In Which I Have Further Adventures

The hike is over, but the writing continues! I started a new blog to write about the adventures of my post-trail life, also known as My Thirties. What happens when hiker trash tries to approximate adulthood? Find out at:

ThirtySomethingAdventures

It’s gonna be so much fun!

In Which I Finish

“I came, I hiked, I was humbled.” That is what I wrote for my very last register entry as a 2011 AT NOBO, in the register at the Katahdin Stream Campground ranger’s office in Baxter State Park, after I summited Katahdin. And, well, for people willing to listen to the trail, hiking it is quite humbling. Hippy Kippy said it was harder than anything he’s ever done–harder than Marine Corps boot camp, harder than grad school. It kicks hikers’ asses, and although I always knew I’d finish the trail, by the time I actually did I realized that finishing had as much to do with chance and the benevolence of Mother Nature as with my own perseverence. People dropped out on day three because they had giant blisters and wet gear. People dropped out in Rangely, ME, with less than 200 miles to go, because they’d just had enough. Every year some  hikers die with their boots on, and this year was no different–RIP Stonewall, Open Mike, and Buffalo Bobby. Down in Georgia, when I got to the top of a tough hill, I shouted, “Mountain, I OWN YOU!!!” By the time I reached to the Whites I knew differently, and reverently breathed, “Mountain, I respect you” as I traversed the northern loop of the Presidential Range.

I respect no mountain on the AT more than Katahdin. I climbed her on September 24, along with Pebbles, Redwood, Ruffles, Lumiere, Scribbles, Hollywood, Snow, Mark Trail, Bronza (ie. Fourbeards), Lady Sherpa, and a handful of other hikers. Cherry Cheeks came, too, bringing along some guys from his college outdoors club. And let me tell you, Pamola (the diety of Katahdin, who Abenaki Indians believed would seriously eff up anyone who even came too close to the base of the mountain) does not relinquish her summit easily. The hike starts out all easy-peasy, then gets a little steeper, then omigod-I’m-rock-climbing-all-hand-over-hand-like. This makes it seem relieving when the terrain gets a teensy more horizontal (as in “this is still so hard and I’m hiking with all four point of contact, but I’m pretty sure I won’t fall to my death”), and just at the crucial moment when you’ve really to pee thanks to great hydration, the mountain flattens out to the Tableland, a mile-long, mile-high rock garden with nary a boulder large enough to piss behind. (Well, that was my experience. Fortunately it was a foggy day, nobody was that close behind, and Cherry Cheeks is now accustomed to Pebbles and I informing him he needs to keep his gaze fixed up the trail if he doesn’t want to see us pissing.) But then there’s a gentle enough uphill, or maybe it’s not so gentle, but it seems that way, because at the top of it is The Sign. The Katahdin Sign.

I awoke in the gray, pre-dawn half-light of September 24, 2011 snug in a little shelter at The Birches, a special campground for thru-hikers (well away from the other visitors) and noted it was raining. So I scampered out to take my last pre-dawn piss in the rain for quite some time, then dove back in my sleeping bag, hoping Redwood’s alarm wouldn’t go off for a while. No such luck–we needed to be up at 6:30, which is actually pretty close to when it gets light out now–so the hiss of my deflating Thermarest woke Pebbles up for the last time and we all started eating breakfast and packing up. I went to the ranger station to drop off my pack and borrow a day pack–probably the smartest thing I did on the entire trip, as I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have climbed Katahdin on that day with a fully pack–and noted the posted weather report September 24 was a Class II day, which means hiking above treeline is not recommended. And let me tell you, although I wouldn’t trade my wet, chilly, socked-in Class II summit day for a month of Class I days, the only way I’ll ever climb Katahdin in the future is on a dry, warm, bluebird of a Class I day.

