GROUND ZERO
Sentinel
Ground Zero. Sentinel. My go-to first mountain each summer. Located in the southwest sector of Baxter State Park, looking south one can almost stretch the eye to see the border leaving New Hampshire and feel how deep one is into Maine. For me it is the views to the north and east into Baxter that stir my soul. Up close is Katahdin, Hamlin, and many of my old friends, The Owl, OJI, Coe, South Brother, North Brother, Doubletop. Is that The Traveler in the distance? The tradition of starting my hiking season with Sentinel has a practical purpose. After a winter and an absence from Maine, with a more moderate hike than the mountains on my quest, I can evaluate my physical condition and stamina. How do I navigate the chaotic, boulder-strewn landscape approaching the summit? Can I get my body out of bed the next morning?
This year, all systems go. At the summit, looking toward Katahdin, in the valley between, I can see Daicey Pond, and the pond closer, Kidney Pond where Elizabeth was launched with canvas and paint, and a book, waiting for me. I linger in the northeastern sector of the summit. An array of rain clouds rolls through like a slow locomotive and delivers a few drops of rain, and then rolls on.
I have a fondness for Sentinel for another reason. I like the name. Sentinel. A solider or guard whose job is to stand watch. Protect. Sentinel guarding all of Baxter. Dogs are sentinels in family and home. Sentinel the dog.
Sentinel is the prequel to my quest to hike all the fourteen four thousand-footer mountains in Maine to honor the older dogs at Finally Home. Sentinel may not measure up in elevation (not one of the four thousand-footers) but it is quite worthy in its own right at 1842 feet. A practice hike for me and a trial run for the quest. Who gets the shout-out honors in the prequel? Stanley. He is the oldest. Seventeen years-old. A Jack Russell. Blind and deaf. Still eating, and still quite capable of nipping, but also still capable of receiving love and giving love. “Hello Stanley!”
ONWARD
North Brother
North Brother, Old Friend. We have been together before. I take comfort in being with you again. All is well despite a little skid down a patch of scree where I scraped my left leg. Superficial but I bleed profusely so it looks worse than it is. We all have our scrapes and scars from living life. I wear this one like a badge for the next two weeks. Age has its privileges and I now officially honor Stanley for the first of the fourteen four thousand-footers. The words “Hello Stanley!” cast into a panorama that is unrivaled in Baxter, the salute carried all over the park, the world, the universe. “Hello Stanley!”
Old Speck
I like the name, Old Speck. Senior dogs, older hiker. Old Speck. Eyebrow Trail up. I thought of my Dad’s eyebrows and as he got older, they became bushier. Would this eyebrow on Old Speck be bushy? A seasoned hiker going the same trail joined me for a mile, Fred more agile and faster than I. After he consumed a banana as a snack, he wanted to toss the peel into the brush away from the trail. Why tell me? I responded, “No, don’t do that.” He then was going to throw it even further so that it could not be seen from the trail. Really? I told him to give it to me and I would dispose of it properly. Unhappy he nevertheless put the banana peel in a container in his rucksack, and a short time later he sped on. How can anyone deface the beauty of the woods and the mica glistening through the rocks and boulders? The summit does not directly offer views. There is a fire tower that looked like it was made from an old erector set from my childhood, climb a ladder some twenty-odd rungs, it all looked too rickety to me. Did I tell you, I have a fear of heights? No thanks to the fire tower but from its base, “Hello Mera.” I reflected on the surrounding area being a mineralogical center, Elizabeth spending the day at the Maine Mineral and Gem Museum in Bethel while I hiked. Not an expert myself, but even I saw the glistening mica on the boulders on the trail. Glistening. Sparkling. Even dazzling. And Mera is shining too at Finally Home.”
Mount Abraham
Mount Abraham or as people call it, Mount Abram. I enjoyed the first mile on the Fire Warden’s Trail, more like a walk in the woods than hiking a mountain. In a different circumstance, this part of the trail would be perfect for me to visit as a daily commune with nature, a gentle hiking meditation. Then the trail becomes rockier and steeper. Much rockier. Much steeper. At the summit sign, “Hello Bear!” Sitting at the base of the sign, absorbing the endless views, I heard and then saw a helicopter swooping and swooning amidst the nearby mountains in the Carrabassett Valley. A rescue reconnaissance? Not rescuing me, I was grateful, I was safe, tired and exuberant. Speaking of rescues, Bear rescued, free to commune with his dear friends and safe at home.
