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.

“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.

Out of respect for Tater’s privacy, I’ve decided to take down the previous two posts. Figuring out exactly what to share and not to share is something I’ve struggled with as a writer. In the same way that Jim Collins does not share any correspondence after 10pm, due to fatigue-induced lack of judgment; a similar lapse occurred for me. Apparently a 2,400 mile road trip cross-country leads to exactly the same kind of fatigue, and I hit “post” on two entries better left largely edited, or better yet in the “draft” folder permanently.

Originally Tater and I set out to walk from Pawling, NY to Mount Katahdin in Maine. A distance just shy of 750 miles, we unfortunately had to end our trip together a little under half-way there. Due to medical reasons, Tater and I parted in Hanover, NH. Though, trail-wise we were actually closer to the Maine Junction in Vermont. Our last official night on trail was at the Greenwall Shelter, with Cool Whip and a few others.

We ended up in a holding pattern for several days, during which time we ran into Smooth, who also nearly left his hike due to health concerns. I’m happy to report that he kept going, and a few days ago I received summit photos from both he and Cool Whip.

Tater’s brother was kind enough to drive up from New York. His kindness and support gave us both the space to make sure Tater’s decision to head home was being made with as clear a head as possible. We had a wonderful few days together. Tater’s whole family rallied to support her, and it felt meaningful to be a part of that effort.

After Tater headed back home to Oregon, I spent a few days with Sage and his girlfriend Kelly. That’s where I’ll pick up the story for now.

Tater and I have a reputation for sleeping in, so the boys were quiet when they packed and left in the morning. 

I woke not long after and made my usual journey to a tree, and then the bearbox to grab our food. Tater began to stir, and we took our time with breakfast.

We got underway and soon passed Griffith Lake, where all the tenters were headed the night before.  The bog boards here were rotting, and showing the wear of many travelers.  Such boards are placed in wet or muddy areas along the trail.  Usually just a pair of one by sixes bolted to a railroad tie, they keep these sections passable, and protect surrounding vegetation. 

This particular section of the AT / Long Trail goes through the beginnings of the Clarenden Gorge.  A distinct area of Vermont, the river here becomes deeper and faster as you head north.  The boarders quicky morph from pebbles to massive, pronounced slabs of stone.  One of these would become or lunch spot for the day.

There was a beautiful suspension bridge in view, and we were maybe a half mile from Big Branch Shelter.  Sage and I had stayed there for a night in 2019, and the place became memorable following a podcast I heard a few months afterward.

I’m fairly certain Legend, the Long Trail FKT holder, spoke about Sage and I during his Backpacker Radio interview.  Legend had intended to stop at Big Branch Shelter during his 2019 attempt but, “found two guys sleeping inside.”  So instead, he nodded off in the nearby privy for half an hour.  Legend made his SPOT device track public, and Sage was diligently following the record attempt. 

Over breakfast Sage mentioned that were passed during the night by the, well, Legendary backpacker.  So, I’m quite certain we were those “two guys.”  For the record, we would have welcome his company! 

Tater and I are far from going after FKT’s (fastest known times) which, is what trail records are called within the hiking community.  We did have a milestone of our own today though, and that was passing the two hundred mile mark from Pawling, NY.  Actually, we passed it days ago, but over lunch we finally remembered to take the photo. 

We tried packing up after lunch, but both ended up laying down on the slab again, our packs as pillows.  Within minutes we both fell asleep, waking an hour later. 

Soon we left, crossing the bridge and stopping briefly at the aforementioned shelter for a privy stop.  I made a quick note in the logbook there and we continued on.

We found ourselves on the way to Little Rock Pond, a popular day-use area with a GMC shelter on the edge.  We cruised through this flat, wide section of trail.  Our pace often encouraged the oncoming hikers to pull aside and let us pass.  This body of water is as memorable as Stratton Pond visually, though admittedly I forgot the name.  The rocks on the far shore being the defined, memorable feature. 

We stopped at the shelter for a snack, and met a GMC Caretaker named Pterodactyl.  He could have been Sage’s twin, and I was struck by how similar they looked.  He and Tater had both hiked similar sections in 2017, and had a lot of crossover trail family.  Eventually his attention was taken by other backpackers, out for the weekend and looking for a place to camp. 