See, the rocks were slick. I found myself wishing I’d replaced my hiking shoes with something a little less worn and more grippy. On the hand-over-hand climbs I really relied on my hands to grip, and sometimes elbows and knees to wedge and support. A few times I had the familiar thought from the Whites–“This is too hard, the reach is too far, my body’s too small”–but just as in the Whites, I knew I could do it because the undeniable empirical evidence is that many, many folks did it before me. In this case, plenty of folks did it before me on the same slippery, wet day. So I made my way up that mountain, and at the beginning of the Tableland I took a break and waited for Pebbles. She was my hiking partner for over 500 miles, and I’d be darned if I walked the last mile without her.

So we walked together, Pebbles and me and Cherry Cheeks, who’d let his outdoors club guys outstrip him so he could hike with up. Near the summit Cherry Cheeks turned on his helmet cam and walked ahead of us to film our last steps. I didn’t realize what he was doing, and when I saw that summit sign I started running, pushing past Cherry Cheeks and hollering and stumbling over rocks, lumbering more than sprinting, weaving through the mass of day hikers who wisely made way so I could drape myself over that iconic brown sign and then give it a resouding smack right in the middle of the A in KatAhdin. Reaching the summit of Katahdin was the sweetest joy I’ve ever felt. Pebbles strutted up in a much cooler fashion than me, and kissed the sign, and then gave me a huge hug, and I’ll be darned if both us badass ladies didn’t shed a few tears.

We chilled on top of the mountain for a while, eating lunch and taking photos and doing things that pissed off the poor, harried ridgerunner, like popping open a bottle of sparkling cider (a GLASS bottle, oh noes!), talking on cell phones (I called my brother as promised, although AT&T’s the only carrier with service, which I think they should put in a commercial, so I borrowed Hollywood’s phone), and yelling (not sure why that’s a no-no but it’s a rule we thru-hikers broke a LOT, whooping everytime someone reached the sign).  Group shots were taken, and then Mark Trail rolled up unexpectedly, wearing only shorts and his long white beard on a day when everyone else was definitely fully clothed, and we all cheered for him and slow-clapped him up to the top, and then of course had to take group pictures all over again. Eventually enough fun was had and Pebbles, Cherry Cheeks, and I started back down the mountain. We did, after all, have 5.2 miles to go before we were done hiking. (I prefer to think of it as the first 5.2 miles of my SOBO section hike. :*)

That night we camped at Penobscot Outdoors Center, me and Pebs and the college boys, and Tim and Pebbles’ brother Will. We drank Shocklamainuhs, roasted brats, had a great fire, and stayed up way late. In the morning I got up at the crack of dawn, walked down to the lake, and gazed at Katahdin. The mountain was pink in the dawn light and wreathed in fluffy clouds, and the lake was like glass. I went back to camp and woke Pebbles up, and although we chatted quite a bit, we also sat on the dock in companionable silence. What do you say when taking leave of your sole sister? (Pun intended.)

Tim took me on a relaxing, fun little Maine mini-vacation and we just returned to Vermont last night. Readjustment’s now begun in earnest. Today I met a Long Trail hiker in town, and gave him a ride back to the trail. As we approached Lincoln Gap, where he was continuing south on the LT, I looked at the changing leaves on the trees, smelled the crisp air, and said, “You know, Tag, I know I just got off the AT…but I’m really jealous of you right now.”

In Which Maine is a Fairy Tale

I didn’t think up that metaphor myself, but I think it’s perfect. Maine’s perfect. This trail is perfect. The AT saved the best part for last for me. I’m traveling with two awesome people, Pebbles and Redwood, and we’re going to summit Katahdin very soon. Today’s our last night in town, so I’ve had my last pint-of-ice-cream-in-one-sitting for a while. We had dinner together and then went to a weekly bluegrass jam at the general store. Pebbles and I were asked to sing “Wagon Wheel” and “I’ll Fly Away”…and we did! I sang in public! The trail has worked strange and wonderful magic on me.

