Wednesday--May 24, 2000
Trail Day--1
Trail Mile--5
Location--Cap Bon Ami overlook, Forillon National Park Quebec Province

The journey that I am embarking on today begins at the Cliffs of Forillon, Quebec Province, Canada, at the tip of the Gaspé Peninsula where the St. Lawrence meets the north Atlantic.  From here I’ll follow the Sentier International des Appalaches/International Appalachian Trail (SIA/IAT) south and west through the provinces of Quebec and New Brunswick, then to cross into the state of Maine, a distance of some 730 miles.  At Baxter State Park, Maine, I’ll pick up the Appalachian National Scenic Trail (AT), to follow it for over 2,100 miles, through the mountains and valleys of fourteen states, to Springer Mountain, Georgia.  From there, I’ll continue generally south on the Benton MacKaye Trail (BMT), the Georgia Pinhoti Trail (GPT), the Alabama Pinhoti Trail (APT), to finally connect to the Florida National Scenic Trail (FT) by a roadwalk.  These connector trails, plus the roadwalk, amount to some 550 miles.  From the Florida Panhandle, I’ll follow the FT for an additional 1,200 miles to the Everglades, west of Miami.  The final leg, God willing, will be a roadwalk of approximately 175 miles to the southernmost point on the eastern North American continent in Key West.  This system of trails, with accompanying roadwalks, is becoming known as The Eastern Continental Trail (ECT), and covers a distance of approximately 4,800 miles.  It will take some ten months to complete this journey; if you’re ready, let’s get started! 

I am filled with both excitement and nervous anticipation, for I have been waiting so long for this adventure to begin.  Arrangements have been made for Benoit (Ben) Gagnon, an interpretive warden at Forillon National Park, to drive us to the cliffs at Cap Gaspé, the beginning/ending of the SIA/IAT.  John John O O’Mahoney, who will be hiking south with me, says good-bye to his son Sean, who has driven us to Canada, and we're off to the Cliffs of Forillon.  On the way, Ben talks about these aged and timeless Appalachians, and he explains that the mountain we are approaching is one of the oldest of the old.

The rain and wind continue as we break camp.  The sea and mountains all around are in the shroud.  As I pass, I pay little more than a nod to the observation tower atop Mont Saint-Alban.  Had it been a clear day, here would have been one of the most spectacular vistas in all my amblings along the entire Appalachian range.  I try not to be disappointed; it is too early to deal with disappointment. 

 We haven't climbed far this morning till we're right back in the snowpack again, big time.  The rain is still working the snowcrust to near a veil o'er the glistening whiteness, and the depth of the drifts has increased, varying now from two to nearly eight feet.  There’s moose sign everywhere, and there have been snowmobiles through sometime this past winter.  I pass a snow depth-measuring field deep in the mountain interior.  Apparently the Park Service monitors it at periodic intervals throughout the winter season.  I am able to follow the trail much more easily as a result of the tracks, and the snow seems to be packed a little better as a result.  It is evident that John O and I are the first hikers through the Forillon this spring.

Yesterday was a very long and tiring day.  It was good to get out of the snowpack, off the mountain and into Fox River to a warm room, a hot tub and supper at Dixie Lees.

We're out early this morning, headed straight into the wind and rain to begin the roadwalk to Mont St.-Pierre.  Most folks don't care much for roadwalks, but I like them just fine, and this roadwalk is one of the finest in my book.  But alas, this roadwalk won't last, as trailbuilding crews will be working all summer to move this SIA/IAT from the road to the ridge.  Currently, the trail follows PQ132 along the St. Lawrence Sea, past delightful French Canadian villages.  To me it's like going back 30-50 years in time.  The folks who live here take great pride in their homes, though most are very modest.  The colors they choose to brighten the drear and cold of the harsh winter monochromes are a riot - an absolute jolt to the eye.  White with fire engine red is predominant, but it's not unusual to see orange, purple and wild neon shades of blue, green and yellow mixed in.  Clotheslines on pulleys are beside every house, as are the universally staggeringly huge stacks of firewood.  Up here you can still run a charge account at the little mom-n-pop grocery store, and they'll deliver to your home if you can't get out - just like the little grocery store run by lifelong pal, Donnie Jungmeyer, back in my sleepy little hometown tucked away in the Ozark Highlands of Missouri.  Up here, and back home, people help each other; it’s a way of life.  Indeed, it is a beautiful thing, because these kind and generous folk are as happy and joy-filled as any I believe I've ever met.

After a most welcome night's rest, John O and I are treated to a tank-stoking breakfast.  We bid good-bye to our good friend, Ubaldine Dea, and are promptly greeted by another day of wind and cold - cold rain.  Over the last two days, the road has climbed from the sea to the mountains, only to return again to the sea, and then to repeat the entire process again and again.  I recall many delightful vistas along this way in '98, but the angry, swirling shroud will yield none of that today.

Yet there is joy, as there always and inevitably seems to be, for it is as we are slogging along, a vehicle pulls to the shoulder and stops.  The driver emerges, dons his rain jacket and heads straight for John O and me.  Oh my, it's Viateur DeChamplain from Matane, the Quebec director for the SIA/IAT.  Viateur has a bag of goodies for us, along with much-welcome upbeat conversation!

What a blessing to see the morning dawn to clear skies.  Five constant and steady days of cold rain tend to wear on a fellow.  Patience is a great virtue when one can muster enough of it!

The restaurant at La Maree Haute is a fine establishment.  The place has been totally remodeled since I came through back in '98, all whiz bang new.  I went over last night for spaghetti and was treated royally, so it's back again for breakfast this morning.

The plan today is to hike from the motel here at Grande-Vallee to Petite-Vallee, going south to north on the trail.  Once there, we’ll get a ride back again with Jeff to the motel here at Grande-Vallee.  This plan works out just great, and Jeff has us back and on our way south again before 11:00 a.m.  Thanks Jeff!

The road winds up and around through the mountains for the better part of the day to finally descend back to the sea and the little village of Riviere Madeleine.  Here is located the fine restaurant Chez Mamie, Annie Langlois proprietor.  Her son Gilbert waits tables, and as I enter I inquire about Gilbert.  Annie calls her son who comes right away - to swell up into that familiar broad-beaming Canadian smile as he sees the old Nomad!  John O comes in and we enjoy the most delicious spaghetti dinner served in grand fashion as we enjoy the evening searching the sea, looking for whales.

Wednesday--July 12, 2000
Trail Day--50/1
Trail Mile--731/8
Location--Daicey Pond, thence to The Appalachian Trail Lodge, Don and Joan Cogswell, proprietors, Millinocket, Maine
 
I arise at 6:00 a.m. to a totally cloud-free day and quickly decide to go for it, to summit Katahdin and complete my second thru-hike of the SIA/IAT.  I'm on the trail for Roaring Brook Campground before seven and make very good time, arriving around ten.  I look for Simone Rossignol, ranger at Roaring Brook, for I want to cancel my reservations at the bunkhouse for the evening.  But she is out about the campground, so I head on up the Healon Taylor Trail for Pamola and Mount Katahdin.

This climb is a long and strenuous climb with few breaks, as the trail winds ever upward.  Above treeline, the large rocks and boulders make the scamper especially difficult, requiring constant and total concentration lest I slip, instantly ending my hike.  I claim the summit of Pamola around 1:30 p.m. to begin the traverse of the infamous Knife Edge.  Aptly named, the Knife Edge is a glacier-honed (as if razor-stropped) ridge, narrow and treacherous, with drop-offs, ledges and slides plummeting for thousands of feet to either side.  On this “trail” it’s time to be patient to a fault--to an all-encompassing, cover-all-bases kind of fault--with plenty of nimbleness thrown in, nimbleness for the old Nimblewill!  The day remains pleasant with only a moderate, steady wind.  I am blessed to have this good fortune, this most favorable weather.  I make good progress for the short distance to the chimney.  Here there is a bottleneck, a jamb-up of folks that seem to be wishing they were anywhere by here right now.  I must wait, as there is just no way around.  One by one, the dear ones must be assisted with foot placement and guidance over the blind, straight-down ledges that seem to pitch to oblivion.  Once through this traffic, I do fine and I am very pleased with my progress, for I am negotiating this trapeze-like treadway with my sticks and a full pack.

By two o'clock I am standing on the summit of Mount Katahdin, here to be greeted by an overwhelming flood of emotions, as memories of my '98 hike descend to engulf me.  I go to the rocks beyond where I can be alone for awhile, to compose myself and to clear and prepare my mind for this day's experience, an experience that will bring other grand memories anew, for the remainder of my life.

Clouds are banking to the west and north as I hurry down the Hunt Trail and off the mountain, with the storm now sweeping toward the summit, enraged by the wind.  On the ascent in '98, I don't recall this being such a great distance or such a technically difficult traverse.  The time seems to pass so slowly as I continue descending, anticipating my arrival at Katahdin Stream Campground.

I’m anxious to get to the base of Katahdin, for here on a bronze plaque affixed to a large boulder are the words of a former Governor of Maine.  He worked tirelessly and diligently the remaining thirty years of his life amassing the lands he would subsequently give to the people of Maine--over 200,000 acres, including Mount Katahdin; the lands now know as Baxter State Park:

The hike from Katahdin Stream Campground to Daicey Pond is a pleasant hike along the park road and around the ponds.  I arrive at Daicey to be greeted with grand smiles and the kindest welcome by Rangers Marcia and Gabriel Williamson.  I have been so looking forward to seeing them both again, and as luck would have it they've just returned this day to Daicey Pond. I flop right down on the same chair I flopped down on in '98, and with much excitement, we exchange happenings since our last meeting.

My plans are to go on to Millinocket this evening, and while we're catching up on past events, a radio message comes in from Togue Pond Gatehouse.  A hiker is being brought to Daicey Pond, and the driver will be returning to Millinocket.  Hot dang!  Looks like I've got myself a ride, hopefully right to the steps of Don and Joan's Appalachian Trail Lodge.  As I hike down the road to the thru-hiker shelters at Daicey and at the parking area, Dave Hopkins from Farmington Falls, Maine, greets me.  He has brought a young hiker, trail name, Lurch, to Daicey Pond.  Lurch is flip-flopping.  Having interrupted his northbound AT hike at Harpers Ferry, he’ll be heading back there.  Dave offers me a ride as he heads home through Millinocket.  Oh my, how's that for a stroke of luck!

Soon I am at The Appalachian Trail Lodge.  Here I drop my pack on the front porch and head for The Appalachian Trail Cafe to make arrangements for a couple of days’ stay and to get a good home-cooked meal.  Here Joan and Don Cogswell, proprietors of both the lodge and the cafe, greet me.  Looks like this is going to be a memorable stay in a neat little New England trail town.
A great supper, a luxurious hot soaking for my tired, aching bones, and I'm off to the Land of Nod.

Thursday--July 13, 2000
Trail Day--51/2
Trail Mile--731/8
Location--The Appalachian Trail Lodge, Millinocket, Maine
 
What a great night's rest at the Lodge.  First order today is to head to the AT Cafe for breakfast, then back to work on my journal entries.  In the afternoon, Don runs me out to the shopping center, then over to Baxter State Park Headquarters. I had hoped to meet Irvin C. Buzz Caverly, Director of the Park, but just miss him.  It's back to the Lodge then for more time on journal entries--no hiking today.

Friday--July 14, 2000
Trail Day--52/3
Trail Mile--731/8
Location--The Appalachian Trail Lodge, Millinocket, Maine
 
If I am going to do something about my broken hand--other then just let it heal as is--then that something is going to have to be done pretty soon.  The break is trying to glue, not popping and snapping anymore, like the first week following the mishap.  So this morning I decide to head for the hospital here in Millinocket, get an x-ray and see what the docs say.  Hospital reception sends me directly to emergency, from where I'm taken right in.  All express much concern about my hand until I explain how long it's actually been busted.  The x-rays confirm what I already knew, but it's good to see the break and to be able to make an assessment of what I'm actually dealing with.  I'm pleased to find the break fairly clean, with little separation or deviation and only minor angular misposition.  One option that is suggested is to head for Portland to the hand specialist, spend a couple of days in the hospital there for surgery and have the bone straightened and pinned.  The other option is to just let it heal crooked as is.  I choose the latter and am given a removable cast and some Ace bandages to wrap the hand, and I'm sent on my way.  Back to the Lodge and in my room I try harnessing my trekking pole with the cast in place to find that this is not going to work.  I wear the cast around for a short while and then relegate it to the circular file.  If I can keep from wrenching or really bumping my hand for the next week or so, I think I'll pretty much have this problem behind me.

