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. 

Tater slid back the barn-style door which separated the bathroom from the rest of our room.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she proclaimed, towel-clad and looking beautiful as ever.

“Actually, I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t be.” I assured her, and grabbed her leg firmly.

“OH my God.” She exhaled.

“Don’t worry, I’ve almost got him out.” I said working quickly. Then she saw it.

“WOW! That’s the largest one I’ve ever seen!”

“Really? I’ve seen bigger.”

“Nah dude, that thing’s a monster!”

I held it up and ignited my mini-Bic lighter. The tick never stood a chance.

(Actually she came running and screaming out of the bathroom but, this is how I’ll choose to remember this moment.)

By the morning of our fifth day on trail, the guests of the Cornwall Inn all knew us as “the hikers.” The inn, well outside the budget of most thru’s 1500 miles in, rarely sees northbounders.

Our sink-cleaned laundry, apologetically drying on every available Adirondack chair, gave us away. Tater even utilized the hangers from our closet to speed the process. Brilliant.

To further cement our descent into hiker trash, she also gave me my first haircut in almost three years. One inch titanium sewing scissors? In her hands, they did the job masterfully. She took off about half an inch, enough to experiment with cutting curly hair.

Today though, we were focused only on breakfast and packing. Mark, the inn owner, was kind enough to send us off with six gigantic pretzels from his wife’s latest trip to Boston. Wrapped for the road in about a yard of cling wrap, I accepted them eagerly.

He drove us back to the Cornwall Country Store, where we made a quick resupply and left for the trail.

At Pine Swamp Brook Shelter we met Smooth, Coolwhip, and Car Jacker, the latter being an unassuming petite woman in her early fifties. I still need to get the story behind that trail name… Smooth may as well be Sam Elliot with his carefree always smiling demeanor, and Coolwhip, well, I’m still figuring that guy out.

The lot of us made our way to Belters Campsites, one of the many well maintained overnight spots in Connecticut. Tater and I snagged site number two, sitting cozily nestled in a grove of old pines.

“Another one!” She said for the third time. For the third time I left my tent to go capture then immolate a tick found either on, or inside her tent. As for me, I killed a nymph and two adults. One on my thigh, one in my tent, and one sunning himself on the outer wall. My you be freed from suffering, you disease-spreading little shits.

As usual we pitched vestibule to vestibule and talked well past ten. It was hot, stifling warm, with no breeze to speak of. Then the temperature dropped sharply around three in the morning, sending me into my base layers, hoodie, and socks.

I’ve been fighting some kind of sinus infection for a few days now, but aided by Benedryl and Tylenol, I slept soundly.

We walked along the Housatonic, in what is one of my favorite sections of the whole trail.

A couple with a border collie mix named “Kitt” came by, and Tater was instantly smitten with him. She had hoped to see a dog in town today. The Trail provides.

We decided to cut into town early and avoid most of a giant hill that stood before. Having hiked the entire trail already, the alure of seeing a new neighborhood overruled the purist tendency to step every single mile of the trail.

We passed beautiful farms, one with a cooler of eggs for sale. In fact, we were on Old AT, faded blazes and signage still visible. The couple with Kitt found us again, this time offering us a ride into town in their little Nissan. We declined, and they seemed to love our decision. It was a lovely walk lined with chicory and shaggy brown cows, watching us sleepily as we passed.

We crossed under Cornwall Bridge and made for the Cornwall Country Market, a fine little boutique grocery Tater remembered from 2018. We promptly devoured sandwiches, while chatting with a local who pulled up on his Ducati.

A ski patrolman on Bromley, he completed his WEMT at Solo, where I did my WFR training. I probed him with questions about the more advanced course, which requires students to live on campus for more than a month. I had no idea hospital rotations were also part of training, which makes me want to sign up even more.

My Wilderness First Responder course was one of the best things I’ve ever pursued as a backpacker. Nine days of very intense training with medical, high angle rescue, and survival training. My class consisted of field guides, paddle guides, an EMT needing CEU’s and a retired police officer. I was one of three who did not work in the backcountry professionally.

This local, who’s name I didn’t catch, is headed to Nepal in a couple of months. He has completed the Annapurna Circuit, and is returning to summit a 22,000ft peak. The name escapes me.

Today was a planned town stop, and we made reservations at the Cornwall Inn. Mark the proprietor, was kind enough to pick us up.

We showered and spent the rest of the day alternating between the Inn’s pool and hot tub. It’s amazing how fast we moved back into the rhythm of town chores. Sink laundry, cook pot cleaning… A second shower.

We fell asleep watching Mean Girls, but not before Tater commented:

“This bed is so comfortable I don’t want to go to sleep. I just want to continue feeling the comfy all night.”

