CHIMNEY POND TRAIL — Emily Davis pulled out her portable scale and hung it from a tree branch. “Let’s weigh our packs,” she called cheerfully, across the parking lot to hikers who were hoisting backpacks from a small van. Why not? Might be interesting.

Ten backpacks later, and whose was heaviest? That would belong to our guide, Roy Curtis. Besides his own gear, he was hefting first aid equipment, pots and pans, and sundry treats 3.3 miles up hills and into the woods. Then, it was the pack belonging to David LeBlanc, from Yarmouth, who coaches football and has the arms of a quarterback.

Then it was mine, topping out at 38 pounds. I was carrying not only the liquid egg beaters for our breakfast burritos the next morning, but a 4-pound Nikon. Not what you want to be hauling up a steep mountain, but some things come late in learning.

We had arrived at Roaring Brook Campground, after traveling three hours from the Midcoast to Millinocket, and then into Baxter State Park, that 209,644-acre (314-square-mile) wilderness preserve that surrounds Maine’s tallest mountain, the magnificent 5,269-foot Katahdin. 

Eight hikers, plus two MaineSport guides, all ranging in age from 34 to 75, were going to climb it, if the weather cooperated and we proved steady on our feet. We hadn’t charted our course, and the guides were – unbeknownst to us – quietly gauging our abilities as we hiked from the parking lot to the Chimney Pond Campground.

They would then decide which trail we would take the following morning to ascend to Baxter Peak, one of Katahdin’s five peaks, and the highest.

Chimney Pond was where we would spend two nights, in the bunkhouse that MaineSport Outfitters had reserved last winter for its three 2017 Katahdin trips. In Rockport, MaineSport has evolved from a retail shop for boots, tents, bikes, kayaks and skis, to include outdoor adventure programs.

I had been in the store in August. Was the September Katahdin trip all filled, I asked my friend Robin Harlow, who works there when she is not backpacking the world.

“One space left,” she said. “Let’s sign you up,” whisking me over to the desk before I could object.

It was about time. Fifty seven years is a long stretch to go without hiking Maine’s legendary mountain.

Others had done it, returning with tales of Knife’s Edge, the wind, the perilous passage. My brother-in-law and nephew made a point of hiking it every year after he turned seven. Girls I went to camp with in the 1970s religiously secured their leather boots each hot summer to get up there.

It was my turn. 

Greatest Mountain and Highest Land

We say to friends and neighbors that we might go “do Katahdin,” and they grin. Say that to someone from away, and he or she might seem puzzled. Katahdin is not the highest mountain on the East Coast, nor is not part of the White or Green mountains. And there are few amenities in the wild Baxter State Park to draw crowds.

But Katahdin is Maine’s granite heart, rising with sheer cliffs and buttresses of gray, pink and white rock, honed and sharpened on all sides by glaciers.

Towering alone in the middle of the great Maine woods, it is formidable and wild, as is Baxter State Park. And it is to be respected.

The mountain had been named such by the Penobscot Indians, and it means simply, “Greatest Mountain.” Because it is already greatest, one never grammatically places “Mount” in front of “Katahdin.” (Something Google has yet to be told.)

And just like Maine, Katahdin is almost curmudgeonly in its independence (Read an excellent account by Down East Magazine’s Managing Editor Brian Kevin about the park’s creative tension with other outdoor organizations in the October 2017 issue. Jensen Bissell: The Onetime Forester Defending the East’s Last Great Wilderness). 

 "Man is born to die.
His works are short-lived. Buildings crumble, monuments decay, and
wealth vanishes, but
Katahdin in all its glory forever shall remain the mountain of the people of Maine."
      — Gov. Percival Baxter

Katahdin is protected yet open to the public due to the generosity of Governor Percival Baxter, who methodically bought up acreage of the north woods beginning in 1931 and well into the 1950s. He donated his last deed, the 28th, to the park just before he died in 1962. Baxter had created the park for the people of Maine — with a caveat.

“This gift was made upon the express condition that the said tract so donated and conveyed shall forever be used for public park and recreational purposes, shall forever be kept as a sanctuary for wild beasts and birds, that no roads or ways for motor vehicles shall thereafter ever be constructed therein or thereon....”

