1707.5 miles, 3,113,320 steps

I am happy to report this 130-mile week a success! I put the hammer down every day to surmount blistering heat, merciless pests, and the desire to collapse onto my back and embrace my inner starfish. Yeah, this week drained my stamina, sleep, and social graces. My apologies to the kind souls who meant no harm by striking up a conversation when I was in serious no-talking mode.

As unsustainable as this pace was, I’m much relieved to have made the sprint. Southern Vermont posed a profound logistical challenge: most towns lacked one or more side of the accessibility, resupply, and church triangle that defines my planning process. Furthermore, the future weeks will align ever so nicely. Unlike MA where you can stop at a town every 5-15 miles, things are much farther apart up here. As I approach Maine, a phenomenon that I like to call the “70’s vortex” emerges. Referring less to the post-hippie vibe pervasive in the hiking community, the term reflects how islands of civilization concentrate toward mileages that end in a “70”. My last four towns stand at miles 1877, 1976, 2080, and 2179. There are a few other choices, but deviating from that pattern creates more imbalance than flexibility. Without drawing you too far into the spiderweb of scheduling this whole endeavor, suffice it to say I’m slated to go a steady 100 miles every week (except for a 70-mile week to account for the arduous White Mountains). But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It’s time to formally declare the final stage of this trek: Phase 4. Defined not only by mountains that are 2-3 times taller than literally everything in Phase 3, but also the characters of Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. Generally renowned for their natural wonder, the “Big 3” (as I like to say) each contribute one or more quintessential staples of the AT experience. The Green Mountains, the Long Trail, the White Mountains, the 100-mile Wilderness, and Baxter State Park present a dramatic final quarter of the traditional AT NOBO. Let’s dive in!

Day 118: Monday, June 17

Cheshire MA to Sherman Brook Campsite – 16.2 miles

Camping just 2.5 miles south of the state line, this was my last full day in good ole’ Mass. Traveling up and down Mount Greylock dominated the events of the day. This geologic masterpiece provided such a grand finale for the state, I was not at all disappointed to be in its company until late afternoon.

The ascent offered periodic enticements. The first was Reynold’s Rock, who’s sign proclaimed “climb me”. How could I refuse? Higher up, the transition to evergreens brought the pleasant aroma of Fraser Firs — Christmas trees. My ears caught new calls for several species of warblers and thrushes, but they remained elusive to my eyes in the uppermost canopy.

The summit, as the highest point in MA, is adorned with mowed lawns on which to recline, a monument to MA veterans, and a lodge for shelter and refreshments (closed on Mondays, bummer). The monument’s bottom floor is a miniature rotunda bearing inscriptions to honor the dead. A side corridor rises into a tight spiral staircase, transporting one to an panoramic observation deck. After some prayerful silence for the deceased and an excursion up the tower, I reclined onto the surrounding grass to take lunch.

The way down soon passed an old stone cabin. Accompanying historical literature told the tale of Thunderbolt Run, one of the oldest ski slopes in American history. At the northern base lay a suburb sandwiched between North Adams and Williamstown. After scaring away a few juvenile groundhogs, I discovered a sizable cache of Trail Magic: three whole coolers! I wasn’t too late to score a donut and a clementine.

Day 119: Tuesday, June 18

Sherman Brook Campsite to Melville Nauheim Shelter – 18.4 miles

It didn’t take long to cross into Vermont. The next few days were a twilight-zone repetition of the same basic elements. I nearly merged the entries for Tuesday through Thursday into one, so uniform were the day-to-day happenings.

To start, VT possesses a good many streams and springs. I haven’t seen this abundance of water since Georgia, and it’s typically no more than 2-5 miles between sources. At the start of the week, I’ll tote less water to counteract the higher food carry, pausing several times to filter. On hot days, I’ll splash my face, rinse my arms, and soak my hat.

However, VT also contains great swaths of land with poor drainage. Each day presents at least one stagnant mountain lake or pond, the water trapped without a sufficient natural outlet. Much of the dirt path is over-saturated as well. My limited geotechnical knowledge presumes a combination of soil type and abundant springs to be at fault. In fact, Vermont has a “mud season” in late spring, when snowmelt transforms most dry ground into a slippery quagmire. With the dry season in full swing, most of the mud pits have firmed up and pose little obstacle. Regardless, there were a few tense slip-and-slide moments where I dragged feet-long footprints across the muck. But hey, there’s nothing like a real-life Quick Time Event to inject excitement into the monotony.

You’re probably not surprised to hear that bountiful still waters maintain a healthy mosquito population. However, the Northeast in particular provides a new foe: biting flies. Though the black flies lurk in Maine, I’ve now scrimmaged with a few contingents of deer flies. As larvae, they cling to rocks in the flows of clear brooks and consume passing debris. They emerge as adults with bright orange eyes, a dark band on each wing, and scissor-like mouths. Where a mosquito bite is like a tiny pin prick, a deer flies pluck you like a minuscule pair of tweezers.  Their thorough unpleasantness is balanced by a relative infrequency. They’d appear 1-2 times each day, usually at a stream or shelter, and were largely mitigated by the bug jacket.