She didn’t last long. Neither did I.

“I just peed for the forth time dude!”  Getting excited about your friend’s urine and bowel movements is something that occurs when you’re hiking in 90 degree weather.  Both of us had experienced a loss of appetite to some degree, but Tater’s constant ingestion of water without need to pee, had us both a little worried.

In all reality, this was great news.  We were fully sweat-soaked by the midday sun.  Our third of such days thus far.

My cousin Ian and I had to bail off a short thru hike of the Foothills Trail in South Carolina due to the oppressive heat.  I should have been keeping a closer eye on his “in’s and out’s” and by the time I was it was too late.  We had been doing larger miles than we probably should have, and by day three we were both pretty cooked.

When Ian was still feeling terrible after an hour at a swimming hole, we told me he wanted to head home.  I’m so glad we made that call when he did, because little did we know at the time our egress was nine miles with 2700ft of elevation gain.  All this via a forest service road, where we had zero info on water sources. 

Thankfully Ian is a tough dude.  Thankfully too, our other cousins Will and Charlie, were more than happy to come get us.  It was a rough go though, one that has me vigilant.  Tater is extremely experienced too, and so we’ve been listening quite attentively to our bodies.

Today we met Frodo, Sam Wise, and Grass while ducking some rain at a shelter.  Two are Georgia Southern grads, and Grass has stepped away from his lawn care business to pursue the trail.  They’re typical young, bright-eyed, and virile thru hikers.  Nevertheless they expressed the typical vulnerabilities, asking us dozens of questions about the Whites and Maine, as soon as they learned we had seen them before. 

We took our time leaving after that long lunch break with the guys.  The weather abated and we capitalized on the lowered air temperature. 

We caught a gorgeous evening view off the side of Schaghticoke Mountain, where we met Richie Danger, an older thru from Richmond.  He has a remarkable resemblance in both tone and looks to Les Stroud.  He assured us it was a college nickname and was “quite insured” these days.

We continued on down St. John’s Ledges, which are a great preview of the White Mountains.  More like little arm floaties for an Olympic swimming lap.

There’s a lovely stretch of trail near the Housatonic River, and we made it there by six in the evening.  We passed a bald eagle on the far shore eating prey, and continued to able on slowly.

When we made camp we pitchd in the “besties share vesties” arrangement, a throwback to my friend Casey Jones who came up with the phrase.  Basically, our doors faced each other so we could converse bug free.

We slept like rocks. 

Birds woke me at five in the morning.  Five!  The sun was already cresting the surrounding hills, casting red hughes across my face.  I slept with both vestibules open last night, partially for ventilation, and partially because I lacked space to pitch them. 

One thing you get spoiled with when using a bivy, is that the footprint is body-sized.  If you can lay on a patch of dirt (or rock, or edge of a tent platform) you can setup there and sleep for the night.  The Gossamer Gear Two though, is a behemoth. 

What I assumed to be a camp full of thru-hikers when we arrived last night, was in fact a troop of scouts with a few parents.  They were the quietest boyscouts I’ve ever encountered, respectfully silent even as they packed up their pots and tents this morning. 

I had breakfast with the three parents and a thru-hiker named Santiago.  He told me his name was a reference to Hemmingway’s Santiago, from Old Man and The Sea.  

Tater slept in till 9am, as she’s still adjusting to Eastern Standard Time.  In the meantime I reorganized my pack, read the shelter log, and layed out my food to take inventory.  When she woke, she gave me these fashionable “Tater” braids:

The heat kicked both of our asses out of the gate, but the trail was so lovely and gentle for much of the day.  We crossed the boarder into Connecticut after a short detour off trail due to a damaged bridge.  A local on a bike gave us directions, but I must admit Tater is the better navigator.  

Around lunch we found a view with some fine sitting rocks, and realized to our dismay that both of our appetites were waning.  They should have been ramping up by now.

Tater made a call to home, and I checked Gaia and the guidebook for some place we could cool down.  The Housatonic was .4 straight down hill, and the mere thought lifted our spirits.  In 2016 I sat in this river for a full hour, cooling from what was then 100+ degree heat indexes day on end.

We found some fine shady rocks and sat submerged to our knees for the better part of an hour.  The river isn’t safe to drink from, and we found a couple of dead crayfish, perfectly intact but otherwise inanimate.  Nevertheless, a fly fisherman greeted us on his way back to town, excited to tell us he had never caught so many fish before.  Hopefully they were catch and release, the river is full of heavy metals!

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, though we did get some fantastic views off the side of Schaghticoke mountain.

While lounging we met a thru named Bumble Beast, who chatted with us for twenty minutes or more. 

