Me vs. Me

“Ccccaaaannn you taaaallllk??”, I asked Donald as I was struggling to see through my tears, let alone catch my breath while climbing West Mountain, just south of Bear Mountain, New York. Donald is Katie’s husband, the welder of my since deceased tent poles and the rescucitator of Bear Bear (ref: June 21, 2021 post).

I was circling the drain of my perception of my physical incapability. I was deep into my comparison to those that were states ahead of me. I was afraid of being completely responsible for my own hike, should it be best for Wallflower to hike ahead, both for reasons surrounding the constraints of his budget and my thirst for autonomy. And ultimately, for reasons encircling the above, I was petrified of not having the opportunity to crawl into Baxter State Park in time to summit Mt. Katahdin.

So I phoned a friend. A friend that is competitive in his own right. A friend that speaks reason. A friend that builds confidence. Gusto. A friend who wants nothing more than for me to succeed and believes that I’ve already done so. He tells me as much. A friend who understands how I tick.

“Don’t focus on Katahdin, Sarah. Focus on your next step. Like literally, your next actual step.”, Donald reminded me. We talked of the handicaps of comparison. How the discipline of my hike differs from those of the others. How it was only August 4th.

My sobs had slowed to a trickle when DWP had to take a conference call. It was then that I approached the “1400” mile mark. Divergent from my usual elation when reaching a milestone, I stared at it blankly. Motionless. Emotionless. I audibly wept. I felt broken. Directionless, despite the rectangular white stripes that were guiding me. I would allow myself to sit for 5 minutes. No, make that 10. 10 minutes of vegetation wouldn’t compromise the end game, right? Right.

I checked my email.

And that’s precisely when my cries of insecurity turned into those of bewilderment, and they rang loud.

Larry Holmes.

Larry and I learned the alphabet within the same walls of Ingram Elementary as well as having our tassels crossed from right to left in June of 1998 as we fled the halls of Montour High. “It’s been a long time since we have crossed paths.”, he began. “I have been with you on your journey since day one.”, he continued. His letter was filled with compliments, motivation, awe, and descriptive portraits of his beautiful family. “You are the energy to many of us back home.”, he went on to say. “You got this. You can do hard things. Keep going.”, he concluded.

A childhood friend who I hadn’t connected with in over 20 years has learned of my journey? Has been implicitly following along? With mapping?! Been heavily impacted by it? And took the time and the courage to very articulately reach out to me? This. This. THIS is why I am out here. This is why I walked.

And I then walked myself right up to the summit of West Mountain. Filled with fuel and fervor.

Do not keep your thoughts under paperweights, I beg you. Say what you need to say, and say it now. You just may change someone’s direction. Larry got me up and over that mountain on the 4th of August.

My own mental mountain, that is.

It is my thoughts vs. my will. My thoughts vs. my legs. My thoughts vs. utter discomfort. It is me vs. me. Not, me vs. the mountains. They aren’t out to get me. They’ve been standing tall for a million years and will for a million more. I cannot beat them, I must join them.

Just as a very intrusive woman joined me on July 24th, her sunglasses popped in picturesque Audrey Hepburn-like fashion, filming me as I descended into Wind Gap, Pennsylvania. I slowed as I approached her, thinking, “This chic needs to step the f#$& back!”.

“Rae…is that you?…”

My soul sister, who was now an unrecognizable blonde, flew from Seattle, WA into Newark, NJ, rented a candy apple red Hyundai, tracked my precise coordinates by beacon and pulled off one hella surprise. With a trunk full of fresh berries, rosé, Manchego, an electric toothbrush, and more support than could safely be belted, we spent the night in Delaware Water Gap helping fellow hikers, noshing on homemade ramen and saké at Sango Kura, and snuggling while we caught up after 25 months of not seeing one another- Cliffs Notes style.

Raelyn is the instrumentalist of her own DW John Bonham edition drumkit. The jockey of a Honda CRF 250. The racer of a Porsche Cayman S. She stays hungry for experience and has inspired me to do the same. I am as I am because she is.

