Downeast. Washington County. The Sunrise County. As far east as you can get and still be in the U.S. A long way from the urban environs of Portland, the home for this traveler. And a world away in more ways than just miles.

A sweet Sunrise County sunrise over the Machias River, Machias.
Carey Kish photo

Washington County is big, rural, forested, open, beautiful, ramshackle, poor, wealthy. A place of contrasts, for sure. Life on the edge. A place tied to the land and to the sea. You can feel it, see it, smell it. The home of tough, hard-working people. Reserved, but friendly. Serious eyes, warm grins.

My kind of place. Damn if I don't know why I don't get that way more often. To more fully enjoy and appreciate this wonderful area that's a bit rough around the edges.

Anyway, I was in Machias for the Sunrise Trail Business and Community Development Conference, as it turned out, a wildly successful gathering of local and state leaders, citizens and business groups, recreational interests.

The plan is to convert 87 miles of rail corridor into a multiple-use recreation trail and a sorely-needed economic driver for the region. Brilliant! Construction begins this summer, with completion scheduled for 2010. More on the Sunrise Trail later on, in a blog-to-be, however.

Given that I had tucked my hiking boots and rucksack into the car, I figured I might as well put some of my downtime to good use and see what could be seen on some the local trails.

Turns out there's quite a few, according to Cobscook Trails, a neat little trail guide published the Quoddy Regional Land Trust. I counted 19 preserves of one sort or another, from state parks and a federal wildlife refuge, land trusts and Nature Conservancy parcels, to conservation easements on private property.

There are many miles of scenic hiking trails in the Cobscook Bay and Bold Coast Region, thanks to the fine conservation groups that comprise Cobscook Trails.
Carey Kish photo

And what a variety of landscapes, too. Rugged cliff-top oceanside treks, beach walks, forested hikes, bumpy mountains, boglands and barrens and more. Wow! Enough to keep a hiker busy for many an hour over many a mile.

I settled on a sampler of three areas: Boot Head Preserve, Quoddy Head State Park, and Pike Lands. All of which happened to be within the confines of Lubec.

Boot Head Preserve is a 690-acre parcel owned by the Maine Coast Heritage Trust on Boot Cove Road. A three-mile loop trail leads through thick forest and open peat bog to Boot Cove, up the backside of Boot Head and on along the rugged coastline (100-foot cliffs!) to Brook Cove.

Boot Cove at Boot Head Preserve, Lubec.
Carey Kish photo

Drinking in the ocean views on the Boot Head Trail, Lubec.
Carey Kish photo

From Boot Head I headed east to Quoddy Head State Park and the iconic red and white-striped lighthouse, a place I'd never been. The long blue island of Grand Manan (Canada) loomed in the distance.

Quoddy Head Lighthouse: You can't any farther east in the U.S. of A.
Carey Kish photo

The Coastal Trail leads west from the light, hugging the ocean, passing the scenic highlights of High Ledge and Green Point. At Carrying Place Cove the trail touches the beach before returning east on the inland Thompson Trail, a winding forested track.

Along the Coastal Trail, Quoddy Head State Park, Lubec.
Carey Kish photo

Atop Green Point, Quoddy Head SP.
Carey Kish photo

Cobble beach near Carrying Place Cove, Quoddy Head SP.
Carey Kish photo

Tuckered but determined, I capped off the outing with a foray to Pike Lands, a property owned by the Quoddy Regional Land Trust. The Huckins Beach Trail beckoned and I followed it quickly down to the wide and long pebble beach at South Bay. All good.

Snow on the Huckins Beach Trail, Pike Lands, Lubec.
Carey Kish photo

Pebble beach at South Bay, Pike Lands.
Carey Kish photo

Put the Sunrise County on your "to-do" list for this spring, summer or fall, 'cause it's worth the trip. Maybe run into you on the trail there sometime!

Have you hiked the Cobscook Trails? Which ones? What was your experience?

Of the hiker missing along the A.T. on Blood Mountain in northern Georgia...

We now sadly know her fate.

Damn.

A beautiful young life snuffed out on an innocent hike in the woods. The only possible solace is that the cretin who killed her is behind bars. Where I can't beat him to a bloody pulp.

Damn, damn, damn.

Hike through the rhododendrons (the rhodies as we thru-hikers call it) on the winding trail up to the summit of Blood Mountain and you will emerge on the highest point on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia.

Scramble atop on the huge boulder there and look south, to Woody Gap, to Black Mountain, all the way to Springer Mountain and the start of the A.T. some 30-odd miles to the south.

In springtime, when most A.T. hikers pass by here, the view is magnificent; when dogwoods and azaleas and rhododendrons bloom and brilliantly color the otherwise gray canopy of the hardwood forests of this southern end of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Spend a night in the old stone shelter and share the mountaintop chill with the mice and maybe even a skunk as I did once (I've made the trek north on the A.T. from Springer three times now) and you will have experienced one of the finer places on the 2,150-mile long trail as it journeys north to Maine.

Perhaps this is just what the lively young hiker named Meredith Emerson was looking for when she climbed the flanks of Blood Mountain last Tuesday with her dog.

And disappeared, somewhere, somehow.

Suspiciously. Very much so.

How very sad.

My prayers, and I trust yours, are with the Emerson family as they wait for what we all hope will be a happy reunion with Meredith very soon.

But I fear the worst.

The A.T. down south has had much too much of its share of sad tales like this, mostly involving women hikers, who innocently walk into the woods and end up dead, often at the hands of a fellow (male) hiker.

Yes, statistically I suppose, the incidents are few and far between, but each becomes such a high profile affair that it seems more frequent than it really is.

Nonetheless, it happens, and it scares the hell out of me. And probably you too.

You live, you hike, you take your chances. You trust in others. Most times that's OK.

Let's hope to dear God that this story has a good ending and Meredith Emerson walks out of the north Georgia woods alive real soon.

A walk along the three-mile Salt Bay Heritage Trail in Damariscotta is always a treat, with windows onto the waters from dense forest along the path providing lovely views and glimpses of wildlife as you travel.

Add a few inches of snow and a nip of winter cold, however, and the place becomes an enchanted escape, be it on foot, x-c skis or snowshoes.

I traveled the route with a lively group from the Maine Outdoor Adventure Club not too long ago, ten hearty souls very much up for a sojourn over new ground, and this circuit around Glidden Point was just the thing.

The Salt Bay Trail starts from Mills Road (Route 215), just off Route 1 in Damariscotta.
Carey Kish photo

The trail hugs the shoreline of scenic Great Salt Bay for a mile and a half.
Carey Kish photo

Bisected by busy Route 1 you'd be hard pressed to know such a hike existed. For years I'd sped right through the area, until one day a bridge over an outlet into Salt Bay caught my eye and registered "trail" in my brain.

A bit of Internet sleuthing unearthed the Damariscotta River Association and miles of wonderful walks in the area, the Salt Bay Trail among them--a true gem that wends east along the edge of Great Salt Bay before turning back west above the Damariscotta River.

We observed bald eagles and a host of shore birds en route.
Carey Kish photo

MOACers trudge through deep woods and soft snow on the Salt Bay Trail.
Carey Kish photo

There would be no horseshoe crabs or otters, cattails or Indian pipes--the stuff of summer--on our winter walk. But we did enjoy several bald eagle sightings, as well as buffleheads and a number of other shore birds afloat in the bay.

The tide was up to the banks at the magnificent shell middens along the Damariscotta River, so to see the more exposed layers you had to slosh through the water. But it was worth it to observe and intellectually grasp one of the largest such shell heaps in the world, just a mere 2,400 years old, some 30 feet deep and many acres across.

Our group enjoyed it all over three-plus glorious hours in the sun of this wintry day. Chatter and laughter and awe and joy carried us along, and much too soon we were back at the trail head on Mills Road (Route 215).

Happy hikers from the Maine Outdoor Adventure Club.
Carey Kish photo

But no matter because a cold pint and a filling meal awaited us in nearby Damariscotta at the King Eider Pub, a most excellent post-hike watering hole. Poking about the pretty main street of town and a visit to Reny's basement put a perfect exclamation point on a fine day outside.

What a day outdoors on the Salt Bay Trail!.
Carey Kish photo

Have you hiked the Salt Bay Trail or other nearby trails of the Damariscotta River Association?

