Monday—September 14, 1998
Trail Day—241/1
Trail Mile—3579/17
Location—South Branch Pond Campground, Baxter State Park

Staring into the soft, flickering glow of the campfire last evening, relaxing once more in the comforting warmth of that kind and familiar old friend I retreated to delve the depths of thought, indeed to fathom most near my subconscious as I turned to the days just past and to the unknown days that lie ahead. My emotions became a whirl, a stir of both melancholy and fond memories along with the excitement and exhilaration of preparing for my lone trek into the wilds of the northern Appalachians, into the cold, early grips of winter, the stark tundra and the far off reaches of Canada. My trek on that famous old trail, the Appalachian Trail is now history and just as it quickly ended, so now just as quickly begins another exciting adventure, a journey of near 700 miles o’er the Sentier International des Appalaches/International Appalachian Trail (SIA/IAT).

I awake to a bright clear day. Eric, who is touring Maine by bicycle, gets out and on his way. Thanks Eric for sharing your lean-to with me! As I prepare to head on north I linger to reflect again, as during the evening last. I am thinking now about the three unmarked trails that intermix with the AT on the summit of Mount Katahdin, by the old weather-beaten sign, the last of the old familiar white AT blazes. For it is there that another trail begins and two other trails pass. Within this Park and on that summit these trails may never be marked, their physical presence may never be seen, but they exist all the same and their presence will remain forever. For you see, there are things that man, vain man, with all his influence, wealth and power cannot change. I speak now of a timeless and unshakable domain beyond the power of man. Man can end the white paint marks of the Appalachian Trail on Baxter Peak, and at his whim, he can also end that venerable old trail there too, but man cannot end these majestic and grand Appalachian Mountains on that summit, nor can he end there this vast and spectacular continent we know as North America.

The first of these trails of which I speak, begins on Mount Katahdin, just as sure as does another trail there end. This trail was the dream and will soon be the reality of another Benton MacKaye. For, just as MacKaye dreamed of such a grand trail along the central Appalachian Range years ago, so, likewise has the MacKaye of our time dreamed of another grand trail along the northern Appalachian Range. This dreamer is also the Myron Avery of our time, for he is not only “The Dreamer” but also, “The Doer!” His name is Richard Anderson and his new dream trail is called le Sentier International des Appalaches/International Appalachian Trail. It is on this trail that I now depart.

The first of the unmarked trails which passes over Mount Katahdin begins its journey in the southernmost reaches of the Appalachian Range in south-central Alabama on Flagg Mountain near Porter Gap and continues on to the Cliffs of Forillon where the Appalachian Mountains make their spectacular plunge to the sea at the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Cap Gaspe, Quebec. Life is breathed into this trail as a result of an amalgam of wonderful existing trails all up and down the Appalachian Mountains Chain. This trail, which has the AT as its grand section, encompasses the entire range of the majestic Appalachians. It is called The Appalachian Mountains Trail (AMT). It is on this trail that I now continue.

The second of the unmarked trails which passes over Mount Katahdin is indeed a most grand affair, for its beginning arises from the waters of the Caribbean Sea at the Gulf of Mexico in Key West, Florida, the southernmost point of the eastern North American Continent. From there it winds its way north through three time zones across what is, for all intent and purposes, the entire breadth of the Eastern Continent to also end at the spectacular Cliffs of Forillon at the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Cap Gaspe, Quebec. This trail too, is an amalgam of existing trails, with the grand old AT as its backbone. And it includes numerous other trails and roadwalks all up and down the East Coast and Maritime Provinces. This trail is called The Eastern Continental Trail (ECT). On this trail I also now continue. And as you read and journey on with me it is about the adventures along this trail that this book is written.

I stop to say good-bye to Ranger Donnell and I’m off to Russell Pond. The trail is mostly a valley walk with very good treadway compared to the heavily used trail south of here. I stop to meet and talk with Tom Lohnes, Ranger at Russell Pond Campground. He seems intrigued and taken as I once again relate the story of where I’ve hiked and where I’m headed. The day into South Branch Pond Campground goes quickly and I’m in early. Here I meet Ed Cunningham, Ranger at South Branch and he puts me up in the bunkhouse. I have it all to myself! These are great accommodations, a well thought-out design, all fresh and new. In moments I’ve got a fine warming fire going in the wood stove. This is very comfy. I sleep very soundly, for I am still emotionally drained from bidding farewell to so many dear friends on the AT.

[John Vance Cheney]

Tuesday—September 15, 1998
Trail Day—242/2
Trail Mile—3604/42
Location—Shin Pond Village, Craig and Terry Hill, Proprietors

The hike on out of the United States and into Canada is mostly a roadwalk from here to the international border at Ft. Fairfield, Maine. At Matagammon Gate, the north entrance to Baxter State Park, I check out with gatekeep Dana Miller and head on east to Matagammon Store and Campground, managed by proud owners Don and Dianne Dudley. Here I relax with hot coffee and a great sub. There is no electricity way out here in the north Maine woods, so a generator powers the whole operation. The freezer is working fine though, thank you very much, and the ice cream is hard as a brick!

I manage to make it into Shin Pond by late evening, a 25-mile day. I am very tired, but even with my bedraggled appearance I’m greeted with a smile from Craig, and I’m soon the grand recipient of more hot coffee and a great pizza! Craig puts me up in their fine motel; very clean, neat and comfortable. There’s hot water and even good water pressure for my shower. Another good night’s slept…in a bed with sheets and a pillow no less. Isn’t it interesting the things we take for granted!

[Frances Jane Crosby]

Wednesday—September 16, 1998
Trail Day—243/3
Trail Mile—3627/65
Location—Abandoned Hunter’s Cabin East of Smyrna Mills, Maine

The roadwalk continues, a welcome change of pace from the rocks and roots. Folks can’t understand how I could possibly enjoy hiking gravel roads, secondary highways and even US highways. Granted and I will concede, you wouldn’t want to load your gear and your kids in the car and head for northern Maine to hike the shoulders of US1! But for a thru-hiker the roadwalks are a welcome diversion, offering the opportunity to meet the local folks while allowing some longer mileage days to boot. Up here there are many logging trucks on the road, as timbering is the mainstay, however, the drivers are most courteous and to-the-man have all moved as far as they can into the other lane, thus giving me plenty of space.

While we’re on this roadwalk subject please permit this old codger a moment’s digression. I consider myself fortunate to be counted among those who had the opportunity to hike the AT on the roads through the Cumberland Valley years ago…a section of the trail traditionally, and now historically, known as “The Cumberland Valley Roadwalk.” The Cumberland Valley is an idyllic, pastoral place, “settled in” with beautiful rolling hills and peaceful, bountiful farms all along. A great example being the Messer farm; hard working folks who permitted hikers to pitch in their clover-blanketed back yard…and the “Ice Cream Lady,” Bonnie Shipe. That’s all gone now, thanks to the “vision” of certain of those in the ATC who have found it impossible to rest until every inch of the trail is off the road. So now, after spending millions and millions of dollars and pi~~ing off a lot of folks in the Valley, the AT zigzags through the fields. You’ll see a few of the neat old farms, and Boiling Springs is a classic trail town. But the true stature of this proud old valley, the beauty and magic of its lands and people…enjoyed by all who did the roadwalk? Ahh, that joy, that experience is gone forever. (Easy, easy, just my opinion!)

As I near Smyrna Mills I pass more homes and the traffic picks up a little. It is late afternoon and the local school bus goes by heading west dropping kids off. The driver waves in passing and I think to myself, “Bet I’ll see her again soon,” as there isn’t much out there where I’ve just come from. Sure enough, in just awhile I hear the bus approaching from behind. It slows and the driver offers me a lift. She says she can take me up the road a couple of miles to where she lives. I decline the offer but thank her just the same. As I continue on and in a short time, I can see the bright yellow school bus parked in the yard. As I near I see the young lady, along with her husband and children out on their porch and they beckon me to come over. Here I meet Cheryl and Roger Stevens. After answering the usual questions of who I am, where I’ve come from and where I’m headed, Cherri asks if they might help in any way. Without hesitation, I pull out my water bottle to have it filled, for on roadwalks, unless you’re willing to drink from the ditches or knock on people’s doors, you’ll pretty much do without…and I was running on empty! I’m invited into their home and the children seat me at their table. As I eat my fill from a plate of confections placed before me Cherri puts together a bag of food for me and then goes back to her commercial sewing machine where she’s making camo totes and packs for the local hunters. As I watch her work, the thought occurs that I could sure use a new water bottle belt-pouch. My threadbare bag is full of holes and the elastic cinch gave up months ago. As I prepare to head on up the road, Cherri asks if there is anything else they could do. Sooo, I show her my beat-up old water bottle belt-pouch. After taking one look, and spending no more than a couple of minutes at her machine, I become the proud new owner of one of Cherri’s custom (water bottle) totes!

I stop in Smyrna Mills for another great pizza then head on east to find a place to spend the evening—an old abandoned hunter’s cabin. The lock was broken years ago and never mended, so I push the door open and enter the dark old cabin. The floor is clean but sloping noticeably to the northeast. Here I will roll out my sleeping bag. My tummy is full and I am content. In this quiet little place I will be warm, dry and comfortable. As I open my pack to prepare my bed for the night I find the small outer compartment stuffed with money! I wonder now, as I light my candle to write this journal entry for today, how many of us have been blessed during our life with such human kindness and generosity. Folks, this is the stuff miracles are made from—bringing us riches and blessings that a winning lottery ticket could never deliver. The Stephens’ family would not have a clue to the meaning of the term “trail magic,” nor what a “trail angel” might be. But then again, it’s probably just as well.

[N. Nomad]

Thursday—September 17, 1998
Trail Day—244/4
Trail Mile—3650/88
Location—Abandoned Weight Scales House North of Littleton, Maine

In just a short distance this morning, the secondary road I’m hiking passes under I-95. Near this interchange I am served a great breakfast at the Brookside Restaurant, a neat little mom-n-pop stop. What a great way to start the day, stoking my tank with energy for the morning walk. By lunchtime I’m in Houlton.

For quite awhile now I’ve been relying on the pawn shop watch I bought for a buck while at Ronnie and Judy’s in Live Oak. It worked fine until I dunked it once too often. After that I simply relied on my friends on the AT for the time of day. But now, hiking by myself, I need to be able to determine my location accurately using the time/speed/distance triad. Of course, to figure any one of the three variables, I need two of the others in the equation. I can estimate my rate of progress very well under most circumstances and over most terrain. So, If I keep track of how long I’ve been hiking since the last known landmark, I can calculate with remarkable accuracy the distance I’ve traveled. This is particularly useful when relying on road and topo maps. So, while here in Houlton, I head for the Wal-Mart for a new watch.

