Gettin' Down and Dirty: Unearthing Appalachia's Flowers

It all began with a simple idea: if I was going to spend five months in the Appalachian wilderness, I should become a student of my surroundings and learn something of the plant life that I would encounter as I walked. This idea was hatched when spring began to paint green on a brown, wintered forest floor. It so happened that the first green that caught my eye belonged to the mottled leaves of Red and Yellow Trillium. And so my tack was set: as the Trillium leaves grew, diversified and eventually blossomed, so did my project to identify the wildflowers that I saw during my walk north.

A rare five-petaled Bluet

Virginia Spiderwort

Taxonomy became queen, second only to the walking itself, and it quickly demanded that caliber of attention. What I thought would be a small handful of new flowers a week -- perhaps two or three -- became one or two flowers a day. Moreover, as the number of flowers grew so did my need to better classify them. What began simply as, "Oh, that's a Trillium flower," soon called for adjectives: "That's a Purple Trillium," or "Red Trillium," or "Vasey's Trillium." It wasn't long after that when common names themselves became inadequate as they left too much overlap between flowers. Was I looking at Red Trillium, Trillium sessile, or the other Red Trillium, Trillium erectum? And just like that a flower's unique genus and species name became part of my vocabulary.

Canada Lily

Round-leaved Sundew

As I now stand on the completed end of my journey, I can look back and say that I have been as good of a student as I knew how to be. Early on in my walk I would browse internet collections of Appalachian wildflower pictures, becoming familiar with the flowers that others had found on the trail, then looking to spot them myself. As my eye sharpened I began seeing flowers that weren't on those websites, either because they were never seen by that particular photographer or because they were overlooked as too ordinary. So, I graduated from browsing internet pictures to visiting local libraries. I developed two new strategies: browsing flowers by color in a resource such as Peterson's Field Guide to Wildflowers, and searching for flowers based on their flower and leaf characteristics in a resource such as Newcomb's Wildflower Guide. This last approach proved to be my bread and butter, as even browsing by color became inadequate. Not only does the same flower often present in different colors, but my definition of purple might be Peterson's idea of blue. And so I began counting petals, checking for alternate or opposite leaves, and noting such characteristics as leaf shape and if the margins were toothed or not.

Butterfly Weed

Rough-fruited Cinquefoil

Scarlet Lychnis

All of that is to say that my journey in wildflower identification was a significant project, sometimes hated as much as it was loved. In the end, I identified well more than I initially imagined. The forty to fifty flowers I expected to name grew to a final tally of 357! Knowing that I only actually hiked for 133 days, some quick arithmetic will tell you that on average I saw 2.7 flowers a day; that also meant taking nearly 5,000 pictures to help in identification once I had a field guide handy. All of the flowers I identified can be found here.

Fireweed

Yellow Lady's Slipper

So there you have it: 357 wildflowers are now known by a hiker who knew next to nothing about them while standing on Springer Mountain. A few of you may also have committed to donating a certain amount of money to ECHO for each wildflower identified. Whether that may have been one cent per flower or ten, I encourage you to do some quick arithmetic of your own as you prepare to follow through on any personal pledges you may have had.

More Miles in Maine

The week after the Calvin Wilderness Orientation group left was one of the best on the trail. From Andover to Monson, the sun was out and spirits were high, despite the rain-soaked path in the wake of Irene. Wet feet didn't matter though, because every time I stopped I could dry out my shoes and sun my feet. Life was good.

In fact, this week held what was arguably the best day on the trail for me. The morning started with a climb up to Horns Pond, tucked at the base of Bigelow Mountain, where I enjoyed overlooking its clear water dotted with lily pads. Off to the west clouds hovered below me in the nearby valley. In a certain manner, I felt as though I was on top of the world as I looked down upon the beauty below me.

From the pond I scaled Bigelow and its multiple peaks. The views were amazing, but more than that it was on this mountain that I reached 2,000 miles. Two-thousand miles! I sat there on Avery Peak, the last 4,000-foot rise before Katahdin, and tried to take in the accomplishment. Despite how I might try, the magnitude of what those miles meant eluded me. So I hiked on, and was welcomed not only by a congratulatory sign painted on the road, but some cold, refreshing Cokes and Pabst Blue Ribbons stowed away in a cooler along the trail. Again, life was good, and getting better.

After downing two Cokes and taking some PBR poured into a Gatorade bottle for the trail (I didn't want to deal with the aluminum can later), I headed off to find a campsite for the day; given the good weather and desire to reflect, I wasn't interesting in staying at a shelter. Along the way I passed some of Maine's scenic ponds; I stopped for a rest at one that held a small sand beach nestled along its shore.

That resting spot made it clear that my goal for the day was to find a pond to camp by. It would mean a few extra miles, but I knew it would be worth it. I arrived at East Carry Pond at dusk, walking along its shore until I found a suitable spot on its north end. A small clearing in the trees gave me just enough room to lay out my sleeping bag on a flat, soft bed of pine needles -- I wasn't worried about needing my tent -- and a large rock jutting out into the water was the perfect spot to sit and relax as I made dinner.

