Communing With the Manatees - December 10, 2010



Manatees in Blue Springs

I have lived in Florida my entire life, but I have never seen manatees in the wild - until today. What a spectacular day this is!!

Blue Springs

This morning finds me, Lenora, and Gwen bundled against the chill, mugs of coffee in hand, heading south on Hwy 441, then east on Hwy 40 - through the Ocala National Forest - before turning south again on Hwy 17 and landing at Blue Springs State Park just outside Orange City.  Total trip time is about two hours from Gainesville.  I’ve never before been to Blue Springs State Park, had no idea this gem was hidden south of Deland.  As we follow the brown directional signs to the park, our last view of civilization is an older Orange City subdivision, then Voila!, we find ourselves in this not-so-secret wilderness.  I am transported to another time.



Blue Springs is the largest spring on the St. Johns River.  The St. Johns is the longest river that is contained entirely within the State of Florida, flowing 310 miles from its headwaters, a large marshy area in Indian River County, until it joins the Atlantic Ocean at Mayport, just north of Jacksonville.  It is one of the few rivers in the world that flows north. Blue Springs and neighboring Hontoon Island State Park encompass miles of the St. Johns that have been designated an aquatic preserve. The preserve consists of diverse plant communities such as freshwater marsh, cypress swamp, mixed hardwood swamp and hardwood hammock.


Tree Hugger!

Lenora, Gwen and I decide that our first task is reconnaissance, to learn the lay of the land. We discover that a boardwalk parallels the spring run, from its opening into the St. Johns River up and around to the slit cave entrance of the underground springs. Gnarly old oaks dripping with moss line the banks of the spring run, punctuated by palm trees and palmetto bushes. South of the springs is a canoe and kayak landing on the St. Johns. South of the landing and across the river are miles and miles of marsh, swamp, and hammock. This is original, old Florida at its finest.

Blue Springs

The land around Blue Springs has a storied history, initially serving as the home of Timucuan Indians, then becoming a steamboat landing, before turning into a crowded fish camp. An enormous mound of snail shells can be found at the east end of the spring run, remainders - and reminders - of the Timucuan, for whom snails were a diet staple. The green-tinged water in the spring run is crystal clear and stays a constant 72 degrees. Approximately 100 million gallons of water flow out of the spring each day!

Water temperature is what makes Blue Springs so special. When water temperature in the St. Johns River drops below 68 degrees, West Indian Manatees, who live in the St. Johns River year round, migrate to Blue Springs where they remain for the winter. Jacques Cousteau filmed his documentary The Forgotten Mermaids at Blue Springs in 1971. The film brought international attention to the plight of manatees and influenced the State of Florida to purchase Blue Springs. It became a state park and is now a designated manatee refuge. In the winter the spring run itself is closed to swimmers, divers, and boaters, though the St. Johns River remains open to these activities.

 

As we wander the boardwalk that parallels the spring run, I am astonished at what I see - literally hundreds of manatee resting in the spring waters or moving slowly toward the mouth and into the St. Johns. Accompanying the manatees are hundreds of fish, including funky-looking gar as well as various species of catfish, bluegill, and other fish I cannot identify. Cormorants supervise all this activity from their perches on twisted tree trunks that arch out over the water.

Rangers tell us that they count the manatee each morning, before the water warms up and the manatee begin their slow move into the St. Johns, where they spend the day dining on grasses and other aquatic plants that line the river. Last week the count reached its peak for the season thus far, more than 300 manatee crowded into the spring run. As temperatures drop it is expected that more will join their large brethren.

Andrew, Gwen, and Lenora

Bald Eagle

Satisfied with our reconnaissance, Gwen, Lenora and I head over to the canoe and kayak kiosk operated by St. Johns River Cruises. Our plan for the day is to spend several hours in kayaks on the St. Johns and intersecting waters, communing with the manatee and enjoying the wild. We are waited on by Andrew, a delightful young man with a tremendous knowledge of the land and its wildlife, as well as a great sense of humor. Andrew outfits us with life vests, paddles, maps, and emergency whistles, then turns us loose in 3 brilliantly-colored, sit-on-top kayaks. He tells us that manatee are attracted to the mango-colored boats. Gwen smiles.  That one’s hers! As he pushes us out into the river, Andrew points out a bald eagle perched high in an ancient tree across the river. I smile, too. It know it is going to be a good day!  



