“And a coffee to go please.”

Acts of service are my love language, and this morning I brought Tater breakfast in bed. I was absolutely determined to give her an undisturbed morning after the previous day with the camp kids. She woke to blueberry pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs with maple syrup… Also ketchup… Because she’s weird like that. Is this a West coast thing?

She slept in til ten, then we did our usual pack, clean, vacate magic trick. We hopped the BRTA bus back to Lee, Mass and the drive was wonderfully scenic. New England homes are so ornate and unique. I’ve come to really enjoy the architecture up here.

We were dropped at the Berkshire Premium Outlets. A few rain clouds prompted us to repack some gear, and then we headed on. We hitched exactly were we had a few days before, and got a ride with a Navy vet back to trail. He was a very nice man, though quiet.

We had planned for a sixteen today, but when we made it to October Mountain Shelter, our gumption quickly vanished. Smooth, Coolwhip, and Cool Cucumber were all there, along with two ladies doing a section hike. We had met them outside of Benedict Pond.

The news of the day was the water source, reddened with tannins and not very appetizing to look at. Tater and I would have to get water here regardless of whether we pushed on or not. Being back with our only real trail fam so far though, we decided to stay.

I had packed out lunch meat, cheese, and rolls, along with half a pound of pineapple. The spread was decadent. This is how pro’s eat after town!

We caught up on all the trail gossip. The guys and their stay at Upper Goose Pond. Apparently the coffee poured freely, and the pancakes were plentiful. Best of all Coolwhip had a fire going now, and the smoke was blowing all the damned mosquitos away. Mass is such a buggy state!

When I approached and threw on a few more twigs, Cool Cucumber said:

“There is a saying from the middle ages. Those who sustain and maintain something are every bit as valuable as those who create something. This is a virtue I wish our modern society would value again.”

I really love that guy. What an onion, the layers continue!

Smooth had us giggling with his smooth anecdotes, and Coolwhip impressed Tater and I both with his undeniable game. One of the two lady section hikers began to laugh at his banter. Within the hour he had her number. If Tater and I heard correctly, he was busy showing her his tent later that night.

Two couples came in just before nightfall, along with Fox, a solo section hiker from Pennsylvania.

Tater and I would later dub the two couples “The Noobs” but they’d grow on us in the coming days.

Taking the short day was a good call for morale. Plus, Taters knee was acting up a bit. We could always push a bigger day tomorrow.

Kaydee and I decided to take our first true zero in town today. If our mileage counts seem low to the readers, they are. This is intentional.

During the first two weeks of a long distance hike the body is especially vulnerable to injury. Legs, coordination, and metabolism improve quickly, but they need to be allowed to do so. From the very first conversations about this trip, we knew we’d be doing low miles to ease into the trail.

Today would be our first “off” day, though by thru-hiker standards many of our days would be considered “nearo’s,” –very short milage days you use to get tasks done like resupply and laundry. Despite our tortoise pace, we’ve managed to keep up with a few thru’s by not take true zero days, but Tater and i both felt a need for one.

I woke first and decided to pack up and head up to McDonalds for coffee and time to write. Tater wanted a couple more hours of rest, so I bid her “good sleeps” and pulled my tent stakes.

Slugs had decided to launch a gooey onslaught during the early morning hours. I removed eight from the outside of my tent and would learn later that I missed one. Slugs have become far less gross after an internet meme convinced me they are in fact just snails without shells. A snail offensive on my home? Adorable. Slugs? Still a little yucky.

I noticed another army amassing in the field though, school-aged children. A summer camp no doubt.

I smiled and waved at one of the counselors and told her good morning. She informed me that “my friend in the orange tent needed to vacate within five minutes, so we can start our greet and cheer.”

When she started towards Tater’s tent I stopped her and explained that I’d be happy to carry the message. I also adjusted Camp Counselor By the Book’s expectations.

“I think we can be on our way in ten minutes, but probably fifteen.”

Ten minutes later a groggy Tater Tot was walking across the field with me, and boy did they start that great and cheer! A couple of kids shouted after us.

“Hikers!!!” In excited glee. I beamed. Even Tater smiled and laughed in her groggy annoyance. The other counselors wished us safe journey. By the Book did not.

