Hiking The International Appalachian Trail

Sentier International des Appalaches -- International Appalachian Trail
The official website with information, books, maps, and guides.

June 6 - I had enlisted the services of my sister to deliver me to the beginning of the hike in Maine. My plan was to start at Abol Bridge outside of Baxter State Park and hike to Millinocket, Maine, where I would meet Rainman. Meanwhile, he would climb Katahdin before coming to town. I didn't want to climb that mountain. I'd done it two years before when I completed hiking the Appalachian Trail, and I hadn't liked it at all. There was no way I was climbing it again! But on the way to Abol, we came across Rainman hiking along the road to Baxter Park. We shoehorned him and his pack into our already overloaded car, intending to drop him at his destination and continue to my starting point.

I don't know how he did it, but before long I found myself agreeing to climb Katahdin with him. Suddenly I was standing at Site #24 of Roaring Brook Campground - not at all where I'd planned to be - watching my sister drive away. I looked at Rainman. "Well, here we are," he said, and I wondered how the next two months would go with this person I'd never before hiked with.

After setting up our tents, we took a short walk to Sandy Spring Pond. The sun reflected brightly off the lake as it inched its way closer to Katahdin. Even the hoards of blackflies couldn't drive us away from the view, though our hands constantly flailed about our heads.

Finally the reward we sought came into view. A young bull moose worked his way around the edge of the lake, munching on his grassy dinner. Closer and closer he came, until he was a mere 20 feet from our rock perch. Whispering, we watched as he eyed us and kept browsing nonchalantly. Farther down the shoreline, a cow moose emerged from the trees and nibbled her way along until she, too, was just yards away. Thrilled with a moose sighting on the very first day, I decided that sometimes it's better if things don't go as planned.

June 7 - In the morning Rainman and I borrowed a daypack from the Roaring Brook ranger station. We packed it with water, food, and first aid supplies. Knowing that it could be quite windy and cold at the summit, I managed to also cram in my fleece jacket and hat. The ranger told us that our packs could be shuttled to the ranger station where we planned to descend, on the other side of the mountain.

We started down Chimney Pond Trail at 7 a.m. A pleasant hike brought us to Chimney Pond where we paused for a rest and a snack. Encircling the far side of the pond was the sheer wall of Great Basin, green with lichen and spotted with snow.

From Chimney Pond we picked up the Cathedral Trail. If there's one thing I learned from my 2001 AT hike, it's that I have a very strong dislike of rock climbing. Now I faced two miles of nearly vertical scrambling in a jungle gym of huge rocks. For three hours we pulled ourselves up that trail. My arms were sore, my legs were shaking, and the palms of my hands burned from the abrasive rock surface.

At last we reached the summit sign on Baxter Peak, the spot that had marked the end of my last journey. This time it marked the beginning. We were now officially on our way.

Noticing an approaching cloud, we decided to get moving down from the wide-open exposure of the mountaintop. Abol Trail meandered across the Tableland for a short distance, then suddenly plunged straight down a rock slide. The gritty rocks were smaller than the ones on Cathedral Trail, and the trail itself was not as steep, so we seemed to be making good time. Still, we were some distance from treeline when we first heard the thunder.

It's a tough decision in such a situation: Do we take deliberate steps and risk dancing with lightning, or do we hurry and risk tumbling headlong down the mountain? My knees were sore and my legs were shaking with fatigue so I couldn't go much faster. I decided to keep moving steadily and take the most direct route over the rocks instead of the easier route around.

Eventually, the large rocks thinned out, but then the trail surface was littered with grainy dirt and loose rocks, which skidded under our feet. At the lower elevation, blackflies began attacking, flying into our eyes and ears. Not quite to treeline, I felt the first raindrops.

It didn't hold back. The rain let loose and poured. I was blinded by the sweat washing into my eyes. By the time we reached the cover of the trees, we were drenched. I trudged along, slower and slower, my strength completely drained, my legs moving only through sheer willpower. I was never so happy to see a lean-to as when we finally hiked into Abol Campground.

We dropped our things in our reserved lean-to and hobbled to the ranger station to return the borrowed daypack and pick up our packs. A glance around the screened-in porch revealed no packs. There was no ranger currently on duty, and the office was locked. We peered in the windows. No packs. We looked at each other. "This doesn't look good," I said grimly.

We sat down to wait. We read all the signs posted on the wall. We watched the rain. We shivered. We walked back to our lean-to, thankful that we had put our warm fleece in the daypack that morning and that Rainman had wrapped them in his raincoat to keep them dry. We nibbled some of the snacks we had left, and returned to the ranger station.

We sat down to wait. We read all the signs on the wall. We watched the rain. We shivered. We watched dayhikers return to their cars and leave the park. Then we walked back to our lean-to.

On the way, we passed near some car campers who were cooking dinner and enjoying a nice campfire. We were still cold, hungry, and wet, and I decided it was time to turn on the yogi charm. I approached the campers. "Hi! Did you guys do some hiking today? Did you get caught in the storm?" I inquired.

"We sure did," replied the father, continuing with the story of their day, which I didn't hear much of since I was intent on my mission.

Rainman chimed in, "We got caught in it, too. Our packs were supposed to be shuttled over here for us, but they're not here."

"Yeah, we're cold, wet, and hungry, and not sure what we're going to do," I added.

It didn't work. Apparently these folks had not been to trail angel school. They didn't offer any food or even a spot by their nice, warm fire, so we wandered on to our lean-to.

On our next foray to the ranger station, the campers were leaving in their truck and offered to take a message to the first ranger they saw. We sat on the porch some more and finally, after three hours of waiting, a ranger drove in. We explained the situation and she used the radio to locate our packs, which had been delivered to the wrong campground. Then she was kind enough to drive over and pick them up for us. At last - food, dry clothes, warm sleeping bags!

Baxter State Park --- If you plan to visit Baxter State Park, check out their official site first. Reservations for camping must be made far in advance.

June 10 - If there are doubts about the character of people in these times, one should undertake a long hike. There must be something about the sight of a weary hiker lugging around 40 pounds that just brings out the best in people.

Don & Joan Cogswell have operated the AT Lodge in Millinocket, Maine, since 1986. They love the hikers who stay with them, and they provide everything a hiker needs: a soft bed, wash cloth and towel, and a shower supplied with soap and shampoo. Don remembered me from my 2001 hike and was thrilled to see me again. It was like coming home. Rainman and I didn't see him when we left in the morning, but as we hiked out of town on Route 157, a pickup truck pulled off the road ahead of us. Don had chased us down because he just couldn't let us leave without saying goodbye.

Four miles north of Medway, Maine, on Route 11, is Pine Grove Campground and Cottages. Mike Boutin has been the owner since 1999 and is working hard on improvements to the previously run-down facility. It was quiet when we walked in; the only signs of life were a couple of campers and the resident potbelly pig, Molly. Rain was expected that night, so in the office we asked Mike how much a cottage would cost.

"I'll put you in the big cottage," he said. "It's normally $65, but what do you think would be a fair price?"

We looked at each other and stammered, "Uh, well, we paid $34 in Millinocket."

"Then that's what it will be," he declared, leading us to the gambrel-roofed cottage on the bank of the Penobscot River. He even included a free box of laundry detergent.

I am having quite a bit of trouble with blisters so Rainman and I have agreed to a compromise on the long roadwalk in Maine. We hike until my feet scream in agony, then we hitchhike the rest of the way to our destination in order to stay on schedule. We've met the nicest people while hitching.

From North Woods Trading Post into Millinocket, we rode with Fred and Moyra from New Brunswick. They gave us tips about the upcoming trail through that province, and we offered hints and information about the Appalachian Trail for Fred's future AT hike. When Rainman's water filter turned up missing the next day, we suspected it had fallen out of the pack in the back of Fred's car. Sure enough, when I checked my email, there was a message from Fred. He had found the filter and offered to mail it to us at a town ahead.

On the day we were to reach Patten, Maine, we decided to hitch in early so my feet would have the greater part of the day to heal. We got a ride with Jeff, even though he was only going a few miles down the road. Jeff had lost his job due to the closing of the Sherman Mill and is currently studying to get his CDL and become a truck driver. Such a friendly and generous young man, he ended up driving us all the way to Patten, ten miles out of his way.

As we hike past houses, our slow pace allows us to exchange a few words with the people in their yards. We stopped one morning to chat with Carl Hunt, a registered Maine guide, at his little homestead. The block and tackle normally used to hang game was, on this June day, the support for a hanging garden of tomato plants in five-gallon buckets. Nearby, a row of beans marched in straight formation across a tidy garden. Rainman asked what he guided hunts for.

