Eventually I realized that until I reached the lean-to, all I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and make sure that I was still on the trail. Nothing else mattered, for all I cared nothing else even existed. Just me, my pack, my dad's old wooden snowshoes and miles of moonlight wilderness in every direction. The lean-to that filled me with purpose, that my survival depended on, was still three peaks and thousands of feet of elevation change away. The sun had set and darkness engulfed the snow-covered alpine forest, thickening my isolation and simplifying my thought processes to the primal survival instincts buried deep beneath layers and layers of modern distractions. These distractions- societal norms, television shows and restaurant dining meant nothing to me now.
For anyone who scoffs at the mountains east of the Mississippi and assumes they're all glorified hills, let me tell you that the Bigelow Mountains in western Maine are a range to be respected. I probably should have had more respect for them before embarking on my journey. I'd hiked the range in March with friends and in the summer by myself, but this was my first solo trip in the middle of winter. Getting from one lean-to to the next is fairly easy in summer or fall, but with at least two feet of fresh snow and only nine hours of daylight all distances seem much larger. I should have started earlier in the day, before sunrise, but the previous day had also been grueling and my sleeping bag felt like the most comfortable place on earth that morning. Rookie mistake, I know. I realize this was a "mistake" and the whole trip itself was somewhat "dangerous," but I had enough warm layers, food and water to stay relatively comfortable and allow my one focus to be the hike itself.
The trip lasted three days, just long enough to feel a deep connection with the land and lose all thoughts about the outside world. The four peaks in the Bigelow Range offer stunning views, but they were surrounded by snowclouds for my entire trip and most of my hiking was in the dark. This didn't even matter, in fact it helped me maintain focus on my immediate location, absorbing everything each moment had to offer. While scrambling up to the highest Peak, West Peak, I noticed that the snow had stopped falling and I looked up. There was a small opening in the clouds and I could see a few stars. It was shocking! I had been so focused on the surrounding trees and snow that being able to look out to the stars flooded me with awe. Moments later I looked again and the sky was completely clouded. I figured that the moment I happened to look up was the one moment the clouds opened up. I love simple moments like this, when somehow it feels like you're in tune with some larger orchestration, something beyond yourself. It's easy to feel such awe when basic survival is the only priority. Being able to feel the primal connection to nature is why I hike. We need places where people can have experiences like this. We need wilderness!
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