Sacred Spaces: Mount Katahdin
Listening for Angels on Maine's "Greatest Mountain"
Earlier this year I read Dale Allison’s The Luminous Dusk, a reflective work on mankind’s alienation from the rhythms of nature and its effect on our sense of spirituality. Many of the themes he shared resonated with my recent trip to Mount Katahdin—Maine’s highest peak as well as the terminus of the Appalachian Trail. The seclusion, the silence, and the sheer mightiness of this rock has a visceral, numinous effect on the psyche.
My own trek was to involve a double traverse, working my way from Abol Campground on the West to Roaring Brook Campground on the East—and then back again to Abol. This would be a robust, if unconventional, practice for my upcoming ultramarathon at the end of the month. When I mentioned this to a friend—a fellow marathon runner—he called my plans “ambitious . . . maybe even foolish.” My attempts at recruiting a hiking companion who would be up to the task were unsuccessful, and so I would be going alone.
As with the “Rio Grande River,” it is redundant to call it “Mount Katahdin,” for the Penobscot Ktaaden already means “The Greatest Mountain.” Or as we might more naturally express the thought of the Native Americans: Katahdin is quite simply the Mountain. One gets the sense of this concept at a certain point while driving from Millinocket to Baxter State Park: After turning a certain bend, drivers are confronted with an awe-striking relief of the mountain towering into the blue sky.
Usually keen to make the most of my time, I was listening to an audiobook on my 3-hour drive North. Yet as I approached the Togue Pond Gatehouse and entered the wilderness of Baxter, a gradual sense of holiness made itself known. Now it would have seemed sacrilege to turn my audiobook back on or even to play music from my truck speakers. The pristine woods, the rudimentary tote road, and the loss of cell phone reception effected a whole new atmosphere. I transitioned from a Prussian efficiency to a Russian mysticism. Dostoyevsky would be proud.
In order to have enough time for the journey, I rented a lean-to at the Abol Campground. After getting situated and stretching my legs on a short hike of the “Little Abol Falls” trail, I expected to settle into my usual nighttime routine of reading a book. Yet I found myself simply staring into the luminous dusk in front of me, watching the slow transition from a shadowy canvass of forest to complete darkness. My experience of the numinous went from rumors to whispers.
Sleeping in the fresh air of the night was refreshing, yet—being my first time camping solo—I endured a few episodes of minor hallucination: I was convinced at one point that a creature had crawled into my head space and soiled my pillow. After working up the courage to turn on my light, I realized that I had merely drooled in my sleep. At another point in the middle of the obsidian darkness I woke up convinced that there were obscenely large spiders all over the ceiling of my shelter. This time I didn’t dare turn on the light.
Eventually I woke up at 3:24 AM, 6 minutes before my set alarm. It was time to decide whether I would work up the courage to hike in the dark. I deliberated for at least 10 minutes, waffling back and forth. Trivial excuses flooded my mind: Moving my truck to the parking area would disturb the other campers, it was too cold to begin, my headlight batteries might run out. I eventually decided to go for it. This was partly due to the forecast: We were expecting an afternoon of showers and lighting, and I had to make good time.
Those first 45 minutes on the trail were uncharted territory for me. Never had I hiked in the dark, much less alone. I was well rested and my energy levels were ready for a full day’s work, but my mind was not quite so fortified. I practiced my “hey bear!” calls frequently, especially after smelling what I ascertained to be fresh scat near the trail. But I also found myself driven to do another thing: Pray.
Dale Allison writes that our forebears had a natural tendency to turn to God for help in the face of untamed nature.
Our feelings about God were roughly congruent with our feelings about Nature. Often terrified and helpless before the one, we often felt terrified and helpless before the other.1
At least with “the other,” I felt I had an open line of communication. I prayed for security not only extempore but also offered a number of paternosters, Jesus Prayers, and I even made the sign of the cross. I reflected on my very limited options should I startle a mother with cubs, and I realized that there would be little I could do. I felt the above-mentioned feeling of helplessness. There is no AAA for bear attacks. Petition was my only recourse.
Of course, the statistics on bear attacks in Maine show that I had little to worry about. These creatures, especially the black bears that fill Baxter State Park, are keen to avoid us noisy humans. Yet statistics are (as Job would say) “miserable comforters” in the moment of fear. The solitude and darkness could not be so easily overcome.