After lunch at The Appalachian Trail Café, I borrow Don's bike and head back out to Baxter State Park Headquarters.  This time Director Caverly is in, and I have the opportunity to meet and talk with him.  We discuss the directives and mandates set down decades ago by Percival Proctor Baxter and how the resources of the Park were to be and have been managed.  Mr. Caverly has been entrusted with that responsibility for nearly the past thirty years.  We also talk about the SIA/IAT and my advocacy for that trail and for my interest and desire in seeing its successful completion in Maine. Before departing, I compliment Mr. Caverly for his unwavering commitment to fulfilling Baxter's dream, a dream of seeing Katahdin remain in its wild and natural state. I then extend my wishes for his continued success. 
In the evening I relax, keep my feet up, talk with family and friends by phone, work on my journal entries, then tumble in.

Saturday--July 15, 2000
Trail Day--5--
Trail Mile--750/27
Location--Rainbow Spring Campsite, Maine
 
While organizing my pack this morning, I decide to take it over to the scales and find out just how much I've been lugging the past few weeks.  My dry pack weight on departing Forillon National Park in Quebec Province, Canada, was just under fourteen pounds, not counting food and water.  Since then I have sent most of my winter gear plus some other items home, so I know my pack weight has gone down.  Don told me yesterday about the dependability and accuracy of his scales, so I take my pack over and plunk it down.  I'm pleasantly surprised to tell you I'm now carrying only nine and one-half pounds. Hot dang, this puts me in the ultra lightweight category!

Early on, the folks at GORP.com, one of my generous and caring "Odyssey 2000" sponsors, had expressed concern as to the adequacy of gear I planned to carry onto the tundra in Canada, and to the possible risk I might be taking by limiting my pack weight. I was asked to inform them at anytime should I feel I had compromised my hike or myself as a result.  I can tell you now and I am pleased to report that I did not suffer for lack of needed gear.  This does not mean there weren't times of discomfort due to adverse conditions, for the trek began in two to seven feet of snowpack and near-constant forty-degree rain for the first five days.  But never was there a time when I feared for my safety or well being, nor were there ever moments of fear as to my ability to effectively cope with the elements and conditions. I got wet, yes; I got cold, yes; but in dealing with a treadway flooded with meltoff up to my knees, at near-freezing temperatures through which I had to trudge at times, certainly little could have been done to improve the "comfort" level under those circumstances, no matter how much gear I might have chosen to lug!

And now, for you doubters who can't possibly believe I can be happy and comfortable on the trail with what little I am carrying, I will list all the items that make up my nine and one-half pounds.  Please look this over, then try explaining to yourself what you must have that I am doing without, keeping in mind all the while the pure joy I embrace by carrying perhaps 10-30 pounds less than you're lifting and lugging.
 
GVP® G-4 backpack with hipbelt
Wanderlust Gear® Nomad Lite tent
Feathered Friends® Rock Wren bag
Thermarest® -- Guidelite™ pad
Wanderlust Gear® poncho
Pendleton® long sleeve wool shirt
Patagonia® long sleeve capilene shirt
Nylon pants
Lightweight wool socks
Asics® racing flats
Hiker Trash painter's cap
Water bottle belt pouch
1-liter pop bottle
20 oz. pop bottle (2)
Aluminum cook pot
Aluminum bowl
Cookware stuff sack
Nylon ditty bag/w: stainless steel spoon/pot holder, First-Aid Kit in Ziploc, meds in Ziploc, medicated powder in Ziploc, Conquest® in Ziploc, small vial of bleach, butane lighter, Photon Micro-Light®, clothesline, tooth brush, floss, comb, compass.
AT Data Book©/ALDHA AT Thru-Hikers’ Companion© (select pages)
Comb, floss, brush
Nikon® Nice Touch 4 35mm camera™, extra 36x slide film
Sharp TM-20 PocketMail®
Bread wrappers for stuff sacks
Large garbage bag
 
I carry no toilet paper and use no foliage (figure that one out).  I can get by fine on a pound to a pound-and-a-half of food per day. I seldom carry more than a liter of water.  I am immune to Giardia Lamblia, so I drink directly from select water sources.  I will occasionally use bleach.  I cook on open fires and can get by fine on cold food on those days that I cannot build a fire.  I have a six-ounce hobo "little dandy" wood burning stove I'll carry through those states where open fires are prohibited.
On my person, in pocket or otherwise not included in my pack weight are the following:
 
Nylon shorts
Short sleeve polypro shirt
Homemade gaiters
Lightweight wool socks
Vasque® cross-trainers
Watch
Medicine pouch with touchstone/talisman
Gerber® 400 lockback knife
Smith & Wesson® Magnum® 3G™ sunglasses by Olympic Optical®
Halfeye readers
Plastic wallet with cards/cash/change
Cotton headband
Ponytail band
Panasonic® microcassette recorder
Data sheet for the day
Leki® Super Makalu™ trekking poles
 
Don loads us up, and we're headed for Abol Campground in Baxter State Park.  We'll be dropping Harold Houdini Richards off.  He's flip-flopping and will continue his thru-hike south from Katahdin.  Here at Abol I meet Ranger Darren Bishop.  Kevin Donnell, who I met in '98 at Roaring Brook and who helped me north through Baxter and Matagamon that year, is also now working out of Abol Campground, but alas, he is not here today, so I ask Darren to give Kevin my regards and to extend my regrets for missing him this time through.  On the way to Daicey Pond, Don hails a Park vehicle headed the other way.  Here is Stewart Guay, one of the Rangers at Roaring Brook.  Don has to show me off and tell Stewart all about my hike.  I take pride in knowing so many of the great folks here on the staff at Baxter.  And the reason?  The reason is because they all take pride in what they do!

At Daicey, Don and I linger with friends, Rangers Gabriel and Marcia Williamson.  We get some pictures, enjoy each other’s company, and try putting off the good-byes.  But the time to shoulder the pack and head on down the trail soon comes, and I must turn and go.  Thanks Don, Marcia and Gabriel for your friendship and for all your kindness!

In just a short while I am at Abol Bridge Store and Campground.  It is amazing, what with the thousands of hikers that have passed this way since '98, that Linda Belmont, proprietor at Abol Store, would recognize me.  But as I enter she is at the counter, and looking up does there come this broad-beaming smile on her face! With this expression she remarks, "You've been here before, haven't you?"  I reply, "Yes Linda, I've been here before!"  Oh, what a joy seeing all these great folks again!

Linda is curious as to my route through Baxter State Park.  She is very familiar with the SIA/IAT, and as I proceed to clean off her shelves, we look over the maps of the Park.  She is aware that the official starting point for the trail that leads to the end of the Appalachians in Canada begins right by her store at Abol Bridge, I explain however, that I have selected my own personal route, and that route begins/ends on Mount Katahdin.

I no sooner enter the Hundred Mile wilderness than comes the rain, but the sky soon clears, and from Rainbow Ledges am I blessed with one of the most profound and striking views of Katahdin, perhaps even more so than the view from Mount Chase, many miles and many days ago.
Hurd Brook Lean-to is filled with a group of youngsters from New York, so I move on to pitch for the evening at the lovely Rainbow Spring Campsite.  Here's a piped spring and plenty of firewood.  This has been a grand day!

Sunday--July 16, 2000
Trail Day--54/5
Trail Mile--770/47
Location--Logging Road, Mile 46.0, thence to White House Landing Wilderness Camp, Pemadumcook Lake, Bill and Linda Ware, proprietors
 
I think it's just naturally supposed to be wet and cold in the Hundred Mile wilderness.  It rained off and on throughout the night, and I'm out in the swirling mist this morning, making this an appropriate day and providing the opportunity to close this journal entry with my ditty about this mystifying place--the Hundred Mile wilderness.

You'll notice as I write, the word "wilderness" is not capitalized.  According to Dave Startzell, AT Conference Executive Director, the Hundred Mile wilderness now carries a small [w] designation as opposed to an upper-case [W]!  This was said, tongue-in-cheek, when I talked with Dave at AT Conference Headquarters during my northbound thru-hike in '98.  But there is more than a little truth to this statement, as there are many roads crossing the trail now.  And at places like the new logging road at mile 46 (southbound) customary services and other civilized trappings and amenities are available to the AT hiker only a short distance from the trail.  That isn't necessarily bad and I'm certainly not complaining, 'cause I'm a trail town boy. This old codger certainly likes all the conveniences when they're available, and he'll usually track a beeline right there.

So today, after an easy pull over Nesuntabunt Mountain, and after meeting and talking with Kiel, a northbound thru-hiker, I head in to White House Landing Wilderness Camp located only a mile from the trail.  Access is an easy half-mile roadwalk along a new logging road, thence off into the woods for another half-mile on a neatly groomed trail, which ends at a floating dock on the shores of Pemadumcook Lake, the largest lake in Maine.  Here a handmade sign reads, "Honk the horn (an aerosol foghorn hangs from the sign) and we'll come pick you up.  Please be patient, we may be busy with other chores."  I give the horn a couple of short blasts and in only moments I hear the outboard crank and see the boat heading out.  As the launch approaches, I'm thinking, "This is really neat," and I reach for my camera to snap a picture of the lake with the boat and the old log lodge squarely in the background. Shortly I am greeted by Scott, who invites me aboard, and we're off, headed back across the lake to White House Landing.

Here is a picture-postcard setting, an old log lodge nestled in the tall-spired evergreen, up just a bit from the lake and situated in such a manner as to provide the most sweeping and panoramic view down and across the grand expanse of Pemadumcook Lake.  On the ride over, Scott explains that the only access to White House Landing is by boat, a distance of some ten miles down the lake to the nearest road.  So, the conveniences here are what they've made them. And the owners, Bill and Linda Ware, to whom I am promptly introduced, have spared no effort or expense in making each guest feel right at home!  The whole operation is pretty much powered by propane, with a generator and solar panels providing energy for some conveniences.  Gas lights add to the spell created by the rustic and grand old lodge, and I find I have not the least difficulty relaxing before one of the broad picture windows with a cold Bud in my hand, to enjoy the show--the pure white manes of a million galloping steeds--(as Sigurd Olson would describe) a most-splendid illusion created by the wind as it drives the waves across magnificent Lake Pemadumcook!

After settling in the bunkhouse and after enjoying the luxury of a hot shower, I head back to the lodge where Scott and his girlfriend, Debbie, prepare my evening meal, a fully loaded pizza.  This is really roughing it!

Monday--July 17, 2000
Trail Day--55/6
Trail Mile--772/68
Location--East Branch Lean-to
 
Rain comes hard and steady during the night but by morning it has settled to a light, steady mist.  I head over to the lodge where Bill is preparing an AYCE (all you can eat) grand breakfast.  He brings me a heaping plate, which promptly stokes me for the journey out today.  Scott then gives me and Backwards Bob, a northbounder, a boat ride back to the other shore. I'm on the AT again by 8:30 a.m.

I encounter many puncheons (long, low log bridges) across numerous bogs this morning.  The rain makes these wooden structures extremely dangerous, for they are covered with what I call, "slime of the time."  Slow, patient progress is the only safe way to approach these structures.

By noon the drizzle has subsided, and the mush begins to burn off.  The hike into the afternoon and for the remainder of the day is most enjoyable.  On a short pop up and over Little Boardman Mountain, I meet northbound thru-hikers Acrobat, Captain and Albatross.  By early evening I'm at East Branch Lean-to, where I get a fine cooking and warming fire going. There's a chill in the air toward nightfall, so I roll into my warm and roomy Feathered Friends Rock Wren and soon am comfy and snug.

Tuesday--July 18, 2000
Trail Day--56/7
Trail Mile--793/89
Location--Chairback Gap Lean-to
 
Rain comes in again during the night and remains my steady companion for the day.  The ever-present rocks and roots are a constant challenge when dry.  When wet, the least off-angle or misstep will quickly pitch you right in.  I take a couple of flying pack-slammers and a corkscrew elbow-banger today, along with numerous dipsy-doo slaloms and swaggering sashays, but I'm none the worse for wear, for which I'm most thankful.  My right hand is trying very hard to heal, and it doesn't need any more banging around right now.

