Total Weekly Mileage: 190.7

“Dumpster Forts and Ticks”

The wind was crazy last night. More rain too, and I was very happy to have stayed in town. Losing half a day is hard for me—I tend to get down on myself—but I felt very refreshed after the stay.

The wind persisted the next day, and there were downed trees all over the trail. I met and hiked with south bounders “Mule” and “Gigs.” They stopped at a closer shelter, but I kept moving for another few miles.

I was excited to get out of Vermont and onto the easier Massachusetts trail, stopping in Cheshire for dinner and to recharge. Then came a big climb of three miles out of town. I was a little pissed when I arrived at the shelter—not only was it full, but all the tent areas were taken as well. So I pushed on a little farther and pitched my tent on the side of the trail.

The weather was decent, but some rain was coming in, and the wind was still sketching me out, seeing all the deadfall on the trail. People don’t think about falling trees here the way they don’t think about lightning strikes out west. I’m always asked about bears and mountain lions, but these are the real killers on the trail—along with river crossings, though I’ve talked about that before.

Luckily, I got a ride in Pittsfield that night to escape the rain and wind. I stayed at a motel and even had enough time to go to Applebee’s for some authentic American microwave cuisine. When I arrived back at the motel, I realized I had left my room key inside. I went to the front lobby, but the door was locked. I rang the buzzer—nothing. I called the number—nothing. I spent two hours trying to reach the owners and finally gave up.

It was so cold and windy that I had no choice but to sleep in the cardboard dumpster at McDonald’s across the street, building a fort to protect myself from the wind. Not much sleep—and bad nights like that should be on the trail, not off it.

Without much rest, I didn’t get good miles the next day, but arriving in Connecticut soon after helped my morale. Kent was a great little town, and so was Salisbury. I grabbed a sandwich and coffee at an upper-crusty inn, sat in one of the nice sitting areas, and in between bites of an overpriced roast beef sandwich, started pulling ticks off me. Three this round, and two latched on. I hadn’t even thought about ticks this late in the season. This could be an issue.

Total Weekly Mileage: 158.3

“Damn Rain”

Waking up in the shelter, it was cold. The rain had stopped, but everything was wet. The steeps of the trail made for slow going—everything was either iced over or soaked. Frustrating, to say the least. My pace was so slow, working twice as hard to go half as fast.

By the time I reached the summit of Mt. Moosilauke, it was socked in. Twenty weekend warriors were up there, and the ground was covered in snow. I pushed hard to get down low and into Warner. As soon as I reached the road, the rain started up again. Jeez, I can’t catch a break with this weather!

I stopped into a pub, had some awesome chicken wings, and got picked up by trail angel Holly. She brought me back to the trail, met me again at the end of the day, and let me stay at her house. The next morning, I hiked on, but I was definitely feeling the toughness of the last week.

I made it to a dirt road, and there was Holly waiting for me—with two grilled cheese sandwiches. She asked what I wanted to do, and I made the decision to go back to her place and sleep. Not what I wanted, but definitely what I needed. Everything up to that point had just wiped me out. I still hadn’t really rested well, and I know at this stage in the game, I won’t. Just keep on trucking!

Holly dropped me off the next morning, and my first challenge was Mt. Cube. Not super hard, but a long climb to the top. The next morning, in the fog, I made it into Hanover, NH. I was down to one trekking pole again, but luckily, the customer service desk at the grocery store had one left behind a couple of months ago and let me have it. Kind of an old person’s trekking pole with a weird handle—but I’ll take it.

It didn’t take long into Vermont before I broke it, and it didn’t take long in Vermont before the weather turned. Cold, hard climbs as the A.T. shared the Long Trail. Slippery and steep rock trails led to some tough climbs up Killington and beyond. Rain turned into a full 24 hours of cold, soaking rain. Soaked to the bone, I made it into Manchester Center, Vermont, and took the rest of the day off.

Rough section—hopefully the weather gets better!