We decided to go to a swank little breakfast place, the name I wish I could remember, because it was the best coffee I’ve had in ages. I had an egg and pesto bowl with feta over greens. It was out of this world! Tater opted for a more traditional breakfast spanning three plates. Hiker hunger, her’s has hit completely.

We loitered until check-in time at the Travel Lodge and got our laundry brewing. Brewing seems the most accurate term. If you’ve ever tried to wash hiker socks in a sink you’ll understand.

We snuggled up, watched a few episodes of Schitt’s Creek and went to bed. Zero’s are great like that. One of the best nights of my life.

We woke at the Shakers Campsites late, well past nine in the morning. Both of us having been feeling much better of late, but our bodies definitely needed the rest. Tater’s new air pad has been a great addition to her fine little nylon cottage.

The bear box at this site, a giant steel toolbox where hikers put their food at night, was guarded by a motion sensor activated game camera. I couldn’t help but smile and put two thumbs up everytime I heard it begin to record. No doubt it is being used to judge the efficacy of these boxes against bears and other critters.

A few of these were scattered along the trail in 2019, but they seem to have become a staple now, at least in CT and Mass. Few people hang bear bags properly, and I’ll admit that after twenty miles in the rain I’ve more than once just slept with my food. The boxes though? They’re just too convenient and secure not to use. There’s nothing worse than waking to a day’s worth of trail mix slobbered over by an enterprising mouse.

The plan today was to get back to Great Barrington, thus finishing our impromptu southbound trip from Lee. Tater remembered a fine beach spot in the Bear Town State Forest, and being the Forth of July, we needed a beach day.

Benedict Pond did not disappoint, but where as Upper Goose Pond is by hikers for hikers, here we were outliers among the clean cut, mostly Connecticut families.

At .4 off the AT, the sandy beach was a paradise. Two concerns immediately presented themselves: Where’s the potable water, and can we get a pizza delivered out here?

A man camping near the lake confirmed that the well was down, and so I searched the lake until I found a man-made spilloff acting as a stream. I gathered two liters out of this, and when the man offered us some of the spring water from his car, I told him we were fine. He was pretty impressed with the Sawyer’s .1 micron capabilites. Sure, some viruses can get through, but it easily wards against all the common North American water nasties.

Tater went to use the restroom, which still had flushing toilets but no usable sinks. (Pond water seemed way more appetizing than toilet water, for those wondering…)

In the meantime the filter also attracted the attention of two older ladies, and of course I struck up a conversation. The running joke is that if Tater leaves me anywhere for five minutes, I find five new friends. I am my father’s son!

The ladies recommended a pizza place in the heart of Great Barrington, and when Tater returned, we decided we could put off delivery and eat after hitching to down.

Now that we both had inflatable sleeping pads, we decided to blow them up and use them as pool floats in the lake. I fell off mine a few times, but eventually I was able to lay flat and enjoy the rays pouring down on this seventy-five degree day.

Tater directed my attention to a fine specimen of femininity in an orange bikini on the beach. Truth be told, no woman rivals Tater in running shorts. When my trail partner decided to get out and lay on the beach I kept repacking things in my backpack, dropping them, and essentially navigating a dumbfounded existence. Peering over at me under her roll-up sun hat, a staple of her hiking repertoire, and in my mind one of those most “Tater” things, I get all kinds of melty. Or maybe it was just the sun exposure. Sure, let’s go with that…

After a few hours on the beach our stomachs said it was time to go. Right after making the turn back onto the AT we ran into Henry Keegan, an ECT thru hiker I had met during the Bartram Loop back in NC. I actually passed him before he turned and asked if we had met before. I asked if he had successfully sold his Prius, and he had, thus giving him the funds to complete his 4’800 mile trek from Key West to Labrador.

When last we spoke, his odor was so overpowering I thought I had forgotten what hikers smell like. Today though I smelled nothing, which can only mean one of two things. He wasn’t twenty days without a shower this time, or I smelled just as bad. Judging by our fellow beach goers an hour ago, the latter is likely true.

He had paired up with another Eastern Continental Divide thru, who’s name I forgot to get. It was wonderful to see them. They had also met Bud, and looked forward to running into him again. A niche among the niche, these guys are the real deal.

We made Highway 23 easily enough and hitched into Barrington with a couple in a small Toyota sedan. We were on the curb a while until Tater finally said.

“Hide behind that tree baby boy, I got this.”

