[pct-l] Memories from another life (LT '99)

["Brett Tucker" <blisterfree@hotmail.com>]

Well, winter must have finally hit, judging by the decidedly gear-oriented 
discussions on the list lately. Not reading much in the way of on-trail 
experiences, at least as far as the PCT is concerned...

Last summer after bailing off the PCT in the Sierra, I determined to hike 
the Long Trail. Which was a great hike, though as different from the PCT as, 
well, most things east vs. west. The Long Trail Club (GMC) requires hikers 
to submit a hike report post-journey. I thought I'd share this was the list, 
as a break from all the gear talk. The essays here progress from the start 
of the hike to the end, journal style. It's rather long, and a bit obscure 
if you haven't walked the route, but hopefully it will be fun either way.

- Brett

~ Snippets from Blister-free's Long Trail Adventure ~
(c) 1999 Brett Tucker

"Hello," I said. "Didn't I see you on the bus to Williamstown?" It was my 
first encounter with another hiker, and it came less than a minute after I 
ventured onto the Pine Cobble approach trail. I was really getting into the 
scenery about then, having been away from these types of forests for several 
months. But the distraction was pleasant enough. I figured he was a fellow 
Long Trail hiker when I saw him on my bus ride that afternoon, judging by 
the pack, the anxious look in the eye, and the uncanny way we both made the 
same bus connections. This fellow was a Brit, overseas to spend a week on 
the AT/LT, ending up "wherever I get." His prior experience with American 
hiking had been in New York and New Jersey. I assured him that Vermont was 
nothing like that, and he should have a wonderful time of it. Sensing our 
differences in hiking pace and goals, I bid the chap adieu and pressed on 
through the verdant hardwood forest into the waning light of evening, 
searching for that good, old Seth Warner shelter I remembered from AT hiking 
days. The past, present, and future merged: here I was traveling north by 
memory toward some distant, unfamiliar, inevitable outcome. Canada or bust!
_______________

Early morning, clear skies. Up and at 'em, feeling good. Down the trail with 
sun climbing on my right. Vista on my left, then a pond or two. There, the 
frogs play their one-trick tune, that banjo-esque twang, but not with such 
harmony as I recall from summers past. The water level looks low; probably 
the drought to blame. On to Congdon Camp for a snack break. North then to 
Harmon Hill and its overlook of Bennington, hot on the heels of a northbound 
AT thru-hiker (hard to catch some of these). Down down the canyon to Vt. 
Rte. 9 and up up the other side. Somewhere up there, atop the impenetrable 
canopy of leaves, the sky grows cloudy. Pass the shelter, onward. Big miles, 
long days, let's start off on the right foot. Getting late, growing tired, 
estimations of distance well off the mark. I can still remember Goddard 
shelter, my destination, like my last visit was just yesterday, but at this 
rate it could take until tomorrow to reach it.

Determination. A final climb at dusk. The faint sound of voices calls 
through the forest, rises slowly, and merges with the whispers of my breath 
and movement. Then swooping in from high above and far away, a sudden clap 
of thunder captures these sounds as it shakes the earth beneath. At last and 
just in time, the shelter! Strewn with hikers and their belongings, it is a 
veritable fallout bunker at 3800'. On cue, rain and hail beat down on 
Goddard's metal roof. But I am home, high and dry. So much for a night under 
the stars as planned. Time to sleep with the mice, and the chatter of 
strangers making friendly, with the sounds of snoring, and the rain and wind 
howling at my doorstep. A thousand Appalachian Trail memories are brought 
back to life.
_______________

Why yes, the pack does feel rather heavy. But then it always does the day I 
leave town. Has something to do with the fresh load of food, destined for 
eventual consumption but serving as dead weight for now. And of course 
heading uphill, the natural way out of town, (only way?) amplifies the 
overall burden as well. Hard to leave that Manchester Center, despite all 
the yuppie consumerism. But hey, "build it and they will come." The pizza 
place in town had built a pie just for me the night before, and I came. And 
I ate. I think I also had them throw a cheese steak onto my order, and as I 
recall, that served as a midnight snack. Or was it breakfast? Either way, 
nice that the Zion church hostel has a microwave for hiker use. Eating well 
in town certainly has its advantages. Beyond satisfying the unavoidable 
trail-induced cravings, there is the option to bolster one's nutritional 
reserves. Carb'ed up and topped off, the body's fuel tank can run for quite 
a few miles, almost offsetting the additional load carried from town.

