Kent, Conn. to Massachusetts Hwy. 2
Sometimes rain caused an extra long day. When it started to drizzle about 3:45, I had just begun the descent to Limestone Spring Trail. That blue blaze side trail dove five tenths of a mile steeply into The Pit. Knowing that the dastardly climb would be waiting me in the morning, I figured no shelter was worth such knee damage. As long as I was going to camp, might as well get some miles in. I hiked in drenching rain, madly through Salisbury outskirts while cars passed me. Then, I took refuge from the storm in the privy at the parking area. After adjusting my pack, I headed out for the last 3 of my 27 miles that day. Arriving at 6:30 looking like a drowned rat, four guys happily scooted over, and allowed me to share the shelter. We discussed ultralight gear while I unpacked, dried off and cooked supper. After seeing my minimalist systems, they concluded I knew every trick. What a wonderful compliment and conclusion to a rough day.
Connecticut is the land of lean-tos. You have to laugh at that word “lean-to”. They are some of the largest shelters so far, with bunks, upper lofts and full floors. Some could sleep 20 people comfortably, or 35 thru-hikers in storms. I met several southbound youth groups today who were climbing the steep trail as I descended. “Are we almost to the peak?” they asked.
“Which peak?” I replied. Groans followed, and hastily I amended, “Oh yeah, you sure are. Just a bit more!” The leaders smiled their appreciation.
Then the teenage girls asked how long I had been out hiking. “Don’t you ever get tired of walking?” one asked. “Yes, I do!” I answered emphatically. A young man surprised me with the question “Do you even know where you are?”
Making repairs to my shoes in the evenings with needle and thread, I wanted them to give me just 65 more miles for a total of 1,123 on this pair. These 704 New Balance trail runners fit into the Circle-Of–Life category. When you first get them, you love them. Aren't they just the prettiest things? In the next little while, like the teenage years, they cause all kinds of problems and pain. They get another month on them, middle aged, and they are tolerable, yet need more experience. They get trimmed, and cut until they fit right, and do what society expects of them. Then, they start getting old, torn up, and need medical attention. As soon as they’re really feeling good and doing their job right, they are ready for the trash can.
There were caretakers at the Upper Goose Pond Cabin in Massachusetts, so the fantasy of pancakes for breakfast became a reality. Rumor had it that for a $3 donation, there would be a bed, and breakfast. Penny gave me fresh homemade bread and butter, and hot coffee when I arrived. Fantastic. Today, the trail was soft and mellow. I counted 38 orange salamanders this morning. From the tiniest to a normal 3-inch fellow, it was simply amazing to see so many of these creatures.
Earlier this morning, I had caught up to an elderly section hiker named Trapper. He warned me of “trouble ahead”: boy scouts who would take all the space in the shelter. Laughing, I told him I would catch up and get to Goose Pond cabin before them. He disagreed, saying,"Nope, they are at least an hour and a half ahead.” Oh Yeah. That’s what I like to hear, tell me I can’t do it. I had already done 10 miles that morning, and then caught those boy scouts about a half-mile before the turn off. The weather was fabulous, with light breezes, and 70 degrees. That night, Dale America and Amtrak from Israel showed up, thru-hikers I had been hoping to meet for weeks.
The AT passes right through Dalton, Mass. Resident trail angel, Bob, let hikers stay free at his house. We went to the Shell station, met him, and got directions to his house. For the first time since Delaware Water Gap I washed my hair with Real Shampoo, used hair conditioner and washed all my clothes. Hadn’t used a washing machine since Harpers Ferry, but just washed clothes in a bathtub. Self-Imposed-Deprivation.
From there it was only a 9 mile hike for a wonderful veggie supreme pizza at Christina’s in Cheshire. Dale America claimed he ate the best ham sub on the trail there. The next day, Dale and I hiked to Massachusetts Hwy. 2, and hitched into North Adams. Because dangerous storms threatened, Dale and I agreed to share a room at the Holiday Inn. North Adams and nearby Williamstown has an extensive bus system, lots of good eating places, stores, culture and all those things hikers sometimes crave. It is expensive, though.