Then it’s over to the truck stop on US1 for a bowl of soup before heading north. I’ll be hiking US1 now, into Mars Hill. I had been concerned about the traffic on this busy US highway, but there’s a fully paved emergency lane, which makes the going most pleasant. So, as I hike into the evening and as my new watch says the sun will soon be setting, I’m able to find another clean floor on which to rest my head, a small unused and unlocked weight scales building. I roll out my sleeping bag just as the sun and the mercury are dipping. Here I am warm and comfortable. My worry about the possible consequences of hiking this busy US highway have been just that—worry, for this has proven to be a most pleasant hiking day!

[Unknown, Dialogues of Creatures, 1535]

Friday—September 18, 1998
Trail Day—245/5
Trail Mile—3665/103
Location—Midtown Motel, Mars Hill, Steve and Rachel Burtt, Proprietors

Today is a short hike, only 17 miles into Mars Hill. I arrive early at the Blue Moose Restaurant and am served a fine breakfast to get me cranking and on my way. On this blustery fall day I pass many nice old homes and farms along US1. Most of these folks raise potatoes and with the season in, just about everyone has a produce stand out by the road, with potatoes for sale.

Arriving at Blaine I stop for a bowl of soup at the local truckstop. As I’m finishing my lunch, the pastor of Mars Hill Methodist Church stops to chat—and to buy my lunch! Here I meet Rev. Elizabeth Vernon, a very nice lady, and after a most pleasant welcome to Mars Hill, she invites me to church this coming Sunday. I arrive at the little village of Mars Hill by mid afternoon. I head right for Midtown Motel where I meet Rachel Burtt, the motel owner. After a little Yogi magic from the old Nomad, Rachel relents to talking to her husband about the room rate for me. I soon meet Dave Smith, the motel manager who shows me to one of their vacant apartments upstairs in the back—that they can let me have very, very reasonable for a couple of days! The accommodations are fine, with refrigerator, stove and plenty of hot water for a soothing shower!

Just up the street is the local A&P where I quickly head to buy food to stock the refrigerator for the weekend…and a frozen pizza to fix right away in the oven. I hit the jackpot on my mail drop, receiving many letters and cards from family and friends.

Later in the afternoon and stopping by the motel office to chat with Dave, what a great surprise and coincidence to find that Dick Anderson, President of the SIA/IAT will be checking in later this evening! He’s coming up from Portland for a trail construction workday on Mars Hill Mountain! Later in the evening I get to meet him, along with SIA/IAT Board Member Tom Rumpf, and we have a great time. They invite me to breakfast in the morning and I decide to spend the day with them working on the mountain.

[Thomas Hood, The Seasons]

Saturday—September 19, 1998
Trail Day—246/6
Trail Mile—3665/103
Location—Midtown Motel, Mars Hill, Maine

I’m up and out by 7:00 a.m., headed for Al’s Diner across the street. Here I’m greeted by Dick and Tom who introduce me to David Jones, another SIA/IAT board member.

After breakfast we head for Mars Hill Mountain where a group of David’s students are waiting to go to work. This should be a great trail-building workday. Dick has all the right tools and Dave has the strong, young workers. The job at hand involves chopping out switchbacks as we crisscross one of the steep ski runs. We get right at it. By noon we’re most of the way up the mountain with the treadway cut and bright blue and white IAT trail markers up! By 2:30 the job is done. Back down the mountain, and returning to the vehicles, we find that Dick has cool refreshments waiting for us in a cooler. He sure knows how to start, run and top-off a work party. This guy is truly the Benton MacKaye and the Myron Avery of the SIA/IAT!

On the way out we stop at the ski lift where I have the pleasure of meeting Wendell Pierce, owner of Mars Hill Mountain. Mr. Pierce has graciously given the SIA/IAT use of his mountain for this grand new trail. We have a great time together and I thank him for permitting me to hike over his mountain!

[Bill Reviere, Back Country Camping]

Sunday—September 20, 1998
Trail Day—247/7
Trail Mile—3665/103
Location—Midtown Motel, Mars Hill, Maine

They roll up the sidewalks pretty early here in Mars Hill, just the occasional logging truck or potato truck to break the nighttime silence. My room at Midtown Motel is upstairs in the old house connected to the rear of the motel, back from the main drag; so the street noise, what little there is of it, doesn’t keep me from a long, sound sleep and I don’t stir until 8:30 a.m.

After rolling out I fix myself a little instant coffee on the apartment range and then decide to go for some more homemade toast at Al’s, so I head over for that delight and more coffee. As the waitress fills my cup for the third time, I’m thinking about the trouble I had in January and February in northern Florida and southern Alabama with my hands getting cold and my fingers going numb. So I know I must come up with something besides the thin cotton gloves given me by Mountain Man at Hatchet Creek Tradin’ Post. Folks here in town have told me my best bet would be Poppa’s Discount about two miles north towards Presque Isle. There is no clothing or department store here in Mars Hill, so I head to the intersection to thumb a ride out to Poppa’s. I soon arrive to find that they’re not only open, but that they’ve a grand selection of gloves and mittens to choose from. I’ve been thinking that I really want some soft lined mittens, but on trying a number of different options, I finally choose a pair of wool gloves to go inside a pair of unlined leather mittens. On trying the lined mittens I found it impossible to do much of anything with them on. However, with the layer combination of gloves and mittens I’ll be able to do chores, like making and braking camp while wearing the wool gloves, which should help keep my fingers from becoming useless nubs. And when the chores are finished, on can go the leather mittens to let the wool do its job. So I go for the glove/mitten combo.

It takes a little longer to hitch back to town but I’m finally able to get a ride directly to the front door at Mars Hill Methodist Church. Rev. Vernon had invited me to attend Sunday service and I decided right away after talking with her last Friday that her suggestion was a good idea. I arrive just as the congregation is finishing the first hymn. Well, Rev. Vernon sees me, though I enter quietly and sit in the last pew. And at the first opportunity, she introduces me to her congregation. So, when “get acquainted time” rolls around, just about everybody makes it by to meet me and to shake my hand. Reverend Vernon, I’m sure glad I came. I’ve had the enjoyment of meeting a group of warm, caring folks—and I thoroughly enjoyed your inspiring service!

After church, I head for the other little mom-n-pop restaurant just down the street, to enjoy their AYCE Sunday buffet. I manage to stuff myself with good wholesome home-cooked food, then to top the feast off with some of the best bread pudding I’ve had in a coon’s age. Upon asking for my check, I’m told by the waitress that “it’s already taken care of.” I know this is Rev. Vernon’s generosity because she’s the only person I’d told of my dinner plans. Thank you, Elizabeth! There are some really fine people in the little community of Mars Hill. You have obviously set a fine example.

After dinner, (in the South, lunch is dinner and dinner is supper) I return to my room and settle down to work on my journal entries, the final few to complete the AT portion of this odyssey. I soon realize that I am further behind than I thought and that I have much more to write about each day than I thought, so I find myself writing all through the afternoon, into the evening …and all night! I don’t get caught up until 5:00 a.m. Monday morning.

[Whittier, Patucket Falls]

Monday—September 21, 1998
Trail Day—248/8
Trail Mile—3686/124
Location—Abandoned building across from Customs, Fort Fairfield, Maine

So, here it is, 5:00 a.m., and time to straighten up the room and get things in my pack and go. Sleep will have to wait. I head for Al’s for some more of that great homemade toast and fresh brewed coffee. Then it’s back to the post office to mail some things home and get my bounce box off to my next mail-drop in Matapedia. I figured I’d need some additional provisions, but I have enough food in my pack for at least a day, maybe two, so I decide to head on out.

I depart this delightful little trail town at 9:00 a.m. to head for Mars Hill, Mountain. It’s a chilly, overcast morning and Mars Hill Mountain is shrouded in mist and clouds. Big Rock Ski Area is at the base of the mountain and I hear the diesel engine that operates the lift, so I head over. As it turns out, I get to talk again with Wendell Pierce, the owner of Big Rock and Mars Hill Mountain. I take my camera out for a picture of Wendell and he says he’d like a picture of me, so I oblige. I hand him the camera and promise to send him a print.

I make the climb up Mars Hill Mountain in short order, reaching the ridge where the trail heads north on a quad-trac/snowmobile road along the ridge and past the ski lift. At the ski lift, a worker is on one of the very top towers installing new cable rollers. Up here the mist and clouds are swirling, as if vapors from a witch’s cauldron, creating an eerie sight as I hail the worker. He is not startled to see me, as he is in two-way communication with Wendell at the base of the mountain. “Working in the clouds today!” I shout. “I’m used to it, if you don’t work in the clouds; you don’t work!” was the reply. I am thinking how blessed I’ve been on this odyssey, to have had such incredibly good fortune with weather conditions at the really critical and important times. The view before me now is like the memory of an old black and white movie that fades in and out, blurred by time. But, at the shelter atop the summit with Dick Anderson here Saturday, I could see to the horizon in all directions! Standing near the flagpole from where the fifty-star U.S. flag was first flown and where the sun first strikes the North American Continent for most of the year; to the south dancing on a sea of illusion was Mt. Katahdin. And to the north, it seemed, stretched all of Canada.

From the ski lift the trail follows fresh-cut treadway to the northeast and down the mountain, along a secondary road and on to the barricade at the international boundary. The boundary, a forty-foot clearcut runs directly north over the ridges, down through the bogs and beaver ponds—straight through whatever is there, on a beeline. The swath is overgrown in many places with alder, making the going difficult. The RCMP patrol the accessible sections of the boundary with quad-tracs, so, hiking through those section is easy. However, getting through the bogs and around the beaver ponds is another matter. I’ve been on this boundary line for many miles and many hours today. There’s a shelter on the north end, near Fort Fairfield, but, somehow I miss it. I’ve felt a fair degree of urgency for the past hour as the boundary follows an exposed ridgeline and a bad thunderstorm is intensifying nearby. I move on north with haste and reach the U.S. Custom’s Office at Fort Fairfield just as the skies open. What a blessing to be inside as the rain comes in sheets and the show is right on top of us.

I had noticed an abandoned building, what appears to have been an old restaurant, across the road from the custom’s office. It wasn’t posted, so as the rain relents, and at first opportunity I beat a path to it. As luck would have it, the front door has been removed and a piece of plywood is propped up to cover it, so I’m able to move it aside and enter a nearly dry (and fairly warm) room. By pushing a couple of old display cases together and laying a piece of pegboard over them I have a fine place to roll out my sleeping bag. I have not had sleep in two days, so as the rain comes again, pounding in waves against the old building, with puddles forming all around me, I tumble into a deep trance-like sleep.

[Nathaniel Cotton, The Fireside]

Tuesday—September 22, 1998
Trial Day—249/9
Trail Mile—3698/136
Location—Boarding House above Pit Stop Pizza, Perth, NB Canada

Skipping a night’s sleep, then hiking 21 miles is not a real smart idea! The pounding rain lets up sometime during the night…I know not when, for I sleep soundly and do not awake until the bright sunshiny day finally rousts me out at 8:30.

