200 miles in

I learned a wonderful fact about newts the other day from an invertebrate specialist we ate lunch near. The spotted red eft is the younger stage of the aquatic green newts you find in ponds throughout the northeast . Apparently before they morph into the older, aquatic green stage, they will wander far from their birth pond. Most eventually return to breed and carry on as newts do, but others go wandering in search of new ponds. This is why you sometimes see them up high on mountains- they are hiking their own hike, the same as Moped and I are. 

I bet their feet feel better than mine do. 

My body is a bit beat up- my right ankle is swollen and my left arch is sore. I’ve got something going on with two of my toes, but I don’t know what’s wrong, other than that they hurt when I walk. My legs feel tired and my body is constantly asking for both nourishment and rest. Considering the last 40 miles of trail I’m not surprised- the section from Burnt Rock Mountain to Route 2 (up and over Camel’s Hump) is relentless. Lots of elevation gain and scrambling and rock climbing don’t result in a quick and easy pace. The climb today up and over Mansfield was also tough- there are a couple of spots that a wrong step will lead to a significant fall, ladders that were not fully upright and don’t extend above the rock face, making it hard to transition between the two, and rock that had worn down from thousands of feet, making it surprisingly slick. We took it slow and steady, and I only had to take my pack off once on a ledge to safely traverse it. Moped and I have been thinking about how difficult the last three days have been- how we’ve never felt one accidental slip away from certain death before. The AT certainly didn’t have terrain this nerve wracking: even the hike up the Wildcats didn’t feel this perilous, nor did the hike down Katadhin’s Knife Edge. Take note: the Long Trail may be only about a tenth of the Appalachian Trail, but it is pretty damn tough. Our caretaker at Taft Lodge said that it’s because the people who made these trails a century ago wanted to make them short enough that they could get to the top of the mountain and then be home for dinner, route be damned. 

Despite the challenges of the last three days we’ve had some wonderful moments. Moped saw a bear lurking near the privy at the Bamforth Ridge Shelter the morning after we stayed there. Our dear friend came to visit, bearing delicious treats, hugs, and Moped’s old backpack, as his new one was torturing him. We spent the night alone at Puffer Shelter, which had a view that stretched for miles and a sunrise that shone directly into the shelter. Swimming naked in cold and clear mountain streams. The joy of knowing that every newt I see has done big mile days to be where it is. Ravens playing in the thermals. Being out here is magical and wonderful and affirming. 

I am, however, looking forward to a proper shower. In the meantime, we’ll settle for such dips in mountain creeks as we find them, and the warmth of the sun drying us before we continue along our way, and dream of high efficiency washing machines with an aggressive detergent. 

Over Halfway There

We left the Inn at the Long Trail on Sunday morning after a hearty breakfast, and have been pushing miles to try to get to Waitsfield in 3 days.  The weather for the first two days was nice, but yesterday the wind picked up and it started raining just as we were making the steep and slippery descent from Abraham towards Mt Ellen. The Stark’s Nest (a ski lodge left open for hikers at the Mad River Glen ski area) was a welcome respite; despite there being no heat or electricity, the lodge provided an enclosed space with windows to peer out of and feel infinitely grateful for no longer hiking in the elements.

I haven’t spent too many hours hiking outside of my comfort zone, but as we approached the Stark’s Nest I was starting to see the edge of it rapidly approaching. I was soaked through to the point where my raincoat only kept the wind off. My feet were sloshing around in my trail runners, which had gotten wet hours earlier. The weather seemed to be picking up, and since we were on a ridge line, we were consistently bombarded by the wind. As the sky grew darker, I kept asking myself: whose bad idea was it to do the 19.5 miles from Emily Proctor Shelter? Oh right, it was mine. But is it really a bad idea if the day ends with a warm sleeping bag and a giant bar of chocolate? 

 I’ve been thinking a lot about the people who set Fastest Known Times (FKTs) on trails. The current FKT for the Long Trail is about 4 and a half days (or more, depending on if it’s a supported, self-supported, or unsupported hike).  To put that in perspective, a FKT contender would have had to do the mileage that took us 11 hours and then do 40 more. I can’t even imagine having that level of fitness. My body is holding up okay- my feet are a bit sore, but I don’t seem to have the hiker hobble that characterized much of my AT thru hike. Im tired and sore, but I feel good and competent and happy (and so very filthy).