On June 28 I rode the local bus to Pittsfield to pick up my reserved rental car. Yesterday’s terrific storms and lightning were over, and it was cool. I already felt weird, and kept reminding myself I was not leaving the trail, simply taking a short rest at home, and would drive back revived and stronger to finish in August. Since the time Rainmaker and I devised this plan over the phone, my nightmares had stopped. Nearly every night since Damascus, I would struggle with that same horrible dream of losing David, and being trapped in that fundamentalist church again. Once the rental car was reserved, I slept peacefully. I pondered the meaning of these nightmares and wondered if perhaps it was the old doctrine, still nagging me deep inside, that forbade a divorced woman to ever find joy with another man.
This love-hate relationship with trail life is so strange. There are miseries, and there are pleasures. There is the total freedom to walk when and where we will, and there is the total submission. We submit to blinding rain, suffocating heat, record cold, and the whim of white blazes. We feel the physical demands of hunger and thirst, getting up each morning, and facing whatever comes our way. A daily adventure of our own choosing, we learn the balance between freedom and submission.
I chatted with the bus driver while he bragged on the area’s heritage, music and art. All I could think of was my home in the Georgia mountains, the peace and beauty of the forests. No way would I trade for this bus driver’s complications. Another hiker flagged down the bus, and was treated disrespectfully. He was somewhat dirty, and disoriented. The driver took $2 from him, and misled him into riding five miles in the wrong direction. Neither understood each other. I tried to help, reading directions from the Companion Guide Book that the hiker carried. The bus driver dismissed the experience with his casual observance “What is happening here is that urban life is clashing with you who have just left the woods.” Yeah. Right. My lesson here was to keep my off- trail contacts and resupplies as simple as possible, and bring all my own directions.
I got my rental car and drove nearly 500 miles, stopping for the night at a Days Inn, just 80 miles north of Roanoke, Virginia. A valuable lesson was to always bring a non-debit/money credit card. A regular credit card was the only type a car rental agency would accept for out of state rentals. Rainmaker mailed my credit card to me. Fond memories returned when I saw the road signs for Pine Grove Furnace State Park, Harper’s Ferry, Front Royal, and Waynesboro. Rainmaker told me it would be this way. Driving was such a change, with all its signs, road work and traffic congestion. I missed the trail, and knew the last 591 miles that remained would be so fine and enjoyable.
You know you need a “break”, especially as a soloist when:
You are willing to listen to static for hours at a time on your ultralight radio.
You have a personal conversation with each of the 38 orange salamanders seen one day.
You experience total refusal to do any “mileage stats” or play any soloist games.
Nothing tastes good anymore.
Your heart is aching for your Life Partner, and there is no other remedy.
Rainmaker and I spent two days driving from our home in Georgia to Vermont, and parking our car at a friend’s house. All the next day, July 10
th
, we used Vermont Transit Lines buses to finally arrive in Williamston, Mass. A young woman gave us a ride to the Appalachian Trail intersection, where I tagged the road sign to symbolize the resumption of a purist thru hike.
We hiked 1.8 miles to Sherman Brook Campsite, both of us officially on trail once more. There I had my first experience rigging a non-freestanding tent on a platform. Using a rope, some found cordage, and stuff sacks filled with rocks to provide tension (instead of stakes), our Coleman Cobra tent stood solidly and was as comfortable as ever.
Our relaxed hiking style permits coffee and breakfast in the morning. We pack up, hike awhile, enjoy a morning break, a lunch break, and an afternoon break, and still average 14 miles a day. We find a little nook to stealth camp at times; anywhere is fine as long as we are together.
