roots are the same, making it a rather slow affair at times. There are no easy miles on the AT! Another truth in advertising. Time to hit the streets. As always keep me in your prayers. The journey draws closer to the finish with each passing day! Hike with angels and hike in peace!

Son-Dance

In the words of Rod Serling from the Twilight Zone, “Tonight meet our good friend Son-Dance, a gypsy trail hiker who once traveled to the White Mountains in search of perfect knowledge and spiritual enlightment. Tonight meet our good friend Son-Dance, a mystic voyager who survived his trip in another mythical and magical dimension known as the Alpine Zone.” Cue to music (theme from the Twilight Zone!)

Did I just refer to myself as a trail hiker in the Whites? No, no, no! Let me correct that mistake! A more accurate description would be rock climber. For you see, for most of the Whites from Mount Washington to Gorahm, there is no trail, just mountains of rocks with a few white blazes if you’re lucky. Most of trail is marked by cairns. Sounds easy enough to follow, but when you get to the top of a mountain ridge where trails intersect (and there are lots of side trails in the Whites for day and weekend hikers), there are cairns standing eveywhere like silent traffic cops. They know the right direction, but they’re not saying a word. If you’re lucky there might be a signpost giving you some additional directions. Sure glad that I bought the trail maps from the Appalachian Trail Conservancy!

Entered the Whites at Franconia Notch. Instead of tenting at the nearby campground, I decided to head for Lincoln, NH, a trendy little tourist town situated next to a ski resort. What a great place for hikers! Gourmet shops and restaurants, and a Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonalds. Is life good in Lincoln or what! But most of all, Lincoln had Chet’s Place, a home hostel run by Chet West and his helpers Bruce and Fallon. What a great place and what a great story! Chet, who is in his early 30’s, was severly injured when a camping stove blew up as he was attemping to light it. Chet’s face and arms were unscathed, but his lungs were damaged from breathing in the smoke and flames. In addition his mid-section received third-degree burns which destroyed a significant amount of muscle tissue. Chet was in a drug induced coma for 8 months and in the hospital for a total of 18 months. Speaking with Chet brought goosebumps to my arms as he described his spiritual journey immediately following the accident. He said he was standing at the door to the other side where a bright, blinding light was shining. He saw the faces of loved ones who had gathered at the door and and heard the voices who told him to go back becasue it was not his time to step through the portal. Wow! Chet recovered from the accident, although he still has to use a wheelchair. What a courageous and inspirational story!

Once again, I feel the Hand of God pointed move in the directon of Chet’s Place. In the trail journal there was only a listing for a hostel. There were no details about Chet’s and his miraculous story. I think my guardian angel was whisppering in my ear “Go to Chet’s Place for the night.”

The next day I headed out from Franonia Notch to hike Franconia Ridge. Heard a lot about the views but had no idea what I was in for. After a 2,500 ft. climb (hand over hand, up and around the boulders for 3 miles), I reached the ridge summit. Spectacular! The weather was sunny and the wind was blowing in excess of 25 miles an hours, but the views were stunning. Looking around, I was instantly transported to Evererst and great mountains in Nepal. Any second, I expected to see sherpas leading a group of mountaineers and local villagers herding yaks. Up and down, I hiked the various summits, Little Haystack Mtn. at 4,800 ft, Mt. Lincoln at 5,089 ft, and Mt. Garfield at 4,500 ft. The climbing was difficuult but not severe becuase the peaks were on the ridge. It was a lot of ups and downs above the treeline, and a mountain hiker cannot ask for anything more than that.