"Oh, anything," Carl replied in his thick Maine accent. "Deer, moose, bay-ah. Got good luck with bay-ah."

"What area do you cover?"

"Just around he-yah."

Carl also gathers fiddleheads in the spring to sell locally. This year he foraged 80 buckets of the delicacy.

June 8-June 17 - Most of the trail in Maine is on roads because permission to cross private land is difficult to obtain. Roadwalking makes for a long day; the road stretches out ahead seemingly forever, and it is hard to recognize any progress.

We hit the road on Sunday, as we left Abol Campground on the dirt park road. Exiting the park, the road changed from dirt to asphalt, but it was quiet and pleasant - except for the cloud of black flies and mosquitoes that followed us. We hiked 14 miles to North Woods Trading Post where we caught a hitch the rest of the way to Millinocket.

I was slow to get moving on Monday. My leg muscles were swollen, stiff, and sore, and I had several blisters growing on my feet. The walk out of town on Rt. 157 was not at all pleasant. The road passed through a retail area, and traffic was heavy. Beyond the restaurants and shopping centers, traffic speed picked up. Logging trucks roared by at 60 mph; the blast of wind in their wake knocked us aside and swirled fine gravel into our faces. After five miles, we'd had enough. We caught a ride to Medway, five miles away, where the trail turned onto the much quieter Rt. 11.

On Tuesday, we continued northward on Rt. 11. For awhile the road followed alongside the Penobscot River, then traveled through forest and swamp and finally meandered through farmland. We amused ourselves by identifying the flowers along the way - Bunchberry, Jack-in the Pulpit, Lady's Slipper, Solomon's Seal. I enjoyed tracking the dusty outlines of moose prints as they wandered on and off the asphalt. It was hot and sunny; the mosquitoes and blackflies were relentless. Tractor-trailer rigs roared by carrying wood chips and smelling like Christmas.

As the day wore on, I dragged along more and more slowly. My blisters rubbed and the soles of my feet burned from the hot pavement. I was ready to stop for the day, but we didn't have enough water to make camp. I trudged along, head down and beginning to feel grumpy. Finally, I looked up and said, "We're going to that house over there."

"Why?" wondered Rainman.

"To ask for water!"

We did, and the homeowner was quite happy to help us out. Thus supplied, we were free to search out a campsite. We camped about a mile later, behind a clump of trees in a meadow that smelled of mint.

We started hiking as usual on Wednesday, but soon decided that my feet needed time to heal. We hitched into Patten, Maine, got a motel room, and spent the day relaxing and healing.

Thursday was "Roller-Coaster Day." Once again heading north on Rt. 11, the road repeatedly led us up and down huge hills for about nine miles. Logging trucks thundered by, saw logs going north and pulp wood going south. Two feet of shoulder isn't near enough when these rigs fly past, and we were glad to finally reach the point where the trail turns off of Rt. 11 onto a much quieter road.

Moro Road presented more roller coaster hiking, and it seemed as if we would never find the campsite. We were certain that someone must have moved it. Finally, after about eight miles on this road, we found the sign for camp. Another half-mile climb along the edge of a field brought us to Roach Farm Campsite and Lean-to, a lovely, quiet hilltop site on the border between field and forest.

Friday dawned hot and sunny again. We continued on the road, which took us through the village of Smyrna Mills, past Amish homesteads, and twice underneath I-95. We were making good time, so after lunch at Brookside Restaurant we took a long, relaxing break under a maple tree in a cemetery. Fourteen and a half miles brought us to the turn-off for the dry campsite. The first house after turning is the water source for the camp further up the hill. The Heminways saw us coming and greeted us enthusiastically, excited to meet the first hikers of the year. After visiting for a bit, we climbed to Wright Farm Campsite and Lean-to, nestled cozily under a communication tower. The view across the valley was fantastic, and to the south Katahdin was still visible through the haze.

Saturday morning we rose to a steady, 50-degree rain. After days of sweltering in the sun, we were now soaked and shivering. Rain ran into my eyes, down the back of my raincoat, and down my arms to pool inside my water-resistant mittens. My blisters bumped against my boots with each step. All I could do was shuffle along miserably and shiver. I just wanted to get to someplace warm and dry.

Rainman was concerned and kept asking if I was cold. After stopping yet again to wait for me to hobble up, he suggested, "We could pick up the pace if you want. It would help keep you warm."

"If I could walk any faster, don't you think I would?" I snapped.

At the intersection where the trail turns onto another road, we kept going straight, heading off-trail to the town of Houlton two miles away. I didn't think anyone would pick up two dripping hikers, but a retired gentleman stopped for us and delivered us to the Scottish Inn a mile on the other side of town.

After showering and getting warmed up, our goal was to get to the laundromat and the shoe store downtown. The motel desk clerk said that a taxi would cost at least $8, but there was a man living at the motel who would take us for just $5. That was fine with us, and arrangements were made.

Presently, Ralph emerged from his room. Diminutive and hunched over his cane, the 85-year-old retired railroad worker tottered to his car and disappeared behind the steering wheel. Rainman and I slipped into the back seat.

"So you want to go to the laundromat and the shoe store?" asked Ralph.

"That's right."

"Where do you want to go first?"

"Doesn't matter. Either one."

"The laundromat and the shoe store?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Which one first? They're right next to each other."

"OK," said Rainman. "Why don't you drop me at the laundromat, take her to the shoe store, then pick me up at the laundry in an hour."

"Yeah, they're right there together. In an hour?"

"Right. Come back to the laundromat in an hour."

"At the laundromat?"

"Yes."

"OK. I'll take you to the laundromat and take her to the shoe store, then I'll just wait in the parking lot."

"That would be great, Ralph."

Believe it or not, we actually did get our laundry done, and I got a pair of light, flexible shoes that I hope will be kinder to my feet on these roadwalks and allow my blisters to heal. Back at the motel, we met Eric, another IAT hiker. He is young and obviously traveling faster than we are, so we may no longer be the leaders of the year's hike.

In order to get back to the trail on Sunday, we had to walk 2.5 miles to the other side of town. There we finally got off the road and hiked on the abandoned B&A railroad bed. It was a tough day. My feet hurt, and the effort to walk without further irritating my blisters was exhausting. By the time we'd hiked another 13.5 miles, I was wiped out.

We camped below a bridge over the Meduxnekeag River. As soon as the tent was up, I crawled in and fell asleep. I didn't want to get back out, and I didn't feel like eating. Rainman's dinner smelled good, though, so I had a few bites; then we cooked the milkweed we had gathered for fresh greens.

Shortly after we settled in for the night and the light had begun to grow dim, we were startled by the sound of boulders being dropped into the river. Ke-blump! Rainman went to investigate and laughed to see river beavers hurtling themselves into the river like cannonballs. We drifted to sleep listening to the creatures splashing and playing in the water.

It was cold and rainy overnight, but Monday brought hot sun again. We continued on the rail-trail about ten miles to Bridgewater. My feet felt like ground meat. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so we decided to hitch to Ft. Fairfield and lay up for awhile. The fellow at the Bridgewater convenience store assured us there were several motels in the town ahead.

We headed north on the main road to Ft. Fairfield with our thumbs out. There was a lot of traffic, but no one seemed to want to see us. After half an hour we were finally picked up by a trail angel who went at least 15 miles out of her way to deliver us to downtown Ft. Fairfield.

We didn't see any motels, so we went into the post office to pick up our supply boxes. Inquiring about lodging, we learned that, in fact, there were no motels in that town. Before we could wonder what to do, Craig, the postmaster, was on the phone locating a place for us to stay.

"You're in luck," he said as he hung up the phone. "There's a horse camp two miles out of town where my wife keeps her horse. The owner says you're welcome to stay, no charge. If you give me just a minute, I'll drive you out there."

So we ended up camped on a lovely grassy lawn, surrounded by the comforting sounds and smells of horses, as well as the sheep and cows next door. Craig's wife, Pat, was there, and we enjoyed sharing horse talk. Steve, the camp owner, bent over backwards to accommodate us, and his wife, Sarah, brought us homemade cinnamon rolls.

I am feeling very discouraged. The roadwalks, and even the rail-trails, have been long and tedious. My feet can't heal with these mileages we've been doing. The distances on-trail often turn out to be farther than those given in the guides, and we've had no map for this part of the hike, so planning has been difficult. I feel that my hobbling is holding Rainman back, and I don't want him to be sorry he invited me. We're thinking about taking a zero day here at the horse camp so I can regain some strength. When we leave here, we will be crossing the border into New Brunswick, Canada.

June 17 - Rainman & I decided that we would take a zero day at the horse camp. My feet need all the time off they can get, and the farm was the perfect place for a lay-up. We had the run of the place and felt as welcome as family.

