AWOL on the Appalachian Trail (23 page)

Bear Mountain Bridge over the Hudson River in New York.

My next stop is the Graymoor Spiritual Life Center. The brothers who live at Graymoor are known for their hospitality towards thru-hikers. They invite hikers to a free meal, but I have arrived after dinner is finished. Odwalla, the hiker I met in Pennsylvania, is here. He thinks that the southern section of New York has been the hardest section of the hike. It is reassuring to have his concurrence about the trail's difficulty. I'm not alone in my struggles. We lay our sleeping bags out on top of picnic tables under a covered pavilion. Wind-blown rain commences at nightfall. If I was not elevated, I'd be getting wet. Mosquito sorties persist all night long. My body is filmy and sticky from a few sweaty days, and my clothes are damp. Sleeping in the wet clothes no longer dries them because of the humidity. I cannot sleep outside of my bag because of the mosquitoes. I dab smelly repellant on my forehead, neck, and arms because they will bite any piece of exposed flesh.

I wake up with a plan to beeline twelve miles to Canopus Lake Camp to get a shower. That would make me feel better, even though it would be a few more days before I could wash these stinking clothes. I get to the road where the campground is and stick out my thumb to hitch a mile down the road. The first car to pass is a police car. He continues past, ignoring my breach of the law. Two cars later, Margaret DeVries, a youthful sixty-eight-year-old woman, stops to give me a ride. "I just read about thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail, and I thought I might meet a hiker," she says. When I tell her of my plan to clean up at the campground, she offers to take me to her house instead, where I can shower, eat, and do laundry.

Margaret is an interesting lady; she fled Communist Hungary in 1956. She has flown a hang glider and still takes solo kayak trips on the Hudson River (a boat is strapped to the roof of the car in which we are riding). She spends a month each year at a youth hostel in South Beach. Margaret is quick to express her appreciation for life in the United States and her dislike for Communist rule. She tells of returning to Hungary after becoming a U.S. citizen to visit her ailing father. Since the Communists believed that they educated her and she had no right to leave and use her talents elsewhere, she was apprehensive about being detained.

Politicians will always offer to handle education, health care, retirement, and so forth, as if they come at no cost. But there are caveats. If the government is the provider of "free" education, then the government will also decide what is taught and, potentially, how it is used. The fewer responsibilities we have, the less free we are. Communism and democracy differ in this only by a matter of degree. We can vote away freedom as easily as it can be taken away.

"Hike your own hike" is a trail mantra. Thru-hiking seems to work out best when each hiker is attuned to his own interests. Perhaps counterintuitively, this attitude somehow fosters cooperation and generosity. This trail full of hike-your-own-hikers is as nice as any group with whom I've ever been associated.

Margaret returns me to the trail at 6:15 p.m. I am uplifted once again by trail magic received at a most opportune moment. Twilight is a wonderful time to be on the trail in this hot season. It is a time when there is a truce between nature and man. The afternoon heat has relented, storms have passe the wind has died down, and activity is nil. I walk seven buoyant miles to the RPH Shelter, finishing in the dark under the guidance of my headlamp.

North of the RPH Shelter, the trail is much less difficult than it had been in the southern part of the state. There is less rock on the footpath and more packed dirt and grass. The trail rolls over small hills and cuts through pastureland.

A small stream, easy enough to step over, lies across the trail. The land hardly has enough slope to move the water. It is stagnant like a tiny canal, with thick green algae on the bottom. I only have a few sips of water left but skip this opportunity to refill, hoping against reason that I'll find better water later. Most of the streams these past few days have been similarly unappealing. Getting water in Pennsylvania was a hardship because of the scarcity of streams. In New York there have been streams, but they are the least appealing water sources on the trail.

I descend from the hills to a railroad crossing. The rails are elevated by fill, and a drainage ditch runs parallel to the hump of the fill. A foot of water is in the ditch; it is runoff water with an oily rainbow sheen. A fragment of a Styrofoam cup floats on the water. This sludge is much less appealing than the stream I passed, but now I've traveled miles without water and have no choice. I reach the Wiley Shelter at dark after a long and hot twenty-five-mile day. I have seen few hikers on the trail, and there are no other hikers here tonight. The water source for the shelter is a hand pump.

White blazes receding into Connecticut.