Stayed at the Garfield Ridge Shelter that night (thanks to the overnight hikers who carried up the Blue Moon ale) and then headed out for more mountains the next day, South Twin Mtn. at 4,902 and Mt Guyot at 4,580. More hard climbing with the hardest part coming as soon as I left the shleter. The trail to the mountain valley was literally the waterfalls for about a quarter of a mile. Totally insane! The most most difficult and dangerous hike that I have experienced. No place to take any chances with your footing. At Mt. Guyot, a storm front with light rain and heavy fog was racing across the across the mountain. I missed the turn off to the AT and met up with professor David Taylor and his two assistants who were doing reseach on mountain vegatation. Professor taylor hiked with me back to the turn off and put me on the right path to the next hut. Thank you, Dave! You are a trail angel.

Later in the day teamed up with follow hiker Utah who was also heading north. For the next three days we hiked and hit the “huts.” After bypassing the first two, we stayed at Zealand falls, Mizpah Spring, and Madison Spring. Since I’m with the advance party of NOBO’s, we were able to “work for stay.” In return for about an hour of work (dish washing, room cleaning, etc.), we got a place to sleep indoors and dinner and breakfast. We lived like hiking kings! The food and hospitality were fantatic! Our dinners were stuffed shells, chicken in wine sauce, and lasgna. Breakast was oatmeal and pancakes! Of course, we had to wait until the paying customers had eaten before we could dine, but who cared. We were eating a hot meal and eating as much as we wanted. Hiking gypsy kings!

A special thanks to Doris, Ken and their daughters, 1, 3 and 7 at Zealand Falls. As a bone-tired hiker (That’s me!) was making his way down the side of the mountain at the end of a long day, what appeared before me was a vision of beauty as three lovely ladies (appearing to be in their 20’s or early 30’s) in spandex outfits and hiking shoes, were bounding up the mountain with bubbling energy and enthusiasm. For a minute, I thought I was hallucinating! Son-Dance, I thought, you’e been in the mountains far too long. As we passed, I inquired about the proximity of the hut, and they replied just about 20 minutes down the mountain. In response, the long-faced hiker (That’s me!) bemoaned the fact of another 20 minutes on a rocky trail with tired and aching feeting. Then up, up and away, this lovely trio disappeared into the forest on their way to the scenic viewpoint.

Well, I finally reached the falls at the hut and decided to soak my feet in the cold mountain water. As I was relaxing, a couple (Doris and Ken) came over to where I was sitting with a carton of wine and a couple of plastic cups. Good wind and great conversation! Can’t be beat! As we were talking and drinking, the three lovely returend from thier mountain journey to join. Yes, the three ladies were the daughters of Doris and Ken. They noted my quick recovery as I sat with my feet in the water and a glass of wine in my hand, all with a smile on my face. To Doris, Ken and daughters, a sincere and humble thanks for your hospitality and generosity! You were a highlight of the triip.

The next day Utah and I reached Crawford Notch where we were thinking about taking time off. When the info desk said they were expecting good weather for the next two days at Mount Washington, we immediatley threw on our packpacks and headed up the mountain. And, glad that we did! By the time, we summited Mount Wasington at 6,288, the weather was bright and sunny with winds blowing at 55 MPH and temps in the upper 40’s. A perfect day at the top of the mountain with some of the harshest and severest weather in the country. Like at Everest, when the weather beakons, you heed the call. After a quick lunch,we headed out for more mountains named after presidents (That’s why it’s called the Presidential Range) for Madison Spirng Hut. The six miles from Mt. Washington to the hut were extremely diffiuclt, rock climbing hand over hand. With it being late afternoon, it mad the hike only harder. My bloodied and bruised shins are proof. The hut was an oasis in a rocky desert. Lost one of my water bottles on the hike to Washington and scored two matching, relatively new bottles, in the lost and found box at Lakes of the Clouds hut. Thanks, guys, for letting me rummage through the box. It was my lucky day.

After a night at the hut, I hiked to Pinkham Notch where I met hiking legend Leon Barkman who thru-hiked in 1967, long before trail names. Leon leads hikes from the notch and dispensees trail magic with bags of trail mix. Leon, thank you for your trail magic. You are, indeed, a trail legend and a trail angel.

