CARATUNK IS (SLIGHTLY) MORE THAN A POST OFFICE

Greetings from Caratunk, Maine. I am staying at a deep-Maine resort that is between seasons and is offering hikers rooms for $10 a piece - the cheapest on the trail! Plus they brew their own beer and have a hot tub. This is the second-to-last town stop - only Monson lies between me and Katahdin. I crossed the 2000 mile mark two days ago, and at this point only 150 miles of Maine and the Trail remain. The Bigelows were an amazing range to end with, and we spent a very cold night at a campground in a small col between the two tall peaks to celebrate our last true mountain range. Since then, we've dropped lower and have passed by four huge lakes. Camped at one, which had a large sand beach - so I can now claim I did get to lie on the beach this summer; it just took me until late September. The days are getting shorter - even on the relatively low and easy terrain, its hard to make more than 13-14 miles each day. Plus, there is the timing of the ferry service across the Kennebec River. I hit the ferry this morning, which consists of a guy with a canoe. You'd have to be joking if you thought I might try to cross the river. I spent the summer hiking, not swimming. The river is as wide as the Schuylkill, six or seven feet at its deepest, but flowing faster than someone can walk. The ferryman told me only eight people attempted to ford the river so far this year - half came back and took the canoe, and the other half regretted it. Maine continues to amaze, though now that I'm back down below 2000 feet, its like I've stepped back three weeks or so in time. The trees are mostly green and its much warmer at night. There hasn't been rain for more than a week, but the ground still has plenty of water and is still muddy, though it tends toward tacky rather than soupy. We hiked part of the path taken by Benedict Arnold and 1200 other soldiers who in 1775 marched through Maine to invade Canada, hoping the French Canadians would rise up against the British too. Instead, they bogged down in the mud of Maine and showed up with half the men to Quebec City, a fortress atop cliffs with an uncaring population. Didn't work out so well. We have a few big hills and some more flatland before Monson and the 100-mile Wilderness. The end is near. A week or so ago, other hikers and I were ready and willing to talk about the end: what we'd miss (sunsets, the solitude of a tent); what we can't wait to get back to (eating fresh fruit and veggies, running water); and what would cause us trail de ja vu (tuna packets, hanging out with more than one bearded guy at a time). Now, the end is too close to talk about. Instead, we are having more and more quiet moments staring at the campfire, spending more time looking at the stars, and hiking in silence to better hear the forest. Trying to enjoy what we have taken for granted for so long.