576 miles

Mountains round out over time, like pebbles in a stream. At the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, I learned that the White Mountains of New Hampshire are significantly younger (100 million years?) than the Green Mountains of Vermont. My body could have told me that much earlier, though: It had to traverse those mountains.

So today's zero in Gorham, NH feels wonderful. Not only did the Whites humble me and my body, but they also ate my boots, trekking poles, and pack cover, so I needed to re-equip. Rugged and beautiful country, this is. Tomorrow, we're going over Wildcat Mountain, which to me, is as formidable as Moosilauke was.

And then... Maine. Maine! I whisper it, but cannot contain my excitement, like I would whisper Alaska! or Tibet! or any of those places on earth that are so filled with beauty and strangeness and that I long to witness with my own eyes.