Crossing into Vermont marked the actual beginning of Rainmaker’s trail, The Long Trail. Everything seemed wilder now, perhaps because of the dense vegetation and many roots snaking across the trail. Old trail friends began catching up. Charlie Foxtrot was leaving the trail and going home to a job of his dreams in Kansas. He will not finish the AT this year. Restless Spirit left to find new adventures, being bored with this one. We met groups of section hikers. I had to admire the teenage girls who’d managed to carry only daypacks, having talked the guys into being their pack mules. The guys were carrying enormous loads, struggling uphill, but proving their masculinity.
Just before noon, Rainmaker and I hitched into Manchester Center, a sweet little New England town that was alive with tourists. All morning we had heard the highway as it paralleled the trail that was taking us ever farther from town. The grocery store was huge; we ate at the pizza place, after deciding not to brave the town’s Laundromat, where the atmosphere approximated a very overcrowded sauna. Some things just aren’t worth dying for, and clean clothes are definitely in that category. Having finished with Manchester, we hitched a ride and hiked out ¾ mile to the Bromley Tenting Area. The heat and humidity had reached the northern states now, causing frequent afternoon storms. The thunderstorms that had been predicted for that evening blew in, and passed quickly.
Hiking up and over Killington Peak, we passed the rundown, road-accessed Governor Clement Shelter. Few thru-hikers will use the shelter because of harassment by local thugs. We stayed in the Cooper Lodge after a 10-mile day. With such a name, one would presume that shelter is fancy. It isn’t. A weekender came to share it with us and had a map showing the newly rerouted AT, along with the old, historic Pico Trail. Being a purist, I grumbled and griped, then took the new route, which added an additional 2 miles of trail. This also necessitated hiking a half-mile south down the Sherburne Spur Trail to reach the Long Trail Inn. Most hikers have elected to do the historic Pico Trail route.
From the Inn, there is a 1.2-mile road walk steeply downhill to the Killington Post Office. Our solo tents were waiting for us there. We mailed home our Cobra tent, my cell phone that I had tried carrying since returning to the trail, my journal and a few other personal things. We secured a room for $59 at the historic Inn, which included breakfast in the morning. Rainmaker and I shared a very romantic evening, enjoying the live music, and living for the moment.
Our trails parted the next morning at the intersection of the AT and Sherburne Trail, his heading to the Canadian border, and mine to Mt. Katahdin in Maine. It was amazingly hard to head off alone once more. I did the 18 miles to the Wintturi Shelter, which had a lot of elevation changes. I felt out of shape and already missed my life partner. Alone at the shelter, eating brownies and drinking sodas left by trail angels, I read register entries left by southbounders that told of the Panarchy Frat house. They allowed six thru-hikers to stay free for one night in the basement, sleeping on old mattresses. It was only 26 miles, so I was determined to head to Hanover the next day.
The trail goes right through the tiny village of West Hartford. A small diner with convenience store, and trail register, made a great lunch stop. That afternoon, I made it into Hanover. Geek, ATR, Chili Pepper, Monkey, Bearded Monkey and Moose were already there at the fraternity house. I found a spot, in spite of being the seventh one.
I took a cold shower with my clothes on, washing the sweat from them and me at the same time. Later, Geek and I went to a restaurant for a snack and a couple beers. That night, Moose, a southbounder, detailed for us the upcoming White Mountains, with their hut and "work for stay" system.
At daybreak, I hiked out of Hanover while the town slept. The trail was well marked, the white blazes being on telephone poles. Drained by the hot, humid weather, I looked into the skies while the haze just seemed to taunt me. Please rain, please just rain and cool off, I silently begged the trail gods. While crossing Lyme Dorchester Road, the thunder began to roll, and the wind roared. The rain made the ascent of Smarts Mountain cooler, but the mountain’s open rock face was a bit scary with the lightning. I ducked into the shelter on top, and read that Hoosier and Cheddar had just left, after lunching there. That night, I caught up to Phoenix, Greenbean, Hoosier and Cheddar at the Hexacuba Shelter.