Up Bromley ski mountain I go, then. Feeling good. What the heck, let's try 
jogging this last pitch, here along the ski run to the observation deck. Way 
to go! But enough of that; I'll get farther by slowing down and taking in 
the sights, of which there are many from this ridge. Let's see: there's Mt. 
Equinox to the west, and that's Killington off to the north, the peak far to 
the south there they claim is Greylock, and over that-a-way is… And over 
this-a-way is… And o'er yonder we find…
_______________

"And she lifted her petticoat, lazy and slow. And I rolled up my sleeves, 
for to buckle her shoe." I've come to love the traditional Irish folk music, 
even if some of the lyrical numbers are a tad foreign to my western ear. 
Probably the majority of my Gaelic exposure has happened right here, while 
dining and soaking in the ambience at McGrath's Irish Pub, located at the 
Inn at Long Trail. What an unseasonably gorgeous fall-like day here in 
August, the perfect conditions to hike from Clarendon Gorge, up and over 
Killington, and down to Sherburne Pass. And what better way to end the 
festivities than with a stopover at the Inn, and some Irish Spuds (with 
roasted veggies, please) at the pub. Ah, the sun in the eyes all day, (good 
for the eyeballs) wind in the hair, crisp clean air in the lungs, and now a 
few potatoes, a burger, and an order of super nachos (to go, please) in the 
digestive tract. And where do I think I'm going at this hour? Back to the 
woods? While I thoroughly enjoy night hiking, I will admit that the sudden 
contrast in hospitality could make for a bout of indigestion. Better stay 
the night upstairs, here at the foot of Deer Leap. Here's an opportunity to 
get clean, and to contrast the sacred, spartan provisions of nature with the 
modern box spring and mattress, the thematically appointed room, the indoor 
plumbing. Indeed, we can thank nature for these amenities. At some point in 
history somebody decided to turn his back on nature, and what could she do 
but to show him the door, among other inventions.
_______________

The stinging nettle is a sun-loving plant. Like many eastern plants and 
wildflowers, it takes advantage of the brief period between the start of the 
spring thaw and the leafing out of the forest canopy, a time when the soil 
is fit to nurture growth and maximum sunlight reaches the forest floor. 
Then, like the fabled bean stalk leading up toward the clouds, nettle takes 
off and never looks back. Oh sure, its growth and population are generally 
curbed by the sun-greedy shade trees of summer. But not so this year; not 
since the ice storm of '98 brought what seems like every branch, stem, and 
twig crashing to earth, opening up the canopy dramatically, and allowing 
light to pour in on our nettle day after day.

Like a cell wildly mutated through an overabundance of ultraviolet 
radiation, stinging nettle became the leitmotif of this summer's Long Trail 
hiker. Those hardy northbound travelers who turned left at Maine Junction, 
rather than right, would feel the wrath of this toxicodendron again and 
again, as it swooped over the trail corridor and across legs, arms, and the 
like. Nettle and its innumerable vegetable cohorts seemed bent on overtaking 
the trail, of obliterating any trace of it. Along with their close, though 
inanimate, friends - the rocks - they nearly insisted that hikers not hike 
so much as evade, circumnavigate, stumble, and route-find.

So who's to blame here, anyway? To whom should we address our complaints? 
Well, we could fault the nettle, the way we curse the mosquitoes, the rain, 
the heat, or the cold. But then nettle is just doing its job, growing and 
causing allergic reactions in the non-native population. We could blame the 
ice storm. This isn't nearly as fun as blaming the nettle, though, since 
it's past history. Plants we can yell at directly. And yes, we could always 
blame the maintaining organization whose job it is to keep the trail 
walkable, if not always presentable or "enjoyable." But at the end of the 
day, and as the histamine reaction fades, I have only myself to blame for 
bringing unrealistic expectations to the trail. You see, the trail always 
wins these kinds of arguments, and I'm best off remembering this before 
raising my voice. After all, the obstacles we face in the wilderness are 
mostly of our own making. They are borne in the mind, but the mind can also 
elect to see things in a more positive way. And so the nettle grows, but I'm 
determined to have a good time just the same. And who knows, maybe my sunny 
disposition will rub off on others.
_______________