At Pterodactyl’s advice, we made for the White Rocks Overlook.  In his mind the area was a “must-see” that most people unknowingly pass.

As we ascended away from the pond, I noticed a pair of Apple Airpod Pro’s sitting on a boulder.  They were encased in a fine leather pouch.  Being that we had only seen two southbounders the whole trip, I pocketed them and decided to carry them to the next shelter.  Trail registers are often full of messages around lost items, and more than once I’ve hiked a phone, a sleeping pad, or a trail journal back to its owner. 

Within the following mile, a young hiker named Bolt came into view, speeding southbound down the ridge.  He had a distraught look on his face.

     “Hey brother, did you loose some earbuds?”  I asked.

I took them from my shirt pocket and held them up.  He stopped instantly and leaned back in relief. 

     “Oh man, thank you so much!” 

I placed them in his hand and asked what his trail name was.  When I heard the reply I asked if he wanted to pass us now, but he said he needed to rest.

Tater and I continued the climb.  Bolt zoomed past us about ten minutes later, buds in ear with a far more relieved countenance.

As we closed in on the turn for the White Rocks Overlook, we recognized where we were on trail.  This section sports hundreds of tiny rock cairns, which have been around at least 2016.  Tater and I were happy to see them, the other big stand being near Sunfish Pond in New York. 

The side trail was tough to spot, and given that neither of us trust my sense of direction at this point, Tater took the lead.  She had gotten very quiet over the past few miles and I assumed she was just fatigued.  When we made it to the overlook, which we found a bit underwhelming, she told me she wasn’t feeling well. 

Though the trip to Greenwall Shelter was under a mile, it took us a while to get there.  The trail was super buggy, and Tater’s discomfort was becoming more and more obvious.  She began to lag behind, such that I made it down the shelter spur trail a full five minutes before she did. 

Coolwhip was at the shelter, along with a few others at the picnic table.  She said a simple “hey” to him and continued walking right past the shelter.  I got up and we found a quiet spot with room for both of our tents. 

Her answers to my questions were mostly one-word.  I got the feeling she needed space, so I returned to the shelter area. 

Cool Whip was good company, but I was pretty worried about Tater.  After dinner I returned to our camp and found her munching on some snacks in her tent.  She was more communicative, but I could tell she wasn’t herself. 

Rest has miraculous affects on trail, so we decided to sleep and address it in the morning.  Camp was buggy, though thankfully the weather was dry and a tad cooler than the past few days. 

We woke and finished packing our backpacks. Our gear was dry, our food bags were laden, and our legs felt fresh for the trail again.

I had asked my sister to mail in my shoulder season sleeping bag, and my puffy jacket, both custom made by Enlightened Equipment. I received notice over breakfast that the items had made it to the Manchester Center post office.

This morning’s 8:30am shuttle would take Merit, Tater, and I back to the trail. Sherri and Lori would also be joining. These were the two Long Trail ladies we’d leapfrogged since Greylock. Play by Play, her sister Relish, and another Long Trailer had left on the early shuttle.

Breakfast was eggs, pancakes, and even more bacon from Merit. All told she had purchased some seven packages of the stuff. We devoured breakfast as our packs lined the downstairs dining room wall, one by one in a row, all now readied for the trail.

Casey announced that it was time to go, so we reclaimed our shoes and poles, then boarded the giant Yukon SUV.

We stopped at the post office on the way, but my items could not be found. With people waiting on me in the truck, it had to become a problem for another day.

At the trailhead, Casey seemed reluctant to see us all go, and encouraged us to reach out to her and Duffy should we ever find ourselves on the Florida Trail. They reside in Jacksonville for most of the year.

Slowly we made our way back northbound, and up the gentle ascent over Bromley Mountain. Tater and I quickly took the lead of the group, and overtook several day hikers on our way up. Flowers were in bloom, bees and butterflies were busy buzzing about the tall stands of brush.

The wide ski slopes lent themselves to open, expansive views. We passed a south-bounder on the way, only the second we had seen this trip.

We eventually crested the summit of Bromley and spread out on the exposed rocks there. A Canadian day hiker chatter with us for a time, and one by one the rest of our hostel group arrived. Merit sat next to us and took in the view. Tater was content to sit for a while in the sun, but I was fidgety.

I explored the warming hut, looking for water. Neither of us had brought enough up with us. Then I called Sage to keep him posted on our position. We would be closing in on Woodstock within a few days.

