The rhythm accelerates – the walk

The cold drops of a light light touched my nose and led me to consciousness. My hat put me under my eyes and my beard protected my cheeks and my chin. Only my nose was exposed.

Before opening my eyes, the morning moisture could smell in the air. The red chest ttatches dialogue in the trees had been going for a while, but my sleepy mind had become quite good to adjust the morning birds. However, when the fog touched my nose, I was awake in an instant.

Since I resumed my only walk on August 1, I have not been using a tent. I carry a light canvas for rain and a Bivy for cold nights and windows. I love the jeans camp, it feels good. Being part of my environment, not apart from him, since being in closing in a tent can easily feel. That said, being part of your environment has its inconveniences.

I shot myself in the dark, ready to take measures against the rain. It took me a moment to realize that there was no rain: the light fog was just that. Without rain, without worries. I could go back to sleep.

Nah.

My team was full and coffee ended within fifteen minutes. Tomorrow was my next day of refueling, so my pack did not weigh much. The eastern sky shone orange, the clouds above now only visible. It’s time to leave.

The way through the mountain was steep enough to be more ‘going down’ than ‘walk’ down, and my muscles took a mile to heat enough not to be in front of my mind. That achieved, the morning began to happen very quickly. I hit two digit miles before the sun stayed above the treetops.

It was a working day, and the only hikers I saw that morning were walking along the long path. On the hikers they had become more and more while walking north, and two days had passed since none had seen. But the long path attracted many hikers, including only a few years ago. While the green mountains were erased, I spent shelters, peaks and bridges that I remembered from my first walk, and the love of those who inspired me.

I was glad to be in a family territory, such as. I had found that Connecticut and Massachusetts were full of small difficulties that slow me more than expected.

The first New England city he had arrived had Céspedes and small houses with Airbnb signs, and large brick buildings that seemed that only serious and important things happened in them, and people in the parking lot that seemed to agree. Two days of food cost much more than expected because the only supermarket in the city was an exclusive market, and did not have enough food to continue walking without it. My templates were in ruins and the only shoe store in the city, of course, was closed only the day of the week I arrived. I bought food and returned to the path.

In the next state it hit me with the rain that soaked me to the bone. I had changed my rain jacket for one in a hiker box that seemed to be in a better way. I realized that too late was two too small sizes. The fabric torn the shoulder and the water is poured. I bought a yellow rainproof of rubber rubber in a hardware store and that kept the rain off, but it was already soaked. I had not yet picked up my warmer team box, and I spent most of the afternoon trembling and dried me in a shelter.

The rain kept the next day, but kept me dry enough. I arrived at a cache of water and thanked it. The Housatonic River was essentially poisoned, and all small currents were full of land and sediments. Even so, I felt quite silly pouring water from a jug into my bottle in the middle of a downpour.

The afternoon was cleaned and heated. The steam rose from the asphalt and the fields. Days like these were becoming more and more rare. A man with an orange vest stopped me when I spent a construction site to ask how long I had been on his way. I told him. His accent was clearly Bostonian, almost comically.

«Whatya Richa Sahm? You don’t have to see?»

I told him no, he wasn’t rich. I worked seasonally, instructing in the winter and the guide field in the summer. He had saved enough to take this summer to walk. He shrugged and returned to his work. «Masto is nice.»

When I crossed Vermont, the same air had felt different. Clean, clear, correct.

The pond and the night were so still and impeccable that he felt a crime to make noise while passing, felt a crime to walk even. I took a few minutes to sit with stillness and silence. The sun almost touched the distant shore. I already spent 25 miles for the day, but I wanted to break my record. I went ahead.

I made a camp approximately one hour after I need my lighthouse to see the path. 32 miles, it’s not bad. It is not bad at all. After preparing myself, I rubbed my feet, feeling the armor calluses that covered them. I had new templates now, finally, and I was still breaking them. A little ampoule had formed and I had to work hard to get the security pin to drill it, the pin was actually folded a little before the work was done.

When I arrived at the crossing where the Apalaches and the long paths separate, I returned to the new territory. The trees were not so green now, and it was a weekend. The hikers of a day and the first libers walked along the paths.

«Do you head north?»

This question would be less annoying if it weren’t so predictable. There is a certain launch in the voice that never stops leading to follow -up questions.

«When do you think you are going to arrive?»

«Are you not worried about the cold?»

«You know Katahdin closes on October 15, right?»

«Are you going to turn?»

I don’t care about the questions, but they never really change. They usually come from a place of concern in the style of parents, and are well destined. Even so, I want to ask «Do you think I’m not aware of the time limit? Do you think I don’t feel the cold in the air? Do you think any of this is new information for me?» I don’t say any of these things.

I got up with my desired rhythm when the path uploaded a hill to an open field full of sunlight and the grasshop. When the path returned to the trees on the other side, I went through the remains of a porcupine and went ahead.

I was awake listening to the small clink of pine needles that fall from the trees, a sound almost like broken glass on the edge of the hearing. Establishing asleep had become difficult: the amount of caffeine that consumed every day had become ridiculous.

Tonerlo, friend.

The next morning, they gave me a couple of protein bars of a southern hiker who had packed too many, and said he looked thin. I was grateful for the food: each calorie counts. Where the path met the city, I spent another sign that crosses the path with the hiker and bullet holes through it. I pushed on the river and climbed the hill, stopping just to eat some hard eggs from a self -service farm.

The trees released a wave of yellow leaves with each wind burst. Student groups were aligned in front of different buildings as last year students guided their bedrooms. I met September and New Hampshire the same morning, but autumn had already arrived.

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