The Ferryman

My last post left off after passing through the very scenic Saddleback Mountains in Maine, in between Rangely and Stratten. I continued on past the Saddleback Mountains and headed to Crocker Mountain, skirting Sugarloaf Mountain along the way.

The route up South Crocker Mountain seemed like it would never end. It started low in a ravine and then had a "psych" point about halfway up where the stubby pines turned to bare rocks. Normally, that would be near the peak, but the trail reverted to trees and continued upward for a long time. After the Crocker Mountains I descended to the Valley and caught a ride to Stratten, Maine, my next waypoint.

Valley in Maine.

Stratten is a one-horse town but it had a motel, a small supermarket, and a decent restaurant. I had a delicious meal at the White Wolf Inn. The motel I stayed in was run by the same couple that ran the Farmhouse Inn hostel in Rangely, but it was overpriced for the crappy place that it was.

Leaving Stratten on the 28th of July, I started hiking up the Bigelow Mountains, which some southbounders had told me were quite nice. They were. After lots of vertical I found myself on top of Avery Peak, named after Myron Avery, the man who actually made the Appalachian Trail come to fruition. There is an impressive bronze plaque on top of the peak commemorating his accomplishments.

Maine mountain.

Valley view.

View from Avery Peak.

The Kennebec River was still over 20 miles away, and I would only be able to cross it if I was there between 9:00 AM and 2:00 PM. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy  (ATC) contracts with a local guide service to ferry hikers across by canoe, but only between those hours. It's free to hikers. The Kennebec can't be forded, as it is wide, deep in the middle, and upstream dam releases can cause sudden level increases.

The ferryman was on the north side of the river when I arrived, fishing from the bank, so I waved an orange flag (provided) and he saw me. When he had paddled over to my side of the river I instinctively grabbed the bow to pull it up on the sandy shore, which would allow him to disembark on dry land. He admonished me for touching the "watercraft" before receiving my safety briefing and signing a waiver. I'd never heard a canoe called a watercraft before, thinking that term more appropriate for boats with motors and/or sails, but I played along. I obediently listened to my safety briefing, signed the waiver, cinched my life vest, and cautiously stepped inside the canoe after he granted me permission to board.

I noticed a second paddle, grabbed it (again, instinctively) and before the blade hit the water the ferryman told me to paddle lightly. I told him that I wouldn't veer the canoe off course, that the bow paddler was an afterthought, mainly there for ballast anyway, and that all the control was in the stern. He didn't give me any more directives after that. I got to thinking that I may have had at least as much time in the stern of canoe as he did, since I practically lived in one during the summers of my youth and young adulthood. He was actually a really nice guy, and I don't blame him for assuming that his passengers don't know a thing about canoes. After all, he has a responsibility to ferry a few thousand people safely across the river each year. He gave me good advice on where to stay in Caratunk (the small town on the other side of the river) and said "Tell them that the Great Northerner sent you; they"ll treat you right."

Great Northerner.

I walked two miles west to "Northern Outdoors," a resort/campground that specializes in whitewater trips. For $25 a night I had a cabin tent just 100 yards from the Kennebec River. It felt like a mansion. I stayed for two nights, resting up for the final 150 miles. My next stop is Monson, about 40 miles away. Then comes the 100 Mile Wilderness and Mt. Katahdin.