OK, I admit it.

You understand how painful it was, don't you now gents?! And you ladies, stop the snickering, please.

Yes, occasionally life gets a little bit crazy and a man teeters near the edge, breaks down and―gulp!―asks for directions.

You see, it was like this...

I was rooting around the backroads of Shelburne, NH last Sunday, there in the hinterlands along the Maine-NH border, looking for a particular trailhead.

Mt. Cabot, a lofty 1,500 footer with nice views of the Androscoggin River and the Moriah Range, so I was told. With the added bonus of a side trip to the Crow's Nest and more looking out to be done.

Sounded good.

All except I couldn't find the way in. Hunted up and down the North Rd. Drove miles into the forest on logging roads searching. Even likely trespassed some in pursuit of anything that resembled a boot print or a broken twig, much less a paint blaze or a full-on trail sign that might indicate a parking place and a path to hike.

Nada. One hour. Two hours. Still nada.

I ate my lunch in the car, scouring the trail map and trying to find something in the guidebook that would give away the secret to the starting point for the illusive Mt. Cabot.

Not even the hint of a clue.

I was in the right area; it had to be somewhere in and around the Philbrook Farm, but there was no secret entrance to be found, no magic abracadabra to let me in.

Note to the AMC White Mountain Guide folks: On page 604 of the index, the page locations for descriptions of "Cabot, Mount (Pilot Range)" and "Cabot, Mount (Shelburne)" are juxtaposed. There's plenty to be said about the big 4,000 footer, but hardly a helpful mention of my lowly Mt. Cabot.

The day was getting on and I was fast running out of steam. Maybe it just wasn't to be today.

Come to think of it I was getting mighty thirsty and there was football on. And I was just a short jaunt over the border to Bethel and the homey confines of the Sunday River Brew Pub.

It was settled then. I put the vehicle in drive and headed up the road back toward Route 2 and a refreshing pint of ale.

Alas, I hadn't gone far when I came upon a woman walking briskly toward me on the opposite side of the road. Someone who looked like she might know her way around these parts.

My mind went into high gear, calculating furiously: 1. Should I stop and ask directions? Period. The horror of taking that fateful step alone weighed heavily. 2. What if she actually knew where the trailhead was? Then I'd have to give up my new plan for beer and football and actually do some hiking!

What to do? What to do??

I pulled over.

And {gasp} asked the kind woman if she knew where the trailhead to Mt. Cabot was?

"No. Never heard of it."

I was halfway to a beer.

"But I do know there's a trailhead just up the road. A white picket fence and a turnstile. Leads up to Mt. Crag from Austin Brook."

I looked at the map in my lap. And yes, there it was: Mt. Crag. With a connecting trail to Mt. Cabot. {sigh}

"Thanks," I said to the nice woman who had just cost me an early afternoon seat at the bar. "I'll check it out."

And there it was. White picket fence. Turnstile. Trail signs galore.

A severe case of cottonmouth came over me. But I was here now and I would dutifully go hiking and enjoy the day. Dammit.

And so it went.

It was an easy walk beneath hemlocks next to Austin Brook on an old woods road. Then left into the woods, climbing through a colorful forest of beech, birch and oak. Steeply at first, then more gradually as the trail curled around the back side of the peak. Views north to Mt. Success and the Mahoosucs opened up.

Finally the path swung back to the south, climbed a short steep stretch and peaked out atop a wide open cliff edge revealing broad two-state views of the Androscoggin River valley. From Evans Notch to the Moriahs to the Presidentials. All fabulous as I plunked down on the warm rock in the bright sun and enjoyed.

View into Maine from the summit of Mt. Crag, Shelburne NH.
Carey Kish photo

I feasted on Gatorade and a granola bar instead of a frothy ale and beer nuts. OK, I thought, this hiking thing, I can deal with it.

The White Mountains from Mt. Crag.
Carey Kish photo

Doubling back to the trail junction I continued cross-valley toward the elusive Mt. Cabot. Trail markings were intermittent to say the least, and with a plethora of side trails, skidder tracks, woods roads, slash piles and log yards, navigating the way was, um, interesting.

Crossing Austin Brook on the way to Mt. Cabot.
Carey Kish photo

But I was determined now. The day would not be complete without bagging Cabot. The "yellow" trail finally led me to the "blue" trail. And up I went, winding for a good mile and a half, finishing with a rocky scramble that left me off at the wooded summit.

The limited views thru the trees were a bit disappointing, but the walking had been fun. The goal had been achieved, a new place visited. No complaints.

On the trail to Mt. Cabot.
Carey Kish photo

I turned down the other side of the mountain, directly into the chill October wind, and descended quickly, on the "red" trail now.

On the valley floor gunshots were going off all around me (you can hunt in NH on Sundays), a little too close for comfort. Not the least bit excited about getting peppered with buckshot, I declined to retrace my steps back thru the woods.

Instead I bolted down a pine-carpeted woods road and was soon out out the North Rd. Right next to Philbrook Farm. Exactly where I had been diligently trailhead-searching many hours earlier.

Go figure.

I paced it up the road, afternoon shadows falling across my path, to the waiting car.

Off came the pack, on went the comfy bar duds and I was road-bound eastward, late for a date with Dan the Barman at the Sunday River Brew Pub and a tall, cold, frosty one.

Actually I wasn't late at all. Right about on schedule really. All because I stopped and asked for directions. That simple act changed the outcome of that entire day. Imagine that? It worked so well I might even try it again in the unlikely event the need should arise.

See ladies, we guys can learn new things!

The sun is down and it's a cold here (37° F) at the Sidney Tappan campsite, situated at 2,500 feet in a notch between Gulf Hagas Mountain and West Peak on the A.T.

Camp is set and supper is done, a simple but satisfying affair of freeze-dried this-and-that, coffee, tea, soup.

We sit, hiking friends Doug and Gloria and I, on log benches in the dark, talking. A nip or two of Jim Beam warms the belly, relaxes the body.

The chatter is interrupted by a coyote howling down valley to the west. Another chimes in. Then more, until what sounds like a dozen coyotes fill the mountain air with howls and yips and loon-like laughs.

It is at once thrilling and chilling, and underscores the remoteness of the place we have chosen to spend the night.

Another coyote, closer in but above us on the shoulder of Gulf Hagas Mtn. adds another wild voice to the mix. Then from behind us, in the direction of West Peak, comes more howls.

We are surrounded by the sounds of the wild in the night. Our reasons for coming here, if they were unclear before, are now crystal. Our senses are honed sharp.

We've walked nearly nine miles to this spot, backpacks in tow. Along river and stream, past pond and waterfall. Beneath a forest canopy of gold and red, a sky of clear and perfect blue.

Crossing Hay Brook near the AT, K-I Forest.
Carey Kish photo

Passing Pugwash Pond just east of The Hermitage.
Carey Kish photo

Upper Screw Auger Falls, Gulf Hagas.
Carey Kish photo

Feet and legs move, lungs fill and empty, hearts pump. Refreshing, renewing mountain air moves into our bodies; sweat pours out. Eyes gaze, thoughts simplify. Cares, problems fade.

The trail, it's wonderful like that. Reducing life down to its simplest elements. Even when two days and one precious night are all the time you have to steal away, the trail works its magic.

Hiking through the fall colors on the AT.
Carey Kish photo

Gulf Hagas Brook in bright fall sunlight.
Carey Kish photo

Traversing the ridge of Gulf Hagas Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

We retire to the tents at the late of hour of 7:30 PM. I try to read some, The Good Rain by Timothy Egan, but manage only ten pages or so. Fatigue rules, I give in. Glasses and headlamp come off, head goes down onto a pillow of clothes wrapped in the softness of my down vest.

It begins to rain. Sprinkles, then noisy drops on the tent. Inside all is warm and cozy. Contentment reigns as sleep comes.

I awake later on, groggy, to a scratchy sound on the tent fly. It's not raining anymore. I unzip and go outside to pee and my suspicion is confirmed: It's snowing! A couple of inches lay on the ground and blanket the tents.

Awesome!

The dawn light arrives late, hiker conciousness even later.

I lay propped up on one elbow, and, still ensconced in the down bag, start the stove outside the tent door and prepare cocoa and oatmeal.

