“No worries dude, I’ll pick you up over my lunch break.”

With these words Sage put me greatly at ease. I had spent the previous two hours at a table outside a coffee shop, writing between short, tear-induced pauses. Tater had started her journey back home, and I was pretty devastated at the parting. Her brother Ian, an absolute godsend of support over the previous days, was driving her back with him to New York. By the evening she’d be on a flight back to Oregon. Back to her family, and her doctors. She was already on the mend, but on trail that could change in an instant. Heading home was the right call, and we both knew it.

Our three years of friendship had always felt to me to be building towards something more. Living on opposite sides of the country had put a damper on that though. With my mother’s illness I refused to leave Georgia, so pursuing Tater romantically slowly became more daydream than priority. Having finally had this summer together, finally getting confirmation that there was indeed chemistry, made parting all the more difficult. We still had tentative plans to move in together, but that morning, at the time of that final hug in Hanover, NH, my hopes were dashed.

Sage arrived in his green Toyota minivan, to find my rather pathetic form on a park bench outside the post office. The lady at the counter inside had been uncommonly kind, seeming to sense my emotional state. For the third time I had picked up my winter/shoulder-season sleeping bag here, and for the third time in five years, my summer sleeping bag was on it’s way home to Georgia. Hanover’s post office is the best on the entire Appalachian Trail.

Pulling up to the curb next to me, Sage called through the open window.

“Get in you smelly hiker!”

I was elated to see him. In my pack went through the passenger side door, and on we both went towards Sharon, Vermont. A sleepy farm town boasting such civilities as a gas station and its own post office, the place suites Sage well. While bound to a computer for work, he’s more of a luddite than I am, and I love him for it. There is zero cell service in Sharon, it’s a magical place.

Typical of my interactions with my long-distance hiking friends, we picked up right where we left off three years ago. I’d sent him texts and the like of course, but the man abhors social media, so all of our communications are intentional. Today, we discussed only the most important of topics. Subjects such as, is 210D Robic actually the best pack fabric? What are the affects of heat on Dyneema Cuben Fiber over time, and of course, what the hell is up with Pa’lante Packs? Our beloved cottage backpack maker was making odd moves, like selling $70 carbon fiber “rolling” trays, and moving pack production off-shore. Their garage-sewn packs, once the pinnacle of ultralight backpacking design, have been steadily adding needless straps and features ad nauseam.

“They’re just going to become another goddamn Gossamer Gear.” I exclaimed. Then we laughed about the hilariously terrible stitching on the Zpacks tent Sage ordered when we hiked in ‘19.

We pulled down the long driveway leading to the main house on his friend Coley’s farm. On the right we passed a tiny house on wheels, nestled back behind massive stands of mint. The owner, I later learned, was on a multi-month trip to southeast Asia. Next on the left, we passed a blue and white cottage modeled after the main house. Used as a long-term Air BnB rental, Sage gets a new “roommate” every three months or so.

At the end of the driveway was a standalone garage and to the right of this was the large main house. I immediately noticed the diversity of the plantbeds outside, with many native “weeds” not only kept, but cultivated within them. Trellises with stunning blooms adorned the side of the garage, along with a small indoor/outdoor sunroom dedicated to potting and planting. This was a gardener’s home!

Within this main house, Sage and Kelly have a room, with Coley living in the larger master bedroom on the other side. For my visit, I was given the run of the basement, and shared a bathroom with Sage.

After setting my pack down, and getting my forth consecutive shower in as many days (such luxury) I adorned myself with the loner clothes set out for me. Baggy shorts, and one of Sage’s trademark rayon button downs –the only thing you will ever see the man hike in. He had to get back to work, but took me for a quick tour.

First we went to meet the sheep, who came bounding out of there shed to greet a potentially food-carrying visitor. My hands were empty, and they soon lost interest, but they were cute buggers. That octopi and sheep have virtually the same eyeballs has always unnerved me, but their little grass munching mouths were cute, as were their spirited trots up the hill.

Next Sage showed me his collection of cactus and the amazing home office he spends most days in. A small turret that overlooks the main house, this small ten by ten room is accessed via the back deck by a spiral staircase. Inside was his work computer, many monitors and of course, more cacti. A beautiful, distraction-free space full of light, it reminded me of Carl Jung’s Bollingen Tower. Supposedly the famous psychiatrist had some of his greatest breakthroughs in the solitude of that specially designated space.

Here we bid farewell, Sage having to troubleshoot some code for one of his customer’s websites, and I feeling very much in need of a nap. Before turning in though, I sat on the porch and wrote a poem for Tater:

I wish you were here,
In this warm realm of flowers,
Drifting off to dreams with me,
Best way to pass the hours.

I’d break if I had told you,
How hard this morning was,
So I’m glad we kept goodbye,
To middle fingers raised with love.

I want to walk every mountain,
Then to camp with you,
And wake each morning,
Your sleepy head in view.

