That backpacking trip to Baxter was no bait-and-switch

My husband likes to say that our trip to the remote reaches of Baxter State Park in Maine one hot week in August 33 years ago was one of the greatest bait-and-switches of all time.

We were only months into our new relationship as boyfriend and girlfriend when we had decided — well, actually, Howard decided and I agreed — that we would put our newly-defined relationship to the test on a weeklong, backpacking trip in the very remote backwoods of northernmost Maine.

We had hiked the Catskill mountains together during our years in a summer share weekend house. And now that we had declared ourselves officially boyfriend and girlfriend, it was time to put our relationship to the test.

I was by all accounts an outdoorsy kind of gal. Or so I told Howard. Growing up, each summer during the third week of August, my dad would pack the family — my mom, two sisters and I — an extra friend or cousin, and our hairy mutt Butch — into the station wagon for a weeklong vacation at a campground in the Poconos.

We could count on certain things happening on those August vacations. The campground would be packed with people who got there before us, forcing us to squeeze the two-room canvas tent we liked to call The White House just 100 yards from the next family. That extra friend or cousin would invariably suffer from a messy intestinal virus, homesickness, or both. Butch, the family dog who ordinarily loved to run out of our house to chase cars at the glimpse of an open door, would opt to stay inside the car during our nightly campfires. And it would rain. A lot. It was late August after all.

So when Howard proposed that we stuff a 30-lb backpack with flannels, a pop-up tent, sleeping bag, and a week’s supply of freeze-dried meals, I was game. I had survived seeping wet tents in August and Randy T’s bout with a stomach flu.

We journeyed to Campmor, the mecca of camping stores, got me fitted me with a deep blue backpack (my favorite color) and hiking boots, and loaded up on meal packets with gourmet-sounding names — broccoli and cheese souffle, beef stroganoff, and chicken francese. We would dine on our delicious meals by the light of our campfire. It would be perfect.

And so it was when we first landed at the start of our weeklong journey together. We parked the car at the trail’s edge and carefully pulled out our gear for the trip. We began to walk — wordlessly, not knowing what lay in the path before us. The light cascaded through the tops of trees, pointing our way forward. We walked about seven miles that first day, climbing up and down ravines, then shimmying along the rocks, crossing one stream after another, until we found our first destination for the night — an open overhang shelter. We eased off the backpacks that held everything we had brought to sustain us for a week in the woods — our freeze dried packets, our socks, bagels and peanut butter, shorts and pants.

We pulled out the sterno and poured the dried contents of our packets into our one pot — tonight beef stroganoff was on the menu — filled to the brim with water from the stream that we had purified with two little pills. The heat of the day had left us and a cool mist of air set in. The last light of the moon spread its shadows across the sky and darkness enveloped us. We were alone, utterly alone, the two of us. And just as wordlessly as we began our hike along the path, we clung together silently, our arms wrapped around each other in the warmth of our sleeping bags, peering out into the black sky backlit with the stars above us. And it was beautiful.

We dosed off, content. But no sooner had we settled in then we were awakened by a tapping sound. The sky opened up above us with a bang as shards of lightning flashed; streams of water flowed from the overhang above us. It stayed raining when the sky lightened to the day before us.

We quickly scarfed down our breakfast granola bars, packed our backpacks, and slipped on our bright yellow plastic ponchos and hats. The rain had not abated. In fact, it never stopped. There was no time to think about it. We had to get to our next destination — ten miles away — before nightfall — or else there was no guarantee we would have a roof above us.

The trail, once firm beneath our step, had turned a soggy, muddy pile. With each step, my hiking boot sung deeper and deeper into the mud. My socks had turned brown, my boots sopping wet. Where light had filtered through the trees the day before, a mist of gray lay heavy around us. I could smell my sweat — my jeans, stiff and damp — and DEET. Mosquitos and black flies buzzed around our heads.

Howard tried to put on a sunny face. It was all part of our adventure, our great journey together, he said. The skies would certainly brighten. We would have evenings of song and talk. We had granola, and bagels with peanut butter, and chicken francese for dinner and plenty of water to purify. The rain would stop, and we would see a moose.

At week’s end, he said, we would find our way back to the car, rent a quiet B&B, take a hot shower, and sit down to a large lobster meal.

I tried to hold onto that vision as I pulled each footstep up and out of the mud along the trail. But I was not feeling sunny. My feet were hurting from the blisters forming on the bottom of my feet. I was losing patience and balance each time we forged across the next narrow stream. The 30-pound weight of my backpack was beginning to dig deep into my shoulder.

I was still not feeling sunny when we reached our next destination. The rain had not stopped, and the waterproof backpack was no longer repelling water. Still we unloaded our gear, pulled out the sterno, and looked forward to our evening meal. The chicken francese that surfaced in the boiling hot water tasted strangely just like the beef stroganoff we had the night before.

The next morning we woke up, once again to the tapping sound. The rain returned with a vengeance. We got up, got dressed, and like good soldiers, marched on. This same routine repeated itself for the next few days. We had not seen anyone else on the trail up until now. And it was a good thing. We were not feeling friendly. Not toward anyone we might see on the trail. Or each other.

I found new ways of cursing Howard for bringing me on this trip — sometimes loudly, sometimes in murmurs only I could hear.

Then on the sixth day, the rain stopped. The sun began to pour through the trees once more, my socks, still brown, had begun to dry. The ground beneath our feet held firm. And halfway through the wooded path, we came upon a moose.

Maybe it was because we were one day away from the car, the hot shower, and the lobster dinner, but that last night, as we settled into our campsite, the freeze-dried chicken fricassee actually tasted good. We gazed at the sky a lit with stars, sang around the campfire, and dozed off to sleep.

On day seven, we packed up our gear and walked out of the forest to the car that sat awaiting us.

That dream of a B&B, a hot shower, and lobster meal? Well, try as we might, we were not able to find one vacancy — a convention had taken up the rooms along the route that week. There were no showers to be had, and only diners serving up dried fish fry. So we rode straight through to my future in-law’s house in suburban Boston, had a shower, and slept soundly on the living room sofa bed.

We rode home the next day and dumped our damp and smelly clothes into the wash. I hung my backpack up to dry on the nail on our basement wall, where it has remained for more than 32 years, empty and unused.

We have never taken another backpacking trip together. But certainly we have after 32 years of marriage journeyed through many rainy days, visions unfulfilled, with still even greater moments of sunshine and joy.

My husband of 32 years thought he was marrying a hardy gal and says that trip to Maine was the greatest bait-and-switch of all time. I beg to differ.