So, here I am at the international border. In a few moments I will leave the United States and enter Canada. After 248 days and nearly 3,700 miles I have hiked the trails and roads of most near the breadth of the entire Eastern United States…through sixteen states, from the Florida Everglades to the near-northernmost reaches of Maine. Two Canadian Provinces and some 525 miles yet remain to complete the “Odyssey of ’98.”

I head for Canadian Customs with some trepidation. I don’t know what there is to fear—I guess it’s just natural when you must deal with the authorities. Well now, was my uneasiness ever unfounded. No finer nor friendlier folks will you meet anywhere. They had heard yesterday about my plans to come through from Mel Fitton, an SIA/IAT member from New Brunswick who had prepared maps for me and left them here at the custom’s office. So, it seems, they were primarily interested in getting my picture! They had failed to get John Brinda’s picture last year. John, too, has hiked the Eastern Continental Trail all the way from Florida to Canada. He later sent them a very fine professionally prepared and framed map of his “long hike”…but they had no picture of John, so they wanted to make sure that didn’t happen again. John, they would really like to have a picture of you! So I am greeted with big smiles and hellos from Sharon Dunbar, Herrick Hansen, and Dirk Bishop. Herrick then gets his Polaroid camera out for an on-the-spot autographed shot. I guess they’ll hang it on the wall somewhere or stand it on the counter next to John’s map!

Sharon is interested in the route I will be taking now that I’m in Canada. I explain that to follow the designated SIA/IAT route, which I prefer to do, I will have to continue hiking north on the international boundary until I reach the old railroad grade at the Aroostook River. She says, “Now, you know that since you’re in Canada, you’re supposed to stay in Canada until you cross back at one of the designated border crossings.” Dirk tells me that just a short ways north of here, right on the border, I will encounter a very large beaver pond and just after that, a long, wide bog. He explains that, more than likely, I will have to work my way around, which means some necessary straying back on the American side of the border. He invites me upstairs where we can view the border to the north where these difficult spots are located.

A road in the U.S., the Aroostook Falls Road, leads directly to the old railroad grade at the Aroostook River, which would get me there much easier and much faster. However, I explain to Dirk that I have done my best to this point to follow the designated SIA/IAT route and that I would prefer to continue in that manner. They are all sympathetic to my plans to stay on the SIA/IAT. In fact, a call is made to the Mounties alerting them that should any of their border sensors come alive or should they receive reports from local folks that someone was crossing the border at an undesignated location, that it would probably be me. Thus, they have cleared a way for my passage!

I am receiving great assistance from the SIA/IAT folks. Dick Anderson had prepared, with considerable time and much detail, crisp, clear maps of the north Maine section. And now, waiting for me here at Fort Fairfield Customs, is there a large detailed bundle of maps and information to get me through New Brunswick, just as promised, by Mel Fitton. Thanks Dick and Mel. It is apparent that much thought, time and effort have gone into the preparation of all this information for me. Indeed, I am in your debt!

Dirk also mentions that he had received a phone call earlier from Madeleine Theriault in Madawaska, the New Brunswick SIA/IAT Chapter President. She wanted to know when I reached the border, so Dirk offers to make the call. In a moment I’m talking to Madeleine, who has taken a day off to drive to Fort Fairfield to greet me! She answers on her cell phone and is now only a few minutes from the border.

The old saying, “one good turn deserves another” must apply here, as, just moments ago, I received a cheerful and enthusiastic “Welcome to Canada” from Sharon, Herrick and Dirk; and now, as I am greeted by Madeleine and her son Sebastien, another very warm and sincere “Welcome to New Brunswick, we’re glad you’re here!” Without a skip, I am invited to breakfast, the invitation to which I just as quickly accept. In a moment we are loaded up and headed for Andover-Perth. Madeleine says she has a favorite spot for breakfast so we’re soon at Mary’s Bake Shop and Luncheonette, run by Mary and Greta Barker.

We have a fine breakfast indeed, with more great homemade bread for toast—This southern boy really isn’t missing his biscuits and grits! Madeleine reviews the maps and information that Mel has provided and gives me the name and phone number of a good friend in the Kedgwick area that I should contact for assistance up that way. Behind the counter at Mary’s hangs some of the most beautiful hand knitted wool socks that I have seen since ones made for me by my grandmother. Madeleine sees me admiring them and before we leave Mary’s she insists on buying me a pair. I dearly want a pair, gave a half-hearted “you really shouldn’t” and when she insists again, I choose the white ones!

Back at the custom’s parking lot we linger and talk some more. To me, it really is something that she has taken off from her work to drive such a distance to meet and befriend me. The time spent with Madeleine and Sebastien will be a most memorable part of my journey through New Brunswick. Thanks, dear friends!

While on the second floor at Canadian Customs, and looking out of the window and down on the houses below, I ask Dirk about the house between the two customs building, “Is it in the U.S. or Canada?” And he says, “Yes!” He points out, and then I can see the boundary monument right in the yard! So, as I shoulder my pack and head for the border clearing I must walk right through these folks side yard, between their fence and their house, under their clothesline and on out their back yard! I’ve told you before, but it stands repeating here again for all you doubters…folks, I’m not making this stuff up!

Traveling north on the border, and within just a short distance, there it is a HUGE beaver pond. These fellows can really back up some water! This pond engulfs the entire border clearing and then some, on both sides of the border. The only way, so it appears, to get around this flood is to follow a two-track trail below the dam on the American side, so over I go. Just below the beaver dam the trail ends and from here on it’s bushwhacking and mudboggin’. I spend the better part of fifteen minutes going the next fifty yards working my way through brush, tangle, mud bogs and part of the dam itself. Once around I’m back in Canada, only to meander a number of times onto the American side again as I fight my way through and around numerous bogs. I am glad to get this part of the hike behind me as I reach the old railroad grade at the Aroostook River.

On the old railroad bed, for the first mile or so, is superimposed a paved road. As I’m hiking this roadway, a motorhome approaches from the other direction. It slows and comes to a stop and the old fellow inquires as to where the road might lead. I explain that it goes to the international boundary between Canada and the U.S. and that it stops at a barricade. I suggest they drive on down, for it would certainly be worthwhile as the narrow valley where we are now opens into an impressive wide expanse with beautiful mountains in full fall regalia, on either side of the grand Aroostook. After answering the typical questions, these folks also want my picture. The old fellow is obviously anxious about getting his large rig (with auto in tow) turned around, so I send them along with the assurance that there is plenty of room to turn around at the barricade, and to stop on the way back and I would spend some time with them.

I hadn’t gone another 100 yards and just past this lovely house, when out in the road runs this fellow after me! He says, “Mister, stop a minute. Please tell me where you’re going.” So it is that I meet David Brown, the self-proclaimed mayor of Tinker Ridge, just below Tinker’s Dam! (Folks, this is true). After answering the typical questions, he says, “I’ve done some hiking and I would sure like to take your picture.” I tell him that I don’t give a Tinker’s damn and to get his camera and come on up the road and get in line behind the motorhome! In a few minutes, comes the motorhome again and I stop as the old gent pulls to the shoulder…and right behind comes Dave who pulls off and stops behind them. Cheez, you’d think I’d just won the Boston Marathon! Here I meet Barry Unicume and his friend Yvonne Roblin. They’re from British Columbia. After the photo op Yvonne invites Dave and me into their motorhome for sandwiches, coffee, and dessert. Hot dang, can’t refuse this kind of hospitality!

Well, it seems pretty certain I won’t get far today. I didn’t get out of Fort Fairfield until noon, however the morning spent at Canadian Customs and with Madeleine and Sebastien was a delightful time. Coming up the border was slow going and now I will tarry some more as I accept Yvonne’s invitation for late lunch. So, into the motorhome we go. Yvonne fixes sandwiches for all of us along with hot coffee and lots of donuts. By now the occasion had presented where I must recited a couple of my ditties and Dave insists on getting them on tape. He’s a teacher, and wants to share them with his students. So I send him home for his pocket recorder. Shortly he’s back with his recorder and some goodies for my pack.

I’ve tarried long with these kind folks and must get back on the trail, so I bid farewell to Dave, Yvonne and Barry and I’m on my way. I hope now I can just get as far as Andover-Perth, only twelve miles for the day. As I continue on the old railroad grade along the Aroostook it is definitely “darkin’ over” and before long a light, steady rain begins. I garbage-bag my pack and don my rain jacket as the rain turns to a hammering downpour. On I march through the deluge to finally reach the bridge at Andover-Perth. There are no motels or cafes on the Andover side so across the bridge I go in the howling rage.

It’s only 7:00 p.m. as I enter Pit-Stop Pizza but it’s already dark outside. Here, as I glance at the clock on the wall, I realize that after starting late and goofing away the morning and half the afternoon, that I have also lost an hour due to a time zone change at the border. I’m soaked, tired and hungry—and it’s dark. There’s good food right here, a bar in the basement and rooms for rent upstairs and the rain is really pounding outside. Looks like this is it for today, a most brilliant decision after very little pondering. I meet Lloyd McLaughlan, proprietor of the establishment and after some discussion and a little Yogi-ing I am offered a room at a very reasonable rate. Lloyd laments that the room he’s giving me has no door lock—as a matter of fact, it has no doorknob. I tell him that it makes no difference to me if the room has a door!

After a hot hamburger with fries and gravy, a few with Glenn at the bar, along with an autographed (U.S.) dollar bill for his wall, it’s time to do some laundry, hit the shower and roll in. What a day—gotta hammer the road tomorrow!

[Yogi Berra]

Wednesday—September 23, 1998
Trail Day—250/10
Trail Mile—3717/155
Location—Rogers Motel, Plaster Rock, NB Canada

Came in last night in the near dark, in the rain and in a rush, so didn’t get much of a look at the town. I’m up and ready to go a little after 7:00 a.m. and head down to the café for some coffee…but the Pit Stop is still closed so I decide to look the old town over and find another spot for breakfast. Low-and-behold; right next door is Mary’s Bake Shop and Luncheonette, where Madeleine and Sebastien had taken me for breakfast yesterday morning. So, in I go for another great breakfast prepared by Mary and served by her sister Greta!

The IAT continues along the Tobique River on the same old railroad grade hiked yesterday along the Aroostook River. If you’ve read some of my earlier journal entries from western Georgia you know I have a distinct disdain for railroad grade treadway. What’s left on most of these old railroad paths is loose unbedded rock, a very unpleasant base for hiking. This old grade isn’t as bad as most since it’s also used by ATVs and snowmobiles which have helped pack things down. But, this sort of hiking is also boring, except for all the dogs that want to take your leg off because you’re passing through their yard! The road paralleling the trail along the Tobique is higher and offers a better vantage of this scenic area and the traffic isn’t bad so I switch to the road for some “blue blazing” today.