I am faced this morning with the first respectable climb since scaling Katahdin, up and over White Cap Mountain.  Northbounders have raved about the grand views from this summit, but alas, this morning I am looking into the likes of Navy-bean soup the entire traverse.

In '98 I passed by Gulf Hagas in the hammering rain.  It isn't hammering today, but the shroud is again here with me--not the kind of day one would want to spend climbing and scampering around in the Gulf, so reluctantly, I pass this grand AT landmark once again.  Perhaps this one is just not meant to ever be!

After fording the West Branch of Pleasant River, a rock hopper, I arrive early afternoon at Chairback Gap Lean-to.  Aunt Mable has already pulled in for the evening, and we discuss our respective hikes as I attempt to build a fire in the rain.  As I try harder to get the soaking wet tinder to ignite, the storm sets in harder, to finally descend in buckets accompanied by crashing audio and fully illuminated video, all for our evening enjoyment.  Big Ring and Granny Gear have come in, and just as the thunder turns to stereo, up come Pfish and Adrian.  Aunt Mable and I rooch over a little, and there's plenty of room for all.  What a joy to be in the protection of this shelter and away from the slam of the rage for a change!

Aunt Mable offers to boil some water to warm and hydrate my Ramen noodles.  I decline her kind offer, but when she offers the second time I quickly accept.  I have sardines, bread and cheese for just such an occasion, but a warm meal is always a better choice.  Thanks, Aunt Mable!

Wednesday--July 19, 2000
Trail Day--57/8
Trail Mile--809/104
Location--Wilson Valley Lean-to
 
The day dawns to locally generated mush that burns off by late morning.  The trail through here is badly overgrown, with many blowdowns for the better part of the day.  Looks like there's been no maintenance to speak of since perhaps early last summer.  This sure brings a feeling of appreciation for the fine condition along other sections. It seems strange to be pushing through the grass and trail-engulfing foliage without getting totally soaked for a change, for the day has turned most pleasant, and the treadway is actually trying to dry out!

There are a number of ups ad downs today as I move on through the Barren/Chairbacks.  First it's up and over Columbus Mountain, thence to Third Mountain, Fourth Mountain, and finally Barren Mountain.

Wilson Valley Lean-to is a very pleasant site, with a grand fire ring, seats all around, and water just a short stroll away.  I arrive by early afternoon again to find the shelter to myself.  In moments I have a fine fire going in the fire ring, then it's over for water to bathe and freshen some of my clothing.  I'm able to string a clothesline near the fire, and I empty my entire pack, draping things everywhere to drive away the dampness.

I have been hiking off and on the past two days with southbounders Pfish and his brother Adrian, who arrive in awhile.  Later in the evening, northbounders Shaman, Pixie and Shakedown come in.  Pixie hiked some last year with Scott River Otter Galloway, who was first to hike southbound from Cap Gaspe´ to Key West.  I flew to Miami, then rented a car and drove to Key West to greet and congratulate Scott when he arrived last January.  Pixie and I have a grand time sharing stories about this friend.

After preparing my meal, I build the fire back up to warm and brighten the evening, and we all have a very enjoyable time sitting around and talking trail.

Thursday--July 20, 2000
Trail Day--58/9
Trail Mile--819/115
Location--ME15, thence to Monson, Maine, The Pie Lady's, Sydney “The Pie Lady” Pratt, proprietor
 
I awaken at 7:30 A.M. to a glorious, sunshiny morning and am out and on my way to Monson.  Today I will complete my hike through the Hundred Mile wilderness, but a rugged ten miles yet remain.  The blowdowns and overgrown treadway continue to Big Wilson Stream. Once I ford the stream, trail conditions improve.  The trail rattles up and down through what seems endless rocks and roots, to finally emerge beside one of the most picturesque little ponds to be found anywhere in the wilderness.  Lily Pond is a strikingly rugged but intimate pool, framed against a backdrop of conifers with the most impressive and massive granite temple rising in its midst.  I pause for pictures, and then just to gaze upon its serene beauty.

I arrive at ME15 around one and get a ride almost immediately right to The Pie Lady's front door.  What a joy to be here and to see my dear friend Sydney again.  She greets me with a grand smile, exclaiming, "I've been looking for you!" We talk and talk some more, as we get caught up on all that has happened in the past two years.  Sydney shows me to the same little private room in the back of her lovely home, where I'll be able to work on my book, Ten Million Steps, for in the next two days I must brush through the entire manuscript.  Charlene Patterson, my editor at Falcon Publishing, has sent it to me in book form, complete with dust cover and illustrations. I must review it, then return it to her, as we prepare the book for the printers.  It frustrates me to interrupt my hike, but Charlene tried to prepare me for this months ago.  It is true though--I am becoming more excited about the book with every passing day as it comes together and we get closer and closer to completion.  So I'll take the time, stay right with it and get it done, but I know I'll be anxious to return to the trail.

I get cleaned up and presentable again before digging into the pile of work.  In the evening I am treated to the finest dining experience I can recall, perhaps since here last.  Sydney is an absolutely superb cook. Then it's back to the little room to recline in peaceful contentment.  It's great to be back here again...deja vu, oh yes!

Friday--July 21, 2000
Trail Day—59/10
Trail Mile--819/115
Location--The Pie Lady's, Monson, Maine
 
What a great night's rest.  After a fine breakfast prepared by Sydney, I'm ready to go at it.  But oh what a stack I must get through!  What's taken me two years to write I must now completely review in just two days.  By late afternoon I am only on page 140--not very good progress.  I need a break, so I head downtown.  I pick up a six-pack of tallneck frosties and then stop at Mikes for a great BBQ sandwich.  I return and work until supper, then after, late into the evening.

Big Ring, Granny Gear, Pfish and Adrian came in earlier this evening, and will stay the night.

Saturday--July 22, 2000
Trail Day—60/11
Trail Mile--819/115
Location--The Pie Lady's, Monson, Maine
 
I have worked late, so I sleep late, missing breakfast, but Sydney has saved some coffee for me and that helps get me cranking this morning.
I go back to the book with determination, but I realize there is just no way I am going to get this review completed today.  I become slowly resigned to the realization that I will probably be here at least until Monday, for I've also got nearly a week of journal entries to complete.  Folks, "Hiking is hard. Writing is hard.  Hiking and writing is real hard!"--So sez the ol’ Nomad.

By mid-afternoon my vision starts blurring and the old noggin locks up, so I take a break and head over to Shaw's Boarding Home to spend a little time with Keith and Pat Shaw.  I find Pat in the kitchen getting supper prepared for the hungry horde of hikers.  As she continues peeling potatoes, we talk about the grand tradition this grand old place has become.  In awhile Keith comes through, and I’m given the extended tour of his large and expansive facility.  Even though pushing 73, Keith’s still quite the handyman, full of boundless energy.  A typical day here at Shaw’s begins at 4:00 a.m. and doesn't end until all the hikers’ needs are met, which is usually late evening.  Keith, Pat, it’s been great seeing you again.  I wish you 24 more memorable years at Shaw's Boarding Home.

In the evening it's off to the Appalachian Station Restaurant with Big Ring and Granny Gear.  We're heading for the Saturday night special--prime rib.  And does this ever turn out to be the right thing to do!  Great company and great prime rib prepared by Maureen Trefethen, proprietor and cook at Appalachian Station.  What a fine evening with my new southbound hiking friends, Big Ring and Granny Gear.

I have stuffed myself, it seems, to the point of bursting, and I am unable to sleep, so I work on the book and my journal until 4:00 a.m.

Sunday--July 23, 2000
Trail Day—61/12
Trail Mile--819/115
Location--The Pie Lady's, Monson, Maine
 
I finally manage some sleep, about five hours, so I don't roll out until after 9:00 a.m.  While Keith Shaw was showing me his other house across the way yesterday, Reverend Daryl E. Witmer of the Monson Community Church was passing.  Keith introduced us, and during the course of conversation Daryl invited me to attend services this morning.

Sydney has saved some coffee for me again, and after spending a few minutes with her, I'm right on time for church.  The sermon covers a very familiar subject, one that is always good to review--that to be a disciple of God, we must place our love for God above the love of family, the love of self and the love of material things.  I'm still working on all three.

I spend the remainder of the day finishing up the book review/proofing, and journal entries.  Toward evening, Sridhar Spider Ramasami comes in.  Spider began his journey from Cap Gaspe¢ and he, too, is bound for Key West.  Caveman, Spider and I enjoy a grand time over dinner, talking trail.

It's time to get things ready for the post office, organize my pack and prepare to depart for Stratton, Maine.  I am definitely ready for the trail again!

Monday--July 24, 2000
Trail Day--62/13
Trail Mile--829/125
Location--West of Horseshoe Canyon Lean-to, Maine
 
I seldom sleep in while on the trail, but this morning at Sydney's it's such a simple task.  When I finally stumble out to the kitchen around 9:00 a.m., there's a piping-hot cup of coffee waiting for me. It's hard to eat everything Sydney puts on the table, and as usual, there are leftover potatoes and pancakes, which she warms for me.  Talk about being pampered!

Pfish and his brother Adrian are still holed-up in the little cabin in Sydney's back yard.  Sydney had taken them, along with La Tortuga, a northbounder, to the outfitters in Greenville the other day.  There they bought some new cross-trainers, to get out of their heavy hiking boots.  Adrian’s been having a devil of a time with his feet and knees.  I think Pfish is also glad for the break.  They're southbound from Katahdin and just getting crankin'.  As usual, with most AT beginners, both are carrying heavy packs.  At my urging, Pfish also picked up a pair of Leki Trekking Poles (I sold a set of sticks for you, Leki!).  Some of their decisions were no doubt based on my comments and suggestions--sure hope I steered them right.  It's really great to see brothers sharing such quality time and enjoying each other's company.  I wish you both well, my dear new friends!

Caveman, a lover of spelunking when not hiking, has been recruited by Sydney to put up another hummingbird feeder.  She has one right on the window here by the dining room table; so as we dine, hummingbirds are frequent guests.  Caveman is a big, tall kid, so he's been given the job of reaching way up and attaching another feeder so Sydney can also enjoy the colorful little beauties at her bedroom window.  In real life, Caveman is involved with computers, and this morning he sets to updating Sydney's Netscape Navigator from 3.0 to something-point-something.  This computer stuff is all so new and intimidating to folks like Sydney and me; but we're trying!  Sydney is kind, sharing all she has, so it isn't surprising that she allows stinky hikers into her room to use her personal computer--to get on-line and send email.

Since Thursday evening, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Dick Anderson, President, SIA/IAT--no luck; but this morning I'm finally able to reach him.  He is pleased to hear about my good progress and is delighted to find that Spider is also here with me at Sydney's.  Spider departed right behind me this spring--on the Appalachian Mountains Trail (AMT) and the Eastern Continental Trail (ECT).  These trails follow along with, and are bound over to, the SIA/IAT.  All emerge from the sea, by the Cliffs of Forillon, Cap Gaspe´.  Both of us are bound for the beginning of the Appalachian range in Alabama, and ultimately, the southernmost point of the eastern North American continent in Key West.  We have a grand talk with Dick, who’s always excited to hear good tidings from hikers.

I’ve been working feverishly this morning, trying to get ready so I can return to the trail.  The last three days have been spent with my editor, Charlene Patterson of Falcon Publishing, in final preparation for my upcoming book, Ten Million Steps, a 400-page hardbound book about  "Odyssey '98.”  I’m trying to get two boxes ready to mail, one to send home and one to bounce on to Stratton, Maine, my next maildrop.  On the way back from the post office, I stop again at Appalachian Station, where Maureen prepares a fine lunch for me.  I'm finally organized, and Sydney drops everything once more, to shuttles me back to the trail at 4:00 p.m.  Everyone is out and on the trail--except me!

The treadway is friendly, and I manage about ten miles, even with the late start.  I pitch in the woods just past Horseshoe Canyon Lean-to.  I will likely not pass this way again.  I'm an old man, and my bones are drying out and scraping together pretty hard.  Sydney, I'll dearly miss you, my friend; you have been so kind and generous to me.  I will remember you always.  Good-bye.