I am not the woman I was six months ago. I came through Mahoosic Notch, a mile-long boulder scramble–more climbing than hiking–on a rainy, humid day a couple of weeks ago, and realized how I’ve changed. I’m real with myself and the hikers around me, fearless and direct, and I like it. This kid, Truckin’, insisted I remkng him greatly od the girl in “True Grit” (the new one, the Coen brothers version) because I’m direct and assertive. Other hikers agreed, and I was ceremonially renamed True Grit atop Mt. Washington, and I like it. The name is more comfortable than my old trail name ever was, and I’ll carry it onto other trails. And there will be other trails.

I know I haven’t blogged for a while. Turns out one baggie isn’t enough to keep out ambient moisture for 6 months on the AT, and my phone battery died. My awesome parental support team got my phone fixed pronto and I just got it back. Truthfully, I didn’t feel much like getting online anyway, even when holed up in Gorham, NH during Irene. There’s too much living to do!

I could say so much more but it’s past midnighht and breakfast’s served at 7…and then miles to go. I can feel Katahdin’s pull growing stronger daily, but it’s still a lot of work to get there!

In Which I Would Walk 1,680 Miles (and I Would Walk 500 More)

The trail seemed interminable and suddenly, a few days ago, I walked up to a tree bearing a very humble sign reading “Katahdin 500.” At its base was a cooler full of icy cold Cokes and Mountain Dews compliments of a trail angel named Mad Hatter. I sat in the sun with four or five other hikers and jubilantly partook of the trail magic, and Katahdin didn’t seem so far away. Since then the miles seem to have flown, even with a couple of short days due to torrential rain. This past Friday I hiked down to the Inn at the Long Trail, which offers free camping, and had a delicious Reuben sandwich and masterfully poured Guinnesses. The next night I stayed at an abandoned cabin with a shaky lookout perched on the roof, offering views of the Adirondack high peaks to the west, the Whites to the east, and the Green Mountains all around.

My hat had an adventure. My second night back on the trail, I stayed at Big Branch Shelter, which faces a cheerfully babbling stream. I woke up early, feeling energized, and quickly packed and started hiking. I stopped for a snack at another shelter several miles down the trail, and then kept hiking until I came to a place in a hemlock grove where hikers built dozens of cairns and rock sculptures. I stopped to photograph some, shot the breeze with some hikers–and then realized my hat wasn’t on my head. My hat is a British Marine boonie hat my brother brought back from Afghanistan, which he traded for at the largest Marine base–half American, half British–in the country. He gave it to me when he hiked a section in May, and I am quite fond if it. There are many things I wouldn’t backtrack six miles for, but after quickly riffling through my pack to make sure my hat was really gone, I quickly shouldered my pack and started heading south. Happily, after a mile of hiking I met a hiker named Boom who’d stayed with me at Big Branch, and dangling from the back of his pack was my hat! He knew it was mine and so was carrying it north in hopes of returning it to me. I’ve done the same for other hikers–I carried Bunyan’s hat for two or three days, and Whoop!’s tarp for a week–so it wasn’t surprising, but I was still very grateful. Some might call it good karma…but it’s not that. It’s that hikers look out for each other, simple as that, and that is something I love about this trail.

(By the way, Boom got his name because he carried a full bottle of denatured alcohol onto an airplane in his carry-on bag at Logan. What, pray tell, is the purpose of the nakee body imaging machines if hikers are getting away with such unintentional shenanigans?)

I actually only have 441 miles to go now, and I’ve made it to New Hampshire, the penultimate state. Affordable lodging is scarce in these parts, but some hiker friends and I got lucky and happened upon the phone number of a trail angel who takes in hikers FOR FREE! Tonight we get showers, laundry, kitchen privelages, and the opportunity to sleep under four walls and a roof. That’s not too shabby, especially since we’ve been slogging through rain and mud for the past two days. The sun’s out now, though, and we’ll hike out tomorrow ready to tackle the Whites, the 100 Mile Wilderness, and Katahdin.