Sections of the Tobique are almost spellbinding. At Tobique Narrows the river has cut like a knife through the mountains. The railbed has been literally blasted from the vertical cliff wall, which rises abruptly from the rushing torrent. The view up the Tobique at this point is like no other place I’ve seen on any other river–a stunning, halting kind of grandeur, definitely on the wild side.

The river finally settles itself into a pleasant little valley with many old homes and farms along the way. I arrive late afternoon at Plaster Rock, make my way to the Roger’s, a very modest but clean and well-kept little row of rooms run by a kind old gentleman, Wilfred Lagace; who, after showing much interest in my adventure, offers me a room at a very reasonable rate. The deal! Wilfred says, “you pay me what you think it’s worth.” Turns out we both were happy!

[Robert W. Service, The Land of Beyond]

Thursday—September 24, 1998
Trail Day—251/11
Trail Mile—3742/180
Location—Bear’s Lair, Riley Brook, NB Canada

The railbed and road continue by the Tobique River for this entire day’s hike into Riley Brook. This is the first day of moose hunting season and around about 9:00 a.m. I see the first pickup truck loaded full with one of these huge animals headed toward the game-check station in Plaster Rock. This is the first of some 10-15 trucks that will pass bearing the remains of these hulks. Some are so enormous that I can see them, head and rack above the cab of the approaching truck. One hunter had loaded his kill hind-end first and tight against the cab, but a goodly part of the head, rack and most of the animal’s front quarters still hung out over the tailgate!

There’s a grocery store complete with grill and carryout near the little communities of Everett and Two Brooks. Here I enjoy another hot hamburger, including fries, beans and cole slaw. I was first introduced to one of these hot hamburgers at the Pit Stop Café in Perth. Seems it’s a favorite fast-food item up here. It’s an interesting combination of very common ingredients familiar to all Americans, consisting of bread, fried hamburger, French fries and gravy. But get this combination…the fried burger patty is placed between the two pieces of white bread and right beside this on the same platter go the fries. “Big deal,” You say. Ahh but now for the interesting part, this whole concoction is covered over with brown gravy…fries and all! Yes, gravy on the French fries. Makes for a somewhat soggy platter, but to a tired, hungry hiker, very tasty indeed.

On up the road towards Riley Brook, and in a fellow’s side yard, four hunters have a moose hoisted up in a tree in the process of skinning and dressing it. They greet me and I ask to have a look, as I’ve never seen one of these animals up close; they invite me over. Seems that in order to dress one of these mammoths, a pole the size of a small fence post must be run between the Achilles-like tendon and the leg bone just above the hind fetlocks. To this pole is tied a very substantial rope, which runs through a pulley fixed high in the tree, then down to the hitch ball on one of the hunter’s 4X4 pickups. As the skinning process progresses, the carcass is hoisted higher in the tree until only the head rests on the ground. A hand saw (looks like a carpenter’s saw to me) is then used to cut the animal in half along its spine into what is known in the butchering trade as “sides,” like sides of beef, only these are sides of moose.

I comment to one of the hunters that the moose appears as big as a cow, and he says, “That’s what it is, a cow—a cow moose.” The hunters estimate that this one weighs around 500 pounds, not big by local standards, as some cows can tip the scales at well over 1,000 pounds. But, as I stand gawking up at this thing, it looks huge to me! I mention that I enjoy hunting and when I was a youngster I used to go quail, squirrel and rabbit hunting with my father. We also went fishing every time the occasion presented. Those times spent together are a treasure of memories…my first contact with Mother Nature’s great bounty that is her vast, never ending out-of-doors. My mom was a great cook and she always prepared, in finest fashion, whatever we brought home. But, this moose is another matter. It will fill a couple of large freezers and feed a good-sized family for probably the better part of a year! One of the hunters reckoned that moose hunting certainly was a lot of fun, but after the “bang” the fun was all over. There’s no way a man, or a number of men for that matter, can drag one of these hulks out of the woods. The trick up here is to not only scout the moose but to try and shoot it somewhere near where it’s possible to bring in one of the large log skidders. This being a machine of considerable might used in the timber harvesting business to drag logs out of the woods.

As I hike on the road to Riley Brook, a fellow in a pickup stops and wants my picture. He had seen me passing through Plaster Rock and wants to hear more about my odyssey. And shortly, yet another vehicle stops and a young lady gets out and approaches me. Here I meet Marie-Josee Laforest, Interpreter and Assistant Superintendent, Mt. Carleton Provincial Park. Marie is on her way to a funeral in Plaster Rock. Seems everyone up here knows I’m on my way through. No news seems to be big new around here. She wants to be the first to welcome me to the park. Her eyes light up and her voice absolutely jingles as she speaks about Carleton! She says all the folks at the park are excited about my coming and are anxiously awaiting my arrival. Marie provides me with information about accommodations for the evening in Riley Brook and also welcomes and invites me to stay at her home just north of the little village.

Funeral processions are a somber affair, and in a short while I hear the steady increasing hum of traffic behind. I turn to see the hearse and the long line of headlights approaching. I stand and face the procession, waiting at attention until it passes. I am finding that folks up here are more than just good friends, they’re more like family, and it seems they’re all out today. It’s a joy to be in such a remote community that hasn’t been swept into and whirled away by our maybe not-so-great modern times. Places like this really do exist where family values and bonds are still as I remember from the little back-hills village in the Ozark Hills where I was raised. Guess the old-fashioned in me really comes out at times like this. I don’t mean to imply that life as we know it today is necessarily bad—or good for that matter—just different. For me, I like the way it used to be a lot better and so do the folks around here! In the past eight months I have been on many different and varied roadwalks. They have all been interesting, certainly a diversion from hiking o’er the mountains and through the woods, much as was the AT Cumberland Valley roadwalk of many years past. This roadwalk today will remain in my memory. Here, I’ve met kind, gentlefolk and have seen fine places.

I arrive at the little village of Riley Brook in a chilling evening breeze. I knock at the door of the Bear’s Lair, a rustic and nestled-in log lodge on the banks of the picturesque Tobique. In a moment the door opens and I am greeted by Evelyn McAskill, proprietor and lodgekeeper. She invites me in and shows me to warm, comfortable quarters. I no sooner get my shower and settle in than a knock comes on my door. It is Evelyn. She invites me into the lodge’s grand room where she has prepared an evening meal for me! The folks in Canada are indeed, kind and generous people.

[Ralph Waldo Emerson]

Friday—September 25, 1998
Trail Day—252/12
Trail Mile—3768/206
Location—Park Offices, Mt. Carleton Provincial Park, NB Canada

I’m up at 7:30 a.m. and Evelyn sends me on my way with a fine bacon and eggs breakfast. In just a short way the road crosses the Tobique River and here at the bridge a lady stops her car, rolls down her window and hands me a fancy half-pint jar of apple preserves. She says she saw me hiking into Riley Brook yesterday and has been told of my unbelievable adventure. I thank her kindly and put the little treasure in my pack to savor later.

Just a short distance above the bridge is Marie’s lovely home. I will not see her again, as she will be away this weekend so I stop and leave a little note of thanks for the warm hospitality extended me.

In a short while I’m at the little community of Nictau. As I pass this lovely farmhouse I’m greeted by the ambassador of the household...the family dog. His barking brings some folks around and from behind the house. My wave and greeting is returned by an invitation to stop and come in. So I break my stride, snap my Leki poles together and cross their large, manicured lawn. Here I meet William V. Miller, III, his sister and her husband, Julie and Marty McCrum, Bill’s mother Wilma and her two brothers, Lionell and Jim Clark. Bill’s brother Jim is also present. I am whisked into their lovingly-cared-for and spacious old farm home and urged to sit right down at the dining room table. Then the questions—about who I am, where I’m from and where I’m headed. Sooo, as briefly as I can I recount my story once more. It’s then I mention meeting Marie-Josee yesterday…on her way to a funeral in Plaster Rock, and that the folks at the park were expecting me, so I must not tarry long. That’s when Julie mentions that the funeral Marie-Josee was attending was for her father William V. Miller, II.

I put my head down, blush and feel ashamed for what I’ve just said, to be in such a rush. These folks have just buried a dearest family member, and even now during their time of grieving, have opened their home and extended their kindness and hospitality to a passing stranger! Well, I relax, sat back in my chair and chat while enjoying the hot tea and cookies placed before me. Looking out the picture window beside the dining room table the sun is setting the mountain ablaze across the valley. As we all marvel at the beautiful fall colors I mention that I could not possibly repay them for the kindness they’ve extended me, but if they would gather ‘round I would recite the inspirational poem about Ma Nature’s Paint Brush. There became a hush and my voice lifted and carried the message about the magic spell of fall. I know now, this poem about fall was inspired and written for this occasion. With tears in most every eye, this wonderful family—none ever having wished to be brought together under such circumstances, share a poignant, very special moment together. Thank you, Lord for bringing me here today to be where you have lighted and guided my path and to share with these kind, most generous people.

Bill Miller, III is a craftsman, a builder of wooden canoes, a vanishing art passed down from his father and grandfather. He shows me his shop with all the wonderful old tools, and some of the projects on which he’s currently working. Bill is not content just to build these works of ancient art. He fells the trees from his own wood lot and runs the strips, boards and planks on his own sawmill. While Bill is showing me around, Julie is putting a little package together for me to take along; apples from their trees, preserves made from berries picked on the farm, and syrup, the purest and sweetest maple syrup I’ve ever tasted. Yup! Boiled down from the sap of their own birdseye maple trees right here on the homestead!

The Tobique Valley is indeed a special place, fixed it seems permanently in time, when time with family and friends was the most important thing, when those with skill of hand took pride, bringing joy and satisfaction; when a hard day’s work was always expected and always received and when fierce independence and right judgment was keen. These folks are of that time and tilt long past. I know they’ve never wavered from it—standing tall and proud. What a blessing being here with them, if for but a brief, brief day! I am sure that as I write this, plans are underway to take the trail from this valley roadwalk to the woodlands and ridges all along. Soon, many will thru-hike this grand SIA/IAT, but a hundred could pass here every day and the kind and gentlefolk in this valley would certainly welcome them as they have me and each intrepid could experience the joy and pleasure in passing through this grand and proud old valley. But alas, it certainly will not endure.