Welcoming Committee

While Lenora and Gwen head to the mouth of Blue Springs, I paddle across the river to get a better view of the eagle. I am unable to see the eagle very well, but I do paddle close to what appears to be the local welcoming committee, several trees full of American black vultures, all hunched, keeping watch over the river. I think it’s funny how vultures have such a bad reputation. When you think about it, eagles, falcons, hawks and owls are all birds of prey, meat-eaters, but vultures have a rep because the meat they eat is almost always dead. Yet if you think about it, the California condor, crows and ravens also eat carrion. Indeed, bald and golden eagles will eat dead and rotting carcasses if they are available, too. But the vulture is the bird which is butt of all jokes. Anyway, these guys appear harmless . . . except they seem to be fighting among themselves. At times they sound like cats hissing. Then there is squawking and flutters as one backs down another, and repositioning takes place. I talk softly to them, take some photographs, then drift on.

Lenora & Gwen, St. Johns River

Bank of the St. Johns River
Red Maple aflame

Lenora and Gwen soon join me, and we slowly paddle south along the western edge of the St. Johns River. The river is lined with bald cypress, oak, red maple, palm and pine trees. Moss hangs in thick strands from the trees. This is Florida, so the foliage is just now changing colors, and the red maple are brilliant in coloration. Aquatic plants at the edge of the river include thick mats of pennywort, thinner groupings of cow lilies, and some grasses I cannot identify. Except for bird calls, all is quiet. Though staying in the same general area, Lenora, Gwen and I soon paddle and drift off by ourselves, sometimes coming together to talk about what we see, sometimes exploring alone.

Great Egret in the pennywort

Though I don’t see them, I hear owls calling across the east side of the river. I am captivated by both the manatee and the numerous, colorful birds, and I alternate my attention between the two. I paddle close to a great egret and sit watching that snowy-white bird seize small fish from the water with its bright yellow beak. I am fascinated as I watch the egret’s long neck, stretching and gyrating as it swallows the fish. I am aware that manatee abound, though I do not find it easy to see them in the tannin-stained water of the river. Instead I see ghostly shadows silently gliding past, and I watch their trails in the water.

Little Blue heron

Woodpeckers cry out periodically; heron and cranes shriek as they leave their perches to fly across the river. We paddle into the Smith Canal, which flows into the St. Johns from the southwest. Here we settle in at the edge of the pennywort, watching as numerous manatees munch on the plants and grasses. Manatee are herbivores, consuming 10-15% of their body weight each day. I think to myself, that’s a lot of plant-life - as manatee, who average 8-12 feet in length, weigh about a ton on average! I also think, it’s good that manatee eat that much, as they are dining on numerous non-native aquatic plants that could choke off the river were it not for our hungry little . . . er, large . . . friends.

We are so close to the manatee that we could touch them if we wanted. Close to the riverbank they swim slowly under and around our kayaks, then crowd into the pennywort to dine. Sometimes all we can see are patches of grasses being jerked up and down from below. Sometimes we are aware of manatee presence only as we hear them surface to breathe, it sounding like whales blowing air from a blowhole. At other times the manatee stick their heads out of the water to grab particularly tasty morsels. I am close enough that I can see the whiskers on their chins.

Gwen & Lenora, St. Johns River

I have learned that manatee are very gentle creatures. They have muscular bodies, and though they are so very large, they have very little body fat, thus their need to eat constantly, also to seek refuge in the warm waters of the springs. These West Indian Manatees have wrinkled dark-gray skin. They have two forelimbs containing three to four toenails on each, as well as a large flat tail that they use to locomote. Manatee have no front teeth, only molars. Oh, and, an interesting bit of trivia, the closest relative to the manatee is the elephant! Manatee are nonaggressive, spending their time resting, slowly moving up and down the river, and eating. Their only natural enemy is man. We have done great damage to them with our powerboats that travel swiftly up and down the river, slicing up the manatee with propellers when they are unable to travel fast enough to escape. Indeed, many of the manatee here at Blue Springs have large white scars on their bodies, evidence of run-ins with boats.



Mom and Calf
Mom has a scar on her back

We paddle amid numerous mom and calf pairs. Manatee give birth only every two to five years, with nursing calves remaining with their moms about two years. This low birth rate together with numerous losses from boating and other accidents has led to low population numbers. At present there are only about 3,000 West Indian manatee alive. And I am presently paddling amidst about a tenth of them - Awesome!