We hitchhiked into Waitsfield when we got to Appalachian Gap this morning, and resupplied for the next 60 mile stretch, which will take us over the final two 4,000 footers: Camels Hump and Mansfield. We decided that after 56 miles in 3 days we deserved a short day, so we are spending the afternoon at Lawson’s Finest Liquids, where we are eating real food and having a celebratory beer.

Recharged, we’ll make our way back to the woods and cap off a short day with a meal made from perishables: Chorizo, a red pepper, shallots, and instant mashed potatoes. Mostly perishables, anyways. I’m looking forward to having more vegetables in my life again. 

105.5

We reached Maine Junction yesterday after a brief hike from Churchill Scott shelter. It had been a pretty great couple of days- my sister drove out from central NH to feed us vegetables,  and seeing family after a week on the trail was like a shot of love directly into the nervous system. Yesterday,after a shower and a light nap, we had dinner with other non-trail friends at the Inn at the Long Trail. Today we head north, saying goodbye to the AT friends we’ve made, as that trail veers eastward towards NH.

My feet are holding up remarkably well, and the trail runners I’ve been hiking in dry out quickly once the rain ends. I’ve made a few other changes from my days on the AT- I’m hiking with gaiters to keep sand out of my shoes, and use body glide between my toes to keep the blisters in check. 

My sleep hasn’t been great- my neo air and sleeping bag are very slippery, and at night I slip and slide all over the place like a flopping fish out of water.  A few nights ago I slipped off my pad and fell out of a shelter bed, waking up mid fall, and banged my elbow on the way down. It was only about a foot fall, so no damage done, just a bit to my pride when I told Moped about it in the morning.  I’ve had a few other falls, most recently up Killington, where I tripped over something, and twisted around to grab a small tree. The tree snapped, and I handed hard on my back, my backpack breaking my fall. I was briefly stuck there, upside down, like a turtle resting on its shell, legs akimbo. Not my most graceful moment.

I continue to love every moment of this trail- the beautiful ponds with loons calling in the twilight, and the rivers and streams with water so cold that a dunk in gives me a dizzy feeling. The views of Vermont’s Green Mountains, with occasional glimpses of theAdirondacks to the west and New Hampshire to the east. The way I feel in my body, even when tired: strong, beautiful, and wild. And, of course, having someone to share every moment with, from the delight of a surprise porcupine chilling in a pile of mulch by a privy, to irritation over finding that a mouse nibbled it’s way through our food bag, sampling both the trail mix and the cheese. I’m so glad that Moped and I found one another, and that the delight of hiking continues to bring us even closer.

Days 1 through 5

We woke up this morning on the top of Bromley Mountain. Ski hills usually provide pretty good camping, and, bonus, this one has an open ski patrol hut and and a composting toilet.   Moped cooked us a gourmet dinner (instant mashed potatoes mixed with fried chicken sausage and shallots), and we watched a gorgeous sunset from the top of the mountain.  I had positioned our tent so that I could watch sunrise this morning from my bed- a lovely start to the day.

I’ve been a little bit discombobulated as I figure out/remember my backpacking routine. I’m not the same person who was out on the AT 11 years ago- I like having a cushier sleeping pad (ugh- when I remember to close the valve after blowing it up- I woke up this morning on the tent floor, a bit surprised and confused until Moped pointed out my mistake), a pillow, a steady job to come back to, and a 25 pound pack. (When I started the AT my pack weighed 47 pounds. Mom, this is why I don’t carry apples anymore.)  While Moped and I have been backpacking together for nine years, thru-hiking together is new to us. We are adjusting, although the biggest shift is trying to not feel like we have to push big mile days each day. 

The animal sightings have been good so far- a beaver swimming along happily in its pond, about a gazillion newts, butterflies, some fish, a snake, the sound of loons at night on Stratton pond, and one very determined porcupine climbing a tree. There have been a lot of AT thru hikers- all legs and appetite and sour smell, generally not too friendly- we see them once and then not again. Moped says that the AT is like a mullet- business in the front, party in the back. Given that it’s still June, we are definitely seeing the focused folk who are not to be deterred by a friendly smile. Was I that weatherworn and salty? I hope not, but I probably was- I have a distant memory of feeling a bit tired of questions and company after 1600 miles on my own. Anyhow, the Long Trail hikers have been great, and sharing conversation and hiking space with them has been a lot of fun.

Onward and upward! 

Here I Go Again

But not on my own! 