I have been overwhelmed by the hospitality, friendship and generosity extended me by all the folks I have met since crossing the border at Fort Fairfield into this beautiful country of Canada. As I approach Mt. Carleton Provincial Park a vehicle passes, turns about and then pulls alongside. Here I meet Bertin Allard and Jean Francois Paulin. Bertin is the Superintendent of Mt. Carleton and Jean Francois, one of the Park Wardens. With warm, friendly smiles I am again welcomed to Mt. Carleton Provincial Park! I am offered a ride on into the park, the kind offer to which I politely decline and as I hike on I am at the park entrance reception building within the hour. As I approach the visitor’s center I am overwhelmed again. Out on the deck come all the folks working at the park. While Jean Francois has his camcorder running, Bertin introduces me to Guy Belanger and Larry Dyer who work in maintenance, Nadine Perron, Steven Theriault and Rhonda Pelletier, gate attendants. I am then invited to continue on to the park office where Larry will prepare an evening meal for Bertin and I! I hike this final distance quickly and am greeted again by Bertin in the office parking lot. Not only am I treated to a great supper of pork chops and fried onions but am told that I will be staying in their private warm bunkroom while here in the park. Bert familiarizes me with the park and the trail system before departing for home and family and I’m able to take a luxurious hot shower before settling in for the night. What an amazing, amazing day!

MA NATURE’S PAINT BRUSH

[N. Nomad]

Saturday—September 26, 1998
Trail Day—253/13
Trail Mile—3783/221
Location—Park Offices, Mt. Carleton Provincial Park, NB Canada

I’m up at 8:00 a.m. and prepare toast and coffee in the headquarters’ kitchen. At 9:00 a.m. I meet Gerard Magualle, Park Warden who will be spending the day here at the park office. He gets the generator going and the office up and running. Shortly after 9:00 a.m., on a cool, clear morning I’m off on my hike to Mt. Carleton and Sagamook.

The trails here in the park are professionally designed and constructed and are well blazed and maintained. When I first see the blazing technique, a blue 3x3 metal plate with a narrow white hash mark, I have my doubts about its effectiveness; but as I quickly find, these markers stand out clearly (but not offensively) and are easy to follow.

On the approach to Mt. Carleton the trail ascends the Bald Mountain Brook Ravine; with the brook entertaining me with joyful song as it cascades over the many falls and rapids on its way to Lake Nictau below. Once the ridgeline is gained I turn south, past Mt. Head. The final ascent to the summit of Mt. Carleton involves a short, steep rock scramble. To this point, I have had the trail to myself this morning, but this being a beautiful Saturday, and the summit within easy reach from a nearby parking lot on the other side; many families with youngsters are already enjoying the warming sun and the grand panorama. The summit crowded and the kids a little too raucous for my comfort I quickly move on.

To reach Sagamook I retrace my path back along the ridge, past the point where I turned from the ascent, and continue on north to Sagamook. The final climb is again a short, steep rock scramble. But, here, as I ascend I find an abrupt transition, not in the path beneath my feet, but in the atmosphere all around me, as if I am passing through an invisible veil. Below this, the earthly sky and above…a heavenly sight! For it seems, I am entering a mystic, spiritual place. I arrive at the summit to find that I have it to myself. Mt. Carleton, the highest point in New Brunswick, has been popularized and is the destination for most all the folks that come to the park. But, lesser-known Sagamook is certainly a much more remarkable place. As I sit here, gazing in wonder at the sights before me I feel a peace and calm never before experienced on any mountaintop. For here there is some form of energy emanating from the very core of this mountain, permeating the ether and creating a quintessence above and all around me, penetrating it seems, the very depths of my soul; bringing an inner trembling, though I am still! I do not resist but permit flight to my mind and spirit. Then as I linger, and from where I know not for I am privy to none of it, comes the inspiration for the unusual and mysterious verse that will close my journal today.

The descent from Sagamook is steep and follows many switchbacks, with the trail emerging at the shores of Lake Nictau. Back at the park office, and in the evening, Warden, Fred Everett, relieves Gerard of duty. After another soothing shower, and as I relish preparing my evening meal in their modern kitchen, Fred and I strike up what turns out to be an astonishing conversation. For Fred, I find, is native to the area and knows much of the history and mystery that surround Sagamook. In the course of conversation I ask Fred to tell me about Sagamook. Hesitating, he says: “What do you want to know?” That’s when I explain my experience on Sagamook earlier in the day. “Fred,” I exclaim, “There is incredible energy rising from and encircling that mountain, not a form that you or I would know or understand, more mystical, but non-the-less physical in a very real and gripping way! Sagamook, I believe, is a very spiritual place!” As we relax for the evening in the presence of a more familiar peace and calm, and sitting at the kitchen table, I recite the inspiration received on Sagamook. Fred then relates this remarkable story to me:

“In the days long past, and perhaps for centuries, the great Nations of the Maliseet and Mic Mac
poled their canoes to ascend the rivers from the valleys far beyond Sagamook, to come together
from other lands at the shores of Lake Nictau, a long, narrow lake held high and close by Sagamook.
And from there the tribal chiefs, together, would ascend to the very summit of Sagamook to hold council.”

What a truly unexplainable and humbling day! I knew nothing of this history, this mystery…of “Great Nations gone before.” But yet, somehow I have been whirled up in this ancient, mystic past! How many have climbed Sagamook over the centuries? Indeed, how many have experienced this peace, this calm, this contentment and the mysterious presence of:

THE SPIRITS OF SAGAMOOK

The summit of ol’ Sagamook
Isn’t all that high.
But, as I climb I pass right through
The bottom of the sky.
From here to turn and look–and gaze,
Into the wild blue yonder;
And try and try, as best I can,
To comprehend the wonder.
Now from this lofty firmament,
I let my spirit soar.
To mingle with the spirits of–
Great Nations gone before.
And as I part this sanctity,
A bit of me will stay.
To rest in God’s eternal peace,
That’s present, here…today.

[N. Nomad]

Sunday—September 27, 1998
Trail Day—254/14
Trail Mile—3810/248
Location—Bertin Allard Home, St. Quentin, NB Canada

After breakfast of pop tarts, toast and coffee, again prepared in the office kitchen, I’m off for the 27-mile hike into St. Quentin. The forecast today is for rain and as I bid Fred farewell and step off the porch the rain begins. At the visitor’s center near the main gate Steve greets me. He asks me to come in and sign the guest register, for in the excitement on Friday, I had failed to do so.

Shortly after I leave the park, an approaching auto slows and stops. It is Rhonda Pelletier, gate attendant, on her way to the park. Rhonda is a native Canadian, a member of the Madawaska Maliseet First Nation and a good friend also with Madeleine Theriault, the kind lady who met and befriended me at the Canadian border. Rhonda is bearing gifts for me, a braid of sweet grass and a small, carefully bound and tied bundle of sage. We both understand the symbolic significance of this gesture, a gift from her ancestors, as she listens with astonishment as I recite the poem about Sagamook. I thank her for her kindness. Then, with the rain intensifying, we bid farewell and hastened our separate ways.

I would like to take a moment to tell you about Madeleine Theriault…a remarkable person. I know Madeleine through her volunteer work as president of the New Brunswick Chapter of the SIA/IAT. Rhonda knows her through her work professionally as tourism coordinator and consultant with the Madawaska Maliseet First Nation in Madawaska, New Brunswick. Her effort in this latter capacity is helping restore a presence for the Maliseet as a true Nation among the people of New Brunswick, so their rich, long history and heritage can again be prominent. I am humbled to have had close contact with them…both present and past. Of those I’ve met on this odyssey, it is immediate and readily evident, their deep dignity and pride. The Maliseet culture, forever a part of New Brunswick, should be known and respected by all. Madeleine, my dear friend, I wish you success in all you do!

The rain is setting in now with “darkin’ over” permanence. I brace and push on into its chilling wall. As I reach NB180 in the darkening swirl a truck stops and the driver offers me a ride. He pulls away slowly and glances back with puzzled expressions as I decline his kindness. This is the first of countless rides offered me today. I have hiked in the rain over many roads, for many miles, for many days, but I have never been befriended by so many people.

Some three miles from St. Quentin, who comes out from his home to again greet me? Oh, yes! It is Bertin Allard, Superintendent at Mt. Carleton Provincial Park. He has a thermos of hot tea and some delicious cookies for me. Down goes the tailgate, off comes the pack and I thoroughly enjoy this respite. Here I meet his daughter Julie and they invite me to have dinner with them this evening and to stay the night at their home in St. Quentin. I immediately accept and am very thankful and relieved to know that I will soon be out of this bone-chilling rain.

Following Bert’s directions, and shortly after the hour, I arrive at their cozy home. Here I meet and am greeted by Bert’s wife Jeanne-Darc, their younger daughter Marie-Eve and Bert’s mother, Blanche. I dine and enjoy an evening of fellowship with this kind and generous family. Bert has already been in contact with Andre Arpin at Echo Restigouche. Echo is a resort with cabins, campground and restaurant on the Restigouche River. Thanks to Bert and Madeleine I’ll be staying there tomorrow evening; for both are very good friends with Andre. Madeleine’s older son, Raphael is an employee at Echo but now away at college in Pointe Gaspe.

Bert has also been in contact with Maurice Simon. Maurice works for Mel Fitton, the SIA/IAT chief organizer in New Brunswick. Mel provided the maps that got me from Fort Fairfield to St Quentin. Maurice has been charged with the responsibility of trail layout and construction for the sections I’ll be hiking north of St. Quentin and Bert has made arrangements for Maurice and I to get together here in the morning.

I take a long, warm shower to get the chill out of my bones. I’m in the basement den where Bert has kept a fire going in his old porcelain cook stove. I am warm and dry and with great friends…many blessings this memorable day.

[John Masefield]

Monday—September 28, 1998
Trail Day—255/15
Trail Mile—3833/271
Location—Echo Restigouche, Kedgwick, NB Canada

I’m up at 7:30 a.m. and again am I the guest of the Allard family as we enjoy breakfast together. Shortly, comes Maurice Simon with a bundle of maps in his hand. The spacious den in the Allard basement has a large picnic table and we gather there as Maurice lays out the maps. The trail from Five Fingers to Echo Restigouche is quite complicated and after Maurice spends about five minutes attempting to explain the route…and now sensing his frustration, I say to Maurice, “Why don’t you just come with me and show me the way?” Well, that’s all it took to have a hiking companion for this day! So, after Bert loans Maurice his fanny pack and water bottle and stocks him up with some goodies we load up in Bert’s truck and head out to the trailhead passed yesterday at Five Fingers Brook.

Why are good-byes always so tough? I’ve known Bertin Allard for less than four days…but it seems we’ve been friends for a lifetime. So, with tear-filled eyes and a good solid hug, I bid Bert farewell. Thanks Bert! There’s absolutely no way to ever repay you, your family and all the great folks at Mount Carleton Provincial park for the generosity and kindness extended me.

Shortly, Maurice and I are on our way toward Echo Restigouche, over trail laid out by Maurice. Here the trail follows a multi-use treadway for the first few miles, being shared by ORVs, snowmobiles, horses and cross-country skiers. We then turn and follow Five Fingers Brook, later fording it. Soon we reach the Outdoor Recreation Center, a fine lodge owned and managed by Gerald and Clemence Belanger. It is a new facility with a large swimming pool and manicured lawns all around. The lodge sits close by a dam and spillway and has a spacious covered porch where Maurice and I are invited to relax for awhile and have lunch with the Belangers. I know I will never be able to return to all the memorable and enjoyable places I’ve seen during this odyssey, but if I could, this peaceful place would be one of them.

