"How's it shakin'!?" from Wawayanda State Park, New Jersey! Right now I'm lounging in the shelter, listening to squirrels discard nut shells onto the roof from an overhanging tree. Tag's thoroughly enjoying "The Windchime Legacy", the "greatest super-thriller of the year (1981)."
Alright, story time:
Sadly, Hurricane Irene finally passed, putting our stay at the Bird Cage to an end. The next morning, Rob drove us up to the trailhead to, strangely enough, continue walking.
Accompanied by our new buddies, Easy, a chillin' Australian dude, and Moose, a funny Canadian dude, we trekked a whopping eleven miles to Upper Goose Pond Cabin to accept some well-earned lodging (it was actually a pleasant day, if the sarcasm wasn't detected).
The free cabin, managed by the AMC, the same group that runs the huts in the Whites, earns its trail-fame by offering free pancake breakfasts every morning. To our surprise, it's two stories tall, with bunk beds, a comfy porch, and a jolly caretaker- all just a minute away from a beautiful lake! That whole day I'd been admiring the trail life, kind of basking in the awesome-y glow of my whole lifestyle, and the lake at sunset really wrapped it all up. I had fun watching the shadows creep up the tree trunks, little fish huddle under the docked canoe, and a spindly spider walk across the water onto the dock (it looked like it was fumbling over slick ice).
A few days earlier, in the Bird Cage basement, we finally crafted our instruments of warfare. Noodle and broom handle joined together in ill-fated matrimony (with duct tape). As it turned out, even the cheerful cabin couldn't prevent the violence. Between the Upper Goose Pond bunk beds, the first strike was served, igniting a new, dark (so, so dark) phase of the Tag/Dylan rivalry.
HAJIME!
Unfortunately, Tag's a learnéd axeman, a veteran of many a noodle war. I continue to walk the path of the warrior, always eager to face my enemy on the battlefield, despite the often-discouraging results.
Like a wandering samurai (from the future), I can always find solace from the inhumanities of man in the tranquility of nature. The landscape continued to be dominated by little towns and farms. It's endlessly fascinating to observe, from a rocky outcropping, perhaps, the gradual, muted relationship between man and nature. It comes at a price, though. We seem to pass a road every hour or two, we can hear them humming half of the time, and there's always some town propped up in the middle of our otherwise-forested vistas. It's just an aesthetic really, I've never truly been all that distanced from civilization, but I wouldn't mind more remoteness. For these reasons, Maine has returned to my #1 favorite state designation, taking Vermont's place.
We moved along, climbing over a bunch of hill/mountains every day. We'd pass through the semi-dark browns and greens of the pines, through the blazing yellows and blues of open farmland, and reach shelter, always at sunset, as the coldness set in.
Hurricane Irene didn't affect us much, except for one occasion. Everyone else noticed a sign informing hikers of a re-routed section due to flooding. I must have pranced right by it. Anyway, I wound up wading through waist-deep water through a flooded field for a quarter of a mile, watching bug/fish zipping by under the surface, totally grossed out, but determined to follow the trail through its entirety. The final portion of the field was too deep for me to cross without endangering my electronics. After trying to cross three times, balancing on fallen trees, poking around with my poles, I decided to backtrack and find another route (some muddy road, probably meant for tractors).
Soon enough, we were walking over the fields and into Connecticut. The Mass./Conn. border lies along a swift ravine. It was great rock-hopping alongside the dynamic watercourse. Even greater, I spotted two bobcats standing next to the river. One of them noticed me and quickly slinked away into the rocks. The other one wondered where its companion was (or maybe it wanted its mom), so it made this cute crying sound for a while, looking around as if searching for someone. I was enamored by the little Simba, but I didn't know anything about bobcats, including how big adults are, so I figured I'd scram. I beatboxed a few hundred yards down the trail, waiting for Bob White and Jeff, and after consulting them on the bobcats, we pressed on.
The crew hiked enthusiastically, eager to reach Salisbury, Connecticut, where Bob White's parents arranged to meet n' feed us at a nearby state park, where they would be "glamping" (short for "glamorously camping", a fad, allegedly, although the Ricke's, and Bob White's fam, have been doin' it right for years now).