Just as Katie joined me the day prior, opposing me on trail with her unleashed pup, Maggie, at mile 1275.5, Smith Gap Road. I had last seen her over 4th of July weekend at The Treehouse Camp at Maple Tree, the site of my tent’s demise. And before that, at Neels Gap on the 22nd of March as she piled her pack into an Uber, Atlanta airport bound, leaving me to face the trail alone for the first time. After providing trail magic to my kin, with her 3 boys being looked after by a ridge runner while noshing on their “screen-time”, she and Maggie hiked Southbound, surprising me head on. We had envisioned backpacking 40…60…maybe 90 miles together during the meat of my stint on trail, but logistics, a hurdle, and time diminishing.

I was thankful for my 3 with her.

Katie had the sheer desire to tow her family and her pop-up camper from their recess in Maine, equipped with a sea of water in the midst of Pennsylvania’s driest stretch and the genuine love for my hike. For me. Watermelon, freshly roasted coffee beans, trailhead shuttles late into the evening and again before the sun rose, wayfinding, adaptability, patience, and above all…poised understanding.

My Fuel.

Also in my army stand Karl Love, Jaap, Fasenella, Stitt, Dukic, Klein, Ciotti, Gallegos, Tssario, Fauls, my sister, Rachel, and my niece’s boyfriend’s MOTHER (Whew!! That was a mouthful!!), Leslie Sharpless with gracious donations, allowing me to find comfort indoors more frequently than my budget will allow but that the weather has demanded. The Sharpless family? Really? Mere weeks prior to my departure for Georgia, I had met them for the first time when surprising my sister for her 50th birthday in Charlotte, NC. Leslie and I chatted at length about my past and its dichotomy from the walk in the woods that I was about to embark upon. They’re behind me too? Impacted by my doings?

Homemade chocolate chip cookies and a suitcase full of shampoo from the Minney’s, mayo upon mayo…upon mayo and granola from Horvat, a bottle of red and a fresh tank from Bellora, Bronner’s and boutique munchies from Maria Petsiavas, waxed thread and Dot’s Homestyle Pretzels per request from Nicole, a bracelet full of crosses and scriptured reminders from Jenn, and a 42 pound box of backpacker’s delight, complete with enough nosh for two resupplies and a Subway gift card, courtesy of Bruce and Terrie Fowler. Terrie piloted me through my entry into critical care nursing. I was both petrified by and magnetized to her knowledge and her swag alike. She was a complete bada$$. I wanted to be her. Period. Now here I stand, muddied by the pines, making her proud.

Reconnections with Hassler, Bauer, Ostrowski, Dunn, Pam Glaser (“Tiiiime oooouuuutttt!!!), Zajacs, Dan Parks, Claypoole, Imhoff, Kathy Helfrick (you’ll always be Symchak to me, by the way), and Lauren Griffith, to name a few. Only to be paralleled to my intersection with strangers who I now call friends, all who you will have the pleasure of meeting below.

My odyssey has now knowingly grabbed ahold of the hearts and minds of many.

Beyond moved, I am. Electrified, in fact.

Yet, I feel like a small fish in a big pond. Still me.

Not in my corner was Denise, the very discontented woman who was on shift at the Dunkin Donuts in Delaware Water Gap on the morning of July 26th. After I entered through the very open door of the franchise, she promptly barked, “GET OOOOUUUUTTT!!!”. What?!? “I’d like to order a coffee”, I stated. “I am too busy! TOO busy. No. No, you have to leave. NOW!!”, she responded through her headset as she hurriedly filled cardboard drink caddies with iced mochas and coffees with cream. She went on to elaborate that she only had time to serve the patrons at the drive-thru, a route that I was not welcomed to without a vehicle of my own.

Was I being kicked out of a Dunkin Donuts? Discriminated against because I was on foot?

Yes. Yes, I was.

Deborah said, “Hell nah!!”.

