Dirty Girl Hikes

Tater slid back the barn-style door which separated the bathroom from the rest of our room.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she proclaimed, towel-clad and looking beautiful as ever.

“Actually, I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t be.” I assured her, and grabbed her leg firmly.

“OH my God.” She exhaled.

“Don’t worry, I’ve almost got him out.” I said working quickly. Then she saw it.

“WOW! That’s the largest one I’ve ever seen!”

“Really? I’ve seen bigger.”

“Nah dude, that thing’s a monster!”

I held it up and ignited my mini-Bic lighter. The tick never stood a chance.

(Actually she came running and screaming out of the bathroom but, this is how I’ll choose to remember this moment.)

By the morning of our fifth day on trail, the guests of the Cornwall Inn all knew us as “the hikers.” The inn, well outside the budget of most thru’s 1500 miles in, rarely sees northbounders.

Our sink-cleaned laundry, apologetically drying on every available Adirondack chair, gave us away. Tater even utilized the hangers from our closet to speed the process. Brilliant.

To further cement our descent into hiker trash, she also gave me my first haircut in almost three years. One inch titanium sewing scissors? In her hands, they did the job masterfully. She took off about half an inch, enough to experiment with cutting curly hair.

Today though, we were focused only on breakfast and packing. Mark, the inn owner, was kind enough to send us off with six gigantic pretzels from his wife’s latest trip to Boston. Wrapped for the road in about a yard of cling wrap, I accepted them eagerly.

He drove us back to the Cornwall Country Store, where we made a quick resupply and left for the trail.

At Pine Swamp Brook Shelter we met Smooth, Coolwhip, and Car Jacker, the latter being an unassuming petite woman in her early fifties. I still need to get the story behind that trail name… Smooth may as well be Sam Elliot with his carefree always smiling demeanor, and Coolwhip, well, I’m still figuring that guy out.

The lot of us made our way to Belters Campsites, one of the many well maintained overnight spots in Connecticut. Tater and I snagged site number two, sitting cozily nestled in a grove of old pines.

“Another one!” She said for the third time. For the third time I left my tent to go capture then immolate a tick found either on, or inside her tent. As for me, I killed a nymph and two adults. One on my thigh, one in my tent, and one sunning himself on the outer wall. My you be freed from suffering, you disease-spreading little shits.

As usual we pitched vestibule to vestibule and talked well past ten. It was hot, stifling warm, with no breeze to speak of. Then the temperature dropped sharply around three in the morning, sending me into my base layers, hoodie, and socks.

I’ve been fighting some kind of sinus infection for a few days now, but aided by Benedryl and Tylenol, I slept soundly.