Sure enough, the very first car stopped. Even female drivers must enjoy her shorts as much as I do.

Sending your female hiking friend out to get a ride for the group is a common practice among hikers known as “hitch baiting.” Tater is damned good at it. I usually have to dance go get rides into Barrington, and it takes a lot to muster those funky rhythms on a desolate chicory-lined road.

The recommended pizza place was closed, along with most of the town. We walked the wrong direction for half an hour before finally hitching cross town to Four Brothers Pizza Inn. Like locusts we descended and ate their marinara filled dough treats of love enmass. Then we sat in the booth nursing our carb comas.

After dinner we made for the Berkshire South Regional Community Center, where I have camped three years in a row. We pitched on the far end of the field there, past two other travelers we hadn’t met yet.

Around nightfall, after a call home to Tater’s parents, fireworks became to boom in the distance. So we left camp and walked towards them, ultimately finding the best view outside of a McDonalds. Over a cinnabun and large fry we watched the satellite arrays of flash and color bloom noisily across the parchment sky.

“Merica!”

“Merica” I agreed. After the show we returned to our homes in a field where nature was putting on a finale of her own. Hundreds of fireflies. They were beautiful.

That was before the slugs came. More on that soon…

Dear readers,

I’ve been experimenting with creating posts to reflect every single day on trail. It’s a remarkably time consuming occupation, which is resulting in a ton of basic grammatical errors and typos.

It’s impossible to edit immediately after writing, but I feel a sense of urgency to share what I’ve written, even if the drafts are appallingly unpolished. Hopefully they will be readable nevertheless. Even though I typically have a backlog of two to three days, I’ve really enjoyed documenting my trail experience with this level of detail.

Days out here are full, and no two are ever the same. The variety of events which present themselves during the simple task of walking are precisely why I enjoy hiking so much.

I’m taking short bulleted notes of each day’s occurrences, and fleshing them into narrative when I have the downtime. In this way I’m actually writing using outlines. Am I an adult now?

I should also note that Tater and I are not doing a full thru hike of the AT. Rather we’re completing a long section hike from Pawling, NY to Mount Katahdin in Maine.

It’s a completely different hike than I’ve attempted on this trail before, in that we have absolutely no other agenda than to hang out and enjoy each other’s company for a couple of months. We’ve walked all the miles, there’s zero pressure, but like me, this is her favorite place.

It’s also the first time I’ve started a hike of this scale with a friend, and she’s the only one I know and trust deeply enough to try this with.

So, we’ll be spending more time in town, and walking shorter days on trail, until we decide not to, or whatever. Maybe we’ll start hiking marathon days, but more likely we’ll pet the dogs we meet and eat diner food. When the hell else will we get this time together?

Thanks for bearing with me and following along. I’ll try to provide the kind of tips two hikers with many thousands of miles under their feet can offer.

Now though, I’m going to bed. I hope you have an adventure today, and get a good laugh in with someone too. In the end, that’s about all that really matters. Be kind to yourselves.

I got up early to do some writing.  Tater is adjusting to East Coast time, but I tend to be the first one up.  I’ve come to enjoy these couple of hours to myself before starting the day in earnest. 

Our southbound plan, hatched the night before, was a good one. This way we’d only have to hitch five miles out to the trail.  The only problem was that Tater seemed to be coming down with whatever illness I had been battling, and when she woke up we seriously considered taking a full zero day. 

I called down to the office, but our room price (with an “already a guest discount”) had risen fifty dollars overnight, and that before tax.   We found a much better rate at the inn across the street, but vacillated on the decision for another hour.

Ultimately we decided to hike on.

The efficacy with which two hikers can pack, even after covering every a available surface with damp gear, should not be underestimated.  We were ready to roll in about twenty minutes.  Our decision was rewarded with absolutely stunning weather.  With temperatures in the 70’s and not a cloud in the sky, the trail gods smiled on our decision to push. 

A young energetic man in a CRV broke rank with the column of kayak-topped vehicles headed out of town.  We had our ride back to trail.  He dropped us off with offers of water, and bowed to us as a Buddhist does, palms together and lifted headward.  I returned the gesture and Tater and I wished him a fine day on the lake.

Everyone up here attends the James Talyor concert in Tanglewood for the Forth. He was headed there with the rest of the greater Barrington, Stockbridge, Lee populace. 

