"High five" from Bennington, Vermont! Right now I'm dressed in a makeshift garbage bag skirt, waiting on a load at the local laundromat. The skirt's a bit translucent, but I'm assured by the fact that public nudity isn't illegal in Vermont (something I learned after Bob White encountered a naked hiker in the Green Mountains).
But I'll get to the Green Mountains later. In my last post, I was just about to leave the Whites. The final peak, Mount Moosilaukee, was unbelievable. The northern side was steep and slick, especially with the moisture of a nearby cascade, which accompanied most of the climb. We relied on wooden steps and metal rails fixed into the rock face. My quad stress had only worsened over time, so it was, you know, painstaking, but I eventually reached the shelter halfway up the mountain.
The sight of an old woman, an ex-thru-hiker, moving at half my speed, which was already halved by my quads, reduced my self pity considerably. She showed up at the shelter eager to discuss absolutely anything trail-related, with an extreme opinion about everything. It was annoying at first, but it became kind of endearing, how much the trail society affected her and how she tried so much to be involved.
Earlier that day, I met Cimarron, an 88-year-old man out to beat the record for the oldest thru-hike. He set the record at 82, but then someone one-upped it, allegedly by waiting at the base of Katahdin until his 83rd birthday before making the summit.
Cimarron looked 88. Everyone greeted him with reserved concern, especially when his opening line was always something along the lines of, "Does it get any easier!?" But he had high spirits. He'd tried to reclaim his title multiple times, but every time he returned home because of an injury, only to try again within a year or two. He's already fallen a few times this year, with fresh stitches on his head. He seemed jokingly self-conscious of all this when I met him, mentioning how his daughter sent him a bike helmet in the mail and how the trail seemed to be harder and harder every year.
The next day, we summited Moosilaukee. The summit was wide open, covered in dry grass, not the usual lichens, with an expansive view partially covered in a thin layer of cloud. Baller.
Most importantly, the mountain signified that the Moosilaukee Monster Pizza Challenge was within reach. Located at the Green House Restaurant, which runs entirely on vegetable oil, the 8-pound pizza, with 5 inches of vertical height (due to the amount of toppings) has defeated countless hikers and non-hikers alike. Defying the odds, Tag and Coach slew the beast.
The store owner was adamant about not barfing on the property, especially in their front garden, but, as it turned out, it was impossible not to do both (owner guy: "Not in the flowers! Not in the flowers!"). I shuffled the spillage into the gravel driveway as the victors retreated off the property, the owner hovering from the second story window (he was pretty cool throughout the contest, razzing the dudes a bit, but seemed apprehensive, perhaps wisely, about puke the whole time). The fight was only half over at that point. After an hour of recuperation in the grass off the road (and abrupt dashes into the bushes to hurl) the dudes stood triumphant.
Coach bought a 12-pack to celebrate.
The next day we found another occasion to gorge ourselves, this time at the Happy Hiker Hostel, located in Glencliff, New Hampshire. Fat Chap, a hostel regular, had a two-day birthday celebration and word spread of free food, provided by Miss Janet, a renowned trail angel with killer culinary skills and a fun Tennessee accent. The backyard filled up with hikers and neighbors in what felt like a rag-tag family holiday. We grouped-up in their living room and watched Inglorious Basterds, quoting our favorite parts throughout. Coach determined to change his name to "Aldo the Apache", Brad Pitt's character, but he's still "Coach" for Tag and me. We hitched back to the trail and passed out with bloated bellies.
The next day, we finally left the Whites behind us. The change in difficulty was immediate. We found ourselves cruising over gradual hills and soft ground, padded over with pine nettles. The trail passed through thin forest, mostly large pine trees, with a thin, wide canopy. It felt accommodating, tended-to, almost domestic, especially the occasional orchards. We crossed more fields than usual. Coming out of the woods, they seem saturated in color. I enjoyed the wildflowers and berries and isolated trees, with their leaves all shimmery in the wind.
Our next town, Hanover, home to Dartmouth, an Ivy League school ("OoOoOoh"), was a real treat, and my favorite so far. It was funny to pop out of the woods only a few yards from Dartmouth's football field. The trail passes right through the town. It was convenient and added something more broadly travel-oriented to the experience, in my opinion. We lolly-gagged around town and enjoyed the free handouts that some of the businesses offer thru-hikers, including coffee and candy bars (the coffee was freaking exhilarating, due in part to my physical exhaustion).
The college scene was oddly familiar, yet distant. It was something to glimpse all the excitable kids, the styles, the hang-outs, the austere academic buildings, especially as all my ex-peers start migrating around the country to begin that period of their lives.
T-Mellow and I visited the local farmer's market, ate fresh produce (easily the most coveted food item among thru-hikers) and chatted with curious pedestrians. All our closest Sobo friends wound up in Hanover at the same time, so we ate together, then returned to the edge of the woods to camp overnight.
With the Whites behind us, I was eager to get moving. After some calculations, I realized that we'd have to do more than 16 miles everyday to reach Springer before Thanksgiving. The others seemed less inclined to accelerate, at least as quickly, so I spent a few hours that morning deliberating about whether to get a move on and reunite with them down the road or not (I'd at least talk with them in Killington, 30 miles down the trail, before decisively separating and moving forward). They assured me that we'd move faster (and we have), but that they didn't want to pass up any attractions along the trail. Our pace feels natural, but I suspect that we'll reach Springer in December, colder than otherwise. Be assured, I'll definitely get home before Christmas, that's beyond question.