The Horn and Saddleback
Out and back. Out to Saddleback and on out to The Horn and back to Saddleback and back to the trailhead. Long journey. My calculation about 14.6 miles roundtrip. Many know the hardship and strain, the weariness and hard-won resilience, of a long journey. About five hours and five miles in, I see a sign post in the distance on the top of a broad, exposed plateau ridge. I approach eagerly figuring I reached the summit. Not yet. The true summit, a blotch away as I squint, another 15 minutes at my rate of hiking. False summit. What appeared to be the final destination was just a stop along the way. What appeared to be the penultimate goal proves to be just on the way but not there yet. False summits are commonplace in my life as well as in my hiking, and I imagine the same has been true for Charlie and Carolyn at Finally Home. I stay long enough (for I shall return) to be awestruck with the amazing 720-degree panoramic views as I turn around and around again. On to The Horn less than two miles away and with more 720-degree panoramic views. “Hello Charlie.” Return to Saddleback. “Hello Carolyn!” A boyfriend one year into hiking was there waiting for his girlfriend, a more experienced hiker, who had gone on with their dog and soon would be returning from The Horn. Some dogs literally climb mountains. Other dogs climb mountains metaphorically.
Upon reflection, Saddleback and The Horn are special. Depending on the weather, time of day, environmental conditions one might see many of the other Maine four thousand-footer mountains. I cannot locate every peak but I knew they were all present in that massive sea of mountains and then beyond. Saddleback and The Horn, a focal point of the pilgrimage, the single spot where my eye could gather the scope of the whole quest, an epicenter, their central location acting as a powerful magnet that pulled the spirits of all the other peaks into that one moment. Even the mountains obscured by haze or not visible by distance added to the aura affirming that the quest demanded not just clear sight but also faith in the unseen. The faith of a dog.
It is getting later, I need to return to the trailhead. I am prepared with three headlamps. Around 8:20pm a headlamp clamped on my forehead, it is otherwise dark. I am tired. And thirsty. With less than a mile to go. In the darken woods amongst the shadows I stray from the trail. I sit on a flat boulder. A quick break, an energizing boost, I am up and fortunately I soon find my way back onto the trail. Twenty minutes later I am crossing Route 4 to the parking area where my Honda has been waiting for me all day. I realize that my second hiking pole, the one that I had tucked in my backpack, slipped out, and is gone. Leave no trace. I am humbled recalling Fred and the banana peel. I rationalize that … this was accidental, … that someone will find it and perhaps would put it to good use, … that generally I only use one pole at most. Long journey. False summit, off trail for a stretch, this happens in life, and now safe. Like Charlie and Carolyn, long journey, false summits, off trail for a stretch, and traversing those metaphoric mountains. Now safe and loved at home, Finally Home.