Then eat ALL the pizza,
And slices of keylime pie,
Watch Schitts Creek,
And the blue in your eyes.

I miss you, I miss you,
Queen of Gollum voices
You can have all my soda sips,
And of my snacks the choicest.

I miss you.

When I woke, Sage asked if I wanted to go swimming. Together we piled in the van and drove to the nearby White River. The water was impossibly clear, and refreshing on a warm cloudless day. We took turns marching out against the flow along the smooth pebbled beds, then floating back to where we started. We talked music festivals and love. Of course, the gear conversation continued too. This time about Sage’s beloved Nashville Packs backpack.

“We could literally float home from here if we wanted!” Sage mentioned proudly. In the end we decided driving back was the wiser call.

When we returned, Kelly had come home from work. The evening temperatures were absolutely gorgeous, so we decided dinner would be had on the back porch. One of the many facets of Sage I saw for the first time that day, was his incredible ability to cook. Also, his expertise as a delegator. Within moments Kelly and I both had our jobs. Mine was chopping peppers and tomatoes. Kelly busied herself assembling a salad. Sage manned the gas grill, tongs laying out massive chicken breasts. The sounds of chopping, sizzling, and intermittent splashes from the sink, culminated into an array of enticing scents. By the time we sat down to our plates of chicken taco salad, the three of us were ravenous. Or, more accurately, I was. I can only guess about the others!

Over dinner we spoke about the Long Trail, which I had wanted to thru hike since 2019. Sage completed it in 2018, along with the John Muir Trail in California. The Long Trail can be thought of as a preview of the AT, and the John Muir is likewise a snippet of the PCT. Sage hiked both to decide which he’d rather thru hike. In the end to my surprise, he decided on the Appalachians.

We decided to bookmark that conversation that evening though. Resupply strategy and the specific challenges of the Long Trail were a bit much to process so late in the day. Instead I thumbed the paddle trail guidebook of the Adirondacks on the table, while Sage explained the difference between fiberglass and Royalex canoes.

Last year he had acquired a Mad River 14’ with paddles and everything. To my surprise the very robustly bellied hull weighed only fifty pounds. My 13’ Perception kayak weighed fifty-five, and had no where near the hauling capacity.

Still very much on hiker time, it was remarkably difficult to keep my eyes open after dark. I said goodnight to my hosts and headed for bed. Tomorrow we’d be loading up the Mad River and heading for the Waterbury Reservoir. The three of us would be venturing on what would be my first paddle camping trip in nearly six years.

As I write this, two massive sweetgums are swaying in the breeze outside my apartment window. It’s a chilly, rainy morning in Portland, Oregon. A chocolate lab is sleeping soundly on the living room futon couch, and Tater hasn’t stirred yet. I cannot wait to wake her with cuddles after I write this.

When I’m not backpacking, Saturdays are “us” days. It’s difficult to express the pleasure I derive, when I pull the cast irons down to cook breakfast on these mornings. I even remember to bring ketchup for her eggs now. A weird custom I’ve accepted, she accepting a myriad of mine over the past two months. We still don’t have a toaster, but with a pan for eggs, and one for toast (made the old-fashioned way) those little spring-filled boxes seem excessive.

We’re hiker trash, and inclined to keep it simple. Though our fanaticism to get the exact gear solution, or camp in precisely the most weather-sheltered spot, remains intact. Now we channel it towards more domestic avenues. Such as our perfect living room rug, acquired after many miles and hours of seeking. Or the dusty former library chair I’d overlook as junk, but for which Tater had a vision. After the paint, and the decadent black felt fabric, I began to catch glimpses too. In coming home from work to the finished product one evening, I knew she was right. It was what our living room was missing. Toasters though… I’m still on the fence.

Today Bugseed’s Bohemian Beaknik album, DJ Krush, and MF Doom are the beats of my morning solitude. I need to cultivate time alone these days, as it’s become a rarity. If only I could travel back to myself six months ago, to express what a glorious problem I’d soon have. To tell myself not to fret, companionship is on its way.

Yet, while company is a blessing, be it friends, family, or lovers; solitude is key to keeping these relationships intact. Like a beautiful paintings discovered with joy in the most unexpected places, so I would describe each of my friendships. Some are serene landscapes, some are fiery scenes with infinitesimal hues of sienna. Some are abstracts I don’t fully understand, yet adore for reasons that evade capture in words. So I think of my time alone as frames for these relationships. A space to myself that allows me to place them thoughtfully where they’ll be safe from my day-to-day bumpings and goings. Leaning them against a wall simply wont do!

By taking time to myself, I can figure out where best to place them, aiming for those spaces where they’ll shine the most fully, where their colors will illuminate with fullest impression. A house-keeping of the self that allows me to later be the most present with each of them.

It is in the spirit and value of this frame space, that I embarked on the Vermont Long Trail as a solo journey. Oddly, or perhaps rightly enough, the trek began by visiting a friend.

More soon.