In Which I Take a Hiatus, and Return Again

After the Baseball For All camp I started experiencing a fair amount of pain on the trail. My feet hurt, my ankles hurt, my legs hurt, and my right Achilles tendon really, really hurt. I cut my mileage down, which was quite pleasant. When only hiking ten miles a day, I got to sleep late and take my time in the morning. I smelled every metaphoric rose, and ate LOTS of blueberries. Rolling into camp at two in the afternoon meant lots of time forreading, napping, and shooting the breeze with other hikers as they arrived.

It was pleasant, but a little lonely. I never saw the same faces two nights in a rowm there are some folks I’d like to have known better, like RawIndy, who may be the first Amish woman ever to hike the trail, but I simply couldn’t keep up and also take care of myself. In the end, it also wasn’t enough. Even with reduced mileage, ibuprofen, lots of stretching, and soaking my foot in every cold spring available, my hiker hobble wasn’t improving.

I needed to be able to walk and run for the upcoming baseball tournament I agreed to work (the USA Baseball Womens Internationaal Friendship Series) and for that I needed time off. At the same time, I was already on track to finish much later than anticipated. I’ve spent much more money than anticipated. The hike was starting to seem really daunting, and I was afraid if I got off the trail I wouldn’t be able to finish before Katahdin closes for the season in mid-October, or earlier if bad weather sets in unseasonably.

I had a few teary, panicky conversations with my parents and Tim, and ultimately did what I needed to do. I called my friend Abby and arranged for her to pick me up. I spent about five days at her house in Waitsfield, VT as I rested up and started gimping around a lot less. Then I took a bus to Boston, stayed overnight with my friend Jerimy, and boarded a plane for Cary, NC, where I worked the tournament.

Getting off proved wise, although it’s hard to see friends update Facebook announcing they’ve finished the Whites, entered Maine, or even summited Katahdin. Right now I’m on a train to Rutland, VT. Tomorrow I’ll pick up my mail and send home a few things, take a bus to a smaller town, buy groceries, and hitch back to the trail. Ice cream might be involved as well. Getting on and off the trail is, quite frankly, a pain in the ass (THREE DAYS from NC to trail!) and I’m glad this is the last time I’ll do it. Next time I leave the AT, it’ll be because there’s no more to hike. Like the Spartans, I intend to come home with my shield, or on it.

In Which I Go Underground, and End Up on a Ballfield

It seems like there’s never time to write. That’s not really true. On the trail the days certainly are full. I wake up, pack up, eat (my breakfast devolved from hot oatmeal to Pop Tarts, deluxe mixed nuts, and beef jerky), and hike. I find I’m spending eleven hours on the trail most days, although that includes breaks. I like to stop at shelter sites for the night, because hikers congregate there and we talk as we set up camp, fetch water, and cook dinner. I relish the time I get to share with this new community of mine. They are my people, the way umpires or coworkers or anyone else I’ve been thrown in with over the past ten years never were, and I like them. Town is a little different. There is down time in town, and I prefer to spend as much of it as possible horizontal, or at least sitting, and focusing not-on-hiking. Ice cream, clean clothes and body, hot greasy food, and more hiker socialization–that is what town is about.

I stopped in two towns recently, and both times I stayed in free, underground hiker hostels. These places don’t want to be listed in guidebooks; hikers find them anyway. That’s when it pays to take a minute or two to chat with passing SOBOs, exchanging information about what lies ahead for each hiker. The first town was Dalton, MA, where Rob Bird opens his home for hikers and other wayward souls. He calls the place the Bird Cage. I limped into Dalton after my second consecutive 20-mile day and followed some hiker friends to Rob’s place. Waiting for us were cold drinks in the fridge and hot showers with clean, fluffy towels. Later Rob drove us to a shopping center with buffet and grocery store. The next day he slackpacked me and another hiker 23 miles, over Mount Greylock. That means he drove us ahead, dropped us off, and we hiked back to his house carrying only borrowed daypacks with food, water, and other essentials. The following morning, Rob dropped me off where I started my slackpack so I could continue north. He does this all out of the kindness of his heart, and refuses to accept a dime from hikers.