Snow in camp at Sidney Tappan Campsite last Sunday morning.
Carey Kish photo

What luck! A picture-perfect fall day of hiking yesterday. And today, ahead of us, a high ridge walk over the peaks of West, Hay and Whitecap in snow!

For three hours we wend up and down through an alpine forest hushed with snow. The clouds are thick and it's still snowing, so there are no views.

But no matter.

We focus closer in. On animal tracks in the snow. On the winds blowing lightly over our heads, above the thick corridor of spruce and fir that we walk through. On the occasional splash of color, a birch or hobblebush leaf that adds visual dimension to an otherwise flat green and brown and white world.

Hiking through the snowy forest on Hay Peak.
Carey Kish photo

West and Hay Peaks pass easily beneath our feet. We drop packs at the head of the old firewarden's trail, a half-click before Whitecap, and chug unburdened through the thinning forest to the open summit at 3,644 feet.

There isn't much to see but rocks and stunted trees and snow--and the summit sign-- but we are happy to be here. The harsh conditions of this winter-in-fall storm add to our sense of accomplishment. How wonderful to be out here, like this, in the raw elements, warm, well-fed, well-equipped and confident.

In the storm atop Whitecap Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

The descent is incredibly steep and slippery. Like walking on unconsolidated ball bearings. With snow on top. Eventually the angle lessens, the snowline is reached, and the precip turns to sleet, then rain.

We emerge from the forest onto an old logging road and continue the long descent into the Pleasant River valley. The road is lined with maples and beech and birch, and even in the gray of this day, the colors are bright and cheery.

Every so often a ruffed grouse blasts disconcertingly from a trailside tree and sends our hearts to pounding, breaking the stupor of the downhill plod.

It figures that the sun would break out and shine bright over the valley just when we arrive. Doug and I drop our loads at a roadside picnic table, Gloria waits and rests, and we walk to retrieve the vehicle a couple miles to the west.

It's been a good walk, one of the finest in recent memory. For no particular reason, maybe all of the above, maybe none. It was just plain good. And that's all I care to ask for.

Note: We made the Whitecap loop hike last weekend. There's still time to do it if you're interested. The road into the K-I Forest is open until the snow flies. And BTW, the gate is boarded up for the season so it's free to enter. If you want more info on the Whitecap hike or other fun hikes in the region shoot me an e-mail.

I had to go on up to North Conway the other day to bring a skidder-load of gear to Ragged Mountain Equipment to sell on consignment. So I figured, what the hay, I'll take in a hike or two as well.

Good plan, as it turns out.

Following my MO of late, I wanted to check out a couple of places I'd never been: Province Pond and Mountain Pond. (Hike descriptions and maps for both are found in the White Mountain Guide).

The trailhead to Province Pond is at the end of a gravel road off Green Hill Road, off of Route 113, somewhere east and north of Conway NH.

It's an easy walk of 1 1/2 miles through the woods over a grassy logging track. At the pond the path bears right and follows along above. Where the road bends right uphill take the narrow footpath left into the woods and tramp around to the log shelter on the north shore.

Province Pond, hidden away in the White Mountains just over the Maine-NH border. Note the log shelter tucked into the trees on the far shore.
Carey Kish photo

What a spot! Hemmed in by steep mountain walls, the place is a quiet slice of paradise, especially on this warm and sunny fall day.

I poked around for a bit on the big old bleached-gray log that leads to water. Then sat for a long time on the shelter's platform edge enjoying the scene and breathing in the good air. And finishing up We Took to the Woods by Louise Dickinson Rich (great read!).

Yours truly getting a good look-see at Province Pond.
Carey Kish photo

I can't wait to pack in my goods for an overnight stay sometime soon. A good book, a fire, a smidgen of Jim Beam, a cold night sky... oh yeah!

Out to the road I backtracked a few miles and wound up the Hurricane Mountain Road, little more than a glorified cart path, steep and winding, and with the real possibility of a head-on collision at any moment.

Ever the exciting ride!

I made it over to Intervale unscathed and unloaded my pile of gear with my friends at Ragged, hopeful that the stuff sells quick so I can buy more, a new winter stove and winter tent at the top of the list.

Post-Ragged I drove up toward Slippery Brook and the TH for Mountain Pond. I'd barely gotten on the trail when a group of campers trudged toward me toting a canoe loaded with gear.

Ouch!

It was worth the effort, they said, for the good fishing and fine camping. Points duly noted.

Beyond, I made a left at the trail junction and walked along the western edge of Mountain Pond, taking in frequent viewpoints as I went. There was nary a ripple on the dark blue pond which reflected the muted fall colors of the surrounding hills.

Mountain Pond from its south end.
Carey Kish photo

The old log lean-to tucked 100 yards into the woods near the pond's upper end wasn't much to look at, but I'm sure it would be welcome shelter in a rain.

Circling around to the other side the bare rock cone of South Baldface rose up in the west. A little further on the shapely twin peaks of Doublehead Mountain appeared above a ridge.

Canada geese on Mountain Pond. That's the upper reaches of South Baldface off in the distance.
Carey Kish photo

The walk, a very pleasant 3-mile circuit, was over much too fast. And as I reached that car I vowed to return here, too, with camping gear (but no canoe!) and spend the night sometime soon.

Hobblebush (Viburnum lantanoides) showing off its regal fall magenta colors at Mountain Pond. Note the golden buds.
Carey Kish photo

On the way home now, the all-powerful tractor beam of the Red Parka Pub in Glen proved too much for my little Honda Civic, and we were drawn helplessly in. Next thing I know Mike is pouring me a Mason jar of Long Trail Ale which I feel compelled to knock back, along with a slew of popcorn and peanuts (read: dinner).

Another Long Trail is forced upon me and I consume it dutifully, without complaint. Then it is indeed time to head home to Portland-town, turning the page on another fine day's adventure.

All good.

You been to either Province or Mountain Ponds? Spent the night?

I read about the new Clark's Pond Trail in South Portland the other day, and although the "official" opening isn't until tomorrow, I just couldn't wait to have a look-see for myself.

Carey Kish photo

So that's how I spent my lunchtime on Friday, strolling along the length of this brilliantly constructed and beautifully hidden gem of a trail.

Carey Kish photo

To find it pull in behind the Home Depot off Westbrook St. in South Portland, go to the far end of the store's parking lot and look for the log signpost on the edge of the woods. That's the trailhead.

The pathway leads for 1.2 miles in and around pretty Clark's Pond (or is it Long Creek, I've never figured the difference) and takes you through a stretch of woods you'd never know was even there.

Carey Kish photo

There are frequent views over the placid waters of the pond and a pleasant mix for forest canopy overhead; pines, maples, oaks. And yesterday the air was heavy with that earthy autumn fragrance of damp soil and decaying leaves.

Carey Kish photo

The trail is a mix of dirt footpath and gravel way, and there are plank bridges, foot bridges and log steps to keep you on your toes and keep 'em dry too.

Carey Kish photo

Carey Kish photo

Despite the constant din of nearby I-295 your ears will soon enough tune out the auto drone and you'll be free to enjoy this most wonderful addition to our urban trails system.

Magnificent job folks! Many, many thanks for your hard work and dedication!!

As I said earlier the "grand opening" of the trail takes place tomorrow morning--Sunday, September 30th, at 10 AM. The Gov will be there to do the ribbon cutting formalities after which Tom Blake, the president of the South Portland Land Trust will lead the first walk-through. A big cookout at Jordan Park at 11:30 AM will up the festivities.

Sounds like a fine way to spend a warm and sunny late September if ever there was one!

Carey Kish photo

If you’ve spent enough time hiking in the backcountry, really out there in remote areas, you’ve likely thought to yourself at one time or another, “Hey, the world could end while we’re out here and we’d never even know it.”

Hiking friends and I used to joke about such things figuring it could never happen. But I'll never again see any humor in that after the events of six years ago.

On the afternoon of September 10, 2001, my Maine friends Phil and Sandie and I hiked into the northern reaches of Yosemite National Park at Benson Pass. Finally, after 10 days and 130 miles, we were on the home stretch of a long and difficult hike through California's High Sierra from Lake Tahoe to Tuolumne Meadows.

We grunted up the countless switchbacks to Tilden Lake and settled into a comfortable camp amongst the stunted trees on the lakeshore.