Gov. Baxter’s work is also one of the strongest foundations for Maine’s land conservation movement, to keep tracts of the state’s rugged land open for the public. Baxter, and before him, Henry David Thoreau, and before him, the Native Americans articulated in their own ways that we are to tread lightly.

Up Chimney Pond Trail (and encountering hikers’ psychology)

Entering Baxter’s wilderness is a step into the untamed woods, but also a step back in time. The cabins and ranger offices resemble Maine, circa 1960s. It’s a familiar, minimalist look that encapsulates Maine’s character: Unfussy and self reliant.

We tussled with our packs, adjusted straps, and then began the 3.5-hour walk up to Chimney Pond Campground, that South Basin cluster of secluded lean-tos, a capacious bunk house, several outhouses, park crew house, ranger station, and a bear line, the latter onto which you clip your food high above nosing scavengers.

Down on the coast, drenching rains from Hurricane Jose had edged closer, but in Baxter, it was still sunny under the tropical air.

We had climbed into the van in Rockport — Bob and Barbara, a couple from Connecticut, who were hiking the peaks of New England, and had stumbled upon this Katahdin hike via a Google search; Kathryn and Michelle, from Camden and Damariscotta, friends who got to know each other through Kea Tesseyman’s dance studio; Sarah, a health care administrator from North Carolina, who was traveling solo through Maine on hiking adventures; Dave, from Yarmouth (who also happened to be from my hometown in Massachusetts, and one year behind me in high school); Jim, the father of Lani Temple, who owns Megunticook Market; and me, the reporter.

Which is why our guide Roy Curtis looked familiar: While a avid outdoorsman who leads expeditions, winter and spring, into Baxter, he is also regional juvenile corrections manager, based in Belfast. I had met him before at conferences about restorative justice and juvenile court.

And our other guide, Emily Davis, was likewise familiar. She and her husband, Brien, own Hope Orchards, and she is a guidance counselor at Troy Howard Middle School, in Belfast. She advised me against toting along my pretty but heavily-beaded coin purse.

“You don’t need that change,” she said. “And do you need the book?” she asked, glancing at the title, Man’s Search for Meaning.

“I like this book,” she reconsidered, and we agreed it was small and light enough. Lighter than the two phones, at any rate. Which ended up being useless on the mountain.

There is a trail psychology we caught onto fairly quickly. Hikers descending the mountain on the humid Monday afternoon smiled indulgently as we plodded up toward Chimney.

Roy had mentioned there would be a rest stop up the trail, “oh, after a little bit,” he said, sidelining his gaze into the woods.

Some believed that this rest stop was to be a field. 

“So, there’s a field, a field of poppies just ahead,” I queried a young man, who was zipping down the trail.

He peered at me as if I was a little dotty.

“Noooo,” he said.

“A field?” I said, plaintively.

“No,” he said, edging away. “But there is a turnout up there.”

Up there meaning far up the hill, a 4x4 space snug against the trees, with a rock to lean against.

But that is the trail psychology: If one is going down the trail and encounters tired hikers ascending, let them pull off to the side (this allows them to catch their breath with dignity). The descenders will float by, merrily waving their hands. Not too much farther, they always say. I know this now because I did the same to other hikers when I came off the mountain.

“Just a little farther,” I’d sing to them, encouragingly.

Right.

Cathedral Trail

Roy made us all a strong cup of coffee the next morning — dark Baxter Blend brew, by Katahdin Coffee, purchased at Reny’s. We had crawled out of our sleeping bags on the bunkbeds and filled our bottles with filtered water drawn from the Chimney Pond outlet. The park aptly recommends that each hiker carry at least two quarts of water for climbing Katahdin.

“You have themed coffee for the trip,” Roy said.

Roy had recently acquired a special coffee filter, the H2JO!, which fits over all Nalgene plastic drinking bottles, and is one of the more sensible human innovations.

“For 18 years, I used to haul a French press around,” he said. “But this works a lot better.”

Then he suggested: “We think we might go up Cathedral. Does anyone have a fear of heights?”

Not so much, we slightly gulped.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s boulders,” he said. “You haul yourself up, with footholds. It’s a safe trail.”