As we continue on along Five Fingers Brook it is becoming a formidable stream with many spring-fed tributaries joining from deep-cut ravines, known to the folks here in New Brunswick, as gulches. The trail now begins to traverse these gulches, making for a roller-coaster hike from one to the next, over grades in excess of fifty percent. There are no switchbacks. The trail goes straight up and over and straight back down. At some points, where the trail is even more precipitous Maurice and his crew have cut steps into the gulch walls.

Echo Restigouche is near the confluence of Five Fingers Brook and the Restigouche River, and we arrive here around 6:30 p.m. for a short roadwalk to the resort. In what seems to be the style of greeting here in New Brunswick, who drives up the road to meet us, but Andre Arpin! He welcomes me to Echo Restigouche and says he has a cabin prepared for me for the evening. And in near the same breath I am invited to dinner, as his wife, Francine, has supper waiting! So, Maurice and I hasten on to the Arpin home. Bert has brought Maurice’s truck out to Echo and before Maurice departs for home and his family, we arrange to meet in the morning at my cabin to review maps I will rely on to get to Matapedia, Quebec.

I meet Andre’s wife Francine Levesque and their daughters, Marie Christine and Aerchee, and am then treated to a delicious evening meal. After supper Andre and his daughter Marie Christine take me into their little town of Kedgwick to get provisions needed for the next five days. I pick up some ice cream, cookies and Hershey chocolate. Then back at the Arpin home we gather again at their dining room table for dessert, before Andre drives me to my cabin for the evening. As Andre drops me off he mentions that firewood has been stacked on the porch for my use and invites me to build a fire in the wood stove. Even though baseboard heat has the room cozy and inviting as I enter, I can’t resist building a fire and I have one going in short order. This is the fourth night in a row for a shower and a comfortable bed. I am very tired, but it has been a delightful day hiking with Maurice.

[Robert W. Service, A Rolling Stone]

Tuesday—September 29, 1998
Trail Day—256/16
Trail Mile—3847/285
Location—Small Plateau-step in Bologna Gulch

I am up at 8:00 a.m. and greeted by the sun as I prepare toast and coffee in the cabin’s little kitchenette…even pop-tarts, toasted for a change! Soon comes Andre to take my picture and bid me farewell. And also shortly, Maurice arrives. Again, Maurice lays out the maps and we study them intently. It appears there are many more gulches to cross as the trail follows the Restigouche River, and the maps given me by Maurice show this section to be incredibly rugged.

I was not aware that there is no bus service from eastern Canada back to the area in Maine where I want to go after completing this odyssey. Maurice explains this to me and offers to come and get me when I return to Matapedia, where the bus from Gaspe will drop me off, and from there to take me to the Maine border! So, again with tears in my eyes and another good, solid hug, I bid another new friend and a great hiking companion, goodbye!

Andre had mentioned that John Brinda also stayed here last year, and that John was up and gone by 8:00 a.m. But, it is now 10:00 a.m. as I continue to tarry before departing this cozy cabin at Echo Restigouche. The trail leaves Echo on a paved road for the first seven miles, then to a gravel road, then off into the woods. It isn’t long until progress slows as the trail returns to the gulches along Haffords and Stillwater Brooks. These brooks cut right through the mountains; with the narrow ridges on either side extending like fingers from a hand to abruptly stop at the next larger brook. It is impossible for the trail to follow along these streams as they have cut so deeply into the mountains, forming in the process, near-vertical walls rising straight up to form each mountainous finger. The trail goes up and over each of these, across the narrow knife-edge ridge, down into the next gulch, across the next brook and straight up the other side…on and on for what seems, endless miles!

It is late as I arrive at the first designated campsite. I have covered little distance today. I am totally exhausted. My arms and legs move like mush, as if bound with lead! I am on a little plateau-like step above a small, clear-running brook in Bologna Gulch. I get a cooking and warming fire going quickly with the aid of birch bark and I spend little time by the fire before rolling in.

[D. Sue Jones Horton]

Wednesday—September 30, 1998
Trail Day—257/17
Trail Mile—3855/293
Location—Small ridge above Upper Thorn Point Brook

Last evening the sun had set on a beautiful day without a cloud in the sky, but at four this morning I’m awakened by rain on my tent. It is raining steady when I awake again at 7:30 a.m. As I lie here awaiting the rain to ease I am suffering a dull headache and my sinuses are nearly closed…probably the result of the bone-chilling rain that I endured last Sunday during the roadwalk into St.-Quentin. The rain relents and I am able to break camp and be on my way by 9:30 a.m. The sky still threatens so I have donned my rain jacket and garbage-bagged my pack.

Progress today is agonizingly slow, strenuous and very deliberate, with ascent and descent grades in excess of seventy percent. I must move with absolute, constant focus to avoid falling, especially descending the gulch walls, as the rocks and roots are not only incredibly slick, but are concealed by the wet, slippery leaves of fall. Progress slows even more as I reach the ford at Upper Thorn Point Brook. The brook, at this location, is about 30 feet wide with dark, ominous, fast-rushing water. I stop, drop my pack and remove my boots and socks and put on my off-road running shoes to make the crossing. As I enter the brook the water is bone-chilling cold and I can feel the force of the fast-rushing stream as it surges against my legs and my knees. At the midway point I am up to my thighs in the hammering force. I move very slowly and cautiously making sure both feet and both poles are firmly planted before taking another step. As is common with these mountain streams, the streambed is a jumble of rocks as slippery as ice, with footing unstable at best. But, I am able to ford without incident and am very relieved to reach the other side. The water in this brook, running high and hard is over-flowing into secondary channels, which I am able to ford at ease. I get out of the wet running shoes as quickly as I can, dry my feet thoroughly and get my warm wool socks and boots back on.

It would be incredibly difficult to negotiate this treadway with a full pack, if not for the steps that have been hacked from the gulch walls. Even with the steps, progress remains very slow and very strenuous. As I move from step to step, often must I also move my hands from step to step, for in many places the wall is right before me. I have covered very little distance again today as I arrive late and carry water from a little brook to the campsite above Upper Thorn Point Brook. The rain has continually threatened throughout the day but holds off and I am able to pitch camp easily. The woods however, are soaked from the early morning rain and without the aid of much birch bark a cooking and warming fire would have been impossible. It is getting dark much earlier now so I must prepare my evening meal with the aid of my Petzl headlamp. It is 8:00 p.m. as I climb into my sleeping bag in my little Slumberjack. Just as last night, I am completely exhausted. My head has pounded all day and I have had much difficulty breathing. Nowhere during this odyssey have I had to endure such a constant physical demand as in these ascents and descents. I’ve never hiked through terrain anything like these mountains in New Brunswick.

[Robert W. Service, A Rolling Stone]

Thursday—October 1, 1998
Trail Day—258/18
Trail Mile—3855/293
Location—Small Ridge above Upper Thorn Point Brook

Shortly after midnight the rain begins again. Sleep is fretful, as I am kept awake by its incessant tat. As the wind pounds on my tent the sinus headache pounds in my head. The rain is hard and cold and continues through the morning, and I am unable to break camp lest I become drenched and chilled to the bone. So I remain marooned in my little shelter. Just as well as I am weary, sapped of strength…bone tired. The rain continues throughout the day and I feast on two cold pop-tarts and a peanut butter sandwich.

Having this head cold, I know I must increase my fluid intake, but along with the water consumed last evening to prepare my supper and with what I have downed today, little of what I brought up from the brook remains. So I put my cook pot outside the tent and hold the tent fly at an angle so the icecold rainwater is channeled into the pot. Within a short time I am able to collect a couple more quarts of water, which I have also nearly consumed.

Around 5:00 p.m. the cold rain relents long enough for me to scurry out for my daily duty. Then my ever-present companion…rain, returns. But I am blessed to be reasonably warm and dry in my little Slumberjack. As I have been imprisoned here for the past countless hours, marooned on this not-so-tranquil island in the shroud, I have had much time to ponder life as it had been over the past many years, and I conclude that indeed, all that I have suffered, all that I have endured; that I have been blessed in the balance. Sleep is not fretful this night, though I have been kept long.

LIFE’S BLESSINGS

[N. Nomad]

Friday—October 2, 1998
Trail Day—259/19
Trail Mile—3864/302
Location—Small ridge above Upper Two Brooks

I have been cooped up in my tent for 36 hours because of the cold, relentless rain, but I’m able to get out this morning as the sky threatens but the rain holds off. Soon I reach a vista at an abrupt turn in the trial near Cross Point Island. Here I am afforded one of the most spectacular views seen on any river that I can recall in my memory, perhaps more-so even, than the breathtaking view into the Tobique Narrows. Looking back at the sheer, stark wall of stone at Cross Point, steel gray in the cold, swirling gloom of this day, it looms as if a forbidden place. But, I must forgive it this unkindly presence for I am sure that it would take on a totally different character in the soft, warm glow of an early morning sun.

As I proceed, the skies clear, and there are many view points all along the beautiful, winding Restigouche River Canyon today, especially above Marshall Island and Pine Island…but progress is very slow as the trail is unbelievably steep and treacherous. To further slow progress I get lost on two different occasions. I am unable to find the trail from Gilmores Brook to Upper Two Brooks. I am finally able to work my way around by taking the worker’s access trail and an old logging road which follows the ridge around between the two brooks. I was expecting to have to ford Upper Two Brooks, but a tree has been felled across the brook to bridge the stream and I am able to cross easily. Dark is descending so I pitch camp just above Upper Two Brooks.

On my entire journey on the AT, the day of least progress due to difficult treadway, was 14 miles. That day was spent traversing a very rugged section through the “ Notch” and up Old Speck Arm in the Mahoosucs. By contrast; Wednesday, after a full day of hiking I had covered eight miles…and today only nine! These mountains are not formidable by any standard, but they are without question, the most rugged that I have ever hiked…anywhere!

[Robert W. Service, A Rolling Stone]

Saturday—October 3, 1998
Trail Day—260/20
Trail Mile—3873/311
Location—Ledge beside branch to Silas Brook

I do not wake this morning until 9:00 a.m. There was no energy left last night and I fell into a deep, sound sleep. I was physically exhausted, but additionally, I was also emotionally exhausted due to the anxiety and frustration of getting lost. The anguish of facing the possibility of failure totally sapped me. This morning the sun is striking the upper wall of the gulch beyond the brook, which is encouraging; a great way to begin the day!

I am able to follow the trail much better today and as some of the sog goes out of the treadway I move with less hesitancy…more confidence. I am able to cross Upper Grindstone Brook without difficulty, but Lower Grindstone Brook requires fording. So I must go through the ordeal of changing to my running shoes. The ford is not at all wide, but it is very deep and the water is very swift and ice cold. Before I can get my feet dry and my wool socks and boots back on I have lost feeling clear to my upper ankles. As the circulation slowly returns it’s as if my feet are being attacked by porcupines! It is late morning now, but the little thermometer attached to my pack zipper pull reads 36 degrees.