Now officially in problem bear country, we dutifully bagged up our food after dinner and rigged a line over a large branch high in a ponderosa pine at the edge of camp. With considerable effort we hauled the three sacks of food and cook gear up into the air, safely away from the grasp of any marauding Ursus americanus.

My friend Phil (lower left) rigging the bear bag at Tilden Lake, Yosemite on the evening of September 10, 2001.

Such were the simple worries of life on the trail. Protecting our food supplies from bears and other critters. Tending to blistered and battered feet. Calming the internal plumbing from too many one-pot noodle dinners. Coaxing tired bodies up and down steep trails day after day.

In the broad scheme of things it was all no big deal, however. We were out on the trail, amid the beauty of the wilderness, keenly alive, carefree. Life was good.

Sunset from our camp on Tilden Lake, Yosemite, September 10, 2001.

But as we went to sleep that night, 50 miles from the nearest road, who could have known that Mohammed Atta and his cohort were bedding down in a South Portland motel, death plans in their heads.

Determined to make some miles over the rough washboard of mountains that make up northern Yosemite, I was up early on the morning of September 11th. A few minutes before 6:00 A.M. Pacific Standard Time.

I crawled out of the tent, yawned and stretched, and proceeded to haul down our food bags and get some coffee going on the stove. I roused my companions from their slumber.

At that exact time, 3,000 miles away, chaos was raining down upon lower Manhattan, as first one jetliner, and then another, both carrying a precious cargo of beautiful, innocent lives, slammed into the North and South Towers of the 110-story World Trade Center.

We huddled in the cool morning air, sipped our hot drinks, ate our oatmeal. Oblivious to the hell on earth raging on the opposite coast of the U.S., as terror as we had never known reached America and forever changed our lives, our country, the world.

We strapped on our backpacks and struck off on the trail, at just the time that another plane of innocents crashed into the Pentagon.

And at the moment we rounded Tilden Lake and walked down a gravel beach beside huge and very fresh bear prints, brave men and women were fighting for their lives, attempting to take control of a fourth hijacked airliner over the skies of rural Pennsylvania.

I nibbled a granola bar, snapped a couple of photos. While terrorist fury raged and ordinary people responded in extraordinary ways. The news spread, video and photos of tragedy and heroism were broadcast. The world followed the story with rapt attention. We moved on, knowing nothing.

At our little camp next to a small pond atop Selden Pass that evening, the only issue was a good night's sleep under the brilliant night sky. We did not know that the world was going to hell in a hand basket as we stared up at the stars, the same stars that shone over the smoke and devastation of New York City, Washington and Pennsylvania.

We carried on yet another day, one foot in front of the other. Until early afternoon when we met up with a trail crew working on a dangerous piece of trail, blasting sections of rock to make the way safer.

We chatted the usual bull. Until one of them spoke up and asked, “You don’t know, do you?”

We’d passed our last outpost of civilization three days prior at Kennedy Meadows Ranch, where we enjoyed packages and letters from home, cold beer, hot showers and good food. So, no, we “hadn’t heard anything.”

Impatient to get on with the job at hand, the trail boss had us ushered up the path to a safe spot away from the blast that was about to be set off.

“We’ll tell you up ahead.”

Our imaginations went wild and we began to pepper the crewman with questions.

“Tell us. What happened?”

“Keep walking.”

Bush has been assassinated, I thought. Or maybe the stock market crashed.

From Phil, “Cheney’s dead, isn’t he?”

Finally the guy could take no more. We all stopped and he turned to us.

“Some planes flew in the World Trade Center and they fell down. We heard it on our radio last night.”

“Say what?”

What do you do with that kind of information? How do you form a proper image in your mind without any visual?

“What do you mean they fell down?”

“Collapsed. Gone.”

“Who?”

“Terrorists. The Pentagon, too. Something like 20,000 people killed.”

“U.S. airspace is closed down. Nothing in the air.”

Silence.

“Come on let’s get up to safety.”

At the top of the climb, we huddled together behind a boulder, in shock and disbelief. The hand radio crackled a signal, and the blast went off with a frightening rumble.

We thanked the man for guiding us through. And for the news, horrible as it was. We asked more questions, but he had no more answers.

So we hiked on. For two more days and nights. Trying to make sense of what happened, to analyze what few details we had.

The conversations consumed us and we would spend long minutes leaning on our hiking poles talking about this terrorist attack that we knew so little about. Except that thousands were dead and two American cities were aflame.

How could this be, we continued to ask ourselves?

On the afternoon of September 15th we walked out of the wilderness and onto the Tioga Pass Road at Tuolumne Meadows, and straight to the little campground store for food and beer. And hopefully a TV.

Though it was only five days after the attack the scene appeared strangely normal. Tourists milling about. People shopping. Eating ice cream. Enjoying the September sun. Looking at the views.

But no TV. We still couldn’t see what had happened. And no newspaper. Everyone around us had seen and heard it and read about it 24/7 for the entire week. But we still couldn’t picture it, and we desperately wanted to. We craved for information, who, why? Anger welled up. Somebody tell us something!

Our friend Ellen arrived from San Diego as planned and drove us through the beauty of the park. But we could only thinly enjoy it as we hyper-talked about the news.

Finally that evening, in a bar in Yosemite Valley, we saw it on CNN. Watched over and over again as the planes crashed into the twin towers. The Pentagon. A field in Pennsylvania. Talking heads going non-stop. Theories of who and why.

I couldn’t turn away. People shuffled in and out, pausing at the TV screen. But I just couldn’t turn away. I needed to see it and see it and see it to make it real for me. To make myself believe that this horror had really taken place.

Airports across the nation reopened. Flights were resumed. And after a couple of days of R & R we made our way back to Sacramento for the trip home.

It was surreal to be in an airport, having just spent 15 days deep in the mountains, but also knowing what we did about the terrorist attacks. National Guard troops patrolled with M-16s. The ticket agent checked us in without a smile. Security agents passed us through with somber faces.

I bought a bagel with cream cheese but could not find a knife, not even a plastic one, to spread the cheese. No sharp items anywhere. New rules. Different life.

We got home a week after the attacks. And have been playing catch up ever since. A year after 9/11 I had still not seen many of the images, and had many gaps in the sequence of events.

The events of 9/11 sickened and saddened me, all of us. Six years hence those feelings have diminished little. I am still angry at the massive loss of life, emotional over the incredible destruction and disruption caused by a cowardly few.

The office for my day job has a clear view of the downtown Portland skyline. Several times each day I watch as airliners make their approach over the Fore River on their way to the Jetport. For a moment each time the jet will disappear behind the Time & Temperature Building and my heart will skip a beat. It's the image, a sickening image, that I can now never forget.

So today, under the clear blue skies of this beautiful September day, we remember those who died viciously, innocently and needlessly. You will never be forgotten.

We are thankful to those who sacrificed so that many others might live, the ones who ran into the burning buildings while hundreds were fleeing. The firefighters, police, rescuers and thousands of individuals who simply did what needed to be done that day and in the days following. That’s the America we know and love, and they are truly Americans.

Finally, thanks to our men and women in uniform for your bravery and sacrifice as you serve far from home to protect freedom and liberty. America has lots of faults and you can criticize it all you want. But the country stands on these enduring principals and I am proud of those willing to fight for them against a shadowy enemy.

It's that time again. Time to pack up the goods and head for the trail.

I'm flying off to Seattle tomorrow afternoon for a week of business there. Not a bad place to be regardless of the reason. A beautiful, vibrant, walkable city and I can't wait to touch down and settle in.

After business is concluded comes the trail part of the trip.

And the destination this time is extra special: The West Coast Trail on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Just a ferry ride from downtown Seattle to Victoria and a shuttle bus to Port Renfrew on the edge of the wilderness of the Pacific Rim National Park.

It's been a long courtship between the WCT and me. And now, in less than a week I'll finally be there walking a path that first captured my imagination as a kid some thirty-odd years ago.

It was in an early Sierra Designs gear catalog, and the staff hiked the West Coast Trail in a combination gear testing, staff retreat, catalog promotion thing. A journal of the trek appeared in that year's catalog and has stuck with me ever since.

Thirty years is a long time to wait for something, so I guess patience really is a virtue. But I trust the West Coast Trail will prove to have been worth the wait.

8 days and 7 glorious nights and 50 miles of rugged hiking along the western coast of Vancouver Island over what amounts to little more than an old shipwreck trail with centuries of maritime history.

