The Northern Terminus

I couldn't help but do a separate post (previous) when I came across that stunning view of Mt. Katahdin up on the Rainbow Ledges, near the end of the 100 Mile Wilderness. I have a little catching up to do though, covering the time spent getting there from Caratunk.

I left Caratunk on Sunday the 31st of July, heading to Monson, 33 miles away. What I remember most about those 33 miles was that the blueberries were ripe and plentiful, particularly around Moxie Bald Mountain. Monson is at the start of thee 100 Mile Wilderness, through which there would be no towns, resupply, etc., so I spent some time there making sure I had all of the supplies I needed for the final push to Baxter State Park (where Mt. Katahdin is located). I stayed at a hostel right on Lake Hebron, and had a nice view of the lake from my window. On the first floor of the building where the hostel was located was the only restaurant in town, a full-spectrum pub that offered everything from burgers to sushi and fresh Maine fish from the coast. It featured a large, outdoor patio right on the lake. A few kayaks were available for hostel residents if they wanted to use them also, no waiver form needed.

View from the hostel.

The 100 Mile Wilderness is on private land owned almost entirely by a few large lumber companies. These companies have a long history of working with the citizens of Maine, allowing them access for hunting, fishing, hiking. etc. The roads and bridges that allow access are privately owned and maintained, so fees are charged at gated access points. Hikers on foot never see these gates and aren't charged fees anyway. It's good public relations to have the AT run through such a large swath of land owned by "Big Lumber", and the companies seem to be good stewards.

The area was beautiful, full of pines, spruces, cedars, enormous moss- and fern-covered boulders, and lake after lake, many of them quite large. Some of these lakes could only be accessed on foot or by float plane, where passengers are flown to remote fishing lodges.

Lake,

Stream.

My first glimpse of Mt. Katahdin was on the north side of White Cap Mountain, about 40 miles north of Monson. It was still quite far away, but it motivated me to pick up my pace even more. As an aside, I actually had my down jacket and insulated gloves on while on top of windy White Cap Mountain in the early evening. A few hours earlier I had been sweating below the tree line several thousand vertical feet lower. I found that I used my down jacket, gloves and wool hat a few times in New Hampshire and Maine. I was glad that I hung onto them through the mid-Atlantic states.

I reverted back to my old ways of pushing myself hard and hiking well into the night. Although I never saw a moose in Maine I heard a few of them crashing through pine limbs when they detected me coming down the trail at night with my headlamp. I was so used to animal noises along the trail that they didn't startle me anymore. There were plenty of moose droppings along the trail, so they were certainly around.

Somewhere toward the end of the 100 Mile Wilderness the trail ran along a large lake. It then ran straight into a hammock occupied by a young, exhausted woman who said she was just resting before continuing (it was mid-afternoon). I thought I must have inadvertently taken a side trail so I asked her where the trail was. She wearily pointed up a hill. I walked up the hill for a hundred yards or so and saw nothing. I backtracked and realized that she had strung her hammock directly across the trail, completely blocking it. I ducked under her rope and kept going.

Sometimes the trail is poorly marked. Sometimes occasional signs can be missed also, as your eyes are often focused down, trying to navigate through the roots and rocks. 99% of the time you will stay on the trail if you follow the well-worn path, occasionally glancing up to make sure there are still white blazes. In one case, while hiking at night towards the end of the 100 Mile Wilderness, the well-worn path led to a "viewpoint", marked with a small sign mounted very high on a tree that I missed. The viewpoint was a cliff above a gorge and had I kept on walking I would have ended up at the bottom of the gorge. I didn't get within 10 feet of the edge, but it made me think.

The 100 Mile Wilderness ends at Abol Bridge, which crosses the rather large West Kennebec River. There is a campground, with a store and restarant there and not much else. The border of Baxter State Park is less than a quarter mile away. I arrived there on Saturday the 6th of August, paid $5 for a shower, and had dinner at the restaurant. I ran into some people, such as Four Year, who I had been playing leapfrog with for over a thousand miles. Since the campground was full, I stealth camped in a nice spot right beside the river. My plan was to wake up early, walk the 9.5 miles through Baxter State Park to the base of Mt. Katahdin, climb over five miles to the top, climb down, and the hitch-hike almost 24 miles into Millinocket.