We found trail easily enough, though as usual I chose the wrong direction.  Tater says she’s never in her life been a better navigator than someone, but there is a first for everything.

We passed Upper Goose Pond and met many new faces.  These were all the Northbounders still a few days ahead of us.  Among them were Rolo and Bumblebeast, two of the first hikers we met when we started. 

The miles were silly easy, pine needles cushioning every step.  We stopped at a shady trailhead for lunch, and while we sat two cars pulled up.  One contained a Class of 2015 thru on an overnight with his family.  The other car contained a dog (of course) who gravitated to my hiking partner like they all do.  A young puppy with floppy ears, the owner’s choice of a huge climbing rope for a leash was comical. Though, when the pup smelled my peanut butter tortillas, I was glad he was so well secured!

For the third time since 2016 I passed this lovely drink stand in Mass.  This time there were dog treats on top of the fridge, tokens to appease the guardian beast patrolling the fence line.  Despite his robust frame, and piecing eyes, he didn’t bark and approached us assertively.  Tater the canine abbasodor had him eating out of her hand, despite warnings to throw the food to him instead.

I scarfed down the last ice cream sandwich in the fridge, while Tater annilated an unsuspecting snack bag of Chips Ahoy.  We staggered on, down the picturesque country road, with farmsteads upon which either of us might comfortably spend a whole lifetime. 

After a strong, clear-flowing brook, the best we had seen in days, we came upon the Shaker’s Campsites.

A moss adorned wall of stacked stones was the only remnant of the residents who once called this place home.  The ridgerunner was kind enough to leave a small report about the village that once stood here, founded in 1766.  Apparently these poor celibate souls, who simply wanted to live off the land, spin textiles, and make ox yokes, were constantly persecuted by their more traditional Christian neighbors. 

The nearby village of Tyringham is closely related, and according to the report, is where many families of the Fern Road settlement eventually moved.  We could see the iconic red barns and massive church graveyard for the ridge. 

The current persecutors of the site are giant Massachusetts mosquitos.  They’re thick, grotesque creatures with girthy middles and insatiable appetites.  An attempt to eat dinner at the picnic table was quickly thwarted, and so we retreated to our tents once again. 

The entire site was covered in jewelweed. A medicinal plant with soothing properties against both bug bites and poison ivy rash, I took a few leaves with me.  I applied the poultice to my feet and legs, while Tater looked on doubtfully.  More than once I’ve put trailside berries or greens in my mouth to her rebuttals about certain death and stomach aches.  I’ve had great teachers though, like Mark Warren of Medicine Bow.

We fell asleep bellies full of mac and cheese, but not before laughing loud enough to disturb the neighbors.  If any Shaker spirits remained, they left us un-haunted.  Our joy at being together was obvious and palpable. 

Flashes of lightning startled me out of sleep around four in the morning. Muffled rumblings of thunder approached our cozy hemlock grove. I lazily closed my vestibules and went back to bed, the droplets came in gentle waves.

I heard Smooth and Coolwhip speaking nearby around six, and checked my phone for messages from Tater. Though camped a few feet from each other most nights, she’ll sometimes find memes or share photos with me overnight.

Today’s midnight message was urgent though. Due to the Forth of July holiday, the post office in Great Barrington would be closed until Tuesday. Complicating matters, today was Saturday, and they’d be closing at noon. Her message went on to suggest that we’d better be up and out of camp by 7am.

Breaking camp by then would give us five hours to walk the eight miles to Hwy 7 and hitch into town. Thankfully she was up and we were soon on our way. The rain had mostly abated though the rocks on trail had become “slicker than whale shit” to use a phrase favored by my father.

I felt like garbage, still fighting a sinus infection, though certainly on the mend. Coming down Mt. Bushnell was treacherous, and Smooth had warned us about it before we left camp. Apparently commenters on the Guthook app said to watch for sections of slippery rock, and we found them. I lost traction a few times, and Tater took one scary fall. She landed on her forearm, and though a little bloodied there, she came up laughing.

We did get some nice views when we weren’t ice-skating in our trail runners. We even hit our first Trail Magic of the trip from a man named Steve. We saw his hatchback proped open from the top of a hill, but didn’t get our hopes up until we saw the camp chairs set out in a crescent shape.

