[at-l] Jan Day 21

[kahley@ptd.net (kahley)]

COLD this morning. I would not have been comfortable
in the hammock, which I considered given my flat
Thermorest. More grinding hipbones.
We are up early for our crack at the Big M. Up we go...
11AM - We are halfway up The Forehead of Mount
Mansfield. Clyde is stretched out on a sunny rock,
the large, black dragonflies rattling their wings about us.
I am eating my power lunch of tuna and crackers and
snickers. I hope it will give me the strength to ascend
with grace and power.
We've needed both already. After a few tight squeezes
in high, high places, we climbed a ladder only to confront
a cleft of rock and a drop-off into space: your choice.

"I didn't know I had a fear of heights until I got up here,
said Clyde. "I didn't know it would be dangerous."

After pondering the situation, we decide to take off our
packs, go singly, and pass the packs across the void.
Anything dropped here, including us, will be gone forever.
Clyde wedges himself into the cleft of rock and shimmies
across, I try the higher route. Both work packless, and
we laugh with relief on the other side.

"I was squeezed in tighter than a June bride in a feather
bed," said Clyde.

"Yeah, and you weren't thinking about the IRS or your
cash flow, were you?" I answer with relief. "That's being
in the moment, eh?"

"If I fell off here, the IRS can have anything that's left."

Next will be The Nose, and there are TV and radio
stations and a rest station. We'up there now, at TV
Road on the Nose, a service road to a television tower.
Jeremiah and Jonah are with us, and are about to get
of the mountain because Jonah is ill.

They are loaning me their cell phone, so here it goes,
The Jan and Clyde Show, broadcasting LIVE (so far)
from Mount Mansfield...

2:30 PM
We are on the summit of Mansfield, The Chin, us and a
dozen of our closest new friends. We have just pulled off
our best joint yogi, the hiker's version of Stone Soup.
At the top, Clyde sets down his pack with a twinkle. "I
think we got something REAL to celebrate this here
summit with. I got a tomato and a loaf of bread."

"Bread?" I perked up. I knew he had met Jonah's mother
in the parking lot down below at the tiny visitor's center.
Jonah had promised surplus food.

"Not just any bread," he says and produces, with a flourish,
a rustic brown, floury loaf of "Elmore Mountain Sourdough Rye."

Someone offers a knife, and we go to slicing the tomato.
There's juice spurting everywhere, dripping, running down
our arms, us "whoa,dude!"-ing and drooling. People are
laughing at our heartfelt appreciation of "this here tomato."
"If only we had a vidalia onion, this would be the max,"
I say. And a little girl, Briella, walks over with a big bag of
Lay's salt-encrusted potato chips. We exclaim and make
much of her, her parents beaming: "Feed the pretty hikers,
baby... mind they don't nip... careful of your fingers, darlin'..
."
In moments, another fellow comes over with a brick of extra-
sharp white Vermont cheddar, crumbly and rich. He
encourages us: "Don't hold back, we got more at the car."

We are up to our eyeballs in non-hiker food, real food, food
not long from the oven, cow or vine! All we lack is chocolate.
Alas, no one shares THAT. Still, even Mark McGuire didn't bat .100.

Briella returns to her parents, and she and her daddy go look
for the very top of the summit, all 4,395 feet of the Chin.
Dad says "how about a hug on the very top. She lifts her
arms up to him. He gives a might hoist, lifts her up above his
head and says "Now you're the highest thing in Vermont right
now." And then he gives her a kiss. Go,dad!

We feast and chat with Chris, the summit caretaker. The
bare, windy 360-degree sweep of Vermont's largest mountain
compels, and we linger for over two hours. Mountains,
mountains, mountains, in every direction. I have never been
so deep in mountains.   We have the rare clear day, says the
caretaker. To the west,  Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks.
Mt. Washington is the large, peaky smudge far to the east.
Next year I hope to see it for myself.

As we pack up our crumbs to leave, a bouncy, ebullient, young
woman comes bounding up, breathing hard. Her damp red curls
are sproinging everywhere. She throws herself down and kisses
the brass survey medallion at the very top of the summit.

"I MADE it! I need to sing the music from Rocky now!" she exclaims.
Her loopy pleasure in her feat - she is somewhat overweight - infects
everyone, and we all smile.

"Some people yell when the get to the top of mountains," she
declares to the assembled masses. "Me, I sing."

She takes a request for "Amazing Grace." As Clyde and I descend
from Our Day on Mount Mansfield, the moving strains of this young
woman's excellent a cappella waft downslope of the mountain we
spent nearly five hours exploring.  I am caught off-guard by the
unexpected beauty of the moment. Clyde, the self-described
"`Florida redneck," feels it too: "That was kind of goofy, but kind
of nice too."

3:30 PM
We continue this ongoing broadcast of "The Jan and Clyde Show
LIVE from Mount Mansfield," but first a word from our Sponsor, Traction.
"Ladies and gentlemen, without Traction, the Jan and Clyde show
would be flying through empty space before deconstructing
itself back into the molecular components from whence it came.
Thank you for your support."

Yes, we came down two very slick, butt-sliding little washes.
They looked almost like creek sluiceway stood on angle, so
shiny and smooth.

I doubted the ability of my Montrails to grab enough ground to
keep me hurtling off the lip at the bottom, and off the edge of
the world. Rubber on stone. Would it hold?  As it happened,
it did - suspense over - but it was clear that, in a rain, that little
stretch on the backside of Mansfield would be non-negotiable.
T'was as vulnerable a moment as I've felt yet in a lifetime
knocking around mountains. Nothing but traction between
me and a hurtle.

The hike down to the new green-roofed Taft Lodge was pleasant,
but I missed the turnoff somehow and was below it when I
heard Clyde's voice. I told him I was trudging on.
About an hour further into the descent, my body was done hiking.
Unfortunately, I still had two hours to go on this footpath we
have often called "The TOO DAMN Long Trail." This hiking
from 7:30 am to 7:30 pm is hard on a frame such as mine,
one built for racing, not sherpa duty. But, must...carry...on...
Water has been a little scarce today, so I stop on the way
down and fill my bottles, and wring my stankin' shirt out. Ahhhh...

But, in the process, I once again leave my Special Bandana
behind. My god! I will have to go back up. But, there is only
jelly left for legs. I ask a hiker coming down if he's seen it - no.
I ask the next hiker coming up if he would be willing to carry it
forward, let me pay him to mail it on and... and... FATE!
It's Smoothie! He's taking a day off to take his mother day
hiking up Mansfield! I was so glad to see him. He said he
would be happy to take charge of the maternal bandana.

The rest of the trip was a hot, wearisome slog. I cold hardly
climb the slope up from Smuggler's Notch, my feet felt like
they were stuck in slow-mo.   When we hit Sterling Pond,
I ran out of gas. I stopped and sat on a large lakeside rock
until sunset's chill drove me to the Shelter.  I am too tired
to cook. I finish off Briella's potato chips, and dress my
rain-blistered toes. Before dark, who should hike by but
Melanie of the Long Trail Patrol, she of the Superhero ride.
We will likely see her tomorrow when we cross Whiteface,
as she is doing ridge work.

A freshman orientation group of kids are taking their gear
out of the shelter now, so soon we should be able to sleep.
Very,very weary tonite. Ah, sleep...