Long stretches of empty beach, strenuous ups and downs through thick and wet and ancient coastal forest, hazardous river and tidal inlet crossings, exciting cable car rides and suspension bridge crossings, the possibility of brown bear visits, the wind and wet of the ever present Pacific Ocean to our left.

Solitude; deep, serious solitude. And wilderness beauty of the highest magnitude.

Yes, it will have been worth the wait.

That's where I'll be for the next couple of weeks, so things here at the Trail Head will be on the quiet side until later in the month.

But I'll be back with photos and stories and will share all that I can. And I hope you will share with me your adventures in this most glorious month to be outdoors in Maine and beyond: September!

Ciao for now...

On the afternoon of the third day of my recent Cohos Trail thru-hike I descended from the heights of Mount Eisenhower, crossed the valley of the Ammonoosuc River and popped out onto Route 302 at Bretton Woods, right at Fabyans Restaurant & Bar.

No self-respecting long distance hiker ever passes by such an establishment, so I dropped my pack, ducked inside and bellied up to the bar and began to order mass quantities of food. Several hours later, appetite satisfied and thirst slaked, I waddled out the door and up the road a half-mile to the Mount Deception Campground, for what I hoped would be a restful evening.

I settled in to a grassy site in the middle of the place, as far away as I could get from the RVs and campers that made up the majority of visitors. There I pitched my new lightweight one-man tent, threw in the gear and headed directly to the showers for a glorious clean-up. Back at camp I gathered up my stinky clothes and went back to throw them into the laundry for a thorough washing.

On each of these laps to and from the bathhouse/laundry room I noticed small piles of scat in the grass. Dark blue scat with seeds. Bear scat. My eyes observed, but my tired brain didn’t really seem to register this important fact, just a few feet from my little campsite. Not good.

Finally, I sat down at the picnic table, relaxed and read my book until well after sundown. That’s when fatigue won out and I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell fast asleep, that deep and pleasant slumber of trail weariness.

Some time later in the dark of night, however, I awoke to some serious noise close by, real close, like in my camp. Hmmm, I semi-thought in my semi-awake state. Something thrashing and thumping about. And snorting and uttering nasty guttural sounds. Hmmm, I thought again in a more alert state.

I reached for my headlamp, strapped it on, flicked the switch... And that’s when I first saw the bear, about 6-8 inches from my face, its face buried in my empty backpack which sat leaning up against the tent.

Pure instinct took over, and I yelled "hey!"

Startled, the bear removed its nose from my pack and stared right at me, big brown face and nose, the rest of him (or her)—and there was a lot more of him or her—black as night.

Someone had to flinch in this close encounter, and it turned out to be me.

I yelled again, louder this time: "Hey!"

Given my aggressive stance in the matter, Mr. Bear (may I call you Mister?) backed up a few paces. And proceeded to rear up on his hind legs.

{insert large quantities of hiker poop here}

Now, mind you I've dealt with bears in the wild before, but never from the disadvantage of a prone position on the ground in a tiny little solo tent, with nothing but a thin layer of nylon separating me from Ursus americanus.

At this point, Mr. Ursus, now hovering over me with large paws high in the air, begins to weave back and forth as if he's doing “the wave” at a Patriot’s football game. Well that's pretty cool, I think for a moment, something you don't see everyday.

I quickly snap back to reality and begin to understand what may happen next, said bear pouncing forward and down onto me and the tent and turning both into a midnight snack, leaving only scattered bits of Gore-Tex and gray hair behind as evidence of the meal. Hiker scat.

I yell again, much, much louder this time: "Hey, hey, hey!" {pretty creative, eh?}

Clearly the addition of those forceful extra "hey's" must have done the trick, for the bear resumed a more reasonable position on all fours. He poked around the fireplace, rummaged in the grass, investigated the picnic table.

Mr. Bear poking around my campsite at Mt. Deception campground on the Cohos Trail, NH.
Carey Kish photo

It was then that he turned and padded back toward me. And proceeded to stick his nose right into the mesh netting of my tent door, perilously close to my own nose.

Whoa!

I didn't need to think about this one at all: I back-handed the bear right in his big brown in-my-tent snout!

That got his attention! He stared right at me, mano-a-bearo, and some kinda surprised. But he backed off again and began to pace furiously back and forth, grunting and snorting and making more awful noises.

Oh crap, I thought. Now I've done it. Who the hell smacks a bear in the nose and lives to tell about it?

But you know, after a few more minutes of pacing about. Mr. Bear wandered off for good. I guess I'd hurt his feelings. And maybe his nose.

Maybe he was thinking along the same lines as me as I dropped back onto my sleeping bag, exhausted and shaking from the encounter: Smacking a bear in the nose was never on my to-do list! And getting smacked by some hiker was likely never on his!

The morning after my encounter with Mr. Bear.
Carey Kish photo

Last Friday's hike started out pretty much just as it had for the prior 14 days: Hoist the pack onto the back, strap on the camera, grab the trekking poles, and head on up the trail.

Hiking the last couple miles of the Cohos Trail. That's Canada up ahead on the ridgetop.
Carey Kish photo

But the finish to the day a few hours later would be anything but normal.

Because when I walked out of the woods early that afternoon, lo and behold, there were about 50 people gathered at the US-Canada border station at Pittsburg, New Hampshire! It was quite a heartwarming sight after 162 miles and 15 days of trudging along on the magnificent route that is The Cohos Trail.

Officials from a number of northern New Hampshire towns, several Canadian towns, members of The Cohos Trail Association, the Sentiers frontaliers, news media from both countries, various and sundry trail supporters, and members of the public turned the scene into quite a celebration.

An international party at the US-Canada border crossing, Pittsburg, NH.
Photo courtesy Carey Kish

And we all had much to celebrate!

Besides my completing the Cohos Trail fundraising thru-hike, Canadian hiker Eric Lacoursiere had also just completed walking the 80 km of the Les Sentiers Frontaliers, a new and mostly complete hiking trail extending thru Canada from the border at Coburn Gore, Maine to Pittsburg, NH. And by doing so the two trails have been conceptually and physically linked, thereby creating a continuous 220-mile long hiking route, a monument to international cooperation.

Additionally, thanks to dozens of generous donors, something close to $2,000 was raised for The Cohos Trail and its mission to complete, maintain and improve the trail.

If you'd like to make a $$$ gift to support The Cohos Trail and this hike you can still do so. Send to: The Cohos Trail Association, c/o Peter & Lainie Castine, 266 Danforth Road, Pittsburg, NH 03592.

And that's just a start.

I say that because through the extraordinary dedication and perserverance of TCTA and its leadership I believe we have, through this hike and the associated public relations campaign, generated a new and considerably higher level of awareness of this tremendous recreational resource called The Cohos Trail. And that, I trust, will pay big dividends as this trail moves forward toward completion in the near future.

It's an exciting trail project that I'm betting you too will want to be a part of in some way big or small.

That's me on the left and Kim Nilsen, Cohos Trail visionary on the right. Lainie Castine, secretary/treasurer of The Cohos Trail Association, presented us each with CT cribbage boards that she custom made herself.
Lainie Castine photo

Cohos Trail founder Kim Nilsen leads us up the border swath toward Fourth Connecticut Lake after the gathering.
Carey Kish photo

The official end of the Cohos Trail at tiny Fourth Connecticut Lake, the source of the mighty Connecticut River, high on the US-Canada border.
Carey Kish photo

My two-week experience was an incredible one and, as you might well imagine, I've got plenty of tales to tell. But first (yes, I've taken a shower, thank you very much!), I still need to unload the car, sort out the gear, do some laundry and so forth before I get to story-telling...

Just an FYI... I'm going to be out of cell phone and Internet range pretty much for all of the next two weeks as I make my way along on the Cohos Trail through the wilds of northern New Hampshire.

I've got my camera, notebooks, books and a stash of bourbon. That, along with 14 days of solo walking up and down mountains through some lightly traveled terrain, breathing fresh air and drinking mountain water, and pushing the heart and lungs should make for a fine adventure.

I can't wait to get going. And sometime around 4 PM this afternoon I should be on my way.

I'll let you know how this latest journey shakes out upon my return. Until then, be good, have fun, be happy, live!

