Scene Two - The Final 4K
For Redington and the Crockers on Sunday I had the pleasure of sharing the day with Whichway and her dog Delilah, who, like me, had responded to a VFTT post looking for hiking partners in the Stratton area through the Labor Day weekend. Turns out the wrong dates were posted online and the postee was already home by the time we hiked, but it worked out great for us. Two fellow peak baggers and an energetic trail dog brought together for a great hike by a third party’s errant post. Thanks Bubba!
We took my car up the Caribou Valley Road to the AT crossing four or so miles in. Lost my tailpipe baffle bottoming out at one of the notable sharp dips at the final two stream crossings, but managed to jam it back on to the exhaust for the final half mile to the parking area. It made quite the rumble at 5 MPH, and I suspected it would be very, very loud at 50 mph or so on the six-hour drive home. Caribou Valley. You pays your money, you takes your chances.
The trip up Redington and over to the Crockers was sunny and pleasant. Whichway and Delilah were excellent hiking companions, and the first few road walk miles rolled away quickly. Delilah scampered ahead eagerly and returned repeatedly to urge us onward. It’s an easy hike, and the views of the surrounding mountains are sweet where you break out into the old logging cuts up in the bowl. Big wooden stick arrows make it hard to go astray on the logging road network, and soon - there’s the summit clearing, strewn with cool metal shrapnel and other abandoned detritus from recent wind farm testing. Whoooo Hoooooo!!!!! Number 115! Check!
The Priceless Historical Footage
I proudly signed the summit register on Redington and reflected briefly on the hike to my first four thousand foot peak as a kid - hazy memories of a family outing to Camels Hump in spring sometime around 1967 or 68. As I recall my brothers and I wore cotton sweatshirts and sneakers - probably P.F. Flyers - and as snow appeared and increased in depth we postholed up the Burroughs to the hut clearing and then to the top, where we peered over the south cliffs to the WW II plane wreck below. A big hike to a rocky alpine summit with the metallic remains of aeronautic carnage strewn at the base of giant cliffs – I was hooked! Looking back, we weren’t exactly what one would call a hiking family - Camels Hump is one of the few memories I have of us hiking together. We were really more a family of roadside picnickers and car campers, skiers and stone skippers, dump scavengers and gardeners and perennially unsuccessful deer hunters. “Go play outside” was pretty much the all-season parental mantra of choice, so thanks Mom and Dad for getting us outdoors all those years ago. I’ve had a pretty good run from Camels Hump to Redington.
The Unexpected Plot Twist
After Redington it was onward to the Crockers via an occasionally flagged and spray-painted herd path. South Crocker. Check. North Crocker. Check. Rest for while. Then northward down the AT in the sweet late afternoon light to an awaiting car at the lot on Route 16. A fun hike with great trail companions - Thanks Whichway and Delilah! But, uh oh, my cars not there. Something’s amiss with the impromptu shuttle. Not to worry. We’ll take Whichway’s car slowly back up the Caribou Valley Road to look for it.
The only glitch in what was otherwise a perfect hike was an après hike attempt at a seemingly simple but ultimately slightly convoluted car key handoff to friends of Whichway’s that we happened to meet atop North Crocker. We found them safe and sound coming down the CV Road a little later than expected after their hike down from Redington. With the hike finished and cars finally shuttled out to Route 16, my hiking companions’ taillights disappeared east into the darkness. Think I’ll just pull over into the AT lot and change out of these stinky hiking clothes, then grab some dinner at the White Wolf in Stratton and ….. oooops! I don’t have my wallet. Or cell phone. Or gas for the six-hour drive home. Forgot that I put my pack in a car trunk now heading east to points unknown. I stood in the darkness and reflected soberly on the Labor Day deal with my wife: “ You get two days of peak bagging. I get Monday”. It was more than a fair trade, and hanging in Maine to eventually sort things out was not an option if I were to ever hike again. What a post-hike chucklehead. I was toast.
The Happy Ending: The Kindness of Strangers
I found myself at the Roadhouse in an elusive search for clues to my departed trailmates whereabouts, where I was greeted by a friendly long distance hiker and hostel host. “Hi. I’m Circuit Rider. I’ll be filling in for Sue the manager for ten days while she’s away”.
“Well here’s the thing Circuit Rider: I’m in a bit of a pickle …. blah blah blah …. Got a quarter tank of gas and no wallet and no money and I’m looking for a couple who I just met today on North Crocker to show up here even though you aren’t expecting them, but if they do make an appearance they can possibly call my hiking partner who I also don’t really know who’s heading the other way without realizing that all my stuff for getting home is locked in the trunk. …... Blah blah blah. ”
“Hikers help hikers, dude. I received plenty of help on the trail” sez Circuit Rider casually. “Here’s a twenty. Need more? Need anything to eat? What else can I do to help you get home?”