My plan worked quite well. While many like to break that section into two days, I was ready to see the view from the top and complete my journey. I left Abol Bridge around 6:00 AM on Sunday, and the 9.5 mile hike to the ranger station was surprisingly nice. It paralled the West Kennebec River for a while. And later Katahdin Stream. I was quite surprised at high volume of water in both since it was early August. I arrived at the ranger station and dropped off about half of my gear before heading up the mountain. The Rangers had a box full of daypack for thru hikers to use, but I decided to just use mine and left my tent, sleeping bag, and other items I wouldn't need that day in a large trash bag (I always carry a few) and headed up the Mountain.

The climb started at 1,000 feet and ended at the 5,265 foot summit. The first mile paralleled Katahdin Stream, with many cascades and falls. It then grew steeper until we were above the tree line, where the toughest section of the trail, the middle section, started. It involved a little rock climbing, with grab bars and rungs occasionally positioned in spots where you would have a tough time continuing without them. The last 1000 vertical feet was a nice surprise, as it leveled out a little onto a plateau. There were stunning views the rest of the way to the summit, and some occasion cold, wind-driven rain, but it didn't last long.

Deceiving.
The actual summit is about a mile and a quarter (and about 1000 vertical feet) further than what is seen in this photo.

At various points along the trail I passed by about 10 thru hikers that I recognized who were on their way down, having left earlier as they had camped the night before near the base. I congratulated all and they all told me that the view from the summit was awesome. It was.

View from the top.

Mission accomplished!

I only spent about five minutes on top as I was a late starter and still had a long day ahead, but I took a few pictures and chatted with the others who were enjoying the views as well.

I didn't arrive back to the ranger station until after 6:30. While getting my pack in order I noticed that my water bottle was missing. It was actually just a re-purposed Gatorade bottle, but it had been with me since Georgia. I had taken a drink from it just a mile previously, but I wasn't about to go back and get it. I had picked up someone's Smartwater bottle earlier in the day that had fallen from a pack and disposed of it later at the campground. Someone was going to have to return the favor.

It's almost 24 miles from the ranger station to Millinocket, the nearest town. I started hitchhiking at around 7:00 PM and was picked up by two young guys from southern Maine who were just heading to the next campground, but I was appreciative for the ride anyway. When they arrived at the campground a third member of their party flagged them down and told them that he had received permission from his Dad to use his credit card (for emergencies) to buy a five man tent in Millenocket, and that the store closed at 9:00. How fortuitous for me; I got a ride all the way into Millinocket.

It turns out that these guys also summited Katahdin that day and were a group of five. There was supposed to have been a sixth, but he dropped out. Unfortunately, he was the one who they all gave money to who "supposedly" had reserved and paid in advance for a lean-to shelter for all of them for three nights. He didn't, however, and the five found themselves having to stay at a tent site without a tent, hence the trip to town. Their friend had some explaining to do. I sensed that they were a little short in cash, so I gave them some gas money and my leftover freeze dried food when we arrived in town. They were very appreciative. I then walked to a motel I had called earlier and began to unwind.

Just another day on the trail.

Within Reach

Near the end of the Hundred Mile Wilderness. Mt. Katahdin in sight!

The Ferryman

My last post left off after passing through the very scenic Saddleback Mountains in Maine, in between Rangely and Stratten. I continued on past the Saddleback Mountains and headed to Crocker Mountain, skirting Sugarloaf Mountain along the way.

The route up South Crocker Mountain seemed like it would never end. It started low in a ravine and then had a "psych" point about halfway up where the stubby pines turned to bare rocks. Normally, that would be near the peak, but the trail reverted to trees and continued upward for a long time. After the Crocker Mountains I descended to the Valley and caught a ride to Stratten, Maine, my next waypoint.

Valley in Maine.

Stratten is a one-horse town but it had a motel, a small supermarket, and a decent restaurant. I had a delicious meal at the White Wolf Inn. The motel I stayed in was run by the same couple that ran the Farmhouse Inn hostel in Rangely, but it was overpriced for the crappy place that it was.