It was freaking glamorous. They had extra tents, soda, a mom, and two pro chefs strategizing over the stove (they're real foodies, our kind of people). To our surprise, we got to stay for two nights, and slackpacked during the day.
It's unbelievably liberating to slack pack. It feels effortless, to hover down the trail without a backpack to anchor you down, dictate your speed, and effect your balance.
That day, I spotted four deer, walking across a road into the woods. I followed them in and stared at them for a bit. They can REALLY hover, all fleet and light-footed and what not. I thought that was a remarkable sighting, but I've seen at least twelve more deer since then, all within three days. At this point, I just walk right by them, laughing inwardly at their petrified indecision to flee or not.
Later that day, I watched a vintage car festival from a mountaintop. It was neat to watch them do laps around a racetrack, their motors revving off the mountains. Tag got to watch some bi-planes perform an airshow at eye-level. It was a grand couple of days, with grander evenings at the campsite dinner table.
Well, on that note, I conclude yet another chapter of the epic journey! Stay tuned for hiker bios, an outline of a typical day, photos (when we can upload them at a library), and more!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
P.S.- Knock knock!
Who's there?
Don't forget to donate to UNICEF! Thanks!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Mt. Greylock to Dalton/ the BirdCage (Mass.)
Plain ole' "Hello!" from Graymoor Monastery, New York! Right now I'm chilling in an open structure on the edge of the monastery baseball field. They've let wayward souls drop by ever since a thru-hiker asked to stay the night back in the seventies.
At the conclusion of our previous episode, I had just left Bennington, home of the Vortex hiker hostel. There's a lot to cover, the usual deal, so here we go!
The Trio, plus Milk Carton, hiked onward, out of Vermont and into Massachusetts. We enjoyed the view from Mt. Greylock, the largest mountain in the state. I felt smelly climbing up the lookout tower's spiral staircase, crammed next to so many fragrant tourists (daypackers always smell awesome). Some of them were extra-vocal about how difficult the stairs were, to my disbelief.
We grouped up at the base of the tower to snack and met a bunch of incoming-Yale-freshmen on a hiking program (it seemed like a bonding/ leadership sorta' thing). They were very bubbly and laugh-y and social. One of them said that he would love to do the trail, but that he couldn't imagine "finding the time." Tag and I were skeptical, we were all 18 after all, and in the same stage of life. We figured that he probably couldn't imagine that he already had the time.
For hundreds of miles, we'd heard about "The Birdcage", a free hiker hostel in Dalton, MA, with a shower, movies, free soda, and cool owners. Tag and I were especially psyched for the soda (soda fountains are my primary motivation for getting to town). We called the owner, Rob, to get a reservation. I had left my backup battery at The Vortex, and I knew that most hostel owners had each other's numbers (so they can warn each other about troublesome guests), so I asked Rob for the Vortex's number with the intention of getting the battery mailed to me down the trail. As it turned out, Rob was waiting at the trailhead to pick us up and had driven to Bennington to retrieve my battery (what!?). Plus, he had a cooler of soda in the cab.
That was just a precursor for all he would do for us. Our stay was elongated by Hurricane Irene (the trail was "closed" during the storm, according to officials), so we wound up staying for four nights. Meanwhile, we got to slack-pack upwards of thirty miles (Rob continually drove us out to the trailhead to do so), resupply at the local Price Chopper, buy new shoes (Tag got five-fingered shoes, Coach got Trail Runners), and shower (multiple times). Somehow, we found the time to watch 15-20 movies. Tag and I drank at least 12 sodas each (we helped them restock, by the way). I got to return the favor by weed-whacking the backyard, digging trenches to reroute water during the hurricane, and water-vacuuming the basement, but the exchange is still pretty one-sided.