“Thank you so much. I can make it home now.” “And would you mind telling me your real world name?” I wanted to know who and where to send repayment funds to, but somehow I suspect that Circuit Rider, Maine AT would have probably worked just fine. He had that kind of karma. Thank you so much Bill.
It was getting late. I fed Circuit Rider’s trail magic twenty into the gas pump in the corner of the Rangely IGA parking lot (the pumps there, I learned, accept cash – another fortuitous pearl of late night gettin’ home wisdom from Circuit Rider) and headed west into the night for the long drive back to Vermont. Further to the south thick river fog enveloped the Androscoggin Valley for miles. I was exhausted and shrugged off fatalistically the increasing odds for a late night automotive encounter with a giant moose lunging from the darkness into the narrow headlight cone of light. I pulled over and dozed for a spell, then awoke shivering and headed on through the fog towards home. In the zone.
Epilogue: Late Nights, Blue Lights
Flashing blue lights east of Danville jerk me suddenly from my late night road stupor. I know the drill. Remain calm. Seat belt. Check. Registration. Check. License ….. Hmmmmm. “Well it’s a bit awkward officer, but blah blah blah.”.
“Any other form of ID?”
“No sir, its all in a pack locked in someone else’s trunk somewhere.”
I hand over the registration and insurance cards. The car clock reads 3:45 AM. “ I’ll be back.” Long silent wait. Mind wanders. County lock-up in St. J. is prolly not too bad. Three squares. Day hikes around the yard. That sort of thing. Finally, footsteps puncture the stillness, silhouette approaches in the blinding blue strobe pulsating in the rear view mirror. The verdict: No license, no worries. Just a warning for doing 57 in a 50 MPH zone. Thank you officer.
“So where were you hiking?”
“Stratton area -Working on the Four Thousand Footers and New England Hundred Highest peak lists.”
“I’m, working on the 4K list myself, but I’ve got a pretty low number - only 27 total in Vermont and New Hampshire.” Ahhhh, the Brotherhood of the Peak!
“ I’m at 115 now.”
Pause. I cringed. D’oh, I can’t believe I blurted that out. What could I have possibly blathered more inappropriately?? I clearly meant 15. Only 15 – substantially less than your peakbagging total officer. The awkward moment passed and I headed home. The peaks were bagged. There were no points, no fines. Life was good. Note to self: In the future never ever claim more bagged peaks than the officer in charge of the crime scene. If perchance you’re perusing this forum, I sincerely thank you, sir!
For Redington and the Crockers on Sunday I had the pleasure of sharing the day with Whichway and her dog Delilah, who, like me, had responded to a VFTT post looking for hiking partners in the Stratton area through the Labor Day weekend. Turns out the wrong dates were posted online and the postee was already home by the time we hiked, but it worked out great for us. Two fellow peak baggers and an energetic trail dog brought together for a great hike by a third party’s errant post. Thanks Bubba!
We took my car up the Caribou Valley Road to the AT crossing four or so miles in. Lost my tailpipe baffle bottoming out at one of the notable sharp dips at the final two stream crossings, but managed to jam it back on to the exhaust for the final half mile to the parking area. It made quite the rumble at 5 MPH, and I suspected it would be very, very loud at 50 mph or so on the six-hour drive home. Caribou Valley. You pays your money, you takes your chances.
The trip up Redington and over to the Crockers was sunny and pleasant. Whichway and Delilah were excellent hiking companions, and the first few road walk miles rolled away quickly. Delilah scampered ahead eagerly and returned repeatedly to urge us onward. It’s an easy hike, and the views of the surrounding mountains are sweet where you break out into the old logging cuts up in the bowl. Big wooden stick arrows make it hard to go astray on the logging road network, and soon - there’s the summit clearing, strewn with cool metal shrapnel and other abandoned detritus from recent wind farm testing. Whoooo Hoooooo!!!!! Number 115! Check!
The Priceless Historical Footage
I proudly signed the summit register on Redington and reflected briefly on the hike to my first four thousand foot peak as a kid - hazy memories of a family outing to Camels Hump in spring sometime around 1967 or 68. As I recall my brothers and I wore cotton sweatshirts and sneakers - probably P.F. Flyers - and as snow appeared and increased in depth we postholed up the Burroughs to the hut clearing and then to the top, where we peered over the south cliffs to the WW II plane wreck below. A big hike to a rocky alpine summit with the metallic remains of aeronautic carnage strewn at the base of giant cliffs – I was hooked! Looking back, we weren’t exactly what one would call a hiking family - Camels Hump is one of the few memories I have of us hiking together. We were really more a family of roadside picnickers and car campers, skiers and stone skippers, dump scavengers and gardeners and perennially unsuccessful deer hunters. “Go play outside” was pretty much the all-season parental mantra of choice, so thanks Mom and Dad for getting us outdoors all those years ago. I’ve had a pretty good run from Camels Hump to Redington.
