Chapter 15

Saturday, May 1, 1999

For over four and a half years, this day had been a dream -- sometimes strong, sometimes weak, sometimes, like last Thanksgiving, in danger of being washed out entirely. The dream had been hatched in a campground on the largest island in the largest lake in the world, it had been nurtured in any number of bull sessions, any number of pages read, any number of other thoughts and preparations. At times it had seemed like a pipe dream that could never come true. But now, nearly a thousand miles to the east of where the dream had first been voiced, it finally, a little surprisingly, turned to reality.

The vehicle of the reality seemed rather strange -- a simple sheet of printer paper, listing sign-out and sign-in times along with names. But where it was had been a place of dreams as well, so it was hardly possible to believe they were standing on the enclosed porch of Katahdin Spring Campground ranger station -- and outside that door stood Mt. Katahdin, the north end of the Appalachian Trail.

The signing of their names took only a moment in the thin light of early morning, the low sun filtering through the Maine woods. "You ready, Dad?" Duane said laconically as he finished signing the paper for both of them.

"The question," Jason smiled, "Is really, 'You ready, son?'"

"If I'm not now, I never will be," the younger MacRae smiled, and turned toward the door to begin what he expected would be the biggest adventure of his lifetime -- certainly so far, maybe forever. The thought stuck with him for a moment. "You know, I wonder what I'll be doing a year from now," he said as he went out the door. "It probably won't be anything like this."

"You'll probably be working someplace and thinking about where you were a year ago," his father smiled.

"Yeah, probably emptying garbage cans in some cannonball park down south," Duane shook his head, and looked toward the mountain. "But you never know."

Katahdin is the most striking mountain on the Appalachian Trail, and its stature, though not high by western standards, makes it a touchstone for the whole experience. Springer Mountain, 2100 trail miles to the south in Georgia, is nowhere near as striking, just a high spot on a long ridge. It's generally agreed among Appalachian Trail hikers that northbounders get a slightly better deal, if for no more reason than they have the shining goal of Katahdin awaiting them at the end of the trail. Southbounders like Duane really only have a hole in the woods, a bronze plaque, and a long hike down to Amicalola Falls State Park. Given a choice, Duane would have gone northbound, but the relatively late start required by finishing college meant there were advantages to going southbound.

Although there had still been some back in the woods and in the shade of buildings, the snow had mostly gone from the ground back in Marquette two days before. When he'd finally finished his last exam, he'd walked out to the already-packed Jeep and drove off campus, all the graduation he wanted and all he would get -- except for this day and the weeks that followed. Presumably his diploma would show up in the mail in Bradford in a week or two, to be tossed in a collection in his old bedroom back home. Things were little different here -- there were still remnants of snow back in the woods, and the mountain had notable patches of it, although there too, it was largely gone.

It was only a short walk across the parking lot to the Appalachian Trail, heading up the side of the mountain. Duane would walk the first miles of the trail backward, going up to the top, and back at Christmas, when it had become clear that Cory wasn't going to be along, he'd asked Jason to join him for good wishes or whatever, and he accepted, of course. It would be about all of his son's great adventure that he'd be able to share, and he wasn't going to pass up the chance. Now, with a light daypack on his back -- it was actually an old book bag Duane had used at college -- he turned to follow his son, who also had on a light daypack. There was no point in lugging his heavy trail pack to the top of the mountain when they'd be back here in a few hours -- but when they got back, he would be on his way. The packs didn't contain a lot -- lunches and water and cameras, a few odds and ends. Without comment, they walked onto the trail that Jason uneasily realized would be a point of separation for them from here on. But, for one last time, they were together, heading into the wild.

As they picked up a slow pace -- there was no point in killing themselves now, this day would be tough enough -- they didn't talk much, and each kept their own thoughts. Jason wondered if Duane realized just how big a separating point this hike would be between them, or if maybe he was just feeling his age a little. Duane had been having adventures on his own for years, things like college, rafting in North Carolina, the long hike through Michigan with Cory four years before. They really hadn't seen much of each other in that time, this hike would build a wall between them, of Duane having done something else his father would never do. On the other hand, Jason sighed, he'd done plenty of things Duane would never do, some he hoped Duane would never even think about doing. They really were different people and would soon be leading increasingly different lives unless something went very wrong.