Total Weekly Mileage: 120.6

“So Tough, So Cold”

Forgetting to download my New Hampshire map and having a malfunctioning phone was not how I wanted the week to start—but that’s how the week started. Luckily, the A.T. is marked well, so I was able to get through Mahoosuc Notch, slip and fall on my already sore left ass cheek, and make it into the Granite State—my home state. The White Mountains are my home, and you’d think I’d be prepared. I wasn’t.

Hitching into Gorham, I went straight to the gas station and hit town for some food. Sitting on the curb outside, a car honked its horn—it was my cousin. He was wondering why I hadn’t told my family I’d be there. Honestly, I still had 18 miles to go for the day and was still in trail mode.

Back on trail, I hiked my tail off, excited to be back home. The hiking wasn’t easy, and my knees were screaming. By the time I arrived back in Pinkham Notch, I got a text from my uncle warning me of 70–100 mph wind gusts and rain the following day on Mt. Washington. That forced me to take a zero in Gorham. The day after would be clear, but the next day would be junk again. I had one shot to make it up and over—which I did, but not before slipping and falling at the summit in front of a dozen people.

It was 3 p.m., and I needed to get down as far as I could. I pitched in the rain 5.4 miles before Crawford Notch. A sleepless, soaking-wet, leaking-tent night didn’t deter me from getting my cold, wet ass to the road. Unfortunately, no one wanted to pick me up, and in a 40-degree downpour, I waited with my thumb out for over an hour. Finally getting a ride, I stayed at the Highland Center for the day. The weather wasn’t going to get better, and for 80 bucks with AYCE dinner and breakfast, I was sold.

Some friends and family came to visit, and the next morning I was back on trail—surprised by Captain Planet and Sidewinder from the PCT. We hiked to Zealand Hut together, and I took off and pushed hard to make it to Garfield Hut that night. All by my lonesome, I slept well, and the next morning dealt with ice and wind over Franconia Ridge.

Descending down and across Route 93 and ascending up the Kinsmans, I was very careful. Everything was iced up and sketchy. Tough, slow going, I made it to Eliza Brook Shelter and decided to stay there—grateful for not getting beat up too badly through this section.

My home state was kicking my ass.

Total Weekly Mileage: 217.3

“Moving South”

Made it through the 100 Mile Wilderness and into Monson in short order. Resupplied, spilled my coffee all over the front stoop of the local market, bought my sixth pair of cheap gas station sunglasses, and swung by Shaw’s Hostel for some fresh socks. Poet, the owner, gave me a ride back to the trail. I hiked hard. The trail was decent, the weather good.

I needed to reach the Kennebec River by 1 p.m. the next day to catch the canoe ferry across. Hiked late. Up early. Made it. No one was there.

Backtracked to the road and started hoofing it toward the store that supposedly dispatched the paddle person. That’s when Cheryl pulled up, rolled down her window, and asked, “You the guy?” I was. I hopped in.

After the crossing, she gave me some advice only a New Englander could deliver:
“Be careful in the Whites. Don’t be stupid.”
Then she shoved off.

God, I missed the East Coast. Tough broads out here. None of that West Coast soft shit.

From there, it was the Bigelows and Saddleback before Rangely. The hiking turned rocky and steep—no real switchbacks, just straight up and straight down. The downs were slower than the ups. Quick in-and-out resupply in some small town, then my first taste of weather: light rain, fog, and slick rock late at night. I slipped, fell, bent my brand-new trekking poles, swore, and kept moving.

Next day: slipped, fell, dented my left ass cheek, swore, and kept moving. A couple more falls, some severe wind and cold, and then—Rangely. Met up with my buddy and my dad. We had dinner. They took off. Short visit, but I’d see them again the following week.

Now it was time to get into New Hampshire, over Mount Washington, and through the Whites. Getting there was brutal. The hiking slowed. My mileage dropped. My pace tanked. No use getting frustrated—it was what it was.

I could feel myself crashing. I hadn’t had a rest day since Montana—July 21st, I believe. If only I knew then what I know now, I would have hiked later and harder, because compared to the following week, this was easy hiking.