Bromley is a pretty iconic summit on the AT. The first real ski infrastructure a hiker encounters going northbound, it firmly states that you’re in the north. The ski lift was even operating today, depositing dozen after dozen of flip-flop clad tourists from the resort below.

Tater and I were quite entertained watching a group we decided must be a bachelor party. The head of the group, after exploring for some time finally announced:

“Guys, we took the wrong lift! We’re on the wrong goddamn mountain!”

“Poor dude-bro’s.” Tater lamented.

“Poor dude-bro’s.” I agreed.

We decided to push on down the other side of the mountain. Tater and I were both low on water. As we approached Mad Tom Notch, we noticed two milk crates piled with fresh, unopened gallons of water. A note said that they were from the Green Mountain Club.

Such caches are pretty common down south, and with Vermont in record drought, we eagerly poured from the jugs.

Next to the cache was a group doing trail magic. The couple looked familiar and I inquired. Sure enough, the woman was none other than Krispi, a class of 2016 thru hiker I had met my first year on the trail. She had gone on to complete the Pacific Crest Trail, and most of the Continental Divide Trail.

Her and her boyfriend’s trail magic stopped a full dozen hikers in their tracks. We enjoyed some bagged chips, and sodas. I also had the best non-alcoholic IPA of my life. Appleseed appeared, and we spoke with him for a time. Slowly but surely the man was coming out of his shell.

We continued on, leapfrogging the couple and their friends all the way to Peru Peak Shelter.

Tater and I originally planned to push to the camp sites near Lost Pond, but as we sat in Peru Peak Shelter, we observed some half-dozen thru hikers streaming by. We were definitely being caught by the wave of hikers behind us since the start. We had just managed to surf the northern edge of the crowd these past weeks, but their pace had caught ours.

Staying at Peru Peak Shelter meant only a ten mile day, and following the zero, we wanted more miles. When Krispi’s crew arrived, including her friend with a very yappy beagle, we immediately inquired about where they planned to stay for the night. When they said the lake, we knew we were staying put. The dog had whined literally the entire journey up Peru. Tater and I were over it.

It was early, but the shelter was vast, and comfortable. Tater and I had tented nearly every night, and this would be an interesting change of pace. The nearby tent sites were already taken by other hikers, so we didn’t have much choice anyway.

Not long after we had inflated our sleeping pads and began to settle in, Cool Whip and Cool Cucumber both arrived. They too were staying in the shelter. It would be a trail fam reunion! Smooth was in town spending four long days with his wife. Cool Whip and Tess intended to spend four days off trail as well, as soon as he made it to the Inn at the Long Trail, still two days ahead.

We were so happy to see our friends again! Cucumber opted for the shelter, but Cool Whip was determined to camp.

“Well, the spot I chose said it was a reforestation area but, it can reforest tomorrow.” He explained.

I was set about my calve massage duties, keeping my hiking partner in tiptop shape, when he began to cook dinner. Right on cue, GMC Caretaker Compass Rose came by and introduced herself.

“So there is a tent pitched in the reforestation area… Does it belong to any of you guys?”

Cool Whip looked up, and explained he hadn’t realized where he had setup, but that the tent was his.

“So, was that your hat then, hanging on the reforestation area sign?”

Cool Whip turned slightly pink and admitted that it was. Then he refused Compass Rose’s kind offer to help him move his tent. We giggled at him like classmates, Cool Cucumber thought it quite hilarious.

“I guess your bunking with us tonight Cool Whip!” Cucumber exclaimed.

The caretaker stayed and talked with us for a while. I asked her a million questions about her job, by this time having moved on to massaging Tater’s feet. She accepted our $5 use fees for staying in the shelter, and issued Tater and I a single card.

“Here’s one card for both of you, since you guys are obviously together.”

I explained how happy I was at all the work the GMC had put in. Since 2016 the shelters, privies, and tent pads in this section had greatly improved. Besides, as I told Compass Rose, I prefer the volunteer-based GMC over the for-profit AMC.

“Yep, we hear that a lot!” She said, and then continued on her patrol.

Over dinner Cool Cucumber related that he had hiked the Camino de Santiago four times. Tater and I asked him several questions, as we had almost hiked that trail instead of coming back to the AT.