It was a lovely, lazy day. Rainman helped install a picket fence. Then I asked Steve if there were a couple of bicycles we could use to go to town.

"Sure, we have some we bought back in '73," he answered. "Let's get them out and look them over."

He crawled into the attic of a storage shed and handed down four dusty bicycles. It was really more trouble than I expected him to go to, but Steve is always ready to go above and beyond. We eyed the bikes, all of which had cracked, dry-rotted tires.

"Hmm," said Steve. "Here, you folks just take my truck into town and do whatever you need to do."

So we drove to town, did our chores, and returned to the farm for a relaxing afternoon. We sauntered down to gaze at the Aroostook River and admired Steve's huge black Percheron. We watched a horse training session and some riding lessons. We visited with the many people who stopped by to say hello. We ended the day with ice cream and conversation in Steve and Sarah's family room. The Rocking S Ranch is truly a special place full of special people.

June 18 - In the morning Steve piled our packs in his truck and delivered us to the customs station at the border. We checked in with the American side, then got our passports stamped on the Canadian side. With that official approval, we were free to continue on the trail, straight up the boundary strip.

We bounced back and forth between the US and Canada as we pushed our way through hip-high weeds and fields of lupines. It was slow going; then we reached the bog. There was no avoiding it. We tried to step from hummock to hummock, but mostly we just slopped through, tripping over hidden logs. When the boundary strip emerged from the trees into open fields, it was difficult to tell which way the trail went. Finally we gave up and just headed straight for the Aroostook River. Then we turned right on a road, passed through a gate, and set our watches ahead one hour. We were in New Brunswick.

We were on the road just a short while before we found the cleared section of the Tinker Line rail-trail. After lunch under a highway bridge, though, the trail led us through a sand and gravel yard, became weedy, and suddenly disappeared in a wash. Bushwhacking up an overgrown bank, we returned to the road until we came across the New Brunswick Trail, a nicely maintained rail trail.

Now we were on a smooth, even treadway, and we pushed hard to reach Perth-Andover before the post office closed. We made it with 15 minutes to spare and lightened our packs by bouncing some items to a post office ahead where we will pick them up in two weeks.

Since the post office was closing, employee Susan was able to drive us to Baird's Campground, two miles south of town. Rain was forecast, and we asked about renting a lean-to instead of tenting.

"I have something better than that, same price," declared the camp owner. "Come see if it's something you'd like."

We looked, and we liked it, so we spent the night in a semi-permanent tent with a rounded top that gave it the look of a Conestoga wagon. It had a solid floor with indoor/outdoor carpet and a soft, cushiony futon to sleep on.

Know Before You Go --- Information about crossing the international border between Maine and New Brunswick, Canada

June 19 - Nothing seems to be helping my feet. I switch between boots, shoes, and sandals; each offers some relief, but each causes its own set of problems. The heel blister that seemed to be healing dried out and cracked after a day in sandals and started hurting again. The tiny blister between my first two toes never gets a chance to dry and cool; it develops blisters under blisters and has grown to span the base of my second toe and is reaching toward the ball of my foot. The dead skin has sloughed off, revealing angry-looking new skin underneath.

The burning and aching of my feet kept me from falling asleep, and as we started out for a long day, I wondered how I would ever manage to hobble 18 miles. Rainman noticed my discomfort and asked if I wanted to hitch ahead to town and wait while he hiked in. I didn't, but after a few minutes I realized this is a ridiculous place to hike in pain. The rail-trails are pleasant, but monotonous. I want my feet to have a chance to heal so I can enjoy the mountain trails when we get to Quebec.

Of course, once I decided to hitch, there was suddenly no traffic on the road. Eventually Neal, a Freightliner salesman, stopped to pick me up, and Rainman was left to hike alone for the day. On the way to town, a doe and her tiny spotted fawn crossed the road in front of the car - the most wildlife I've seen in days.

Neal delivered me to the grocery store parking lot in downtown Plaster Rock. There I was, alone in a strange town - in a "foreign" country - with the whole day stretching ahead of me. I wandered over to the Little League bake sale near the store entrance and bought some banana bread. Then I plunked a "looney" - a one-dollar coin - into the machine for a Pepsi and considered how I would spend the day.

I had the name and address of a trail friend in town, which is where Rainman and I planned to find each other at the end of the day. If I could locate the address, I thought, I could at least leave my pack there, with a note if no one was home, while I explored the town. Inquiring inside the grocery, I was happy to learn I was barely more than a block from the street I sought.

I found the street and the house, and as I trudged up the driveway I found Mike MacAfee waving a welcome from the back yard. I explained the situation. Next thing I knew, I was sitting at the picnic table with my feet soaking in hot epsom salt water.

I never did explore the town, for I found plenty of entertainment right where I was. Mike's ten-year-old daughter, Margaret, was in and out several times on her bicycle. The little neighbor boys, Dillon and Colin, scampered about searching for specimens to add to their spider collection. At lunchtime Mike insisted that I join them for sandwiches. Most of the time I spent in the lounge chair in the yard, snoozing and healing.

Close to six o'clock, Mike came out of the house and said he'd be back in a few minutes.

"Where are you going?" wondered Margaret.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," was all he would say.

Shortly he returned, and with him was Rainman, who had telephoned from the edge of town. Rainman looked so worn out. The day had stretched into a 23-mile day, and I was glad I hadn't tried to hike it.

After a delicious dinner and spirited conversation, we accepted Mike's offer and spent the night in his spare room, out of the rain, which was falling once again.

June 20-22 - After a breakfast of pancakes and eggs with our gracious host, Rainman and I continued our trek on Friday morning. The trail now rejoined the road, so we walked north on Rt. 385 past miles of houses and camps. It was hot, and the black flies and mosquitoes were out in force. We walked and walked. Rainman was tired from the previous day's long hike, so when a gentleman offered us a ride, we gladly accepted.

The distance to Blue Mountain Campground turned out to be longer than we had figured. We get our trail information from several different guides, which rarely agree on mileages; the maps don't help much at all. It is aggravating because, when the trail follows a road, there is no reason to not have accurate mileages.

We were assigned a secluded, but bug-infested, campsite at Blue Mountain Campground, where we quickly took refuge in the tent. Hungry mosquitoes crowded on the outside of the tent netting, watching us intently and waiting for one of us to inadvertently roll up against the net where they could reach us. Neither of us wanted to leave our safe haven for dinner. In the end, Rainman was brave enough to go outside to cook, and I went out to wash pots afterward. Then we lay in the tent and listened to the other campers whoop it up at a party on the river, with loud voices and loud music until after midnight. It wasn't a restful night.

Saturday morning was chilly enough to hike with gloves on, but the day soon warmed up to be another scorcher.

We were excited because, by chance, we had hiked ourselves into the area on the weekend of the Fiddles on the Tobique Festival. Every year on this weekend, fiddle players float down the Tobique River accompanied by revelers in hundreds of canoes. It sounded as if it would be a grand spectacle.

We hiked several hours until we found an area on the riverbank designated for viewing. We joined the crowd of people there, half of whom had canoes at the ready to join in when the flotilla reached that spot.

When the word went out that the first canoes were rounding the bend, everyone surged toward the river's edge to get a good look. Dozens of colorful canoes and a couple of decorated floats drifted by, too far away for us to hear much of the fiddling.

When the last canoe had gone by, we went on up the road to the lean-to behind Bill Miller's house. Bill is a third-generation canoe builder, and we hoped to chat with him and see some of his work. On this afternoon, though, he was far too busy coordinating the festival, and we never did get to talk with him.

In Bill's front yard were tents and RVs of folks who had come for the festival. In the backyard, tables were set up under a tent, and a cookout was underway. The meal was the best part of the day and included roast pork, beef, ham, and turkey, deep-fried turkey, and bean-hole beans.

Rainman and I felt a bit out of place, so we loaded our plates and retreated to the shelter. I anticipated some fiddle playing later in the evening, but soon after the music started, an RVer cranked up his generator. I was too tired to walk back up to the tent, so I gave up trying to listen and just went to bed.

Sunday morning we set off on a quiet road with nice, wide shoulders. We soon left the houses behind and entered a wilder-looking area of meadows grown up in brush and spruce. It was nice to have something to look at other than buildings, but I became blinded to the beauty as the sun rose higher and beat down mercilessly.

I had expected these road walks to meander through shady woods, but there were no trees close enough to cast any shade on the road at all. The road surface softened in the heat, and our hiking poles stuck when they touched down. My shoes picked up tar, then flung gravel up the backs of my legs when I moved over to walk on the shoulder.

