[at-l] Jan Day 12

[kahley@ptd.net (kahley)]

Not a shooting star to be seen, or maybe it was that I couldn't
keep my eyes open for long. Hadn't slept well the past couple
days, so I was really tired - but still slept restlessly. My little
hammock bivy worked out great, very comfy, no bugs. I could
see a patch of sky through the trees. The little "creek music"
from that sweet little spring/waterfall tinkled all night.

Unfortunately, so did a parade of small critters to the watering hole.
I would hear footsteps starting up the trail towards my ground-level
bivy, then pause (just about the time I rose to wakefulness), then
retreat. It was never unnerving, but it did keep some primitive
part of my awareness on high alert, so I never did drop down into
any black-hole sleep.

Yet I was too sleepy to keep my eyes open long.
The patch of sky above me contained no burning meteorites when
I was able to focus. I'll try again tonite, but I may have to be content
with the one I saw over DC on the way up.

Clyde wants to do 14 miles today. The nearest shelter is only eight
miles, a bit too soon to quit. The next one is almost six more miles.
  Maybe we can camp part way there? A full-pack 14 at this stage
is still maxing us out on this terrain.  Better pack up, Clyde's nearly
ready to go. It's 6:45 am, the workday is begun. Though Clyde leaves
right out in his workmanlike way, I linger and follow this sweet little
cold water upstream, seeing the source. I never did find it, as it
bobbed and weaved, appeared and became invisible beneath of
cracked jumble of mossy rock.

The temp is rising today. August is back. It is in the mid-90s by
mid-morning, and I can detect that the recent Eau de Princess
provided by the respite at the Inn is rapidly slipping away.
This synthetic poly shirt seem to be the worst offender, raising a
stink before I even get out of the lobby. I may suck it up and carry
a second light cotton shirt or tank to hike in the summers.
"Cotton kills!" is the rallying cry of the mountain hiker, because it
doesn't dry swiftly. Well, in the summer, that is a Good Thing.
Every time I pass a tiny brook, I take off my rank shirt and rinse
it out. I carry a little plastic Glad "Stand N' Zip" bag labeled "Wash"
  for this purpose, rinsing, squeezing and agitating. Then I pitch
the rinse water away from the water source. It's uncool these
days to wash yer duds in the crick.

I, Camp Princess, have developed a smug little wash routine.
When certain items get really rank, such as hiking socks, I add
a drop or two of Camp Suds and really go to town. Dump, add
rinse water, agitate, dump and wring out to dry. The next day
the damp items travel in the mesh bag on the outside of the pack.

Anyway, the constant wetting of the shirt kept me somewhat
cooler. That was good, because large patches of Seriously
uphill trail were Seriously in the sunshine. I would measure my
pauses to coincide with shade patches, catch my breath, then
truck through the sunny stretches.

The trail was also Seriously overgrown with nettles. Chest-high nettles.
This forest in this area seemed to have been logged in the last ten
years, very open and underbrushy.  This openness also led to a
Serious crop of chest-high raspberries bushes.

Mmmmmmmm....raspberries! Is there any finer fruit on god's
green earth? I don't think so. What sweet taste explosions for
such a little bit of stuff. I nibbled them when I could find them,
put up with the brambles when I couldn't.

I was alone the entire morning, a very isolated section of trail
this was. This was not a problem, I enjoy my own company,
in fact one reason I come out here is to walk by myself.
Good benefits accrue to me by stepping down the external
distractions and just paying attention to the green and rocky
world around me.

We are up on a ridge for much for of the walk, and I can
see a lovely mountain-ringed lake far below, which a sign
says is Chittendon Reservoir. Without the bugs and without
the leaves, this would be a hell of a walk. The far mountains
are very tall, and the lake is largely undeveloped. The
mosquitos today are the worst yet, but as long as I keep
walking and ignore the dentist-drill whine, things hang
together without too much annoyance.

The water sources start disappearing before I realize it, and
before long I am rationing water on a very hot and sweaty
day. I generally carry three 20-ounce Gatorade wide mouth
bottles. Today, because of the heavy packload of food,
I figured I could get by with two bottles. Wrong.

The trail seemed endless. Eight miles should be taking
me four hours or so, and now it's after 1:30. Over five
and change. This simple, uninspiring trail is kicking my
butt. Where IS that shelter? Man, I could use a long,
cool draught of water right about now.

I am feeling very much the Trail Weenie this last hour.
The further I go, the behinder I seem to get. I imagine
Clyde waiting at David Logan Shelter, our lunch meeting
point, patting his foot with impatience to get on to the
Sunrise Shelter. But I can go no faster, in fact am getting
a little stumble-footed. At this point, I can't imagine
another six miles in me.

Every rock of seat-height I pass calls out to me to have
a sit. Often, I do, further slowing my pace.
After several false hopes dashed for shelter sightings, a
sign appeared promising me David Logan was .2 miles
off trail. As I shuffled into the shelter clearing, there was
Clyde at the piped water source, filtering away. I held
out my water bottle mutely and, bless his heart, he filled
it up. I drank 40 ounces at that sitting, and another 20
after lunch. I was dry.

Then, Clyde uttered the words that gladdened my heart.
"Man," he said. "I sure hope you don't want to go on to
the next shelter. I can't do it today."

YES!!!

Later, we read in the register that others struggled with that
perplexedly simple stretch of trail. Well, then, we are in
good company, including that of Rockfish, a Triple Crowner
doing the Long Trail this year.

We both eat then fall into a long nap. I sleep a good two
hours, then rise and have a proper wash. Though I have
gotten my base pack weight down to 16 pounds, I
still carry one luxury item.. a thin blue wash cloth.
Camp towels and bandanas just don't cut it. The washcloth
is rough, like a mother cat's tongue, and gives a really
satisfying scrub.

I love having plentiful time in camp. After the wash, I
sit on a rock near the water and finish this journal. I
fiddle with this Pocketmail device, and discover some
new functions. I reset the date and time, then set the
alarm for the reasonable 6 am.

Before long, in come some Long Trail hikers Branch
and his friend Ben, who Clyde has christened Stick.
We met them at Glastonberry Mountain on Day Three,
and then again at the Inn at the Long Trail. Clyde is
delighted for some masculine company to balance
all the Yin.

They were tired too. Branch downs a good 30 ounces
right away. He was out of water too. We build a fire
eventually, and Clyde breaks out an Mountain House
Apple Cobbler mix that his niece Kami gave him for
Christmas. I donate some oil for the baking, a gnanola
bar for topping crumbles, and some pecan pieces to
add to that. Branch and Stick donate some extra pans,
and their white gas stove.

The cobbler is fine, the fire smokeless, and the company
good. Time to shut this tent show down.