Tuesday--July 25, 2000
Trail Day--63/14
Trail Mile--856/152
Location--US201, Caratunk House, Caratunk, Maine, Jenson  "Aunt Bee" Steel and Paul "One Braid" Fuller, proprietors,
 
I'm out and on my way south by 6:30 this morning, greeted by a gloriously clear, nearly haze-free day.  Shortly I meet a northbounder, Lady Leaper, bound for Katahdin.  She stops, and we exchange the most enjoyable conversation.  Seems most northbounders have such a wicked focus now--on Katahdin their final destination.  Few want to tarry and talk; rather, most are bound now with singular intensity to completing their quest.  Lady Leaper has her sights set too, but is taking time to truly savor these remaining few days.  Great talking with you, Lady Leaper, my best to you, and congratulations!

As I hike along this morning, I'm thinking of my grand stay in Monson.  While in the shower yesterday morning came a knock on the bathroom door.  Sydney said I had a phone call waiting.  "I'm in the shower, Sidney.  Get their name and number and I'll call them back," was my reply. So, I was surprised to find, as I emerged from the bath nearly ten minutes later, to find Sydney still on the phone, with the happiest, grand-smiling expression on her face!  Come to find out that not only my good friend, but also Sydney's good friend, David Fanny Pack Atkinson, was on the line.  It isn't easy keeping in touch with all my friends while on the trail, but I am making an effort, and with my little PocketMail I'm able to spam-mail them.  Of course Fanny Pack is on that list, so he knew that I was in Monson.  Word has it that another big celebration is being planned at Tiorati Circle this year.  Baltimore Jack is in the vicinity, and the whole bash sort of coincides with his arrival.  Jack is the "Trash" in the clan that’s affectionately known as "Hiker Trash", being one of the most beloved of the original clan.  Great hearing from you, Fanny Pack.  Thanks for your friendship and for your encouragement. I'm looking forward to seeing you again as I enter your neck of the woods!  Keep in touch, my friend!

The hike today up to Moxie Bald is spectacular.  From this vantage can be seen Mount Katahdin to the north and the Bigelow Range to the south.  There is just the least bit of haze, thus making the presentation of these remarkable mountains such a mystical sight for dream-seekers like me. For today these grand cathedrals are truly on the fringe of God's hazy blue, that elusive, far-away, mysterious thither and yon, where the wanderlust in all of us leads.  Here on Moxie I find Big Ring, Granny Gear, Spider and Black Forest.  I also have the pleasure meeting Bombadil, Mushroom and Orion, northbounders.  Bombadil had corresponded with me early on before beginning his AT hike, expressing interest in also doing the SIA/IAT, and here today does there spill from this lad the most amazing excitement in meeting me.

The hike today proves long on the trail but I have done well, so at the side trail to Pleasant Pond Lean-to, and arriving at 3:30 p.m., I decide to continue on to Caratunk.  Northbounders have spoken of this wonderful new Hiker B&B that has just opened up the first of June, and how they'd had such a pleasant stay there.  So off to the Caratunk House I go! And did this ever turn out to be the right decision, for even though this has made for a twenty-seven mile day, the last six miles prove pretty much a cruise and I arrive around 6:30.  The Caratunk House can't be more than two or three hundred yards off the trail, a grand old restored-but-original-appearing two story home at 218 Main Street.  Here I’m greeted by Aunt Bee and One Braid and taken right in.  I’m shown to a delightful period-furnished bedroom upstairs, and just as I finish showering in the spacious boudoir-designed and appointed bath, my pizza arrives!  Aunt Bee had given me a cold one to enjoy with my pizza while he drove the fifteen miles round-trip to the store to bring more refreshing longnecks!  And what timing, for also just as the pizza arrives, so does Spider, and we share the most exquisite dining experience, with subdued light and mood music no less, right here in the beautiful dining room at the Caratunk House!  I was going to do some writing this evening, but the sandman somehow got the pillow under my tired, sleepy head, and that was it!

Wednesday--July 26, 2000
Trail Day--64/15
Trail Mile--869/165
Location--West Carry Pond Lean-to, Maine
 
What a great time at the Caratunk House!  The decision by all was to sleep in this morning, so Aunt Bee and One Braid oblige by holding off breakfast until 8:30, but there's a full pot of fresh coffee when I awake at seven.  There's three for breakfast: Lurch, who had come in earlier yesterday, and Spider and me.

Spider gets organized and on his way before noon, but Lurch and I tarry, not getting packed and ready until 1:00 p.m.  After a photo op with Aunt Bee, Lurch and I head for the Kennebec River.  Steve Ferryman Longley is waiting patiently for us, as he's been waiting patiently for hikers for 14 years.  We have a great reunion.   You wouldn't think Ferryman could remember all the hikers he's shuttled across over the years, but he sure remembers me.  The sun is warm, the day perfect, and we linger for the longest time enjoying grand conversation at the picnic table by the shores of the Kennebec.  Ferryman is always such an enthusiastic individual, such an interesting person.  Says he, "When I speak, the rivers and the mountains are within me and they speak for me."

Lurch and I finally shoulder our packs and are on our way south a little before two.  The old boardwalk to Harrison's Pierce Pond Camps is just as I remember.  And the old lodge is such a remarkable and friendly place to visit.  I get to see Fran again.  She and her husband Tim have been serving tank-stoking breakfasts to hikers for years.  Great talking to you again, Fran; thanks for your kindness, and thanks, especially, for the memories!

Lurch and I enjoy the afternoon hiking together, arriving late at West Carry Pond Lean-to.  Here we find family members Houdini and Spider already in residence.  I soon get a cooking-turned-mosquito-taming fire going and we enjoy a very pleasant evening together.  What a joy-filled, happy day!

Thursday--July 27, 2000
Trail Day--65/16
Trail Mile--892/188
Location--ME 27, Stratton, Maine, Widow’s Walk B&B, Jerry and Mary Hopson, proprietors
 
The forecast is for rain today, with locally isolated thundershowers, and the day seems headed that direction with cool, gloomy overcast.  I'm moving by seven, with Houdini out ahead of me.  Spider and Lurch won't be far behind.

Yesterday, Lurch and I hiked the ten miles from Pierce Pond Lean-to to West Carry Pond Lean-to in three hours and twenty minutes, an exact three-miles-per-hour average.  The treadway there was some of the flattest, smoothest I can ever recall hiking on the AT.  It's not difficult to maintain three miles per hour on the roadwalks that I have done and will be doing, but to crank out this kind of mileage in the woods presents considerable more challenge.  So it is that the treadway out of West Carry Pond Lean-to this morning is much more in keeping with the AT's three "R's": ruts, rocks and roots.  And to this mix must now be added a number of very respectable ups and downs as we enter the Bigelows, one of the most rugged and picturesque of all the ranges that make up the ancient and everlasting chain known as the Appalachian Mountains.

In awhile, Houdini, Spider and I get together, and we hike the up-up-up climb to Little Bigelow Mountain.  The overcast is still in place above us, but here below, we are afforded splendid views down to Flagstaff Lake and to Avery Peak and beyond.  I recall with the fondest memory standing at this very spot in late August of '98 with Easy Rider.  We had made it out of Stratton that morning to arrive here at Little Bigelow to witness one of the most stunning sunsets I can recall as the sun descended behind Avery Peak, setting the sky ablaze in crimson--with Avery, the sharptop peak, named in memory of the man who most single-handedly built the AT, in bold, shadow-dark contrast.

Spider and Houdini have stopped for lunch and I move on, first to Avery Peak, which is engulfed in frigid, wind-drive mist, then to West Peak, which I find in a like rage as I scurry up, over and back down.

The treadway is long, very bumpy and difficult as I push on to reach Stratton.  There's a blue-blaze trail leading directly to the little village of Stratton, but I bail off the mountain on the AT as it heads for ME27.

There is little traffic on ME27, but John, a Stratton local, gives me a ride almost immediately, with a frosty longneck following his handshake.  John drops me off in front of Widow's Walk, a quaint old turreted, two-story B&B right next all the conveniences.  In '98 I stayed at the White Wolf Inn and was treated most kindly, but hikers I've met along the way recently have told me about the Hobsons at Widow’s Walk, so that's where I head.  I arrive at 5:30 p.m. to be greeted by Green Giant, a southbounder who is reclined on the living room couch watching TV.  Green Giant explains that the owners are away but that I am welcome to stay.  “Just pick a room,” says Green Giant.  I choose the front bedroom with the grand three-window bay below the spire-topped turret!  Widow's Walk was undoubtedly a most fashionable place in its heyday.  It's kept up and running now by Jerry and Mary, who themselves have hiked sections of the AT and have opened their proud, spacious home to hikers for over twenty years.  I head right away to the old claw-foot cast-iron tub for the most soothing-hot bone soaking!

Then it's to Stratton Diner, not a hundred yards away, for carryout pizza, thence to Northland Supply, just across the way, for some cold, frosty longnecks.  Oh yes, as my dear old hiking friend, Wolfhound, would surely say: “Life is good!”

Friday--July 28, 2000
Trail Day--66/17
Trail Mile--905/201
Location--Spaulding Mountain Lean-to, Maine
 
I am having a frustrating time today.  My bounce box hasn’t arrived from Millinocket.  The Postmistress said it should have been here overnight, since it was sent priority mail.  That was four days ago.  I'm to check back again at eleven, but I don't hold much hope.  Sure enough, eleven o'clock and no bounce box.  This really upsets me but I try not to show my anger.

Spider came in this morning.  He's getting a few items, then heading back out.  I don't get back on the trail until 2:00 p.m. but still manage thirteen tough, hard miles for the day.  Spider and I pile in to an almost-full house of northbounders at Spaulding Mountain Lean-to.  The rain has threatened all day, and although it’s held off, the ups and downs remain a blessed mess, the bogs, boggy, the trail a pure slider.

Saturday--July 29, 2000
Trail Day--67/18
Trail Mile--924/220
Location--ME4, Thence to Rangeley, Maine, Gull Pond Lodge, Bob O'Brien, proprietor
 
The northbounders are an intense bunch at this point.  I hear stirring about early this morning and awaken to find one of the fellows grinding on his cereal.  By 4:30 a.m. there's only three of us left in the shelter.  Six of the Katahdin-bound are already out and headed north!

I'm able to sleep until seven and manage to get packed and headed on south by seven-thirty.  This day doesn't look a bit better than yesterday.  No rain, but threatening all the while.  I've got some really tough pulls ahead, over Lone Mountain, Saddleback Junior, The Horn and Saddleback Mountain.  There are no views as I proceed, and the cold, mist-driven wind is bitter company on the summits.  I scurry up and over them, glad to be down in the shelter of the stunted spruce below.  This treadway is brutal; the path literally filled with rocks, boulders, roots and bogs, and as usual the whole trail is pure soup.  I can't remember so many off-camber rocks.  Best just look at them though.  These I’ve learned to avoid at all cost, for to step on one is an invitation to disaster, an abrupt, unscheduled close-up look of the whole scene.  Progress is agonizingly slow and treacherous.  I am thankful to remain mostly upright as I skid along, but I do manage a couple of pack slappers.

Along about late morning, I hear voices as hikers approach from the south.  In moments I hear, "Nomad, Nimblewill Nomad, is that you?"  Oh, what a grand surprise to cross paths with the Blister Sisters again.  They're Bev Shenton and Betty Sue Allen. They're being slacked through this section by Pittsburgh.  They started their hike northbound from Springer in 1989 and plan to finish this year, the end of the eighth trip to the trail in their quest for Katahdin.  Also coming off Saddleback I meet a couple of northbounders with interesting trail names.  I stop and chat awhile with I'm Satisfied and He's Getting There!

There’s little traffic on ME4, but in just moments, as I hook out my thumb, the Coleman family comes along in their brand new Ford Excursion--to haul it in and pick up the old Nomad.  I can't believe they’ve stopped for this dirty, smelly hiker.  "Ma'am," I exclaim as I open the door, "I can't sit in that shiny new seat!”  “Get in, get in, we're hikers too!” the lady exclaims.  They're locals, and I enjoy hearing about how so many thru-hikers have come back to Rangeley to call this place home.  They 're a great family and are obviously proud of their community.  Indeed, it is a beautiful mountain town, what with Rangeley Lake set to the backdrop of heaven-bound spires beyond.  It’s such a peaceful, tranquil setting.  As we journey along, I’m thinking, “I could return to live here, too.”