Leaving Stratten on the 28th of July, I started hiking up the Bigelow Mountains, which some southbounders had told me were quite nice. They were. After lots of vertical I found myself on top of Avery Peak, named after Myron Avery, the man who actually made the Appalachian Trail come to fruition. There is an impressive bronze plaque on top of the peak commemorating his accomplishments.

Maine mountain.

Valley view.

View from Avery Peak.

The Kennebec River was still over 20 miles away, and I would only be able to cross it if I was there between 9:00 AM and 2:00 PM. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy  (ATC) contracts with a local guide service to ferry hikers across by canoe, but only between those hours. It's free to hikers. The Kennebec can't be forded, as it is wide, deep in the middle, and upstream dam releases can cause sudden level increases.

The ferryman was on the north side of the river when I arrived, fishing from the bank, so I waved an orange flag (provided) and he saw me. When he had paddled over to my side of the river I instinctively grabbed the bow to pull it up on the sandy shore, which would allow him to disembark on dry land. He admonished me for touching the "watercraft" before receiving my safety briefing and signing a waiver. I'd never heard a canoe called a watercraft before, thinking that term more appropriate for boats with motors and/or sails, but I played along. I obediently listened to my safety briefing, signed the waiver, cinched my life vest, and cautiously stepped inside the canoe after he granted me permission to board.

I noticed a second paddle, grabbed it (again, instinctively) and before the blade hit the water the ferryman told me to paddle lightly. I told him that I wouldn't veer the canoe off course, that the bow paddler was an afterthought, mainly there for ballast anyway, and that all the control was in the stern. He didn't give me any more directives after that. I got to thinking that I may have had at least as much time in the stern of canoe as he did, since I practically lived in one during the summers of my youth and young adulthood. He was actually a really nice guy, and I don't blame him for assuming that his passengers don't know a thing about canoes. After all, he has a responsibility to ferry a few thousand people safely across the river each year. He gave me good advice on where to stay in Caratunk (the small town on the other side of the river) and said "Tell them that the Great Northerner sent you; they"ll treat you right."

Great Northerner.

I walked two miles west to "Northern Outdoors," a resort/campground that specializes in whitewater trips. For $25 a night I had a cabin tent just 100 yards from the Kennebec River. It felt like a mansion. I stayed for two nights, resting up for the final 150 miles. My next stop is Monson, about 40 miles away. Then comes the 100 Mile Wilderness and Mt. Katahdin.

Entering Maine

I still had a few rough miles of New Hampshire to hike through when I left Gorham, particularly the Wildcat Mountain peaks. Wildcat Mountain is home to a ski area and a gondola brings tourists and hikers up during the summer. They say you can see the Atlantic Ocean on a clear day, just like on Mount Washington. However, just like Mount Washington, all I saw was the inside of a cloud.

I was focused on Maine, but it took almost two days to get there. It was a major feeling of satisfaction when I arrived at the Maine border. I was under the mistaken notion that Maine would be easier than New Hampshire (and it is overall), but the first 100 miles of Maine contain some rough terrain, including the worst (or most fun, depending your perspective) single mile of the trail. It's called the Mahoosuc Notch, and it is a mile-long gorge of enormous boulders, taking about three to four hours to navigate through.

As soon as I entered Mahoosuc Notch I felt the temperature almost instantly drop about 15 degrees. The only other time I had experienced such a rapid temperature drop was when I walked down into a swollen stream one night in Virginia, but I didn't hear any water. I soon found out why the temperature had dropped, though. As I aimed my headlamp (I was hiking at night) down between the voids in the boulders I could see large amounts of ice and hard-packed snow. I was not expecting that since it was mid-July and I was only at about 2,500 feet in elevation. The steepness of the gorge and the below-grade voids slowed the melting process considerably. I imagine that some of it never melts.

Climbing through the boulders was a challenge. At times I had to take my pack off and push it through first because the route was not big enough for me and my pack to fit through at the same time. Some of the boulders were as big as houses, and at times I was completely under them, almost as if in a cave. I spent about four hours in the Notch, cooking dinner halfway through. All in all, it was fun.