The next day we resupplied in Glencliff, New Hampshire with a post office drop which included an extra layer of clothes for the White Mountains, my remaining data sheets, 4 days of food, and 12 hexamine fuel tablets. Reports by southbounders consistently verified the abundance of food found at the huts in the Whites, so four days of food should suffice.
As we entered the White Mountains, signs warned against wild camping and mentioned fees of $8 per person in designated areas. The trail is very rugged and beautiful, reminding me of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California.
Early the next morning, we arrived at Lonesome Lake Hut around 8 a.m. and discovered the rumors about food were true. For $1, we filled up on all the breakfast, leftover dessert and coffee we wanted. The cook let us take a wedge of homemade bread for lunch. Three of us stealth camped about 2 miles south of Garfield Campsite after enjoying wonderful views over Little Haystack Mt, Mt Lincoln, and Mt Lafayette.
The next morning we ate at Galehead Hut for $2. The coffee was hot, and the blueberry coffee cake, scrambled eggs and oatmeal was satisfying. We hit Zealand Hut at lunchtime and scored the last 3 bowls of homemade soup, with pie and cake for dessert. Hot food is always a welcome addition to limited food supplies. Phoenix and I were on Food Prowl Patrol, having decided to carry only 4 days of food so we could enjoy light packs through this rugged section.
From Zealand Hut north it was smooth and fast. I enjoyed having friends to hike with these last days. Together, we caught up to Papa Geezer, paid our $8 each to camp at Ethan Pond, traded stories, and shared an old shelter.
Phoenix and I left Ethan Pond Campsite before 6 a.m. and found “trail magic” doughnuts, soda and peanut brittle placed beside the trail for thru-hikers in a cooler. Then, at Mizpah Hut we stuffed ourselves for $1. The crew was mopping and cleaning, so they gave us a pan of blueberry pancakes, gallon of syrup, and pitcher of coffee to enjoy in the fresh air. They donned aprons over their butt naked bodies, turned up the music and had one helluva good time.
Lake of the Clouds Hut, just 1.4 miles from the summit of Mt. Washington, is crowded. Wealthy people in bright colors and perfume, toting fancy gear, crowded the walls. Hikers of every persuasion and destination pulled in. We thru-hikers, who had asked for Work-For-Stay, began our chores. We filled the condiments; helped set the table, and washed dishes. Finally we ate with the crew, getting a taste of the stuffed pasta and free access to the two pots of bean soup. All the vegetables and salad were long gone, but we were okay with soup. There were no crackers or bread to dunk, but for dessert there was some fantastic poppy seed cake with a buttery frosting. At 9:30 the final guests were ushered out of the dining room, our “bedroom”. The dining room tables became our bunks. Hikers spread out pads and sleeping bags. Exhausted, it was finally time for lights out.
Early the next morning, determined to eat with our friends, Phoenix and I set tables, packed all our gear, and filed in to eat with the guests at meal call. The weather report was not good; 50 mph winds and gusting, visibility 30 feet, temperatures in the low 50’s, and intermittent drizzle, which felt like sleet in the high wind.
Papa Geezer has been up here many times. He is somber, and tells us of the bad weather route, the Golf Slide Trail, that goes to Madison Hut. The official white blazes take hikers to the summit of Mt Washington. I am determined to do the white blazes. I have hiked alone, I say, in worse.
Papa Geezer leads with his wooden staff, I follow, Greenbean is next, then Phoenix. At first, I am perplexed by the seriousness on Papa’s face. We start hiking; he waits for the rest of us to catch up. The tread is nothing but boulders, and there are very few blazes, some of them yellow. As we head up the mountain, the weather worsens remarkably. I am knocked sideways, and struggle to stay on my feet. Our packcovers threaten to fly away; we stop to tie them on, clipping them to the pack in several places. “Everyone ok?” Papa Geezer asks. Affirmative nods. We continue hiking, the visibility worsens, and Papa stops to analyze each cairn we pass. Phoenix is afflicted with several bouts of diarrhea, and we wait for him each time he has to leave the trail. The more we gain in elevation, the more concerned I become about doing this alone. There are so many intersecting trails in the vicinity, and the AT is poorly marked, if at all. After 45 minutes, we reach the trail junction with the AT and the Golf Slide Trail.