Moments later, I found myself in a verbal altercation with Denise, raising my voice with confident class through the drive-thru speaker, “I’ve walked from Georgia, Denise…I will be contacting your manager, Denise…This is discrimination, Denise…”. “Step away from the intercom, ma’am…there are vehicles behind you, ma’am…I will call the police, ma’am!”, she threatened. And she ma’amed me. Multiple times. Change the plan, not the goal, I thought. I then proceeded to approach the very perplexed elderly woman in the Cavalier behind me. I explained the situation; handed her a ten; she, in turn, handed me my well-earned large Americano; and I smiled at dear Denise through the glass as I took my virgin sip.

Remember, it’s not if, it’s how.

1300, 1400, 1500, 1600, 1700 miles and New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and now, Vermont since we’ve last chatted. Pennsylvania’s rocks have been traded for the mosquitos, mud, and recent hurricane of New England. “Mosquitos”, meaning the persistent bites of the perpetrators from stem to stern, through my shirt, my socks, and on my tissue as I wiped, despite the use of 98% DEET. A concentration which was most probably robbing my neurons of their ability to fire and eroding the inked measurements off of my Nalgene bottle. And “mud”, meaning the uninterrupted procession of above-ankle-deep chocolate colored liquid clay that has slowed my pace to half of its strength and has brought both my backside, and my spirit, to a gravity stricken low.

It had been 12 days since I had last showered (in upwards of 104 degree weather, mind you), thanks to the unaffordable pricing of New York real estate and its subsequent sequalae that trickled down to budgeted hikers. Fellow hikers stretched as far as to engage in online dating apps, such as Tinder, in the hopes of connecting with a Clark Kent…if he had a working bathtub and a Maytag. Not Dips. I stalled until Pawling, NY, where I “showered”, fully clothed, in the very public Morrow Park under the spigot that purged ice cold water from its nozzle that was intended to rinse the bodies of the locals that were covered in sand after swimming in the community’s lake. I held my breath each time that I had to rinse the Head and Shoulders off of my scalp, surrounded by nuclear families who were most probably whispering to their children, “See that woman over there?…that’s what’ll happen to you if stop studying, if you say ‘yes’ to the ganja.”

If they only knew.

4 of my brethren have lost teeth. Be it scurvy, barrages of sugar, or the dependence on gas station feed induced malnutrition, I’m unsure. When I squat in the face of my first urination of the morning, I internally chant, “1…2…3…down!”, teary eyed, as my knees feel as if they are lubricated with shards of glass nowadays. I’m summiting mountains that have recognizable names now. Reputable names. The 4K’ers. Names that call for a weekend away to backpackers at home, putting another notch on their climbing belts. Mt. Race. Mt. Everett. Bear Mountain. Mt. Greylock. Stratton Mountain. Bromley. Killington. With the fear of the Whites looming ahead. I have 48 days to traverse 489 miles. 489 of the objectively most difficult miles of this trail. Each day that passes lends to the threat of the return of the freezing temperatures that lurk as fall approaches, but most threatening is the clock that is loudly ticking down to October 15, jeopardizing my successful completion. “Just because they are ahead, doesn’t mean that you’re behind.”, Wallflower reminds me.

I have not taken a day off of the trail since July 25th. Imagine having no “weekend” after a grueling workweek. Now multiply that by 4. I’ve pulled a string of thirty 12 hour shifts. And still counting.

I’ve been covered in mud from nape to toes, crocodile tears, the blood of my beloved mosquito, and uncertainty. But, I’ve also been covered in grace, wonder, patience and austerity.

Yet, in these moments of physical and mental wrestle, I innately find gratitude for the fight and the enthrallment for more of the same. For my palm against that easeled wooden pinnacle that reads “KATAHDIN”, will only feel sweet if it is earned. Please don’t mistake my focus being on the destination, rather than my journey. Said sign has little meaning to me in and of itself, but if I am able to deliver myself to its bounty, then that means that I’ve learned how to journey.

And above my bunk at Green Mountain Hostel in Manchester Center, VT hung a mahogany framed quote that was shouting at me.

“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checked by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.”

-T. Roosevelt

How very serendipitous.

8/7, Morrow Park. Pawling, NY, post-“shower”.

8/23, Green Mountain Hostel. Manchester Center, VT.

