skirting Katahdin - it's all about the journey

June 15th sunrise:  4:49
**earliest sunrise of 2012**

On June 15th, a friend and I set out to climb Mt. Katahdin just before dawn.  It's a long day - about 2 hours to drive to the base trail, 9-11 hours of hiking, and 2 hours home.

We have both been up the mountain a few times before (she many more times than I), so it is familiar territory.  G said to me as we were driving that she considered doing a smaller hike, but there is something incomparable in Mt. Katahdin.  Many people hike this formidable mountain of granite as a kind of pilgrimage, a spiritual act, a quest-completion kind of thing.  She felt like that was what she needed, so off we went on this quintessential sunny June day in Maine.


We parked at the Roaring Brook campground.  From there it's a little over 3 miles to Chimney Pond, then another 2 miles or so UP to the summit at Baxter Peak.

We met a number of people on the trail -- a man with his elderly dad; large groups with multi-day packs; one guy with no pack or water of any kind that we could see; a group of lovely young people dressed in (I think) Mennonite clothing - the women with head scarves, long cotton dresses, daypacks and hiking boots, the men with suspenders and buttoned shirts, and binoculars! trying to spot a magnolia warbler.

About halfway to Chimney Pond, which sits dramatically in a bowl at the base of Katahdin, G came to the conclusion that her quest for the day might not include the hike to the summit.  The inner drive that had been pushing her through recent trials was part of what pushed her to drive through this challenging hike.  But as she tramped forward up and over the rocky trail, the exhaustion that she'd been staving off for so long finally found its way to the surface.  An indefatigable woman, G is also dependably realistic.  This was no time to push herself further.

She was apologetic.  "I can't believe I made you get up at 4:00 in the morning."  But I was utterly content.  There was something wonderfully liberating about being on the trail with the specter of the summit lifted away.  We could contentedly gaze upon the great mountain from afar, and appreciate it thoroughly.

At Chimney Pond we had a chat with an exceedingly pleasant park ranger.

"Are you heading up?" he asked.
"Well, we were going to, but we're too tired.  Not today."
"Well, if you're not out of gas, there are a couple of really lovely side trails you could check out..."


Usually, when people come to Katahdin, they have eyes only for Baxter peak, the highest summit.  It is a bear of a climb.  My 50-something-year-old body generally takes almost a week to recover.  But there are so many side trails and little viewpoint destinations that people never see as a result.

The ranger directed us to Blueberry Knoll, an extra loop that would add about 1.7 miles to our descent.  I had heard of, but never seen Blueberry Knoll.  It was awesome -- here is the view.  A new prospect overlooking Katahdin, which is awe-inspiring from any angle.

Then, when we got to the base of the trail, I shed my pack at the car and hiked the .3 mile jaunt over to Sandy Pond, which our ranger friend had called "the moosiest place in the park."  Sure enough, it was as advertised.   I watched this big guy dip his head in and out of the water several times before I turned back, and saw a deer along the way.

It was a new and delightful way to enjoy Mt. Katahdin - as a backdrop to a beautiful day.

I was taken by the wording on a plaque near the Chimney Pond ranger station.  It's a tribute to Leroy Dudley, a long-time park ranger in Baxter, and it includes the phrases "genial philosophy, kindly ways,  and droll tales..."  It strikes me that THAT is the kind of attitude inspired by the surroundings out there in the untamed woods of Maine - blackflies notwithstanding.  I can think of no worthier words to have on a commemorative plaque, and they were inspired by someone's connection to the world outdoors.

The fact is, G and I had a superb day of hiking.  No distant signs of man-made development, serene brooks and streams, twittering birds, flowering ground cover - bunchberries and trillium, sunshine filtering through the leafy canopy, the awesome sight of Katahdin standing sentry nearby, and no pressure to do any more than we felt like doing.  Just out there, in the middle of it all.  Summit not included.  A worthy pilgrimage.

Yale college reunions and other layers of time

sunrise:  4:53AM

One of the things that J and I share, with increasing significance, is our college past.  We both graduated from Yale in 1982.  On top of that, we now have two children who are Yale graduates, plus an array of their wonderful friends who have become a part of our extended family to varying degrees.

Add to that my father, uncle, grandfather, great-grandfather...

Although a part of me always cringes at the appearance of hyper-privilege in that legacy, a bigger part of me is deeply grateful to be connected to that multi-layered history.  On May 21st, my daughter attended her boyfriend's graduation, with all the accompanying celebration and anticipation.  Four days later, J and I arrived to celebrate our 30th reunion.  That alone felt like a profound juxtaposition - these almost simultaneous celebrations of our two generations, in the same quads, under the same tents, amidst the same old, stone edifices - 30 years apart.

Then of course I expanded my thoughts to include the other thousands all around campus, graduates from the 1940's to 2007; and all of the ones from a couple of hundred years before that, now dead and gone.

They walked over these stones, sat in these classrooms, listened to the bells in Harkness Tower from their dorm rooms.  Every one of those people from every class was once young and full of anticipation and uncertainty at the door to their future, right here in this same space.  Layer upon layer of personal histories, personal triumphs and tragedies, growth and change and learning and the bursting open of the gates of the mind.

Time seeps into the pages of history and blurs the lines between then and now.

I know I was not alone in feeling overwhelmed by the experience.  It was lovely, reminiscent, poignant, this re-entering of our past, seen through the filters of the present.  Many faces were still happily familiar - almost as though they were the same 20 year old faces photoshopped to suggest aging.  Even in individual faces, the layers of time leapt out at you.

