Saturday, August 3, 2013

Hostel Hopping

We have been out on this trail for nearly five months now. That's five months of sleeping in shelters, under the stars, in tents during violent thunderstorms and while various vermin roam around menacingly in the dark. By this point we have earned our stripes and, perhaps, have earned some rest indoors, safe from the mosquitos, rain and bears. Well, maybe we have earned some of it.

Enter hostels - sometimes free, often not, but always a welcome retreat from the solidarity and unknown of the wilderness.

After leaving Tigger's Tree House and our very warm not-so-mobile home we returned to the trail refreshed and rejuvenated, ready for the 18 miles we had planned for the day. Per usual, we divided the day up into sections: 5 miles of hiking, 45 minutes of laying our tents out to dry, 6 miles of hiking, lunch, etc. The beginning of the day went according to plan - Red Knees and I powered up the first climb and arrived at Moose Mountain Shelter in record time. The shelter was fairly new and the breeze coming through was promising so we strung up our tents to dry out from the dew-soaking they had received two nights previous. At one point the wind picked up so substantially that Red Knees' tent lifted off the ground and floated along, dangerously close to becoming a kite billowing off the top of the mountain.

Hearts still a flutter from the near departure of housing we began our descent down the mountain. We had heard from Cosmonaut at Tiggers that the shelter at the top of Smarts Mountain was questionable but that it would be cool to sleep up in the fire tower at the top. Eager for a good sunrise and sunset we set off over the next few bumps to Smarts. When we reached the road crossing at the foot of the mountain we began to actively search for a place to enjoy our lunches. Like a gift from up above a sign came into view, inviting us to a house just off the trail belonging to Bill Ackerly - the Ice Cream Man.

His house is quite literally ON the trail and he readily welcomed us to his home, placing an ice cream bar and the log book in our hands before you could figure out who else was there or what music was wafting from the record player. Bill, we learned, is a retired Harvard professor and, at 85 years old, has one of the most visited homes on the trail (let's be realistic - what thru-hiker is going to see a sign advertising free ice cream and sodas and not stop in for a break, especially when searching for a place to have lunch?). I love this man.

We settled in and began to speak with the other hikers at the house, mostly Southbounders (Blue Skies, Yogi and I forgot everyone else's name but, let's be realistic, we are never going to see these hikers again - have fun in the crappy sections!) and began to get cozy - the kiss of death for motivation. As if on cue, in rolled the dark clouds, promising rain and Bill changed up the music to smooth 40s music. My eyelids instantly sagged and I looked at Red Knees with the inquisitive "are you thinking what I'm thinking?" eyes. He was. We were staying.

That night we (well, I) cooked up a taco feast to feed the 10 of us that decided to stay the night. At one point I made a comment about how we should have gotten Coronas instead of PBR and Bill instantly brings out a handle of tequila. Sneaky son of a gun. RK and I steered clear of the tequila, knowing that we were going to have to put in the miles the following day to make up for our almost nero. After relaxing for a while we went and set up on the front porch and drifted off to sleep.

Around 4am I was brutally awakened by the insanity-inducing mosquito buzz in my ears and the feeling of dozens of the tiny demons landing all over my exposed skin. It was pouring rain and every single insect was seeking sanctuary, apparently, on my face. I cinched myself into my sleeping bag liner, in my sleeping bag, and covered my face with my fleece and I could still hear them and feel them attempting to dive bomb me through my multiple layers. Aw hell no. Perhaps inappropriately I hopped inside, still in my sleeping bag, and lay down on the couch and immediately fell asleep.

A few hours later as everyone was stirring I began to pack up my things. Back on the porch I could not for the life of me find my food bag where I had left it. And then I saw it: dangling off the edge of the porch, torn to shreds, surrounded by bagel and poptart crumbs. My heart dropped: raccoon attack. How much food did I lose? Is the bag still usable? Was that mangey almost assuredly rabid scoundrel anywhere near me in my bag and if a rabid animal eats some of your food is the rest of it safe to eat?

Yet again, Bill to the rescue. Into the general store we went and picked up a few more supplies (which he generously would not let me pay for) to get me to the next town. With a plastic bag liner on the inside my existing food bag actually worked alright so we packed up quickly and got on the trail. The climb up Smarts Mountain was tough but doable and thank goodness we didn't stay at the top - the fire tower was drafty, rickety and terrifying and the cabin was gross. We briefly rested in the fire tower before my fear of heights got the better of me and we had to move on.