Progress comes to a near halt again at Cheulers Brook. At the exact point where the trail drops over the gulch wall there has occurred an incredible rockslide. It has swept trees and everything with it to the bottom of the gulch. Much to my chagrin, and once out on this near-vertical slide, I find that descending through this talus is a nightmarish ordeal! Though I am supine, I am near straight up as I push back against my pack as hard as I can, using it as a skid brake against the loose rock, I also dig and jab my heels and poles in to keep from skidding out of control. Rocks kicked loose careen and rattle to the jumble below. Once out on this skid plate, I dearly wish I were anywhere but here. I try moving back to the side, but I just kept sliding down. Luckily, I am able to get a heel dug in, a pole tip wedged or my pack snagged on a rock. This is a frighteningly dynamic process, not under my control, which moves me along and quickly down as I dig, jab and drag for all I’m worth! As I skid into the jumble of rock and trees I am able to get stopped. My heart is pounding in my throat as I heave an anxious sigh and run a quick damage-control check on my bod and my pack.

Leaning forward now and peering down through this maze of rubble and brush, I quickly realize that this ordeal isn’t over yet! I am still a great distance above the brook and the trees are lodged and twisted in what seems an impenetrable jumble. Some are wedged in precarious fashion, while others teeter on boulders. I look for another way out, but the way is blocked on both sides…and there is no way back up. I pull my shoulder, hip and sternum straps as tight as possible to secure my pack from pitching me and I begin shinnying, grappling and tumbling my way on down. Finally I’m in the brook and heave another big sigh of relief. Once across and part way up the far gulch wall…and looking back, the slide doesn’t appear all that big a deal. But I thank the Lord for getting me through. I am relieved to have one more potentially hike-stopping obstacle behind me.

Above Silas Beach the trail turns to off-camber slopes bringing much side-slabbing. After miles of this my feet and ankles become very sore, but I move on as best I can. So, it is with mixed emotion that I pause here at the park bench overlooking the great canyon of the Restigouche, for it seems we have been together for such a long time, not necessarily as friends but hopefully, with deep mutual respect as tolerant companions. As I turn, completing another nine-mile day—and with a reluctant glance over my shoulder, I bid farewell to this enchanted, untamed land.

SECRETS OF THE RESTIGOUCHE

[N. Nomad]

Sunday—October 4, 1998
Trail Day—261/21
Trail Mile—3893/331
Location—Snowmobile Trail Warming Hut below Squaw Cap

I am stronger this morning, my feet somewhat better…and the sun is bright and warm on my face as I scale the last steep gulch wall above Silas Brook. From here the trail moves over to the ridges and tablelands and settles back to more typical and friendly treadway. One interesting section follows for a short distance as the trail turns onto a wide overgrown roadway, complete with old early to mid-century telephone/telegraph poles with many cross-arms having scores of insulator pegs and old glass insulators still intact. It’s been many decades since I’ve lifted my eyes to such a sight. What a flood of memories this produces. As I close my eyes I can hear the beautiful old touring cars passing and even smell the sulfur from the chugging and belching old steam locomotive running along beside!

I didn’t know what I’d find at Glenwood Park. I’m glad I didn’t expect much. It’s a large old abandoned wayside with grass growing through cracks in the asphalt. The vandals/thieves have found the well, pulled up the entire pipe and wire and have stolen the pump, leaving a scattered mess behind. There’s an old plaque by one of the still-standing picnic tables that somehow, miraculously, has avoided being smashed to smithereens. Under the plexiglass (which is still intact) is a faded news clipping with a picture of some old chap that most likely had something to do with the park. The whole seedy place is blocked off from the road by the typical pipe barricade which I pass as I head out for a welcome diversion on the highway.

I hike along NB17 for approximately three miles then turn onto Upsalquitch River Road for a quiet roadwalk through this pleasant little valley. After some five miles the trail crosses the river on an old restored railroad bridge. I’m now back again on this not-much-fun multi-use old railroad bed. After a couple of miles on this foot bruiser and with evening nigh I’m ready to call it quits for the day. Up ahead I see a small building at a snowmobile trail intersection. This is apparently one of a number of warming huts placed at intervals along these trails. The door is unlocked and I enter to find my abode for the night…complete with picnic table, airtight wood-burning stove and firewood stacked against the wall. My pack thermometer reads 46 degrees as I glance at it while dropping my pack to the table bench. It takes me less than five minutes to get a good roarin’ fire going. I’ve forgotten how dry wood burns! Old candle-plugged bottles provide light as I cook supper right on the stove.

To complete my journal entry for today, I’ll drop this little eyebrow scruncher. As I drifted off to sleep last evening and most near dreamland I envisioned someday finding a little old cabin beside the trail, complete with stove, tight walls and a door that was left unlocked. This dreamland delight brought a gentle chuckle as the sandman finished me off! Tonight, as I bed down, cozy and warm in this little old cabin beside the trail, comes the realization that these little unexplainable occurrences are the makings of this grand miracle I am living…the “Odyssey of ’98!”

[Tom Wright, BMTA]

Monday—October 5, 1998
Trail Day—262/22
Trail Mile—3915/353
Location—Pete Dube’s Restigouche Hotel, Matapedia, PQ Canada

A cool, clear day weather-wise, but I get off to a bumpy start trail-wise. Just above the warming hut a new snowmobile trail crosses Meadow Brook. The sign says “Squaw Cap Mountain, elev. 1585 feet.” This trail does lead to Squaw Cap…eventually, but it isn’t the trail I should have been on. The climb to Squaw Cap is a steady, easy pull along an old woodsroad-turned-snowmobile trail. Only the last half-mile requires much exertion. There’s another warming hut on the summit along with numerous towers, buildings and fences. Not much to brag about up here. The views are so-so, but most are blocked by some sort of summit ornament. Squaw Cap is the third highest peak in New Brunswick, but if you’re out climbing mountains in this province I’d say save your time and head for the second highest in Mt. Carleton Provincial Park…that’s Sagamook!

I get into trouble again coming off Squaw Cap. Recent and current timbering operations north of the mountain have created a maze of logging roads. Most are rutted and choked with mud. More not-much-fun treadway. I run into many dead ends and go through a “bushwhack from hell” thinking I know where I’m going, eventually putting in double the miles and time to get back down to NB17. The hike along NB17, until I reach Rafting Ground Road is a dangerous place to be. The shoulders are narrow to nonexistent and the 18-wheelers are coming through steady and hard.

In just awhile I meet up again with an old friend…the Restigouche River. But here I am treated much more kind! The seven miles into Matapedia, Quebec is a pleasant roadwalk and takes only two hours. South of here to cover this distance took all day! I see the town of Matapedia long before I arrive. In fact, I walk right by. It’s across the river in Quebec, and the bridge is still a mile northeast as I pull abreast of the town on the New Brunswick side, but I really don’t mind the two more miles of walking. Sixteen states, and one of the two Canadian provinces behind me. Only Quebec to go. I’m so glad to be at Pete Dube’s Restigouche Hotel in Matapedia! I arrive, totally bushed, at about 6:00 p.m. to be greeted by Pete. He welcomes me with an expression of amusement as he looks at the bedraggled old Nomad, but I receive a warm handshake and he shows me to a fine room. The Restigouche is a great place; large, clean rooms with TV and phones, and a great restaurant. I am having much trouble with my feet and need to get them up for a long rest. There just couldn’t be a better place–dang Pete, I’m so glad to be here!

[Warren Doyle, Jr.]

Tuesday—October 6, 1998
Trail Day—263/23
Trail Mile—3915/353
Location—Pete Dube’s Restigouche Hotel, Matapedia, PQ Canada

After a very restful night’s sleep, I am already feeling somewhat renewed and rejuvenated. I remember seeing this little café on the way in last evening, so I head there for breakfast and some fresh-brewed coffee. It’s only a couple of minutes to café Resto Le Temps Perdu where I meet Marie Letourneau and Jerome Boldue. Good food, great folks.

I head on over to the post office at 9:00 a.m. to find that my bounce box hasn’t arrived. I am distraught and get upset, but it’s my own fault. When I looked at the New Brunswick map months ago, there in big bold print, was Matapedia. So I assumed Matapedia was in New Brunswick. It is in fact, however, in Quebec, just across the border! So, not only did I show the wrong province on my bounce box, but I also failed to list a zip code or provide a return address. So, should there be any surprise my bounce box hasn’t made it? Solange and Henry at the Matapedia Post Office are doing all they can to track it down.

David LeBlanc, who has been charged with SIA/IAT trail construction north of Matapedia, comes by in the evening with maps of this area. We talk strategy about how I should proceed to complete the remaining 250+ miles to Cap Gaspe. We calculated that even with the most optimistic estimate for my rate of progress, that I wouldn’t be scaling Mt. Jacques Cartier until around the 25th of October. This is getting late to be above tree line in the Chic Chocs, so, the decision is made to skip the section of trail between Matapedia and the Matane River for now and go up and get the Chic Chocs done.

[Maurice Brooks, The Appalachians]

Wednesday—October 7, 1998
Trail Day—264/24
Trail Mile—3915/353
Location—Pete Dube’s Restigouche Hotel, Matapedia, PQ Canada

Still no luck on my bounce box, but a box of goodies sent me by Easy Rider, with the same incorrect and incomplete address has come in, so I have been encouraged to be patient. I am optimistic now that my bounce box will soon arrive. Another great day of rest at Pete’s place!

[Colin Fletcher, The Complete Walker]

Thursday—October 8, 1998
Trail Day—265/25
Trail Mile—3915/353
Location—Pete Dube’s Restigouche Hotel, Matapedia, PQ Canada

I have had an offer for a ride from Matapedia to the Matane River north of here for Friday afternoon by Bruno, one of the members of David’s trail construction crew, so I decide to rest another day. Pete encourages me to remain his guest here at the hotel, so here I stay for another much need day of rest!

[Peter Jenkins, A Walk Across America]

Friday—October 9, 1998
Trail Day—266/26
Trail Mile—3928/366
Location—Fir Stand, Hunting Zone 13A, Matane Reserve, PQ Canada

Another great night of rest at the Restigouche Hotel. I open one eye to glint out the window into the fog and haze. The forecast is for this sludge to burn off, opening up a warm, sunny day. I finally roll out at 9:00 a.m., dress and trundle over to Resto Le Temps Perdu. Loading up is always the order of the day before heading back up the trail, so this morning it’s a three egg mushroom omelet and a double order of home fries. Ditto on the toast, and Marie has to put on another pot of coffee before I’m done. Then it’s across the Matapedia River Bridge to the little grocery store for provisions. I figure to pack an eight-day supply of food to get into the Chic Chocs. Then it’s to the other end of town for a stop at the pharmacy for more enteric-coated aspirin and a bottle of Osteo-Bi-Flex, the chondroitin/glucosamine tabs the pharmacist had kindly ordered for me. I also picked up some rub-on salicylate to help relieve the near constant foot pain I’ve been suffering since the 100-mile wilderness in Maine. A final trip to the post office pays off. Henry has a smile for me and more mail that has trickled in under the wrong/incomplete address, including my bounce box!

