Early morning on the 13th we were shuttled to the beginning of the Hundred Mile Wilderness. In our packs were six days of food. Poet, the owner and operator of Shaw’s, wished us luck, recommended a few spots that he’d enjoyed in the 100 mile during his thruhike, and we were off.
I was excited. The six days of total isolation ahead seemed to me like six days of freedom and self-reliance. Having grown up in a culture so safety oriented that it mass-produces labels telling people to “please do not eat iPod mini,” it’s fair to say my mouth watered at the opportunity to explore a place without locked doors or shiny guardrails.
Most people seem to be almost repelled by the idea of a dark, lawless wood. I jumped at it.
And although it wasn’t quite what I expected, it was something else. A something that didn’t match up with my imagination. Which I was grateful for. Just another reminder that my expectations don’t determine reality. And anyhow, the surprise that comes from a shattered misconception is what I live for. It’s only when my beliefs are proven wrong that I find new room to grow.
The woods were isolated. But I never truly felt alone. There were other hikers within miles of me at all times, some hiking north, others starting the long way south. Planes overhead, obtrusive reminders of the shrinking world. Windmills sixty miles distant from the top of the last few lone mountains. Hardly visible, but there nonetheless. Two jet skis playing tag on a far off lake. Reassurance to some. Irritation to me.

It was beautiful, that much is undeniable. Acres and acres of tall conifers, sap leaking from trunks, pine needles layering the ground. Sky the blue it’s meant to be. Lakes all the way to the horizon. All this plus mud, bugs, moose scat and ferocious weather.

But the whole time I wonder if it’s even possibly to get lost anymore. And if so how in the hell do you manage it? Where’s the uncharted territory? Always that plane overhead. Or service on your cell. To remind you of the shrinking world and your place right in the center of that constriction.

Maybe it’s why I spend so much time exploring inward? Because I’ve seen a global map and the way it’s already diced up into labeled puzzle pieces crushes me in some inexplicable way.
Still, I enjoy the stretch, laugh when one of my fellow hikers mistakenly calls it “The Hundred Acre Woods.” Now that he said it, I did feel like Christopher Robin stone-stepping across streams and resting against old,old trees and, for lack of a stuffed bear, sometimes talking to myself for company.

Final days in the North — Nomad