Katahdin

(This is my last post about Katahdin for a while. I have explored all the themes that rolled around in my head from last year's trip. Lord willing, I'll have more after my next excursion this fall.)
I love the mountain. The mountain is wild and free, full of beauty and danger. The men of old did not climb it, for they believed that the gods of lightning and thunder dwelt in the mountain and would kill whoever disturbed them. They revered the mountain, understanding that the great granite spires would as easily cut a man, as with the edge of a knife, than hide him in its cleft. They did not name the mountain but simply called her, "The Great One."
When I was fifteen, I climbed up to the twin pools called Basin Pond. There is another pool further up the trail called Chimney Pond that lies at the very base of the giant stone walls that reach 2,000 feet up into the chilly northern air. We would have gone up there, but we didn't have time. Still, the views from the edge of Basin Pond sufficed. From there, I could see the entire basin and the twin peaks of Turner Mountain to the east. It was my first taste of the wild. Mr. London was right; there is a call.
It took me seventeen years to get back to Katahdin and make it to the top. The mountain is a gem with many facets, colors, and textures -- the Dudley caves, the Knife Edge, the Tableland, the Abol Slide, the North Basin -- each cut of the ancient glacier resplendent with beauty and grandeur. There are small wonders, too. A tiny spring produces a mere trickle of water nearly 5,000 feet above sea level. An annoying medium-sized rock, right in the trail, provides a stunning view of the cliffs on three sides. And, of course, that old clearing alongside Basin Pond, where I first fell in love with the wilderness so many years before.
I have come full circle, not just around the rim of the Great Basin od Katahdin, but also in my life. I came lonely, but came back alone. I see the difference now. The One whom my soul loves is here, and here I am.
Go out, and stand on the mountain before the LORD. And - behold! - the LORD passed by.

Pamola

[June 2010]

Every year, for the span of about three days, I go to the wilderness alone and punish my body … I mean, absolutely brutalize it. I enjoy challenging myself in new ways, to scale higher peaks and to behold new vistas of the wonders of creation. But I do not go to the wilderness for the challenge as much as for the solitude, the peace and quiet, the awesome beauty and power of the earth. I go there to meet God in a new way – and in exchange He offers me a few moments of pure and untarnished transcendence.

This year I climbed Katahdin. No matter which way one goes up, the trek is exactly that … a climb. I hiked up the southern ridge, alternating between stretches of steep stepping and strident striding. A couple hours of considerable effort yielded breathtaking views of the eastern scape. Then, as sudden as a turn round a boulder perched precariously above, I emerged from the trees, looking into the Great Basin spread out to my right. This particular day I was ascending Katahdin via the eastern peak, called Pamola, named for the Penobscot Indian god of thunder (portrayed as a winged man with the head of a moose and claws and feet of an eagle) who guards the mountain and takes prisoner those who attempt the climb.

This was my second time up Pamola’s broad shoulders, even more glorious than the first. I had climbed up through scattered clouds, but now the basin was emptied of the morning mists. The Great Basin of Katahdin faces east, so it doesn’t take long for the sun to climb the eastern hills and shine its face on the valley below. Atop the southern spine of Pamola, fifteen hundred feet above the valley floor, the walking became easier. I surveyed the landscape: to the north, the Basin; to the east, the sunrise, now beginning to warm the air and lift the dew; to the south, miles upon miles of Maine forests and waterways; and to the west, straight in front, the granite cliffs of Katahdin, soaring another thousand feet above my head.

From where I stood the summit was hidden, along with most of the rim. All I could see was the rocky spike of the southern edge, sloping steeply down all the way to the base of the mountain. Just a shave under a mile high, Katahdin is hardly considered a mountain in comparison with the Rockies, and a mere pebble next to the Himalayas. But Katahdin is wild, and jealous; she will cut down the arrogant climber on her jagged slopes with a gust of wind and a careless misstep. I looked in wonder at the sight of her; mighty and dangerous, the crown jewel of New England, Queen of the eastern seaboard. My muscles were feeling weary, just a little, as I forged ahead on the ridge with the wooded trail below and the granite ladder above. More clouds were rolling in now, and I shuddered once or twice as the sun hid behind them. With a long, slow exhale, I set myself upon the rocks and began to hoist myself upward.

My legs quaked for a good portion of the next several hundred feet of elevation as I pushed toward the top of Pamola, an hour of good, hard climbing. I was focused, fatigued yet determined, alert and thrilled ... man on mountain. Ah, it was good. After a while I noticed the change in ground cover from sagebrush and wild undergrowth to tundra and alpine grass. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and looked up, surprised to see the sign atop Pamola through the foggy mist. The first leg of my ten mile journey around the rim of Katahdin was almost complete.

When I reached the peak, I dug a bag of peanuts out of my pack and sat down to rest. I was almost exactly even with the top of the cloud cover, because I couldn't see anything but clouds in every direction. If I strained my eyes, I could barely make out a faint dark line where Katahdin's ridge continued up to the summit about a mile away. With the clouds below and the sun above, it looked like I was sitting on a small island in a vast ocean of pure light. It was as if heaven had come down to earth, and for a span of ten minutes, God allowed me to breach the great divide and see the glory.

Dakota

I crested the rise and saw the hills splayed out across the plain before me, gloomy yet majestic. With the clouds above and the sun behind, they were blacker than I had ever seen before. Who would have thought that such beauty could arise from such - my thoughts probed for the right word - such plain-ness?

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A giant gash, a crooked fissure, a jagged hole in the earth ... a canyon painted in browns and reds and greens sinks below the striped highway streaking along the prairie. There is beauty in the heights. There is beauty in the depths, too. But this range is not my home.

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I lift my eyes to the hills, can these men help me? I see faces, but they do not smile. Their eyes do not see, nor their ears hear. Their mouths do not speak, so I cannot hear their voice. And I rush about, each day more quickly than the next, searching ... searching ... searching.

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I have walked through a barren wasteland, alternating between sunshine and shadow as I went up each mound and back down the other side. This is a bad place. I do not wish to remember it, yet I cannot forget. This land is silent and lonely, full of grief and sorrow and anger.

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Do not hold back your river of tears, my love. Do not shut them up like a dam that contains the mighty torrent. The fort you build for protection will become a prison in the end. Do you feel pain? Name it, as you would a child ... George, or Louis, or Randall. And then, like a child, let it go. There is power in the release.

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Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away!
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.
The time of singing has come, and the voice of the dove is heard in our land.
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away!