Only 281.4 miles to go from this point.

After camping for the night, I made my way up Mahoosuc Arm, a notoriously difficult uphill climb that leads to Mt. Speck. It was just as rough as anything in New Hampshire, and it often required both hands and both feet. My trekking poles were stored away for that section.

On Friday night, July 22nd, I stayed at the Pine Ellis Hostel in Andover, Maine. It was eight miles from the trail, but a nice elderly lady stopped and gave me a ride for the last four miles. I ran into some people at the hostel that I had seen before, and met a few others that I hadn't. They included a recently retired Army helicopter pilot who will be attending culinary school when he finishes the trail. I also met a friendly Berliner, whose English skills weren't as good as other Germans I had met. He explained that he was raised in East Germany and had been required to learn Russian all through school. The Berlin Wall didn't fall until he was in his early 20's. The hostel was run by a couple of kind elderly ladies and it was a nice night away from the trail.

The next few days were a little easier, but still time-consuming. The numerous rocks and exposed roots prevented any sort of rhythmic stride. The scenery was beautiful though and I passed by many lakes and ponds. I was looking forward to arriving in Rangely, Maine since my final pair of trail runners were waiting for me at the Post office there. My third pair was falling apart and I already had to patch them in several spots.

A sample of a Maine pond.

And a sample of a Maine view.

I arrived at the trailhead outside of Rangely on Sunday morning, after walking through rain most of the previous day. It was a nine mile walk to town, but after walking a half mile with my thumb out I was picked up by a young, vacationing couple from Arlington, VA. They had just spent one night backpacking in the mountains and were fascinated to hear what it's like to spend months on the trail.

Rangely is a nice town surrounded by lakes and mountains. It's a little on the tourist side, but not overwhelmingly so. I ate at a local restaurant and stopped by the local outfitter for a few supplies. It being Sunday I couldn't pick up my new shoes at the Post Office yet, so I headed to the Farmhouse Inn hostel, located a mile outside of town. It had been highly recommended by some southbounders who I had met in Andover.

The Farmhouse Inn was just that, an old 18th century farmhouse. It was run by a couple who had four polite young children, two of their own and two adopted from overseas. I ran into three or four people who I had met previously and met some new southbounders. One was a preacher from Texas who felt "called" to the trail. There was also a hippy couple who lived in a modified old "short bus" when they weren't on the trail. It was parked outside. I also met a Scottish guy from the Isle of Skye who started the trail three weeks after finding out about it.

I took a zero day in Rangely, picked up my shoes from the post office, and bought some shoe "Goop" in town to reinforce the known weak areas before I started wearing them. I let them dry overnight and wore them on the trail today. So far, so good. The trail went back over 4,000 feet to the top of Saddleback Mountain and a few other nearby peaks. The rest of the country might be suffering a heat wave, but I had on a jacket and gloves on this morning while facing stuff winds on top of those peaks.

Taken while heading to the top of Saddleback Mountain.

Good footwear makes a big difference on the trail.

Looking to the summit of Saddleback Mountain.

Summit of Saddleback Mountain.

View through the clouds.

Below the clouds while heading down Saddleback Mountain.

All of the northbounders are getting excited about closing in on Mt. Katahdin. I'll pass by the 2,000 mile point tomorrow.

The Presidents

"The Presidents," that's what hikers call the Presidential Range in the White Mountains, the highest peaks above the tree line. Most of the peaks are named after former presidents, the most famous being, of course, Mount Washington. I started hiking up to the Presidents on Tuesday, July 12th from Franconia Notch.

After a long day's hike I arrived at one of the most spectacular peaks, Mount Lafayette, right around sunset. Although Lafayette wasn't a president, New Hampshire residents evidently thought quite highly of him, because it is one of the nicer peaks in the range. It was a beautiful, windless evening and several hikers were camped right near the peak that night, protected by some stone walls should the winds pick up. I talked to them for a while and then headed down to the tree line where I prefer to camp. The next day I hiked over Mount Garfield, and then reached the summit of South Twin Mountain, after a tough climb reminiscent of Kinsman Mountain a few days earlier. The view from South Twin Mountain was quite nice, but I was bitten badly by some voracious insects at the peak, where I stopped for about 15 minutes. After going over Mount Guyot, the trail went down to the very scenic, and refreshing Zealand Falls. I removed my shoes and socks and let my feet enjoy the cool water for a while.