7/22, George W. Outerbridge Shelter. Palmerton, PA. My FIRST night in a shelter alone when I heard a sound similar to one’s hand sliding across a plaster wall. Look at that predator! Needless to say, I didn’t sleep very well… — 7/22, George W. Outerbridge Shelter. Palmerton, PA. My FIRST night in a shelter alone when I heard a sound similar to one’s hand sliding across a plaster wall. Look at that predator! Needless to say, I didn’t *sleep* very well…

7/23, Meet Speedgoat. He was night hiking past the shelter as I was trying to get some shuteye. When I saw his headlamp, I asked, “Are you a murderer?”. He retorted, “Are you?!”. Fair. We sat and talked in the pitch darkness from about 2-4am of our pasts, struggles, and what brought us to trail. Ended up describing what we imagined the other to look like based upon our verbiage, a connection that was metaphoric to the trail itself. The trail sees no physicality. No gender, age, nor income. He pegged me for a 26 year old. Black hair, blue eyes. 5’4”, medium build. Covered in tattoos and without nail polish. Interesting how my words led him to this very incorrect image. — 7/23, Meet Speedgoat. He was night hiking past the shelter as I was trying to get some shuteye. When I saw his headlamp, I asked, “Are you a murderer?”. He retorted, “Are *you*?!”. Fair. We sat and talked in the pitch darkness from about 2-4am of our pasts, struggles, and what brought us to trail. Ended up describing what we imagined the other to look like based upon our verbiage, a connection that was metaphoric to the trail itself. The trail sees no physicality. No gender, age, nor income. He pegged me for a 26 year old. Black hair, blue eyes. 5’4”, medium build. Covered in tattoos and without nail polish. Interesting how my words led him to this very *incorrect* image.

View of Lehigh River from the summit of the Blue Mountain Ridge. I had camped on the mountain across the river the night before. What a TREK.

7/24, Pre-hike freshly ground fresh press in the Webber-Plank’s pop-up camper, courtesy of Katie.

7/24, Surpise! Rae with a trunk full of goodies, Wind Gap, PA.

Rae back in Seattle, working on her Cayman.

7/23, Stephen, Andrew, Nicky, and Maggie 🐕 Webber-Plank showering Stache, Gushers, Sparks, and Bear legs with trail magic ✨.

7/25, Rae and Katie got to meet for the very first time at KOA Campground near Delaware Water Gap, PA.

7/26, “This is discrimination, Denise…” — 7/26, “This is discrimination, *Denise*…”

7/26, Lunch over Mt. Minsi Overlook, Pennsylvania. Mustard sardines topped with cheddar goldfish.

7/29, Meet Moose. Trail magic at Culver’s Gap complete with a generator to charge our electronics 🔌!

7/29, Reuben to-go packed out from the Sandwich Lobby for dinner at High Point State Park.

Mailed love from Carly Bellora, Kelly Minney, and Mom & Dad ♥️

7/31: Camped on the lawn of the post-office, the only available “housing” in Unionville. No shower, no laundry, but was able to charge up through the external outlet at the P.O.!

7/31, Meet Pop Pop. The owner and operator of the Warwick drive-in in Warwick, NY.

He has let thru hikers camp on his lawn for years, providing charging stations, water, and free movies. It was a must stop!

8/1, Meet Bingo. A section hiker from New York, who provides trail angel rides to thru hikers in the area. He drove us from the drive-in back to the trailhead after eating salmon lox at the bagel shop 🥯

8/1, The only loaner clothes at the laundromat in Warwick were this polo and men’s underwear, which I proceeded to dine at a Chinese restaurant in. Life is so (ridiculously) simple, yet complicated in its own right.

3rd pair of kicks, held together with Leukotape, on their last leg as I awaited my fresh pair in Pawling, NY.

Meet Mark. A professor and trail legend in the Warwick area, saw Wallflower and I sitting, moderately desperate, on the side of Warwick turnpike. He pulled over without us having to thumb and insisted that we hop in before the skies opened up. He drove us to the laundromat, returned 2 hours later to deliver us to the Appalachian Motel and again in the morning for a ride back to the trail, only after securing our bagels and coffee.