Great Blue Heron

I paddle upriver, wanting to examine a large blue bird who is guarding a patch of pennywort. I ease into the growth, finally stopping within about four feet of the bird, who turns out to be a great blue heron. He is quite striking, with his slate blue body, deep blue-black patches on his head and breast, blue-gold beak, and long plumes of feathers hanging from his back and breast. I sit watching him for about twenty minutes. He knows I am here, though he never directly looks at me. Before he flies off, I move on, to leave him in peace. I rejoin Lenora and Gwen, and we move up and down the river, stopping for long minutes at a time to observe munching manatee, then paddling silently to another spot, to watch again. I am nowhere but here.


LIttle Blue Heron
astride a manatee

We pull into one patch of plants where the water is fairly shallow. These must be special grasses as about half a dozen manatee are so greedy for this food that they crowd up against the bank, backs several inches out of the water as they feed. We watch a funny little blue heron decide that the back of a manatee must be the perfect perch. He flies over, lands, then fishes from this stand until the manatee duo back up and submerge once again.

I could do this every day  . . .

All too soon we realize that it is 4:00; our kayaks must be back at the kiosk by 4:30. We slowly paddle back, past little blue heron and tree after tree full of vultures. Cormorants line the pipes which close off the entrance to the springs for boaters, spreading their wings to catch the sun. The eagle has moved on, but the water is full of the gentle giants. Amazingly, as we paddle closer to the entrance to the springs, I can feel the change in water temperature. It is most definitely warmer over here. Remaining on the water until the last possible moment, we finally sigh and beach our kayaks, thanking Andrew for the day. It has been marvelous. I am exceedingly relaxed. I could do this every day. I will be back!

Donna 

Local color amid local color on the St. Johns River

I Enter the Wild - Moose - Baxter Day 7

Cow Moose at Stump Pond

No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength. ~~Jack Kerouac

My last full day here. It's 7:30 a.m. Wednesday, is 35 degrees and cloudy. I'm sitting at the picnic table behind my cabin, next to the pond. I can hear Big Niagara Falls, which is several miles away, on the Nesowadnehunk Stream. I was awakened again by the loons calling around 6:00 a.m., the long wailing calls, those haunting sounds. When I step outside I see that mom has returned! You know, she was gone about the same length of time as Ranger Diane. I think she got tired of being responsible for Junior and decided to spend a weekend in town, like Diane. But she’s back, so all is well. I do wonder when the youngster will decide to fly . . . . Oh cool!!! There they are, and he's trying to fly!!! I'm watching his flying lessons!!!

Wow, this is so cool! It sounds like he's protesting, so funny, he flaps and "flies" 10-15 feet, feet never fully leaving the water, then settles down, nuzzles mom, whines a bit (short low honks and squeaks), then he starts flapping again. Sometimes mom flies alongside him. Sometimes she just watches. Diane said no one's seen him try to fly yet. And I get to watch it! They've not been this noisy since I arrived. This must be an important day to them. The thing with loons is, they're really big birds, can be several feet long. And their bones are really dense, which is great for when they want to dive under to catch a fish. But they are too heavy to be able to take off flying from land. Diane said that once they leave the nest after the baby gets large enough, they stay on the water and don’t return to land, until time to nest again the next year. This is so cool! I'll be spending tomorrow night in Bar Harbor, maybe they'll follow me over. 

Appalachian Trail at Daicy


I decide to spend my last day hiking, rather sauntering a trail in the woods. Diane puts up a weather report on a white board each morning. Today it indicates that it is scheduled to rain by afternoon, so I know I need to head out. I leave the campground by 9:30. I decide to saunter along the Appalachian Trail as it heads south from Daicy Pond. This trail parallels the Nesowadnehunk Stream, or the Sahdahunk as I now know it, through deep forest of hemlock and spruce.

AT at Daicy

The early part of the trail runs through areas so wet that the beam "bridges" are in place. It then becomes a rather flat trail carpeted in pine needles. At one point I hear rain falling, though I don’t appear to be getting wet. I realize that what I am hearing is actually the sound of needles falling from the evergreens. I pass a gorgeous boulder that has a tree growing entwined upon it. Then I saunter down a path lined with 6 foot tall hemlocks. I do love this terrain.