Early in the afternoon, I could feel the blister on my little toe beginning to form again and my right knee started to hurt. I'd just begun to think about hitching a ride when a pickup truck came from behind and pulled over. It was a couple with whom we had visited at Miller's the night before. They gave me a lift to Mt. Carleton Park, and Rainman hiked on.

We were assigned to a lovely site at Franquelin Campsite, and there was no charge because we are IAT hikers. The tent platform was nestled under the trees; a short path led directly to Big Nictau Lake.

It's early in the season, so it was peaceful with few other campers in residence. The mosquitoes, however, were horrendous. Cooking and eating dinner was a major battle, and we retreated to the tent as soon as possible. Once inside, the skirmish continued until every mosquito that had sneaked in with us was dead.

Fiddles on the Tobique --- History of the event and schedules for the current year

June 24 - The hike was beginning to take its toll on me. Day after day of pounding out the miles on endless roads in 90-degree heat, under relentless sun, was draining my energy.

The bugs were maddening. Black flies apparently have an anti-coagulant in their bite. I didn't always feel them bite, and once they'd gotten their fill they flew away, leaving a wound that continued to trickle blood. They especially liked my ears. The mosquitoes were plentiful and persistent. I was covered, head to toe, with red bites; my arms were lumpy and misshapen. I itched all over. The glands around my ears were swollen - an immune reaction, I assumed, to the bites.

I was greasy and smelly. We washed up and rinsed out our clothes every evening, but every morning we slathered on sunscreen and insect repellent and started sweating right away. I longed to have really clean clothes, but our last two towns didn't have a laundromat.

Then there were my feet. I thought they were finally getting toughened up, but after more than 200 miles I suddenly got four new blisters on my left foot. I was flabbergasted; I just didn't know what to do with them. Along with the blisters was the general ache of tired feet - muscles, ligaments, and joints strained from carrying 30 extra pounds on hard surfaces all day.

Logistics were a challenge. Towns were often farther apart than I could comfortably hike in a day, and it was difficult to find a suitable stealth camp along the road because of all the houses. The fact that the mileages in our guides were sometimes shorter than in reality was especially frustrating and required that our planning be extra flexible.

I kept telling myself that it would all be much better when we got off the roads and onto real trails in Quebec. But day after day, the frustrations seemed to pile themselves into my pack and make my load heavier with every step.

Rainman was very patient, but he likes to keep moving, and I didn't want to hold us back, so I kept trudging mechanically, head down and eyes locked on the rhythmic motion of his feet in front of me. In towns he likes to walk around, be active, and see things; I just didn't have the energy.

I'd been trying to be a good hiking partner, trying to stay upbeat and not complain. The trail is just the way it is; the frustrations are no one's fault, and it wouldn't be fair for me to be grouchy with Rainman, so I'd been keeping it bottled up. Finally, though, it was all too much; the bottle was filled up and overflowing. I gave in and cried.

June 23 - When we checked in at Mt. Carleton Park, Rainman and I had made arrangements for a park ranger to pick us up at 9 a.m. and drive us the eight miles to the Mt. Carleton trailhead. We'd planned to climb Mt. Carleton, then hike across to Mt. Head and Mt. Sagamook and back to camp.

Nine o'clock came and went with no sign of a ranger. We sat on the picnic table and swatted mosquitoes while we waited. At 10 o'clock, exasperated, we abandoned the plan and decided to compromise with a loop hike closer to camp.

We hiked up Mt. Sagamook and down the Bald Mountain Brook trail, returning to camp with a short walk on the park road. The trail up led us through cool, shady woods. It was a steep climb, which ended with rock scrambling to the exposed summit. The trail back down followed along the edge of a mossy, cascading brook. Hiking on a real trail was such a relief after weeks on the road.

June 25-29 - From the town of Kedgwick, hikers have several options. A wilderness trail runs through the Restigouche section, so rugged that few have chosen that route. We learned that the trail there has been logged across and abandoned as an IAT route.

A second option is to follow the New Brunswick Trail. We've had our fill of roads and rail-trails, though, so we rejected that option.

The third option, which we choose, is to canoe down the Restigouche River. So after a night at the lovely La Belle Etoile bed & breakfast in Kedgwick, Rainman and I hiked a short day to Arpin Canoe Restigouche to rent a canoe. Fellow IAT hiker Eric joined us in the bunkhouse, and we spent a long afternoon relaxing and reading while we waited for our friends to arrive from Fredericton, New Brunswick.

We had met Fred and Moyra on the second day of our hike. They were visiting the Katahdin area and gave us a ride into Millinocket after we had hiked from Baxter State Park to North Woods Trading Post. They were such a fun couple, so we later decided to invite them to join us for the canoe trip. Over the next couple of weeks, through email and a few phone calls, arrangements were made.

When we invited our new friends to join us, we had no expectations beyond a few fun days on the river. But when Fred and Moyra arrived, they came bearing lobster, potato salad, and cheesecake for dinner. We were stunned. It didn't stop there. They had all the food we would need for the entire trip: steak, baked potatoes, strawberry shortcake, hot dogs, beans, a bottle of wine for each day, and a case of beer. Fred did all the cooking, even making French toast and bacon for breakfast. These folks are far beyond trail angel status - they are trail gods.

The morning after our delicious lobster dinner, we all loaded up the canoes and set off down the river. Fred and Moyra had brought their kayaks, so Eric's canoe and ours became the "freighters," loaded with our packs, several coolers, chairs, and various other camping items. Fred had grown up in the area and knows the river like the back of his hand, so we followed him as he guided us around the shallow areas and through the rapids.

The river was wide and flowing swiftly with standing waves and some white water. We did well guiding around the rocks until we came upon two big ones close together with an obstacle course of rocks on either side.

"Let's go right," I said.

"Let's try left," countered Rainman.

He steered us left and we paddled hard. "Oops! Maybe you were right," he said, and steered us right. It was too late. We didn't have time in the rushing water to make it around the right side, so we straightened and pushed for the gap between the two rocks. It was no good; the canoe lodged on the rocks, and the river pushed us sideways. I knew that sideways was not a good position in such current, and I wondered uneasily if we could free ourselves without overturning. Keeping a grip on the canoe, Rainman stepped carefully out onto one rock and lifted the craft free. It floated over and caught on the other rock. It was my turn to place my foot on the rock and shove. One shove, two shoves, and a heave. The current caught the front end, and finally we scraped through the snag safely.

We spent our first night on an island that had picnic tables and a privy. It was peaceful as we prepared our steak dinner, until a group of French-Canadian rednecks came roaring across the shallow side of the river with ATVs and trailers loaded with camping gear. We watched with dismay as they set up a huge camp next to us and turned on loud music. We decided to make the best of it and focused on our dinner.

Just as we took the first bites of strawberry shortcake, thunder started rumbling. I looked over my shoulder and saw a big dark cloud coming down the valley. Fred rushed for a tarp to hang over the table, tying the corners to the few available trees and bushes. The leading edge of the storm hit, and one corner of the tarp broke free, flapping loudly in the wind. I grabbed it and held tight, wrestling with the wind while Eric reattached the rope.

Finally we gave up and dove into our tents. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed right over our heads. Rain poured down, and the wind drove it through the netting of the tent, covering us with spray while we waited for the storm to pass. I peeked out and saw Fred and Moyra's tent leaning sideways and threatening to take flight. Our tent sprung a leak in the ridgeline, and Rainman sat holding the center of the tent up so the water would run off instead of leaking through. All I could do was lie in the puddle on the tent floor and try not to think about the fact that we were on an island and it was raining - a lot.

After an hour, the storm moved on and the wind died down. We mopped up the tent as well as we could and settled down for a damp night's sleep. The post-storm peace was soon shattered, though, as more rednecks came floating down the river to join their friends' party. More canoes arrived periodically throughout the night, each one greeted by a whoop from shore. The shouting and loud music went on all night, and none of us got much sleep.

The next day was bright and sunny, and eventually everyone's gear dried out. We feared a repeat of the previous night's party, so we decided not to stay at a regular camping area again. Instead, we searched for a stealth site along the shore. So many possible sites were accessible to ATVs, though, and others were too rocky; we kept floating and searching. It was late in the day and we all were worn out by the time we found a nice, quiet island with a grassy area for tents. I was so happy to get my feet on the ground and to crawl into bed.

The river on the third day was slower and we had headwinds, so we worked a lot harder to reach our destination. Halfway through the day we reached Matapedia, Quebec. We carried the canoes 200 meters to the spot where they would be picked up and waved goodbye to Fred and Moyra. Then we walked into town to find a motel. I was sunburned, stiff, and sore. My feet were rested, but now I had a blister on my hand.

