It was the mother of all hills, a steep grade slathered in slick mud.
I couldn’t see any way around it—just the rocky river to the left of me and the thick forest to the right. One big obstacle before the next campsite at the Sheldon Springs Dam. “We can do this, Sparky,” I said to my lone companion, the 35-pound, nine-foot yellow plastic kayak I wheeled in front of me.
For 23 days, I’d been traveling the Northern Forest Canoe Trail—a winding 740-mile expedition over rivers, streams, lakes, ponds and portages first navigated by Native Americans and early settlers. I had more than 500 miles to go, and I wasn’t going to let a hill stop me.
I set Sparky down, tightened the straps on my backpack and began to climb. My feet slipped from under me. “Whoa!” I shouted. Slap! Face first in the mud. I pulled myself up and slipped and slid my way to the top.
I put down my backpack full of freeze-dried food and my bag of cooking supplies and skidded downhill. My tent and sleeping bag were next. I got them all the way to the top too. Now it was time for Sparky. I got behind the kayak and pushed. The wheels inched up the hill. Then… “Whoa!” Slap! Another face plant in the muck. Sparky tumbled down, nearly running over me. I tried a second time. And a third. But my shoes were too caked with mud. Sparky was stuck, and so was I. God, I thought, how can I do this alone?
That was a question I’d asked myself often over the past year. Up until then, my life had been like this trail. I’d hit some rapids and the occasional storm, but always moved forward. Then approaching my 50th birthday, I got stuck. First, both my children left the nest. Then my husband and I divorced after almost 30 years of marriage. But the biggest wallop came when the learning center where I’d worked for 10 years announced layoffs. I lost my job as a graphic designer and photography instructor. Wife, mother, artist, teacher—everything I’d defined myself by, gone all at once. I’d never felt so lost.
This trip was my sister Beth’s idea. She knew I was feeling down, and she called me one afternoon. “I read this article,” she said. “This guy, Mike, from New Jersey paddled the Northern Forest Canoe Trail all by himself. No woman’s ever done that. You could be the first.”
Sure, Beth and I had learned to swim and paddle in the reservoir behind our house when we were kids. I’d logged many hours with my paddling buddies running rapids. But paddle from New York to Maine, solo? Was Beth crazy? Then again, I needed to prove to myself that I could make it living on my own. Maybe this journey could do that.
I asked around. People said I needed a better kayak than Sparky—“an expedition craft rated for Class IV rapids at least”—and a partner to help carry the 75 pounds of food and camping gear. But I contacted Mike from New Jersey, and he told me, “Go for it!” I could pack a transponder that would automatically send my location to a website where my family and friends could track my progress and a cell phone in case I got into trouble. I planned my trip for months, and in mid-June Beth and her husband drove me to the trailhead in Old Forge, New York.
The first two weeks, the biggest challenge was the weather. One evening, a freak thunderstorm forced me to paddle to shore and make camp at night in the middle of the woods. I set up my tent next to a large rock, hoping it would shield me somewhat, climbed inside and wrapped myself tight in my sleeping bag just as the sky opened up. Would a flash flood sweep me away? Would some large, hungry creature stumble upon me? Would the howling wind tear open my nylon tent? I was too scared to sleep.
It was nearly sunrise when the wind and rain subsided. I unzipped my tent and cautiously ventured out to make a cup of coffee. Another night like that and I’ll never make it to the end of the trail.
Then the sun broke over the horizon. The clear sky turned an awesome shade of purple and pink, illuminating the mist rising off the water and the mountains beyond. The sight was like a message, saying, You’re not alone, Cathy.
Now I sat down on top of Sparky, exhausted, wondering if I’d completely misread that glorious sunrise. No glory here, just utter defeat. Mosquitoes dive-bombed me. The sun was baking hot. And I was stuck in the mud. I started to cry. God, tell me what I’m supposed to do. Please.
Two words came to me. Get help.
Help? Out here? I hadn’t seen another soul all day. I got out my map. Closest town was East Highgate, Vermont, three miles away through the woods. What choice did I have? I chained Sparky to a tree, stashed my gear behind some trees and headed into the woods.
About an hour later, sweaty, caked in mud, I finally reached the East Highgate General Store. The first woman I talked to handed me the Yellow Pages. As if there was a section for kayak towing! I went up to the cashier, an older woman, and poured my heart out about my situation. She can’t do anything either, I thought. I really am alone out here. As alone as everywhere else.
Just then, the front door jangled. A strapping young man in a muscle shirt and cutoffs walked in. “Cody,” the cashier called to him, “can you help this lady out?”
“Sure,” Cody said, shooting me a friendly smile. “What’s the problem?”
I explained and he drove me in his truck back to where I’d emerged from the woods. Two men on ATVs were sitting there. My muddy clothes and paddling jacket gave me away. “You must be the lady who left the kayak by the hill,” one of them said. “Need a tow?”
I hopped on the back of one of the ATVs. We were off. “Whoa…shouldn’t you slow down?” I shouted over the engine.
“Can’t, we’ll get stuck in the mud!” the man yelled. I held on for dear life.
We reached the bottom of the hill and hooked the kayak up to the back of the ATV. The guy hit the gas, and Sparky’s wheels popped out of the mud. All the way up the hill, I watched eagle-eyed as the kayak bumped along behind us. I prayed the wheels wouldn’t fall off. Finally we reached the top. I scarcely had time to thank the men before they zoomed away.
Cody helped load Sparky and the rest of my things into the back of his truck. On our way to the Sheldon Springs Dam, I thought about how lucky I’d been to find a kind stranger with a truck and two more angels on ATVs to boot. “Thank you so much,” I said as we pulled to a stop.
“Not a problem,” Cody said. “Glad I could help. Good luck with the rest of the trail.”
The rest of the trail, more than 500 miles, people like Cody and those ATVers kept popping up. There were the bed-and-breakfast owners near the Canadian border crossing who met
me at a campsite and took me into town for a fried chicken dinner. There was the French-Canadian couple in Mansonville, Quebec, who spotted me limping past their house and invited me to stay and take a shower—a relief after days of low water and long portages. Or the time I thought I was lost, and a phone call to Mike from New Jersey put me on the right path again. On a portage trail in Maine, I found a package of wet wipes hanging from a birch tree with a note: “C. Mumford we love you!”—a gift left by my sister Beth. She knew my supplies were running low.
Then there were the other kinds of help—the bald eagle that flew in to visit me after a tough paddle on Umbagog Lake. The moose that gave me a wake-up call on the shores of the Penobscot. The breathtaking views that inspired me every day.
A small group was waiting on the beach at Ft. Kent, Maine, at the end of the trail. I paddled in to shore to the sound of cheers. I did it! The first woman to travel the Northern Forest Canoe Trail on her own.
Now, back home in New Jersey, I kayak every weekend I can. I’ve been freelancing as a graphic artist and teaching photography again, but most of all, I’ve been looking for chances to help other women who may think they’re alone out there. I know that’s not true. It took me 740 miles and 58 days to see it, but there’s always someone you can count on to help you through the rapids and the storms, the steep climbs, the long portages—wherever life’s trail takes you.
See a slide show of photos from Cathy’s trip!
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