Dirty Girl Hikes

The sunrise at Riga Shelter did not disappoint. Most of camp had assembled there, about seven of us, to watch the foggy mists illuminate and begin to burn off in the valley below.

Before heading out for the day, I decided to ask Cool Cucumber about the book he had just finished writing. He told me it was about a work by Ignatius Loyola, the famous Jesuit, which shocked the church at the time because, it was written in Spanish instead of Latin.

“It was assumed this way his way of making some kind of bold statement, but really, I think he wad just more comfortable writing in Spanish.”

He had submitted the work for editing and review by scholars at his own Boston College, and elsewhere. A six year endeavor, he was now on the AT for five weeks to relax and recuperate.

Another hiker we’ve come to know, a tiny powerhouse of a woman named CarJacker was to head home today. A Massachusetts native, she has only to complete the state of Maine, leaving her about 385 miles of the AT left.

When the others headed out, I sat and talked to her in the shelter for a while. Her name came after stealing her dad’s car out of an impound lot some thirty years ago. It landed in the lot after a night of teenage escapades, Ferris Beuller style. She was determined to get the “borrowed” car back, and so she did.

A lovely woman with gray hair in gentle waves, who’s peaceful demeanor reminds me of the podlings from The Dark Crystal, Tater and I will both miss her.

After a time I returned to my tent. A rhythm has settled between me and my dear trailmate. I wake around five to the New England sun, and she sleeps in till about eight. This gives me time to sit and write, to collect my thoughts.

We were in no rush today. I caught up on blog entries before this one, looking over once in a while to see her in her sleeping in her tent, snug as a bug in a blue sleeping bag.

We’ve been sleeping with the doors open or the fly’s completely off to capture even the slightest cooling breeze. These evenings begin around eighty, and drop to the high fifties by the wee hours. This forces one to scramble into long johns then, but usuay it coincides with my nightly bathroom run anyway.

Our goal for the day was to get over Race and Everitt Mountains, two scenic asskickers of rock, and the first to employ wooden steps bolted into the stone slabs. Such aides are more and more common northward, Katahdin itself hosting more than a few rebar holds.

CarJacker said farewell to her trail family, and so a sleepy Tater and I joined her for breakfast. To the delight of the two women, they found in conversation that they had many mutual trail friends from 2018. They had just missed each other at a couple of hostels along the way that year.

After breakfast we bid our friend farewell, and did not see her again. She wanted to use the rare solitude of a few hours at Riga to put a few thoughts on paper and just simply “be.” We will miss your energy CarJacker, what a gem!

After ascending a fairly easy trail up to Bear Mountain, the highest point in Connecticut, we sat under some gnarled dwarf pines for an early lunch. It was a lovely blue sky day, though a warm one!

Before leaving LaBonne’s market yesterday, the locals warned us about dry sections on the trail coming up. Tater and I both knew the Sages Ravine would have water, as we both nearly swam there in years past. We nearly did again today, but the bugs guarded the pools in clouds, so we carried on.

We crossed the Madsachusettes state line, and met a young couple named Bud and Sarah. Bud is aiming to hike the Eastern Continental Divide from Key West to Labrador Canada. At the time of this writing, maybe forty people have completed the ECT. He and his pack bore the looks of having traveled from Key West, though Sarah is only with him a few weeks for support. We leapfrogged them the rest of the day.

The climb up Race was strenuous, but when took our time. The wide expansive views were breathtaking. The Trail here skirts a barren cliffside off and on for nearly a mile. An aircraft waved its wings at us, no doubt on a sightseeing tour. We reapplied sunscreen, and ambled quickly across the arid slabs.

We drew about two and a half liters each from the waters at Sage’s Ravine. By the time we started up Everitt, we had about a liter left between us.

Loose flags of rock shifted under our feet and we stepped ever upward towards the promise of cooler breezes. Those wooden steps protruded just when we needed them, and it would be a hell of a scramble in their absence. Finally we reached the summit sign, and the remnants of an old fire tower. Only the concrete anchors remained.

We sat in a minute parcel of shade and drank the last of our water. The conversation centered on trail magic, food, and more food. Tummies were rumbling.

Tater hung her shirt on the summit sign to dry. When Bud and Sarah passed in haste, I joked that the smell had driven them off. She took down her black flag of death and let me have a whiff. Being a woman I adore, I took a bit too enthusiastic of an inhale.

“My nostrils are literally burning!”

“What?! No! Oh, actually,” she sniffed.

“That’s some chlorine left from the pool the other day.”

So, nearly overcome by Tater’s shirt cyanide, we headed on. I didn’t let her smell my shirt, because we’d have to evacuate her off the mountain if she did. It nearly knocked me over when I had to put it on this morning.

By the grace of some holy entity, the walk down from Everitt was gentle and strewn with pine needled path. The occasional bog board led us over muddied ground. We descended to a pond and marked it in our minds as a potential water source. We could make it out through the trees, but it still seemed a long way off.

We continued the talk about trail magic, deciding the best would be a full lasagna dinner cooked and ready, just waiting for us at the shelter.

Oddly enough, there are two shelters just north of Everitt, only a tenth of a mile apart. We opted for the latter, seeing in the guidebook that it offered more surrounding camping spots. We passed a muddy pool on the way in, and agreed we’d rather double back to the lake for our dinner water.

We found Smooth sitting at a picnic table under a stunning grove of mature hemlocks. His first words to us told of a better water source just twenty yards from camp. Parched, we beelined and filled our bottles in a clear running cascade.

“Oh my God! It’s SO COLD!” Tater was elated. I noted how quickly our desires went from lasagna to good old H2O. We laughed. That’s what the trail does to you.

Dinner was efficient. Parmesan cous cous with sundried tomato tuna added from a pouch. Tater ate mac and cheese, and Smooth consumed square after square of boiled ramen.

Sleep came easy, until lightning streaked across the sky around four in the morning. More on that soon…