By Miles Howard The Boston Globe correspondent • August 01, 2018 The first sign of trouble was the guitar. It was a stupefyingly humid weekend in Baxter State Park — my hiking companion, c and I had driven there to climb Mount Katahdin and offer our blood to the black flies for a few days. Perspiration dripped from our bodies as we pitched our tents, wolfed down a pot of rice and beans, and...
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