Climbing Bigelow Mountain: A Father-Daughter Adventure in the Clouds

There’s something special about inviting your kids into wild places. My good friend and I decided it was time to show our 16-year-old daughters what a real Maine mountain feels like — so we set our sights on Bigelow Mountain, one of the most legendary peaks in the state.

We took the Fire Warden Trail, a 12-ish mile loop, depending on your start point, and made our way deep into the Bigelow Preserve. The drive itself is a stunner — dense forests, glimpses of Flagstaff Lake, and the unmistakable silhouette of the Bigelow Range rising like a crown on the horizon. By the time we reached the trailhead, anticipation was high. Spirits were light. We knew we were in for something big, but none of us could have predicted just how unforgettable it would be.

The trail begins innocently enough. A gentle incline winds up an old fire road shaded by pine and birch, with birdsong and the occasional squirrel darting across the path. It lulls you in, just long enough for your legs to warm up and your mind to wander. But don’t be fooled — this hike doesn’t play around.

A few miles in, near Moose Falls Campsite, the terrain shifts dramatically. Suddenly, you're staring up at a wall of granite stairs, carved into the mountainside like something out of Tolkien. I don’t know if this stretch has a name, but it should — something like The Stairway of Giants. Whoever built this path had backs of iron and hearts of gold. We climbed and climbed, gaining nearly 2,000 feet in what felt like the blink of an eye (and a thousand burning calf muscles). The girls were troopers — quiet, focused, occasionally letting out a "whoa" or a laugh as we paused for water breaks and breathers.

Just before reaching the summit ridge, the skies opened up. A full-on downpour soaked us to the bone in minutes. We’d hoped for clear skies and panoramic views, but nature had other plans. And yet, as we emerged from the treeline and stepped onto the ridge, it felt like walking into a dream.

We were in the clouds — not above them, not under them, but in them. The wind whipped silver mist past our faces. The world was soft and surreal. We moved quietly, reverently, across the narrow ridgeline from West Peak toward South Peak, feeling like we were walking through some mythic realm. We couldn’t see for miles, but we felt the enormity of the place in our bones.

Because of the rain and exposure, we didn’t linger long on the open ridge. Still, the moment stayed with us. There was a stillness in that storm, a sense of scale and awe that can’t be captured in a photograph.

We began the descent, slipping carefully down the slick rock toward Horn’s Pond and eventually passing Cranberry Stream Campsite. By then, our legs were jelly, our clothes clung to us like second skins, and our packs were a few pounds heavier with rain. But the fatigue was the good kind — the kind you earn.

As we neared the bottom, thinking the adventure was over, we were rewarded with one last gift: a bull moose, grazing quietly in a brook just off the trail. Massive. Majestic. Completely unbothered by our presence. We kept a respectful distance, watching in stunned silence as he drank and chewed, completely immersed in his element. It was the kind of wild moment you can’t plan for — only witness and be grateful for.

Six hours after we began, we finally made it back to the car — soaked, sore, but filled with the deep satisfaction that only comes from pushing past your limits. Back at camp, we peeled off our wet boots, devoured a home-cooked meal, and swapped stories around the fire.

For the girls, it was a rite of passage. For us, it was a reminder that some of the best memories aren’t just made in comfort — they’re forged in weather, sweat, laughter, and the shared triumph of a climb well earned.

If you’ve ever thought about hiking Bigelow, do it. Rain or shine, this mountain delivers the full Maine experience — bold, beautiful, and unforgettable.