Today is a Saturday. I plan to walk only thirteen miles to reach the town of Kent, Connecticut, but I'd like to finish the miles by noon so I can pick up mail. Halfway to Kent, the trail crosses from New York to Connecticut. The trail in Connecticut begins auspiciously with an elegant hemlock forest. I reach the Kent Post Office just minutes before it closes. The town is very nice and manicured, with many shops and restaurants that cater to well-heeled tourists. There are no hotels or hostels, so the only lodging options are expensive bed and breakfast establishments. I make my way to the laundromat so I can get my clothes clean while I ponder my options. Doing laundry is inefficient for a single hiker. Many times I've washed a load of clothes containing only a lightweight shirt, shorts, and socks. Now that I'm done with muggy New Jersey and New York, I want to throw everything washable in the machine to exorcise the dirt and sweat and bug spray. The only item I keep out is my rain jacket, which I wear like a skirt, causing me to catch curious glances.

There is a small hotel in Cornwall Bridge about eight miles north of Kent that is less expensive than any place in Kent. I hitch a ride and make arrangements with the motel owner to stay two nights. Tomorrow he will drive me back to the trailhead near Kent, and I will be able to walk the trail from where I left off, back up to Cornwall Bridge. I can leave most of my gear in the room and have an easy walk tomorrow. I need it. Here is my journal entry for the night:

If I had to do it again I wouldn't. As of today that's how I feel about this AT hike. I don't say that because I'm having a bad day. I'm not going to quit, and I'm not disappointed that I am here. Doing this hike is too much hard work, too much pain, too much time away frm my family, too many bugs, too much hot weather, too much cold weather, and too much rain.

My day of hiking without a pack from Kent to Cornwall Bridge is a transitional day. It is more like a day off than another day hiking, although I do cover eleven more miles of the Appalachian Trail. I walk an easy pace and pause whenever I have the urge to write, to take photos, or simply to contemplate my thoughts about this trip. The trail is a conduit, humming with memories from the miles behind me and electric with the possibilities still ahead. Despite my recent woes, I am certain that I will complete this hike. Nothing short of a debilitating injury or a dire situation at home would cause me to quit before reaching Katahdin.

My tendency is to stretch my days. Too often I'll pass up a side trail to a waterfall or overlook. I set an arbitrary goal to reach the next milestone in
x
number of days, racing to what is ahead at the expense of the present. I do not have an open timeline, but my restlessness is sure to move me along at a good clip. Completing the trail is a foregone conclusion, so I should feel free to enjoy myself. What I need to work on is a better balance of leisure time.

A huge slab of rock juts up from the ground, rising thirty feet at an angle of sixty degrees. Improbably, trees grow clinging to the surface of the rock, roots clinging to fissures in the surface. A flock of Canada geese drift downstream on the Housatonic River. I stop to write at a nondescript location, choosing to sit on a knee-high boulder under a canopy of lime green leaves.

It is easiest to characterize the AT in terms of its most challenging and spectacular features. Most people have experienced the difficulty of steep uphill climbs, rocky terrain, and pestering bugs. Likewise, spectacular overlooks and scenic waterfalls have universal appeal. But I have come to recognize that most of what is memorable and pleasing about my time on the trail is ordinary moments in the outdoors. Simply sitting unhurried in the shade of leaves is an irreplaceable moment. It is a joy in itself to amble through the woods for hours, even when views are limited to the dense trees surrounding me. It is fulfilling to be saturated with the sights, sounds, and smells of the outdoors. My fond recollections of my hike are full of unremarkable moments, like the smell of a dewy morning, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the blaze of a campfire, the soothing trickle of a stream, or rays of sun through a maze of trees.

Humans are creatures with a longer history of living in the outdoors than of living within the confines of concrete and artificial light. We have an atavistic sense of well-being when immersed in the natural world.

I take a break at Stewart Hollow Brook Lean-to and meet Lion King. He is a big bear of a man who is carrying a camera and filming a documentary on thru-hiking the AT.
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He is groggy, struggling with insomnia and an ailing knee. "Why can't they make more
trail like this?" he asks, referring to the five miles of beautiful, nearly level trail paralleling the Housatonic River.

Back in Cornwall Bridge, I stop at a small store with a couple of gas pumps out front and spend half an hour ogling the food. Before hiking, I had never considered convenience stores places for culinary adventure.

