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Keith Shaw Sr.

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by attroll
 
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‹‹Pegleg   Moxie - 2000 at the Caratunk Feed 2006  Keith Shaw Sr.  Maximus, Mr. Gimp, Packstock

  Description for Keith Shaw Sr.

Description by attroll

attroll

For northbounders, "The Big K" is a monadnock of a mountain that's the Holy Grail of all northbound thru-hikers: Mount Katahdin.

For southbounders like me in 1989, the Big K was something else entirely -- not that killer mile-high mountain we had to climb up just to start at the top and walk down as part of our southbound journey.

Nope.

For southbounders who christened their walkin' legs in the 100-Mile Wilderness, the Big K was a short, squat funny-lookin' Maine Yankee named Keith Shaw.

If you haven't already heard, and I'm sure you have since no news has ever traveled faster than this on the trail grapevine, Keith Shaw passed away this month in Monson, Maine, after a long, stubborn battle with respiratory and heart problems.

With the death of this trail legend, a lot of hikers have been recollecting stories of Keith and his famous boarding house at the southern end of the 100-Mile Wilderness. Every hiker who's ever stayed there has some special memories of the place. In fact, I would venture to say that the statue-like cutout of "Johnny B. Walker" in front of the Shaw place on Pleasant Street has been photographed by thru-hikers almost as frequently as that old sign on Baxter Peak -- certainly as many times as that welcoming front door at the corner of Washington and Jackson streets in Harpers Ferry.

It's hard at this time of year not to think of Keith as some sort of magical elf who lived near the woods and made the lives of passing foot travelers a little easier on their journeys elsewhere. With the wink of an eye or the cock of his hat, he could magically produce just the right gizmo or be-bob you needed to fix your pack, or with a stab of his finger he could lay his hands on something similar that would do the trick, at least until you found a better solution farther down the trail. But he'd get you down that trail with whatever he was able to improvise.

Like any good Yankee, Keith could strike a bargain with the best of 'em. One time, on the way back to Monson from a trip into Dover-Foxcroft, he stopped at a butcher's to barter for some meat. I could see in the eyes of the meatcutter behind the counter that he was overmatched the moment Keith walked in and called him over. Keith had been raising some steer in the barn out back and it was getting time for slaughter. I forget the details of the transaction, but I know it went Keith's way whatever it was. There was a lot of back-and-forth between the two, and a lot of silence in between. But Keith walked out of there with a smile, along with a pile of meat under his arm for the freezer back home (where it wouldn't sit too long before Pat put it to good use).

One of my favorite recollections of Keith involves my late Dad, who with my Mom stayed at Shaw's at the end of my first discombobulated thru-hike of the trail. I had to make up some miles I skipped because of a bad sprain early in my southbound hike and wanted to re-climb Katahdin to put an appropriate cap to my journey, so we stayed at Shaw's on the way to Baxter State Park. It was pretty slow that week, so Keith had plenty of time on his hands to shoot the breeze with my Dad, who it turned out had quite a bit in common with Keith from the time when Keith worked in Meriden, Conn., after the war. They also discovered that they were the same age.

My Dad noticed Keith had a couple of horseshoe pits set up in the side yard and asked Keith if he'd mind if he tried throwing a few shoes. Keith prided himself on his dead-ringer accuracy and I knew from my previous stay there that no hiker had ever beaten him. I could see Keith sort of eyeing my Dad, sizing him up for the challenge, and he showed my Dad his style of pitching. They walked down to the other pit to inspect Keith's accuracy, which was pretty good. Then it was my Dad's turn.

What Keith didn't know was that my father peddled milk as a young boy and learned to pitch a horseshoe before he learned to drive a milk truck at the age of 14. He was also quite a bowler in his day, which explained the unique style of delivery he had when sending a shoe airborne. As soon as that first shoe wrapped itself around the pole, Keith knew he had found a worthy opponent. They kept walking back and forth, up and down the lane, all afternoon, driving us nuts with the constant clanging of metal shoes on metal spikes. Pat, in her usual exasperated way, was getting impatient for dinner. Finally, Keith gave in. My Dad had beaten the Big K at his own game.

Of course, my Dad was a quiet guy not given to boasting, and the unpretentious way in which he handled his victory just endeared him all the more to Keith. So a few years later, when I happened to arrive at Shaw's again on foot toward the end of a second thru-hike, there was a phone message waiting for me, telling me to call home as soon as I got there. Pat and Keith already knew the news. Pat was heartbroken, and Keith was glum. My Dad had just been diagnosed with cancer. He had it pretty bad, it turned out. As I began making arrangements to quit the trail and head back home, Keith came forward and offered to take me wherever I needed to go. "Give your Dad my best," he said, and then he walked outside. In the end, after numerous back-and-forth phone calls, my father insisted that he felt fine but if he had to look at me knowing I had quit the trail just a week or so from finishing, he would definitely feel sick, he said.

So my partner and I finished up the rest of the miles and headed home, making one more overnight stop at Shaw's after summiting that other "Big K." As my partner and I celebrated the completion of our thru-hike with northbounders who were on their way to finishing, I went out in the yard at one point to collect my thoughts and had more than a rueful look on my face when I saw the horseshoe pits, sitting idle. No takers came forward to challenge Keith that day, and I, certainly, could not fill my Dad's shoes in that regard.

In the six months and two days that followed, as I helped my Mom take care of my Dad at their retirement home in Florida, I couldn't help but think of Keith often, and not just because my Dad's oxygen tank reminded me of Keith's. Years before I had given my parents a copy of that National Geographic book about the trail, the one with those yuppies on the cover, and in it was a picture of Keith and Pat standing in front of Johnny B. Walker. I know whenever my Dad looked at that, he smiled at the recollection of his time there.

Bonds forged on the trail have a way of never leaving you, even if you were just a passer-by to other people's journeys. Keith Shaw touched more lives than Pat and Keith Jr. can ever know. Somewhere, two guys are smiling right now. One of them just won a game of horseshoes.

Comments for Keith Shaw Sr. (3)

  1. #1 sherrill
    Nice post. Thanks, Rick.
  2. #2
    Guest 20:03
    Guest
    Re: Keith Shaw Sr.
    Any chance of getting the name of the author and the correct photo credit attached to this story and photo? It's certainly not ATTroll or Whiteblaze.net. Thanks.
  3. #3 MyName1sMud
    Re: Keith Shaw Sr.
    ??? Whoever wrote that is good at writing. I have no idea who this man is but i shed a tear and the thought of such a great mans (from what i have read) passing. Then again if he is like i am thinking he is he probally wouldnt be happy with me shedding a tear over his passing. I am sure to him his passing was something different. No more pain. No more games. Only happiness he is with now.
  4. #4 The Desperado
    Re: Keith Shaw Sr.
    My dear old friend.....so many memories ! May you rest in peace Keith.