The weather was exhibiting a mood most foul, and the rocks, slabs, ledges, 
boulders, talus, and scree were drenched to the core, slippery as few things 
can be. I clambered my way up another hanging garden of stone, already 
overtaxed by a long day of hiking more in the vertical than the horizontal. 
Many miles earlier I had proclaimed (to myself) that this terrain was every 
bit the equal of Maine's Mahoosuc portion of the Appalachian Trail. Granted, 
it lacked The Notch, but I was convinced it made up for that with its sheer 
length and consistency of tedious, technical walking. This is no place for 
the timid or frail. Certainly this portion of the Long Trail is negotiable 
by fit, experienced, youthful sorts only.

Just then, a figure appeared around a bend in the rocky path. Hard to 
distinguish at first from the mist, fog, and ensuing darkness, the man drew 
closer, apparently wearing a daypack and carrying a stick. Assuming that he 
had just been where I was headed, I tried, "How far to the next shelter?" 
His trail-hardened face responded with a look of sober engagement. "Oh, 
maybe 2 miles," came the reply after brief calculation; then, "Any idea how 
far to Appalachian Gap?" (I informed him of the facts - almost there, just 
one more slippy dippy downhill.) Judging from his voice, he sounded a little 
tired, but at an estimated age of 70 - perhaps 75 - he was clearly entitled 
to be. Especially when he revealed that his starting point for the day had 
been Jonesville, some 23 miles to the north! This fellow adventurer stood 
tall, wiry, and strong, with stout posture and an aura of health that belied 
his years. Like me, he was traveling solo. His wife and car, he hoped, were 
awaiting his arrival at App. Gap. Asked for his thoughts on covering such a 
vast and remarkable distance since only that morning, over such difficult 
terrain, the man understated, "A bit much for one day… Yes, a bit much." I 
was awestruck. Continuing on to my shelter, over and under tortuous 
obstacles, I drew genuine inspiration from our encounter. And I thought of 
him numerous times as I made passage to Jonesville over the following TWO 
days.
_______________

Humanity _can_ connect with the natural world. Sometimes the secret is food. 
Let me rephrase that: The creatures of the natural world _will_ connect with 
humanity, provided that humanity has food and is inattentive. When the furry 
animals of the forest raid our picnic baskets, they act merely out of 
instinct, primal and all-powerful. When we see them doing it, and make no 
effort to stop them, not only do we of course lose our food but we also take 
advantage of their sacred urges, allowing instinct to serve against them. 
Hardly the kind of connection a chipmunk needs in the harsh woods of 
northern Vermont. But what to do when we need that connection? How to 
respond after so much time spent observing the critters from the sidelines, 
but without a close encounter? And what happens when emotion blinds our 
better judgment?

My brief stop at the Whiteface Shelter was intended only for a snack break, 
but in retrospect it was a highlight of the trip, a close brush with the 
world of animalia, for better or worse. The day was wet and blustery, and 
obviously Sir Chipmunk, like me, sought a roof over his head and a bite to 
eat. No doubt he knew this place like the back of his paw. And he probably 
heard dinner bells with every pack zipper I unzipped and food package I 
opened. Elusive yet omnipresent, chippy quickly located the spoils, first 
scoping out the scene from on high, then moving in for the kill. In 
ever-tightening circles he scampered, around and around, closer and closer. 
He tried biting through the food bag, but I objected. He darted off for a 
second or two. And then he was back at it, this time eyeing the open lid of 
my peanut butter jar, upside down for his convenience. Again he watched my 
gestures of disapproval, but this time merely backed off a few inches to 
call my bluff. By the time my hand had reached the jar's lid, he was busily 
stuffing his cheeks with the excess peanut butter accumulated in its 
screw-on threads. But still I tried to rescind the offer. I pulled the lid 
slowly toward me, yet the little rodent kept right on eating, skillfully 
tracking the moving target with his muzzle. Clearly his wholehearted 
approach to mealtime was an easy match for my halfhearted objections.