8/2, Formally crossing into NY! The trail jostled between the borders of NJ and NY, just as it did in North Carolina and Tennessee.

8/2, Look closely in the distance, you can see the Manhattan skyline from Prospect Rock 🗽!

8/2, Bellvale farms creamery 🍦, a quarter mile walk off-trail and well worth it! — 8/2, Bellvale farms creamery 🍦, a quarter mile walk off-trail and *well* worth it!

8/3, Wallflower climbing Buchanan Mountain.

8/4, The “Lemon Squeezer”. Had to turn sideways as I climbed up and through to navigate the slim (understatement) passageway.

8/4, Tears at the 1400 mark, right before I read Larry’s email for the first time. You just never know what the day will bring. That’s something. — 8/4, Tears at the 1400 mark, right before I read Larry’s email for the first time. You just never know what the day will bring. That’s *something.*

8/4, Meet Greg, “The Frugal Gardener”. He was foraging for wild mushrooms to cook with when he asked if I was out for the weekend. “You look too clean to be a thru hiker!!”, he was in disbelief. I jokingly told him that I was foraging for water, as I was all out on that 90 degree day. He felt terribly that he had none to offer, and we parted ways. A short while later, I heard panting behind me. It was Greg, who had remembered that he had 2 liters of well water in his vehicle. He ran to get it, then ran to find me. Greg is everything that we should all aspire to be.

8/5, Meet Brian Richardson, born in Trinidad and currently residing in Manhattan. He saw me writing cards in the lobby of the Inn and was awestruck by my journey, asking a multitude of questions which I was happy to answer. He returned the favor by taking the birthday cards home with him to mail to my besties, as I had no access to a mailbox. Kindness such as Brian’s makes trail life magical.

8/5, Meet R & J. “Are you one of them??”, J asked. “See honey, I told you that we would meet one!!”. We talked of the subjective definitions of success, of happiness, of wealth. They have a lot of things and were hugely inspired by my lack thereof. — 8/5, Meet R & J. “Are *you* one of *them*??”, J asked. “See honey, I *told* you that we would meet one!!”. We talked of the subjective definitions of success, of happiness, of wealth. They have a lot of *things* and were hugely inspired by my lack thereof.

8/5, Meet Paulie. Paulie, Paulie, Paulie… I approached him on his John Deere while he was doing maintenance for the Inn. I had 15 minutes to make it 3 quarters of a mile for the complimentary breakfast, and I wasn’t going to make it. Could he give me a lift?, I shamelessly asked. “Hop in kid, and if anyone asks- you’ve sprained your ankle.” Roger that, Paulie. With his thick Brooklyn dialect and heart of gold, his “threes” sounded like “tree”, and he shared with me his dreams of philanthropic work in the setting of natural disaster…or would he write and star in his own screenplay?… We agreed that we were meant to meet, and I assured him that I’d hold him to his dreams. And “I’ll be there”, Paulie promised. — 8/5, Meet Paulie. Paulie, Paulie, Paulie… I approached him on his John Deere while he was doing maintenance for the Inn. I had 15 minutes to make it 3 quarters of a mile for the complimentary breakfast, and I wasn’t going to make it. Could he give me a lift?, I shamelessly asked. “Hop in kid, and if anyone asks- you’ve sprained your ankle.” Roger *that*, Paulie. With his thick Brooklyn dialect and heart of gold, his “threes” sounded like “tree”, and he shared with me his dreams of philanthropic work in the setting of natural disaster…or would he write and star in his own screenplay?… We agreed that we were meant to meet, and I assured him that I’d hold him to his dreams. And “I’ll be there”, Paulie promised.

8/5, The AT goes through the Trailside Zoo! Cheesin’ in the aquarium 🐠.

And….I saw….a….BEAR 🎊!! At the zoo, but nonetheless….

8/5, Crossing Bear Mountain Bridge over the Hudson River.

Hikers are known to “deli blaze” in New York, as it’s not difficult to pass 1 or 2 delis per day only a short jaunt off-trail, enabling us to carry less food on our backs through this area.