The view from South Twin Mountain, looking left to right: Mount Garfield, Mount Lafayette, Mount Lincoln.

A short time later I came upon the Zealand Falls AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club) Hut, which stood directly adjacent to the trail. It looked like a large vacation home, not fitting in with the rugged simplicity of the rest of the trail. I heard an air compressor occasionally turn on while some workers were replacing some siding. This was the second AMC Hut I had come across so far and there would be more scattered throughout the White Mountains.

The AMC predates the Appalachian Trail and started building simple shelters in the early 20th century to protect its members on their high mountain climbs. These huts have morphed into quite fancy (by trail standards) establishments over the years. They have full kitchens, running water, composting bathrooms, large common/dining areas, and multiple bunk rooms. They are staffed during the summer by college students (many are members if the Dartmouth Outing Club). For about $125 a night, guests with reservations receive a bed in a bunk room (they must provide their own sleeping bag) as well as dinner and breakfast. The huts have electricity provided by solar power and wind generators. All food, supplies, and trash are hauled in and out by the staff using huge, antiquated wooden pack frames. There is no road access to any of these shelters, and the staff, acting as sherpas, must make daily trips to a trail head for resupply. These trips can be as long as 3 or 4 miles one way, often over extremely difficult terrain. It is not a summer job for the lazy. I passed a few of these college student sherpas on the trail and they told me they typically carry between 40 and 80 pound loads.

Non-guests are welcome to stop in and get water, buy beverages and snacks, and hang out in the common areas during the day. The huts allow a few non-guests to stay the night in a "work for stay" program. They don't get a bunk, but can sleep in the common area and receive dinner and breakfast in return for helping to serve meals, performing cleanup chores, etc. In dire weather though, the huts won't turn anyone away.

Besides the huts, the AMC also runs tenting campsites along the trail with caretakers and composting toilets. The cost is $10 per night, which some hikers grumble about.

The weather report called for inclement weather for next day, so when I arrived at Crawford Gap I decided to stay at a state-run campground by the Dry River (definitely not dry) which had inexpensive (and clean) laundry and shower facilities (nice). I was glad I stayed there because that night I experienced torrential rain, the heaviest to date. My little tent performed like a champ though. When the weather cleared on Friday I started hiking toward Mount Washington, spending the night near some scenic cliffs on Mount Webster.

Morning view from the trail while heading up toward Mount Washington.

Near Mt. Washington.

The next day started out sunny, and I passed over Mt. Pierce (renamed Mt. Clinton), Mt. Eisenhower, Mt. Franklin and Mt. Monroe (every separate pointy thing has a name) before beginning up Mt. Washington. Unfortunately, clouds were rolling in and I was walking through fog for the rest of the day.

I passed by a very busy Lake of the Clouds AMC Hut, stopping to get some coffee and a brownie. I ran into "Hail," a thru hiker I had met earlier at the Hikers Welcome hostel. His father had joined him for a few days.

AMC hut.

The last 1.5 miles to the summit seemed interminable, and when I arrived at the top I was astounded at how many people were there. Hundreds of hikers and others were milling around, both outside and in the large visitors center / cafeteria / gift shop.

Quite a popular spot for a photo (the summit is identified by the sign on the right).

A local told me it was the busiest day of the year because of a fundraiser called "Seek the Peak" for the weather observatory there. Many drove to the top (including a motorcycle gang with full leather regalia), others took the cog train and hiked down (or vice versa) and other hardy souls were hiking both up and down. A few, like me, were just passing through. I heard lots of French being spoken, so there must have been a Canadian contingent there.

Cog train.