As I ate, the beauty of my surroundings occupied my thoughts. I cracked open my repackaged PBR and listened to nearby coyotes howling back and forth as I watched the moon dip behind the pines. The evening seemed somehow magical, somehow just what I needed at the time. I curled up in my sleeping bag under the stars, well fed and content.

Dawn proved just as serene as the night before. I awoke to a pond that was covered in a morning mist. The surface of the water was so still that I could also see a near perfect relfection of the clouds on its mirrored surface. The only thing missing was someone to share the moment with.

After sipping my morning coffee I scurried down the trail toward the Kennebec River. At nearly 70 yards wide, the river was massive. In addition, an upstream dam was known to raise the water level by as much as three feet without warning, generating a dangerous ford situation with unpredictable current. Well aware of the danger, the official AT route is to cross the Kennebec using the contracted ferry service. Of course, the term "ferry" is used loosely as it really is just the Ferry Man paddling a canoe. In fact, this is the last human-powered ferry service operating in the United States. To make sure that hikers didn't get overly worked up about the situation, there was a white blaze painted on the bottom of the canoe -- the most photographed white blaze of the entire trail.


From the Kennebec River I was only one day out from reaching Monson, ME. There I would meet my good friend Dave who would hike with me through the 100-mile Wilderness to the summit of Katahdin. As it turns out, the 100-mile was an adventure worth its own post, but for that story you'll just need to wait.

Me, Myself and Irene

The weather outside is frightful, and getting worse by the minute as the wind and rain become more fierce. I, on the other hand, am inside, safe and dry, biding my time in The Cabin. The accommodations are simple and practical, the food is delicious and filling, much of it fresh from the garden, and the atmosphere is warm and welcoming. While I'm incredibly anxious to start hiking again, it's time to take this opportunity to bring you up to speed on my journey.

The Whites have given way to the Mahoosucs. While the peaks are no longer quite as high, the treks to the summits are just as rocky and steep, remaining slick and treacherous. The going is slow in order for the walking to be done with any amount of precaution, and even so the trail finds ways to bite, be it a slippery root, a mossy rock, or a patch of loose soil.

Still, the relative danger on the trail is not the most notable aspect of the Mahoosucs. For me and eleven others, this week on the trail was shaped more by those with whom I was walking. For the past week I have been joined by a group of Calvin students who are participating in a wilderness orientation trip, sharing with them my AT experience. As incoming first-year students to Calvin, this trip provides a way for these students to establish a community before setting foot on campus, as well as a forum to talk about transitional issues involved in coming to college. The outdoors piece is important because it provides a memorable classroom that fosters relationship growth and facilitates deep learning. As comfort zones are challenged, the support of a community becomes more important and new ideas become more accessible. A surprising amount of growth can occur in only a week's time in the wilderness.

So I have been joined by nine incoming students plus two additional trip leaders, who happen to both be good friends of mine. This has meant that for a week things have looked different from my normal routine: the miles have been less but the community of people has been stronger. The focus has not been on how far we've gone in a day but on the conversations that were shared and the trust that was built along the way.

Even though our days were kept to about five miles of trail, the challenges were still immense. Some of the participants were entirely new to hiking, which meant that the steep climbs and poor footing were a significant hurdle that required daily perseverance to overcome. Mahoosuc Notch, known as the longest mile on the AT, exemplified both this struggle and its defeat. The notch is 0.9 miles of intense scrambling over, under, and through boulders that have fallen and piled over time, some as big as houses. Because of its characteristics this narrow notch has become legendary as it not only holds an assortment of boulders but also a unique environment. Flowers that have long since displayed fruit elsewhere on the trail were still in bloom; ice was preserved in the deep crevasses between the rocks; moss and fungi were abundant and thriving; and of course the trail itself was winding and memorable.

As the group navigated from boulder to boulder, jumped over deep gaps, crawled through narrow cave-like tunnels, slid down long slabs, and extended hands and words of encouragement to one another, what was most remarkable to me was that in the very heart of the most difficult section of trail, confidence was born. The students became more sure-footed and less anxious about the scrambling. In fact, some of the most fearful of the group walked away from the experience saying, "That was fun!" It marked a turning point in the trip, and for that I was thankful.

I was also thankful to be with friends. As the trail has seemingly always held more miles for me to walk and grown more mentally challenging as the days have ticked by, the presence of friends was encouraging. Their support and affirmation was life giving, and their presence cherished. As I look ahead to the final two weeks, I know that the love they have given to me will help carry me through the final miles.

And with that, I once again look outside into the rain and wind eager to take some of my final steps on the trail. More than anything, I am ready to be home with friends and family, no longer with just me, myself, and Irene.