Still September 15, 1983. Still Chapter 22.

Looking back at Baldpate's west peak as I climb the east peak to the main summit.

A stiff wind was blowing up there on the west peak to augment the cold. I did not linger long. Another steep trail dropped from the west peak down into a sag. The crest was partially open to the views and covered with stunted conifers and some alpine vegetation.

From the rocky, alpine summit, there was a panorama which included a large portion of the Mahoosuc Range. In many respects, Baldpate's long ridge crest was like an instant replay of the Mahoosucs.

The ridge remained open for more than an additional half-mile, as I descended sharply over rocks into a steep little gap and ascended the small, rocky crag of Little Baldpate, which had excellent views north across a deep valley towards Wyman Mountain, Hall Mountain, and their surrounding foothills. Shortly after crossing that summit, the Appalachian Trail finally dropped below tree line at the beginning of another long, steep descent into Frye Notch.

The shelter was located in a shallow sag between two knobs of Hall Mountain. The spring was not running strongly when I got there, but I scraped the scum off the surface and collected my water for dinner and breakfast. More than a pint of good drinking water remained in my canteen, so any water I used from the spring would go into something boiled. The next day, I had a one-mile descent to the next good, running water in Sawyer Notch.

A side trail from the shelter is a five-minute walk to the top of some cliffs with another great viewpoint of the Appalachian Trail route northbound, extending all of the way to the Saddleback Range in the distance. I sat there for about a half-hour in the twilight after dinner, sipping hot chocolate and savoring my dessert Pop-Tart. It was an extremely civilized conclusion to a day which had everything: an alpine ridge walk, a long cascade in a scenic notch, another nice mountain pond, and an extended stretch of decent hiking at the end.

Bringing us to the end of September 15, 1983. Still Chapter 22.

Old Blue Mountain was an instant replay of the ascent of Moody, mirroring it even to the point where I again missed a turning of the path and followed a steep, shallow gully a couple hundred feet up the face of the cliffs. Near the top of Old Blue, the AT leveled off to a steep, but sane, climb over some knobs to the open 3600-foot summit, where there were partially obstructed 360-degree views.

The best vista was looking southward, where Moody Mountain sneered at me across the notch as Baldpate glowered in the distance.

After a promising dawn, September 18 had remained cloudy and hazy all day. In spite of a 1:45 late start after hitchhiking all the way back to the AT, I decided not to settle for anything less than the fourteen miles to Piazza Rock Lean-to, even though, as expected, I wound up finishing my hike in darkness. I needed to pick up the pace after days of mostly disappointing hiking. Still Chapter 22.

As I walked a thin, sullen drizzle began to fall. Everything was slick with damp and treacherous; I never could break into an actual stride.

The trail up Saddleback was steep, but with few hazardous sections, for a change. I made the ascent in good shape. A surprise awaited me at tree line: a wind was blowing up there stronger than any I had yet encountered on the Appalachian Trail, with the exception of that one night on Mount Washington.

I was compelled to put on my chamois shirt and even a ski cap to protect my left ear, which was continually blasted by the full brunt of that biting wind. It was a day of strange contrasts. Most of the final mile to the summit was a series of gradually ascending terraces. Dark, soggy tundra was interspersed with ledges of naked rock dabbed with lichen. Masses of ground-hugging plants spread out like thick carpets while scrub spruce shivered in the gale above them.

After 16 miles, I arrived at Spaulding Mountain Lean-to at 6:00, much earlier than I expected considering the major climbs and after my 14-mile sprint the previous afternoon.

The next day, September 20, 1983, I had 13 tough miles to backpack over Spaulding, Sugarloaf, North Crocker and South Crocker Mountains. After that, I needed to hitchhike to Stratton and make the Post Office before closing. I awoke at 6:15 and was on the trail at 7:15.

The last official day of summer in western Maine was the warmest day I had encountered in the state. A slowly burning-off haze was in the air, and the thermometer must have climbed well up into the seventies. I know I sweated out a few gallons as the afternoon progressed.

There were some views through the haze along the ridgeline and the three high summits I crossed. I had also intended to take the half-mile, 700-foot rock climb side trail to the summit of Sugarloaf. At a lookout just before the trail junction, I peered out over a world of vague forms barely visible through the steam. The second-highest summit in Maine was supposed to have fantastic views, but I did not feel it would be worth the climb today, particularly when time was of the essence.

Not far beyond the side trail junction, coming around a bend, I found myself virtually face-to-face with a large bull moose standing astride the Appalachian Trail, drinking from a small stream which ran across it. We stared at each other, both stunned, for a few moments before he crashed off through the woods.

When I reached Maine 27, I had hiked the entire rugged thirteen miles with only two short breaks, and I had two hours before the Post Office closed to procure a ride to Stratton. For once I got a ride in 10 minutes. End of September 20, 1983. End of Chapter 22.

My benefactors were two attractive young German women. One hopped into the back seat, and I crammed into the front passenger seat with my backpack. We flew down the winding, narrow two-lane highway like it was the autobahn, screaming past big logging trucks on blind curves as they chattered blithely away in German. For some reason, the excellent chance that I was going to perish in a flaming wreck on Maine 27, less than two weeks' hike from Katahdin, struck my trail-warped mind as hysterical, and I could not stop laughing. They seemed to approve of my adventurous attitude.