Arpin Canoe --- Rent a canoe for a trip on the Restigouche River

June 30-July 6 - Rainman and I were happy to be in Quebec where most of the hiking would be on real trails instead of roads, but as we entered the woods we found the route to be more a scratched path than a trail. Accustomed to the well-defined Appalachian Trail, we had to watch carefully for blazes and train our eyes to see the lightly-used track. On a newly-cut trail, we climbed steeply up and down on soft, loose dirt. My hiking poles sank deeply into the duff, making them useless for support and adding to the effort to pull them free after each step.

The mileage on our first day was short, but my blisters rubbed and my knee hurt. The difficulty of the terrain exhausted me, and I collapsed in frustrated tears at the foot of Chutes du Pico, unable to appreciate the magnificence of the waterfall. As we snacked and I tried to regain some strength, a thunderstorm moved in. Wet and downhearted, I slowly climbed the dozens of wooden steps to the top of the falls only to be faced with a badly overgrown trail and, later, a trail obliterated by a new logging road.

It was discouraging, to say the least, but our spirits were lifted several miles before Turcotte Refuge when the trail crossed the end of a beaver dam.

"Look there," said Rainman, pointing.

It was a beaver, and we held our breath, expecting it to dive and disappear. Instead, it swam right up to us. It paddled figures of eight in the pool, front paws tucked in and nose high above the water. Around and around it swam, periodically slapping its tail on the water and diving, then resurfacing to eye us again. It was still circling, the guardian of the dam, when we walked away.

Clark canyon was challenging, but we had fun in it. The trail down was steep, and in some places a knotted yellow rope hung from a tree above to help us down the drop. With hiking poles dangling, I turned around and let myself down backwards, hand over hand on the rope. As the trail followed the river, it led us up and down the canyon walls and along narrow ledges. Again the bright yellow rope came into use, as a guardrail strung between two trees to keep hikers from hurtling off a ledge. The trail there was only one hiking boot wide; on the left the canyon wall went straight up and on the right, straight down. When the trail reached the canyon floor, it began snaking its way back and forth across the river. The first crossing was on a log bridge. Then came four fords within a mile. The cold, rushing water was knee deep, and we crossed with care on the slippery rocks, using our hiking poles for balance.

Finally climbing away from the river, we scrambled over rocks and roots. I heard a loud crack behind me, and I turned to see Rainman picking himself up off the trail. He had tripped on a root just as his hiking pole wedged in a hole, and the momentum pitched him forward, snapping the pole into two pieces. Fortunately, he suffered only a small cut, and he was able to fit together the two unbroken sections of the telescoping pole to create a shorter, but serviceable pole.
After leaving the canyon, we began a most exhausting section, where five miles of trail required ten miles' worth of effort. High winds had gone through the area sometime before, and we encountered one blow-down after another. In the worst stretch, we estimated twenty downed trees in a mile. The easiest of these were bare trunks across the trail, low enough to step over or high enough to duck under. Some were so tangled we beat a path around them. Sometimes the only thing to do was crawl under on our hands and knees. When the full tree top was blocking the trail, often we had to pick our way through, stepping precariously from one springy branch to the next like climbing a tree sideways.

The trail wasn't done with us yet. Before reaching the shelter, we had to negotiate a badly overgrown stretch that Rainman dubbed a "blazed bushwhack." Waist-high bracken and shoulder-high brush leaned in and effectively erased the trail. We relied on the blazes to guide the way, and I held my poles in a wedge in front of me to part the foliage so I could see what my feet were about to land on.

After 17 exhausting miles, I was certainly glad to stumble into Quartz Refuge. An old, refurbished log cabin littered with cast-off utensils and a red flannel shirt, it looked as if the ghost of a wizened old logger should be in residence. If it was, I never saw it - I was fast asleep!

Our morning warm-up was a very long, seemingly vertical climb straight up the mountain behind the cabin, without even a half-hearted attempt at switchbacks. This type of trail design seems to be common here, and the descents are just as steep, straight, and long.

Once on top, we followed the ridge for miles, part of the way through a regenerating forest fire area. The lack of large trees made possible numerous views of wooded mountains towering over the river valley. The trail was pleasant, bounded on both sides by mosses, blueberry and laurel bushes, and young birch trees.

The ridge narrowed and suddenly dropped steeply, covered with loose shale chips. The trail seemed to disappear, but an arrow painted on a rock pointed to the right. I went right along the face of the ridge, digging the edges of my boots into the soft dirt under the shale chips. I walked to a stand of bushes and couldn't see where to go next. I looked up and I looked down. I peered through the bushes for a sign of the trail on the other side. I couldn't see any indication that anyone else had gone that way, and the slope was too precarious to conduct a trail search. Finally Rainman spotted a shred of flagging tape on a bush. The trail hadn't turned right at all; it went straight down the tapering ridge to the river. We couldn't figure out why that arrow had been put there.

Shortly before reaching Ruisseau Creux Refuge the trail crossed the Assemetquagan River. It was supposed to be a boulder-hop crossing, and there was a rope strung across to hold for support. On this day, though, the boulders were under water, so Rainman and I just forded. When Eric joined us at the shelter later, he was soaking wet; he had lost his balance at the crossing. All of his gear had to be spread out to dry and his down sleeping bag fluffed in front of the wood stove. His non-waterproof maps had nearly disintegrated, and he painstakingly unfolded them to dry. He bore it all with good humor, and we were happy to see him come through it safely.

The day we hiked into Causapscal dawned gray and overcast after a night of rain. The entire 18 miles were on dirt roads and logging roads dotted with huge muddy puddles. It was easy walking, but my feet still ached by the end of the day.

Early in the day we were to pass through the town of Sainte-Marguerite. Our guide and the map both indicated a convenience store and we talked about what we would buy to eat. My stomach began growling, but I resisted reaching for my snacks; I wanted to wait for fresh food.

Sainte-Marguerite is a one-road town. We saw a bar, houses, and three auto repair garages - but no store. We tried to ask some locals, but they didn't understand. I pointed to the word for grocery store in my phrase book.

"Epicerie? No." They shook their heads. "Causapscal." They didn't act as if there had ever been a store there.

Perplexed, we shrugged our shoulders and prepared to hike on. I needed to find someplace to sit down and eat before continuing, though, so I looked at Rainman and said, "I'm hungry." Then without thinking, and because I'd been trying to practice some French phrases, I said half to myself, "J'ai faim."

We were just several yards down the road when the young man we'd spoken to ran up behind us saying something we didn't understand at first. He repeated it several times along with the pantomime of one eating a sandwich. Finally it dawned on us, and we followed him across the road to his house.

We waited while Dominique went inside. When he emerged, he was carrying the sack lunch he had packed for his day at work. He thrust sandwiches and cheese into our hands, and we ate, astonished at such generosity.

We were limited in knowledge of each other's language, but we managed to communicate some small talk while we were eating. We learned that Dominique works at the body shop across the road. We told him we were hiking to Gaspe and found out that he had worked on 14 kilometers of the trail. When we were finished, we hiked away with a wave and a "Merci!" and another very special memory.

We hiked on to Causapscal, a long, spread-out town with a statue depicting a pair of leaping salmon. We paused in the town park to watch some fly fishermen in the river. They weren't having any luck, although every ten minutes a fish would leap out of the water not far away. Later in the evening, Rainman nearly had Eric convinced the fish was mechanical, devised by the town as a lure for fishermen and tourists.

Next morning we were both feeling quite worn out, so we hitched a ride to the town of Amqui and celebrated the Fourth of July with a zero day. The library didn't open until one o'clock, so we did some town chores and worked out our itinerary for the following two weeks.

Soon we would be hiking through Gaspesie Park, an area where reservations are required for the shelters. It is nearly impossible for thru-hikers to know ahead of time what day they will arrive at a given location, but SEPAQ, the organization overseeing Quebec's parks, insists that we follow their rules anyway. In Amqui, we were finally close enough to plan, and we carefully measured the mileages and selected the refuges we wanted.

Promptly at one o'clock, we walked through the library's doors, but there was already someone ahead of us to use the single Internet computer. For an hour we "read" French books while we waited our turn. When our emailing was finished, we walked toward the door.

"Three dollars," said the librarian.

"What?" We'd never had to pay before, and the fee hadn't been mentioned.

"Three dollars for one hour."

We paid up; perhaps she had told us and we just hadn't understood the French.

Back in our room we called SEPAQ to make our reservations. Time and again we dialed and got an answering machine. Rainman had tried to reach these people before our hike began, and it had taken three days for them to return his call. We didn't have that kind of time now.

Rainman remembered that reservations could be made online. He hurried back to the library, but by that time it was closed. Then I convinced the people at the motel front desk to let us use their computer. I searched the SEPAQ site, but we could only use it to reserve cabins and campgrounds; the refuges we needed were not yet on line.