It's mid-summer and maybe you're thinking about getting away on the trail for a long weekend. You know, four or five days. Enough time to get into 'trail mode' and forget about the daily grind. Good head time.

You've done your share of backpacks along the AT. Been to much of the Whites. What to do next?

How about a trail you might never have heard of?

What, what, you say?

The Monadnock-Sunapee Greenway Trail!

Once beyond the crowds swarming the slopes of Monadnock you're likely to have most of the next 50 miles of terrific hiking pretty much to yourself. Now, doesn't that sound good?!

Give it a go, for a weekend or for the whole nine yards. And let me know how you make out. I'll think you'll like it.

Here's some pics from my backpack on the MSGT late last May. Enjoy!

The alpine summit of Mount Monadnock looms ahead on the White Dot Trail. It was a brutal 95 degrees that day. Sweaty hiking I tells ya.
Carey Kish photo

Greenway sign north of Mount Monadnock.
Carey Kish photo

Howe Reservoir on the first afternoon on the MSGT.
Carey Kish photo

Trailside trillium.
Carey Kish photo

Bug camp near Center Pond. Due to the dearth of blood thirsty insects here I was forced to stay in my tent outside the shelter.
Carey Kish photo

A double blue blaze indicates a very important turn in the trail.
Carey Kish photo

Tower atop Pitcher Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

Wide open walking over Jackson Hill.
Carey Kish photo

Friends Dana and Janet Thurston met me in Washington to finish the MSGT. We partook of a number of cold brews from the store's coolers. For hydration purposes, of course.
Carey Kish photo

Hiking out of the historic village of Washington.
Carey Kish photo

Good trail over Lovewell Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

Lookout on Lovewell Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

Cooking up some chow at the Moose Lookout Campsite.
Carey Kish photo

Checking out the view above Lake Solitude.
Carey Kish photo

Taking the final steps on the MSGT up Mount Sunapee.
Carey Kish photo

A week from today I'll be back on the trail again. Woo-hoo! For two glorious weeks on the Cohos Trail thru the wilds of northern New Hampshire.

Yep, starting from Willey House in Crawford Notch the 162-mile route will take me (or rather my feets and lungs will take me) over Eisenhower in the Presidential Range, Martha, Waumbek, Starr King, the Weeks and Cabot, and on through the Kilkennys.

Everything beyond that point is pretty well unknown ground to this hiker. And ain't that just sweet! The Percy Peaks, Sugarloaf, Dixville Notch, Saguinary. Lake Francis and the Connecticut Lakes. And finally the Canadian border.

Looking across First Connecticut Lake to Mt. Magalloway, Pittsburg NH, near the route of the Cohos Trail.
Carey Kish photo

All good.

Speaking of goods, the house is a disaster with food and gear and whatnot scattered about. And the cats are no help, of course. But soon everything, cat hair and all, will make its way neatly into the backpack and it'll be time to go.

This won't be an ordinary hike, however.

This trek, this 162 miles of walking, has a bigger purpose than merely spending some quality time outdoors, and getting from point A to point B.

It's a fundraising hike to raise much-needed cash for The Cohos Trail Association, overseers, protectors, maintainers, visionaries of this incredible foot trail thru the woods and mountains in the wild north country of NH.

The CTA is a heckuva group of people. I know because I met a good chunk of them last weekend up in Pittsburg NH. But they lack the precious funds to do many of the things that need doing to complete, maintain and improve the Cohos Trail.

The Cohos Trail Association board, and members of the Sentiers Frontaliers meeting at Pittsburg NH last Saturday(from left): Francois Villemaire (SF), Dan Cashman, Nancy Spaulding, Bob Paradis, Lainie Castine, Pete Castine, Kim Nilsen (Cohos Trail founder), E.H. Roy, yours truly, Gloria Blais (SF).
Carey Kish photo

Hence, the fundraising hike scheme. Can we cobble together enough pledges to fill the CTA pot with $5,000? $10,000? Maybe we can.

Here's how we hope it will come down:

The Cohos Trail is 162 miles long. And that's what I mean to hike from July 27th thru August 10th. Along with a few gallons of sweat and several pints of blood for the insects, I've pledged $162--a buck a mile--to the CTA effort.

Other healthy pledges are already coming in and I haven't even set foot on the hike yet. Great!

So what about you all? Trail lovers every one of you?

What do you say to 5 cents a mile? 10 cents? A quarter? Or match me dollar for dollar?

5 cents a mile = $8.10
10 cents a mile = $16.20
25 cents a mile = $40.50
50 cents a mile = $81.00

Anything and everything helps. It all adds up to help for a magnificent New England trail, one that's right close by and accessible to us Mainers. One that needs a little assistance carrying forth with its proud mission.

Let's give it a good push forward, shall we?

I thought you'd agree. Many thanks in advance.

To support this effort send pledges or donations to the CTA c/o:
Peter and and Lainie Castine
266 Danforth Road, Pittsburg, NH 03592

Any questions regarding the Cohos Trail thru-hike fundraiser, please contact Pete and Lainie at 603-538-6777 or email them at prospmw@localnet.com.

And if you have the time and inclination please join us at the US-Canada border on Friday afternoon, August 10th at 2 PM for a big celebration! That's when our Canadian friends from the Club de Randonnée des Sentiers Frontaliers, Francois and Gloriane, will be completing their north-of-the-border hike and meeting up with me and the CTA gang. Yep, it's going to be quite the international affair.

It's all in the name of trails and good fun. Hope you'll take part, through spirit, sweat or dollars.

Speaking of sweat, if you'd like to join me on part of the Cohos Trail, whether for a few hours or a few days, let me know and I'll email you my hike schedule.

Au revoir for now, and TGIF!

A very empty Route 3 near the Cohos Trail route on its way to the Canadian border, Pittsburg NH.
Carey Kish photo

OK, let's think out of the box for a moment, shall we? Out of that shiny metal box with four tires and a steering wheel...

Your car.

One of life's many necessities, yes. But all the time?

Consider this: You want to get out of Dodge for the weekend. Head on up to beautiful Acadia National Park for a visit. Camp in Blackwoods. Do some hiking. Bike the carriage trails. Kayak some maybe. Carouse the streets of Bar Harbor for sure.

You need you car for such a trip, right?

Maybe not.

For years it was a no-brainer for me. Load the vehicle chock full of gear and hit the road, Bar Harbor-bound 180 miles up the coast.

But times have changed some, haven't they?

Gas is $3 a gallon. Ouch! Cars are more expensive to own and maintain. Tons more traffic on the highway. And road rage. All the talk about global climate change and 'going green' and all that good stuff.

You're right, you say. But what does that have to do with getting to Acadia?

Well--hold on now--how about taking the bus?

Hey, hey, hey... now get up off the floor and stop that laughing.

The bus?

Yes, dammit.

It's possible. I know because I just did it. And it was an awesome, eye-opening, and relaxing trip. All sans car. And I'd do it again now that I know it's not only possible, but downright practical.

You see, it was like this.

I packed my backpack with the usual goods for a couple of days. And then filled a soft-sided cooler with beer, baloney and hot dogs (you didn't think I was going without beer, did you?! Silly, silly).

I then drove over to the Greyhound bus station in Portland, parked my car, bid it a fond farewell and jumped on the 3:15pm Vermont Transit bus, northbound to Bar Harbor with stops in beautiful downtown Brunswick and Bangor. (By the way, the 2:30pm bus goes thru Lewiston, Augusta and Waterville if you happen to live in those parts.)

The 3:15pm Vermont Transit bus in Portland, bound for Brunswick, Bangor and on to Bar Harbor.
Carey Kish photo

Four hours later (not a whole lot longer than if I'd driven myself) I landed in Bar Harbor. Just in time to catch the 7:15pm #3 Acadia Island Explorer bus to Blackwoods Campground.

Hopping off the Island Explorer, backpack and all, 4 hours later in Blackwoods Campground, Acadia National Park.
Carey Kish photo

I must admit it was a bit weird checking in at the ranger kiosk on foot, but that's when it started to dawn on me: This was really cool. I'm in Acadia and I don't need no stinking car.

Next I got camp set up, cooked a pot of beans and dogs, cracked a beer(s), walked down to the coast and hung out on the rocks, and generally reveled in my car-free environment.