Little Niagara Falls



At Little Niagara Falls

I access the Nesowadnehunk at the Tote Dam, which appears to be a natural as opposed to man-made dam. Then I come upon Little Niagara Falls. The area around these falls is quite pretty. I walk out on white boulders which are strewn with orange needles from the pines. Across the stream colorful hardwoods line the bank. Just downstream I then find Big Niagara Falls. Here I can stand on the boulders that make up the falls, watching the water coming rushing down the rocks toward me. The spray from the falls is intense, the air cool, and the water thunders around me. I would normally sit for a while in this spot. But I am concerned about rain and decide to head back.

Big Niagara Falls
Nesowadnehunk Stream

Big Niagara Falls

AT at Daicy heading North

When I reach the trailhead, instead of stopping I decided to head in the opposite direction for a bit. The Appalachian Trail heads north from here, eventually to Katahdin Stream Campground and Mt. Katahdin, where I hiked yesterday. The trail takes me down to Daicy Pond, through stands of pines and blueberry bushes, then along the shoreline for a bit. I hike for about half a mile, then turn back. I think perhaps I’ll head out to some of the more hidden ponds that are just off the road, see if I can find any moose. I stop at the side of the Tote Road and take the trail to Tracey Pond Outlet, then on to Elbow Pond Outlet. This is an easy trail, fairly flat, about a half mile walk one  way. The most interesting part of this hike is the "bridge" over Elbow Pond Outlet - part of the bridge is actually a rotting log. I don’t find any moose, so I head on.



Trail over Tracy Pond Outlet



The song of the waters is audible to every ear, but there is other music in these hills, by  no means audible to all. To hear even a few notes of it, you must first live here for a long time, and then you must know the speech of hills and rivers. Then of a still night, when the campfire is low and the Pleiades have climbed over the rimrocks , sit quietly and listen for a wolf to howl, and think hard of everything you have seen and tried to understand. Then you may hear it - a vast pulsing harmony - its score inscribed on a thousand hills, its notes the lives and deaths of plants and animals, its rhythms spanning the seconds and the centuries. ~~ Aldo Leopold

I decide I will swing by Stump Pond, as my e-mails have not "flown off" just yet, see if I can catch a signal. As I sit in my car in the Stump Pond parking lot, I realize that there is a person dashing across the road to the Pond. That is most definitely a clue. I grab my camera and follow him, and am rewarded by an up close view of a cow moose munching grasses from the pond. My fellow watchers include a couple of photographers and 4 young people from the Seattle area who talk quietly but excitedly about the scene when the cow came crashing down the hillside behind them, followed by a bull who seemed more interested in her than she in him. The cow headed on into the pond while the bull made his way into the bushes. This is a different group than the one from yesterday. This group is quiet, reverent, awed by our closeness to the animal. We all talk quietly for a bit, occasional shutters clicking. I head back to the car when the rain begins.

I return to the cabin and pack up all I can, wanting to get the car loaded as much as possible before the heavy rains begin. Then I sit before the fire, one last evening of leisure reading before I have to leave. The rain turns into a very fierce storm, strongest since I've been here. The wind whistles around the cabin and under the eaves, actually blowing the back door open at one point. Big waves are crashing onto the shore, which is just fifteen feet away from the back steps. But my fire is warm, the cabin is cozy, and it feels like the perfect last night here. I am satisfied. It has been a very good week.

Donna

I Enter the Wild - Baxter Day 6 - Kayaks and the Appalachian Trail





I would paddle out swiftly onto the open lake if the moon was shining down its path. It never failed to come to me when going down that brilliant shining highway into space. Most completely of all would I be taken when lying on my back looking at the stars. The gentle motion of the canoe softly swaying, the sense of space and infinity given by the stars, gave me the sense of being suspended in the ether. My body had no weight, my soul was detached and I careened freely through a delightfullness of infinite distance.... Sometimes the night cry of the loon would enhance the illusion. For long periods I would lie, having lost track of time and location. A slap of a wavelet would jerk me back into the present and I would paddle back to the glowing coals of the deserted camp fire, trying to fathom the depths of the experience I had been through. ~~~Sigurd Olson

I am out of bed by 6:30, the cabin warmed by yet another great fire. It is again a blue sky morning. Today there is not only mist rising from the surface of the pond but also fingers of fog hovering higher overhead. The fog does not obscure the view, rather is a translucent veil moving before the trees, mountains, and pond, as if in the hands of a dancer. The sun bursts over the shoulder of Katahdin around 7:00 a.m., literally looking like an explosion, then reflects golden off the fog. It is an eerie scene, as the pond and sky are a deep blue but the fog itself glows golden. As the sun rises higher, the colors turn cooler, from golden back to white. There is no sound from the campground. I may be the only one up thus far. I enjoy my quiet greeting of the day. Once again I see only one loon. I think mama got tired of her youngster’s inaction and left him to fend for himself. I hope he can, fend for himself . . .