My bounce box, which never arrived at Stratton, has all my trail data for points south--so might you suspect that here in Rangeley, I have not a clue about where to settle in for the evening.  I am told by the bartender at the little bar downtown to check the bulletin board at the post office, so off to the post office I head. Along the way I look across to a street-side cafe with folks sitting around outside.  Here I see someone I recognize immediately; it's Yogi of the Yogi and BooBoo brothers from '98.  Yogi is doing an AT southbound now in preparation for a northbound on the Eastern Continental Trail next year.  We have a grand time over pizza and beer then spend the evening together at Gull Pond Lodge.  This has been a long, hard day, and I'm glad to have all the conveniences.

Sunday--July 30, 2000
Trail Day--68/19
Trail Mile--942/238
Location--Bemis Mountain Lean-to, Maine
 
At first I was very disappointed upon arriving in Rangeley, for I was unable to reach David Hopkinson.  David is the kind gentleman who gave me a ride from Daicey Pond to The Appalachian Trail Lodge in Millinocket after the long day over Baxter Peak.  I had seen David's seventeen-year-old son, Rob, again day-before-yesterday in Stratton, and he had said his father was looking forward to my arrival in Rangeley, and that I should give his folks a call and plan on staying with them.  But alas, when I tried calling I got the "number no longer in service" message.  I must have written it down wrong.

But my stay in Rangeley turned out grand.  Isn't it interesting how circumstances turn, for I got to see my good hiking friend Yogi again, and we spent a great evening together!  Gull Pond Lodge was a very comfortable place, and Bob O'Brien a most gracious host.  It was also a pleasant surprise seeing A Little Bit, whom I had first met at Trail Days.  She flip-flopped at Rusty's Hard Time Hollow, and is now headed south.

Stoneman, up from New York to do some hiking in Maine, gives Yogi, Yogi's friend Cutter and me a ride back to the trailhead this morning.  His little car is groaning as we pull out of Bob's driveway, loaded with four hikers and their packs, and we bounce and bound along on ME4.

There is a lovely campsite at Bemis Stream.  Yogi and Cutter have planned on stopping there.  I have plans to hike on through to the lean-to, so we bid farewell for now and I'm on my way.  The hike today is pretty much a cruise.  The forecast had called for rain, but it’s held off.  The overcast keeps the day cool, very mild.  The trail pops up and down along low-lying ridges with the only significant pull coming late in the day as I climb to Bemis Mountain Lean-to.  I arrive around six and get a cooking fire going after much huffing and puffing.  Late comes G-Force, whom I’d met at Trail Days, and we spend a great evening together talking gear.  Three of us here are wearing New Balance 803's, a lightweight cross-training shoe.  New Balance is another of my very generous sponsors and will be providing me with all the shoes I need to complete "Odyssey 2000."  I switched to the 803's in Stratton after putting nine hundred miles on my tried and trusty Vasques.  The 803's are a little lighter weight shoe, but I think I am going to like them very just fine.

The smoke always seems to head for the shelter, and there is an eerie haze as the beams of light flash about at Bemis, hikers reading or composing their journals.  Sorry 'bout that folks!  Lights out at 8:30 p.m. and we're all in.

Monday--July 31, 2000
Trail Day--69/20
Trail Mile--951/247
Location--South Arm Road, thence to East Andover, Maine, The Cabin, Marge and Earl Towne, proprietors
 
The hike today is tough and rugged, very slow and deliberate.  The day has cleared nicely, and the warm sun feels good; however, the trail is soggy and the bogs are boggy, making the rock scampering especially difficult.  The Bemis Range consists of many peaks, beginning with West Peak and continuing through Old Blue.  I've done only nine miles for the day and it's already noon, but this will be it as I head for Andover to see my good friends Marge Honey and Earl Bear Towne at The Cabin.

I am most fortunate to get a ride right away with the local mail carrier, and he drops me off at the corner station.  I give Bear a call, and he sends Raven right away to fetch me.

The Cabin is a perfect place for tired and hungry hikers.  Nothing has been spared to make our stay comfortable, to make us feel welcome.  Honey and Bear have built this place with their own hands.  As a result, these kind folks have established a place for family, a place that radiates love and warmth in such a caring and compassionate way.  As I enter, comes over me this warmth, this presence, and I am home.  Oh, what a much-needed and satisfying blessing, for their love not to be withheld from us lonely, homesick, hikers!  Undeniably, this sincere caring is what makes The Cabin so special.

We sit the day, relaxing and talking, as if Honey and Bear had nothing better to do.  In the evening, Honey prepares heaping bowls of spaghetti for me and the other guests: Raven, Laura, Greg, Cindy, and Old Sam.

Every time I've seen these dear friends--and I have seen them often over the last couple of years, for they attend all the hiker functions--without fail, they’ve always invited me to come and spend time with them here at The Cabin.  So, today is that day, and are they ever so glad to see me.  What a wonderful feeling to know this old man can bring joy to the hearts of others as, indeed, that joy is so bountifully returned to me.  It is truly humbling.  Thanks, Honey and Bear, for your friendship, kindness and generosity--for truly caring!

Tuesday--August 1, 2000
Trail Day--70/21
Trail Mile--961/257
Location--East B Hill Road, thence to The Cabin, East Andover Maine
 
I had a great night's rest, even managed to work some on my journal entries.  The grand aroma of bacon in the skillet wakes me a little before six, so I head down for some coffee and a chat with Bear.  In awhile, he shows me a book, a yearbook.  They’ve kept one for each "Class," and a grand one it is for the "Class of '98."  I help drain the coffeepot while looking at letters, cards and pictures Honey and Bear have received from all their (and my) dear friends.

The hike today is only ten miles to East B Hill Road, where Bear will come for me at 1:00 p.m.  “Isn’t it a bit early to end the day?” you might ask.  Ahh, perhaps, but perhaps you do not know the Mahoosucs.  For these mountains have gained notoriety among AT hikers as being the most rugged and difficult of all the near-countless ranges along the Appalachian Trail--at one in the afternoon I'm pooped.

And so it is, by the time the weary northbound thru-hiker reaches East Andover, it's time for a few of the things we all enjoy in life, but miss out here on the trail--like home, family, some good food, a warm shower, a real bed, TV, a phone, and maybe a look at our email.  And it's all here at The Cabin, especially the home and family.  It's just great to be with loving, caring people!  After a few short days and more time spent with folks at The Cabin, the hiker is ready to head out again, healthy, happy and content!

The mountains here in the Mahoosucs are not on the grand scale as are the Whites and those of the Great Smoky Mountains, but they present a challenge not previously met anywhere along the AT.  So after a hard, tiring morning, I’m ready for some more good old Cabin friendship and hospitality.  Bear has arrived a little early at East B Hill, and he hikes in a ways to greet me, and together we enjoy the short hike back--for another grand evening at The Cabin relaxing with family.

Wednesday--August 2, 2000
Trail Day--71/22
Trail Mile--971/267
Location--East B Hill Road, thence to The Cabin, East Andover, Maine
 
Today I will hike ten miles--south to north, as it will be more convenient for the shuttle operation this evening.  So, instead of hiking from East B Hill Road to Grafton Notch, I'll be going the opposite direction.  Punkin and Journey, both northbounders, both thru-hiking the AT from Springer Mountain to Baxter, will be hiking this section from Grafton Notch to East B Hill, so I decide to join them.  We enjoy a great day together with many fine views from the Baldpates.  Bear again hikes in a short distance to greet us and we return to a wonderful evening of family fellowship at The Cabin.

And so, dear friends, you who have toiled over The Cabin, this is my final night with you.  Being here these past short days, I have come to realize that you truly live your lives in such a way--for you have given so unselfishly--as to make the words of that beautiful old poem ring true: I Shall Not Pass This Way Again…

Thursday--August 3, 2000
Trail Day--72/23
Trail Mile--990/286
Location--Near Gentian Pond Campsite, New Hampshire
 
Saying good-bye to dear friends is not easy, and I linger with Honey and Bear and all the new friends I've made these last three days here at The Cabin.  There is Momma C and Poppa C and their son Old Sam.  And there’s Raven and Laura, her last name being Snickers; so, I’ve pegged her with the trail name Why Wait (Snickers--Why Wait!).  I also met and hiked some with Journey, Punkin, Wolf Man and Micah and his sister Jody.  It's a long drive back to the trailhead at Grafton Notch, and Honey and I have a great time talking about many things.  Then it's another sad good-bye as I head back up the mountain.

Today is the day to do the Notch--Mahoosuc Notch, that is.  The hike off the Arm, and then the rock scramble through the Notch is one of the most difficult sections along the entire AT, but I have my sights set on Gorham, New Hampshire tomorrow, so I keep hammering through the ups and down and the incredible jumble of rocks and off-camber ledges.  I manage one spectacular pack-slapper and bruise my leg.  Somehow I’m able to cover nearly twenty miles for the day.  This leaves me only twelve miles on into Gorham tomorrow.

I pitch in the rain, which has been my companion most of the afternoon, and no sooner do I roll in than the thunder also rolls in, to bring a grand light show and torrents of rain.  But I'm snug and warm in my neat little Nomad tent.

Friday--August 4, 2000
Trail Day--73/24
Trail Mile--1002/298
Location--US2, Gorham, New Hampshire, thence to Hiker's Paradise, Bruno and Mary Ann Janicki, proprietors
 
Subconsciously, something told me not to pull into Gentian Pond Campsite last night, so I found a flat spot to pitch, 100 yards or so off the trail above a little trickle about a mile or two north of the site.  And was this ever the right decision, for in the distance and shortly after I get going this morning--and for the better part of 10-15 minutes--can I hear from ahead of me the shrill, piercing laughter and chatter of young girls--20-30 of them.  They’ve literally taken over the entire platform section at Gentian!  And we wonder why wilderness and the hiking experience have become degraded.

There are a couple of pops over some no-names and a final for the day up and over Cascade Mountain, and shortly I bail off to the Androscoggin River and US2, which leads to Gorham.  At a beautiful old, well-kept two-story home where the trail turns at US2, and on the front steps of this home is there a telephone, placed especially for hikers to use to call Gorham for shuttle service!

I've never been able to figure it out, what it's about--shouldering a backpack, that is--that opens up and brings forth this wonderful world of human kindness and generosity I've never before or otherwise experienced in my near-sixty-two years on this earth.  This almost-continuous experience of dumbfound joy while on the trail has become known to hikers as "Trail Magic," offered up by folks known as "Trail Angels." I've read volumes written on this subject and about this phenomenon, but to this day have I ever been truly convinced what it must certainly be about; nor have I ever been entirely able to fathom or figure it out myself.  The phone on the steps here is just one little example among countless examples of acts of kindness that's experienced almost daily by us trail-weary intrepids. It is humbling, truly humbling, and even though it brings pure happiness and joy, living and experiencing it is so perplexing!

The call to Hiker's Paradise brings the shuttle to fetch me.  As I stoop to look across at the driver, I am greeted in a most business-like and matter-of-fact way. Here I meet Bruno Janicki, proprietor at Hiker's Paradise.  On the way through town I get the canned, long-ago fully rehearsed guided tour presentation.  Says Bruno, "There's the best place to eat in town.  That Oriental place is too expensive; try that one over there if you like Chinese food.  There's the post office, and you can see the Pizza Hut, McDonalds and Burger King signs.   And here's Hiker's Paradise, where you'll be staying. Let me show you around."  Bruno then proceeds to explain, all the while continuing in the most business-like fashion, what he has to offer and what he expects of me while I am his guest here.  "You put your hiking shoes here or on the porch.  Do not wear them upstairs; it is clean for you and we want it that way for others.  We have a full laundry, but please do your wash before the motel guests start arriving."  I keep repeating, "Okay Bruno, okay Bruno, okay!"

Northbounders have told me about Bruno Janicki and his no-nonsense disposition.  But in the same breath, I've also heard all about the great place for hikers that is Hiker's Paradise.  Just as I chipped away a little at the enamel around Sydney The Pie Lady Pratt a couple of years ago, it didn't take me long to find the soft spot in Bruno's heart for us hikers.  It really isn't hard to figure out, for you see, if all these folks that cater to us were interested in making some real money, they'd be doing something besides cleaning up after us and running us all over the place day in and day out.  And it's true, with few and rare exceptions; all the hostel keepers have a deep and abiding love for us, a love they cannot hide, that just can't be concealed!  And Bruno, well, Bruno Janicki is probably the least likely of all to fit this mold.  But fit it he does, even though he's an immigrant from Poland, his life and family having been crushed by the takeover of Poland.  I listen in astonishment as his wife Mary Ann tells the story of how Bruno and his family were forced to leave their home with all their worldly possessions in a wheelbarrow.