Exasperated, we returned to our room, and Rainman dialed until he finally reached a human being. He listed our desired sites and dates, but because we were calling with so little notice, some of them were filled. In the end, only the very first refuge was of our choosing, and our carefully planned daily mileages had to be adjusted.

The next point of business was to call Gite du Mont Albert, a privately owned hotel midway through the park, to reserve a room. It only took half a dozen attempts to reach a live person there, but there were no rooms available. That meant we had to call SEPAQ again to reserve a campground spot in the area. So began the phone routine again, and it was nine o'clock before all our arrangements were made.

The room that night was stifling. There was no air conditioning, no fan, and no breeze through the screened window. Rainman was up several times, fanning the door and running a cold shower. Neither of us got much sleep.

We hiked out of Amqui on a road through beautiful farmland with mountains as a backdrop. When we reached a trail sign pointing up a driveway, we turned and walked to the edge of a farm field. There the trail disappeared. No blazes, no signs, and no path indicated which way to go. We were enjoying the views from the road, and it led to the same place as the trail, so we decided to turn the day into a road walk.

With extra time for the day's hike, we relaxed for a couple of hours on the shore of Lake Matapedia. The gentle waves and cool breezes were a soothing intermission before we continued several miles to the junction where we had to leave the road and climb to the day's destination. Trois Souers Refuge, on top of the mountain, has no water source, so we filled our containers at the bottom and carried the extra water with us.

It was less than two miles to the shelter; the extra water would be no big deal. Then suddenly we were hiking one steep climb after another. Each climb brought us to a rock outcropping with a fantastic view back over the lake. We rested as we took in the view, then attacked the next climb. Sweat dripped off our chins. I gasped for breath, and bugs flew up my nose causing me to sneeze repeatedly. In desperation I tied my bandana across my face like a bandit. By the time we reached the top we were so hot and thirsty we almost had to drink all the water we'd carried up. It was worth the effort, though. The shelter perched on the side of the mountain facing the same great views we'd seen on the way up.

In the morning, at five o'clock sharp, we were awakened by the sharp, resounding rap-rap-rap of a woodpecker on the shelter wall. When it moved around to my corner and rapped right by my head, I decided it must be time to get up.

We had a short hike to Sainte-Vianney where we hoped our supply boxes would be at the post office. It was Sunday, though, so we'd planned to hike through town to Camp Tamagodi and hitch back the next day. We changed our minds when we found a lovely stealth camping site high on a hill overlooking the village. We spent a long, lazy afternoon and evening at the site, hiding from the locals who rode up on ATVs. Our tent was under the trees just over a bank, and no one ever knew we were there.

Gaspe Peninsula --- The trail enters Quebec through the Matapedia Valley in the Gaspe Peninsula

July 7-12 - Monday morning Rainman and I slipped away from our secret campsite, down the steep hill into town. We kept our fingers crossed, hoping our supply boxes would be waiting for us at the post office.

Canada does not have general delivery in their postal system, so before the hike we had to call each post office to make arrangements to receive our boxes. Saint-Vianney was the one post office where no one spoke English, and we had mailed our supply boxes on faith. This was also the most critical resupply, since there would be no stores between here and our next maildrop eight days away.

I needn't have worried. The postal clerk knew exactly what I wanted the moment I walked in the door. She handed me my package with a smile, but looked confused when Rainman stepped up to the counter. There were no other boxes waiting to be picked up.

Rainman's face fell. He'd already seen what was available in the small grocery store; he would be hard pressed to put together eight days' supplies there. The postal clerk tried to be helpful, but all she could say was that the day's mail would be arriving in 15 minutes. We had little hope. After all, Rainman's box had been shipped before mine. We turned to leave the post office just as the courier arrived, and we couldn't believe our eyes. There was Rainman's package, right on top of the pile!

It was a short day's hike to Camp Tamagodi on dirt roads that became logging roads. At one point, two roads diverged in the decimated woods, and we took the one that seemed most traveled - but it was the wrong way and we had to backtrack. When logging companies decide to widen their roads, they bulldoze down anything in their way, including trail blazes and directional signs. There were no signs remaining at that fork in the road, and we were lucky the road came to an end before we had walked too far out of our way.

We entered Matane Reserve staggering under the weight of eight days' supplies, the heaviest our packs had been on the trip. We walked along the Matane River, then began climbing into the Chic-Choc mountain range.

The day had started out dreary, windy, and cool, and by mid-day the expected rain had begun falling. It was a cold rain, but there was nowhere to take cover so we just kept walking. Up and along a high, rocky exposed ridge we climbed, pelted by the wind-driven rain. Clouds swirled around us, blocking any views.

I was glad to finally climb down from that ridge. I was having a hard day. My toes hurt in my boots, and the rain washed stinging sweat into my eyes. It seemed that all we did was climb and climb, and my body screamed for rest. I didn't want to do this any more. Hiking in Quebec had been too much exertion and too few rewards. If there were any way to stop hiking without actually quitting, I would have done it.

Once off the ridge, the rain eased up and we finally got one of the rewards we sought. Ahead of us in the trail was a young bull moose. Startled, he jumped and spun to face us. I almost thought he was going to run at us, but he was just trying to get a better view of us before hurrying off into the trees.

By the time we reached Riviere des Pitounes campsite, I was tired, soaked, and cold. As soon as the tent was up, I peeled off my wet clothes and tugged my dry, warm fleece clothing over my wet body. Rainman offered to make hot chocolate and managed to spill the whole pot on the tent platform. He tried again, and soon I was warming from the inside.

It rained off and on all night, but cleared the next day. Putting on wet clothes in 50-degree wind is not pleasant, and we started hiking as quickly as possible to get warmed up.

It was an exhausting day. Once again we climbed through blowdowns, some of which were actually discarded limbs and treetops cut off by loggers and tossed onto the trail. We hiked through a new logging area where the trail had been wiped out. Strips of flagging tape fluttered from twigs and stumps, as if to beckon, "This way! This way back to the trail."

Old logging sites open up the forest floor to sunlight so that plants and small brush flourish. Ferns and brambles reached across the trail and intertwined so tightly I could barely push through. By lunchtime, we'd had enough of the struggle. We followed a side trail down to the road and roadwalked to the dam at Lac Matane. From there it was a short hike in the woods to the campsite on the lake.

The next day can only be described as brutal. We started climbing first thing in the morning and continued up and down for the entire 12-mile day. We climbed nine peaks in all, each of them long, steep, and strenuous.

The long, hard climb up Mont Pointu rewarded us with 360-degree views. Most of what we saw was clear-cut logging. The new cuts were brown, but the old cuts glowed softly green. From that distance they looked like nicely manicured lawns, but we knew better. Our second reward came just as we began our descent. A golden eagle launched from its rock perch just ten feet from the trail and soared off into the sky.

The last climb of the day was up the massive Mont Blanc. I'd anticipated this big climb all day and I was eager to get it started so I could have it done. The trail went over a preliminary hump, then started up the main mountain. After climbing steeply for a bit, it surprised us by going back down. Then it slabbed around the side, up and down over rocks and tree roots, until we were good and tired. Finally, the climb started in earnest.

Just like all the other climbs, this one was straight up, but it was much longer and much steeper. I tried using the hiker's rest-step, taking one step at a time with a pause to rest between each step, but even that was moving too fast for this mountain. Our packs grew heavier and heavier, but if we'd taken them off to rest, we couldn't have hoisted them back onto our shoulders without pitching ourselves down the mountain.

Leaving tree cover, we climbed through a grassy area with small trees. The sun beat down, and sweat dripped from our chins. I paused to catch my breath every 50 feet. Finally we reached a wider spot in the trail where we could slip off our packs. I sank weakly onto a rock, gasping for air. I felt like a wet noodle. I wanted to just curl up there and sleep, but the wind was cold, so we climbed on.

I tried chanting affirmations to myself. "I have untapped strength. I am relaxed. I have untapped strength. I have...pant...untapped...grunt...strength...gasp!" My leg muscles were beyond aching. They felt numb, and I could barely lift my feet.

At last the incline eased, and we emerged from the trail onto a jeep road. What a horrible thing to find after such torture! We'd spent two hours climbing that final mile when just around the mountain was a road.

We limped along the road to the open summit where we found a pleasant cabin. We'd planned to descend Mont Blanc and spend the night below, but after that climb we weren't going any further. Instead, we made ourselves at home and enjoyed the incredible view to the west. Mound upon mound of mountains rolled away to the St. Lawrence River, which reflected the setting sun in a bright silver-gold.

Shortly after dusk we heard the clomping of hooves outside the cabin. Rainman opened the door to look out and frightened away two moose. They didn't stay away long. Just before dropping off to sleep, we heard clomping once again.

