As I crossed over Sugarloaf Mountain, I passed the 200 miles left mark for this journey.
I knew dropping into the cirque the rest of the journey wasn't going to be easy or may be that was for today. I couldn't tell at the moment as the weather turned from okay to let's put wet on the ground. I stared into the mist. The trail guide said steep. Ha, steep, I've seen that plenty. What made this steep, steep was the lack of granite slabs. It was rocky, wtf kind of down.
I learned several days ago if you find a switch back in New England count yourself blessed. In Maine a switch back is a frightening down, followed by some sort of traverse with a little up, then back down again. This wouldn't be so bad of frightening if I didn't have 40 odd pounds on my back. I think this kind of terrain is fun with lighter loads. I'm committed at this point, no backing out
Next time I'll, is a common thought as I've refined my gear dozens of times in my head. 200 miles left, will I take the time to refit my ruck as I envision? Will I begin to plan the next big adventure as many in Georgia wanted to? Hey, where are those lofty dreamers? Did they make it this far?
My knees gave way to gravity spills as the rocks seemed to distance themselves farther a part. I groaned trying to figure out poles or hands.
Eventually, I made the 1100 foot descent in less then 7/8ths of a mile. The stream at the bottom needed fording. A Q&A sheet at the last shelter said Maine AT Clubs don't maintain bridges as ice jams in the spring often take em out. A plank with a fat wire lay across the gushing gap. I placed one foot then the next. It held. I wouldn't need to find an alternative today. I shuffled my feet, the plank bowed and held.
200 more miles, hum? What else does Maine have?