We rolled out of camp around ten, as we do. Water was on the junction of the AT and the spur trail leading to the shelter. A small stagnant pool guarded by a flotilla of water bugs. This was all that remained of what the rocks indicated as a once vibrant stream. Before we had time to dip our bottles, friends met us.
Smooth, Cool Cucumber, and Cool Whip were there, also stopped for water at the mid-morning hour. Cool Whip gave us updates on Tess, his section-hiker squeeze, and their latest plans for rendezvous. The other men laughed.
“These people don’t have all day for your exploits there Cool Whip.” Smooth explained in his smooth way.
Tater and I headed on, fastest of the group, and energized to be with friends again.
Weather was on the way, and we could see the clouds brewing. We made for the Goddard Shelter, probably my favorite one on the whole trail. Nestled in a grove of spruce, it’s the kind of small wilderness outpost that conveys undeniably, you are in “the north.”
We ducked in to find some Nobo’s heading off, and a Mainer named Shoelace. We also met a Sobo there, who’s name I never did catch. He was spending the night.
Tater and I had lunch and waited for the rain, due to hit around 4pm. With no town stops today, we had all the time in the world to make our miles. The guys rolled in soon enough, along with a couple out for a four-day loop. Tater and I met them briefly the night before, on our way into camp.
Another couple came in with their dogs. Tater was smitten with the two labs on contact. Their owners were busy pitching their tents when the weather hit. They hunkered under canvass, we under roof.
A quarter inch or more came down in one hour-long wave. Thunder shook a couple of times, but we all sat chatting or napping. Tater braided my knot-filled mop of hair into something smooth. Then it was her turn, and I massaged her feet.
When the rain subsided, the guys announced they were staying for the night. It was tough to leave, but Tater and I wanted to push on. The Glastonbury fire tower, an iconic spot for all hikers in Vermont, was only three tenths to the north. We headed on. The couple from the night before followed.
Tater and I had the tower to ourselves for almost half an hour. What a gorgeous spot. I farted and sent her coughing down the gangway though. Oh the hazards of Knorr Sides, what a way to kill the mood!
We sat at the base of the tower for a time and continued on to Kid Gore Shelter The other couple was setting up camp as we left, their trail taking them off to the west by morning. We wished them safe travels.
Not twenty minutes later, thunder boomed again. An unexpected shower overtook us in minutes, turning the trail into a slippery mess of mud and rocks. Suddenly, as if by memory, we found our trail legs at last. We glided along the slopes, and my Garmin repeatedly chirped nineteen minute miles. We were flying.
Kid Gore came into view and faked us out. We could see underneath the pilons and there was no sign of trekking poles, or any other indicators of life. When we rounded the bend however, the place was full. Some seven backpackers were already snuggled in their bags, the Mainer from earlier among them. At six-thirty with the sun still very much out, it was a little shocking.
We found a sheltered tent spot about seventy feet below the shelter, and pitched in the still falling rain. Tater grabbed our water while I fussed with the rocky ground. At last, we had a home, and went inside.
She muttered something about five star hotel accommodations, then fell asleep. I cooked us both some mac and cheese in the vestibule. When I looked over, I realized she had nodded off spoon in hand.
She woke, muttered something about “three-star Micheline noods” and devoured the bowl. She handed back my cooking pot, and was asleep again in minutes. My heart bursts for her at times.
I got up and stowed our food in the bear box. Like clockwork she came out and we both brushed our teeth before bed. The rain had stopped, and dripping droplets from laden leaves led us both to the world of dreams. Til the shelter roof began to rumble, reverberating a strange sound down the hill. Right into our nylon home.
Dirty Girl Hikes 