Long Route Log #4: Keep it together, body.

August 5, day 4

food rationing

We spent the morning in a swift blur, stopping only to take a brief rest at a shelter where I nibbled on my bird food breakfast of sunflower seeds and peanuts. Sitting on the bench next to me, Chris prepared an unholy mixture of protein powder, collagen powder, and water. He stared into my eyes as he swirled the grayish-brown liquid in the bottle before downing it in a few gulps.

I grimaced. But Chris was right to enthusiastically embrace our new food rationing system. Since All-heart’s pickup date was delayed by a few days, we had to stretch our food. He would need all the calories he could get, but he knew they would be hard to come by.

I lifted the bag of sunflower seeds to my mouth and drank the last of my breakfast while my stomach gurgled in hungry protest. With a sigh, I grabbed my ziploc bag of protein and collagen powder.

A few hours later, we trucked up the smooth gravel road to the parking lot at the base of Stratton Mountain. I took off my backpack and plopped down on the gravel, feeling weak and empty with hunger. There was no way I could climb Stratton without lunch, knowing I would need the calories to propel myself up and over the 3 mile climb.

Walking in a storm

As I boiled water, I looked up at the slate gray sky. I watched the clouds move in real time, getting closer, denser, and darker as I watched them. I was counting the seconds between rumbling thunder in the distance when one of the girls from last night’s shelter caught up to us.

“That storm sounds scary,” he said as he trotted down the road toward us. «Are you stopping somewhere nearby?»

I shook my head. «Not until we get over Stratton Mountain.»

«Are you going to go up and get over that?» she asked, bewildered. “Now? With the storm?

I looked again at the gray clouds moving across the valley. I exchanged a look with Costco, who gave me a shit-eating grin. «Yes,» I replied, «I guess we are.» As unpleasant as it was to rain, we had survived worse storms on the Appalachian Trail, such as the last time we climbed Stratton Mountain. We finished eating, closed our backpacks and got up to leave.

“Good luck is all I have to say,” he replied as he watched us swinging on our backpacks. With a gesture, we turned and entered the dark shadow of the forest.

Stratton’s first half was surprisingly easy. a stranger easy, as almost everything in Vermont has been so far. I didn’t remember Stratton feeling like this on our AT hike. It started to rain when we were only a mile into the climb, but we pushed on as fast as we could. I shivered, not wanting to slow down and get cold.

Antisociality on a social path

The summit came and went without incident, although we were both cold and wet.

We were on the fast track for a 16-mile day, and when we left the mountain and climbed the mile-long blue fire to the shelter, our ruined feet felt every one of those miles. After all, this was our most important day; Super lungs don’t translate to super feet, and all I wanted to do was collapse into the cabin-like shelter and peel my soaked sneakers off my feet.

But we couldn’t.

A large and noisy group had already made themselves at home inside the shelter. My heart sank along with my mood as I felt myself slipping into a shell of complete antisociality. The group waved enthusiastically, and I tilted my chin in a greeting that was reluctant at best, as I suddenly didn’t feel like talking.

At least we would have a place for tents.

I thought about everyone we had met so far, suddenly feeling discouraged because we had spent most of our time with children and hikers. I missed the hardy hikers. I missed the “hiking town” of the AT, traveling communally with the same bubble of hikers. I wondered if I would get the AT experience I craved.

Curry and community

Chris and I gathered our various containers of water and trudged to the pond, following a series of incredibly confusing instructions handwritten on the sign. After turning another useless half mile, we reached the pond, where an older man was sitting in the water, shirtless and wet, having reemerged from a swim in the pond. He told us he would be here walking for a few more days after his knee surgery. It was inspiring to talk to him: that someone who had been through so much physical adversity chose to take this path.

When we returned to the shelter, the noisy team had completely taken over, but to my relief, there were now some hikers among them. They were easy to spot in the crowd: unruly beards and wiry, dirty builds made it impossible to misidentify them as anything other than hiker trash.

I quickly realized something else: there was food. Delicious smelling food that wafted through the air with spicy goodness. I took a deep, hungry breath and tried to psych myself up for the rehydrated backpacking food I knew was waiting for me.

«Hello!» said one of their leaders, a girl in plaid pajama pants as she stirred the pot of porridge. «We made curry but there’s too much for us. Do you want anything?»

The particular kind of joy familiar to hikers washed over me at the prospect of free hot food. My prickly (and probably hunger-fueled) introversion dissolved in an instant. «Absolutely! Thank you very much!»

To my delight, I discovered that the curry was more than just curry: it was loaded with chicken, rice, carrots and potatoes. In short, it was amazing. The trail still delivers! I devoured two bowls of the stuff before I even considered slowing down.

I sat next to a red-haired hiker named Spoons, and across from an old man who said his name was Saint, an old man we had seen slowly over the past few days. We also saw Lucky, a girl hiker we met at the shelter for lunch yesterday.

It became clear that the rowdy group (kids ranging in age from 10 to maybe 16) were part of a wilderness camping experience, and they were all eager to talk to us. The kids all had a lot of interesting questions, including one boy who turned to me, smiling, and said he used to visit Mount Graylock in Massachusetts because he lives nearby.

As I was packing my bags, Spoons turned to me with hope in his eyes, pointing to my orange handle: «Is there any reality or universe in which that orange thing?» could possibly Be mine? It was enough to make us all laugh, although I had to dash their hopes with a shake of my head and stuffing the handle into my backpack.

A plea and a prayer

Back in our little tent, we set up and I noticed that Chris finally smelled like a hiker. I’m sure I wasn’t doing much better. Still, I discreetly did my best to press my nose against the mesh and escape the stench. I hoped it wouldn’t toss around too much, sending the smell through our tent. We both needed showers. Desperately. All the heart and our restock/day zero couldn’t come soon enough.

I rubbed my screaming feet and worried about strength and mileage – we were walking 15-18 miles a day and I wasn’t sure I had enough strength to keep up with that pace. We had talked about going a little slower, but as always between the two of us, we liked to push our limits. And putting in those kinds of miles after only five days on the road was certainly playing with fire.

Keep calm, body. I thought, looking at my dirty legs. You will adapt. You’ve done it before. Please don’t break down.

It felt like a plea, a command, and a prayer all at the same time.

But I would soon break anyway.