Well fellow hikers, I’ve been at the computer too long. I’m getting a lot of stares from the librarian. In two day, I’ll be in Maine and then in two weeks, I’ll hopefully met with Rainbow Brite (Mrs. T) to hike the Wilderness. As always, keep me in your prayers. I know somebody’s prayers were answered because of the fantastic weather. Hike in peace and hike with your angels! Happy trails until we met again!

Son-Dance

To paraphrase the words of Rod Serling from the famous TV show, “Open the door and walk into another dimension where high is low, up is down, wet is dry, valleys are mountains, and summer is winter. But don’t stop walking just yet, for you have just entered the Alpine Zone.” Cue to the music from the theme of The Twilight Zone.
Greetings from Glencliff, New Hampshire, and the Hikers Welcome Hostel, the gateway to the White Mountains. The hostel is an old farm house and barn, dating from 1832, with Phat Chap and Uncle Walt as the main caretakers, both who look like roadies from the Grateful Dead. But it’s a great stop on the trail with friendly service, comfortable bunks and lounging quarters, and a few stores and restaurants in the village of Warren, just down the road. Everything an AT hiker could ask for. Even some good conversation was on hand last night as the bunkhouse debate centered on religion and miracles. It seems some of the younger hikers (The Youngbloods) who label themsleves agnostics and doubt the existence of both. With age comes experience, and with experience comes the wisdom to acknowledge both. I would like to hear their comments when they become Greyhounds. Geez, am I getting old here or what? Never a dull moment on or off the trail.
My, oh my how things have changed in a week. Last week in Vermont, water was becoming scarce. Water sources at some of the the shelters were drying and becoming nothing more than mud holes. The prehistoric mud swamps from last year that sucked the boots right off your feet were now just damp earth (Well not quite damp, but you get the picture.) I did see one mud hole on the trail that still looked menacing. Testing the site, my hiking pole sunk over two feet in the ooze. I expected to stir up a floating backpack or hiking boots, remnants from an unfortunate hiker who happened to step into this AT quicksand. Water quality at some of the springs and creeks could be judged by the frog factor. More frogs in the water usally meant less water and less water quality because all of the amphibians in the area were gathering at that site. Coming into Hanover, NH last weekend, I had hoped to spend the night at the Happy Hills shelter before a short hike into town the next day. My plans were drastically changed when I found the water source to be a muddy stream bed and a moist spring about the size of a 5 gallon bucket. Already low on water (just a few gulps in each bottle), I had to walk over five miles to the next water source. That day Happy Hills was not a happy place. But the trail is like the weather, keep hiking and conditions can change within a few steps, or more like a few hundred steps.
And speaking of conditions. With each passing day, I grow older and the mountains grow bolder and colder. Coming north, there was Moose Mountain at 2,290 ft., Smarts Mountain at 3,230 ft., Mt. Cube at 2,911 ft., and then, the big one to date (drum roll, please.), the first mountain in the Great Whites, Mt. Moosilauke at 4,802.
Hiked to Smarts Mountain in beautiful but hot weather. Teamed up with 3 German hikers and a couple from Texas (Hobo and Variable. Yes, Variable is a math teacher.) and climbed to the ridge which we thought was the summit. When we saw the fire tower on the next peak, we knew that were were standing on the ridge, just another false peak on the AT! Half way to the summit, thunder boomed around us in the valleys below. Climbing at times hand over hand, I double-timed it up the steep and rocky trail to reach the safety of the old fire warden’s cabin which was the shelter. Just as I reached the cabin and threw off the backpack, day beacme night as storm clouds raced over the mountain. Seconds later, the wind howled and the rain blew sidways. Rain quickly turned to hail and then sleet. I said a silent prayer for my hiking partners who were still hiking up the side of the mountain. The storm lasted about 15 mininutes, and was followed by clearing, cool weather and a picturesque sunset over the west mountains. A group of us with cameras climbed the fire tower to enjoy Mother’s Nature postcard evening. A few days later, my luck held as I hiked to the hostel and just missed another heavy thunderstorm with hail. Yes, my fellow hikers, prayers are being answered out here. Thank you Herm and the angels above!
Today I treated myself and slack-placked Mt. Moosilauke. Slack-packing is where you don a light packpack and usually hike back to your starting point. In my case, it was from Kinsman Notch to the hostel, a distance of about 10 miles. What a joy to be hiking without 33 pounds on my back. I was as quick as a cat! For the first 2 miles, I hiked the Cascade Trail which runs alongside the waterfalls. That alone tells you how steep it was. It was straight up, hand over hand climbing with rebar siderails at some of the more steeper sections. But it was scenic, and it was slippery because it was right next to the falls. In addition to all of the moisture, it started to rain. Just a light shower that grew heavier as I climbed higher. About a half mile from the summit, I met a fellow hiker who said “put on your Goretex,” and I was glad that I did. At the summit which was a large bald area with some grass, wildflowers, and scattered rocks/boulders, the wind was howling, the rain was blowing sideways, and the fog and clouds raced across the summit to create a whiteout, reducing visibility to about 50 feet. Following the cairns, mounds of piled rocks, was the only way to follow the trail. Moutain hiking at its best! Simply awesome! Oh, what a feeling! Breathtaking! Exhilirating! After hiking about a mile across the summit, I reached the relative calm of the treeline. Thrity minutes later, I was hiking down the mountain in sunshine. By the time, I reached the bottom of the mountain and walked to the hostel, it was hot and humid with the temperature in the low 80’s. All in a day’s work on the AT!
Tomorrow it’s some relatively sane and calm hiking farther into the Whites, In a day and a half, I should reach the “huts” run by the Appalachian Mountain Club. The huts are self-sustained lodges that provide beds and meals to hiking tourists. They are literally little motels on the trail. It should be some great hiking with terrific views above the treeline and some great meals. Next week looms Mount Washington at 6,288 feet, the highest peak in the Northeast. Can’t wait to summit!
Time to get some sleep for tomorrow’s hike. Looking for good weather and a great hike. As always, keep me in your prayers. Hike with your angels and hike in peace!