SIDE STEP
I once used a car navigation system that when I did not follow its instructions and it needed to re-route me, it would announce “recalculating, recalculating.” It frequently was “recalculating” me. I would like to think that obviously the navigation system was either in error or plainly not clear in giving explicit directions that even a five-year-old could follow. I ditched that system for Google Maps connected through my phone. At least the Google Maps has the courtesy not to issue proclamations “recalculating.” Now when Google Maps is in error or not clear, it simply just re-routes me. That happens often. I do have a penchant for getting off route driving and off trail when hiking. I went to the wrong area at Grafton State Park for the trailhead to Old Speck. Abraham, could this really be the road? My directions for Saddleback and The Horn would have me go 3.1 miles further than the parking area. I did get off trail toward the end of the hike, I soon realized that and even though it was dark, I regained the trail, and I was instantly grateful because it was unfamiliar territory and I could have easily got further lost (more lost than lost?), and it could have had serious consequences. Getting to the trailhead for a planned three mountains summits day (South Crocker, North Crocker, Redington), my repeated best efforts at arriving at trailhead were met with consistent wrong directions let alone my wrong turns when adhering to the wrong directions. Descending Sugarloaf on the ski slopes, how can I get off trail on a ski slope? I did. Even in my spiritual home, Baxter, I got off trail at night on Chimney Pond Trail. It could have been bad but I was enlightened by headlamps and a Gaia app that indicated that somehow at nearly 10pm I was heading back up to the summit of the mountain (wrong direction, NorthOne, turn around!). Getting to the Bigelows from the motel, I went seven miles north when I should have gone about two miles south. Where is the Stratton Brook Pond Road? Later, on a part of the Fire Warden’s Trail there is a clearing with a multitude of blue blazes pointing in different directions, not sure which is the direction to the Bigelow Avery and West Peaks. Should I take the middle route? Is this right? I try it. Maybe it is not right. Retrace my steps. Try the other routes. No, and no, not right. Retrace my retraced original steps. I was right the first time. Not my fault that I was finally right.
All of which to say, I excel at not finding the trail I think I want. (There have been occasions when later I realize that the trail that I thought I wanted was not really the trail I had wanted and getting off trail had led me to a true trail but all of that is for another time.) I master at straying off trail. I will further embellish these talents later in discussing the Crockers and Redington. For now, though, I can be grateful that even with all my missteps I did hike safely to all fourteen summits and was able to return safely to trailhead. Some people might characterize this as persistence and determination and endurance. Others might charitably describe this as stubbornness and craziness. I like doggedness. I know that each of the Senior Dogs has had a long journey prior to arriving at Finally Home, many, many times on the wrong trail, many times off trail and even lost for a while but now … they are finally home. Safe at home, loved. Doggedness.
ONWARD
North Crocker, South Crocker, and not Redington
Five four thousand footers in, signifies to me that I am serious about this quest. Today if I could hike the trio of South Crocker, North Crocker, and Redington, my total would be beyond the halfway junction. It is possible. Except by the time I reached the trailhead to start this hike, it was after 10am about 3 ½ hours later than I planned. Getting to trailhead was an adventure and challenge in and of itself. Two hours later I see a sign for North Crocker and I surmise that I must be near the summit of South Crocker only I do not see the summit sign. I will look for the summit sign on my return, onward to North Crocker. Twenty minutes in, I meet an AT through hiker heading south as I am heading north. His trail name? – his given name, Scott. As Scott explained, he was just himself. I like that. And I liked his free spiritedness. Just himself, free spirited. Kindly he suggested I adjust my sole hiking pole so that I would not be so hunched over hiking which would be easier on my back, and he even adjusted the pole for me. Intrigued with my quest, he took a selfie of the two of us which he promised to text me later, and I shared with him about Finally Home. “Hello DeeDee from North Crocker!” Returning to South Crocker, I still could not find the summit sign. Another AT hiker did not know either and using an app on his phone, directed me south before he disappeared. After a few steps I knew this was wrong and turned back. Following a side trail to a summit viewpoint opening up on a sheet of rock. The view, verdant all the way across the valley and up on the mountain (Sugarloaf) across the way. A lone giant dead birch tree still standing erect on this side of South Crocker, its outreaching naked branches reaching out and skyward, and even in its deceased state presenting a striking sculptural offering. “Hi Earl!” near the summit at the viewpoint. Crisscrossing the summit area, I look for the herd path trailhead to Redington. A clearing here, a barely trodden path there, I wander about, and at one point I was foraging where it looked like someone might have previously stepped only to be met about fifteen feet further with thick growth nixing that idea that I was on a trail. I turn around. It is 3:30, and I am not going to get lost on the side of South Crocker mountain. Safety first. I will have to return another day to seek the Redington trailhead. Back to the sign pointing the direction to North Crocker one mile. Then I see, the sign for North Crocker is the very summit sign for South Crocker. It was right in front of me the whole time. Sometimes I am exactly where I want to be only do not know it. Hello again Earl! I think of how sometimes in life I cannot find the path I want, I think I am lost, I fail to realize where I am. I think of the serenity that Scott exuded. Peace. Comfort and peace for DeeDee and Earl. DeeDee and Earl, how long it took you to get exactly where you should be, where you can be … just yourselves at home.
