Long Route Log #2: A Walk into the Unknown

August 2, day 1

Together in a strange and alternative universe

Our first official day on the Long Trail wasn’t so much a day of hiking as it was a day of driving. For four hours, we drove down the winding roads from New Jersey, my stomach doing agonizing backflips as I watched the hills go by.

We stuffed ourselves with dinner in Williamstown, where we saw a dirty looking guy sitting outside eating his own food. I looked at the tattered backpack and telltale thinness of a hiker on his way from Georgia: a fellow traveler’s trash. Soon it will be me, I thought with a contradictory emotion of fear and excitement.

The truth was that I had no idea what the future would hold for me over the next three weeks. Unlike the last time I hit the Appalachian Trail on what would end up becoming a 900-mile hike, this time I wasn’t walking away from a life in tatters. I was moving away from the little death doula practice I had been building since my return from that walk. I was moving away from peace and stability.

And I was getting into it with my partner, Chris, which was, in itself, completely new. Although we had once hiked more than 600 miles together on the Appalachian Trail, where we met three years ago, we were now romantically involved. Now there were expectations, from both of them. And as my potential future father-in-law slowly parked at our drop-off point on a sidewalk in Williamstown, Massachusetts, I bit my lip, wondering how my relationship would withstand the strange, alternate universe of life in Trail.

Joy in forward motion

We had three miles of approach trail to tackle before reaching the south end of the Long Trail. I marveled at how good it felt to walk, even filled with Williamstown food. My feet floated down the trail as if it were made of silk, not rocks. I could feel my heart rate increasing even as my breathing remained steady and calm.

“Is it just me or does this feel very, very easy?” I asked as we climbed a rocky slope.

«No, it’s real!» Chris responded, laughing with shared joy. «One of the perks of living at 4,000 feet in Salt Lake.»

We skipped the minor climbs like mountain goats, congratulating ourselves as if we had already completed our hike. Some of the nervousness that had built up during the long car ride was evaporating. Suddenly, I was brimming with confidence, unconcerned by the challenge of traveling eight more miles to reach camp before dark despite starting our hike at 5:50, hours later than planned.

We should have been worried.

As we moved forward, I began to wonder about the southern end of the Long Trail. Surely we should have arrived by now?

Then we turned a corner and saw the wooden sign materialize out of the rapidly falling darkness. I breathed a sigh of relief before realizing we still had another six miles to go to our planned stop. I wanted to take a photo to mark the “official” start of our Long Trail, but now, with the clock ticking, pulling my camera out of my backpack seemed ridiculous. So we move on.

Real Night walk for hikers. But not us.

It was only after darkness completely covered the forest that we admitted defeat and began looking for a camp for the night…just three miles into the Long Trail. Counting our three miles of approach trail, that puts today’s total at a whopping six miles.

We could have walked well into the night, but at my insistence, we didn’t. Even after 900 miles on the AT, I still wasn’t a fan of night hikes. Could (and had) done so in emergency situations? Sure. But did I want to do it? Hell no.

In addition to being anti-night hikers, we were also shelter rats. Or at least, we liked to pitch our tent near a shelter so we had easy access to both the toilet and water. But about a mile back, we had passed a wooden sign with Seth Warner Shelter scrawled on it. Apparently they were relocating it and the old location was completely closed.

“Well, shit,” I complained.

Chris shrugged. «No big deal. We’ll find a stealth spot somewhere else.»

Shooting in the dark

But among the thick foliage there were no flat areas. I was getting tired as we crossed a gravel path, the white pebbles glinting eerily in the dim moonlight. I noticed two other hikers setting up their tent on a natural platform above the road. I silently cursed our bad luck. If we had arrived minutes earlier, that place would have been ours.

I stared at them, wondering if my envy was palpable. “Are you guys sneaking around too?”

«Yeah, the closing of the Seth Warner Shelter ruined us, so we thought we’d stay here.»

I looked down the road and noticed a tempting spot right next to the gravel. I turned to Chris to ask if he’d be willing to launch here, but he was already gone, across the road and down the trail.

«Let’s check it out here,» he called over his shoulder. «We can always turn back if there’s nothing in the next mile.»

Half a mile up the road, we found what turned out to be an even better site. Secluded and out of the way, it was much quieter and more private than the roadside location.

It was a good thing Chris had pushed us to this place.

