It was a long, uneventful drive up 95 north towards Millinocket - the closest town to Katahdin. Having lived in Massachusetts for several years, my view of busy highways had become somewhat distorted. I was used to three or four lanes, cutting back and forth, numerous exits, and just the overall sense of "Oh my god I'm late" that seems to dominate the minds of so many Massachusetts drivers. Once past Bangor, the Maine interstate is very different. It's only two lanes wide on each side. The cars are relatively sparse. The exits are 20 or 30 miles apart, sometimes even farther. As a driver, my mind essentially went on cruise control. Is sat in the truck, almost feeling like a passenger, just letting the miles idly tick away, one by one. It was a relaxing, albeit boring experience. I might liken it to the feelings experienced by a tall person flying coach, sitting in the middle seat. You come to a point where you're spending all of the time thinking about the destination, rather than the process of getting there.
After several hours, I reached Millinocket. Eventually, I checked into Hidden Spring Campground. The proprietor was a cheerful lady who looked to be in her mid fifties. When I told her I lived in Nantucket, she asked me for the spelling. It was clear that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. After filling out my reservation form by hand, we somehow got onto the topic of the "Phantom" comic strip. I politely told her I knew nothing about it. Her reaction was priceless. It was that sort of "where do you live, under a rock?" response any obsessive fan of Phantom (or anything for that matter) might have had. As I thanked her and walked out of the office, I suspected that if I mentioned the words "New York Times" to her, she might have had the same puzzled response that I'd had earlier. Oh the joys of rural life.
I do not mean to sound condescending. She was a gracious hostess, and very helpful in orienting me with the lay of the land. I simply wish to emphasize how foreign this place felt after being immersed in yuppie country for the better part of five years. She told me where I could photograph the mountain (and perhaps, some moose). In fact, people up here run into moose so frequently that they call a drive on the lonesome "Golden Road" (a road that moose frequent) a "Moose Ride." As I anticipated my moose ride, I wished I had more than my cheap disposable camera. Oh well.
I pitched my tent, bought some firewood, and set off for my moose ride. It was a calm, overcast evening. I spotted my first Moose about four or five miles down the Golden Road. He was too far away to photograph, so I didn't bother wasting the film. I kept driving for a considerable distance. I had no cell reception up here. Quite a different place.
Eventually, I reached Abol Bridge, where a small river rushed by. There were a few camps scattered on the shoreline, and one-man quietly fly-fishing near the riverbank. It was incredibly peaceful and serene. For the first time in a long time, I realized that every noise in my ears was natural, organic, and real! No buzzing cars, no honking horns, no lawn mowers, no nothing. Just the same noises that had echoed in these woods for thousands upon thousands of years. I looked at the great majestic mountain, feeling utterly spellbound. As I photographed it, I heard the fisherman yell to me. I wondered, "Is he pissed that I'm spoiling his view?" Then I heard him yell - "BIG MOOSE DOWN THEYUH!" He pointed downriver. Sure enough, about three hundred yards downriver, a large bull moose was wading in the water. Every twenty seconds or so, in a comical, repetitious routine, he ducked his head under the water, presumably to snag some aquatic plants (or avoid the cloud of bugs swirling around his head). I was too far away to get a good picture, so I just enjoyed watching him.
After this wild moment, I ceased to be the mountain man, and returned to the modern, bug free comfort of my truck. I picked up my cell phone to check the time. It was little more than a watch at this point. Getting late. Time to get back to the campground and cook up some grub.
A quick stop at the Katahdin trading post to make a couple of calls from a payphone (gasp, who uses THOSE?), and then I was back at hidden spring. I built a fire to deter the cloud of mosquitoes that had discovered my campsite, heated up a can of beef stew, and ate it joyfully, munching some crusty bread, watching the fire flicker and crackle, and enjoying the stars as they started to appear.
Later, I lay in my tent, reading Thoreau's "Ktaadin." He wrote of nights spent sleeping under the stars. "How lovely," I thought. Then, I realized that he probably didn't sleep much, as he was, most likely, swatting mosquitoes, black flies, and no - see - ums all night long. I bet his skin looked more like a topographic map. He probably would have killed for my LL Bean dome tent. Eventually, after turning my reading lamp off, I listened to the sounds of the woods at night. The wind rustled in the trees above. An owl hooted. I felt quite alone.
Six hours of fitful, excited sleep later, it was 4:30 AM. Unable to sleep any more, I rose and readied myself for the Mountain. It was time to climb. I hadn't really found Henry David yet. Perhaps this was my chance.
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