Bruno settles me in to one of the many bunkrooms, the quietest of the lot, so I can do some writing and get some much-needed rest. Please don't be angry with me for giving you away, Bruno.  Regardless, it probably doesn’t really matter; ‘cause everybody's pretty much got you figured out.

Saturday--August 5, 2000
Trail Day--74/25
Trail Mile--1023/319
Location--Pinkham Notch, NH16, thence to Gorham, Hiker's Paradise
 
What a wonderful surprise, the evening last.  Came a knock on my door and I opened it to be greeted by Jingle, my dear hiking friend from '98.  She's up here from Wisconsin to attend her sister's wedding and had heard from Easy Rider that I was at Hiker's Paradise here in Gorham.  We shared a grand evening together, and this morning Jingle not only treated me to breakfast but also took me back out to the trailhead to continue my hike on south.  Thanks, Jingle, for the wonderful surprise and for taking the time to see me!

I'm into the climb to Mount Moriah by 8:30 a.m., and it sure doesn't take long to get the old jitney up to normal operating temperature, the pull being a nearly uninterrupted 4000-foot climb.  I have decided to go the full distance of twenty-one miles, all the way to NH16 at Pinkham Notch, with the ups and downs adding to a total vertical change of over 13,000 feet.  The treadway is brutal, but the scenery is breathtaking, and the day is perfect, providing spectacular and near-constant views of the Presidential Range, Mount Washington presiding, to the northwest.

Coming off Carter Dome, and before arriving at Carter Notch Hut, a meeting that I’ve been looking forward to with such excitement and anticipation happens: the young man hiking north from Key West, Florida meets the old man hiking south from the Cliffs of Forillon, Quebec Province.  Here is *Jon Class Five Leuschel!  What joy we share in this reunion.  Class Five’s hiking companions, Hopalong and Cutthroat, stand in bewilderment as we hoot and holler and hug!

They departed Pinkham Notch around noon, and it is now a little after three, so I know that I can make it in today.  I had been thinking of taking a day off tomorrow; I’ll do that for sure now.  We'll all meet in Gorham for a grand time!

The descent from Peak E off Wildcat Mountain is a freefall, straight down, but I make it without incident to arrive at Pinkham Notch around 6:30.  Within minutes I am given a ride directly to Hiker's Paradise.  What an incredible, physically demanding and excitement-filled day!  Thank you, Lord, for your blessings: good health and great friends

*Jon Class V Leuschel, and his brother, Dan King Louie, departed Key West, Florida on January 14th, 2000.  Dan left the trail in New Hampshire, ending his hike.  Jon continued on, reaching the Cliffs of Forillon, Cap Gaspé, Quebec on September 26th, 2000, 255 days, 4,400 miles.
 
Sunday--August 6, 2000
Trail Day--75/26
Trail Mile--1023/319
Location--Gorham, Hiker's Paradise
 
A day's rest will surely be welcome after the long, tiring hike yesterday.  I'll have a chance to get caught up on my journal entries and spend some time with my great friend, Class Five; but first things first.  It's time to head down to the dining room here at Hiker's Paradise for breakfast.  And what an interesting menu, created especially for thru-hikers--items like White Blaze, Blue Blaze, Flip-Flop, and my favorite, Yo-Yo.  This one's a double helping of everything, starting with coffee, eggs and pancakes, to be followed up with a double helping of pancakes, eggs and coffee; yup, the Yo-Yo!

The trip to the post office shortly after I arrived Friday really capped that day, for I finally got back together with my bounce box.  This morning I sort through all its contents, rationing out more medication (coated aspirin, vitamins and Osteo-Bi-Flex), then to look through the ALDHA Companion and AT Data Book for the pages I’ll need next.

The evening is spent with Class Five and his good friends--(and now mine): Hopalong, Cutthroat, Cutthroat's mom, JoAnn, his girlfriend, Carrie, and sister, Jennifer.  I join them as their guest for dinner.  It’s a joy to be taken in so freely, to be accepted as friend.  Later in the evening, Class Five and I go over the details that will involve his hike past Katahdin and on north into Canada.

Monday--August 7, 2000
Trail Day--76/27
Trail Mile--1038/334
Location--Lakes of the Clouds Hut, New Hampshire
 
Down at the restaurant this morning, I find the place packed and it’s not yet 7:00 a.m.  Bruce Pettingill, who helps Bruno and Mary Ann keep the hiker thing running smoothly here at Hikers Paradise is already shuttling his second load of northbound thru-hikers back to the mountain.  I go for a light start--coffee and toast--as I have the climb from Pinkham Notch, over Mount Washington and into Lakes of the Clouds Hut ahead of me.  Somehow, Mary Ann manages to break away from her busy duties in the kitchen to shuttle me to the trail.  Back at the Notch, and after saying good-bye to another great new friend, Mary Ann of Hiker's Paradise, I'm on the trail again, heading ever south at 8:00 a.m.

The climb ahead of me today is one of the most difficult, leading ever up through the rocks and the roots.  I try not to look, not to see the seemingly never-ending jumble and maze as the white blazes climb toward the sky, and I labor and climb with them. I've got my wind and my legs, as good as I'll have them ever again at my age, and on I grind, up, up, up, without a break, for the better part of an hour.  Finally, with a grand feeling of accomplishment, I successfully gain the ridge and head toward Mount Madison.

The rain, which came in during the night, with the mush pervading all, persists today.  As I climb, and as I near Madison Springs Hut, the rain not only begins again, but intensifies, and with it comes a driving wind, turning the day uncomfortably cold and harsh--most unfriendly.  I am greatly relieved to reach the hut, and as I enter, I receive a warm welcome from the “Croo.”  The storm continues as the rain pelts the hut windows, and I feel smug, a certain sense of joy, in the simple pleasure derived from being in the warmth and comfort afforded by this cozy little place in the shroud.

After drying off and getting my core temperature back up--with a couple cups of piping hot coffee, I head over to the bookcase.  Here, one of the books, entitled Joe Dodge, catches my eye.

I am soon totally immersed in the history of the Presidential Range, the Hut system, and the life and humor that was Joe Dodge.  This delightful book, written by William Lowell Putnam, describes Joe's life as he lived it in the Whites.  As I read on, I become totally intrigued with the wit, humor and the apparent boundless energy of this man.

"Joe Dodge was a doer, he built the AMC [Appalachian Mountain Club] Hut System: the chain of nine huts stretching by mountain trail almost sixty miles across the upper waist of New Hampshire.  All but one are located on mountain trails. Each provides food, shelter, and sleeping quarters for hikes at modest fees.  Staffed by young men [and more recently, also by young women] who clean, cook and pack supplies from road-head depots…also dispensing mountain wisdom and humor...these huts develop character.  Pride, competence, self-reliance, and humor--these are the characteristics evident in hut crews...”

 I’m sure Joe would be pleased to know this tradition of pride, self-reliance and humor is alive and well to this day.  I've just had a grand dose of it!

Within the hour the rain diminishes, and I steel myself to the task of climbing up and over Mount Washington.  Although I have much fear and doubt, I try not visualizing what lies ahead.  I know not the harrowing experience awaiting.  The rain and wind have returned, making the rocks and boulders incredibly slippery and treacherous.  I am blown from side to side as I stumble from cairn to cairn.  I tremble and am overcome with fear; I cannot concentrate.  During my ’98 trek, I recall standing and reading the list of names stuck to the wall in the Summit House above.  It contained the names--125 at that time--of those who’ve perished on Mount Washington.  Below that list of names are inscribed these solemn words: “This can be a dangerous place.  No one on this list planned to die here.”   The wind and rain are cold.  The gray ascending wall of boulders now before me is cold.  This whole God-forsaken place is cold.  My head is reeling and spinning.  My heart is pounding in my ears. Time, it seems, is the only thing standing still on this heap of rocks in the sky.  Even the boulders appear to be moving as I try bracing against the slam of the wind-driven rain. The higher I ascend, the more treacherous and difficult the climb becomes.  The shroud engulfs me.  I cannot see nor follow the blazes.  I cling, falter and grope on up.  Finally, gaining the summit, I am in the full rage of the howling gale.  The whole place is shut down.  Not a soul anywhere.  Over an hour ago, while still in my ascent, I heard the last Cog Railway engine, which rattles and clanks tourists to the top, go rattling and clanking back down the mountain.  The sound was hollow, eerie.  The loud wheezing and chugging seemed so out of place.  As the vibrating grind came closer and closer, it completely encircled me, as though to pass on either side; yet as I gazes in stunned bewilderment, I saw nothing.  I wondered then how anyone could muster the courage to climb aboard a railcar that clawed its way straight to the sky, while being shoved and humped along by one of those ridiculous looking contraptions.

Let me share with you what Joe Dodge had to say about the Cog Railway.  It is both humorous and sobering:

"Other than that business with Peppersass [one of the old engines that got away and blew up], the only problem I ever heard about on that railroad was with a baggage car.  They used to take a little car on behind the engine, first train of the day, to take baggage and supplies up to the summit.  During the day the crew would jack it up and set it off to one side of the tracks at the level area behind the Summit House.  One day the crew uncoupled it then went for lunch...A little gust of wind came up while they were inside and started the damn thing rolling.  Some lad came running in to tell the crew what had happened, but it was too late. The damned rattler was almost out of sight.  So one of them called the guy at the Halfway Tank to tell him he better watch out for a loose car.  'Hell,' he said, 'that goddam thing went by here five minutes ago!

As soon as I'm off the summit, descending toward Lakes of the Clouds Hut, the wind relents, the sun breaks through, and I'm offered fast-shuttered snippets of the hut and the mountains below.  As usual, the hut is packed with folks who had made their reservations months ago, guests that are going to be here no matter what--and with them, the swelling wave of northbound thru-hikers.  I meet up with Spider here again, and we wait to see how the evening plays out.  After the paying guests are fed, we are invited to the kitchen to help ourselves to leftovers, and plenty there are to go around!  When the dining room is cleared and the gaslights are nearly all extinguished, we are permitted to lay our bedrolls out for the night right on the dining room tables.  Our tummies are full, and we are warm and comfortable.  Sleep is a minor process!  What a harrowing day.

Tuesday--August 8, 2000
Trail Day--77/28
Trail Mile--1049/345
Location--Crawford Notch, US302, thence to Twin Mountain, New Hampshire, Johnson's Motel, Mike Brady, proprietor
 
The cook starts rattling around a little before six.  I'm already awake, but I roll over for a few more winks, awaiting that drifting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

I finally manage to get off the dining room table, get my pack organized and have another cup of coffee. My morning duty done, I'm out to be greeted by a chilly gray-ghost morning.  Perhaps for us thru-hikers the Whites might be better known as the Grays, for we haven't the luxury of watching the weather from our penthouse apartments in Boston or Hartford, waiting for that perfect weekend weatherwise to go romping and climbing around the Presidentials.

The hike today is steady, and at times precipitous, as is the bail-off to the Saco River. The wind along the ridge by Mount Franklin, Mount Eisenhower and Mount Pierce is in a rage, driving the moisture-laden clouds straight across, forcing me to lean and brace against it.  I am relieved to get down to the comfort and shelter of Mizpah Spring Hut.  Here in the library I find another copy of the great book, Joe Dodge, and I settle in with a cup of coffee as I await Spider's arrival.  Joe Dodge apparently had a great deal of fun in life--and a great deal of fun with people.  One hilarious story relates how he had dreamed up these imaginary mountain-goat-like creatures that supposedly inhabited the rocky areas of the Whites.