My snug little campsite in Blackwoods. Notice anything missing? Yeah... my car!
Carey Kish photo

Evening on our magnificent coast, a five-minute walk from Blackwoods.
Carey Kish photo

You can get just about anywhere in Acadia and Mount Desert Island using the Island Explorer.
Carey Kish photo

The following morning, bus route map in hand, I joined a crowd of other trail-bound hikers and took the #3 back into town. After breakfast at Jordan's I caught a transfer on the #7 shuttle. It was going to be a hot, hazy, humid day, so some hiking in and around Echo Lake on the west side of Acadia seemed like just the ticket.

Catching the Explorer at the Town Green in Bar Harbor.
Carey Kish photo

And it was.

The scramble up the ladders on Beech Cliffs was sweet, as were the loop trails that wound for several miles on top. Beech Mountain and the firetower capped off the hike. Then it was back to Echo Lake for a late lunch and, multiple swims in the cool water and many pages of a good book in the shade.

Climbing the iron ladders of the steep and spectacular Beech Cliff Trail.
Carey Kish photo

The reward: Echo Lake from the top of Beech Cliffs.
Carey Kish photo

The old Beech Mountain firetower.
Carey Kish photo

Cooling off in Echo Lake on such a hazy, hot and humid day was awesome.
Carey Kish photo

Next stop after Echo Lake: Beers and lobster in Bar Harbor!
Carey Kish photo

The #6 bus whisked me back into town in late afternoon. Visits to the Thirsty Whale, Cadillac Mountain Sports and Sherman's Bookstore were mandatory before moving on to the Fish House Grill for a good ol' Maine lobstah dinnah.

Fatigue and a full belly urged me back onto the #3 and I was in camp and into my book amid the sweet smell of Blackwoods balsam by sundown.

The following day dawned cool and clear, a fine day for a ridge walk. The #3 left me off at the town green, and I dropped my loaded backpack and cooler off at the Bangor-Bar Harbor Shuttle office. Then I took the #3 again to Sieur de Monts where I picked up the #4, which deposited me at the trailhead for Champlain Mountain.

It was tremendous walking over pink granite through sparse jack pines. And with each step higher, wonderful views opened up. Bear Lake, The Jackson Laboratory, Bar Harbor, the islands, Schoodic and beyond.

Enjoying the ocean views from the summit of Champlain.
Carey Kish photo

Orchids high on Champlain Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

Beyond the summit it was literally all downhill and I flew across the ridge, brilliant blue ocean to my left, the bulk of Dorr and Cadillac Mountains to my right. The Bowl, a lovely high mountain pond, loomed ahead. The trail navigated along its southern edge before rising to the Beehive.

Looking down on the Beehive and The Bowl from Champlain Mountain.
Carey Kish photo

The Beehive from Sand Beach.
Carey Kish photo

Lunch was had with bare feet dangling over the cliff's edge, Sand Beach many hundreds of feet below. Post-sandwich I clambered down the impossible trail, complete with iron rungs, hand rails and ladders, before making my way out to the cool winds blowing in over Sand Beach.

Beach rose near Sand Beach.
Carey Kish photo

Sand Beach scene.
Carey Kish photo

Right on schedule the #3 got me back into Bah Habbah with plenty of time to spare (and time for a couple cold pints at the Whale). Because the Vermont Transit connection between Bar Harbor and Bangor for the return trip isn't so great (the bus returns south in the AM), I reserved a seat on the Bangor-Bar Harbor Shuttle, a new and well-run operation that got me connected with the Vermont Transit bus in Bangor.

Helen Witham, owner of the Bangor-Bar Harbor Shuttle sending me on my way.
Carey Kish photo

I was back in Portland by 9:15pm. And there, looking rather lonely and forlorn, was my little car. I dumped the gear in the trunk and cranked her up, the first time in 3 days. I like that.

So there you have it. A round-trip hiking and camping trip to Acadia National Park. Entirely by bus, no less! I know it sounds like a novelty but it shouldn't be, and it isn't. It can be done. And I'll bet you too won't even miss your car.

The cost? $65 for the Vermont Transit tickets and $25 for the Bangor-Bar Harbor Shuttle, so $90 in all.

The cost to drive by car? Roughly 180 miles x 2 = 360 + 90 dubbing around miles = 450 miles total. Divided by 25 mpg = 18 gallons x $3.00 per gallon = $54. But that's only gas and doesn't anywhere near account for the true cost of operating a car on the road.

Better is to take the federal mileage reimbursement rate of 48.5 cents per mile x 450 miles = $218.50. I did this trip alone, but if two had driven: $218.50 divided by 2 = $109.50 each.

My $90 in bus fare, therefore, is cheaper by $19.50. (Beer money!) And I didn't let tons of them wicked bad auto e-missions spoil up the atmosphere neithah!!

So what do you think? You willing to give transit a try on your next Acadia visit? To have an out-of-auto-body outdoor adventure??

The new Bike Express connects you and your bicycle directly with the island's carriage trails. Fantastic!
Carey Kish photo

It's been a long time since I've been up Boothbay Harbor way. Even longer since I've allowed myself to get caught in summer weekend traffic on Route 1 as it squeezes through Wiscasset.

But last Saturday it was totally worthwhile, and an adventure I so recommend if you're looking for yet another spot with great hiking and quiet trails.

You'll certainly find both on the diverse and scenic paths of the Boothbay Region Land Trust, which has at least 16 distinct preserves of varying acreage on the Boothbay peninsula.

After a few miles of "navigational difficulties," during which I actually did stop and ask where the "monument" was (everything seems to be waymarked from it), I found the Oven's Mouth Preserve.

The 146-acre preserve comprises the tips of two peninsulas on the Oven's Mouth River connected by a footbridge. I struck out to the west through the forest and along a salt marsh, intent on the complete 5-mile loop tracing the preserve's outer edges.

Boothbay Region Land Trust trail marker.
Photo by Carey Kish

Hiking along the Oven's Mouth River, Edgecomb.
Photo by Carey Kish

It was terrific walking! At the river docks occasionally jutted from the shore, cottages tucked into the thick trees above. Several lobster boats plied the quick waters, eddying out occasionally to check pots.

I crossed the long bridge onto the eastern peninsula and soon after came upon a harbor seal playfully floating along, snorting. I sat down on a bench (one of several placed throughout at scenic spots) and watched and enjoyed.

Circling around I recrossed the bridge and headed up the rugged inside edge of the western peninsula. As I climbed, three scenic vistas, one after another, opened up to my left revealing a long look down the salt marsh below.

Foot bridge connecting the east and west peninsulas of the Oven's Mouth Preserve.
Photo by Carey Kish

Salt marsh view, Oven's Mouth Preserve.
Photo by Carey Kish

Next stop was the Gregory Hiking Trail, which I found with less difficulty.

Photo by Carey Kish

It's a one-mile loop trail that hugs the Back River. There's numerous places to break out onto the shore and explore among the rocks and seaweed. I loved poking around the old boat washed up on the rocks mid-way along, it's wooden hull now weathered gray.

Along the East River, Gregory Hiking Trail, Boothbay.
Photo by Carey Kish

Old boat beached on the East River, Gregory Hiking Trail.
Photo by Carey Kish

The day's final hike was to Penny Lake. There's a wide ADA trail that cuts through the preserve and enables the less physically able to get out enjoy nature.

Walking the trail to Penny Lake, Boothbay Harbor.
Photo by Carey Kish

I walked the length of the trail and back, then looped around again on the preserve's narrow footpaths. The bridge crossing the creek that drains what's left of Penny Lake is a lovely spot, as is the bench placed in the high field. Facing west, it's a perfect place to watch the sun go down. Something to consider on another visit.

View over Penny Lake, Penny Lake Preserve.
Photo by Carey Kish

Wholly satisfied with the day's walking (thanks Boothbay Region Land Trust!) I trundled into Boothbay Harbor and played tourist, walking the streets amid the shops and gawking at the beautiful harbor. That is, until the Pier 1 Pub caught my eye. A couple of slices of pretty damn good pizza and a couple of cold pints of Fisherman's Brew and all was definitely well with this hiker's world.

Evening in Boothbay Harbor.
Photo by Carey Kish

Check out the trails of the Boothbay region. Make a day of it. You'll absolutely love it! And do let me know how it goes...

Have you already discovered the sweet trails around Boothbay? Which ones?

Think you know Portland's trails?

Maybe you do, maybe you don't.