Off we went, signing in at the ranger’s station, where Ranger Ian Lookabaugh stood in the doorway, smiling and quietly assessing hikers who were heading up the trails. On Sept. 19, there were no crowds.

Ian, who is in his 20s, grew up in Lubec and studied wildlife biology at the University of Maine at Orono. There is nowhere else he’d rather be than right there, at the base of Katahdin, in the Maine woods. In the ranger station, his bed overlooks the pond and the Katahdin cliffs. Solar panels are affixed to his the roof, but everything else is ageless Maine — a wood stove, old trail signs, and photos of Roy Dudley, longtime game warden at Chinmey Pond and expedition leader.

“Who wouldn’t want to be here,” he said, throwing his arm back and embracing the expansive view of the mountain.

But he responsible for the safety of hikers, and has seen all kinds. We, too, saw all kinds: A trio of young hikers carrying a cooler they thought they might haul across Knife’s Edge (they didn’t); two heavily proportioned middle-aged men rapidly losing their jaunty humor; a lone older man sitting by the side of the trail, trail map in hand, obviously reconsidering this particular life decision.

There were also the ultra-fit hikers, in their new gear, hiking poles purposely clicking against the rocks as they tackled yet another mountain.

And then there were Katahdin’s regulars, the mid-streamers like us, slowly moving through the landscape and soaking up the quiet beauty of the trail — leaves turning to red and drifting to the floor, the rich green of healthy moss, the low-lying fog that edged across Basin Pond. It was quiet, but we sensed wildlife watching from the woods.

“Smell that sweet scent,” asked Emily. “That’s the fox letting us know we have been noticed.”

But further up the mountain, on Cathedral Trail, there are no woods. Just boulders. Thousands that had tumbled off the mountain, over eons. We were ants in their time schedule.

Waving goodbye to Ian we soon were hauling ourselves up Katahdin’s face. Cathedral represents a 2.53-foot elevation hike with a distance of 1.5 miles and we got to know the mountain intimately, because you don’t want to look down. You reserve your energy for moving one limb, one hand, one foot at a time, negotiating with each rock.

Some protruded like shelves into our line of sight, others slipped perfectly into our hands.  It is not a trail to be on when it is wet or icy. And you never take it to descend the mountain. 

“It is very steep climbing over three large rock buttresses,” according to the park description. “The climbing is almost all above tree line. There is no water on this trail. Difficulty level: Very Strenuous.” The latter is emphasized in bold on the park’s website.

We climbed and breathed, and breathed and climbed. Emily scampered up the hill like a mountain goat, followed by the faster hikers. I peered into crevasses, admiring the lush silver and green lichen that thrived in the dark. As we climbed into the subalpine, the vistas opened up and we paused every chance we could to drink in only that which you can see from Katahdin.

“This was that Earth of which we have heard, made out of Chaos and Old Night,” wrote Henry David Thoreau, about Ktaadn, in The Maine Woods. “Here was no man's garden, but the unhandselled globe. It was not lawn, nor pasture, nor mead, nor woodland, nor lea, nor arable, nor waste land. It was the fresh and natural surface of the planet Earth, as it was made forever and ever, – to be the dwelling of man, we say, — so Nature made it, and man may use it if he can.”

Three to four hours later, we leaned toward Baxter Peak. A hand-hewn set of steps, our stairway to heaven, finished to the way to the top, a bit of landscaping in a bold and magnificent environment that yielded even larger and sharper rocks.

And there was Knife’s Edge, with its large jagged and grey-black rocks, teeth stretching for 1.1 miles to Pamola Peak. In fact, hikers and skiers do perish in Baxter: two men in February 2017 died in separate incidents, one tumbling 1,000 feet to his death. Since the 1800s, there have been many who have died from heart attacks, drowning, avalanches, and falling.

After reading the list of fatalities that have occurred since the late 1800s, it hits home again: Katahdin does not suffer human recklessness gladly. It is, according to its original surveyor, Jackson, “the most abrupt granite mountain in New England.”

But at the summit, there were joyful hoops and hollers, as Appalachian Trail thru-hikers ended their journey.

One South Korean couple had been on the trail for 141 days, and celebrated their one-year anniversary. The bride pulled her white wedding veil from her backpack and kissed her husband. We cheered them, and chatted with others, including a trio of young women from Washington State, who were touring the Northeast, and decided Katahdin was on the list.