Somewhere in the next 10 miles I realized, as I pulled out my pack cover as the rain began to sprinkle down, that I didn't have my purse (well, a Sea-to-Summit bag that I have been using to hold my ID and credit card, if that counts). Either way, fuck. I knew it had to be at Bill's house so I forced Red Knees to death sprint to the next summit where I called 411 and was, thankfully, able to get the phone number. I left a message and crossed my fingers. On the way down Mount Cube my phone buzzed letting me know that there was a voicemail and thank goodness my purse was at his house safe and sound.

We finished our 16 mile day early (around 3pm) and got a hitch up the road to the Mount Cube Sugar Farm - a small maple syrup farm that allows hikers to stay for free. No one was there so we dropped our packs, left a note, and went about hitching all the way back to where we had left from that morning. We were able to hitch quickly there and back (only two hitches!) including a trip to the general store for some Chef Boyardi raviolis (I had a day - it was necessary).

Back at the farm we met Peter, the owner of the farm, who was hard at work boiling maple syrup. The farm, he told us, used to be right on the Appalachian Trail before it was rerouted over Mount Cube. Back in the 1950s, in fact, Grandma Gatewood (the first woman to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail at the age of 67) had stayed at the farm on both of her thru-hikes. Grandma Gatewood is a badass. When she hiked in 1955 and 1957 the term "lightweight" was so far from what we currently have that it will blow your mind. She literally hiked with a burlap sack with all of her belongings slung over one shoulder and a single trekking stick. When it rained, she draped herself with a shower curtain that doubled as her tarp tent. I will never complain again.

This morning started rainy but we were inside on cots and my food bag was un-attacked so it was, by all accounts, a successful morning. Once the rain stopped, Red Knees and I hit the trail. The first 10 miles blew by and we arrived at the base of Mount Moosilauke by 11:00am. At the hostel down the way we ran into a section hiker who offered to drive us up to Kinsman Notch so we downed Mountain Dew, threw a few essentials into a day pack and drove off (of course, without rain gear or food - no, we did not have lunch. Rookie mistake).

We were so jacked up on Mountain Dew that we basically ran up the nearly vertical south side of Moosilauke - we made it to the summit 5 miles up in under 2 hours. Unheard of. It felt amazing to have my body work so effortlessly up such difficult terrain, especially as we watched jacked up football stars huff and puff down the mountain, complaining about their all-night bender that was causing them to sweat out what I can only surmise was some combination of vodka and redbull. Pretty cool, bro.

The view at the top was incredible, though the wind was brutal and threatened to chill us to the bone if we lingered too long. The menacing dark clouds on the horizon hastened our decision as well so we began our descent down back to the road. It was steep but bearable, and we passed several of our friends on the way down. At the bottom, after smacking my legs on some 50 pound boulders, we forded a stream before heading back to the Hiker Welcome Hostel.

Showered, fed and with a cold beer in hand, I am happy and warm (and, for the first time in months, writing this entry on a computer so please pardon my rambling). I am excited and terrified that we are officially in the White Mountains, nervous for the occasional twinges that I feel in my right shin, sad but ready for this insane adventure to come to an end. It is almost impossible to think that 27 days from now, if all goes according to plan, I will be drinking champagne with my dad on the top of Mount Katahdin - my Mecca. But for now we will continue to take it one mile at a time, working for every one of the next 389 miles.






1 comment:

  1. Emily, you are so right about Grandma Gatewood! I am currently working on a PBS documentary about her -- she not only was the first woman to solo thru-hike the Appalachian Trail (which she did when she was 67 years old!), but she was the first PERSON to solo thru-hike it THREE times. She also hiked the 2,000-mile Oregon Trail and helped to create Ohio's Buckeye Trail. Check out our project site at: http://edenvalleyenterprises.org/progdesc/gatewood/gtwdinf.htm and see our PBS trailer at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sd1uqeL78bw&feature=youtu.be

    By the way, if the owner of that farm, Peter, happens to have any information to share with us, I'd love to talk to him! Thanks.

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