When Tater asked if he had ever found a love interest during these European hikes, he mentioned a German woman who had caught his eye.

“However, I am a Catholic Priest so, pursuit wasn’t really an option.”

Tater and I were shocked to hear that Cucumber was a priest! Though it all made sense. A Jesuit scholar, along with all the places he had lived and taught. Cool Cucumber is the coolest priest I’ve ever met! He continued on with his account of the Camino:

“You see, so many of these cathedrals are empty, and there’s a bell in town that is rung if there is a priest staying nearby. So for these small villages I would perform mass in Spanish and English. This way the villagers would benefit, and my fellow travelers also.”

Cool Whip came back and setup in the shelter with us, remarking on how kind the caretaker was. The campsite move took him less than ten minutes.

I continued conversation withCucumber about his profession as a teacher, relating that it is the one job I had always felt called towards.

“I have taught at all levels, from young elementary children, on up to graduate students. Universally, what never changes across this whole spectrum are the excuses for not getting work done!”

We laughed and he continued:

“The most important thing though, the message I try to impress on anyone who wants to teach, is that your students are never going to remember the majority of what you teach them. At least ninety percent of the information will not be retained.

What they will remember though, is how you made them feel.”

Solid advice, and a sentiment I can viscerally verify. From Mrs. Ezell in third grade, to the absolute crackpot philosophy professor who’s class was the first I dropped as a college student. I do indeed remember how each of these people made me feel.

The sun was fading fast on our log home, and we all settled in for the night. Our backpacks were hung from hopefully mouse-proofed cords, and left open just in case. Our food was safely bear boxed, and our bed rolls were cozy.

Tater and I snuggled in together, us on one side of the shelter, the two Cool’s on the other. With the babbling stream out front, and the endearing snores of our friends, we soon slept soundly.

The following are what distance hikers strive to accomplish when they hit town. As you’ll soon understand, these are time consuming chores. Often days off trail are far more stressful than the ones on trail!

Laundry: Best done at a hiker hostel with loaner clothes, so that you can wash ALL of your clothing at once. More often than not however, this is done at a bathroom-less laundromat or a hotel’s guest laundry machines. Why so few laundromats have bathrooms is one of the great mysteries of the universe. I’ve left handwritten thank you notes at the ones that do.

Worst case scenario, laundry must be done by hand. Any basin will do, be it the sink at Wendy’s or a state park bathroom. In hotels, Tater extends the luggage rack in the bathtub, and uses it as an indoor clothesline.

More than once I’ve used my body to dry freshly “cleaned” clothes, by simply wearing the wet items for an hour. All backpacking clothing should be synthetic or wool, so this is a viable option.

Shower: I’ve showered in truck stops, behind a garden store, via a deli’s outside spigot, in community rec centers, and of course, hostels, and hotels. What makes a good shower a great shower is conditioner.

I often carry my own, because it actually is a rare commodity. Letting Tater have the rest of my bottle, not long after we first met, was something that made us friends for life. Besides, who can say no to such a woman, when she bursts from the stall towel-clad and in need? Not this man. Never this man.

Resupply: Of the list, this is the most important task. You cannot hike without food! Decisions around sustenance can have a massive impact on morale and comfort on trail. The problem is that a hiker’s brain often goes to mush in a grocery store. The options can be overwhelming, so I always try to get a basic grocery list together the night before a town day.

Packets are life! Condiments like Mayonaise and honey, or packets of instant coffee, or electrolytes can all can turn a rough day into an easier one. My goto are the “Energy Rush” from 4C, and Propel packets. Both contain 200mg of sodium and the 4C boasts caffeine and B-Vitamins. That 4C hiker-crack has turned many a rough, cold, shaky day into a solid effort at real miles.

On the spectrum of backcountry eaters, my tastes are simple. I can eat cous cous, Easy Mac, or instant mashed potatoes for dinner, for weeks at a time. For breakfasts I choose between Pop Tarts, instant oatmeal, or when I can find it, Bob’s Red Mills Muesili.

Lunches are always tortilla-based. They range from simple peanut butter foldovers, to tuna wrap concoctions with cheese, mayo, and even Fritos for crunch. The rest of my calorie needs are supplemented with bars and snacks of all kinds.

Cliff bars, Lara bars, bagels, donuts, chips, cheese, fruit, graham crackers, trail mix, pudding cups, applesauce, precooked bacon, and about a thousand Snickers bars, have all made it into my pack.

