The black SUV on the right shoulder ahead made me nervous. Just the running lights were on, as it sat, paralleled to the road. I was walking past row upon row of warehouses, the sound of jet aircraft still surprisingly loud as they climbed into the night sky. I had called ahead, and the owners of a motel were waiting for me. I thought about the pair of Altra Timps I discarded in Vermont the day before.
Mud-racked and thoroughly blown out after 450 miles, they had served me well. Tonight in Albany, my “camp shoes,” Luna sandals, were all I had. Before the hotel I’d meet with unseen roadway glass, and my Luna’s would bear their first full puncture. So would my heel.
Good, the SUV drove off.
During the next three miles I’d meet only one person, an old drunken man stumbling down the shoulder of the road.
“You need a light!” He shouted, a little louder than necessary as he passed me. In five seconds I had his whole story, it was almost my story. How long ago had he lost his license I wondered?
“GET a LIGHT!” He shouted after me when I passed him with no response, the last word seeming to slip as it lifted its way off his tongue. I continued under the overpass and disappeared into the darkness. I had a light. This was not a place to be seen.
The bus in from Burlington was pleasant enough, even with a multi-hour delay mid-route. For some reason it’s always Rutland… Other than that dung heap, it was a tour of one quaint Vermont town after the next. I had walked through most of them during the previous weeks, and in seeing those buildings again I felt them in my chest. I knew then the truth of this journey. I had fallen in love with the Green Mountain State.
I continued on, not bothering with my heel just yet. I had an 11pm deadline, and budget hotels were sparse so close to the tarmac.
Loud music and the buzz of night goers overtook the sounds of the airport long since passed. I could hear the neon sign of a roadhouse bar flickering all of its hertz, as I started up the path under its glow. Loud people. I could smell their shampoo twenty feet away as I passed the outdoor seating. I’ve been hiking long enough to know what that means…
Certainly the proprietors of the motel were surprised by my smell. My worn, disheveled appearance, exalted by day hikers on trail was here, a token of the opposite end of the social ladder. The two counseled quietly in their native tongue, seeming to debate with each other. Did the voice they heard on the phone match the man who stood here now? They were kind and gracious to be sure, but visibly relieved when my credit card went through. Check out ten. It’s never quite enough time.
Hell of a run though, these past thirty-six hours. By the kindness of two separate women, I managed to hitchhike from the Canadian border. I started near Jay, Vermont yesterday, and made it to the bus in Burlington this morning. It was all I could do to shower before bed. I probably did so only because I had a wound to clean. In the end, my heel was so calloused, the glass barely managed to draw blood.
The windows in my room were silent panes, though they faced the bar across the parking lot. For the unexpected quiet I was grateful. I closed the my curtains to the odd assortment of patrons coming and going there, then turned off the light.
“Another hotel room.” I lamented to Kaydee in a final goodnight text. I had much preferred the previous night’s stay, but in the months since Pawling, I had become restless and travel-worn. Inns can be very interesting places though. So, next time I’ll tell you about Mary’s sewing machine, Beth, and the Black Lantern Inn.
Dirty Girl Hikes 