The neighbors in cabin 11 reported last night that they saw a bull, cow, and young moose in Moose View Cove last evening. I take my coffee and wander over via trail to see if perhaps they are dining in the cove this morning. But they are not. I have yet to see any moose this trip, but I’ve not made a concerted effort to be in their territory. Perhaps today. I note that today is the anniversary of my mom’s death just two years ago. I take a few minutes to acknowledge this fact, and I raise my coffee in toast. But I do not dwell on that occasion. I do wish mom were alive to hear stories of this trip. Though mom was always able to - and did! - elucidate every possible thing that could go wrong for me on an outdoor adventure, she acknowledged some time before her death that she lived vicariously through me. She would enjoy my tales of Maine.

I am not yet sure how I want to spend my day. Yesterday was so spectacular that I feel no need to push myself. So I dress for any type of outdoor activity and head out in the car. I first head over to Stump Pond. I confess that this is to be my first stop primarily because I have learned that one can occasionally catch a cell signal here. I don’t want to review any work related e-mails or to make any telephone calls, but I have written a couple of e-mails about my adventures that I would like to send off to friends if I can catch a signal. When I arrive at Stump Pond I note that the parking lot is full and there are cars lining the road in spots where signs say "no parking." This is a clue. I am lucky to arrive as someone is leaving and settle in to a "legal" parking space. When I wander down to the edge of the pond I discover that there are a cow moose and calf grazing in the pond.

There are basically two viewing spots at Stump Pond, one that is fairly open and can accommodate a number of people, one just off the edge of the road, that can only accommodate a handful. The roadside spot is full - of photographers with their mammoth telephoto lenses. I cannot find a spot at which I can set up my tripod; additionally, the moose are too far away for me to take any good shots. I note that there are a couple of places nearby where I can push through some underbrush and get down to the edge of the pond. As I head that direction, a young ranger walks my way and advises me that the areas past the underbrush are off limits. And he advises several folks who have already settled at the edge of the pond that they must leave. I wander up to the open area but am disappointed at the folks who have gathered there, all mostly photographers. There is a lot of loud conversation, about people and other trips taken, while occasionally shutters click when one of the moose raises its head. This for me, the sighting and "communing" with such wildlife, is a moment of reverence, not to be taken lightly. But I do not feel that some of my fellow observers are of the same mind. The attitude and concomitant noise ruin the mood for me, so I head off.

I decide that I will hike a bit of the Appalachian Trail at Katahdin Stream Campground. It is a nice day for a hike, cool but not cold. But it is not a good day for photography under the trees. When the sun is out, attempts to take photographs under the trees produce shots of light and shadow with little good detail. I know that this trip will be for the adventure as opposed to the photography. The trail parallels Katahdin Stream. This trail is much less rocky than the Chimney Pond trail of yesterday. There are more evergreens here, primarily hemlock, with stands of hardwoods at intervals. And the understory is much less dense. For the first mile the trail climbs but not too steeply. There are large gray boulders off the side of the trail, covered in green mossy growth. Right about the one mile mark, the trail crosses Katahdin Stream on a log bridge. It then takes a switchback, at which point the trail is actually the rock of the mountain itself, open to the sky, with a nice view of the far mountains. I note that the rock trail is lined by blueberry bushes, whose leaves have turned deep red. I wonder if I will see bears here, knowing that they dine on blueberries!

Katahdin Stream Falls



 The way of the mountain is the way of ecstasy, prophetic insight, the white-hot coals of inspiration, the long-distance vision that the towering peak affords. Here the spirit is given light. It longs to soar, viewing everything from aloft, placing all of life’s details within universal patterns of clarity. This si one way of going to the edge, surpassing the ordinary by ascending the mountain. ~~~Belden Lane

The trail becomes fairly steep at this point. It returns to a sandy/rocky trail under a spruce forest several hundred feet up, at Katahdin Falls, but the steepness continues. The Appalachian Trail here, Hunt Trail as it is called inside Baxter, is described as a difficult and steep trail. I learn quickly that I have not been wise to have attempted this hike the day after my most successful hike up Chimney Pond Trail. My ankles, achilles, and knees let me know that they received enough of a workout yesterday that they should not be pushed today. I consider hiking up the stone steps just beyond the Falls, but quickly determine that this is not a good idea. So I spend a bit of time sitting by the Falls. It is cool here, next to the spray from the thundering water. I then sit for a bit on the rocks that are open to the sky. Soon I head back down. I may not have made it anywhere near the summit, but it was a nice walk in the woods this day.

