Here was the gravel road. At last.
I walked the 10 miles from Congdon Shelter and the wide, deep Stamford Stream, where I rinsed my shirt and dried myself with it. Now he was sweating again. There is no transmission, but this was the shortcut. Instead of climbing Stratton Mountain to enjoy the view from the fire tower, I was going to do a blue line. A short road ride, then what the comments on FarOut promised was a “nice, flat” blue blaze to Stratton Pond. It cut over 4 miles and a lot of vertical.
There are no objections either. Because it was justified.
I climbed Stratton two years ago, on my first attempt. I remember feeling crushed when I got to the top and there was nothing but trees. Then I saw the fire tower. I climbed the stairs above the surrounding canopy and entered the gust of wind above the summit. I gripped the steel until I felt chills.
Stratton Mountain Fire Tower, 2024.
So this time I took the easy way out.
I hadn’t gotten 500 feet down the gravel when a guy sitting on the tailgate of a red pickup truck called out to me. They were in a bind: him, his wife and his dog. He approached, wanting to know where I was going. I told him my story: hiking the AT and flip flopping, I started in Pawling. I already had a lot of practice. He asked me if I needed water or something. I looked at the IPA in my hand.
“If you had an extra beer, that would be great,” I said.
«Sure!» He walked to the truck and returned handing me a sweaty beer and a plastic-wrapped cheese stick. I drank the beer between phrases of thanks. Almost as good as a stream.
So I set off.
The road was smooth and flat as promised. Still, I was dragging and the beer didn’t help. A mile later, I dropped my backpack, fell on it, and lay back looking at the sky through the trees.
Two years ago I stayed at Stratton Pond and walked 60 more miles before it was all over. That walk had been mentally agonizing, but it established the safe territory he walked through now. In 2024 my mind never reached the whites. Now they lurk.
This time I want to be here. Slow turtle, battered feet, joint pain at night, but I want to be here.
The question is: can I?
I came to the sign at the trail junction and studied it. I was tired and the simple map confused me. He wanted to go to the pond, but he had learned to claim a spot first. I was surprised by the number of hikers. Was it the bubble catching up or just the Long Trail hikers? Several passed me as I rested against my backpack; I had wandered far enough off the path that most of them just walked by. It turned out that they are invisible, but not alone.
After setting up my tent, I walked back to the pond, collected water, and sat on an old piece of wood next to the swimming spot. A boy picked up large stones from the bottom and threw them deeper. His father was sitting on the bank talking to a young woman I first saw while walking up Greylock. She had been walking past me every day since then.
I took off my shoes and socks and studied my feet. The toes were in bad shape. One toenail missing, another loose, others dark red and very close behind. There was a raw spot on the ball of my right foot. The skin was peeling. The shoes could be fixed. A box of Kim’s new Hokas was waiting at Pinnacle Lodge. I would patch the feet as best I could.
The pond was warm and my muscles relaxed. He had felt every rock walking towards deep water. That boy had more work to do. I went out like a wet noodle and staggered back to camp.
More blue llama hikers were arriving. Around their tents and talking in the shelter while they prepared dinner, I recognized several of those who had passed me while I studied the trees and thought about the Whites.
I wasn’t the only one wearing a blue jacket.
I got up at 5 in the morning. It had been a difficult night: I woke up several times sore. The camp was silent. A zipper made a noise; I stayed as quiet as possible.
I had breakfast leaning out the door of my tent. Hot water was gently poured for the coffee and the Pop-Tart wrapper was carefully stuffed into the trash bag.
The first 5 miles were as good as the blue blaze that was coming. Then I came to a short section of two-track dirt and it hit me: I’ve hiked this before. As if my feet knew the way.
Maybe that’s why I left my Opinel on a mid-morning break. He carried the knife on the PCT and the CDT. I cut slices of salami to complement the Builder Bar: a lunch job, done at the wrong stop. I didn’t miss it until a creek two miles ahead. He had leaned it against the metal gate that blocked the dirt road. I was 80% sure.
I could come back. Or get a new one at Gear Haus in Manchester Center.
When I arrived at the trailhead parking lot on Route 30, I decided to hitchhike into town before walking a half mile to Pinnacle Lodge. A hiker with a backpack carries it. If I left my gear at the hostel first, I’d just be a guy sticking out his thumb.
I was leaning against the railing fiddling with my phone when a car pulled up. They got out and approached me: an older couple with a young Colombian woman. They told me they wanted to know if people really walked for months on the Appalachian Trail. I was explaining myself when another older couple approached and the man asked, «Are you Todd?»
My God, Grand Central Station.
They were John and Nancy from The Pinnacle. They thought it had to be me. I was the only hiker who stayed that night.
Gear Haus has a great selection of reviews. Numbers from 5 to 8. Red, blue, yellow natural beech wood handles. This time I turned red. It’s easier to see in all this green.
I’m investigating white people. At Starbucks. John and Nancy are coming back to town this afternoon and said they would take me with them. Maybe in three hours. It’s time to finish this post, restock at Price Chopper, and visit the Northshire Bookstore.
It’s a good zero.
I called ahead to the Inn at Long Trail. The place where I went down in 2024. Their rates for hikers have increased. Quite. And the pub doesn’t open until after 3.
So this time I’ll skip it.
I don’t need to go back there.