I’ve known folks who hike with small spice cabinets. I’ve seen some cook steakes on trail. For me, simplicity and expediency reign supreme. The less time, water, and fuel it takes to prepare, the better.

Gear Maintenance: Finding a space to air out wet gear, clean the mud out of your shoes, or get all the pine needles out of your tent can be done on trail, but it’s nice to do it town.

Even the best gear breaks, and often a trip to an outfitter is needed, or a post office stop to mail items out for warranty.

Device Charging: Best done on an overnight stop, getting everything charged takes time. In town hikers are always plugged in, choosing seats in restaurants based on outlet proximity. I’m well past any stigma around sitting outside a grocery store like a bum, shamelessly leeching power from outside outlets.

Town Food: A solid town meal is essential, especially on longer trips. I’ve sat outside a delivery pizza place and eaten an extra large pie in one sitting. I’ve downed two footlong Subway sandwiches in under ten minutes. I’ve also eaten the ENTIRE McDonalds value menu in one visit.

I’ve done these all in an attempt to put back on the pounds, that hiking fifteen to twenty miles a day inevitably melts from your body. The caloric needs of a typical thru-hiker are well over five thousand calories per day.

There’s simply no way to carry this much food, unless eating spoonfuls of ghee becomes a favored pastime. Speaking of butter, if any restaurant is foolish enough to set out free dollops, I’ll load down my coffee, breads, and oatmeal with the stuff. As my friend Cedar taught me:

“That can be four hundred calories just sitting there, free for the taking!”

Discarding Trash: The eyes of hikers will light up at the sight of a trash can. We never really carry much trash, but there is some kind of beautiful OCD satisfaction to getting every packet, wrapper and used ziploc out of your (backpack) home. I usually fill one ziploc per day with that day’s trash. Most of the contents are mine, but people leave trash in shelters and on trail all the time.

One group I’ve hiked with, lead by TuneUp (RIP brother) was known as The Trash People. A double-meaning of their behavior and also their penchant for removing every piece of trash they encountered on the trail. Like Riff Raff, they’re a bunch of rough dudes who like to party, but give a lot back to the trail community.

The above list may not seem like much, but can easily consume half a day. Not to mention the time it might take to get to town from the trail, via a hitch, bus, or just plain walking!

Our first true zero day, Tater and I tried to accomplish all of our town chores on our first day at the Green Mountain House.

Town days may seem like a break from the rigors of trail, but they actually have challenges of their own. Half a day or more might be required to get everything accomplished, so time managment is critical. I’ve written a detailed article about town tasks, which I will post next.

Thankfully though, we were successful in getting everything done, so we had the day to relax. Given the rare novelty of a bed without an 11am checkout looming, we both slept in.

I woke around 8am, and went down stairs to find many of the previous night’s guests making their final pack arrangements. Caretakers Duffy and Casey will run the hikers out to trail twice between 6am and 8:30am. This gives the guests a nice early hiking day, and the caretakers ample time to clean. The next batch of backpackers typically arrives in the early afternoon. GMH runs like clockwork.

Tip Toe and Splint left with the early ride, but I had the chance to say goodbye to Rainbow as he departed.

Merit was up, as were Karefree and her husband Hot Foot. It was lovely to have hikers sitting at a table together. We took turns heading to the stove to make our breakfasts, often trading items or sharing leftovers with each other.

One of the reasons Green Mountain House is such an economical stay, is the free “cook your own” breakfast. They provide cereals, oatmeal, eggs, pancake mix, and myriad other odds and ends. Leftovers from previous hikers also serve to add variety. I eagerly accepted maple sausages from Merit and pancakes from Rainbow. To be honest, I didn’t have to cook myself anything that morning. Tater even gave me scrambled eggs later that morning.

Caretaker Casey, came in and filled a colender with cherries. Some other hikers had left fresh black berries as well.

I had packed in four butterscotch pudding cups, a four-pack of black berry turnovers, and several bananas Yesterday’s resupply frenzy certainly ran its course with me. The others had no interest in my fare though.

Merit was busy for a time, and finally held up two entire baking sheets covered I’m bacon.

“I bought a bunch as a trail magic of sorts, eat up, there’s plenty!”