Son-Dance

Greetings from Tigger’s Treehouse! No sign of Pooh, Eyeore, or Christopher Robin. I guess I met them on the trail. The Treehouse is the name of the hostel just north of Hanover, New Hampshire, home of Dartmouth College. Needless to say I am glad to be done with Vermont. Last year’s fall is now a distant memory. As I was hiking up and down the mountains, I was constantly thinking about last year’s end to the hike. Ouch! If I could make it out of Vermont, that would be a big step to a successful hike. Now there are only 2 big steps left, New Hampshire and Maine. And as they say on the AT, as the miles grow shorter, the mountains grow taller.
The hike in Vermont was designed to put in shape for the Whites, and put me in shape it did. Last year was the wettest year in 100 years; this year it’s the hottest. Just my luck! Walking in the Vermont woods was like walking in a jungle. Ver-sauna I nicknamed the state. Temperatures were in the mid 90’s and the humidity was extremely high (I believe around 40%+). Man, was it hot. How hot? A couple of times a day I would stop and wring out my clothes. A few minutes later, I would be soaking wet as if I fell into a swimming pool. Nude hiking was not an option, but the thought did cross my mind one or twice. One day we had beautiful sunny weather (perfect hiking conditions) and that night it rained a wall of water from 8 p.m to 5 a.m. I had to get up three times in the night to move my sleeping bag because the shelter roof was leaking. One hiker who slept in his tent woke up to find his hiking boots filled to the brim with water. Now that was wetter than wet! Overnight the rains transformed the woods into a primordial soup. As the temperatures rose the next morning, so did the clouds of flies , gnats and mosquitoes. A nightmare of insects that followed you every inch of the way! Amazingly, in the evening there was always a gentle breeze which stopped the bugs dead in their tracks. At least, I was able to get a good night’s sleep.