There's one sure way to find out if you're catching all the great hiking spots in the fabulous Portland Trails network...

Logo courtesy of Portland Trails

Get in on the Portland Trails Discovery Treks for 2007, a series of guided walks highlighting well-known and little-known natural gems in the area.

Discovery Treks begin at 5:30 PM on selected Friday evenings throughout the summer and early autumn.

Tonight's featured walk is the "Fore River Sanctuary Dog Walk." Friendly canine pals are welcome. Meet at the Rowe Avenue entrance to the Fore River Sanctuary, off outer Brighton Avenue.

The next scheduled trek is Friday, July 6th: "The Remains of the Cumberland and Oxford Canal."

All Discovery treks are free and open to the public. Advance registration is requested, so please call Portland Trails at 775-2411 to reserve your spot for fun and discovery on the trail.

It's been a long wait and an awful lot of work by many, many hardworking trail advocates and trail groups, but the end--or the beginning as the case may be--is finally in sight.

The western portion of the Grafton Loop Trail will officially open at the end of this month. The 21 miles of new trail will complete the "loop" on a magnificent 42-mile hiking and backpacking circuit.

The western side will take hikers from Route 26 up the open ledges and alpine summit of Sunday River Whitecap before striking northward over Stowe and Bald Mountains. It will then connect with the Appalachian Trail on Old Speck.

The route will no doubt quickly become on of the premier backcountry treks in Maine, allowing hikers a variety of opportunities ranging from day hikes to 4-5 days of backpacking for those wishing to tackle the entire loop.

Brilliant! Thanks to all who helped make this dream a reality!

I, for one, can't wait to get my boots on the trail on the new piece of the Grafton Loop Trail and check it out.

What about you? Gonna pack the pack and give GLT west side a try this summer?

Hiking the east side of the Grafton Loop Trail, July 2005. The west side finally opens June 30th.
Photo courtesy Carey Kish

Give me a little spare time and I'll go happily along exploring, poking around looking for places to take a hike.

Such was the case last night while in Bangor for a couple of days doing my day job. After dinner out, and with the light fading fast, I drove to Brown Woods on outer Ohio St. near the edge of town.

Trailhead for Brown Woods, off Ohio St., Bangor.
All photos by Carey Kish

I was the only car in the little dirt parking lot. Perfect.

On with the fleece vest and it was off up the trail, following a winding path through the forest of pine and hemlock, oak, ash and birch.

A pinkish hue daubed the sky between the darkened treetops. The air was cool and fresh with the spring night. Steps down the path were muffled by the soft earth.

Pathway through Brown Woods.

A half mile or so in a side trail led left over some slabs and ledges to an abandoned quarry. As I drew close the peepers let loose in earnest with their cacophony.

Gray walls of crumbling rock rose up in the background, a shallow pond rippled at my feet.

The "Chin Chat" pit. What a sight. A sight that took me back decades.

Abandoned quarry, Brown Woods.

You see, I guess I forgot to mention that the trailhead to Brown Woods is but a half mile from where I grew up for a good part of my misguided youth. Back then it was just woods, with deer trails and snowmobile trails running willy-nilly through it.

But it was my woods. My little patch of wilderness. And I knew it completely. Through years of hiking and snowshoeing and skiing and exploring.

I built my first lean-to back in there, along an old fence line. My first tree house in a sprawling white pine above a plantation of young pines, grown now into a thick forest.

I scaled the walls of the quarry, at first foolishly unroped. Then later with shiny new climbing gear that I hadn't a clue how to use.

Then I figured out the rappelling down part, and with friends, spent many hours zipping down the cliff face like bigtime mountaineers. We even set up a wild zipline and a Tyrolean traverse once.

Somewhere in here I know I used up at least a couple of my nine lives. Certainly when I fired off both barrels of a friend's shotgun at the same time and drove myself backward into a rock wall.

Kids!

Ah, those halycon days. Catching frogs. Watching birds. Climbing rocks. Wandering through the woods. Camping out under the stars. Hot dogs and canned beans over a campfire (and in later years six-packs of Schlitz and bottles of Boone's Farm and possibly other substances. But I digress...)

It all came rushing back to me in a short hour's walk through Brown Woods. Fond, fond memories of childhood fun in a special place that helped to forge this man's eternal love for the woods and curiosity for exploring.

It was dark when I reached the car, but I'm sure it couldn't hide the big grin on my face.

Life is good, ain't it?!

There's lots of cool places to hike and bike in the Bangor area, so if you're ever up that way, stop in and take a good look-see around.

What about you? Got memories of a special place outdoors that you enjoyed as a kid?

What a beautiful, beautiful weekend! Cool, clear and bright... one to remember come the dog days of August.

Saturday I returned to Peary Mountain in Brownfield to complete the hike I started a couple weeks ago, but cut short due to camera problems. I retraced my steps to the south summit, about a mile of moderate walking.

Views to Kearsarge North and Mt. Washington from south summit of Peary Mountain, Brownfield.
All photos by Carey Kish

The big granite bench was there to greet me, and plunking down, I was once again treated to a mountain panorama that ranged from Mount Chocurua to Mount Washington to the Royces in Evans Notch. Snow still streaked the flanks of the big Rockpile. What a day to be up there!

Here, on Peary, I had lunch guests: black flies. Not many and not too bad, but still you know there's more to come. So I bugged up with juice and took care of the minor annoyance.

Bluets on the trail to Peary Mountain.

This time all went well with the new mini-tripod. Nothing like having fully charged batteries to help with the picture taking!

The north summit is another 15 minutes along the ridge. The trail there is less worn, but if you stick to the ridge it's straightforward.

Once on top there's a fabulous view of sprawling Pleasant Mountain. It's well worth the extra effort.

Pleasant Mountain from the north summit of Peary.

Back to the car I trundled up Route 113 to Fryeburg and slid into the Jockey Cap Country Store & Motel. It's the trailhead for Jockey Cap, a short, fun climb that I hadn't done since my rock climbing days a few years back.

The trail up Jockey Cap starts in-between the Jockey Cap store and motel.

I took the old trail to the right that parallels the road, then shoots up the dome at a steep grade. I could just as easily have clambered up the left side. Either way, it's 10 minutes, maybe 15 and you're up. You can't beat the views for the brief effort.

The cliffs of Jockey Cap through the trees on the hike up.

And owing to the unique profile survey monument on top, dedicated to Admiral Robert E. Peary himself (a Fryeburg resident from 1878-79), you can identify every peak large and small in a 360-degree circle. It's a must-see!

The unique profile survey monument on top of Jockey Cap, dedicated to Admiral Robert E. Peary, the famed polar explorer.

Thanks to the monument it's possible to identify all the mountains in a 360-degree arc.

Ice cream and a cold beverage at the store below capped off a fine day on the trail.

Sunday was a different day, a day of outdoor-related stuff, but little physical activity. Got to have 'em every now and then.

The trunk of the car was unloaded, and out came snowshoes, ice ax, ski boots and poles, crampons.

Off came the ski rack. On went the kayak rack.

Out came the chainsaw for a good test run, along with tools and safety gear, bar oil and gas et al, for next weekend's maintenance trip to East Carry Pond to knock out the blowdowns on my section of the AT.

Then the backpack was loaded up with gear for a long Memorial Weekend hike.

And so the day went, interspersed with the occasional Corona with lime to keep the thirst at bay. All good.

What was your weekend in the outdoors like?

Anybody know the scoop on Admiral Peary's time in Fryeburg? I'm curious to know that bit of history.

The venerable AMC White Mountain Guide, the hiker's bible to more than 500 wonderful trails, is 100 years old this year.

Woo-hoo!

Photo courtesy Appalachian Mountain Club

Good cause for celebration, wouldn't you say? (As if we needed an excuse!)

Given that, the Appalachian Mountain Club is inviting guidebook afficionados, hikers and outdoor enthusiasts alike to a celebratory event at the AMC Highland Center atop Crawford Notch next Wednesday, May 9th starting at 7PM.

Longtime guidebook editors Gene Daniell and Stevn Smith will be on hand to give a presentation and to sign guidebooks, which will be available for sale.

Maybe see you there?!

I just got a copy of the new guide and it looks terrific. AMC has not only updated the trail information, but the guide format as well. Six new high-tech color maps are included.

And later this summer AMC will launch