At the nearby campsite we were delighted to find a strong, beautiful, and drinkable stream.  By dinner time we were both actually hungry and thirsty again, putting my mind to ease.

It takes time to settle into a long distance hike.  The mind and body eagerly protest what is in reality a total and complete upset of your typical daily life.  I overhead Tater’s mom say “be kind to yourself,” which is the antidote to every ailment of this transition period.  I’ve written that phrase in countless trail registers now, especially on the southern AT where so many are just starting out. 

Complicating the transition, the bugs have been horrendous.  I caught my first tick attempting to hide behind my knee tonight.  They always end up there for some reason, but my Tick Key and lighter made short work of him.  I was delighted that it even worked on a nyph, which this certainly was.  Being so near to the town Lyme, which the disease is named after, has Tater and I both at a heightened level of diligence. 

We’ve only a few days at most in Connecticut, then we’ll be on to Massachusetts.  New England is such a beautiful place. 

AT 2022 Day 1 5.7 miles

I arrived at Ian’s NYC apartment around 12:30p.  The short Uber from Laguardia was terrifying, as I realized that New York drivers in mass, are probably the scariest drivers in the world!

Ian, Tater’s brother, prepared a “triple decker” PB&J, with a bulging ziploc full of “train snacks” for her and I.  This is what love in snack form looks like: 

In Ian’s living room I emptied my $10 Goodwill suitcase, and set about the task of loading up my backpack.  Tater did the same and we were fully trail ready within fifteen minutes. 

Gorging on our “triple deckers,” we got a basic plan for the day, aiming to hike about six miles. 

Ian was kind enough to ride the subway with us all the way to Grand Central, where we sat and drank coffee waiting for our 3pm train to Pawling to arrive.  Soon it was time, and we bid our urban field guide farewell.  His presence and direction evaporated all the stress I normally feel in cities.  Like the rest of Tater’s family, I adore Ian’s calm, gentle demeanor. 

Our train ride was pretty uneventful, with a couple of our fellow passengers recognizing us as hikers and asking the typical questions.

“Holy shit we’re actually doing this!”  Made up a fair amount of the banter between Tater and I.  Both of us were still full of nerves as Google maps faithfully guided us along the seventeen stops.

When we made it to Pawling, a taxi pulled up and a hiker named Penguine offered us a ride.  A few minutes later we were standing outside of Native Landscapes, a hiker-friendly nursery.  Penguin went in to source a fuel can.  After seeing our first white blaze, Tater and I were literally bouncing with glee. All pre-hike stress disappeared instantly, as it always does, and we ran for the trail.

Within the first tenth of a mile, small furry forms came into view about twenty yards ahead. Two gorgeous kittens bounded out of the brush and chased each other up trail, before disappearing again.  We tried to coax them out with calls and promises of tuna, but they were gone.  Still, seeing them within the first ten minutes, we took their presence as a good omen.  I’ve never seen baby cats on the trail before. 

After remembering how to read the guidebook, and averting a very real fear that we had actually been walking south for the past hour, we laughed and filled our water at the first large stream we found.

The first mile of the trail was mainly farm fields, and we joyfully baked in the 90 degree heat, though the sun was reclining fast.

We rolled into Wiley Shelter a little after 8pm. Tater and I were probably heard for miles with our boisterous and loud city voices.  We pitched camp (my first time using the GG Two in the field) with practiced efficiency.  The occupants of the other twelve tents were already asleep when we arrived, though one man was finishing dinner. Tater and I communicated in whispers.

We made our way to the glorious luxury that is a picnic table and cooked dinner.  Hers being Spanish rice, mine being some yakisoba instant noodles I bought as emergency COVID stores, long expired. 

Bugs drove us to eat in our respective tents as soon as our stoves were cooled.  I forgot how utterly spacious and civil a tent is compared to tarp and bivy.  I feel like I’m in a dorm room with crap scattered everywhere right now.

It’s one thing to go on a weekend backpacking trip, but living on a trail for months on end requires toiletries, chargers, and other miscellania simply unneeded for a two day jaunt.  Those tiny (often featherweight) items take up space and mental bandwidth.  You need to keep track of everything in your pack, and simply lumping these things into “electronics bag” “nightly bag” and “toiletry bag” helps tremendously. 

It’ll take a few days and maybe a couple weeks to get back into a rhythm.  In 2019 my “nightly bag” consisted of everything I wanted next to me overnight.  Earbuds, contact solution, case, hand sanitizer, along with my external battery with charge cables for my phone and headlamp.

You can tell a hikers experience level by how organized they stay in camp and while cooking.  Like all thru hikers, Tater and I can pitch tents and feed ourselves in well under fifteen minutes. 

It feels so good to be on trail again.  So far we feel great.  Ya know, six miles in and all… Till next time!