“Its decision time,” Papa Geezer tells us; while we huddle close to hear him above the wind. We are all purists, and strong hikers. We look up the mountain. “It will get worse, stronger winds, less visibility. I don’t think it's safe,” Papa warns. Then, he adds, “But, if you want to go, I will go.”
“I can’t call it,” I tell them, and turn my face aside. I know if I go, they all will go. Greenbean begins swearing ferociously, Phoenix looks really worried. None of us have taken any alternate, bad weather, or high water trails. We have hiked hard and strong. But now, we stood together, all old enough to recognize our own mortality, knowing that over the years, more than 100 people have died on Mt. Washington.
Fighting back tears of frustration and disappointment I say, “If there ever was a need for a bad weather trail it’s now, today.” We concede we are already at our limits. To attempt another half-mile on the AT with a 500 feet ascent was not reasonable. We swear, vent our frustration, and decide to press on to Madison Hut on the Golf Slide Trail.
The wind picks up, buffeting us as we inch our way those 7 miles. We stop a moment to get our breaths, and start meeting others from the Madison Hut making their way to Lake of the Clouds. We exchange reports with them, and realize it doesn’t get any better. A sign reports we have come just 3.2 miles. We approach another sign, which states we have hiked only two tenths more. I look at my watch; it has taken half an hour to do two tenths of a mile? This upsets me, but Papa Geezer smiles and says “There are too many signs on this trail, Brawny, don’t think of the numbers.” How he is finding this trail over rocks and boulders, cairn to cairn, is a mystery. I can barely see him ahead of me.
We finally reach Madison Hut around 12:30. We have struggled over 4 hours and arrive to find a happy young cook with a huge pot of bean curry soup, chocolate cake, fresh bread, pumpkin cake, hot coffee and hot cocoa. May the trail gods bless all such cooks, and their lives be long and merry. We eat our fill and hear reports that it is sunny and warm below tree line. Our goal is Pinkham Notch, where there are bunks, hot showers, AYCE supper and breakfast for $50. Just one mile down, into the trees and things get much better, we are told.
Back in the howling winds, we climb a half-mile to the summit of Mt. Madison. The hiking is reduced to hand over hand, ducking down between boulders, hanging on in the gusts of nearly 70 mph. I shorten my hiking poles, snag the wrist straps over my left hand, and crawl, on hands and knees, dragging my poles. On the top, I feel overwhelmed, and sympathize with the fly on the windshield of a car hurling down the highway at 70 mph. Greenbean, slender and tall, her pack catching the wind, and she is falling, struggling. Phoenix is repeatedly blown several feet off trail, picked up like some toy soldier. And all the while, Papa Geezer is leading us, waiting patiently, fighting against the wind. He was the sanity of our Moses through the wilderness.
By 4 p.m. we finally reach the trees, with only 5 miles left to Pinkham Notch. We arrive there at 6:30, reserve some rooms, and go for supper. We are late, but the cook sends out excellent food for us, family style. Other thru-hikers come over to our table to exchange reports. They had hiked out earlier this morning, arriving at the Washington summit, and were stranded. There they had waited for hours and finally hitched rides down the mountain with tourists who were happy for the extra weight in their cars. Tomorrow each thru-hiker will make a decision whether to go back up, or wait out yet another day of storm. A woman had broken her leg up there today, was carried by stretcher to the summit, where the train transported her down.
We left Pinkham Notch early next morning in the rain. The other thru-hikers, holed up at the Pinkham Notch bunkhouse, elected to rest, and just take a zero day. Hopefully, tomorrow would be better.