Leaving Cornwall Bridge the next morning, the weather is wonderful, clear and about seventy-five degrees. There are no significant rocky areas. Large hemlocks dominate the landscape, and often there is soft, pine-needle-covered trail. Midday, I reach Falls Village, Connecticut, a town built along the banks of the rumbling Housatonic River. The trail passes through the residential section of town, so there are no stores or restaurants to visit. I pass pretty homes on quiet, hilly streets. Between Falls Village and Salisbury, the trail is varied, with some hills, some rocks, and some grassy fields.

Like Falls Village, Salisbury is an idyllic New England community with homes that look like dollhouses with white picket fences. The downtown area has an inn, a few souvenir shops, candy stores, and nice restaurants. It is a town lived in by people who must do their real work elsewhere. My destination is a boarding house run by Maria McCabe, but the only direction that I have is "left from the trail on CT 41," and a house number. Near downtown there is a house with the right number, but all is dark. I knock on the front door and get no answer. I walk completely around the house looking for a sign. There is no sign, but that is not unusual for places that accommodate hikers. "Let yourself in" is a common policy, so I try the front and side doors.

I go to an ice cream store downtown for a treat, figuring I will return to the home later. Odwalla walks by as I sit outside with my ice cream cone. He says he is staying at the same boarding house that I am waiting to get into. "I just tried to get in. Were you just there?" I ask.

"Yes."

"That place right there?" I ask, pointing to the home where I was just prowling about and testing the doors.

"That's not the boarding house. McCabe's place is a few blocks away."

I follow Odwalla back to the right house, and we share a room. I call Juli and finalize plans to meet tomorrow. Weeks ago, she made arrangements to fly to Albany, New York, based on my projection of where I would be at this time. Our plan is to meet at a road intersection eighteen miles from here. Our girls are staying with my parents so Juli and I can hike together.

In Harpers Ferry there is a three-dimensional map of the entire AT. The midsection of the trail--from West Virginia through Connecticut--has the lowest mountains. The rougher sections are at the ends of the trail, peaking with the Smokies in the south and the Whites in the north. Today I enter Massachusetts, the eleventh state on the trail, and the elevations are ramping up. Bear Mountain, Race Mountain, and Mount Everett are all near twenty-five hundred feet, higher than any mountains in the last 550 miles.

Bear Mountain has the feel of a mountain much taller. The incline is long, and the descent is steep. Much of the summit area is open, rocky, and weathered. There are krummholtz: stunted evergreens ranging from three to six feet tall. At the bottom of Bear Mountain, the trail runs parallel to Sages Ravine, a powerful, tumbling creek cascading through a rocky ravine. I am tempted by a number of pristine swimming holes, but the water is icy cold.

Race Mountain and Mount Everett are similar to Bear Mountain, having sparse krummholtz scattered among stony peaks. The walk between the peaks is particularly pleasurable since the traverse is made on a high, open ridge. I startle Jerry Springer on this ridge. He is filling a water bottle with harvested blueberries. So far he has about one-third of a quart. Jerry is a thru-hiker who is quick to explain that his trail name comes not from the talk show host, but from combining the first name of his favorite musician (Jerry Garcia) with "Springer" from the mountain where the trail begins. I take multiple breaks along this ridge, picking blueberries, taking photos, and eating lunch, believing that I am ahead of schedule to make my rendezvous with Juli.

After summiting Mount Everett, the trail stays on the ridge longer than I expect. Suddenly, I feel as though I've dawdled too long, and I'm ready to get off this ridge and see Juli again. My progress is slow through a jumble of rocks. The trail begins to descend, then levels off, and then ascends again. I need to go down to the valley where the road passes, but the trail goes through a series of exasperating ups and downs before finally releasing me to the lush vegetation of the valley. A half mile before the road, the trail passes through an overgrown pasture. I can make out the road through the head-high grasses. Ahead, Juli is hustling out onto the trail to meet me. She's walking just slower than a run, and she lowers her head, trying to hold back tears.

We drive north to the town of Lee, Massachusetts. The next morning we get a ride back to the trailhead where Juli picked me up.
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It will take us two or three days to hike north to Lee, where we left our car.