The initial two miles of the Appalachian Trail crossed a number of low ridges and small streams as it wound through level forests towards the base of the Bigelow Range.

Even at the lower elevations now there were frequent signs that Autumn was here, although fewer than you would expect to see that far north in a normal year.

A couple of short side trails led to lookouts. Summer was attempting to linger into autumn. The air was very hazy and humid, and north-south perspectives were a complete white-out. The only real views were those east and west along the ridge itself.

On very clear days Bigelow was reported to provide vistas extending to Katahdin. This was not such a day.

The Appalachian Trail climbed a very steep half-mile to the summit of the South Horn, one of a pair of open, rocky crags rising above the north shore of the pond (not surprisingly, the other is called North Horn). Angry winds were shrieking past South Horn's summit, and the haze was thickening. In the distance, a sullen line of black clouds was moving in fast from the northwestern horizon. Hello. The cold front was coming on like a runaway train.

The clouds burst late that night. It poured like I had not seen since Virginia. Immense forks of lightning, massive explosions of thunder, roaring winds, and torrents of rain.

September 22, 1983. Morning emerged reluctantly from the murk, leaking a cold, bleak light through the persisting deluge.  By 8:30, the rain had tapered off to a fine drizzle. It was chilly and dank as I made my breakfast, but the storm clouds were gradually dissipating. A good, steady breeze was blowing, rapidly drying out the leaves and brush. I did not even need my rain gear when I left the shelter at 10:15.

Avery Peak sported an extensive alpine area on and around the summit and a spectacular panoramic view. Like the West Peak of Bigelow from the previous day, on extremely clear days, Katahdin could be seen in the distance, but today was another missed chance on Mount Bigelow. That was disappointing, but forecasts had called for an all-day rain, so I was not complaining.

There was an old wooden fire tower on Avery Peak's summit, which I understand is no longer standing in 2022, other than that stone foundation.

Those small touches of Autumnn far below were far outpaced by the scrubby alpine vegetation up on Bigelow. The long hot summer of 1983 had seemed endless, even reaching up into central Maine mountains in the last third of September. But change was in the air.

A new trail relocation covered the descent from Bigelow and the climb up Little Bigelow. The footway was deadly after last night's heavy rains. It had not yet become compacted from hiking traffic; pieces kept breaking off and sliding away, taking my feet with them. I took another Maine back flip on the way down. Actually, the relo was a fairly good trail, and should be a pleasure to walk once the ground has settled.

Still September 22, 1983. Still Chapter 23.

Looking ahead to Little Bigelow on the way down from Avery Peak.

In the sag between Bigelow and Little Bigelow, I passed the Safford Brook Trail, which had once been part of the Appalachian Trail. In the 1930's and 40's, the AT had passed through a farming valley along the banks of the Dead River, past the villages of Flagstaff and Dead River.

The AT reached the ridgeline of Little Bigelow Mountain and traversed a series of rocky knobs, several of which had open ledges. The sun had finally broken through, and the day had turned clear and beautiful. The haze was gone from the air, replaced by a crisp hint of chill. An arc of mountains stretching from Bigelow to Saddleback coiled behind me.

Still September 22, 1983. Still Chapter 23.

A different kind of pretty countryside lay ahead on the Appalachian Trail, a change of pace from the mountain landscapes. A chance to pick up the pace after the rugged peaks and arduous trails of southwest Maine.

But before that I had one last great mountain to traverse. It had turned into a perfect autumn day, and there were constant viewpoints along the crest of Little Bigelow.

Time and again I was able to in a single view see all the magnificent mountains I had climbed today and over the previous three days. And think back to the impressive variety of weather conditions they had delivered.

In addition to the nice views, the ridge crest of Little Bigelow was interesting in itself. Lots of fascinating rock formations and trees built to withstand the wind and cold.

Eventually this long, narrow finger of Flagstaff Lake began to dominate the view ahead as I descended towards it.

Still September 22, 1983. Still Chapter 23.

The section of trail coming down off of Little Bigelow was as hazardous as any on the entire Appalachian Trail -- a tortuous climb down huge boulders in a steep ravine.

Still September 22, 1983. Still Chapter 23.

Negotiating this mess took a great deal of slow, painstaking effort. For once, I actually had to keep my mind on the trail, or else. Nevertheless, it took me more than a half-hour to safely cover that deadly quarter mile.

After that, it was smooth sailing. I came to the beginning of the lowlands through which I will be traveling all of the way to Monson.

Still September 22, 1983. Still Chapter 23.

I came to one very memorable spot. The Appalachian Trail brushed the tip of a long arm of Flagstaff Lake at a lonely gravel shore strewn with piles of bleached white driftwood resembling heaps of old bones.

Facing the lake, the drowned outlet of Bog Brook was a long, narrow finger of the bay to my left. Beyond that lay two small coves with Little Bigelow rising above them, lingering wisps of cloud clinging to its ravines.

I arrived at Jerome Brook Lean-to at 5:15: a 1938-vintage shelter less than a tenth mile beyond the Appalachian Trail crossing of Long Falls Dam Road, a lonesome stretch of pavement along which the nearest village was twenty miles away.

I woke up in the middle of the night to find myself in the sedate stare of a wild white rabbit sitting a few feet away, untroubled by the presence of a human. "What's up, Doc?" A fitting conclusion to September 22, 1983. Still Chapter 23.