With some help from my wonderful parents , today Moped and I embarked on a three week long thru hike of Vermont’s Long Trail. Purportedly the oldest hiking trail in the nation (although I’m sure there are some indigenous groups that would disagree) the trail stretches from the Massachusetts border 273 miles north to Canada along the spine of the Green Mountains.

I’m so excited to be thruhiking another trail, and especially with the love of my life. 

I know we will have tough days ahead- bugs, sore feet, bad weather, not enough vegetables- but tonight I can’t stop smiling.

It’s nice to be LadyPants again. 

Retrospective

Two unpleasant side effects from attending survival school: my stomach can’t handle rich foods anymore (goodbye, dairy!) and sadly, between cooking over open flame for several nights and the dryness of Utah, all of my fingertips are peeling off.  Perhaps this is the universe nudging me towards a life of fingerprint-less crimes, but since that’s a bit too risky for my taste, I think I’ll just wait for them to regenerate (and in the mean time, take a break from campfires).

First dinner on the trail (and fourth night).  The fire
was courtesy of our instructors, Jeremy and Matt, who
told us in no uncertain terms that the first fire was free,
but from then on if we wanted dinner we'd have to make
fire ourselves.

I’m not sure how to talk about survival school, except to say that I learned more than I thought I would, I’m hoping to go back next year and learn more, and that I’m probably going to be insufferable to hike with for the next few years (a function of, I’m afraid, realizing that if I have a knife and water treatment, that I’ll probably be able to get by in the woods just fine).  For those of you who expressed interest in the trip (even if it was more of a ‘car accident on the highway’ kind of interest), here’s a summary: I didn't eat bugs or worms or frogs, I went completely without food for 56 hours, the only scary part involved fording fast moving water that was waist deep, I went without dinner a couple of times because neither I or one of the other students could start a fire with our bow drills, not having toilet paper or headlamps isn't a big deal, southern Utah has a number of beautiful ecosystems, my new personal record is 14 days without a shower, I wish I hadn't slept through geology in college because the rocks were amazing, and someone else killed the sheep (though I certainly helped with the processing of it and the eating of it).  I started looking at nature differently; instead of as something to pass by on my way to a destination, I started observing it more critically, looking for food and shelter along the way.  I learned that I’m much stronger than I thought, that I don’t need much to survive (though thriving is a totally different thing), and that living in the moment really agrees with me.  Those of you who know me best probably thought that I already knew these things, and perhaps on some level I did.  But to be able to point to something concrete (I was fording waist deep rivers at night with no food in my stomach and cowboy camping under the (cold) desert sky and really, it wasn't much of a stretch for me) is pretty empowering.  It turns out I’m kinda good at surviving.

Ascending to 10,000 feet through cow country.

Actually, everywhere was cow country.

The last day of survival school was my most challenging one.  Our instructors had left us with maps the previous morning, instructing us to make our own way via a combination of bushwhacking, trail travel, and steep descent down canyon walls, to a cave to sleep in.  We students arrived at the cave after dark, leaving us no time to gather duff (leaves and pine needles with which to make an insulating layer between the sand and our bodies) and no time to make a fire (it’s hard to do in the dark).  The eight of us went to bed tired, and cold, and without dinner.  None of us slept well (someone was always snorting, and the sound would resonate off the cave walls), and the sand, which seemed so soft when we had first stretched out upon it, was brick hard and cold in no time.  In the morning, I put on my hiking pants without shaking the sand out, and within an hour had abraded my legs nearly bloody behind the knees and between the thighs.  I hadn't washed my sock liners well (okay, truth time: I only washed them once in two weeks), and blisters were welling up on most of my toes, exacerbated by the muddy and wet canyon travel.  We bushwhacked through willow thickets that seemed designed to snag and grab, past sage brush that scratched my legs up (once I switched to shorts), and tried not to lose shoes (and energy) behind in the quicksand (which was occasionally thigh deep).  It was tough, and it hurt, and left me in a fairly foul mood as I followed the other students to the location our instructors told us to go to. 

Gorgeous rocks!

And then I remembered that it was two years, to the day, that I had finished the Appalachian Trail.  Two years since I stood on top of Mt. Katahdin at the conclusion of my thru-hike, bawling my eyes out and feeling pitiful.  Two years, since I wondered what a future without white blazes meant for me.  Two years since I worried about readjusting to society, to paying bills, and to being responsible.  In retrospect it’s really easy to see how unfounded these worries were; how while adjusting to life in my beloved Somerville wasn't seamless (confidential to Surjeet and Ivy: sorry about the whining!) I wasn't giving myself enough credit.  I’m good at surviving.