"They're all over the place up here, but they look just like the jeezly rocks, protective coloring, you know, so you don't see 'em much. They're of two distinct varieties, but you can't tell 'em apart by their color, and their hoof marks are identical, so you can only do it when you actually see one of  'em as they move around the mountain.  There's the gauchers and the droiters, and they belong to the same species even though they can't breed.  I've seen dozens, but mostly they've been the gauchers, the ones that go [around the mountain] to the left.  The last few years, though, no one has seen many droiters [the ones that go around the mountain to the right]; they may have gone extinct.  You see, because of the legs [gauchers--short right legs, droiters--short left legs], the gauchers can't breed with the droiters, and with the northwest wind so strong in these mountains, lately, the droiters have had a hard time getting around the hillsides."

 The day has made an effort to clear, but Mount Jackson and Mount Webster are totally socked in by the cold, wind-driven mist.  Coming off Mount Webster, I'm pretty sure I saw a gaucher!  He was crouched, aimed clockwise, looking like a rock, just like Joe Dodge said, but I could see his eyes as he blinked at me.  At Webster Cliffs, overlooking the Saco River and Crawford Notch, the day finally brightens as the clouds lift.

At US302, Spider and I hitch a ride into Twin Mountain.  After a pizza and a few cold frosties, we settle in for an enjoyable evening at Johnson's Motel.

Wednesday--August 9, 2000
Trail Day--78/29
Trail Mile--1065/361
Location--Campsite near Galehead Hut, New Hampshire
 
Mike Brady, the proprietor of Johnson’s Motel, had offered to drive us to the local restaurant for breakfast, then back to the trailhead at Crawford Notch, and he's here right at seven, truck backed up, topper popped and the tailgate down, ready to load our gear.  Looks to be the makings of another dreary day, with the rain coming steadily as we load and head out.  We've had a great stay, along with a fine, tank-stokin' breakfast.  Enjoyed talking with you, Mike, thanks!

Today the treadway is an obstacle course through the rocks and roots, most-often nearly straight up or straight down.  The level areas provide no relief, no break from it, being mostly bogs filled with ankle-deep mud all along.  At times the rain comes in driving waves, and I slump into a bone-soaked, boulder-stumbling, mudboggin' funk.  I try to remember and apply my positive attitude and philosophy: "There are no bad days on the trail, some just a little better than others."  But this day is sorely testing that attitude, that resolve.

Two bright spots light the otherwise darked-over day, however.  One comes in meeting Warren Doyle, Jr., his son Forrest, and all their intact “Expedition 2000” members as they head for Katahdin.  I had gone up to Three Forks to greet them at the completion of their first day on the AT way back in May, and to take them a case of Snickers bars given me by M&M Mars. I didn't recognize Warren as he approached, being trim of body and untrimmed of beard, but as he nears, I hear, “Nomad, it's the Nimblewill Nomad,” I realize who it is and we hug and hoot and have the most grand trail reunion!

The second of the little trail delights began a few days ago and has steadily increased to form a fair number today, for it is that many northbound thru-hikers are recognizing me and calling my name.  These are the folks that were at Trail Days in Damascus this spring and who attended my presentation at Rock School Auditorium.  I have received such a gracious reception from these people, such kind comments and warm greetings!  My hat size is certainly changing.  I must keep in mind the virtue of humility these grand old mountains have taught me, and I must not fail to thank the Lord for all these blessings, and to remain humble.

So it seems, that days like this day, days that test our resolve, indeed bring us heightened resolve--along with a deeper appreciation in our continued search for true patience and understanding.

Galehead Hut does not cater to thru-hikers as does Lakes of the Clouds Hut.  Two thru-hikers have already been selected for work/stay, and they need no more.  We are neither permitted to hang around for leftovers nor sleep on the dining hall tables after lights out, so Spider and I head on south in the soup to pitch far off the trail in the moss and spruce.  The rain has relented, and the evening has turned most mild.

As I pitch in this peaceful place tonight, I’m thanking the “Croo” at Galehead Hut for sending us on, for comes to me now across these mountains, the lilt of a forgotten melody, a beautiful song of long ago.  It comes whispering and drifting through the quiet of this place--and of my mind.  It’s The Eagles--“‘Cause, I got a peaceful, easy feelin’, and I know you won’t let me down.  ‘Cause I’m already standin’, on the ground.”

Thursday--August 10, 2000
Trail Day--79/30
Trail Mile--1077/373
Location--Franconia Notch, US3, thence to North Woodstock, New Hampshire, Cascade Lodge, Bill and Betty Robinson, proprietors
 
The day dawns cold and dreary once again at my camp in the clouds.  I'm up and out by 7:15, after much coaxing and talking to myself.  The treadway seems worse this morning, if that is possible, and it's hard to get the old jitney cranking and up to normal operating temperature in the damp chill.  The rains of yesterday have brought even more mud and treachery, and there has been heavy foot traffic through this section.  I truly don't believe you could bring in a sheep's-foot roller from an interstate highway project and beat this treadway down more thoroughly or any harder.  Over time, the heavily-booted army that passes is a force to reckon with, slowly and methodically hammering its toll.  For a short time, I come to a section where the trail has been moved, with new treadway cut for a short distance.  Here the spongy duff and humus underfoot feels so strange and unusual.  The pounding and packing has already begun, however, and it won't be long until this new pathway is "hardened in"--where the only thing remaining will be a rut of rocks and roots, like a deep-cut creekbed channel.

There are no views from Mount Garfield or Mount Lincoln.  Winds in excess of fifty miles per hour, and at times gusting to seventy miles per hour, persist across the entire traverse of Garfield Ridge and Liberty Ridge.  My hands turn numb and my fingers quit working as I brace with my sticks against the mist-driven rage.  The funk continues as I think of Jacob Gatorboy Cram, a young lad who died on Mount Lincoln while thru-hiking the AT in '97.  The sadness I shared with his family during my ’98 trek descends on me now.  We met at Long Trail Inn.  The Crams had returned to scatter Jacob's ashes along the trail on Garfield Ridge.

   Below Liberty Spring Tentsite, the day finally turns mild and the sun makes a rare appearance.  The rocks and roots remain wet, however, and the descent to Franconia Notch is slow and scary.

I feel very relieved to complete this hiking day without incident.  Though it adds up to only twelve miles, I’m tired, my energy totally spent, both emotionally and physically.  A kind gentleman gives me a ride to North Woodstock, directly to Cascade Lodge.  Betty, the proprietor, smiles as she sees me once again.  She hands me the key to room #8.  I go upstairs--and collapse.  This has been one hell of a day.

Friday--August 11, 2000
Trail Day--80/31
Trail Mile--1080/375
Location--Gordon Pond, South of Mt. Wolf, New Hampshire
 
Bill hauls us back to the trailhead at Liberty Parking.  The only problem is that since I-93 came through, it's pretty hard to get to where the trail originally crossed US3.  So we've got a half-mile roadwalk along the interstate exit back to where the trail now goes under the interstate. 
The day looks to be setting up for clear and fair, but it doesn't take long for the mist and drear to return, bringing its cold, dismal presence.  This treadway is neither friendly nor kind, and I try to set my mind to thinking of days that will come, days of sun, days of dry, wide open trail, but today I must satisfy myself with these thoughts as the ruggedness of the Whites deals me a rough, hard road. Here the trail is either up or down through endless boulders and roots.  Or should the trail flatten the least bit, then it's mudboggin’ time.

North and South Kinsman both take a hard tug, and I'm glad to be up and over.  More miles of mud, rocks and roots, and I'm through the climb over Mount Wolf.  With thunder building in the distance, I've had enough of this trail for today.  I take to the blue-blaze to Gordon Pond for the evening.

I get pitched by the pond, look around for the resident moose (with no luck), and manage a respectable cooking fire with wet birch bark.  As soon as I put my cookpot on, the sky opens and I must dive for my tent.  It's cheese sandwiches and sardines tonight as the rain comes hard, the full light and percussion show lasting the better part of two hours.

Sleeping dry and snug, in such basic shelter as a gossamer-thin tent, and in the driving rain, is pure contentment--and indeed I am content--in my little Nomad conTent!

Saturday--August 12, 2000
Trail Day--81/32
Trail Mile--1092/387
Location--Sanitary Road, Glencliff, New Hampshire, Glencliff Hiker Hostel, John "Packrat" Roblee and Jonathan "Big John" McCue, proprietors
 
Nature Boy came in last night and got pitched just before the rain began, but Spider didn't make it.  The trees are still dripping this morning with more rain threatening, so I roll over and give it another hour.  Nature Boy has gone out long before I break camp.  As soon as I hit the trail, the drizzle begins again.

The last of the sky-high summits that are the Whites looms before me today, Mount Moosilauke.  From Kinsman Notch the trail climbs continually for nearly four miles, gaining 4,000 feet in the process.  Near the summit of Blue Mountain, a short distance from Moosilauke, I come upon a gentleman looking at his maps.  Here I meet Pavel Litvinov.  We exchange pleasantries, and as I continue up Moosilauke, and to my surprise, he not only stays right with me, but also talks of his interesting life without the least huffing.  Pavel is a native of Russia.  He was born in Moscow in 1940 and immigrated to the USA in 1974.  He teaches now at a private school in New York.  As we reach the summit of Moosilauke, waiting is Mark, the father of one of Pavel's students.  Soon, I am invited to celebrate--for I have apparently arrived in time to celebrate--Pavel's ascent of Moosilauke, his last of the 4,000 footers to complete the 48 for New Hampshire.  Mark uncorks a liter of hard cider and we drink cheers, sharing the joy of Pavel's accomplishment!

As Pavel and Mark start down, I linger on Moosilauke along with dozens of day hikers, waiting for the mush to blow on through, as we are being teased with glimpses of the vast expanse below.  Folks come by where I'm sitting, bringing food and drink, wishing me well on the remainder of my odyssey.  Just as I prepare to descend and as I am hoisting my pack I hear, "Nomad, Nomad, it's so good to see you again."  I turn and am immediately embraced with a big hug from Just Playin' Jane!  We hiked together in '98, enjoying each other's company, and here we meet again today on Mount Moosilauke.  We spend a wonderful time together again, as the sky clears and we can see forever, from here on the top of the world.

I hasten down the mountain, and as I arrive at Sanitary Road, one of the routes leading to Glencliff, here are Pavel and Mark, and their friend Peter, who is waiting to take them home. I am offered a ride into Glencliff to the Hikers’ Welcome Hostel, where they drop me off right at the front door!  Here I meet Ian Drifter Moss, AT, Georgia to Maine, 94&97, who is helping around for the day.  In awhile, after the lawnmower stops, I meet one of the new proprietor, John Packrat Roblee.  Spider soon arrives, and Drifter gives us a ride to town to load up on pizza and a few tall frosties.  The Hikers’ Welcome Hostel is a quaint, homey-type place and we are made to feel right at home.  A fine evening with great friends, Nature Boy, Spider, Drifter, Packrat, Harriet Tubman and X-Man.

Sunday--August 13, 2000
Trail Day--82/33
Trail Mile--111--08
Location--Firewarden's Cabin, Smarts Mountain, New Hampshire
 
Drifter drives me back up Sanitary Road to the trailhead, and I'm out and moving south again by 8:30.  The terrain and the forest have changed dramatically since the trail came down from Moosilauke.  I have seen the last of the above-treeline tundra and the first pastureland since departing Katahdin.  Comparatively speaking, the treadway is so remarkably level and smooth, making for fast, easy hiking.  The final summits of any significance that make up the Whites--Mount Cube and Smarts Mountain--pass easily beneath my feet.  I had planned on calling it a day upon reaching Hexacuba Shelter, but I arrive here at 3:00 p.m., so I decide to hike on to the Firewarden's Cabin, making for a grand twenty-two mile day. This sets up the possibility of reaching Hanover tomorrow, a two-day hike instead of three, and I decide to go for it, to give it a shot.
The Firewarden's Cabin has survived.  It is a remarkable old place now used by hikers.  It is a cabin in the most traditional sense, complete with windows, a door that closes snugly, and even a front porch.  I get a cooking fire going quite nicely and settle in for a very comfortable evening.

Monday--August 14, 2000
Trail Day--83/34
Trail Mile--1136/431
Location--Hanover, New Hampshire, Dartmouth College, Panarchy Fraternity House, Phi Sigma Phi
 
This will be a long, hard, hiking day, the rain definitely setting it up for hard.  The treadway, which has been so delightfully kind, becomes bumpy once again, with increasing mud, upsidowns, and rocks.  The pulls aren't of the magnitude or difficulty of those in the Whites, but they are a challenge nonetheless.  For some reason, my intent is to maintain an average today of three miles per hour, a task which I find just the least tiring as this old AT dishes it out.