After hanging our food out of the bears’ reach and stuffing it into our sleeping bags, cracks like fireworks or gunshots filled the air. Dull roars followed. We huddled together, wide-eyed in the pitch-black darkness, wondering how manic target shooting would be at this time of night in the middle of the woods.

August 3, day 2

12 miles to Melville Nauheim Shelter

Live free or die

The next morning, as we were packing, the two hikers who snuck over the road passed our campsite.

“Did you hear that noise last night?” I asked.

They groaned. «It was a group of locals running their trucks down the road, shooting guns. They were like that for hours, like, right next to us.”

I shuddered. I remembered hiking through New Hampshire on the AT. I remembered that their motto was “live free or die.” We were in Vermont, but I was wondering to what extent that motto carried over from its neighboring state…specifically, the «or die» part.

At least yesterday’s effortless walk continued: the miles floated by in our super lungs, each breath saturated with excess oxygen. We arrived at the new Seth Warner Shelter, where we had breakfast before easily climbing Harmon Hill for lunch with a view. There we met up with the guys from last night again, we caught up with them even though they had left their camp long before us.

About ups and downs

The descent into Bennington was steep and long, easily the steepest terrain yet. At the end of the descent, we crossed Route 9 in a terrifying set of Frogger cars.

As is typical on the Appalachian Trail (and the long trail), every steep descent is followed by an equally steep climb, and this one was no exception. The mile climb to the shelter tonight was exhausting, but in a strangely good way. I was surprised at how good I felt. Even the weather had been sublime (not too hot or humid) and the insect hordes were far away. I hoped they had died over the summer and returned to the hell they belonged in… but of course, it was August, so it was a foolish hope. Most of all, I wondered: what was the trick?

A ritual for a dead loved one, an unexpected sign

Around 4pm, Chris and I found a quiet camping spot behind the shelter and set up our tent. I then returned to the picnic table and shelter to begin the family ritual of unpacking my food and boiling water for a dehydrated meal. A hiker named Lofi sat down to prepare his dinner. I enjoyed talking to him, but from my experience at AT, I knew we would never catch up with him again.

We made the usual small talk: trail names, hiking goals, mileage for the day. As I shared what Lofi did, I learned he was from Marietta, near Roswell, Georgia. I stiffened a little at the mention of the city, hoping my discomfort wasn’t obvious.

Was very Familiar with Roswell and Marietta area. When I was a child, I spent most holidays driving thirteen hours with my family to visit my grandparents. As they got sicker, we made the trip to see them more often. We continued like this until they died. And we were approaching the tenth anniversary of the death of my grandfather, with whom he had been especially close. My grief for him had softened since his initial brutality, but over the past few months, I had noticed him returning with a vengeance, haunting me with crying spells.

In the weeks leading up to this walk, I had been reflecting on this anniversary that would occur during this walk. I was absolutely determined to find some way to honor my grandfather. But there was only one problem: he didn’t know what to do.

Resting in the unknown

like a death doula who specialized not only in grief support but also legacy support, I couldn’t imagine how I could help my clients (complete strangers) find meaningful ways to honor their deceased loved ones, but I had no idea how to honor mine. It was a source of frustration and regret… and yet… and yet, talking to someone who happened to be from the town next to my grandfather’s felt like some kind of strange sign. A coincidence that was too strong to be fair a coincidence I still had no idea what I wanted to do to commemorate my grandfather’s death, but in that moment, I felt a little less terrible about my lack of knowledge.

I was packing my bag of food when two lively children, one a gangly teenager and the other a girl who seemed to have springs in her boots, ran into the clearing. They shouted that they had found shelter for the college-age girl and two adult women who entered after the children.

The girl approached me without fear, smiled and asked if I was a hiker. I nodded yes. He dropped onto the twisted wooden bench. «I like your necklace,» he said. «And your hair is really pretty,» he added with a directness that made me burst.

I managed to thank them and stayed with the family a little longer before heading to our quiet campsite. I crawled into the warm nest of our tent and snuggled up next to Chris. For a few minutes we both remained silent. Then I turned to him.

“My grandfather,” I said. «It will be out in a few days.»

He knew immediately what he was talking about, as he had raised this topic several times. He didn’t say much. Or if he did, I no longer remember. What I do remember is him rolling over, a warm, protective hug, and the owls hooting as I fell asleep.