Another group of men proceeded toward Knife’s Edge, to hike to Pamola Peak.

“My wife wouldn’t do this, would scare her to death,” he yelled to his friends. It was apparent he was nervous, too.

Rock hard

You can “do Katahdin” in one day — allow 12 hours, rangers advise. Or you can stretch it out, camp, and explore and take your time. Baxter State Park has 337 campsites, and with its other mountains and 215 miles of trails, it is a hiker’s dream.

Whether you tackle the mountain in one day all depends on your schedule and appetite, but mostly, how strong you are feeling. 

We don’t “do” Megunticook or Mount Battie. We climb all over them, as if they are jungle gyms. Still, people also get hurt, or die, in Camden Hills State Park. Twisted ankles, heart attacks, stumbling over the edge of a cliff.

On the much smaller Camden hills, local fire departments coordinate rescues. They take four-wheelers up trails, and then when they can’t, they hike in, rescue and retrieve, carrying injured out in a Stokes basket.

At Katahdin, and other mountains, the National Guard or Maine Forest Service help with their helicopters and short hauls. Or, rangers and rescuers hike in, and carry the wounded or ill out.

Every day, Ranger Ian wakes up and tends to the mundane, like cleaning outhouses and picking up after messy campers.

Or, it is the crises, most of which include broken wrists or ankles, or heat exhaustion. Behind his desk, a radio crackles, as other rangers talk across the Baxter park territory.

The biggest nuisances this season have been the drinkers, and people using drones in Baxter, Ian reports.

He wishes more people would research about hiking Katahdin before arriving, ill prepared. 

The legacy of Katahdin

But all the dangers of the mighty Katahdin cannot erase its grandeur, nor its mystical and quiet presence. The wind at the top breezes through your mind, clears the cobwebs, and your eyes rest on wildly distant valleys and peaks.

Making your way back down from the summit takes another three to four hours. We descended Saddle Trail, picking through a half-mile rock slide, swinging our bodies over rocks. I slipped on my son’s mountain biking gloves to protect chafing hands, and thanks to the merciless chaturangas our Camden and Rockland yoga teachers ask us to do, my arms lifted my legs and I sailed over the boulders.

Eventually, the slide meets the treeline, and then, in the woods, the trail crosses a clear stream that runs down the mountain. Above us, Roy filtered the water, and we drank it as it were nectar of the gods. We pulled off our boots and socks, and sank our feet into the cool water. 

Jim Stiles is 75 and he hiked up and down the mountain with two knee replacements and slow, careful grace. When he was 74, he jumped out of an airplane for the first time. At 75, it was Katahdin. As for 76, he’s not quite sure, just yet, but it will be big.

Others thought next time they would take tackle Knife’s Edge.

Next September, we agreed.

The work of hiking up up Katahdin and then down again lies in the care you take. From bottom to top, parking lot to summit, the rocks are what define the landscape, all different sizes and proportions, smooth and grainy, sparkling or dark and gray.

The reward is the expansiveness of spirit as you gain altitude and shift through different climates. On top of Katahdin, you are on Maine’s highest peak, and the mountain does not let you forget that this is a privilege. 

A friend said that going up Katahdin can be a life-changing experience. I’m not sure about that, but walking back down the Chimney Pond Trail, for three hours, back to the parking lot, and alone — hikers far in front and and back — (and some how still with 38 pounds on my back), the world had gone peacefully quiet.

Whether or not we had angered Pamola, the spirit that lives on the peak of Katahdin during the summer, is not for us to know. But we did not push our luck. We climbed and rested under the peak, and left no trace.

And on the way down, there on the trail, was a man carrying a camera, the same model Nikon and lens that I hauled up.

“Get some good shots,” I said, with encouragement. “​You don’​t have that far to go!”​

They say this poem is inscribed on a rock near the summit of Katahdin, but has yet to be found.

"Here's a hail to each flaming dawn
Here's a cheer to the night that's gone
May I go a-roamin' on
Until the day I die"

Reach Editorial Director Lynda Clancy at lyndaclancy@penbaypilot.com; 207-706-6657