It wasn’t even 8:00 am and my red scarf was soaked. I dried my face and neck, then wrapped it around the handle of my trekking pole and walked among the rocks, careful to tread. Those knees of mine.
The climb had almost finished me. I had gobbled down four Dunkin’ donuts at the Shell station before leaving Cheshire to give me energy, but I stopped every fifteen minutes halfway.
Dark clouds approached as I reached the top. That and the altitude lowered the temperature. Bascom Lodge was closed (it was Tuesday) and the water tap in the back was broken. I knocked on the window and the woman inside told me I had to go to the one next to the radio tower. So at least I had water.
I camped in a clearing 0.2 miles from the veterans memorial. I ate mashed potatoes and salami leaning on my backpack, too tired to do anything more than look through the trees. The storm broke out after midnight. I grabbed my backpack and shoes, pulled up my fly, and instantly fell asleep again.
By 4:00 am the rain had stopped and the wind was blowing through the trees. My hip stopped hurting. My knees were fine.
I opened the fly and tied it back to watch the morning light filter in. Less than seven miles to go before North Adams, most of it downhill.
I relieved myself next to a log, untied the food bag and left it below: the Ursack wrapped inside the dyneema Zpacks to keep it dry, a good decision. Then they put the equipment and clothing into their bags and filled the backpack. I took my time; the morning was still cool.
It didn’t last.
After an hour, my shirt and shorts were sticking to my skin. And this went downhill. I stopped at a stream to filter water and used the cup to pour water over my head. When I took out the tissue, pink water bled.
I finally walked out onto the sidewalk. Out of the shade of the forest, the sun hit me. Taking big steps on a flat path after all the rock jumping caught my legs off guard. At the bottom of the slope I saw the wooden kiosk, a strip of shadow under the narrow roof. And yes, just like two years ago, during my first attempt, the coolers were there, full of ice, cold drinks, and snacks.
I lifted the lid, dug my hand into the ice, and pulled out a Coke. It was so cold I barely tried it.
Welcome magic in the background.
The AT is a difficult path. For me, more difficult than the PCT or CDT.
It is also a path of abundance.
Daily.
Outside Salisbury I reached Sages Ravine, where the trail runs along Sawmill Brook. Mossy rocks lay beneath the waterfalls. Orange-red feet were everywhere under his feet. Even the mushrooms on the trees were glowing.
A red left on the road. There were so many that I had to be careful not to step on them.
Ravine of the Wise. Bright orange-red shelf fungus.
Or how about this: a single bottle of Gatorade next to the trail, twenty feet from the road crossing. I picked it up. Frozen. Someone had just left him.
A single bottle of Gatorade along the way. Frozen.
The Upper Goose Pond cabin was about a half mile off the trail. A few miles back at the AT booth, Gasket and Summit said it was worth a stop. Owned by the NPS and maintained by AT volunteers, it was free to stay there. Free, with a soft mattress and, the clincher, a pancake breakfast.
Walking along the edge of the lake, catching a glimpse of the pond through the trees, I made my way through the bushes to look at the water. Sandy bottom, spots of sunken leaves. The dark backs of large sunfish floated a few inches above.
Despite its two stories and fresh coat of barn-red paint, I didn’t see the cabin until I was almost to the front porch. A couple of men were sitting in rocking chairs. Clotheslines were placed to dry clothes. The paperback books lay on the bench by the railing.
Upper Goose Pond Cabin, half a mile from the trail.
The caretaker showed me around. There were two open tent platforms in the back. My inclination is solitude, but an indoor place with others seemed like the best option.
After dinner I went down to the dock in my mountain clothes. I took off my shoes, took off my socks, got in, and then dove in. Cold bath water. A little girl teetered at the end of the dock in a life jacket, and her mother lay face down on top of her, talking softly to her. I dove again, blurry shapes of fish receding.
I took off my shirt, rinsed and wrung it, then walked in slow motion back to the dock, feeling leaves, sand, and twigs smothered under my feet. Water seeped out of my shorts as I sat on the boards.
I woke up on my back, worried that I had been snoring. 5:30 am People jumping down. I lay there for a few more minutes, listening to breakfast being prepared and the birds outside my window.
When I returned from the outhouse, people were gathered around the table serving coffee. The hikers from their bunks, the campers from their tents, the caretaker’s people. He brought out a plate piled high with steaming pancakes. The Montana hiker stopped the girl from pouring syrup on everyone.
The conversation grew as the pile decreased.
I didn’t say anything. Listen. Stories about the trail, people on it. The way forward. Nobody noticed my silence. It was comfortable.
Pancake breakfast at the Upper Goose Pond Cabin.
I stayed a while longer, then went down to the dock one more time before leaving. The pond was a perfect mirror of the forest that surrounded it. A woman lay at the end of the dock, perfectly still.
I wanted to stay too.
But there was much ahead.