A few days later I hitched into Bennington and found the Happy Hippies, Arla and Chris, who let hikers stay in the converted carriage house behind their house. They call it the Vortex. Both the carriage house and their own home are always open, and hikers have the run of common areas: kitchen, dining room with laptop, bathroom, and music room. Arla is an amazing sculpture artistand a real firecracker, and chatting with her is inspirational. They have three bikes for hikers to borrow, and when I was there, Twoper and I rode out to the movie theater for popcorn, soda, and Harry Potter–what a treat!

I was picked up in Bennington by my friend Perry Barber, and I’m tking a few days off the trail to umpire and teach at Baseball For All’s second annual Girls Baseball Academy. This year there are 14 girls from all over the country, and they’re having a great time. There’s instruction and a game daily, the coaching staff is excellent, and the extra activities are really cool. A few days ago we went to a minor league game in the evening, and yesterday took a trip to Boston. The girls participated in a physics lab with the MIT Science of Baseball Program, then scrimmaged with the MSBP boys. After that we toured Fenway. Woo! Now it’s back to the noemal schedule. I umpire a game and teacha session every day–a couple of days ago it was balks, and today we’re going to talk about plate work and have the girls do some soft toss and actually call some balls and strikes! And, NPR’s Only A Game is doing a story on the academy, so listen for that a week from Saturday.

Time to go work. When I get back on the trail, I’ll redume hiking through VT. I’m having a great time there. All the plants are really familiar, and the trail feels like home.

In Which I Turn 30 in Hiker Trash Style

I have the feeling this post may be a little disjointed. That’s partly because I’m pressed for time; the Kent, CT library only allows a half hour of computer time. Town overstimulation has something to do with it, and I’m buzzing on sugar. Also, I haven’t been sleeping well–it’s HOT and the no-see-ums get through my bug netting and eat me alive–so I’m a bit punchy most of the time.

For all that, I’m very happy right now. I busted out a tough 8 miles today, with the most steep, long hill climb in quite a while (a reminder that New Hampshire is in the future), then came into town. It’s bright and sunny out; hot and humid on the trail, but cool and breezy when sitting in the shade outside a sandwich cafe. My ride dropped me off in front of the outfitter, where I got new tips put on my trekking poles. The metal tip had dislodged from both poles, but now I’ll click away merrily again. I also picked up a small length of duct tape and a new bottle of Dr. Bronners Magic Soap. The magic is, it makes dirty, stinky hikers clean and slightly less stinky! Not sure when I’ll get get a chance to actually use it, as hiker amenities are scarcer (or just plain prohibitively expensive) in New England, but my day will come.

After that I had a delicious panini, two Cokes, and a bowl of strawberry gelato. A girl sitting near me overheard me say it was my birthday, and she folded a paper crane for me! I chatted with a hiker I’d not met before, and then struck out for the post office. Waiting for me there was a box from my brother with a new food bag and a stuff sack for my sleeping pad, and a GIANT box from my mom with all kinds of goodies from home: cookies from local bakeries, Central Market olives, Pacific Northwest smoked salmon, Irish cheese, various jerkies…the hikers will be eating in style tonight! I didn’t even have to go to the grocery store as I’d planned! My mom also sent me A HARMONICA! Now I will be able to make beautiful, beautiful music on the trail. Barring that, it’s a great way to get back at those early birds who insist on talking LOUDLY at 5 AM. (No joke. But…although the early bird gets the worm, the night owl gets the harmonica. Just sayin’.)

So now I’m almost out of time. I’m going to go get an espresso shake, let my phone charge a little more, and return to my people in the woods. Then, tomorrow: NORTH!

My friend Amy sent me a birthday card and said how none of us, at our cores, have really changed as we’ve grown from girls to women. She said, “Kate’s still saving the world!” I’m not, but on the AT, I’m certainly saving myself. Maybe I’ll get around to the rest of the world later. There’s a big mountain in Maine to summit first.