Spaulding and Sugarloaf
I have gone skiing twice. Once when I was about ten, a family friend took me and I learned everything that I know about skiing. The second time, perhaps a year later, I was with my sister and I taught her all that I know. Suffice the hot chocolate was good. I transferred my in-depth knowledge of ski slopes to Sugarloaf. How hard could it be to hike up a ski slope in the summer for two miles? Steep but surely not as tough as scrambling over boulders, right? Trudging up with occasional looks down from where I had come, truly magnificent views, two hours later, I am laboring and sweating profusely, my water-wicking shirt drenched in sweat, and it is not even 9am. I affirm my suspicion that ski slopes may not be for me. There is a radio tower at the summit. There was a construction crew at work. No summit sign. A heliport platform. I thought of the helicopter I had seen flying during my Mount Abraham hike. I hope I will not need to be rescued. I meet a lone hiker coming up a trail from the southwest stepping on the heliport platform with me. How fortunate because he had just come from Spaulding and if he had not shown me where the trail was I would probably still be circling the summit of Sugarloaf. I head toward Spaulding and am relieved that now I am back on a real trail with roots and rocks, and boulders, branches scraping my arms and legs, and appropriately immersed in the Maine woods. Nothing too challenging though I was surprised by the number of blowdowns, maybe a dozen or more. I had to climb over fallen trees and wade into brush to make my way around the obstructed trail. “Hello Marissa from Spaulding!” Return the way I came back to Sugarloaf. Still no summit sign instead a gigantic cairn. “Hello Dove!” Hey Marissa, hey Dove, how many blowdowns did you have to climb over or trudge around? No more. No vertical slopes. Only easy living at Finally Home.
Hamlin and Katahdin
Nice weather ahead. I return to Baxter State Park for Hamlin and Katahdin. This would be my most strenuous hike. I have hiked this route before in 2022 getting up early, hiking Maine’s second highest mountain, then over to Maine’s highest mountain, to arrive at Chimney Pond some ten hours later, by chance catching the tail end of a wedding and then being asked to sign the marriage certificate as a witness, as if destiny had ordained that the sole purpose of my life, previously unknown to me, was to be a witness to this wedding. Almost 3 years later to the day, happy anniversary Molly and Brian! Now I am back contemplating the same itinerary. Will I get a parking spot at Roaring Brook? I am in line at the entrance to the Park by 5:20am. At 7:05am I am informed, there is a spot. I think the dedicated and exceptional staff at the Gatehouse would have carved out a spot for me if there had not been one. Eight miles later, at Roaring Brook, in the parking area, I introduce myself to Ranger Colony. I told her my planned itinerary and that I was slow and steady and I expected to be back late and that was my Honda. I told her of my quest. I register at the Ranger’s Station. Trailhead. Chimney Pond Trail. Slow and steady NorthOne. Getting to Hamlin summit is strenuous. About 5 ½ hours later I call out “Hello Lucy!” Eighty degrees in the sun, descending from Hamlin into the col toward Katahdin, about a tenth of a mile from Caribou Springs, “Do you mind my asking how old you are?” Two baseball-capped (backwards) young men (teenagers?) taking a break from their hike. Obviously it piqued their curiosity. It must have amused them that such an older man was plodding along, very slow in their youthful eyes and assuredly out of his element in their myopic view. Not answering directly, I say, “Actually, now that you mention it, I am hiking to honor older dogs. There are fourteen of them at Finally Home in North Yarmouth. At each of the fourteen Maine four thousand-footer mountains, at the summit, I do a shout-out to honor one.” The young men do not seem impressed, or even show any interest, they continued eating their snack and drink out of a can (beer?). I plod on, left hand hooked to the front strap of the backpack, the right hand clutching a hiking pole poised to use should an imbalance arise. “Do you mind my asking how old you are?” At least the wording had a tone of politeness. I remember a sign I saw at a chiropractor’s office years ago, “How old would you be if you did not know