And then there’s the matter of the heat wave. Despite the health advisories and promised highs in the low-90’s, temperatures really weren’t that bad. The green tunnel keeps me shaded all day long. Steady breezes and refreshing springs assuaged the problem further. Sure, it was hot enough to be bothersome, but I wouldn’t say it was a strong factor on my mileage.

The upside to all this is the topology. While, yes, Vermont entails greater ascents in overall, it’s in the most accommodating fashion possible. When the ground isn’t muddy, it’s supple dirt that eases the wear on the joints. Trails are often gently graded, gentle inclines that trend up or down over an easy 5 or even 10 miles. If there was any location to push for big miles, few choices could prove superior to southern Vermont,

So there you have it. For three days I’d summit peaks and dip into bowls, not seeing much on account of the foliage and bombarded regularly by bugs. However, there’s one more piece of trail history and culture to discuss. Traversing between Vermont’s southern and northern borders, the Long Trail predates the AT and partly inspired it. For the  section of Vermont I completed this week, the LT and AT share the same path. I encountered quite a few LT through-hikers.

Day 120: Wednesday, June 19

Melville Nauheim Shelter to Halfway up Stratton Mountain – 23.1 miles

The one note for today is a trail magic cache. At the base of Stratton Mountain, I happened upon a styrofoam cooler with a bag of mini cookies. Yum!

Day 121: Thursday, June 20

Halfway Up Stratton Mountain to Mad Tom Notch – 20.9 miles

The summit of Stratton Mountain features an observation tower. The morning mist cleared just enough for an ample prospect of the surrounding country.

Rain came in the middle of the day, flipping  the entire trail atmosphere for the remainder of the week. Though the sun would poke out now and then, the air was constantly damp. Just as my personal effects could air out, a fresh batch of rain would reverse all progress. Ultimately, it rained on and off for the next five days! Each morning, I’d squelch on my frigid soaked socks and roll up my dripping tent fly. I far prefer the scorching sun to the perpetual clammy cold.

Regardless, Bromley Mountain proved a great evening sight. It’s developed into a ski resort, and the AT actually follows one of the runs for a time. As a snowboarder, the sea  of wavy grass instead of packed snow proved a strange yet pleasant encounter. It never ceases to amaze me how the warmth and abundance of summer effortlessly disguises the chilly realities of alpine winters. Reflecting back on February and March, the colder months imbue the backpacking experience with such a different character that it feels like a different trail all together. As if I could backtrack to Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee at this very moment and be at once confronted with frosty air and barren branches. Yet another factor that adds to the incomprehensible experience of walking the “whole thing”.

The sun came through for a few spectacular photos on the summit (including the title photo). The usually motionless chairlift, now lifeless, punctuated the peaceful stillness. Close at hand lay a ski patrol warning hut, which the resort allows hikers to occupy during the off-season. I had yet more steps to churn out before sleep, but I popped in just to check it out. There was ample space for a dozen hikers to lay out their sleeping pads on the floor and tables, in addition to electrical outlets. There was even a functional drying machine, which I started temporarily to dispel my disbelief. The kitchen stove was unresponsive, though. Without tarrying overlong, I departed the hut, descended the mountain, and pitched my tent in the vicinity of a valley road.

Day 122: Friday, June 21

Mad Tom Notch to Bear Mountain – 22.3 miles

Late in the morning, I startled a flock of ruffed grouse to flight. At once, a guttural hiss came from the undergrowth, flashes of gray betraying a small animal speeding in my direction. In the moment, I thought I’d aggravated some raccoon or rodent. An unidentified aggressor steadily approaching had me quite alarmed: physical confrontation felt imminent. I back-stepped and blasted my loudest “AH!” into the dense forrest, hoping to deter a scuffle. The snarling and sputtering evaporated into a pathetic puppy whimper. Through a break in the underbrush, I glimpsed a sulking form waddling the opposite direction. Putting everything together, it seemed a juvenile grouse, stranded by the dispersion of the flock, put on a tough act to dissuade aggression. When I countered with a far more intimidating bellow, the grouse flipped his act and cried uncle. I didn’t enjoy frightening the poor thing, but maybe he should stick to making threats for which he can “fit the bill”!

Dusk had not quite settled when I reached Little Rock Pond. I rested for a moment upon the shore, admiring the salamanders darting amidst the shallows. Encountering a stream half a mile north, I paused for dinner and topped up my water bottles. Twenty minutes after rehydrating, a queasiness overtook my stomach. Something was wrong with the water. Even though my purification system removes particulates down to the bacterial size, smaller contaminants like viruses, heavy metals, and fertilizer chemicals can still leach through. Or perhaps I didn’t quite screw the filter into the bag tight enough, and some bad water leaked through. Whatever the issue, it wasn’t severe. I reclined on a rock for half an hour until the majority of the discomfort subsided. On a six-month wilderness excursion, I’m not surprised I had at least one bout with bad water.

