The 100 Mile Wilderness- A Backpacking Origin Story by Heather Hoechst

Most people who know me today would likely think that I spent most of my adolescence and early adulthood backpacking through the mountains. Backpacking is a large part of my life now- I dream about it on cold dark winter days and scheme up new routes during the spring and summer. But, it wasn’t always this way. I didn’t fall in love with the art of walking with all you need on your back until I was 37 years old and went on an adventure dubbed “Down the Rabbit Hole” with my mom and my aunt. You could certainly say, however, that a love of backpacking was always there, just sitting in my genetic material waiting to be expressed.

On August 25, 1985, my grandparents, Alice and George Ference, spent the night on the south bank of the Kennebec River in Maine. They were in their 9th year of section hiking the Appalachian Trail and were only 150+ miles from the Northern Terminus at Katahdin. They signed the trail register at Pierce Pond Shelter: “8/25/85-2pm. Rain all day. Will go to river about dark. Wade across tomorrow.-Alice and George, Brunswick, GA, S-K in 9 years.” I like to think that the rain let up overnight and they woke to blue skies. Perhaps they were looking forward to a hot shower and resupply in a few days in Monson. Most likely, George urged them to be out of their tent at “first light,” which was always his answer when asked what time we were doing anything in the morning. Unfortunately, it was Alice’s last morning alive, as she drowned while fording the formidable waters of the Kennebec River. Alice was a strong swimmer. There are photos of us in the ocean when I was a toddler- she in a swimsuit, salt and sunkissed and holding onto the arm of a squirmy little kid, keeping me safe. No one knows for sure what happened that morning in the Kennebec, but I like to think that at least she died doing what she loved and that her spirit still wanders the wilderness.

I was only 6 years old when my grandmother died. I remember getting off the bus with my older brother, Daniel, and seeing both my parents in the car waiting for us. Something felt weird. When we got home, Dad took us on his knees and told us that Grandma was gone. Mom was crying. I knew it was something unusual and tragic, but it was hard for my child brain to comprehend. I didn’t think much about her death for many years. It was simply part of our family’s history. Grandpa finished the trail the next year and, as my brother got older, he got to go along with Grandpa on backpacking trips. I went once, but I was obsessed with swimming at the time and  it felt more like my brother’s thing so I didn’t pursue it. 

I’m not sure how the idea began, but it dawned on me in my mid-thirties that it would be really awesome to finish Grandma’s hike. I’d begun to realize how therapeutic a day in the woods could be as I frequently escaped my home in Philadelphia for long runs and hikes through the closest thing to wilderness that I could find. Maybe those grandparents of mine were onto something. I ordered the maps of the AT in Maine and began scouring the internet for information on Alice’s death, the Kennebec River, and the 100 mile wilderness. I bounced the idea around for a while before deciding that it was time to make it happen. As I spent the winter of 2015-2016 in my Philadelphia apartment, a prisoner of the concrete jungle in winter, I planned the adventure that would be dubbed, “Down the Rabbit Hole” in honor of Alice and with the premonition that this would be a magical journey into the unknown.

I scheduled the time off work and sent an email out to my family: “Anyone wanna come?” Ultimately I would be joined, against their better judgment, by my Aunt Norma and my mom, Ruth. None of us had much experience backpacking. I’d been out for a few overnight hikes in the Pennsylvania forests. Norma probably had the most experience. She’d even gone on two of the early section hikes as a teenager with George and Alice. Mom and I had spent hundreds of nights in tents, but were not accustomed to carrying those tents on our backs.

Regardless of my inexperience as a backpacker, I was convinced that my experience as an ultrarunner would carry me through. If I could run 100 miles in 24 hours, I could hike 160 in 11 days. Norma and Mom had impressive resumes of adventure racing, endurance mountain biking, triathlons, and trail running. We were all quite stubborn. As I hike along today with my ultralight Six Moons Designs gear, I shake my head at the set up I took on the Appalachian Trail. I had my heavy sleeping pad wrapped around my heavy tent lashed to the bottom of my heavy backpack. No matter- it was love at first hike. 

The first several days of our trip went smoothly. We started from the Pierce Pond shelter where that last trail entry was made and reached the Kennebec River in a few hours. Along the way, signs warned us of the river's dangers and provided information on the ferry service. Since Grandma’s death, the official way to cross the Kennebec on the AT is via a canoe ferry- a service provided by mostly volunteers. Seeing the river for the first time, I got a better idea about what happened so long ago. The Kenebec is wide and swift with slippery rocks along the bottom. A friendly fisherman gave us a ride to the other side and, as we made dinner, we let the moment sink in that this somewhat isolated spot was where my grandfather frantically tried to revive Alice- ultimately having to leave her to get help. We decided to pick up (tiny) rocks from the river to transport to Katahdin in Alice’s memory. It was a serene evening and we all had a peaceful feeling that night, ready to tackle the next 155 miles to Katahdin. We made it through the first 38 miles of the trip with a song in our hearts and a spring in our step. As we re-supplied in Monson, we felt confident that we could take on all the famed Hundred Mile Wilderness could throw at us. We were a little big for our britches, it turns out. 