Moose View Cove - Kidney Pond
Mt. Katahdin

I feel rather aimless, so I head back to Kidney Pond. I have not availed myself of the kayaks and canoes up to this point. I decide that today is a perfect afternoon to kayak on Kidney Pond. Baxter has a really nice set-up as far as canoes and kayaks are concerned. Each pond with a campground has a number of canoes and kayaks which can be "rented" for only $1 per hour. And use is on the honor system. You take paddles and life vests from their designated spot, sign out on the clipboard, then put your money in a box when you return. There are also canoes and kayaks on some of the remote ponds which can only be reached by trail. You can check out a key for these boats from a Ranger and canoe or kayak in these backcountry sites if you wish. I decide to utilize one of the kayaks. And I spend a most delightful two hours on Kidney Pond, the only person on earth it almost seems. The sky is blue. It is somewhere in the 50's temperature-wise. There is only a mild breeze, enough to create comfort but not to affect my paddling ability.

Kidney Pond & Doubletop

I am astonished when I paddle out into the lake. The view is tremendous. When Gwen and I were here last year, it was overcast or rainy all week. Though we occasionally saw pieces of Mt. Katahdin, we were unable to see any other mountains from Kidney. I am surprised and pleased to note that I can see almost all the area mountains from the middle of Kidney Pond. Behind the cabins I see Doubletop Mountain - and it is obvious why it is named Doubletop. To the right of Doubletop are OJI, the Owl, and Mt. Katahdin. Wow! The view is spectacular. I paddle into Moose View Cove, then follow Kidney Pond Outlet, a stream that "empties" the pond, for about a half mile. It is Kidney Pond Outlet that I had to ford during that rainy hike on my first day here. I don't see any moose this day. But the colors of the trees around the cove are spectacular.

As I paddle I seem to move straight toward Katahdin. I head back out then paddle the entire perimeter of the pond, noting that placement of the cabins in the campground is so discrete that you can see only two of them from the middle of the pond. I am ecstatic. There is no one else on the pond. I hear no noise from the campground. At times I simply sit, not paddling, letting the wind move me around the pond at will. The pond is calm, sky and pond are deep blue, rocks jutting up out of the water are white, hemlocks are deep green, and stands of hardwoods add bright color. Glorious!!

Moose View Cove

 In wilderness extremity, people find themselves running out of language, driven to silence. Ordinary speech seems inappropriate. ~~~Belden Lane

I only reluctantly head back in, when noise from the campground begins echoing across the pond. I am grumpy at first, aggravated that anyone would disturb the quiet. But I calm down when I come off the pond and learn that a group of developmentally disabled young people have arrived for a stay in the cabins. They have had a long ride in the car and are letting out some pent up energy. I discover that Diane has returned, and we chat for a while, then I fill the wood box with logs. I note that the loon is still alone. I make some soup for dinner and settle in for the evening with a good book.

Donna

I Enter the Wild - Baxter Day 5: On Showers, Glacial Ponds, and Presence

At Roaring Brook Campground

In desert and mountain wilderness, people discover liminal places suggesting thresholds between where they have been and where they are going. Whether they experience these places as dream symbols or rites of passage, whether they physically travel through wild, disorienting terrain or enter it metaphorically through an experience of profound crisis, such sites mark important points of transition in their lives. Out on the edge - in the desert waste or suspended between earth and sky - they transgress the limits of culture, language, all the personal boundaries by which their lives are framed. ~~Belden Lane

Before I write anything else, I think I probably should confess. I spent last night in a motel in Millinocket . . .

Well, I needed a shower! Did I say that in addition to no electricity, there’s no running water in Baxter? That’s correct, no running water, definitely no showers. I hadn’t washed my hands under running water much less been able to shower since Thursday morning. By Sunday afternoon I really wanted to take a shower. So when I left Roaring Brook, I headed in to Millinocket and spent the night at Baxter Park Inn. There aren’t many options for lodging in Millinocket. I had stayed in one other motel on a previous trip and was less than satisfied, so I decided to give Baxter Park Inn a shot. And it is a lovely little motel. The room was clean, my bed was comfortable, and the shower was fantastic! Actually all the showers were fantastic. (I took more than one!) I didn’t watch television or read any newspapers while I was "in town," that was not my purpose. I just wanted a shower. So I picked up some food at the Hannafords, checked in to my room, took a long hot shower, wrote in my journal, read some fiction, then went to sleep.