I ate lunch with a couple of friendly locals and then hung out in the backpackers' dungeon in the basement for a little while charging my phone. I chatted with Hail and his dad, as well as with a few section-hiking college students, all good company. I then hit the trail again, still in the fog, crossing over the cog railway and then on to Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Madison. The trail around Mt. Madison was extremely rugged. I then descended down about 3,000 vertical feet, out of the clouds, and found a nice camping spot near a stream. It rained most of the night, but stopped in the morning. I packed up my wet tent and hiked to Pinkham Notch to take a zero day in Gorham, NH. The Whites were now mostly behind me.

The Whites

Since the day I started the trail I recall other hikers saying things like, "If you think this is tough, just wait until you get to the Whites."

The "Whites," of course, are the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and I began hiking in them a few days ago. The White Mountain National Forest starts quite near Hanover, NH, and includes some fairly challenging summits such as Smarts Mountain and Mt. Cube. The word on the trail is that the Whites really begin at Mt. Moosilauke, near Warren, NH. I decided to stay at the "Hikers Welcome" hostel in Glencliff, NH, just outside of Warren to shower, do laundry and prepare to take on the Whites.

The Hikers Welcome Hostel was at more than maximum capacity. It would have been comfortable with 12 or fewer hikers, but because the weather had soured there were twice that number staying there. A single outdoor shower and toilet served all of us. I ran into some people I had met before on the trail, and some new people as well. Most decided to sit out Saturday the 9th because of the rain forecast, but some of us decided to press on. The hostel offered a "slackpacking" option that two retired guys from Virginia and I opted for.

Slackpacking means you leave your tent, sleeping bag, etc. at the hostel and get shuttled to a trail head farther north (in this case Kinsman Notch). We then hiked 10 miles south to the hostel. The next day (Sunday the 10th) we were shuttled back to the trail head to continue north. It was nice having a half-weight pack as the hike over Mt. Moosilauke was extraordinarily challenging, my toughest day on the trail yet.

The trail up Mt. Moosilauke was extremely steep, running along a cascading stream for several miles. It was raining, which further added to the difficulty. By the time I got to the top of Mt Moosilauke it was so cold and windy that I pulled out a pair of spare wool socks to use as field-expedient mittens. They worked quite well. I thoroughly enjoyed that 10 mile hike though, and when we returned to the hostel with exhilarated looks on our faces you could see the looks of regret among the majority of hostel stayers who decided not to hike that day.

Hostels are interesting places. This one was a very laid back place, run by a guy who is the rare "triple-crowner," meaning he has hiked the entire Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, and Continental Divide Trail. That's more than impressive. The crowd at the hostel on the weekend I stayed there was a mix of younger and older hikers. It was enlightening talking to them around the campfire at night. Some were older hikers like me, including a doctor, an engineer, and several retired county workers (the Virginia guys I slackpacked with). Others were much younger, some having firm plans (starting nursing school or law school in the fall), and others searching, having no firm plans at all. One couple had met on the trail and married three days earlier.

On Sunday it was still raining, so many decided to stay at the hostel another day. Others, like me and the Virginia retirees, decided to press on so we were dropped off at Kinsman Gap again (the north side of Mt. Moosilauke), this time hiking north to Franconia Notch, over Kinsman Ridge. It turned out to be the toughest day on the trail to date. In fact, you would be hard pressed to even call parts of it a trail; it was more like a route, in the climbing sense.

More than a few times I had to stop and plan a route forward, be it an ascent or descent. The trail was so steep, rocky, and slick that any misstep could have very negative consequences. I recalled the German motel proprietor in Bear Mountain, NY telling me that when he had hiked the Whites there were times where he would just throw his trekking poles down a hill and climb down after them, since he needed to use his hands as well as his feet to climb down.  I found myself doing just that as well.

The rain was pervasive, and sections of the trail looked more like streams than trails. Some sections were completely submerged. While I could occasionally veer off trail to high ground, sometimes the woods were so dense that I had to walk through deep water. On at least three occasions I had to cross very swollen streams with no foot bridge. One of them required looking  up and down stream to find a place to cross, and even then getting soaked up to my knees.