8/7, Meet Jim and Keith, volunteers for the Appalachian Trail Club who were refurbishing wooden steps on a muddy embankment. They found a place for me to shower and gifted a can of bug spray to me at a time that I was most in need.

8/7, Meet Jefferson. He saw me sitting on a guardrail adjacent to Route 55 and stopped to see if I was in need. When I told him that I was waiting for an Uber into town (hitching is illegal in NY), he asked if he could sit and talk with me while I waited and insisted that I take his ice cold bottle of water. From Brazil, he had never heard of the Appalachian Trail and was quite intrigued. The kindest of souls.

Laundromat in Pawling. Now that’s ONE dirty sock, standing erect on its own. — Laundromat in Pawling. Now that’s *ONE* dirty sock, standing erect on its own.

The last of Sam Minney’s renowned chocolate chip cookies!

8/8, Now this is called, “putting lipstick on a pig”. Sunflower Bakery, Pawling, NY.

8/8, Meet Sal, owner of Gaudino Pizzeria. He hiked from Pawling, NY to Mount Katahdin last year, and immediately recognized us as thru hikers. He shared the stack of wallet sized family photos that he was carrying, wrapped in a rubber band, as all good Italians do, as well as his goal of finishing the trail next year. He is 88 years old.

8/8, Meet José from Mexico City. I gave him almonds and $40, and he gave me a lift back to the trail. Both lucky to have the exchange ✨ (And thank you, Suellen ♥️.)

8/8, The mosquitos were so relentless as I hiked out of Pawling, that I was forced to stealth camp 2 miles prior to my intended destination for the night. I was categorically being eaten alive and kept refuge in my tent, lending a gallon zip-lock to double as a commode.

The Dover Oak, upwards of 300 years old.

8/9, Meet Betty, a day hiker who tucked her homeopathic citron bug repellant into my pack after taking one look at my excoriated legs. Bless you, Betty.

The train has a stop right on the AT, heading to Grand Central Station in the Big Apple 🍎!

8/9, Meet Miss Janet, a true trail legend. Years ago, she maintained a hostel in Erwin, TN that rivaled with Uncle Johnny’s. Now, she lives the van life, traveling up and down the AT during thru hiking season, serving us with first-aid, snacks, and stories. An honor to meet you, Miss Janet ♥️.

Southbound (SOBO) thru hikers start in Maine and head for Georgia starting in late June to early August. There are 200 of them to our 2,000-ish, who are hiking Northbound. A SOBO hike is more physically demanding, as it begins with the 2 most difficult states and allows for less overall time to finish with the snowfall that will cover the Smokies after Thanksgiving, making them near impassable. There is a brief period where the NOBOs and the SOBOs intersect in New England, like meeting the quarterback from the rival football team, we exchange tactics from our already covered grounds. Pictured, are Hype and Oracle, rooting for them!

8/11, Hike along the Housatonic. In a frenzy of clock watching, stressed over beating sundown, I turned a bend to find this. THIS. Unedited, you see what confronted me. The rays of the setting sun, acting as a stop sign. “Slow down, Sarah.”, they whispered. I listened. Quite possibly my most memorable moment on trail thus far.

An incognito outdoor shower tucked into the side of an ivy covered shed, Falls Village, CT.

Alllllllll of the niceties, sent from Maria Petsiavas ♥️.

8/12, Laundry in Salisbury, CT in my finest from the bin of loaner clothes 📸.

A pale ale and a Caesar with extra anchovy at Mizza’s in Lakeville, CT.

8/12, Meet, the one and only, Maria McCabe. The least expensive suite for sale at the White Hart Inn, the only accommodations, in Salisbury, CT was going for $495.00 per night. Ya know, very reasonable for a hiker’s budget. Maria has opened up her home and her heart to hikers for decades for $40 per night. We talked. We laughed. She told me that she loved me. She had the essence of my Grandmother, my Aurora. Maria just celebrated her 92nd birthday. — 8/12, Meet, the one and only, Maria McCabe. The least expensive suite for sale at the White Hart Inn, the *only* accommodations, in Salisbury, CT was going for $495.00 per night. Ya know, *very* reasonable for a hiker’s budget. Maria has opened up her home and her heart to hikers for decades for $40 per night. We talked. We laughed. She told me that she loved me. She had the essence of my Grandmother, my Aurora. Maria just celebrated her 92nd birthday.