Back at the Restigouche Hotel things are shutting down for the season. The restaurant closed last night after supper and this morning the rear section of the hotel is being secured. It’s quite an ordeal. The rooms are all stripped for a final cleaning; then the mechanical systems are shut down and the entire water system is drained and purged.

In my room I set to getting my pack in order and the room straightened up. I find I have a little time before Bruno is due, so I clean and grease my boots. They really took a beating on the Restigouche River Trail (along with my poor doggies) and they sure look neglected. It’s amazing what a little lanolin will do–just like new again! I finish my boots and am rubbing the last of the grease into my dry, chapped hands when comes a knock on my door. Bruno has wrapped up the week just as planned and is here right on cue. He still needs to run by the house and pick up his girlfriend, Carole. So I have time to get my backpack in order and head on down to the lobby. What a great stay I’ve had here! Thanks to all at the Restigouche, especially to you Pete! You have put me up (and put up with me) for four nights, stoked me with five-star food, and in addition to being a great host you’ve become a dear friend. I will remain in your debt.

Bruno and Carole arrive, I load my pack and we’re off on a clear, sunny day to the Reserve Faunique De Matane, some 70 miles to the north. Bypassing this lower woodland section (to be hiked in a couple of weeks) should enable me to complete the Grand Traverse; the extensive, above tree line alpine section of the Chic Chocs, before the snow closes this tundra down. At least that’s the plan! John Brinda traversed the Chic Chocs in late September/early October last year and hit snow then. Looks like I’ve still got “Indian Summer” with me. Anyway, I’m confident I’ll have safe and successful passage! At the end of this two-hour ride I have made another great friend in Bruno Robert. Just across the Matane River bridge is the entrance road to the Matane Reserve and Bruno and Carole drop me off here before continuing on to visit friends in Matane, Quebec. Thanks Bruno! See you again when I return to Matapedia.

At the Reserve entrance I meet Georgette Levesque. Bless her heart, I get a great big smile as I come through the door, which quickly turns to a full-faced frown as she discovers I speak no French! During the next half four we progress from, “No hike, closed, moose hunting,” to, “only hike ten to three, mandatory!” This progress, a transitional process, results from a telephone conversation with her supervisor. After explaining to him that I have a regulation orange vest (which Bruno had the foresight to suggest I use, and then loan to me) things start to loosen up. First he says the Reserve is closed to hiking during moose hunting season “It’s for your own safety” was the reasoning. Trying not to sound facetious, I ask, “Are you not concerned about the hunters’ safety during moose hunting season?” His reply: “Of course we are.” Sooo, for the coupe de grace, I ask, “Then why isn’t the Reserve closed to hunters during moose hunting season?” After a very long pause he says, “Put the lady back on the phone.” So out from under the counter come the reserve permit and a map, but I’m still stuck with, “only hike ten to three, mandatory!” There is no resistance, however, and not a word is said as I head out the door and on up the Reserve road…at four-thirty!The hiking days are really getting short now and I must strap on my little Petzl headlamp as I pull off the Reserve road to pitch camp under a fir canopy in “Zone 13A.” Hunters are still bouncing and rattling by with their rigs loaded with ORVs and camping gear as I enter slumberland in my cozy little Slumberjack.

[Richard E. Byrd, Alone]

Saturday—October 10, 1998
Trail Day—267/27
Trail Mile—3946/384
Location—Etang a la Truite, Hunting Zone 19, Matane Reserve, PQ Canada

The bouncing and rattling starts again at daybreak as the procession of hunters entering the Reserve continues. Complying with the “mandatory” isn’t difficult as I catch a few more winks and then lounge in my bag with some pop tarts for breakfast. I break camp in the cool, clear of this morning and fudge a little as I pull back on the road at 9:30 a.m.

The sun is warm on my face, but for only a brief time as a stiff wind starts kicking out of the east and the sky “darks over.” I stop in the lee just over a little pop on the ridge to garbage-bag my pack, zip my rain jacket and cinch the hood; then I’m back out to brace the day. My head cold is pretty much cleared up but my nose still wants to drip on the map every time I look down at it, but not to worry; it’ll fit fine in my stack of smudgy, spotty maps! I’m into a steady pull, which started at the Reserve entrance and continues throughout the morning. The rain holds off but the wind persists and it’s turning cutting cold as I detour over to the hunter’s lodge at Lac Matane.

I tap on the window to get the attention of a hunter sitting comfortably by the wood stove. As he looks out I rub my hands together and blow on them as if to say—“I’m cold, can I come in by the fire?” The mime works and he motions me to come around to the door. As I enter a young lady clearing dishes from the lodge table greets me. I say, “Hello, how are you.” And she replies, “Fine, how are you?” Hey! The gal speaks English! She continues, “Take off your pack and have a seat…would you like a warm bowl of soup?” From what I’ve written the past few days, it’s evident the great Canadian hospitality didn’t end at the New Brunswick/Quebec border! The delicious, hot bowl of soup is followed by another and then a tall cup of steaming coffee accompanied by a plate of brownies topped with an absolutely heavenly white fudge sauce…and then more coffee!

The conversation with the hunter who motioned me in amounts to little more than a nod as he speaks very little English. But soon another hunter enters the lodge, and when I say “Hi!” he replies, “Hi, how ‘ya doin’?” Bingo! Turns out the chap’s from New Hampshire. Over the course of the next few minutes I find out how the Matane hunting operation works. Turns out the moose hunting season here in Quebec is a lot longer than in New Brunswick. Down there it’s only three days, and if you’re a resident and you’re lucky you’ll get your name drawn from a lottery. But here in Quebec, most anybody can purchase a hunting license and pick up their gun and go. Here in the Reserve, however, the Crown owns the land, and they’ve built these beautiful lodges. They pretty much handle the entire setup for you also, including guides. It’s such a jam-up operation and there’s such a demand to hunt here (there are also a lot of moose) that a lottery must be held. I didn’t have the heart to ask the fellow how much he was plunking down for the four day hunt, the Ritz lodge and meals, plus the guide service and all the haulin’ around; plus, hopefully, his moose!

No problem lingering in this warm, comfortable place, but I manage to get back out within the hour. As soon as I step off the porch the rain begins. The road continues climbing, and as it pulls, I push on against the wind and rain. I’ve become very chilled but by late afternoon the wind slacks off, the rain slows and it seems to warm a little as I hike on to the offices at Etang a la Truite.

As soon as I reach the office the door opens and out steps a lady with that grand Canadian ear-to-ear grin, and a big “Hi!” Before I can return the greeting she says, “follow me, we’ll get the bunkhouse open for you.” And then she hesitates, saying: “You are staying for the night, aren’t you?” I manage an awkward blurt, “Yes, I mean yes Ma’am, I’d like to stay. It seems you knew I was coming!” She smiles again, “Yes, Georgette at John (that’s the name of the Reserve entrance folks!) called me yesterday and told me to watch for you!” As we enter the bunkhouse I tell her I’ll not be able to pay very much for the room. With that she whirls around, and with her eyebrows up and her dander up, exclaims, “You pay nothing here, you pay nothing. It is for you!” With that I finally manage, “Hello, I’m Eb, friends just call me Nomad.” So, here I meet Marlene Simard from Matane, Quebec. She tells me about her great job–lots of responsibility, but she likes it very much. Come to find, she caretakes the facilities from Lac Matane all the way to the Reserve’s eastern boundary.

The building warms quickly. There’s a gas heater and an airtight wood-burning stove to help it along. The bunkrooms are complete with mattresses and pillows. And I’ve got electric lights (the generator runs all night), a full kitchen, including table and chairs…and the shower is steaming hot with shove-me-back pressure. And I was just gonna ask if they’d mind me pitching my tent in their yard! Hot coffee, a warm meal quickly and easily prepared on the kitchen range, and a table to sit comfortably and enjoy my supper. Wow! What else could a weary, cold hiker possibly want?

Well, why not a little friendly conversation? Marlene had said to come over for awhile this evening after I got settled in; so over I go. I’m greeted at the door by Arthur Bernier and at his invitation and even before I can reach the kitchen table I’ve got a cold one shoved in my hand! After some real up conversation and a downed brew, attention turns to the maps I’ve laid out on the table. I tell Arthur I have a few questions. “Let’s have a look,” he says, as he brings another round from the refrigerator. I explain that my concern, and the problem I’m having, is figuring how to get from the route Georgette told me to follow through the Matane Reserve, to the trail in Parc de la Gaspesie. The maps for both the Reserve and the Parc show Mont Logan; the Reserve map near its eastern extreme, and the Parc map close by its western boundary. But neither shows a connector trail. Georgette at John couldn’t help me and none of the folks at Lac Matane Lodge were familiar with that area. Arthur, however, is able to give me very detailed instructions and directions…right to the familiar, bright SIA/IAT metal blazes! After the map review it is getting late and as I bid good-bye and turn to the door both Arthur and Marlene press Canadian bills into my hand. As I depart I’m wished farewell with that great Canadian smile and a, “When you reach Gaspe, celebrate and have a good meal on us!” Thank you dear friends for your genuine kindness and warm hospitality. I will long remember this day and the miracle of it!

I could get up early tomorrow and do the 24 miles into the Parc…but I’ll probably be a good fellow, sleep in, and comply with the “mandatory!”

[Joan Wester Anderson, Where Miracles Happen]

Sunday—October 11, 1998
Trail Day—268/28
Trail Mile—3946/384
Location—Etang a la Truite, Hunting Zone 19, Matane Reserve, PQ Canada

Before midnight the rain picks up steady again and continues all night. I awake around 8:30 a.m., stumble to the door and stick my head out. The rain is not only hard and steady…it’s hard, steady and very cold, a bad combination. So, I throw another log on the fire to get it stoked up, have a bowl of cereal and go back to bed!

The rain doesn’t let up all day so I stay in the sack to keep my feet up. I have no problem with a few extra Zssss. I hand-wash all my socks and pants and get some writing done. Marlene stops by for a minute to say she’s glad I’ve stayed over and to tell me this rain should clear out tonight. I’m in the sack by 9:00 p.m., countin’ my blessings!

[John Greenleaf Whittier]

Monday—October 12, 1998
Trail Day—269/29
Trail Mile—3970/408
Location—Heated shelter, Mont Louis-Marie-La Londe, Park de la Gaspesie, PQ Canada

I awake to a glorious, clear morning! After fixing a g