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Written exclusively for Backslacker Magazine

By "g"

With his mantra strumming through his thoughts (You are where you step… You are where you step…), gales of wind buffeting about him, and faith in his ability to persevere, "g" progressed across Knife Edge with Warren in the lead and Roger bringing up the rear. The black and white clouds that capped the ridge before their departure had dissipated and were nowhere to be seen. It was blue sky for as far as one could see. To the south were a maze of large and small lakes connected by streams and fields of brown and green. To the north was South Basin, home to the electric blue Chimney Pond and its adjacent campground. Roofs to the ranger's cabin, the 12-person bunkhouse, and several lean-tos poked through the pines and timber below.

Walking Knife Edge demanded one's attention. The narrow trail, blazed with splotches of blue paint on rock, functioned like landing lights on an airstrip. Bursts of wind were unpredictable and the Boys needed to unexpectedly brace themselves into a crouching position against their invisible, howling foe. The exuberance of the experience was so vast that "g" led the trio in a series of "primal screams" from the middle of the ridge trail. Over time, walking the ridge trail became (somewhat) second nature. Warren, Roger and "g" were on top of their game. They were on. They traversed the Knife Edge. The Boys returned to camp exhausted, exhilarated by their accomplishments, and hungry for food, water and rest.

The Katahdin Boys had numerous adventures and long-winded stories to return home with. The traveling-six all agreed that there was a humbling and noble mystique to their trip that was not easily explained or understood. Things could have turned "bad" many times. But, they didn't. Was it luck? To "g," it seemed that LaBella Karma had charmed their adventure… Once again. Here are a some of those experiences.

Things happen in 3s:

By the time Warren, Roger and "g" had crossed Knife Edge and were resting at the summit at Baxter, weariness had set in. Out of water for their final leg of the hike, the Boys began their long, steep, three-hour journey down a most frightening ridge cliff. They cautiously and slowly butt-slid down many large boulders, monitoring every hand and foothold for safety. Exhausted at one point, the Boys stopped for a radio check with base camp, and then descended another 1000 feet to rest… To which Warren experienced the unthinkable. "I left my camera at the last stop!" (#1)

After a moment of denial and excruciating psychological pain due to his mistake, Hydraulic-Legs-Warren bounded up the steep trail in search of his camera. Exhausted and out of water, Roger and "g" sat on a ledge, awaiting his return. They had little choice but to gaze thirstily towards the melting snow on the adjacent basin wall, and listen to the delicious gurgle of run-off amble it's way between rock and down the mountain. So much fresh, cold and clear water… Out of reach.

Amazingly, Warren and camera returned within 25 minutes. He returned smiling and not out of breath! It was those amazing legs… Those hydraulic-like pistons, carrying him effortlessly up and down the steep grade of rock trail. What legs…

Walking on rocks the size of buffalo heads was tiring. It's slow going and hard work because each rock moved ever so slightly with the pressure of every foot step. Deliberate placement of each foot step was time consuming and draining. With each step, The Boys braced themselves against sliding and falling… A long way down.

The end of this rock-laden trail had the constant illusion of being simply a stone's throw away. The never-ending rock descent was mentally exhausting to master. The desire… The need to walk on a flat dirt trail became greater with ever step. Finally, the Boys dipped into the tree line and they sensed the end of their hike.

Just about the time the Boys reached what appeared to be level ground, "g" lost his brace against a large boulder (#2). Warren later described "g's" fall as "controlled-looking." In a sliding, twisting, slow-motion-looking spill, "g" fell 10 feet and his back landed on a large pointed rock. It was pure luck (LaBella Karma?) that he did not injure his spine. Fortunately, moments before his spill, "g" had removed his raincoat and haphazardly tucked it into his daypack. It was that soft, rolled-up cushioned ball which averted the need for a medical evacuation via helicopter.

Finally, 100 yards away from base camp a stick tore a gaping hole in Roger's nylon wind pants, narrowly missing an opportunity to pierce his calf (#3). Too tired to care about "what might have happened," Roger carried his weary body slightly further to the end of the trail and base camp. Unfortunately for Roger, he had to listen to 15 minutes of "g" saying helpful things like: "I've got duct tape in my pack to fix that tear," "Golly gee… If you want that duct tape when we get back to the lean-to, just let me know," and, "Do you want me to get that duct tape when we get back to camp because…"

So… Things did happened in 3s… And then sometimes... in multiples of 3!