We walked off from Monson with excitement at what lay ahead. We made good progress until about 15 miles in when we hit a huge boulder field, and Mom hit the brakes and slowed to a crawl. We were walking less than a mile an hour, and the sun was sinking lower in the sky. I was nervous and frustrated. Norma recommended I go ahead and find a place to camp and then come back and get Mom’s pack. I took off like a flash. The forest was thick, dark, and uninviting. There was no place to pitch a tent. Finally, after what felt like miles, I found an old road with a lone tent pitched right in the middle. I alerted its occupant that we were going to be neighbors. He grunted an affirmative response and probably rolled back over. I ditched my pack and ran back up the trail. Shouldering Mom’s pack and inching down the trail with her, I tried to remember that we weren’t out there to get anywhere fast. Still, our mileage goals floated in my head and my desire to climb Katahdin kept me from getting too complacent. This continues to be a challenge for me when backpacking- to be in the moment and not so focused on completing the thing. We got to camp and fell asleep with relief to be out of the dark boulder-strewn forest. It’s weird how the forest changes moods. At some points, it’s peaceful and bright- full of life and color. At others, it feels dark and gloomy and uninviting- shaking up your emotions as you move down the trail.

We awoke the next day to rain and lots of climbing. The AT builders in Maine did not believe in switchbacks. The trail climbs straight up mountains and beelines down the other side without seeming to acknowledge the giant boulders in its path. The rain made the rocks slick and fog encompassed all the views from the Barren-Chairback Range. Mountains aren’t as much fun to climb when you can’t reward yourself with the view at the top, but we did have a treat when we arrived at Fourth Mountain Bog. Wooden planks led us through carnivorous pitcher plants and other exotic flora. We marveled at seeing plants in nature which are normally found in conservatories and botanical gardens. I thought about how beautiful and wonderfully odd it was to be out in the middle of nowhere and come across this amazing environment.

Morale dropped after the bog. Mom was really having a hard time over the mountains (later I would learn she was dealing with some pretty painful plantar fasciitis). We were 4 miles short of our goal destination when we reached Chairback Lean-To. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and we decided it would be unsafe to continue down the trail. The night was somber as we all fought off our respective demons. I was scared that I’d gotten my mother into a dangerous place. I worried that I pushed her too hard, and I was stunned with the reality that she wasn’t 40 anymore. How could she be? I was almost 37. Oddly, she seemed perfectly at peace with getting older and slowing down while it scares the hell out of me. Out of my own fear, I suggested that the last place she could get off the trail would be coming up tomorrow when we crossed a logging road. She firmly informed me she was finishing the trail even if she had to do it alone. I kept my mouth shut after that.

Grandma must have sensed there was trouble on the trail, so she sent us a few gifts from the afterlife. First, she sent us sunshine. Second, she sent us company. We met four new friends that day: Tarzan (who was hiking alone), and Homo Domesticus Fragilis, his teenage daughter, Turtle Back, and her friend, Trail Hugger. Talking to someone new seemed to boost all of our spirits. We climbed to the top of White Cap Mountain  and Grandma gave us a beautiful view, along with our first glimpse of Katahdin. A brutal descent took us to a serene campsite alongside a stream, where we joined our new friends and clamored for tent space. It was a tough day, and Mom was so exhausted that Norma and I set up her tent and made her dinner. When I poked my head in to tell her goodnight, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said that the downhill sections were so painful that it was taking everything she had just to get to camp. She didn’t want us to shoulder her load. I just wanted to crawl into the tent and hug her and tell her how proud of her I was- something that she had done for me how many thousands of times in my life. 

The next day dawned clear and bright, and we all had a bit more pep in our steps.” It would be a 20 mile day in the middle of our 160 mile journey to Katahdin. We were tired. Morale had been up and down like the rolling mountains of Maine. We picked up our resupply at Jo Mary Rd -16 miles into the day. Phil, from the 100 Mile Wilderness guide service, surprised us with Little Debbie snacks and sugary sodas alongside our dehydrated meals and oatmeal. It might have been the sugary snacks plus the fact that I’d been building up the next campsite as some kind of magical place nestled in the 100 mile wilderness as well as my relentless refrain, “we have to get back on our mileage!” Whatever it was, those Ference women were determined to make it to Antlers Camp that day.

 

Antlers Camp was day 8 of our hike. We stumbled into the campground exhausted and exhilarated. We bathed in the lake to the delight or disgust of the surprised boy scouts sharing our camp. As we sat in the fading light and sipped the bourbon I’d stuck in my resupply as  a mid-hike medicinal, I felt a sense of peace and pure happiness. In the past few days, I’d seen the inner strength that my mom and aunt possessed, soaked up the wisdom in the stories they shared, and basked in the laughter that echoed down the trail as we found humor in even the darkest moments. Peace within has always been fleeting and elusive, but I found it there on the AT. Maybe it was this feeling that kept my grandmother coming back year after year on her own journey toward Katahdin. We reached the summit in four more days on July 5th and placed the rocks we’d carried from the Kennebec River onto the giant cairn on the top of Katahdin. We were all tired, but I was content to be dirty and exhausted and in the company of two incredible women. I also felt an urge to simply resupply my pack and turn around and hike all the way to Georgia. I knew that this was just the beginning of my newfound love for backpacking. The peace I felt on that trip continues to pull me back again and again to a meandering strip of dirt where I can walk away the heaviness that I carry inside me. The things I carry have changed- gear has become lighter, meals simpler. I’ve learned to feel at ease hiking alone. And everytime I’m feeling down and the breeze caresses my face or I see an animal at just that moment, I wonder if it’s Alice telling me it’s all going to be ok. Just keep walking.