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.