For two days, I saw no NOBO’s (northbound hikers) and I was worried that I would be hiking the Whites alone. But that has changed in the last couple of days as the early migration of NOBO’s has caught up with me. I am once again into the flow of the trail. It’s nice to hike alone in the forest where the only sounds are the the breathing of you and Mother Nature, but it can be scary. And as usual, there’s the Whitman’s Sampler of trail characters, heroes, villains, and everything in between. Two night ago, I met Tadpole who parents had worked with Willie Nelson. Tad, who is now in his early 30’s, worked as a roadie for the band in his early 20’s. Needless to say, he had some great stories to tell. And in return, I told him of my roadie days with the Baltimore Marching Ravens, the NFL’s premiere marching/show band. Hey, Marching Ravens, there’s a hiker on the trail named Ponytail Dave. Haven’t met him yet, but I am curious to see if he resembles our Ponytail Dave. Hope to see you in September if you and the Z Man want me back.
On the spiritual journey, I spent a night at the Back Home Again Cafe and Hostel which is operated by the Twelve Tribes of Israel. They are a religious community who embrace the Jewish traditions of the Old Testament but embrace the core beliefs of the New Testament, namely that Jesus Christ is the world’s salvation. I was invited to attend a morning prayer service. Since they were such gracious hosts, I accepted the offer and was glad that I did. I must have made a good impression because I was invited to attend their weekly observance of the Sabbath. My special thanks to a community of faith that reaches out to the hiking homeless.
Have to run! Time to eat and sleep, two of my favorite pastimes on and off the trail. Hope to reach Glencliffe,NH, by the end of the week. Glencliffe is the AT hiker’s gateway to the Whites. After that, it’s about ten days through the Whites. As always, hike with your angels and hike in peace. Please keep me in your prayers. Have a great week!

Son-Dance

Once again, I will be collecting donations for the Alzheimer’s Association. If you haven’t donated, it’s still not too late. Just click the donations box on the opening webpage. In light of the recent setbacks in Alzheimer’s research, your donations are needed more than ever to find a cure. Plus, there’s still time to have the name of your Alzheimer’s loved one listed on the stone memorial that will be placed atop Mount Katahdin. Just send me an e-mail with the name.

And once again, I will be documenting the hike on my website trail journal. One thing for sure, I’m excited about the trip. If this year is anything like last year, it will be an action-packed, fun-filled adventure. So now is the time for you cyber-space thru-hikers to sit back and relax as we head to the White Mountains and beyond. What a great summer vacation!

Time to finish stuffing the backpack. Yes, I am packing cold weather gear for the high altitudes. Please keep me in your prayers and please keep in touch. Would love to hear from last and this year’s Herm’s Hikers. And as you travel down the road of life, hike with your angels and hike in peace. Thank you for your generosity and kindness.
Son-Dance

I am sad to report that Herm passed away on Tuesday November 17. Below is a copy of the obituary column to be published in the Sunday Baltimore Sun.

My father was a humble and sincere man with an easy smile and a wonderful self-effacing sense of humor. His vocation in life was service and sacrifice to his faith, family and country through character, commitment and compassion. It is said that a person is judged by the company they keep, and my father kept some great company. His heroes and role models were St. Frances of Asissi, General Douglas MacArthur, John F. Kennedy, and Pope John Paul II. Little did my father know that not only would he follow in their footsteps, but one day he would step beyond their shadows and reach out and touch the hearts of those around him. My father certainly made his little corner of the world a better place to live and love. In dying, he taught us how to live; in living, he taught us how to love. What a wonderful legacy! Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.

Once again, I thank you for your donations to the hike and your prayers for myself and my family. Without your support, Herm’s Hike would not have been possible. As always, hike with your angels and hike in peace. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to Herm’s Hike. Godspeed on life’s journey!

