Long Trail Logs #5 – A Big Deal

August 6, day 5

A lunchtime reminder

We covered the easiest eight miles so far and put them away before lunch. I kept my eyes peeled for Lucky or Spoons, eager to hang out with another Long Trail Hiker and an AT Thru-hiker. But we never saw them, so I assumed they were gone.

Around lunch time, we hiked the blue blaze to the Spruce Peak Shelter. I was surprised to see that it was a completely closed cabin.

I was almost more surprised to see that we didn’t have the place to ourselves. There was a rail-thin, middle-aged gentleman sitting on the porch, halfway through a rehydrated meal.

«Hello!» Chris shouted, waving.

«Hello!» —the man shouted, his voice booming and full of an unmistakable New York accent.

Another guy came out of the cabin. They both seemed to be the same age, but that’s where their similarities ended. While the first was dark and thin, the second was heavier, with a shock of white hair, thin-framed glasses, and a kind, grandfatherly face that made me miss my own grandfather with a sudden pain.

I pushed aside the knowledge that the anniversary of his death was tomorrow, along with the sentence he had still failed devise a suitable ritual to celebrate the day… and sat down, determined to be friendly.

The loud man introduced himself as Mark and the softer man was Tom, two AT section hikers who worked the Trail for years. Last year they had walked 50 miles and this year their plan was to walk 100 miles to the city of Norwich. They were both brilliant: civil engineers, chemists and retired professors. It turned out something I had realized a long time ago on the Trail: people of all educational levels and with a network of stories ventured to this land, each with their own reasons for why they walked.

The return of the PUD

After lunch, the terrain became less friendly. Instead of the undulating, clay path that we had been given, the path was suddenly filled with jagged rocks, the path winding through sharp ascents that plummeted and then climbed again. As the sky darkened with a distant storm and thunder rumbled in the mountains, I muttered «PUD,» climbing in irritation over the mindless ups and downs the AT was famous for. «I forgot about these.»

Behind me, Chris chuckled. «We don’t have PUDs in Utah; they have nice curves there. It’s good to be back in the east.»

There were only four more miles to reach Bromley Shelter tonight, but with the PUDs returning I wasn’t sure we would be able to get there before the storm intensified. I paused to check my weather radar map; The bright red spots approaching us did little to improve my optimism. We tried to pick up the pace for the rest of the afternoon, pushing harder and faster over gnarled roots and unforgiving PUD. I felt the strain on my tired, shaky legs, but I was eager to escape the storm, desperation and adrenaline overpowering any sensibility to take PUD at a more reasonable pace.

Somehow it worked. We arrived at camp around 4:30 with the sound of thunder close behind us. Since we arrived so ridiculously early, we had a choice of tent sites. The shelter was situated on a giant cliff and the tent platforms required a vertical climb up a series of steep stone stairs to access.

Friends, companionship and a sign of trouble

That’s when I felt it halfway up the stairs: a sudden, sharp pang emanating from somewhere deep in my left leg, a burning ember of pain.

What the hell is this? That particular place had never given me any problems before. It wasn’t my right knee. The infamous leg that ruined my first few days on the AT. – but the little teardrop-shaped muscle in my left quadriceps. Grimacing, I tried to knead it as we descended to the shelter for dinner.

A woman my age was already there, heating up her dinner. He introduced himself as Ambler and was hiking the Long Trail as far as he could go in two weeks. We chatted pleasantly with her until Mark and Tom came in and joined us for dinner. We even ran into the two hikers from our first night on the Long Trail: the two guys who had gotten to the sneaky side first. They were loud and fun, and together we made a happy and boisterous dinner team. We howled as we swapped ridiculous trail stories, gear notes, hiking mileage, and stupid jokes.

As we laughed about our food rationing problem, Mark dug into his oversized bag and handed us two backpacking meals. «You guys need this more than I do. We’ll be done in two days and I packed too much food.»

I blinked and clutched the delicious gifts to my chest, half overwhelmed by the kindness.

When we went to bed, I didn’t want social hour to end. Like last night, this felt like returning to the trail culture I had been longing for, like rejoining an ancient and sacred dance. It felt like the redemption I was waiting for in Vermont.

There was only one problem. A BIG problem. The pain from tonight had not improved at all, offering its fury the moment I began to climb that stupid stone staircase, back to our tent. I stopped and furiously tried to massage my leg, sinking my fist into the muscle, but it was no use. We still had to get water, and that meant a ridiculously steep half-mile blue fire to a puny trickle, and then all the way back to the shelter and our tent. I hurt every step in that half mile and all the way back to our tent.

Oh shit, I thought as I inflated my sleeping mat. Oh, damn shit.

Speeding through the PUDs this afternoon had been absolutely a mistake. As I snuggled into my quilt to sleep, I did my best to stay calm. I told Chris my leg hurt, but I kept my tone light and airy.

He turned around and looked me in the eyes, not believing my indifference for a second. “Tomorrow we will take it easier,” he promised.

I shrugged, trying to act bewildered. Our hiking schedule was on track so far, but we couldn’t afford to go too slow, no matter what Chris said. I stayed awake for a long time with grim determination, long after he had fallen asleep, staring at the mesh tent we had bought just for this trip.

No matter what it took, I was going to finish this walk.

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