We have grown and mellowed, and we are good to each other.  But it was a lot to take in.  Post-reunion fatigue was described in multiple posts around the airwaves.

Back at home, it is another kind of revisiting to take a walk at dawn out in our lovely fields of central Maine.  Here we are again, in the shameless, explosive fertility of pre-summer.  There comes the sun again, moving towards its northernmost reach, finding its way insistently through the lush greenery.  I have been here before, but not exactly here.  It is another layer of pre-summer, another layer of dawn, another generation of purple irises around the pond and wet dandelions in the dew-heavy grasses.

My dogs provide some consistency.

Kate's stick is still ever present,

Guster explores,

Clara makes her way on her own,

But - Kate sleeps more.  There is more grey on Guster's nose.  Clara is lame from degenerative disease in her knees.



Revisiting the past is important - taking time to remember, to renew connections, to reassess oneself.  Who am I now?  What do I want to add in my life as the next layer to look back upon?

We don't really have much control over a lot of this.  No one has figured out how to lasso time and take it in hand.  So it's important to pay attention and take control of what we can while we're still here, living amidst the infinite layers of time.

midcoast Maine mini-vacation

sunrise:  5:05

About 14 months ago I won a free night at Rockland, Maine's Samoset resort.  It took us a while, but J and I finally found a night to escape.  The luxury of an ocean view room meant that I could snap a bunch of sunrise photos without leaving my balcony.

Perhaps the best part of the mini-vacation was discovering a whole new stretch of Maine coast, of which there is an astonishing amount.  Although the direct distance from one end of the Maine coast to the other is only 228 miles, the coastline travels 3,478 miles - longer than the California coast.  So, we probably have a lifetime of exploring before us.

This mid-coast region is definitely distinct from downeast and Acadia, which I know better.  It is softer, more beachy.  Reminds me a bit of Cape Cod.  We traveled way out to the end of the peninsula where the Port Clyde lighthouse sits - the one featured in "Forrest Gump" as the eastern terminus of Forrest's transcontinental running jag.  It is a glorious spot, with one of the most charming lighthouse museums I've ever seen.

Anyway - exquisite day, lovely state.  *AND* amazing breakfast, by the way, at Rockland's Home Kitchen Cafe.  It was especially welcome after walking the nearly mile long breakwater out to the Rockland Breakwater lighthouse and back.  That was our first lighthouse of the day.

Enjoy the photo journey.

waters of the Atlantic, looking pink and silky

odd illusion of a phantom sun, but it's just a light cast from below

First sliver, followed by more optical illusions

Port Clyde lighthouse and museum

moonrise in may

Actually, it is 4:49am and the sun hasn't come up yet.

Is it a sign of aging?  This weird waking before dawn with a mind too full of thinkings to shut back down?

I am not a morning person.  This is very strange.

Still - I got up.  There seemed no alternative at the time.  And I noticed this strange light in the east, tangled in the distant treetops.  It was this delicate sliver of moon, visible only because the sun had not yet arrived to wash  it out with its overpowering star glow.

moon reflected in pond, with cattails

I wish my camera could really reproduce what my eye could see, and even more, what my ear could hear.  An hour before dawn is truly for the birds, and they were in full, exuberant chatter mode.  The dim light of twilight is a lovely space, but doesn't translate well on film.  Please use your imagination.

I neither expect nor hope to be out and about before 5am very often over the next seven weeks.  From May 23rd to July 9th, here in central Maine, that's when I have to be out there to see the sun come up.  So - I'll take advantage of a sleepless May morning, when the rising moon called me irresistibly forth, and share a post.

teenagers and sunrise

sunrise:  5:26 am

Four teens joined us on Sutton Island this weekend for a retreat - part of the "Coming of Age" program that Jonathan and I have been teaching since January.  It is an excellent curriculum published by the Unitarian Universalist church.

We have learned a lot about "teaching" adolescents in the course of this experience.  You would think that we'd know most of it at this point, having barely finished seeing the last of our four children leave adolescence (mostly) behind.  But, happily, life is ever bristling with information.  We will never get it all right.  We can only keep trying, keep thinking, stay open to possibilities heretofore unconsidered.

At any rate, after repeating ourselves 100 times, and realizing that so much of the INFORMATION that we were spouting might as well have been water through a sieve - we realized that the things the kids remember most are dynamic and circumstantial.  The rousing game of bucket-of-nouns that we played at our first retreat stuck with them far longer than the definitions of a personal credo.

Still - this is a bright group.  The bits and pieces of discussion found places in the nooks and crannies of their minds, and they will surely emerge in various forms of recognition later in life (maybe even sooner).  For now - Jonathan and I learned that to engage them in activities and have some fun is, perhaps, the most important thing of all.  Suddenly everyone is laughing together around a card table.   Learning that you can share that companionship with a bunch of new people is as important as anything.

Now, I'm not going to say that they all embraced the idea of getting out of bed at 5:00 in the morning when it was about 40 degrees outside (and inside - fireplace was long cold).  But - they did it.  They got up, they went out to the rocks, they saw the sun glow rising, and the fire of the first light making its brilliant entry over the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

We didn't belabor the point, or try to draw them into my own romantic imagery of meeting the day face to face with the sun.  But I think it made an impression.  We can afford to be patient - something will come of it.