In Which I Get Sick and Wind Up in Brooklyn

Sick! Again! For the second time in a 30-day span! For several days I toughed out what I thought was allergy-related post-nasal drip (because ALL the grasses in Pennsylvania and New Jersey have been having glorious, glorious grass-sex), and then I said something about it to Tigger. “You’re not getting sick again, are you?” he asked with concern. Tigger was on hand for Typhoid Sherpa Part One, when the hills of Shenandoah National Park rang out with the sound of my hacking cough.

“No, I think this is just allergies,” I assured him. The next day, as I hiked, the post-nasal drip thickened and got down to business, bringing its friends Headache and Exhaustion and proving me and my “just allergies” theory wrong, wrong, wrong. By the time I got to my destination for the night (some shelter in a giant park in New York) I decided it was time to get off the trail, hole up somewhere, and give my immune system a chance this time by sleeping a lot and drinking pineapple juice. When I got sick last month, my strategy of trying to ignore it and put down the big miles I would if I were well didn’t seem to work very well. So I got out my trusty Droid, which has service even in the “remote” parts of mid-Atlantic AT states, and called my old high school buddy Eric, who lives in Brooklyn. I’d planned on taking a train in to see him when I got to the NY-CT border anyway. “Eric, I’m siiiick,” I croak-whined when he answered the phone. “Can I stay with you? How do I get there?”

Just like a good old high school buddy, Eric jumped on it. “Where are you? If you get to Bear Mountain tomorrow, it looks like you can take a train in from Peekskill. I’ll meet you at Grand Central Station. You can stay here as long as you like. No, no, no, you aren’t going to sleep on your air mattress. You need good rest to get better–you can sleep in my bed and I’ll take the floor,” he said. Eric is quite a guy.

So the next day I packed up, taking my time, and pounded out the 16 miles to the Bear Mountain Bridge. It turns out that, even when I’m feeling crappy, I can put down reasonable miles if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. The terrain was a lot less rugged than my first day in New York (rock scrambles! Nobody says anything about rock scrambles in New York!), and although the first part of the day was typical AT, there were some really pleasant surprises over the last seven miles or so. Most notably, the trail up and down Bear Mountain is amazing and beautiful. The first section of AT, laid out in the 1920s, went through that area, but was relocated numerous times due to high use and erosion issues. The ATC and NY-NJ TC are nearing the end of a multi-year project in which they’ve relocated the trail along its original route, installing stone steps, cribbing filled with crushed stone, and sometimes “paving” the trail using large, flat stones, so as to mitigate erosion issues. The rock work is really incredible. Although much of the labor was done by an army of volunteers (someone’s gotta quarry the stone and belay it and buckets of crush on steel highlines), they were directed by trail and masonry professionals from around the country. The result is remarkable and led to Hazard joking, “If Bob Peoples was in charge of the trail in Pennsylvania, it would all look like this.” (A joke, because Pennsylvania is known for its rocky, rugged trail.)

On top of Bear Mountain I found Tigger and Hazard eating hot dogs and talking with the Trail Angel grilling them on a propane grill on the back of his truck. This man turned out to be none other than the famous Paddy-O, who’s been helping hikers in New York for over 10 years. He drives all over the state with his pickup (known as the Paddy Wagon) and sets up wherever he thinks hikers might be. When I met him, he was grilling hot dogs and bacon, pouring Power-Ade, and blasting a great old country mix. It was exciting to meet another trail celebrity, especially because folks become trail celebrities because they are just such great people. The assholes may become trail legends (usually the butt of jokes and derisive stories), but aren’t generally found anywhere near the trail very long.