Sure the deadline had us moving, but a lemon lime Gatorade and an iced Coca-Cola are always worth a stop. So many people have offered us beer, and I thanked Steve, because I had been craving soda for days. August will make five years sober for me, and Steve is twenty-five years in.

We were as curt as propriety would allow, and he gave us some fun sized candy bars for the road. It was remarkable how refueled Tater and I felt after cool drinks and a little sugar.

About two miles later something remarkable happened. A sign reading “trail magic” and the unmistakable smell of hotdogs. A church group had setup, but our deadline was looming. Briefly I considered asking for a ride to town, but only one vehicle was parked, so we opted to forgo the food and keep walking.

Mass and Connecticut are full of farmland, which soon disappears completely in Vermont and the northern states. In fact, dropped randomly into Massachusetts, a hiker would vehemently confirm that they were in Virginia farm fields. The land is identical. Bee balm, clovers, yarrow, queen Anne’s lace, plus myriad others lend a scent unmistakably “AT.” Every thru hiker knows it. A sweet melody of yellow grasses and nectar clad blooms for the nose. Tater and I, despite our rush, made sure to be present-minded for these last field crossings.

The hitch into Great Barrington has never been an easy one for me. It’s a ritzy tourist town with a very upscale town center. Most stores would probably pay to keep the hiker trash out.

Watching a dozen Subaru’s pass our outstretched thumbs is a phenomena known only on this short stretch of highway seven. Thankfully though a pleasant woman named Jess pulled over and popped her hatchback. We approached and placed our packs on the tarp lining the trunk.

“You’ve picked up hikers before!” I said. On the way we learned that she is a shuttle driver, along with Joe, who I met in 2019. Together they provide rides to hikers for pay.

We told her about our post office conundrum and she drove us straight in, a few miles out of her way. When I offered cash she refused it, saying she never charges hitchhikers. Thanks for the Trail Magic Jess!

Inside we claimed our Amazon box. I had ordered a new phone case and two Rite In The Rain pens. Tater, nearing thirty years of age, has found she can no longer sleep comfortably on a foam pad. As a side sleeper, I switched to an inflatable one years ago. So included in our box of goodies was a SleepInGo pad for Tater. A game changer for overnight comfort. Having our box in hand was a relief!

We had been trying for a couple days to find a hotel room for the weekend. With the Forth of July holiday, prices had effectively doubled, and vacancies were virtually non-existent. One inn owner actually laughed at me when I called the day before.

Nevertheless, Tater is tenacious when she’s feeling gross and in need of a shower, so she made another round of calls. She managed to find a reasonable room in Lee, a town about ten miles north. She repeated the price to person on the other line, and I gave two thumbs up.

After some discussion we decided to just hitchhike to Lee, figuring it would take at least two rides.

That’s exactly what happened. A man in a Volvo wagon took us to Stockbridge and wished us luck. As we found a shady spot to orient and prepare for our next hitch, he got out of the car and presented us with a brown paper bag.

“This is a pecan and cherry bread loaf. My wife sent me for two but, really we only need one.” He smiled and we laughed before bidding him farewell.

Within minutes a gardener picked us up in her Nissan, laughing as we meticulously entered her vehicle and apologized for the smell. Apparently many, many flats of plants had graced the seats before us, and we were the least of her worries.

She dropped us at Joe’s Diner in Lee, a place Tater and her mother had eaten at during her hike.

It was so wonderful to eat reasonably priced greasy diner food. The coffee was dark and had as much bite as the servers, who playfully slung the occasional one-liner at us. All-day breakfast being the love of hikers everywhere, Tater and I quickly found ourselves in a pancake-induced carb coma.

Lee is a lovely town, better than Great Barrington in that there are less tourists, cheaper restaurants, and real locals. Among these locals was our second Steve of the day. Steve of “The Five BC’s of Lee.” Tater seems to magnetically attract dogs wherever she roams, but finding seven at once was incredible. The five border collies were Steve’s, and the two doodle mixes were customer’s dogs. In addition to his day job, he walks dogs like this to the tune of eight to fourteen miles a day. Additionally, he wears t-shirts for various local businesses, adding ad revenue to his income as well.

He helped direct us to our hotel, and we managed to check in three minutes before the rain came back again, with vengeance. It was a hiker-hotel to be sure, but we were glad to hear the drops beating hard on the roof overhead instead of our shoulders.

