We woke in the Econologe and asked for a late checkout. Tater and I were both pretty zonked, and our pack/clean/vacate hiker magic trick felt a little impossible this morning. The front desk finally answered on the third call.
“No, no!” Said a woman with a thick accent. “We need to clean for our Friday rush! We can do 11:30, no later!”
As if we were not the only guests in the building, as if this place had had a “Friday rush” within the past two decades. It became the joke of the day:
“Break’s over! We have to get ready for the Friday rush!”
So at 11:27am we departed our room. We descended the stairs to find the housekeeper literally lounging in a camp chair in the middle of the parking lot.
The walk back to the trail was easy, barely two miles, and we enjoyed the quaint neighborhoods. The ascent out of town was gentle, and soon we were back in the mountains making miles.
We were closing in on Mount Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts, and the inspiration for writers like Herman Melville. We’d hike over Greylock the following day, but by far the highlight of today’s hiking was the view overlooking Cheshire. I had completely missed this spot during both of my previous trips through the area.
In the distance we could just barely make out the tower on top of Greylock itself. We sat and talked with a hiker named Jeffrey, who we’ve been leapfrogging over the past fifty miles. He headed on, and after taking a few photos, so did we.
We descended the ridge and made our way into Cheshire. An ice cream stand stopped us in our tracks, then some locals directed us to the Father Tom Campsite. We walked right past it, softserve in hand!
We found it soon enough, and what a gem! A town local named the Polish Hermit approached us with a basket of goodies, bars and snacks of all kind. He carries on Father Tom’s legacy of helping hikers down the path.
The campsite featured a writeup all about its namesake, along with porta potties, charging stations, and best of all bicycles to take into town.
Here we met Waist Deep, a southbounder so named for going through the Mahoosuc Notch in waist deep snow. Also Copter, a local aircraft mechanic on a section hiker, and a guy from Ocala, Florida who’s name I never did get. Jeffrey was there too, even The Noobs rolled in later in the evening.
The Polish Hermit has mail ordered a box of baby birds for his farm. Turkeys, chickens, guinea fowels, among others. He left the box with us for a time so hikers could hold the baby birds. Tater found this completely absurd, noting that any farm store sells chicks for pennies, and Copter rued the impending bird poop all over our tables. Those two bonded instantly, a sassy pair indeed!
I felt completely overwhelmed by people, and Tater moreso. One can only hear about the merits of Lueko tape, or ponder the infinite mystery whether breathable rain jackets breath, so many times.
We had service so we retreated to my tent to watch some Schitt’s Creek. This little tripod was a Christmas present from my sister Kelly, and never fails to earn its two-ounce keep. After an episode, we were both dozing off, so Tater went back to her tent.
I made my usual last rounds of the night. I brushed my teeth, filled the water bottles with glorious, clean city water, and took the portapotty for a spin. Before turning in I stopped by Tater’s tent to kiss her goodnight.
Lights from a nearby warehouse, and town noise kept sleep away for a solid hour, but finally my body relented. A cool breeze blew in and settled my into slumber. It was the coldest evening we had had so far.
Dirty Girl Hikes 