I stealth camped that night at Franconia Notch State Park, and it continued to rain through most of the night. I was glad I seam-sealed my tent at the Lake.

On Monday I walked about 5 miles in Lincoln, NH to dry out and resupply. On the way into town the road paralleled the Pemi River. I stopped along the river to dry out my tent and saw some ducks in the water. One of them would occasionally break off from the group and run a length rapids, using his webbed feet to steer around rocks. They were quite good at it.

I saw a bear raiding a dumpster on the way back to the trail. Bear #4

Vermont

The Green Mountains of Vermont are appropriately named. The Appalachian Trail has often been called the green tunnel, and the Vermont section lives up to that as much as any part I've already hiked.

Unfortunately, foot pain was one thing that stood out in Vermont. My left foot continued to give me trouble and downhills were the worst. The long downhill into Bennington led me to decide to rest my foot yet again. I spent the night of the 20th of June in a motel and then went to a walk in clinic the next day. The doctor (or PA) told me mostly what I already knew, but at least confirmed that I didn't have stress or hairline bone fracture. It was a mild sprain.

I stayed another night at the motel resting my foot. For some reason, a number of construction workers staying at the motel decided to back their pickup directly in front of my room to have a tailgate barbecue. I was sociable and talked with them for a while until they all started smoking marijuana. Bed time.

The steep climb out of Bennington went well, and my foot felt good with a new Ace bandage. I looked forward to getting to the tops of hills because then I could see something besides the endless green tunnel. The first 100 miles or so of the AT in Vermont coincides with Vermont's Long Trail, which extends all the way to the Canadian border. The trail was noticeably more crowded and I ran into a number of hikers who were hiking the Long Trail, not the AT.

Apparently the annual Rainbow Family gathering was being held somewhere in Vermont's Green Mountains this year and I ran into a few hikers who were headed there. One, a very healthy looking 22 year old, said he was glad he claimed his food stamps before coming. It's a way of life for some I suppose.

The trail runs right by many well known ski areas, including Stratton, Bromley, and Killington (all named after peaks or mountains). At times, the trail was on what are ski slopes in the winter. It was on top of Stratton Mountain that the founder of the AT, Bentonville MacKaye, claims to have conceived of the idea while sitting in a tree.

The Long Trail broke off from the AT right near Killington. My guidebook mentioned that there was an hourly bus into nearby Rutland, so I went into Rutland to do laundry, since it had been a few days and the weather was hot.

I had been planning to take a week break and rent a car in Hanover, New Hampshire so that I could head down to my family's lake place in NJ, where my sister, brother, and mother would be for a few days. Because my foot had not been healing well, however, I decided to get off the trail in Woodstock, VT (about 20 trail miles sooner than originally planned). I took a bus to White River Junction, VT, just across the Connecticut River from Hanover, where I rented a car.

After a week at the Lake my foot felt 100%, so I was optimistic as I returned to the trail on July 4th, taking a bus back to Woodstock (a very nice town). It's a four mile walk to the trail head, but a trail volunteer offered me a ride for the last few miles.

While on the bus to Woodstock I had an interesting conversation with a Kurd from Turkey. He made it a point to let me know that although he was a Turkish citizen and carried a Turkish passport, he was not a Turk. He was heading to Rutland/Killington to work for 90 days as part of a student/work visa program to improve his English. His older brother, now a physician, had done it five years earlier and highly recommended it to him.

On the 5th of July I ran into a couple of kilt-wearing southbound guys who told me of the "best trail magic ever" just a few miles away where the trail crossed the White River. Sure enough, as soon as I crossed the river a young guy with dreadlocks waived me over to a porch across the street. It was the home of Linda, a recently retired trail angel extraordinaire. She asked me if I wanted breakfast or lunch and proceeded to serve me a delicious breakfast complete with eggs, sausage, potatoes, toast, and coffee. She said that she and her husband have been doing this for hikers for years and that banking good karma pays off. When her house was swept away during the Vermont floods a few years ago a group of volunteers showed up from Maryland with $25,000 worth of lumber and proceeded to build her a new one.

By the end of the day, Tuesday, July 5th, I left Vermont and entered NH.