Tigger, Hazard, and I contined down the mountain. I fell behind, and found them with Arthur Dent and Portrait enjoying beer and fried food at a snack stand at Bear Mountain State Park. They walked off while I ate an ice cream cone, which at that point I was too congested to taste but nonetheless appreciated its texture, temperature, and caloric value. As I walked through the park towards the Trailside Zoo, I met Heinrich and Craig, two Germans who were getting off the trail. Bear Mountain was as far as Heinrich planned on going this year, and Craig had two sprained ankles and decided to leave the trail with his hiking partner. They’ll come back another year to finish up. I wished them luck, then walked quickly through the zoo. Hikers joke that if you don’t see bears anywhere else, you’ll see one at the zoo, which contains specimens of animals native to the area. I finally saw bears within the last few weeks: A mama and cub gobbling blueberries in New Jersey, for all the world like in the childrens book Blueberries for Sal, and another cub on the day I crossed from New Jersey to New York. Good thing, because I didn’t see any bears at the zoo! I don’t know where they were–maybe inside, eating their dinner–but they weren’t out in view of the public.

After that I crossed the Bear Mountain bridge and considered how I’d get to Peekskill. It’s a long road walk on a dangerous highway. I consulted with Heinrich, Craig, Portrait, and a fourth hiker who walked up; they were bound for Peekskill as well, it turned out, for a going-away party for the Germans, who planned on taking the train to NYC the next day. We considered calling a cab, but they wanted an outrageous fare ($45 to go 4.5 miles!), so we decided to try our luck hitching, although chances didn’t seem to be good for five hikers at a busy highway junction in New York. Luck was on our side, though, and a local Trail Angel named Steve, who owns a chain of drugstores in the area, drove by and picked us up. Although he wasn’t going to Peekskill, he agreed to take us in, so we squeezed our packs and selves into his SUV (thank goodness Portrait’s an ultralighter or our packs never would have fit!) and off we went.

Getting on the train and meeting Eric was no problem, and I’ve spent several days recuperating in the apartment he shares with his college friend Thomas. Both men are gracious hosts and they’ve made me feel very much at home. Today I felt well enough to go for a walk, so Eric and I wandered his neighborhood for a couple of hours, tracking down ice cream and talking to an energy company rep about wind energy. Hazard asked me what part of Brooklyn Eric lived in, and I replied, “I don’t know, but he’s got an air conditioner and a bed,” and that’s still just about all I know, but I like it here from the little I’ve seen. Tomorrow Eric’s escorting me back to Grand Central bright and early (which is good because I might otherwise become hopelessly lost), and I’m getting back on the trail. Although…I’m wondering if a sinus infection might be settling in. I could be back here very soon. Eric says that’s fine, and I know I’d say the same if the situation were reversed, and I’m so grateful that my friends are real, and many have been my friends for well over a decade. It’s sad that we’re spread all over the country now, and I don’t get to see them very often, but I know we’ve all got each other’s backs.

All the same, I’m glad to get back to my trail tomorrow. I’ll be in a new “bubble” of people, although I expect there may be some familiar faces. My 30th birthday’s in a few days, and I’m excited to pick up my maildrop. It looks like I’ll be in CT and although I once envisioned going to town and having a little hiker party, all the towns on the trail there are really, really expensive, so it’s a trail birthday for me, and probably very similar to every other day on the trail…which, really, is how I envisioned it all along, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be for my milestone.

On the Kindness of Strangers

I awoke this morning with grim determination. Sure, I was stiff and sore from two 20-plus mile days, and still wet from yesterday’s afternoon thundershowers, but by god I would spend the night in the church hostel in Vernon, NJ, where they have showers and laundry and internet and four walls and a roof. All that sttod in my way were 19 trail miles, a three-mile road walk into town (they ticket hitchhikers in New Jersey and New York), and a mile round trip into Unionville, New York to pick up my new shoes. So I ate my organic toaster pastry and deluxe mixed nuts, packed, perused the shelter registry, and hit the trail.