The holidays have a certain halo in my mind, some combination of old friends and family and homey comfort. I have surprisingly fond thoughts for certain things, like jogging around the neighborhood and dropping by my friends' houses, with their particular vibes and quirks. It'll be great to complete the trail and have so much to do immediately after.
Five miles out of Hanover, we crossed the state border and found ourselves in Vermont. It's just how I imagined it: wide pastures, quaint farms, tame woods, syrup tubes strung between the maple trees, cows- the whole deal. Northern Vermont is probably my favorite part so far. I guess I prefer its mundane novelties to the grandeur of the north. Besides, it reminds me of the Shire from The Lord of the Rings (I was re-reading The Fellowship for a while, by the way.).
We visited The Ice Cream Man, a pleasant old fella' who gives free ice cream (or fruit Popsicles) to thru-hikers from his front porch, just a few yards off the trail. He also sells soda and collects data on the hikers who pass through. We talked with him about his whole operation, played a fierce game of croquet in his backyard (Coach knocked Tag's ball out of its place from half court, then made the winning shot), then continued to chat over drinks on his back porch. His kids hiked the AT and he held all us hikers in high regard, sharing some beliefs about the virtues it takes and how something "like guardian angels" seems to guide us. It was lovely and lofty, full of fatherly pride. Personally, I don't think of the trail as much more than a trail, but I enjoy hearing other people's ideas, or plain, ole' notions, indulging in the aesthetics and sentiments and whatnot.
Some more hiking (whatever) and we reached Killington, Vermont. We hitched in and camped across the street from the Long Trail Inn and Tavern. We watched an Irish Folk band with the tourists and took advantage of a $125 tab that Bob White scored from her old boss as a parting gift.
It rained for the next day and a half. It was actually pretty refreshing. It waterlogged my feet, but that wasn't so bad as long as I kept re-soaking them in new puddles, so my socks never plastered against them and caused irritation. The problems came when we paused. The cold would sneak up on us, and moving would cause icy water to settle into new places. We actually moved faster than average on that day, just to keep warm.
On Mount Killington, we met Milk Carton, a lively chick and a bit of a legend among the Sobos this season. In the Hundred Mile Wilderness, she failed to call her parents within 48 hours, so on the 49th hour they leapt into action and drove from their home in New Jersey all the way to the wilderness (in Maine) to look for her personally. The pair, aided by park rangers, questioned thru-hikers about the maybe-missing girl. Plenty of folks knew about the search before word reached Milk Carton (named after the missing kids on milk cartons, get it?).
She's been a fun addition, assaulting us with sassy remarks and inciting trivial debate whenever possible.
We hitched into Rutland, a town adjacent to Killington, and got to crash at Milk's friend, Sam's, bachelor pad (how do you do that, grammatically speaking? I hope it includes commas). It reminded me of my siblings' college residences, with collected pieces of furniture, cool, artsy posters, and a big couch. We were especially fond of his surround sound system, installed throughout the apartment, so you could jam out between rooms, uninterrupted. The computer and the coffee table books absorbed my attention, so I ended up falling asleep at 2 AM, the night before an 18-miler, in classic high school fashion.
Taggy-boy and I have bit of a rivalry thing going on, and after an especially bitter episode of back-talking each other, Coach recommended that we settle things in an old school, thuggish rap battle. For two weeks, between Moosilaukee and the Southern Green Mountains, we dissed each other's rap skills and general gangsterdom, until the day of the battle, August 20th, finally arrived. We lit the camp fire, threw together a three-judge panel, then spat lyrical venom for three 30-second sessions. I would share the video, but the obscenity (and the carnage) would probably scare my audience away and thwart my humanitarian ambitions.
It was a fine show, I claimed victory, but it was a mere battle in a war that may never truly end (we're actually going to make little weapons out of broom handles and water noodles and duke it out in the woods. Tag's gonna' be a Native American warrior, I'm gonna' be a future samurai, and milk carton's gonna' be a Jedi (which, come to think of it, is kind of like a future samurai, except they're from "long ago," in the past, but whatever).).
The next day, we hiked through a severe thunder storm, more intense, but short-lived, than the one on Mount Killington. I enjoyed stomping down the trail, suddenly a rapid stream, singing between the lightning bursts. Shortly after the rain, Tag and I spotted two rabbits ( : D ) and a moose within five minutes. It was a high-concentration, animal-spotting situation. The moose was very close, only a few feet, and stared us down as we passed.
That night, we hitched into Bennington to stay at the the word-of-mouth hostel, The Vortex (because it sucks hikers in and distracts them from their goals). It was awesome. The owners, a couple of artists, let hikers drift in and out of the property, after a brief introduction, of course. We mostly dwell in the back shed, a roomy building with a pool table and lots of grateful letters from old guests on the walls. I got to sleep upstairs with some others and enjoyed all the miscellaneous items, compilation props, and mounted pieces throughout the house and in the wife's studio. During the day, I heard the dad jamming with his nephew in their fully-equipped music studio, with exotic percussion instruments to boot.
Since starting this post, I've moved from the laundromat, to spots around Bennington, and back to the trail, typing between activities. Now I'm the only one awake in the shelter, tapping away in the top bunk (is this information valuable? Whatever.).
Anyway, I'm gonna' hit the hay, but stay tuned for the next exciting entry! And please donate to UNICEF, it's THE thing to do!
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P.S.- Tag saw a deer between Bennington and this shelter. He said he might as well be called "freaking Grizzly Adams."