A new phase dawned—quite literally—as the mountain became more visible. Being on the West side, there was still no direct sunlight. But about one-third up the mountain, I began exiting the ominous forest proper and entering the dimly lit rocky trail surrounded by dwarfish trees. It was a luminous dawn.
Not yet at the primary ridge of Abol, I started to feel euphoric. The strange thing is that I would not describe this euphoria as the opposite of the previous fear, but rather as directly connected to it. Dread was connected with ecstasy. Mysterium tremendum et fascinans.
As I worked my way to and up the ridge—the most technical segment of Abol—I found myself pleased with the pace. Would I see a sunrise at the top?
While I was not fortunate enough to watch the dawn of Sol from Baxter Peak, I captured a glowing red ball of fire low on the horizon as I rose to the Tablelands. Five or six sunrise watchers passed me by on their way down as I made my way to the summit.
Several times I paused in this land thousands of feet above sea level, listening to the silence. Even the wind was a modest average of 4 mph. I reflected that I could hear it—the sound of angels.
In The Luminous Dusk, Dale Allison points to a number of ancient Jewish and early Christian traditions about the highest praise of the angels being carried out in silence.2 He recalls Isaac of Ninevah’s dicho that silence is “the language of the kingdom of heaven” and adds his own reflection “Heaven’s stillness is not empty but full.”3 I felt this truth. There was something sacred about the place. From the Penobscots to Teddy Roosevelt, men have long recognized that this destination carried numinosity.
Whether God’s emissaries truly congregate in such desolate places one cannot know. Yet I felt that this was the sort of place that one would expect to run across an angel.
The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. And he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. And he was with the wild animals, and the angels were ministering to him. (Mark 1:12–13, ESV)
And he came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, and the disciples followed him. And when he came to the place, he said to them, “Pray that you may not enter into temptation.” And he withdrew from them about a stone's throw, and knelt down and prayed, saying, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.” And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. (Luke 22:39–43, ESV)
Of the two people I know who believe they have encountered an angel, one is convinced that it occurred while hiking down a mountain.4 The other reported a sight of one of God’s holy ones in a house of worship during a session of prolonged prayer and song—a sacred space of its own kind.
Finally summiting at 6:41 AM, I was met by a fellow traveler—who also happened to be training for an ultramarathon. We exchanged conversation, took photos of each other, and parted ways. As with the previous group of passersby, there was a sense of mutual respect and camaraderie intrinsic to the encounter. The lonely peak at such an early hour—so very different than the bustling bedlam of New Hampshire’s Mount Washington—permits only hikers of focus and constancy.
As we parted ways, I moved laterally toward the Knife Edge trail, a 1.1-mile ridge of breathtaking views and hazards. I had some trepidation, as I had never attempted this infamous path in my past dozen times on the mountain. The wind, however, was mild, and the dew had dried from the rocks by the time I started the technical section. Today was to be the day.
As I climbed across the roof of Maine, the mysterium tremendum enveloped me. Mostly alone, I passed 2 or 3 men hiking in the opposite direction. Some of the junctures took my breath away: If I mess this one up, game over. At the same time, the sights were a glory to behold, exceeding that of Baxter Peak and the Tablelands.
When I finished Knife Edge, I arrived at Pamola Peak, named after the Pamola Spirit, fabled guardian of the mountain. I felt the force of Thoreau’s description of his own trek in the nineteenth century:
The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe, whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and insolent men, perchance, go there. Simple races, as savages, do not climb mountains,—their tops are sacred and mysterious tracts never visited by them. Pomola is always angry with those who climb to the summit of Ktaadn.5
As I approached this alternate peak, I cannot say I felt any true sense of fear. Nonetheless, I found myself praying another paternoster and crossing myself as I approached the rugged wooden sign. At this summit, I was totally alone. The silent song of the angels was as loud as ever. Notwithstanding the reality or unreality of the Pamola Spirit—these days I find myself ever more curious about folkloric beliefs in spirit-beings—Thoreau’s experience was my own experience. I was on sacred ground.