Fifteen minutes later it was raining, and thunder rumbled in the distance. It rained at varying intensities for the next five hours. I crossed many small roads, none marked. Eventually I began suspecting I’d missed my pre-Unionville landmark. After puzzling for ten minutes over maps, guidebooks, and the one road sign I could find, I knocked on a door and asked where I was.

It turned out I did miss my landmark, and I overshot Unionville. I could still get there but the road walk was now over a mile instead of .4. Sigh. I started walking, and appreciated how much cover trees really do give when it’s raining. I got into town and had to wait for the post office to reopen after lunch, so I dropped my pack outside a pizza place, left as many dripping layers outside as possible, and walked in, literally leaving a trail of puddles. The man at the counter invited me to take a seat and said he’d bring over a menu.

As I waited, my head involuntarily drooped. Everything from head to toe was soaked. I still had many miles to hike. The hostel in town was closed; the bar it was attached to was undergoing renovations. “Hello, Sunshine, how are you today?” asked the counterman as he handed me a menu. He also handed me two towels, one for the puddle collecting around me and one for myself. And that was how I met Augusto.

Augusto is from Guatemala, and has  lived in New Jersey and New York for over 20 years. He and his friend Jimmy operate the pizza place, live above it, and think about buying it one day. Augusto made me a special calzone (extra cheese and an added topping at no charge) and we talked between customers. The rain kept coming down. Eventually the invitation was extended for me to grab a shower at their place, and stay if I wanted. They’ve opened their home to hikers many times before, especially during inclement weather. The ladies at the post office backed that up. I gratefully accepted.

Now I’m clean and warm. Augusto brought up an incredible amount of food for me for dinner. He offered me his room and shook his head when he saw I’d laid out my NeoAir and sleeping bag in the living room–but I say the man doesn’t need to come home from a 12-hour day and sleep on the couch! Although I’m hiking out tomorrow, I’m invited to stay for as long as I’d like. I’m amazed at the generosity and hospitality I’ve been shown. You definitely meet a better class of people out here.

In Which Pennsylvania Rocks and I See Bears

The sun’s broken through on this summer solstice and is baking me as I eat a bagel with pepper jack and Spam atop the Kittatinny Ridge. Solstice is traditionally Hike Naked Day, but I’m eschewing that and challenging myself to hike sunup to sundown instead. That’s right, I was on the trail at 5:31 this morning, bidding Delaware Water Gap adieu and walking on the bridge over the Delaware River into New Jersey. Seven states down, seven to go!

New Jersey is known for its dense bear population, but after almost 1300 miles of no bear sightings, I was prepared for the drought to continue. In fact, a hiker passed me this morning and said he saw a bear in his first mile in NJ, and I lamented my bad luck. Not 20 minutes later, I came upon the same hiker standing still on the trail, grinning and pointing into the blueberry bushes to the right. A mama watched us warily while her cub greedily devoured blueberries! It was an unexpected and amazing sight, and I’m so glad to be out on this trail instead of, well, anywhere else!

I helped myself to lots of blueberries, too, once I gave the bears a good amount of space. The top of this ridge is covered with them, and they’re just starting to get ripe. Hey, it turns out New Jersey, or at least this little corner of it, is a great place!

I liked PA too. Hikers whine about the rocks and monotony. I thought the true boulder fields, like the Knife Edge or the scramble up out of Lehigh Gap over the Superfund site, were fun challenges. As for the rest of the rocks, well we’ve had similar sections all along the trail. Pennsylvania gets a bad rap.

Also in PA was splendid trail magic, thanks to Torie’s aunt Kim and uncle John. They picked me up from Little Gap and whisked me off to their home for a shower, laundry, groceries, tasty home-cooked breakfast and dinner, some baseball on the TV, and a comfy bed to sleep in. Kim and John (and their dog Zelda) gave me a warm welcome and I’m so grateful for their hospitality!

It seems criminal to be typing away on my phone when there are raptors to watch and miles to hike. Even though there’s so much more to tell about, I’m going to wrap this one up and go enjoy The Nature.