North Woods Trading Post

It is now 8:30 a.m, 44 degrees outside, and I am heading back to the wild, feeling a little more tame myself! I chuckle as I drive past the North Woods Trading Post. This establishment is the nearest store to the entrance to Baxter, which is ten miles away. According to its sign, it has everything a camper might want: ATM, public pay telephone, pizza to go, souvenirs, ice, and 200 cases of beer! Speaking from experience, for most food items you might want, you’ll have to go all the way back to Millinocket. But if you can survive on pizza and beer, they’ve got all you need.

Roaring Brook

When I arrive at the Park I head up to Roaring Brook Campground. I have decided that I want to hike the Chimney Pond Trail. According to informational sheets Diane gave me, this trail will take me past the Basin Ponds, which are in a basin below Mt. Katahdin. At some point I will have gained enough altitude that I can see Katahdin from on high as opposed to viewing it as I have thus far, from the ground. Roaring Brook is another "multi-purpose" campground, with tent sites, lean-tos, and a ten-person bunkhouse. It is the trailhead for hiking to the Chimney Pond Campground, which is one of only two backcountry campsites in the Park, as well as for accessing many of the trails to Katahdin’s Peaks. It is quite lovely in Roaring Brook this morning. There appears to be more foliage change here than in many areas of the Park. There also appears to be fewer evergreens and more hardwood in this section of the Park than on the west side, so there is much color here.



Hobblebush

In fact, here I find hobblebush lining the trail. I haven’t seen hobblebush in other areas of the park. Hobblebush is a fascinating plant in the Fall. The leaves are so many different colors that one might think the Creator ingested some of the many mushrooms which grow off the trail before embarking on creation of this plant. Seriously, some leaves are green, purple, pink, orange, red, and blue, all in one leaf! I have to pull myself forward else I photograph hobblebush all day.



Chimney Pond Trail

I have crossed Roaring Brook which now parallels the trail, and I am accompanied on my journey by the roar of the water as it rushes downhill. The foliage and the brook are so pretty that it takes me an extended period of time to hike the first mile or so of the trail. I stop every ten feet to take a photograph! This can be disorienting, as I don’t know this trail, and there aren’t many "landmarks." If I stop repeatedly, I am unable to judge distance by length of time on the trail. I don’t know where I am or how far I’ve come! 

This is one of the delightful aspects of hiking a trail for the first time. I am fully present, focused on here, wherever here happens to be. I don’t know what is around the corner, so I cannot think of it. I don’t know what is at the end, or the top, so I cannot anticipate it. I can only be where I am now. Early in the hike the trail has some flat spots, and I balance on one of the little beam bridges across some wet areas. But most of the trail is quite rocky, in fact the rockiest trail I’ve hiked since Chimneys in the Smokies. In numerous spots I must step over, around or on top of large rocks and boulders. And as I hike, the trail becomes steeper. At times I’m actually climbing rock steps up the side of the mountain. All of this adds to the aspect of presence, as I am forced to pay attention to what is right in front of me. Journeys to areas like this are important to me for this very reason. I can be present, must be present, focused solely on what is in front of me. I do not mull over the past. I do not think toward the future. I am just here now. And what a spectacular now it is!

He was stunned by the quiet joy of self-forgetfulness. ~~Belden Lane

I briefly hear some machinery and growl in return - I am not supposed to hear sounds like that up here. Then I round the corner to see a trail crew working on a bridge across a creek. In fact, the bridge has been totally demolished, and I am unable to cross. The worker directs me to follow little yellow ribbons that he has tied around bushes and trees, indicating that they will lead me to a spot where I can cross the creek. I laugh, then he does also - the yellow ribbons are almost invisible against the yellow of the leaves. Eventually I am able to find my way to the edge of the water, where I rock hop, then climb the bank and am back on the trail again.