The remainder of the trek was not quite as profound. Perhaps the early morning hours provided a veneer of spirituality that cannot be easily replicated mid-day. The larger groups of hikers also diminished the sense of solitude I enjoyed at first. Yet due to my atypical itinerary, I never kept company with fellow travelers for more than a few minutes. And the longer I walked and scrambled, the more I entered a nigh-hypnotic state of flow. I was present. In the moment. In the zone. A state of mind that I have found harder and harder to achieve these days. At times I fancied myself a hesychast monk.
On the second traverse I had a few encounters with hikers that I had met hours previously. Crossing paths twice made for a rare sense of camaraderie. After passing through the Chimney Pond campground one-third of the way up the mountain, I took the Cathedral trail to the Tablelands—Katahdin’s closest equivalent to Tolkien’s Cirith Ungol.
Now having been on the trails for over 9 hours, the technical sections slowed me down a bit. I even had a moment where I wobbled on a tricky rock face. I could have gone in either direction and thankfully tilted toward the rock instead of toward the drop-off. Part of me wanted to believe that an angel had nudged me in the right direction. Probably not—but the thought fit the enchantment of the day.
My second summit of Baxter Peak at 2:10 PM was alone, accompanied only by the clouds. The descent of Abol carried a sense of relief, as I had been racing the weather for the day. Originally expecting rain and showers by 11:00 AM, the morning forecast updated the time to 1:00 PM. Then on my Knife Edge trek, I was told that I had until 3:00 PM. By the time I reached the bottom of the mountain, I suffered not a drop of water. I of course had been praying for a stay of the storm throughout the hike, and I gladly accepted this affirmative answer to my petition—especially given my risky decision not to pack a poncho.
As I passed the same sections where I felt the first euphoria of the hike, the memories from 10 hours previous flooded back. I had gone “there and back again.” Reaching the ranger station at the bottom to record my 12-hour, 49-minute hike time capped off the day.
Concerning Sacred Spaces
A few more words are appropriate to flesh out my experience of the “sacred space” of Baxter State Park and Mount Katahdin in particular. Dale Allison’s comments about the instinct to meet God in secluded places is not foreign to the Scriptural witness.
Though certainly the “high places” can be corrupted toward the worship of bloodthirsty and debauched deities (see 1 & 2 Kings), we should not forget that the faithful were wont to meet with the Lord on Mount Sinai and Mount Zion. The Psalmist implies that meeting with God should be likened to ascending a hill or mountain (Ps. 24:3). And of course, Jesus’ moment of highest exaltation prior to the resurrection takes place on the Mount of Transfiguration.
There seems to be something sacred about desolate places in general and mountaintops in particular. That pre-Christian pagans recognized this does not mean that the concept is wholly superstition. As Allison writes: “I have no reason to regard as peculiar the notion that of Nature is bathed in a subtle divine energy.”6 So perhaps destinations like Mount Athos are not revered for folkloric tradition alone, but for the ever-present sense of the numinous that surrounds them.
In my own Evangelical circles, I was struck by the comment of one of my friends who had come from a Roman Catholic background: “I miss the sense of the sacred.” The French-Catholic cathedrals and churches in the state of Maine evoke a sense of awe and reverence that the Evangelical churches rarely attempt to replicate. (Some of the more traditional Protestant buildings have spires of course, their own attempt at “verticality.”)
Whatever one thinks of church design, though, I suspect that there really is something to the idea of “sacred ground” that many of us have lost in the dis-enchantment of the world. By the same token, the notion of “desecrated ground” deserves its own consideration. As one of the elders at my church expressed during a sermon: “Who wants to take a nap in Auschwitz?”
God created the Heavens and the Earth, and I suspect that there exist some places where Heaven is a little closer to Earth than usual. Maybe Mount Katahdin is one of those places. Maybe not.
Dale Allison, The Luminous Dusk: Finding God in the Deep, Still Places (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 11.
Allison, The Luminous Dusk, 43–44.
Allison, The Luminous Dusk, 44.
The witness in question is a longtime clergyman, and his experience jives with global reports of angelic encounters. See Dale Allison’s chapter “The Lore of Angels,” in another of his books, Encountering Mystery: Religious Experience in a Secular Age (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2022), 73–98.
Henry David Thoreau, “Ktaadn,” 1848, https://monadnock.net/thoreau/ktaadn.html.
Allison, The Luminous Dusk, 50.