Showers and laundry at the local coin wash filled our evening, until we ran back into Steve again. Tater and I took a leash with him as we searched for dinner. I fell in love with Sophia, all the way to the right in the first photo.

It was a very long, full day. Once back in our room we slept soundly, though not before Tater hatched a good plan. The following day, instead of navigating two difficult hitches back to Great Barrington, we’d just walk there on the trail. Then once completing this short southbound section, we could hop on the local transit bus back to Lee, and continue north on trail. Tomorrow, we would be Sobo’s (southbounders).

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…

Waking at Belters Campsites, Tater promptly renamed the spot “Belters Tick Emporium.”  How rightly so.  We took out another two by the time we finished breakfast. 

We made for Falls Village seeking “second breakfast.”  There outside a small café, Tater found a puppy to play with.  I was inside waiting on our food when I spotted her exiting with a large tupperware bowl full of water.  She cannot help caring for dogs wherever she goes.

We sat near the two elderly women who owned the curious, friendly little puff ball.  Forty-five minutes and a breakfast panini disappeared in an instant.  We said our farewells, and well wishes, they were lovely women to have brunch with.

The big goal for today was to resupply at LaBonne’s market.  A pricy, though well-stocked grocery, I’ve stopped there every year. 

Along the way we met a hiker named Zippy Morocco, traveling the whole trail out of a 34 liter Sassafras pack from Yama Mountain Gear.  Turns out, he was testing a new iteration of the pack and knows Gen personally.  Yama makes some of the finest gear in the world out of Gen’s little shop in Missoula, MT.  Knowing I’d talk gear with Zippy for a further six hours, I bid him fairwell and let him pass.  Besides, Labonnes.  Priorities!

The town of Salisbury has a .8 mile trail from the AT to the center of town, which is much safer than the road.  We met two thru’s along this path, who were headed back to trail.  They raved about the deli and produce. We couldn’t wait!

I had forgotten how overwhelming resupply in a crowded grocery store can be, after so many days in the quiet, sparsely populated woods.  My mental shopping list was immediately vanished at the sight of the myriad shelves of everything a hiker does and does not need.  So many bags from Bob’s Red Mill.  Should I carry milled flax seeds?  Not at $9.85 a bag!

Tater and I huddled up before entering. We figured we would need a total of three days food to slowly mosey our way over Race and Everitt mountains, then down into Great Barrington. 

Nevertheless, our eyes were larger than our packs, and when we re-huddled, we realized by what margin.  Hiker hunger has yet to hit for me, but she has it in full form.  Blueberries, peaches, applesauce, and pudding cups, what the hell kind of distance hikers are we? Hungry ones.

I’ve never been unable to roll my Hyperlite’s rolltop before today, though by strapping the Doritos to the top I got it closed. 

     “Umm…”  Tater held out half a bag of carrots.  I found a home for them in a side pocket. 

My critical mistake however was not so much the buying of too much food, but rather the timing of its consumption.  I downed a Bolthouse Farms “C-Boost” to ward against whatever my sinuses are fighting.  Then I chased it with an entire can of Arizona Arnold Palmer iced tea.  All of that sugar hit my stomach at once, and like Poor Bear, there was a “rumbly in tumbly.”

Tater spotted the privy first, at the edge of trailhead.  I thanked providence, the divine universe, and all gaurdians of the spirit world, as I desecrated the space in a most thorough manner.  She kept hiking, and I was grateful. 

     “I’m so glad you weren’t privy to those sounds and smells!”  She rolled her eyes and we continued the long, circituiutous route up to the Lions Head.  We stopped and ate here, the view being by far the best we had seen yet.  We had been musing the idea of a sexy hiker calender, and thus this photo happened: 

We actually overshot the Riga Shelter spur by .3 miles (thanks GaiaGPS for helping us sort that out) and so we doubled back.  A hiker named Sidetrack passed us on the way, headed to Bear Mountain to complete a thirty mile day.  Bless these thru’s in their 20’s…  I have neither the desire or stamina these days.

We reached the Riga Shelter and found our companions, Smooth, Car Jacker, Coolwhip, and Cool Cucumber.  This shelter is known for its epic sunrise view, but sunset is pretty stunning as well.  We crowded around the picnic table and watched the reds and yellows streak across the farmlands below.  Lakes captured the spectrum in full, as small boats rippled across the palette.

What lovely sunset, with so many lovely folks.