I soon cross a wooden bridge, and the trail starts climbing steeply again. I am feeling somewhat perplexed at this point. According to my guide sheets, I should have found an overlook by now. Did I perhaps take the wrong trail? I can tell that I have climbed to the top of a mountain, as there is much blue sky through the trees around me, but every corner I round takes me further up a hill. I feel like I have hiked several miles, but I am not finding the milestones I expect. And I am not passing people on this trail, either coming or going, so there is no one to ask. I journey on.

Mt. Katahdin and Basin Pond

Just as I am starting to wonder if I should consider heading back down, I round a corner and find a short side trail. Of course I must check out the side trail, and, Wow! Look what I just found! I thought my guide sheet had lied to me. Or else that I am on the wrong trail. But here I am, where I was trying to be! According to the guide sheet, I am two miles up the trail. And I have gained about 1,000 feet in altitude. Before I rounded the corner and found Basin Pond, I would have sworn that I had already hiked 5 miles up the trail and at least half that distance in altitude gain. Oh the joys of hiking a new trail, of discovery [and discovery . . . ;-) ] !

Basin Pond - Draining to Brook
at right

Chimney Peak & The Knife Edge

The only sounds I hear are a bird chirping and the gurgle of the water beginning its downhill journey over to my right. There is only a faint breeze. It's about 55 degrees. The sun is warm on my face. Across the pond is Mt. Katahdin. I pull out my maps and identify it’s many "parts." The dip to the left is called The Saddle; the spot to the right is Chimney Peak; leading up to Chimney from the right is The Knife Edge, aptly named they say, and not for those who are scared of heights. All make up mighty Katahdin. And it's mine, all mine right now.

I settle in on a boulder and sit for a while. I am under some scrawny little balsam trees, the subalpine level where tree growth is stunted. I am joined briefly by a young couple who are heading up to spend two nights at Chimney Pond. I smile as I hear her see Basin Pond and Katahdin for the first time, "Oh Wow!" she utters, echoing my words. The couple stay for a few minutes and we chat about the scenery, then they head on up the trail, giving a blessing to my solitude - their word. Yes, the mountain and this gorgeous little pond are mine. I think I will just sit for a bit in their presence.

Why wilderness? Ask those who have known it and who have made it a part of their lives. They might not be able to explain, but your very question will kindle a light in eyes that have reflected the camp fires of a continent, eyes that have know the glory of dawns and sunsets and nights under the stars. ~~Sigurd Olson

Soon I head back down the mountain. On another day, probably another trip, I will hike to Chimney Pond, perhaps spend the night there. But today I have accomplished all I desire. When I return to the parking lot, about 3:30, and check some additional guide sheets, I learn that the trail I just hiked is consider difficult and strenuous. I am proud of the accomplishment. I have grown stronger over the last several years. This trail did not feel difficult. It just felt delightful. I chat for a while with Ranger Mark, who impetuously asks me to marry him. Mark notes that I am wearing a Yellowstone sweatshirt, a Great Smoky Mountain cap, am in Baxter State Park, and am shooting film with an old Olympus OM2N camera. He is taken by all of these factors. However, he lets me know that if I say yes, we’ll have to have a serious talk with his wife. I let him off the hook . . . But I do have a delightful time chatting with him, yet another interesting Ranger. Mark is himself an ice climber as well as certified in wilderness rescue. We talk about his experiences at Baxter as well as life itself, then I head back to Kidney.

I arrive back at Kidney Pond at 5:30. It is 51 degrees outside. I fill the woodbox with logs from the barn then make a cup of coffee and sit on the back porch. There is only one loon on the pond this evening, looks to be the youngster. I wonder if his mom has left him here and headed for the coast. Would she do that? Do they do that? The sky is still clear, and the sun begins sinking behind the mountains to the west. Though the trees below are dark, Katahdin itself glows pink in the sunset, like alpenglow! The surface of the lake is still and the mountain reflects off the water. As the first stars become visible, the coyotes make their presence known, first a series of yips, then numerous howls. I am delighted. What a grand day it has been!

The sun was trembling now on the edge of the ridge. It was alive, almost fluid and pulsating, and as I watched it sink I thought that I could feel the earth turning from it, actually feel its rotation. Over all was the silence of the wilderness, that sense of oneness which comes only when there are no distracting sights or sounds, when we listen with inward ears and see with inward eyes, when we feel and are aware with our entire beings rather than our senses. I thought as I sat there of the ancient admonition "Be still and know that I am God," and knew that without stillness there can be no knowing, without divorcement from outside influences man cannot know what spirit means. ~~~Sigurd Olson

Donna