Coming at a time when I’m at least 15% below peak performance, this incident piled on yet another deterrent to my progress. The longer distances already had me finishing close to or after dark, but it’s wasn’t until 11:00 PM that I could collapse into my tent.

Day 123: Saturday, June 22

Bear Mountain to Killington, VT – 22.3 miles

The final day of push week. No option left but to march all the way to Killington. No viable alternative, no option for failure.

Unique sights peppered the first half of the day. A view down to the Rutland airport. The first red berries of the season. The surging Mill River sculpting the Clarendon Gorge.

Given the extent of this week’s section, I had to secure on on-trail meal to augment my provisions. The Stone’s Throw Farm Stand was situated perfectly to accommodate this need. Taking a 0.4 mile detour along Cold River Road, I found my way to the farmhouse with accompanying alpaca barn. Inside the house, a wealth of foodstuffs awaited. Artisanal sourdough loaves. Local cow and goat cheeses. Bottles of “the best chocolate milk you’ll ever taste”. Turkey and pork jerky.  Energy bars. Fresh vegetables, including bunches of raw radishes (I passed on those). Purchasing a sample of all these fine Vermont products (plus a freeze-dried meal for tonight’s dinner), I gaily stole away to the picnic table to begin the feast.

Halfway through my lunch break, Justin approached and took a seat. Indeed, it puzzled me how this man came all the way from Georgia without acquiring a trail name. No matter, we hit it off right away. We were soon laughing about our absurd meal habits: if you think me consuming a pound (dry) of oatmeal for breakfast is outlandish, you should hear him describe with relish his coffee-chocolate-couscous concoction. In general, we had splendid conversation. He started April 1^st, accordingly laying down 25-30 miles per day. He’s also going to finish up the Long Trail before backtracking down and resuming the AT.

Though I finished lunch well before him, he caught up in a few hours. He slowed down to my pace, and we kept up our conversation all the way to the summit of Killington Peak. We remarked on our favorite video games, and eventually I described the board game I’m currently developing. However, we split ways at the Cooper Lodge Shelter, just about on the summit. Given it was 30 minutes before sunset, that would be his stopping point for the day. I had over six miles left, so I rummaged through my pack for the headlamp and strode into the waning light.

The next few hours run together in my memory. No views, landmarks, or even birdsong to punctuate the night’s events. Stumbling through a jumble of trees, rocks, ups, and downs, harshly illuminated by the strong but short beam of my headlamp. Around 9:00 I cooked dinner. As I waited for the chili to rehydrate in its pouch, I occasionally extinguished my light to immerse myself in total darkness. Though the hot meal gifted me with enough energy for the last push, the hours dragged on. As 10, 11, and midnight rolled on, I plodded through the unyielding forest with podcasts to keep me company. At last, trees gave way to grass gave way to a road.

Encouraged by the thought of nearly accomplishing my goal, I turned right and continued on, keeping the guardrail between myself and late-night drivers. I passed by the Pico Resort sign. Then the Killington sign. Before long, I found the field across from the Inn at Long Trail, where I would catch the morning bus into town tomorrow. Pitching my tent as best I could through bleary eyes and building rain, I finally came to rest at 1:00 AM.

On the Horizon

Very soon, I’ll turn due east and split off from the Long Trail. It won’t be long until New Hampshire, where the heading turns Northeast. I’ll also pass through the last two towns that are situated directly on-trail.

Pebbles

New Birds: Hermit Thrush, Ruffed Grouse, Golden-crowned Kinglet, Magnolia Warbler

Podcasts: “Perform” by Dr Andy Galpin is quite similar to “Huberman Labs” that I mentioned last time, but focused more on physiological performance than general health. It launched quite recently. In the second episode discussing skeletal muscle, he mentioned “hiking all day” as a method of endurance conditioning… it’s probably the closest thing I’ll get to a shout-out in any podcast!

Audiobooks: Leaf by Niggle by J.R.R. Tolkien. I opened a variety of titles, but this 45-minute tale was the only one I finished. My favorite book that I started this week is A Gentleman in Moscow by Amir Towles. I could not have discovered this novel at a better time. In its historical setting, A Gentleman in Moscow is a natural successor to The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky, which I finished right before the trail. As the Count reluctantly witnesses the overthrow of fine Russian culture in the wake of the communist revolution, I can’t help but feel a striking similarity to Tolkien’s melancholic decline of the elves of Middle Earth. Witty yet solemn, with compelling characters.

Songs in my Head: “Moonlight in Vermont” by Willie Nelson, “When Numbers Get Serious” by Paul Simon

🎶 Evening summer breeze / Warbling of a meadow lark / Moonlight in Vermont… 🎶

Maxwell “Oatmeal” Stelmack