My hand was within an inch or two of his head when I lifted a finger, very 
slowly, and proceeded to stroke behind his ears. His nose quivered a touch, 
the beady eyes seemed to lock on to mine, but the critter did not balk. I 
felt along his furry flanks and then his little backbone. I could feel the 
chipmunk's entire body move in sympathy to his feeding face. Chippy 
eventually did leave, but not until his stomach was satisfied. Taking 
inventory as I packed my things to go, I saw that he hadn't taken much: a 
small amount of peanut butter and a few miscellaneous food scraps. But what 
he unknowingly gave back was substantial. He had lifted my spirits on a 
gloomy day. And he set me to pondering, not for the first time, the ethics 
of the forest ecology.
_______________

Looking back at the photos I've taken on my journeys never fails to rekindle 
the memories. The pictures are like cue cards, 4" by 6" and glossy, 
prompting the mind for its lines, helping me recall the story as it unfolded 
day by day. Where was this? And who was that? What was I thinking, hearing, 
smelling, or feeling when I, or someone, took this photograph? Please 
assist. Who was I then? Who am I now?

Look there! There's mom jumping up and down for joy, as I make my way out of 
the woods and over to the waiting car. I remember that road crossing. It was 
the last one before Journey's End Road, and the completion of my Long Trail 
hike. Too bad I made the parents wait and worry all afternoon, but how could 
I predict exactly when I'd arrive? That's not easy when you're on foot, you 
know. And how could I forget the warmth of those dry, waiting clothes. Or 
how the freshly made sandwiches did not fail to hit the spot. That wooden 
sign there? Must be the sign just north of that same road crossing. Mom 
insisted on a posed shot here, since she wouldn't be following me to the 
northern terminus - journey's end - and the final, more significant 
signpost. Mom always likes to poke around the trail a ways near these road 
crossings, getting caught up in the drama of it all.

And there it is! That most anticlimactic of signs, the rectangular affair 
nailed high on the final birch tree of the Long Trail, and facing the wrong 
way. La terminus du nord. Be careful or you'll miss it and continue right on 
into Quebec! Luckily, the camera flash really saved this shot, allowing you 
to easily read the wooden sign's chiseled scrawl. It was nearly dark about 
the time I finally got here. In fact, I can read the sign better in the 
photo than I could when standing in front of it that evening. As the sign 
points out, this is the end of the line. Or the beginning. It really all 
depends on which way you're heading.

________________

I like to think that the Long Trail is merely a segment of a much longer 
path. Not the Appalachian Trail. And not the PCT or the Colorado Trail. In 
fact, it is no trail the feet could ever travel. The path I refer to is in 
the mind, and it stretches as far as our imaginations will carry us. It is 
the trail of dreams.

As I approach the physical end of a particular trail, I am already starting 
out on the next adventure, in the mind. On journey, the dream walks far 
ahead of me, and I am helpless but to follow its lead. And when at last my 
legs reach the end of the trail, I find the dream waiting for me. It sits 
quietly off to the side as I pass by and descend out of the woods. It 
oversees as I hang my backpack on the wall for another season. And it 
whispers to me, in a patient yet persuasive manner, as I go about my 
business in the world of traffic, noise, and deadlines. It strides beside me 
in the cold, winter woods, and we confer about the future, if only for the 
afternoon.

But soon plans are made. Eventually maps and guide books are purchased, 
along with any relevant gear. Then it's time to negotiate travel 
arrangements, and to purchase food. Lots of food. And of course: the loading 
of the pack. The paring of the load. The breaking-in of the shoes. The 
breaking-in of the feet! At last I hit the trail again - it could be 
anywhere, no matter. Keep it "lonely for contemplation," "remote for 
detachment," "narrow for chosen company," and I am happy.

At once the dream presses ahead, floats over the hill and out of sight. I 
stride forward more casually. After all, what's the rush? We'll meet again. 
Somewhere up there, once more out there in the great beyond we will be 
inspired together.

- Blister-free (c) 1999

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