The Unexpected Plot Twist
After Redington it was onward to the Crockers via an occasionally flagged and spray-painted herd path. South Crocker. Check. North Crocker. Check. Rest for while. Then northward down the AT in the sweet late afternoon light to an awaiting car at the lot on Route 16. A fun hike with great trail companions - Thanks Whichway and Delilah! But, uh oh, my cars not there. Something’s amiss with the impromptu shuttle. Not to worry. We’ll take Whichway’s car slowly back up the Caribou Valley Road to look for it.
The only glitch in what was otherwise a perfect hike was an après hike attempt at a seemingly simple but ultimately slightly convoluted car key handoff to friends of Whichway’s that we happened to meet atop North Crocker. We found them safe and sound coming down the CV Road a little later than expected after their hike down from Redington. With the hike finished and cars finally shuttled out to Route 16, my hiking companions’ taillights disappeared east into the darkness. Think I’ll just pull over into the AT lot and change out of these stinky hiking clothes, then grab some dinner at the White Wolf in Stratton and ….. oooops! I don’t have my wallet. Or cell phone. Or gas for the six-hour drive home. Forgot that I put my pack in a car trunk now heading east to points unknown. I stood in the darkness and reflected soberly on the Labor Day deal with my wife: “ You get two days of peak bagging. I get Monday”. It was more than a fair trade, and hanging in Maine to eventually sort things out was not an option if I were to ever hike again. What a post-hike chucklehead. I was toast.
The Happy Ending: The Kindness of Strangers
I found myself at the Roadhouse in an elusive search for clues to my departed trailmates whereabouts, where I was greeted by a friendly long distance hiker and hostel host. “Hi. I’m Circuit Rider. I’ll be filling in for Sue the manager for ten days while she’s away”.
“Well here’s the thing Circuit Rider: I’m in a bit of a pickle …. blah blah blah …. Got a quarter tank of gas and no wallet and no money and I’m looking for a couple who I just met today on North Crocker to show up here even though you aren’t expecting them, but if they do make an appearance they can possibly call my hiking partner who I also don’t really know who’s heading the other way without realizing that all my stuff for getting home is locked in the trunk. …... Blah blah blah. ”
“Hikers help hikers, dude. I received plenty of help on the trail” sez Circuit Rider casually. “Here’s a twenty. Need more? Need anything to eat? What else can I do to help you get home?”
“Thank you so much. I can make it home now.” “And would you mind telling me your real world name?” I wanted to know who and where to send repayment funds to, but somehow I suspect that Circuit Rider, Maine AT would have probably worked just fine. He had that kind of karma. Thank you so much Bill.
It was getting late. I fed Circuit Rider’s trail magic twenty into the gas pump in the corner of the Rangely IGA parking lot (the pumps there, I learned, accept cash – another fortuitous pearl of late night gettin’ home wisdom from Circuit Rider) and headed west into the night for the long drive back to Vermont. Further to the south thick river fog enveloped the Androscoggin Valley for miles. I was exhausted and shrugged off fatalistically the increasing odds for a late night automotive encounter with a giant moose lunging from the darkness into the narrow headlight cone of light. I pulled over and dozed for a spell, then awoke shivering and headed on through the fog towards home. In the zone.
Epilogue: Late Nights, Blue Lights
Flashing blue lights east of Danville jerk me suddenly from my late night road stupor. I know the drill. Remain calm. Seat belt. Check. Registration. Check. License ….. Hmmmmm. “Well it’s a bit awkward officer, but blah blah blah.”.
“Any other form of ID?”
“No sir, its all in a pack locked in someone else’s trunk somewhere.”
I hand over the registration and insurance cards. The car clock reads 3:45 AM. “ I’ll be back.” Long silent wait. Mind wanders. County lock-up in St. J. is prolly not too bad. Three squares. Day hikes around the yard. That sort of thing. Finally, footsteps puncture the stillness, silhouette approaches in the blinding blue strobe pulsating in the rear view mirror. The verdict: No license, no worries. Just a warning for doing 57 in a 50 MPH zone. Thank you officer.
“So where were you hiking?”
“Stratton area -Working on the Four Thousand Footers and New England Hundred Highest peak lists.”
“I’m, working on the 4K list myself, but I’ve got a pretty low number - only 27 total in Vermont and New Hampshire.” Ahhhh, the Brotherhood of the Peak!
“ I’m at 115 now.”
Pause. I cringed. D’oh, I can’t believe I blurted that out. What could I have possibly blathered more inappropriately?? I clearly meant 15. Only 15 – substantially less than your peakbagging total officer. The awkward moment passed and I headed home. The peaks were bagged. There were no points, no fines. Life was good. Note to self: In the future never ever claim more bagged peaks than the officer in charge of the crime scene. If perchance you’re perusing this forum, I sincerely thank you, sir!
