Sept 21

Getting our feet wet

After about 3 miles of mostly downhill hiking, we arrived at a stream.  Crossing Orbeton Stream would be our first true fording of a body of water on this hike.  Looking ahead in the book, and based on what I've heard, the rest of Maine is going to be like this quite frequently.  Shoes and socks off.  Crocs on, with the adjustable strap around the back of my heel, just in case they try to come loose.  I unbuckled all of the straps  and the hip belt on my pack, so it was loosely hanging on my shoulders.  This is a wise thing to do for safety reasons, in that if you happen to fall, you can get out of your pack quickly enough.  Better to get your pack wet, or lose it entirely, than to have the weight of it pull you under the water where you could drown.  The ford turned out to be really easy, just about knee deep the entire way across.  Dry shoes and socks went back on, tightened up the pack, buckled all the straps, and I kept on hiking.  The climbing started again.  I passed several small streams along the way.  I stopped for a lunch break at the top of Lone Mountain, just on the side of the trail, sitting on a log among the trees.  Part of the sky was clear and blue, with puffy white clouds.  But rolling in from my left, the clouds were dense and dark.  The air was moist and cold.  It was like you could almost smell snow coming.  Mixed with the scent of the firs all around, it seemed like Christmas.  After Lone Mountain was a really nice ridge walk to the Spaulding Mountain lean-to.  Along the way, I was struck by all of the colors I was seeing.  The blue sky.  The white clouds.  The grey clouds.  The dark green of the firs, and their light grey trunks.  Yellow leaves on the birch trees, and their white trunks.  Even the ferns were changing colors, from greens, to yellows, to burgundy and dark purple.  I didn't stop at the shelter, heading rather right up the 900 foot climb to the top of Spaulding Mountain.  It looked a lot tougher than it actually was.  Coming down the other side, I came to a plaque on a rock.  It marked the location where the last section of the AT was finished being built by the CCC in August of 1937.  At the time of its completion, the AT was a mere 2054 mile long.  It has always ended at Katahdin, north of here, but over the years, the trail has lengthened along the way, by 130 miles, through additions and reroutes, as new parcels of land along the trail corridor have been acquired.  The ominous skies this morning, gave way to a crisp, clear afternoon.  I followed another ridge for several miles.  Tall firs and spruce lined the trail.  There was little understory, only a few baby fir trees and ferns, allowing long views into the forest.  I saw a moose track, right on the trail, in the mud.  It was almost as big as my foot.  I realized that I was actually enjoying just walking in the woods.  Usually, you just keep plowing ahead to get to the next view.  But today, there was no mountain top views.  Just forest.  And it was beautiful.  Realizing this made me even happier.  Rainbow Eyes and I were walking along together as the trail continued sharply down from the ridge.  The mountain curved around in a horse shoe shaped canyon, with a roaring river that we could hear below.  We knew this one was a ford.  As we got closer and closer, the water got louder and louder.  I was actually nervous about this one.  The steep and rocky trail down to the river reminded me of the way down from Dragon's Tooth back in Virginia for some reason.  We came to the bank of the South Branch Carrabasset River.  The crossing went through the raging white water that rushed over rocks and boulders, splashing down into deep pools.  A white blaze on a large rock, right in the middle of the river, taunts - this way.  A few of our friends had already made it across.  It wasn't a particularly wide river crossing, but the strength of the current was disconcerting.  It took a few minutes to figure out the best course.  I repeated the processes I had done earlier today with my shoes and my pack.  After mustering up some courage, I stepped into the frigid water and made my way through the rapids with trepidation.  As the icy water went up to my thighs in the 'shallows', I thought about two things.  How bad it would be to step off one of these slick river bottom rocks and get the boys wet, or worse, to get in up to my chest and swept over a rapid.  Everyone made it across in one piece, but after that exhilarating experience, was content to stay put.  Just on the north bank, there were several fabulous tenting areas.  We got set up, before dark no less, had dinner and turned in for the night after an incredibly diverse 13 mile day.

Crossing the Carrabassett.