how old you are?” Lucy, how old would you be if you did not know how old you are? Oh, you don’t know how old you are. Great! Another two hours later from Baxter Peak on Katahdin, it is “Hello Tucker!” I head back. Down the Saddle Trail to Chimney Pond to let the Ranger there know I am safe and then on to Roaring Brook. Ranger Peter recognized me from years past. Getting late. Three more miles mostly going down. From getting dark to dark. Headlamped. I manage to get off trail but with the help of a Gaia app returned to trail and with further help from the Gaia app re-aligned myself in the direction of the trailhead and not back up to the summit. At the Ranger Station at 11:00pm, fifteen hours on the trails, I sign the register cheating a little by claiming I was back an hour earlier (such vanity NorthOne!), and walk to my Honda. A note on the windshield. From Ranger Colony. Ranger Peter had radioed her that I was safe at Chimney Pond earlier. She wrote also that our talk about my quest and Finally Home in the parking area fifteen hours earlier had made her day. I had felt full of accomplishment in hiking Maine’s two highest mountains but what made my day even more special was Ranger Colony’s note. Shout-outs can take many forms. A voice from a summit. A note on a little Honda. I make shout-outs. It is so affirming and rewarding to receive one. By the way, all you Pups at Finally Home, you do not know how old you are, do you? Isn’t that great?!
The Bigelows – Avery Peak and West Peak
It was going to be a hot day, in the mid-80s, and humid, the type of weather that persuaded me not to hike a year ago. But I have more mountains on my quest. I will start early in the morning. I ask two different AI platforms for directions from Mountain View Motel to the Bigelows, and I get contradictory directions, one telling me north, one telling me south. I get one of the AI platforms to agree with the other, I guess AIs can be bullied too, and end up going seven miles north when I should have gone two miles south. Finally, Stratton Brook Pond Road, a dirt road in relatively good shape compared to my recent experiences with dirt roads. I park, walk on a rutted dirt road, over a wooden bridge with some slats missing. The route follows the shore of a pond, mountains in the distance. Trailhead, no sign, only a swatch of paint, a blue blaze. At the start, it was relatively flat. I was in my element, in the midst of the Maine woods. A mile later, at a junction, confusion, which way to go. I resorted to trial and error figuring that was as good as any AI, and finally manage the correct direction. From there the trail became relentlessly steep, boulder after boulder, climb after climb, steep steps, no breaks where it leveled off, all upward and upward until the col between the two peaks. First north to Avery and back down to the col, and then to West Peak. From Avery, “Hi Dora and Dancer.” From West Peak, “Hi Dancer and Dora.” I thought of Avery and West Peak as being like sisters. Hello, hello. One can get lost searching for the trail to home, one can agonize with the strenuous climb, one can sweat in the heat. It can be hot and strenuous and relentless. Dancer and Dora know. Sisters. Their trail finally led them home where they can stay cool together.
FINALLY
Redington
The infusion of balsam permeating my being. I remember how the apartment was saturated with the balsam fragrance when I was five years-old, Christmas Eve, the Christmas tree that had arrived just hours before, a hasty visit to the Five-and-Ten to get tinsel, the unpacking of the ornaments saved from previous years, hooking them with paperclip sized hangers and hanging them from the branches of the cut spruce tree that reached from the green carpet to the ceiling, the treetop tip had to be cut three inches to accommodate an angel sitting on top ever-watching, and the Russian bread with cocoa glaze alphabet cookies hung among the ornaments until they were consumed one by one. The warmth of family and home. Safe and secure. Love sublime and omnipresent.
Balsam permeating my summers in Maine. The two-room cottage on the lake in the midst of the woods with birches and beeches, spruces and pines, cedars and hemlocks, and with mountains in the distance, ducks cruising the lake and the loons on patrol, late nights hearing the loons’ eerie entries. The woods. The lake. The loons. Infused and imprinted with balsam. Family and home.