We decided to make the next day a recovery day. Instead of following the trail over several more mountains, Rainman suggested taking the jeep road down to the road and hitching a ride to the next campsite. It was a good plan, but as we descended we got into a labyrinth of logging roads that weren't shown on the map. Crossing our fingers, we just kept choosing the ones that seemed to be going down, and eventually we reached the road. Then we started walking and waiting for our ride to come along. We walked five hours before a car came past; by that time we were nearly at our destination so we didn't bother thumbing.

It rained overnight, and we rose to a dreary day with cloud-covered mountains. We started hiking up the valley, past several magnificent waterfalls. We negotiated numerous boggy areas trampled into mush by moose. By the time we began climbing Mont Collins, we were soaked from wet branches, and I had managed to plunge one foot deep into the moose mush.

Mont Collins was yet another mile-long climb straight up. This time the effort was made even more challenging by dripping wet, hip-high ferns reaching across the trail. The ferns thinned as we climbed higher, and the wind picked up. Higher yet, the wind grew stronger and colder, and it swirled the clouds around us.

On the summit we were hit with the full force of the bitter, raging wind. My pack cover whipped in the wind. It acted as a sail, so I took it off, even though that left my pack unprotected against the blowing mist. Better to have a damp pack than to take an unexpected flight down the mountainside.

The fog was thick, and we hiked from one trail marker to the next, struggling to remain upright. When Rainman passed by on my right side and blocked the wind, I nearly fell down. I couldn't even swing my hiking poles straight forward; as soon as I lifted them, the wind blew them sideways.

We staggered through the wind and fog for about half a mile on the ridge walk to Mont Matawees, where there were finally some small trees to break the wind. To our left, the mountain plunged straight down into nothingness. We knew there must be some fantastic views from that ridge, but we could see nothing but a solid white cloud.

Mont Matawees was a jumble of loose rock, reminiscent of the White Mountains of New Hampshire. We rocked and rolled over the mountain, and I was glad the wind wasn't blowing there.

We crossed Mont Fortin, entered Gaspesie Park, and enjoyed an easy climb up Mont Logan. From there the trail followed a rocky road to La Chouette Refuge. We were wet and cold. Rainman built a fire in the woodstove, and we strung our wet things across the room to dry. After the day's exertion, the heat from the stove made us sleepy, and we were early to bed.

Matane Wildlife Reserve --- Details and information on the park

July 13 - July 18 - Rainman and I were happy to leave Matane Reserve behind with its logging, blowdowns, poorly maintained trail, and nightmare climbs. I had read that Parc de la Gaspesie had nicer trails, and I looked forward to some less strenuous hiking.

The first day in the park proved to be much easier, even though we hiked through intermittent summer showers all day. The trail wound through an area of old blowdowns, which had, mercifully, been cleared. The most tiring part of the day was getting through the many moose-mush bogs.

The refuges in the park are luxurious by our hiker standards. Fully enclosed, they each have a wood stove and a supply of firewood. They are equipped with bunks and mattresses, as well as nicely finished tables and chairs. They are so nice, in fact, that we felt compelled to remove our boots before entering.

Gaspesie Park is a popular hiking destination in Quebec. Rainman and I had hiked for weeks, meeting only one other hiker on the trail; now suddenly we were sharing refuges with other people. They are, of course, French Canadians, but most of them have a fair knowledge of English, so we didn't have much trouble communicating.

The trail continued to be nicely built through the park. That is not to say that we didn't huff and puff. There were still strenuous sections, but the trail was clear for the most part and seemed to be designed for an enjoyable hike rather than for a death march.

We hiked for three days in the rain. In the mornings it was clear, but as we climbed to the daily ridge, clouds and rain moved in and hid the views. Then as we descended in the afternoon, the sun reappeared.

The third day of slogging through the rain took us to the high, rocky outcropping of Pic du Brule. I could tell it would have been quite impressive on a clear day, but we walked in a cloud once again, the ghostly shapes of trees to our right and a white void to our left.

It was a long hike down to the campground at Lac Cascapedia. The hike that was supposed to be 14 miles turned out to actually be 18 miles. Our assigned tentsite had wet, gravelly dirt that stuck to everything and got inside the tent. The picnic table was wet, the tent was wet, and our clothes were wet.

I was wet, cold and tired. In line for the shower, behind car-camping women who were warm and dry, I shifted from one sore foot to the other. As I waited, I watched the gaslights slowly dim and go out, and I knew that the bathhouse was out of propane. Noting the three women still in line before me, I guessed - correctly - that I'd have a cold shower.

The next day was a gift of warm sun and clear skies. It was lunch time when we reached Paruline Refuge, but Rainman suggested that we continue past the shelter to eat lunch at the lake nearby. When we realized the trail wasn't going to brush the lakeshore, we chose a patch of rock above the trail for our break. We were just about to sit down when Rainman spotted a baby killdeer scooting beneath a small bush. I looked down and saw another one just inches in front of his boot. Then I nearly set my pack down on top of a third one. Tiny balls of fluff, barely larger than a walnut, the baby birds weren't even old enough to be afraid. Not wanting to squash any, we stepped carefully away, watching for others that might be so perfectly camouflaged on the rock.

After lunch we approached the climb to the Mont Albert plateau. The trail was a fairly level path through the woods, and it should have been easy. Instead, it was like walking through an oil slick. We encountered the most slippery mud on the entire trail, and our feet stuttered over the rocks and roots, taking the same step two or three times.

At last we climbed away from the mud. Above treeline I was amazed at the sharp contrast of what I saw. On the other side of the valley we had just left, the mountains were green-gray rock and covered with deep green trees; Mont Albert was a red-rock moonscape with tiny alpine plants.

We climbed diagonally up the side of the plateau through grasses soggy from the springs trickling down the rocks. When we reached the top and crested a small rise, the scene before us took my breath away. A vast alpine tundra spread away from us for miles. I felt like such a tiny speck in the landscape!

From a distance, the tundra appeared reddish-brown and smooth. As we walked through, though, we could see the details of the place. Red rocks and brushy thickets rose out of the dusty green grasses. Depressions held hidden pools - watering holes for caribou. Mountain cranberry hugged the ground, and wildflowers danced in the breeze, adding splashes of yellow, white, blue, and pink.

Much too soon, we were across the plateau and began to descend into a huge canyon. A snowfield loomed ahead, and I paused to sight along the line of trail-marking stakes. It looked as if the trail ran below the snow, but as we drew nearer, I could see that the snowfield extended across our path. We descended across the 200-yard expanse by kicking steps into the snow with our heels. Midway through ran a three-foot band of ice, but with extra care we crossed the snowfield without incident.

Once on the canyon floor, we followed a rushing, snow-fed stream down the valley. It was a long walk to the road where we were confronted by a confusing array of signs. Arrows pointed different directions for the same destination, and there was no indication where the trail went next. We would figure that out later; after a 19-mile day, I was happy to find our reserved refuge and collapse for the night.

The grand finale to our hike through Gaspesie Park was a climb over Mont Jacques-Cartier. It would be our last chance to see caribou, and I kept my eyes peeled the whole way on the long, rocky climb above treeline. We paused often to look around, but nothing moved across the entire landscape. Where could they be? There was no place for a large animal to hide.

The cold wind whistled across the top of the mountain, and Rainman and I ducked into the enclosed observation tower. We gazed at the 360-degree view and scanned the surrounding area for signs of animal life. Again and again my eyes searched the tundra and the adjoining mountainsides, but to no avail. Disappointed, we left the tower and began the long walk down the opposite side of the mountain.

The trail on this side of Mont Jacques-Cartier followed a path to a parking area where day hikers are dropped off by the busload. Soon we were hiking into a steady stream of people on their way to the top of the mountain. The path was rocky, and even though I wanted to keep looking for caribou, I also needed to watch my footing closely. It wasn't until I glanced up and saw the day hikers standing in a cluster that I looked over my left shoulder. Unnoticed by both Rainman and me in our effort to walk across the rocks, a herd of ten caribou had slipped up the mountain and was crossing the trail directly behind us.

Gaspesie Park --- Details and information on the park

Jacque-Cartier --- Details and information on the park and mountain

July 18 - July 25 - In the parking lot at the foot of Mont Jacques-Cartier, Rainman and I hitched a ride into the town of Mont-Sainte-Pierre with a couple of tourists from France. Leaving the Chic-Choc Mountains behind, we suddenly found ourselves on the shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

What a difference! Instead of being hemmed in by trees, our view was limited only by the curve of the earth. Instead of the constant song of the white-throated sparrow, we heard gulls. Instead of the breeze rustling the leaves, it whipped the sea into white caps.