Full moon in canyon country.

And in that moment, instead of trudging behind my fellow students, feeling upset about the brokenness of my body, I decided to FEEL the brokenness of my body, and to realize that it was all manageable.  My feet hurt.  So did the backs of my knees, and my thighs, and the front of my shins where they’d been torn up by the sage brush, and my stomach, and my poor cracked and peeling hands.  Instead of pushing all the pain off, I embraced it, and I felt it deeply, and it was fine. 

Look what I found, 2,000 miles off trail!

The Appalachian Trail was so much more than a hike for me; it was a time of remembering who I am, walking off some bad times, and of accomplishing something tremendous.  It was fun, and lovely, and occasionally challenging (I’m looking at you, creepy guys and lack of gender balance).  There were ticks and mosquitoes, heat waves that left me filthy and thunderstorms that cleaned me off (even if I was huddled in a ball in the middle of the trail, cowering during them).  There was magic.  There were bears.  There were milkshakes and pizza and cold Cokes chilling in streams.  There were friends.  My feet hurt daily, but my body sang for those six months.  Survival school was more of the same (minus the bears and food), though for a significantly shorter duration.  I survived the AT, I survived survival school, and man, am I thriving.  

One Month Ago...

I finished the Appalachian trail at about 1 pm on Tuesday, September 27^th.  The previous two days had been some of the best in Maine- bright blue skies, lovely rolling hills, crystal clear lakes, and a friendly dog named Lyle who followed a group of us to the Baxter State Park boundary line.  There was a stay at a remote hostel that involved blowing an air horn to signal a boat to pick you up, a lovely beach for swimming, a reunion with a long-lost thru-hiker friend, and a night time hike for one final camp on a beach and star-gaze over a lake so glassy that it was difficult to see where the stars ended and the water began.  Three of us forded two rivers at night (which, as you might suspect, was not particularly smart, as the rivers were almost crotch deep and swiftly moving), stargazed under clear skies from the top of a waterfall, and tried to soak in every damn moment of the end of the journey.  I had wanted to end my thru-hike at dawn on the summit of Katahdin, but a late arrival to the campground at the base nixed that idea (I fell asleep at midnight, and the prospect of waking at 2 am to climb the mountain was unappealing).  Instead, I arrived at the summit at 1 pm, dragging my feet, and trying to delay my arrival at the summit as long as possible.

Hiking up to the summit. 

I wanted to feel joyous, to shout and whoop and yell my way to the finish like the thru-hikers who had finished just minutes and hours before me, but instead all I felt was a crushing grief.  Six months, I thought, six months, and what do I have to show for this?  Was I any better off than when I had started my hike?  I honestly didn’t know, and in the emotion of the moment I made a vital mistake: I started second guessing myself.  If I could hike the AT, I thought to myself, deep within the thralls of depression, then what was stopping anyone from doing it?  Was my decision to hike the AT selfish?  Was it worthwhile? What was the point? I didn’t know, so I stood on the sideline, drank a “celebratory” beer, watched my friends scream, and shout, and laugh, and tried not to cry.

At 3:30, after the crowds of people had left, I had the summit to myself.  I turned around in a slow circle to take in the scenery, looked at the beautiful sign, traced out the word “KATAHDIN” etched and painted in white with my finger, and in one instant, my heart broke in two.  I put my face to the sign, and bawled my eyes out.  I cried like I hadn’t cried in years, the kind of crying where you’re glad that nobody is watching you make a mess of yourself.  My pent up frustration at the entire state of Maine poured out, as did my worry about what a future without white blazes to follow had in store.  I cried because the last two years of my life were so fucking awful, and because in comparison walking 2,181 miles was easy (even though it sometimes wasn't).  I cried because I was sad to be finishing the trail, but also because I was ready for it to end.  I cried because I felt loved by so many people, including strangers, every step of the way, and because without that support I would never have been able to make it. 

After about five minutes of uncontrollable crying on the Katahdin sign I could hear my friends calling to me in the distance, wondering why I hadn’t yet caught up.  I stood up, wiped my tears off of my face and onto the sign, picked up my pack, and did what I had been doing for the past six months: I walked it off.  Three days later, snug in bed in the morning at my sister’s house, I reflected on my summit day for the first time with joy in my heart: GODDAMN IT, I hiked the Appalachian Trail this summer, and it was the best decision of my life.

Six months and five days.