And Redington Mountain. The last of the fourteen Maine four thousand-footer mountains I need to hike in my quest. In some ways, Redington has been the most challenging of the hikes mainly because I had such difficulty finding the trail. I was anxious too. I had never before hiked a “herd” path (a trail not officially maintained). Would I get lost? My second attempt on this route. Initially Redington was to be part of a three-summit hike which had to be reduced to two-summit because I could not find the Redington trail. Even getting to start the hike was a challenge. Directions to a location ostensibly the trailhead were wrong. Carrabassett Valley Road, also known as CVR. No that is not it. I was seven miles too far south. A local man’s directions, pass the Sugarloaf Access Road, a little less than a mile, as you drive up the hill, to the left, Caribou Pond Road, although there was no road sign signifying that this was Caribou Pond Road, the word “road” used generously as jutting rocks and sinkhole potholes, and bulging culverts, my poor little Honda, so brave, crawling along. I thought that this so-called road could not be right, and after about 20 minutes turned around to get back to the main road, getting more directions, I was wrong, that road was right, I return, take it for nearly four miles, for almost a half-hour, to reach a gate drawn closed, road closed to vehicles, time to park, walk on the closed road over a bridge that was spooky even to walk over, to trailhead, head north on the AT for 2.1 miles to South Crocker Mountain. The earlier time I hiked from South Croker another mile north to North Crocker Mountain, and back to South Crocker. There I then looked for the trailhead for the herd path to Redington. Somewhere … where? … there should be a trailhead to the herd path to Redington Mountain. Previously, too late in the day to go looking for this trail, reasoning that if I did find the trail it would be two to three hours to Redington and back, and another two hours back to trailhead near the car, and another half-hour on that the so-called road. Now I return twelve days later. Thirteen of the fourteen four-thousand footers have been hiked to the summit and back, safely. Return for another half-hour on the Caribou Pond (so-called) Road, and the walk to trailhead, and the 2.1 miles to summit South Crocker (again). Where is the trailhead to the herd path to Redington? A side trail on the way to the view point of South Crocker, to the right, a roundish clearing, I walk the perimeter. I see the woods and brush, a chaotic mix of dead vegetation and living growth, … a dead tree fallen over, some of its denuded branches still reaching for the sky, … and behind … ground that was trodden upon, and an aisle perhaps two feet wide, … the herd path! I climbed over the fallen dead tree. Finally I am at the onset of the trail to Redington. A calm settled over me, a calm tinged with joy. From there it was relatively easy to follow the trail unofficially marked by kind hikers with orange flagging tape to keep people like me aligned to the herd path. Blowdowns needing to be crawled under or climbed over or walked around. The herd path is narrow and while branches of trees were clipped, the little stubs where they had been attached to their trees remained and sometimes I came too close and the stubs punctured my arms like tiny little daggers. No serious harm just some blood. And then, the deep awareness that I am in a balsam-filled world. Christmases past and childhood Maine summers, all rolled into one. The melding in nature, family and home. On my way to Redington summit. Number fourteen. Honor Tiger. “Hi Tiger!” I have come a long way to be here at Redington. And for you too, Tiger, an arduous journey, all the way from Alabama, you have come a long way to be … Finally Home.
HOME
My daughter Elizabeth buys me a little balsam pillow measuring about 3.5 inches square with the vintage Maine flag symbols stitched on, a blue star in the corner representing the North Star (the guiding star) and a green tree representing a white pine. The pillow is stuffed with balsam fir needles crushed to release their scent. Fourteen older dogs at Finally Home, fourteen four thousand-footer mountains in Maine. My quest fulfilled to honor each Finally Home senior dog one at each summit. Years ago, I learned from Katahdin that a summit is a holy place. I am grateful for each safe passage to these holy places. My quest transformed into a pilgrimage. Each senior dog has had a long journey, a pilgrimage. And now each senior dog is with family, finally home. I hold the balsam pillow under my nose and inhale deeply. Family and home. Love sublime and omnipresent.
© 2025. NorthOne/Andrew E. Behrendt. All Rights Reserved.
© 2025. NorthOne/Andrew E. Behrendt. All Rights Reserved.
Old Dawg for Old Dogs 