The cage has been serving hikers for fifteen years, ever since Rob picked up a lost hiker and word started to spread. As manager of the local Shell station, he's made a point to employ and befriend troubled teens over the years. His kitchen wall is full of Polaroid pictures of his past employees. Grandma Nance, an extra-endearing resident, and "mother" to the guests, likes to tell the boy's stories, and how Rob helped them out. Besides the photos of past employees, Rob records all his house guests in large photo albums. It was fun to spot our pals in this year's book.
The crew decided to take advantage of a BirdCage tradition and get free Mohawk hair cuts. It was hard not to laugh during my public mohawk-ing. There's something fraternal, and vaguely military, about our matching doo's. Pretty bad ass (but not as bad ass as this one guy who got half of his head, beard, stache, and chest hair cut in an alternating pattern).
I'm really backed-up on stuff to write about, so I think I'll break everything up into little episodes. Stay tuned for the next exciting addition to the saga!
Aaaaaand don't forget to donate to UNICEF! Thanks so much to everyone who already has.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
At the conclusion of our previous episode, I had just left Bennington, home of the Vortex hiker hostel. There's a lot to cover, the usual deal, so here we go!
The Trio, plus Milk Carton, hiked onward, out of Vermont and into Massachusetts. We enjoyed the view from Mt. Greylock, the largest mountain in the state. I felt smelly climbing up the lookout tower's spiral staircase, crammed next to so many fragrant tourists (daypackers always smell awesome). Some of them were extra-vocal about how difficult the stairs were, to my disbelief.
We grouped up at the base of the tower to snack and met a bunch of incoming-Yale-freshmen on a hiking program (it seemed like a bonding/ leadership sorta' thing). They were very bubbly and laugh-y and social. One of them said that he would love to do the trail, but that he couldn't imagine "finding the time." Tag and I were skeptical, we were all 18 after all, and in the same stage of life. We figured that he probably couldn't imagine that he already had the time.
For hundreds of miles, we'd heard about "The Birdcage", a free hiker hostel in Dalton, MA, with a shower, movies, free soda, and cool owners. Tag and I were especially psyched for the soda (soda fountains are my primary motivation for getting to town). We called the owner, Rob, to get a reservation. I had left my backup battery at The Vortex, and I knew that most hostel owners had each other's numbers (so they can warn each other about troublesome guests), so I asked Rob for the Vortex's number with the intention of getting the battery mailed to me down the trail. As it turned out, Rob was waiting at the trailhead to pick us up and had driven to Bennington to retrieve my battery (what!?). Plus, he had a cooler of soda in the cab.
That was just a precursor for all he would do for us. Our stay was elongated by Hurricane Irene (the trail was "closed" during the storm, according to officials), so we wound up staying for four nights. Meanwhile, we got to slack-pack upwards of thirty miles (Rob continually drove us out to the trailhead to do so), resupply at the local Price Chopper, buy new shoes (Tag got five-fingered shoes, Coach got Trail Runners), and shower (multiple times). Somehow, we found the time to watch 15-20 movies. Tag and I drank at least 12 sodas each (we helped them restock, by the way). I got to return the favor by weed-whacking the backyard, digging trenches to reroute water during the hurricane, and water-vacuuming the basement, but the exchange is still pretty one-sided.
The cage has been serving hikers for fifteen years, ever since Rob picked up a lost hiker and word started to spread. As manager of the local Shell station, he's made a point to employ and befriend troubled teens over the years. His kitchen wall is full of Polaroid pictures of his past employees. Grandma Nance, an extra-endearing resident, and "mother" to the guests, likes to tell the boy's stories, and how Rob helped them out. Besides the photos of past employees, Rob records all his house guests in large photo albums. It was fun to spot our pals in this year's book.
The crew decided to take advantage of a BirdCage tradition and get free Mohawk hair cuts. It was hard not to laugh during my public mohawk-ing. There's something fraternal, and vaguely military, about our matching doo's. Pretty bad ass (but not as bad ass as this one guy who got half of his head, beard, stache, and chest hair cut in an alternating pattern).
I'm really backed-up on stuff to write about, so I think I'll break everything up into little episodes. Stay tuned for the next exciting addition to the saga!
Aaaaaand don't forget to donate to UNICEF! Thanks so much to everyone who already has.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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