Meet Tim. Tim hiked the trail in 2007, when he met and stayed with Maria himself. He has traveled to Connecticut from North Carolina to see her every single year since to celebrate her birthday with her. He shared his watermelon, advice, washed my dishes, and drove me back to the trailhead, saving me from walking an extra mile in 100+ degree heat.

8/13, Peach at sunset atop Bear Mountain, CT.

8/14, Saturday morning mocha, courtesy of Holly Broadbent-Horvat. Sages Ravine, CT.

8/16, An honor system shed stocked with ice cold drinks and sought after snacks along Jerusalem Road.

8/17, Ned and Mrs. Jones along Blotz Road, 9 miles outside of Dalton, MA.

The Appalachian Trail is the street address of many homes in Dalton, Massachusetts.

The notorious yard of Tom Levardi, garnished with trekking poles. Tom hosts hikers for free on his lawn, providing charging stations and complimentary coffee and donuts in the morning.

8/18, “Dinner” at Cumberland Farms Market, if you consider Cheese-it Snap’ds, dinner.

8/19 (Happy birthday, Dad! I love you!).

Corn fields on summit to Mount Greylock.

8/19, Mount Greylock was the inspiration for Herman Melville’s, Moby Dick.

8/19, Wallflower and I found refuge from Hurricane Henri and Cabernet at Bascom Lodge, atop Mount Greylock.

Meet Grandpa Joe and his Grandson, R.J. We met them at Crystal Mountain Campsite the evening before we summited Greylock. They were out for a 4 day section hike, and when Grandpa Joe saw us standing shivering and water logged in the reception area of Bascom Lodge, he paid for our bunks without us knowing. Acts of kindness are sweetest when silent.

Cooking indoors in the Bascom Lodge bunk room. Pays to travel with a stove- can stop, drop and cook in a moment’s notice!

8/20, A foggy summit yielded zero views from Mount Greylock.

8/20, Meet Jim, a lifelong North Adams resident who provides daily trail magic along Phelps Ave. In exchange for a Coke, chocolate pudding and graham crackers, Jim asked to try on my pack. “How in the world do you WALK with this thing?!?”, Jim was in disbelief. — 8/20, Meet Jim, a lifelong North Adams resident who provides daily trail magic along Phelps Ave. In exchange for a Coke, chocolate pudding and graham crackers, Jim asked to try on my pack. “*How* in the *world* do you *WALK* with this thing?!?”, Jim was in disbelief.

8/20, Meet Bob Donald. Bob witnessed our receipt of snacks from Jim (above) and curiously, he asked of the details of our hike. From where to where? Do you receive support? What do you do for food? “Don’t mind my funny face”, Bob said. Bob served our country in the Vietnam War, sustaining an injury to his eye. Bob called me his hero. Me. Bob, YOU are the hero. He went on to read my entire blog that evening and has invited me to his home in Asheville, North Carolina should I ever be in the area. — 8/20, Meet Bob Donald. Bob witnessed our receipt of snacks from Jim (above) and curiously, he asked of the details of our hike. From where to *where*? Do you receive *support*? What do you do for *food?* “Don’t mind my funny face”, Bob said. Bob served our country in the Vietnam War, sustaining an injury to his eye. Bob called me his hero. Me. Bob, YOU are the hero. He went on to read my entire blog that evening and has invited me to his home in Asheville, North Carolina should I ever be in the area.

8/20, Well, hello there Vermud…I mean, Vermont.

8/25, With Hurricane Henri to thank for 3 pair of soaked socks, my feet were literally sloughing off. I tried to protect the driest pair that I had with gallon zip lock bags as liners. This vacuum created moisture but much less than the puddles would’ve brought. I’d recommend it ✔️.

Glastenbury Wilderness-Green Mountain National Forest Signage

I Can See Clearly Now

Country Roads Took Me Home