Initially, the trail that we walk together is mild, continuing through pastureland for about four miles before reaching U.S. 7. At the road, there is a nursery that sells a small assortment of snack items. We stop and buy cold drinks, ice cream, and fruit. Juli must be thinking the trail really isn't as tough as I've made it out to be. I've already begun to wonder if we will finish our hike to Lee in two days instead of three. It is only thirty-three miles.

There are advantages to hiking with another person. We only need to carry one tent, one stove, one water filter, and so forth. Even though I carry the bulk of the load, my pack is pounds lighter than it would be if I was alone. Also, we finish chores more quickly. Many tasks, like filtering water, cooking, and setting up a tent, require nearly the same effort for one person as they do for two.

It is a hot day, but for me it is a reprieve from the heat of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. Gradually we gain elevation and stop to have a nice lunch on June Mountain at a clearing with a view to the north. The trail continues over a series of hills, but the terrain is good--more soil than rock--and the slope is gentle on both the uphill and downhill. Juli walks slower than I do, but I do not imagine that she is struggling. I stay behind and walk at her pace. The longest stretch of uphill trail we encounter is a gain of about eight hundred feet up an unnamed peak. Juli slows and eventually comes to a complete stop, standing still on the trail and leaning forward on her hiking poles. I pull up alongside her and see that she is not only exhausted, but in tears.

She feels defeated, her legs are sore, it is hot, and bugs are pestderg her. She had not said anything to me about the difficulty, hoping that she could come and hike without slowing me down. We have already walked fourteen miles, which is a solid day for any hiker. Even though she is in excellent shape, Juli is fifteen years and three kids removed from her last backpacking experience.

A few miles later, we break at Mount Wilcox Lean-to. We have been walking at an easy pace, and Juli is in better spirits. We decide to move on. Juli's legs have stiffened, and now she is feeling pain on the outside of her knee. Her knee hurts more on the downhill sections of trail. I am certain that she's experiencing the iliotibial band friction syndrome that bothered me the first weeks of my hike.
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It was negligent of me to have her walk so far on her first day, especially since I also had knee pain after walki
ng only eight miles on my first day--eight miles that I didn't think were very hard at the time. We end our day at Shaker Campsite near dark after twenty-one miles, an absurd distance for anyone's first day on the AT.

Shaker Campsite is a small clearing with three tent platforms and a stream nearby. I still have hopes of making this a positive camping experience for Juli. We've made lasagna, the best of the freeze-dried meals. Twilight in camp is generally a wonderful part of the day, but this site is overwhelmed with mosquitoes. Juli drenches herself with bug spray. Deet from her hands melts away the measuring lines that are painted on my water bottle. But still the mosquitoes are little deterred. We retreat to the tent.

Our second day hiking together begins roughly. Juli's legs are sore from our long day yesterday, and the pain on the outside of her knee flares up soon after we get started. About a mile from camp, Juli is ready for a break. Since I am hiking the entire trail, a couple of hot and bug-ridden days are a segue to better times. Juli is only out for a few days, so this is not part of a larger experience; it is simply unpleasant.

"I don't know how it's fun for you to do this," she says.

Juli is trying to be a good sport. This is probably the most tactful thing she can think to say given her current circumstance, but still it hurts for me to hear this. I am having the adventure of my life, and I want to share it with her more than anyone else. I want her to experience firsthand the fulfillment that I feel out here. Worse, I worry that she is thinking,
You are away from home, from me, for months--to do this?
Juli's sore legs won't get better with more hiking today, so we get out trail maps to see if there is a way to end this hike sooner. There is a road only two miles away, Main Street in Tyringham, Massachusetts, that also leads into Lee. From there, we hitch a ride back to town.

We spend the next two days like a normal couple on vacation. We go out to eat, sightsee, shop, and go to a movie. Juli has brought some of my clothes from home, and it is a treat to wear jeans and a cotton shirt after months of wearing the same shorts and polyester shirt.

Each morning, Juli drops me off on the trail and picks me up a few hours later so I can slack-pack (walk some of the trail without a full pack). Conveniently, there are two road crossings about nine miles apart. Slack-packing at this stage is effortless. Each of my nine-mile walks takes less than three hours. On the first day it rains most of the way, but rain is not such a nuisance when I can change into dry clothes at day's end.