Next day, the trail jumped several times from the road to the woods and back again. Rainman and I were so enamored with the coast that we elected to stay on the road the entire day. The coastal highway ran above the sea wall, snaking in and out around the bays and headlands. It was wonderfully flat and smooth with extra-wide shoulders, and I was able to move right along, even though my eyes were locked on the sea.

The sea was a stage of constant motion. Gulls soared overhead and plunged into the water with a splash. Loons bobbed on the waves, suddenly disappearing beneath the surface and reappearing minutes later. Fishing boats chugged along, often accompanied by a cloud of gulls, and freighters inched almost imperceptibly up and down the channel.

Every other bay sheltered a small village. We stopped in one for a second breakfast and in the next for lunch. Early in the afternoon, dark clouds began chasing us. We could see several showers over the water, and they were coming closer. We hiked faster, but the rain caught us just as we reached the town of Gros-Morne. We ducked into a perfectly protected alcove in a church's front porch and waited out the shower.

The plan for the day had been to hike until late afternoon, then hitch to the next town that had lodging. Since it was rainy, we decided to catch a ride early. We stood by the road with thumbs out for a half an hour with no luck. Every car was packed with luggage and tourists; there was no room for two wet backpackers.

There was no lodging for ten miles, but Rainman wanted to walk some more and hope to find a tent site. By this time it was raining again, and I wanted to camp on the church porch where we were sure to be dry. He won, and we walked.

Five miles later we reached Manche-d'Epee, a village with a post office and nothing else. We considered camping on the beach, but we didn't have water. Rainman asked what we should do.

"Don't ask me what to do," I snarled. "I told you what we should do five miles ago!"

We walked on through the village in hopes of finding something somewhere. There was nothing, and Rainman kept walking.

"Hey!" I called out from behind. "What's the plan?" We'd already walked 20 miles, and my feet ached. Rainman just shrugged.

I was exasperated, and I stomped up a driveway where some folks were playing American music in the backyard. I was asking the ladies where we might spend the night when one of the men walked up to us.

"I've seen you three times!" he exclaimed. "I talked to you at Mont Albert."

Rainman and I weren't sure we remembered him, but it didn't matter. They gave us a lift to Madeleine-Centre where we rented a tiny chalet right at the water's edge and enjoyed a beautiful sunset.

The next several days alternated from roads to shore to woods. Our first shorewalk was slow going. The small rocks gave way under our feet and seemed to suck us down. The mid-sized rocks weren't big enough to step on, and our ankles rolled every which way. The larger rocks were loose and shifted under our weight. Four miles of that kind of hiking was enough.

It was with pleasure that we left the shore at Petite-Vallee. We planned to make it a short day and get a room, but there were no vacancies. We walked down the road to a hunting lodge, but it was full too. Finally we gave up and followed the trail into the woods where we set up a stealth camp beside a lake with thousands of little green frogs.

After shaking two frogs out of our tent the next morning, it was back to the ups and downs of trail hiking in the woods. It drizzled all morning and showered all afternoon and evening. We arrived at Cascades Refuge soaked and chilly. Thru-hiker True and her dog, Timber, arrived soon after. Even though there was no dry firewood, we ladies decided we wanted a fire to help dry our clothes. With dry duff from under a log, pine twigs, bits of a candle, and lots of patience, we managed to get a fire roaring.

Rainman and I needed to get some groceries, so in the morning we took a side trail to the town of Cloridorme. At 7:30 in the morning the store wasn't open yet, but the owner welcomed us in anyway. We asked about a restaurant and learned it didn't open until nine o'clock. Then the owner, who spoke no English, motioned for us to follow him. Unsure of what he was saying, we hesitantly followed him into the back of the store, which led into the kitchen of the restaurant next door. He seated us in the closed dining room and his wife cooked us breakfast.

The day continued to be a good one. The sun came out, and we returned to the shore. This time the rocks were easier to walk on, and we thoroughly enjoyed our hike at the water's edge. We quickly learned not to step on the seaweed left by the receding tide, as it was more slippery than any moose mush in the woods. Leaving the shore, the trail followed the road for several miles, then wandered through the woods, finally bringing us back to the water at Zephir Refuge. The shelter sits just above the sea, and we spent several hours on the deck watching the humped backs of whales arching out of the water.

The next morning started with another difficult, tiring shorewalk. We had decided to celebrate my birthday with one last night of luxury in a motel, so when the trail left the shore and crossed the road into the woods, we left the trail and headed for town.

I walked in pain. My feet, which I thought had finally become trail tough after six weeks of hiking, had developed new blisters. I trudged along, my efforts to hitch a ride in vain.

At a convenience store, Rainman attempted to arrange a ride for me, telling the people there that I had blistered feet. No one spoke English, and though they finally understood that I had trouble with my feet, they were convinced that I wanted to see a doctor. In the midst of the confusion, the storeowner telephoned a neighborhood woman who could speak English, and I asked her to tell the others that I just wanted a ride to a motel in town. Rainman stayed behind to hike into town while I crawled into a pickup truck, still unsure of where I would end up. I watched the town signs, and when we reached Riviere au Renard, I asked the driver to stop at the first motel I saw. Sure enough, he still thought I wanted medical attention, but I was able to assure him I only needed rest.

Instead of returning directly to the trail the next day, we continued to devise our own trail and roadwalked to the town of L'Anse au Griffon. From there we crossed the Gaspe peninsula on the Portage Trail to reconnect with the IAT. Once a portage road for the transport of goods between the St. Lawrence and Gaspe Bay, the Portage Trail was flat, smooth, and easy on my sandaled feet.

Upon reaching the IAT, I changed into my boots. Instantly my feet were in agony, and all the energy drained from my body. I limped on to the campsite for which we had registered, stopping only once at an overlook where the St. Lawrence could be seen on the left side of the trail and the Gaspe' Bay on the right.

We couldn't find water at the campsite. Rainman searched in one direction and I searched the other way, but all we found was a dry streambed. Neither of us had water left in our containers so, to my dismay, we had to shoulder the packs and hike another two miles to the next campsite. We got the tent up just in time to dive inside before the rain began pouring once again.

July 26 - We awoke to a gray day and a few sprinkles, but that didn't dampen our excitement as we set out on the final day of our hike. It was just five miles to the campground where we were staying that night. A building there contained bathrooms, showers, and a gathering area for campers; we left our gear inside and took just the essentials of food and water for the last six miles of our journey.

The trail left the cover of the trees and meandered through a historical interpretive area. By this time the skies had cleared, and the sun beat down on us, strong and hot. It was a beautiful section. We walked easily on a grassy trail through fields of shoulder-high fireweed, seas of magenta on the cliffs above the sea of blue. From the trail we could look down on the rocky shore and peek into tiny hidden coves where seagulls nested high on the cliff walls.

The trail treated us to one last shorewalk, then turned inland and swept upward for a final foray into the woods. We walked along the ridge on a soft trail cushioned with pine needles. We could see nothing but trees, and it was hard to imagine the expanse of water that we knew lay on both sides of us.

The anticipation grew as we hiked. We knew we must be drawing close to our destination. Finally we caught a glimpse of the St. Lawrence to our left, then Gaspe Bay to our right; the sliver of peninsula on which we trod was narrowing. The cries of gulls reached us through the trees, encouraging us, "You're almost there! You're almost there!" Then, around a final bend, the trees parted and suddenly the Cap Gaspe lighthouse loomed tall and solid before us.

We emerged from the trees into a grassy clearing filled with dayhikers. Casting about for some indication of which way to go, we happened upon a circle of interpretive display signs. Within the circle was a plaque designating the terminus of the International Appalachian Trail.

"This is it," declared Rainman. "We made it, Nan!"

I couldn't accept it. "No. This can't be it. It can't just come out here and stop. This is no way to end the hike that we just did. It must go down to the water."

But there were no more blazes. Feeling lost, I looked around. "This just can't be right. They can't lead us through 700 miles of blazing sun and hot asphalt, logging slash and bushwhacks, river fords and hideous straight-up climbs, blowdowns, biting insects, and day after day of rain...and then give us such a benign ending as this."

Then, on the other side of the lighthouse, I spotted a trail leading down the cliff. "There it is! Let's go!"

We followed the slippery, muddy trail to an observation deck below the lighthouse. From there we could view the cliffs rising from the sea, but we still could not reach the shore.

"I wanted to end by touching the water," I sniffed.

I was quiet as we walked back to the campground, trying to absorb the reality of such an anticlimactic ending to our two-month journey. I felt an overpowering sense of being unfinished, and a gnawing feeling grew in me that I would continue to seek the closure lacked by this hike on some other trail...somewhere...sometime in the future.