A lot had happened in the six months since it had become clear that Cory wasn't going to be making the hike and Duane's decision to do it solo. Most of Duane's Christmas vacation had been spent with his hiking gear, reconditioning some, replacing other pieces, ordering new things -- maps and guides and food packages -- and evolving the logistical plan that would be needed for the next few months. Two months ago, Duane had driven back from college on spring break with the Jeep just absolutely packed to the canvas roof with stuff accumulated in his dorm room over four years in Marquette; snowboard and surfboard and skis had been tied on top. He'd reported he threw out a lot, as well. Once most of it had been hauled up to his room, to the garage, or wherever it went, he turned to packing nearly two dozen boxes that would be mailed to him at pre-arranged maildrops along the trail.

Given the relatively cold conditions -- nothing like a couple months ago, of course -- he was going to be loaded fairly heavily, prepared for winter camping, or at least off-season camping, with things like a winter down sleeping bag, warm clothing, and a small but honest tent. In a little over a month, with spring rapidly approaching, he'd exchange much of the heavier gear for much lighter weight summer gear -- a thinner sleeping bag, lighter clothes, a nylon bivy sack to replace the tent. If he really busted his ass and tried for a four-month trip, that would probably be all he would need, but the decision had been made early on to take his time and enjoy the sights. He'd need the heavier gear back along toward the end of August, by which time he expected to still have the Smokies in front of him.

He'd headed back to Northern Michigan University at the end of his spring break with the Jeep lightly loaded, intending to more or less camp out in his room with minimal stuff for the last weeks of school. As finals approached, only what was absolutely necessary hadn't been packed, and the evening before his last final -- which he didn't expect to be difficult -- he'd hauled most everything down to the Jeep except for a change of underwear. It had been 11:30 in the morning when he hit the road; after a fast drive that included only one literal pit stop, the Jeep was parked in the driveway in Bradford while there was still some light in the day. Jason and Joe and Mignon and Vicky had helped him unload the Jeep and haul stuff up to his room. Joe and Mignon had already headed back home, and Duane may have not noticed when later, Jason and Vicky had a brief kiss that really wasn't very brief; they'd be gone when she got up in the morning.

Before dawn the next day father and son were headed eastbound and down in the cab of Jason's Ford F-150 pickup; behind the seat was a fully packed backpack headed for the trail, a suitcase for his father, and some odds and ends. It's over a thousand miles from Bradford to Katahdin Spring, in the northern part of Maine, and they didn't waste time. By virtue of changing off driving and only stopping occasionally to fill the big saddle tanks of the Ford, at one in the morning they pulled into the ranger station. There they unrolled their sleeping bags under the cap of the pickup -- Jason didn't bring the camper this time, since it would have slowed them down and added to the gas expenses more than he would spend on motel rooms. It probably wouldn't have killed them to do an extra day, but there was something symbolic about Duane starting his hike on May Day that seemed to make it worth the effort. So now, with a breakfast of granola bars and coffee from a thermos that had been filled in Millinocket late the night before, they were on their way.

It was still cold -- Jason could see his breath as they hiked up the trail through the early morning frost -- but the sky was clear and there was promise of it being a nice day. The first part of the trail was level, but it soon began to wind upward toward the summit. Jason had tried to get out and do some walking to prepare himself for this day, and sometimes Vicky had joined him for the exercise, but really, there wasn't much that could be done to prepare for a hike like this day on the flatlands around Bradford. He expected that he'd drive home loaded with a maximum dose of ibuprofen to reduce the aches and pains he'd likely generate today.

Duane was clearly in better shape -- his youth had something to do with that, after all -- but he took his time and didn't hurry his father. Soon, Jason knew he'd been climbing a hill; his legs felt like lead, and he had to stop every few minutes just to let the pain abate a little. Usually, it was just for a breather; he didn't want to sit down because that meant he'd have to get up again, but several times they stopped for a good sit-down break, a drink of water, and a couple times for a candy bar. Usually it was stand-up walking for the climb, but there were a few places the uphill turned into a four-handed rock scramble.

Both Jason and Duane knew it was supposed to take two to three hours to make the four thousand foot climb, and it took them every bit of all three hours. The sun was well up in the sky before they came out onto the barren, rocky summit plain, and headed toward the rude marker that was the official end of the Appalachian Trail. The marker is placed on a pile of rocks, and right then Jason thought it made a damn good place to sit down, and Duane wasn't about to pass up the idea, either. "Damn glad this thing ain't five hundred feet higher," Jason puffed as he pulled off his daypack and found a relatively comfortable place in the rocks. "I ain't sure I could have made it."