Paul Travers AKA Son-Dance
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Herman J. Travers, Pearl Harbor Survivor, Decorated WWII Combat Veteran, Retired Postal Employee

Herman J. Travers, died Tuesday, November 17th, at the Genesis Loch Raven Center after a courageous four year battle against Alzheimer’s disease. He was 89. His life personified and exemplified the unsung heroes that were hailed as the Greatest Generation by noted newsman and author Tom Brokaw. He was by all accounts a “soldier’s soldier.”

Mr. Travers was born in Baltimore and raised in Canton. After graduating from Sacred Heart parochial school in 1935, he attended Patterson High School for one year before leaving to support his family with jobs at the waterfront packing houses in the Fells Point/Canton area. During this time, he became an aspiring welterweight boxer under the tutelage of local boxing legend and trainer Lee Halfpenny at the YMCA. Seeking adventure and a chance to see the world, he enlisted in the US Army as an infantryman and shipped out for Oahu, Hawaii, in January 1941 after being selected as the outstanding recruit at boot camp. On December 7, 1941, he witnessed the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor while assigned to the 27th Infantry Regiment. His vivid description of Japanese dive bombers strafing the parade deck at Schofield Barracks was recounted in the book “Eyewitness to Infamy: An Oral History of Pearl Harbor.” After the attack, he was assigned patrol duty along the beaches of Waikiki.

Following support duty at Guadalcanal, he attended Officers Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in December 1942. He returned to the Pacific Campaign in 1944 as a member of the 323rd Regimental Combat Team, 81st Infantry Division. In October 1944, during the Battle of Peleliu, he received two Bronze Stars for Heroism in Combat. On October 17, he led a volunteer team of four men and successfully rescued a wounded soldier from the battlefield during deadly mortar fire that killed one member of his team and wounded another. On October 30, while on patrol near Bloody Nose Ridge, he successfully directed a counterattack after his patrol was ambushed by enemy machinegun fire. Severely wounded during the fight, he was evacuated stateside where he spend three years in Army hospitals undergoing reconstructive surgery on his foot. He was discharged from the Army with the rank of 1st Lieutenant at the Valley Forge Army Hospital in 1947.

On June 30, 1945, he married his wartime sweetheart, Frances M. Janiszewski, at St. Stanislaus Church in Fells Point. While on leave in 1942, he was introduced to his future bride by his childhood friend at a neighborhood social club. Unable to secure employment as a park policeman or state trooper due to his physical disability, he worked briefly at Bethlehem Steel Sparrows Point before accepting a position with the United State Post Office. He worked as a postal clerk at the Clifton and Hamilton stations before retiring in 1985. He settled with his family in the Gardenville area where he managed youth baseball teams, to include Morton’s Pharmacy. His love of the outdoors inspired Herm’s Hike, an Appalachian Trail thru-hike in 2009 to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Association.

Mr. Travers was a communicant at St. Anthony of Padua Church and a member of the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association, the VFW, and the Purple Heart Society. His hobbies included reading, golf, chess, and his grandchildren.

In addition to his wife, Mr. Travers is survived by a daughter Regina S. Schuch of Jarrettsville, MD, two sons: Paul J. Travers of Parkton, Maryland and Mark Travers of Manassas, Virginia, fours sister and one brother, seven grandchildren, and a great granddaughter.

The family will receive friends from 3 to 5 and 7 to 9 p.m. on Sunday at the Schimunek Funeral Home, 9705 Belair Road. A mass of Christian burial will be celebrated on Monday 10.a.m. at the St. Anthony of Padua Church. Internment will follow at the Gardens of Faith. In lieu of flowers, the family requests memorial contributions to the Alzheimer’s Association, c/o Herm’s Hike, P.O. Box 2940, Chicago, IL 60690. To donate online, go to www.paultravers.com and click on “Donations.”

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Son-Dance (He who danced with the mountains to honor
his earthly and Heavenly Father.)