She placed them in the oven, and within fifteen minutes my gorgeous trail mate was roused from her slumber.

“Oh my God! Is that bacon?” She asked from the stairwell. Merit confirmed that it was, and Tater made a sound of delight which is difficult to describe. It’s like some kind of resonating hum that increases in pitch. Whatever it is, it’s adorable.

Tater and Casey were soon seated at the breakfast table. Duffy was back from shuttling, and setting about his cleaning tasks upstairs.

We asked Karefree and Hot Foot several questions about the trail, and to our surprise, they had both hiked the AT in 2019. Further inquiry revealed that they, Tater, and I, were extended trail family. They too had hiked with the veterans Tater and I hiked with that year.

We swapped stories late into the morning. Sadly, due to a family situation, Karefree and Hot Foot were headed to the airport. What a lovely couple though, and so well matched for each other.

Hot Foot had worked as a plant manager for Crowne Lift Trucks. I’ve driven a lot of Crown Forklifts in my life, and with a background in manufacturing, we found much to talk about. Particularly, how plants are always full of characters, and yet everyone seems to find their perfect fit. Kirk Rudy was exactly the same way.

We bid The couple safe journey and decided to go into town on Duffy’s next run. He had some hikers at the trailhead for a 2pm pickup, so we rode with him back into Manchester Center.

Tater and I had both been craving Thai food, and the restaurant there looked promising. She had also been having some issues with her shoes, and we wanted to see if the outfitter carried Altras.
At the outfitter we were given quite the education on footwear, insoles, and how the bones in the leg shift, then align with each step. When Tater explained her issues, the salesman’s response began with:

“You need to get your minerals first.” It was not the advice we were expecting, and then he continued with “roll your calves out too, every night. Using your trekking poles like a foam roller, you’ll be amazed how tight they are.”

He took one look at Tater’s legs and seemed to see a bowing in the tibia. It was exactly this kind of tight-calve-enduced bowing that caused my stress fracture in 2019.

He continued his speil for some time, but what Tater and I both took away from it was that her calves needed to be massaged. It had to be done daily. For the the trail, for the sake of all our efforts thus far, I had to massage her legs every night. What a burden.

We soon realized that the salesman ran an orthotics business on the side. Neither of us asked how much his insoles cost, and we didn’t have time to wait for them anyway.

I put our name on the list for Thai, and Tater went into a giftshop to build a carepackage for a friend. Sadly one of her besties just had a breakup, and Tater wanted to cheer her up. Within fifteen minutes she assembled a box of goodies any holiday company might envy, because that’s the kind of friend she is; thoughtful.

Thai didn’t disappoint, and with Manchester Center’s crisp buildings neatly framed by the backdrop of the Green Mountains, the outside venue was gorgeous.

We made it back to the Price Chopper for a few odds and ends, and then Casey picked us up. I had noticed Play by Play and her sister Relish’s names on the guest clipboard in the truck. Tater and I had been hoping to meet Relish after spending time on Greylock with Play by Play and Big Hungry. Casey confirmed, we were about to get our chance.

We spent the rest of the day hanging out with Merit and the two sisters. Relish was as hilarious as her sister. It was a great evening.

Tommy, Casey and Duffy’s teenaged cat, also came out to play. A lazy, though affectionate fellow, Tater delighted in that he never got completely on his feet unless he absolutely needed to. For pets, he’d happily lean and move just his top half in the direction of outstretched hands.

It was a great and restful day. We’d be back on trail first thing in the morning.

In the meantime, Merit passed many extra resupply items into the hiker box, including a couple of Mountain House meals. I gladly took these, some of her Leuko tape, and a nearly full 200g fuel cannister left behind by another hiker. Discarded Cliff Bars also made it into my bag. I offloaded my Rite In The Rain journal, as I hadn’t written a single page in it yet. A $13 item I’m sure someone would love to have, though my own haul from the box was at least a $30 value.

These are the hidden benefits in staying at hostels, especially one that serves both the AT and the Long Trail. Simply having a back flush syringe to clean my water filter with was a delight. Again, something no hotel would ever think to have on hand.

Before bed, Tater and I confirmed we’d be on the 8:30 trail shuttle. Despite the two tiny twin beds in our room, we still managed to fall asleep cuddled for half the night. Too soon we’d be back on trail. Dirty again, smelly again, though in reality, we both love that too.