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So
we tried going to the right. A path seemed to emerge, following the creek
bed into a thick mudhole. I soon added my boot prints to several others
that I saw. In fact, I almost lost my boots in the sucking mire. But even
though others had apparently walked this way before, any impression of a
well-defined route ahead quickly vanished.
The
thunder boomed in the distance again. Retreating to the infamous mudhole
where I had seen the boot prints, I searched for another way. Testing
a possible route off to the right, I soon found myself going in circles,
returning once again to the semi-dry creek bed, then to the mudhole. The
thunder got closer. Around I went again, Muffin tagging along behind,
probably wondering what was going on.
After
wandering around this region of phantom trails for the better part of an
hour, I discovered an overlooked possibility, a mere fracture in the brush
off to one side of the wretched mudhole. Not expecting anything, we gave
it a try. To my amazement, this fissure seemed to get larger rather than
dwindling away, so we continued to follow it, all the time expecting it to
dissipate into thin air. But as the trail seemed more likely, the thunder
and now the lightning grew more intense, a few drops quickly turning into
a downpour. Stopping momentarily, I put my Goretex jacket back on, hood
and all, and then we continued down the trail, still hoping that it would
hold out.
A
few times, it looked as if it would again disappear, but it always came
back. Getting wetter and more uncomfortable, even with my jacket on, I
silently cursed whoever maintained this particular trail for not having
the decency to put up a single blaze or sign. Just to see one lousy sign
that we were on the right route would have made the rain almost tolerable.
But rain, thunder, lightning, and uncertainty? That was too much. Rather
than getting worried, I was simply annoyed, really wanting to make that
campsite, unload my stuff, eat some supper, and climb into a nice dry
tent and sleeping bag … and read. All I wanted to do right then was to
relax and read the book I had brought along. Now if the trail and weather
would just cooperate.
After
about an hour, the trail passed through an even muckier section where it
looked as if a moose might pop out of the brush at any moment. And we
probably would have seen a hundred moose by now except that they most
likely had the common sense to stay in out of the rain. My boots were
getting dirtier and wetter with each step. And my formerly blue socks were
now one with the earth. Muffin was indescribable, like a filthy wet sponge
with legs. But then the trail slowly began to curve noticeably to the
right, as testified by my compass. This meant that I had to be on the
right path, because the Lincoln Brook Trail needed to swerve to the east
to return to the Franconia Brook Trail and 13 Falls.
Finally,
I saw something that lifted my spirits considerably – a yellow blaze
mark on the side of a tree. This definitely was the right trail then. We
hurried along, thoughts of food and rest in our heads. Somewhere along the
way, the trail, which had been climbing gently – in fact, it had now
risen 650 ft since leaving the Owl’s Head slide – wandered downhill
and the going began to get easier. Even the rain had started to slack off
though the thunder certainly hadn’t let up. Every so often, it boomed
directly overhead, echoing off the unseen slopes around us, lightning
suddenly brightening the gray sky.
Then
I stepped on a rock that had looked solid enough. But it was more slippery
from the rain than I had expected and I fell forward, my heavy wet pack
making it difficult for me to maintain my balance. Landing on my knees, I
felt a sharp pain on my lower right leg. Rising to my feet and looking
down, I saw a small circle of blood begin to form in the mud that was my
leg. Not wanting to stop and deal with it, I went over to a wet swampy
pool and splashed some water on it to rinse the mud off. The bleeding
continued, but it didn’t look serious.
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