Rolling off Smarts Mountain, it's a downshift into “low” for the pull up and over Holts Ledge; the same again for what seems the endless peaks of Moose Mountain.  “Nomad's Neutral” is really kicking today.  This is a downhill technique perfected during “Odyssey ‘98.”  It involves going into a slight crouch, much as sitting on a bicycle seat, with leg motion similar to rapid pedaling, all the while keeping the upper torso and backpack straight and steady, much as the straight, steadiness of sitting astride the bike.  Downhill speeds in excess of four miles per hour are not uncommon, legs and trekking poles little more than a blur.  Slipping and sliding decreases, and the stress and tension exerted on the knees during normal downhill descent are greatly reduced.  The trick, however, is to maintain total concentration all the while, to prevent the unpleasantness of stumbling, which would thus lead to entertaining prospect of full-launch!

The final pull for the day comes as I approach Velvet Rocks, then it's “Nomad's Neutral” all the way down to Hanover.

I am pleased with my hike today, having maintained two miles per hour on the ups, three miles per hour on the ridges, and four miles per hour on the downs, thus accomplishing my goal of three miles per for the day (Oh, can I hear the shrieks and wailing now!).  This allows me to cover the twenty-three miles in less than eight hours.  I arrive in Hanover in time to get my maildrop a little after four.

Friendly northbounders at the post office suggest that I head for Panarchy House, as it will probably be my best bet for peace and quiet while trying to write, so over I go.  The rain is coming in buckets as I enter the grand room at Panarchy.  Here I am greeted kindly by one of the fraternity brothers.  I learn to my dismay that they are full to capacity with AT thru-hikers, but the kind lad doesn't have the heart to turn me away and back out into the storm, so I am shown around and given a place to sleep in the basement.

After a soothing hot shower, thence to return once again back into it, for a pizza and a few tall frosties at one of the local watering holes, I settle in comfortably in the lounge to write.  But soon, hikers start dropping by, and I make many new friends as I spend the evening with Travis Shepherd Hall, and the lovely sisters, Lucy Isis and Susan Jackrabbit Letcher, who are hiking the AT barefoot.

I try writing later in the evening but fall asleep, so I head for my little corner in the basement.  In my soft, down-filled Feathered Friends, I sleep soundly as the incessant rain continues.

Tuesday--August 15, 2000
Trail Day--84/35
Trail Mile--1146/441
Location--VT14, White River, Vermont, thence to the Home of Steve and Terrie Purcell, Canaan, New Hampshire
 
I really need to spend a day on correspondence and journal entries, but having taken three days off in Monson for the final review of my book, I'm now a day behind my planned schedule, an itinerary designed to put me on Flagg Mountain, Alabama, before the end of this year--to accomplish the first recorded southbound thru-hike o’er the entire Appalachian range--so I'm intent on getting back on the trail today.

A call to my publisher before departing Hanover, and this day is shaping great.  We're ready to go to press!  So the great new 400 page hardbound book, Ten Million Steps, should be available in the next six weeks.  My Web Master in Dahlonega, Georgia, Greg Smith, is preparing our Web Site for E-commerce so orders can be taken directly.  Please check us out at <www.nimblewillnomad.com>.

A few days ago I had the pleasure of meeting Austin Bagley on the trail.  Austin had been in Damascus, Virginia, during Trail Days, and while there he had attended my presentation at Rock School Auditorium.  He's in New Hampshire now on his AT thru-hike, bound for Katahdin.  During our conversation, I mentioned that he looked too clean, definitely way too neat and fresh, to have been on the trail so long.  That's when he explained that he and his hiking companion, Oopsadaisey had just returned to the trail after being totally rejuvenated, the result of a recent stay with his aunt and uncle, Terrie and Steve Purcell of Canaan, New Hampshire.  Before heading our separate ways again, Austin handed me a piece of paper with his uncle's phone number, urging me to call when I'm a little further south.  Said Austin, "I know Steve and Terrie would enjoy meeting you and having you as their guest."  So after arriving here in Hanover yesterday, and after some hesitancy, I gave Steve a call.  Austin had obviously told his aunt and uncle about me, and Steve sounded most pleased as he invited me to his home.  So, arrangements were made for Steve to pick me up after my hike today, and I am anxious to get on my way.

By mid-afternoon, my journal entries pretty much up-to-date and most of my correspondence completed, I head across the Connecticut River into Vermont--another state behind me!  Two down, fourteen to go!

The day remains warm and pleasant, the treadway very kind, and the hike goes quickly as I pass some interesting places.  Do people actually live in Podunk?

Just before six, and as I near the post office in West Hartford, a van pulls over; it's Steve. I'm greeted with a kind “Hello” and a glad smile.  Austin was right.  Steve and Terrie are indeed happy to meet me.  And oh, is the feeling mutual!  No wonder Austin and Oopsadaisey looked so fresh and ready-to-go again.  Isn't it remarkable what a little time with family and friends can do for a tired, run-down old soul!

The Purcells have such a warm and comfortable home, deep in the New Hampshire woods.  It's pure joy to be here, to be their guest.  In the evening, after my clothes are all clean and after we enjoy a wonderful meal prepared just for me, do we then spend a grand time together.  The Purcells are so proud of their children, four in all, three boys and a girl.  I can sure see why as I have the pleasure of meeting their daughter Symanie, who stops by for a while.

In my room now, I log this entry for the day, before retiring with the most contented feeling, a feeling that comes only from being with good, caring friends.

Wednesday--August 16, 2000
Trail Day--85/36
Trail Mile--1159/454
Location--VT12, Woodstock, Vermont, thence to the Home of Jim Johnston and Laura Zantzinger
 
Steve is up preparing breakfast as I wake.  A thunderstorm is rumbling through, and I take a moment to give thanks for being with these new friends and for being out of it for a change.  We enjoy breakfast together as Steve stokes me up for the day.  Terrie then sets out for work, and Steve drives me back to the trail at the old steel bridge over White River.

Steve and Terrie, thanks for your kindness to me and for a grand time; I wish you the very best!

The storm has passed and the sky clears, but the treadway is a hopeless bog.  I soon tire of sliding and slogging and decide to call it a day after only thirteen miles.

At VT12 I stick my thumb out toward Woodstock.  In only moments this Mercedes passes, stops and turns around.  The driver is smiling as he wheels around again to pick me up.  Here I meet Jim Johnston, Laura Zantzinger and their delightful, bright-eyed children, Leverett and Mary.  On the ride to Woodstock, Jim explains that I might not be pleased with the overnight accommodations there, not that I wouldn't be treated and cared for in the most fashionable manner, but that I might not delight in spending upwards of $1,500 for the night!  It's then that he and Laura invite me to come with them to their home and to be their guest for the evening.  Says Jim, "As soon as we saw you by the road, when we saw your face, we decided to turn around and get you.  You are welcome to stay with us in our home and have dinner with us this evening."  After forcing a short degree of hesitancy, I quickly accept!

We stroll the streets of Woodstock for a while, and after a stop at the little general store on the way, we head for their place in the high valley.  "We get a lot of snow up here in the winter; it snows almost every day," Jim says, as we climb through the valley. "Lots more than they get over on the ski slopes.  We bundle the kids and spend a lot of time outdoors.  We love the snow."  I can tell we’re getting close--the kids are becoming rambunctious.

We're soon at their home, a well-kept, renovated nineteenth century dwelling on ten acres of manicured lawns and lovely natural gardens.  As soon as the car stops, the kids are out and running barefoot all around.  Oh, does seeing them running and playing bring such a flood of childhood memories. I didn't know how blessed I was as a child to have wide-open spaces to run and play.  As Jim shows me the grounds and as we pick our fill of luscious raspberries, I comment on how great it is to have such a place as this for Laura and the children. Leverett comes running and takes my hand, so full of glee, “Let's go see the Jeep!” he says, “Come on, come on!” and so--we go see the Jeep.
What a memorable evening with these kind and gentle people.  The children are so trusting and innocent.  They all take pleasure in having me as their guest, especially, so it seems, the children.  It's such a blessing and such a joy to me.

Thursday--August 17, 2000
Trail Day--86/37
Trail Mile--1182/477
Location--US4, Sherburne Pass, Vermont, The Inn at Long Trail
 
The evening slipped away last, and I got precious little work done on my journal entries, but just as well.  This morning Jim prepares coffee, French toast, sausage and cereal for me.  Then we load in his car again, Mary, kids and all, as we head back to the trailhead at VT12.  Thanks Jim, Laura, Leverett and Mary--you know you’ve saved me fifteen hundred bucks!  Seriously, your kindness and generosity will remain in my memory.

The day begins bright, clear and cool, but the gloom and darkness brought by the overcast soon returns.  My goal is to hike the twenty-three miles into Sherburne Pass, to The Inn at Long Trail.  The treadway has had no opportunity to dry, so mudboggin’ is the way of the day.  The trail is not content to be up, and so down we go, and when down, it’s time to immediately climb back up again.

Most all the northbounders recognize me today, one of them in particular, my good friend Jack Baltimore Jack Tarlin.  He’s on his sixth consecutive AT thru-hike.  We hoot and holler and spend much time in excited conversation.  Great seeing you again, Baltimore Jack--and to all you intrepids bound for Katahdin, you, along with Baltimore Jack, will soon become the “Class of 2000.”  Congratulations!

The Trail through here has been relocated away from Sherburne Pass, and now crosses US4 to the west before climbing to Pico Camp.  This move was done in anticipation of development soon to occur on Killington. The old AT, the route I hiked my last time through, is still open to the Inn.  It’s marked by blue blazes now, so it's blue-blaze time as I head for The Inn at Long Trail.  As I hike along, following the blue--with my head in the blue--I’m thinking about how this trail is constantly changing.  Since I hiked the AT less than two years ago, countless changes have been made.  In my many miles and many months on the AT, I’ve concluded that an attempt to hike past every white blaze, as some purists would, is futile.  The reason is simple.  Before one can make a scant five hundred miles, the whole thing’s changed.  Ahh, and so does this whole scheme change from day to day.

I believe that one must have a broader vision, and I believe I have that vision, as was suggested by Benton MacKaye, the father of the Appalachian Trail.  Comes with this vision such a grand feeling in my heart.  And that feeling?  It is the feeling of pride in knowing that I am a “pioneer” in this whole evolutionary process.  Oh, yes, I’ve taken flack, plenty of it, especially since Ten Million Steps came out.  “There’s no such thing as the Appalachian Mountains Trail.  There’s no such thing as the Eastern Continental Trail.  How dare you even suggest a long trail along the eastern continent, or the Appalachian range for that matter, besides the Appalachian Trail!  It takes an act of Congress to create trails like these; did you get an act of Congress?”  And so it goes.  These, and words like these have been hurled at me, along with the spittle from the hysteria that accompanies them.

Ahh yes--well folks, the Appalachian Trail does seem to be such a long trail, such a grand institution.  Granted, and there’s no doubt, the AT is an institution, but it is not a long trail!  Might I ask you this--Is there not a trail that passes right here, right where I’m hiking this instant, that passed here before the AT was superimposed upon it--that was, and is to this day, called *The Long Trail!  Come along with me, please, as I continue from Cap Gaspé to Key West.  I’m hiking the AMT and the ECT.  I’ve hiked these trails before, and I’m hiking them again, and I’m having an absolute blast.  And so, finally, you might rightfully ask, “How can this be--indeed, how can this be--without an act of Congress!”

I am concerned as to whether there’ll be room for me at Long Trail Inn.  At the reception desk, I’m told that the Inn is full, but as luck would have it, and to my good fortune, I immediately run into Shepherd, whom I'd met in Hanover.  Seems as though Shepherd has a room with two beds, one of which he immediately offers me!  So, after getting reasonably presentable, I head to the bar for dinner and a few tall ones. Shepherd joins me.  We make many new friends, and are greeted by many old, including Nomad ‘98, and we all enjoy a great evening together at Long Trail Inn.

*The Long Trail, known as “Vermont’s Footpath in the Wilderness,” was built by the Green Mountain Club between 1910 and 1930.  It is the oldest long-distance hiking trail in the United States.  It extends for a distance of some 270 miles, from the Massachusetts/Vermont state line to the international border between Vermont and Canada.  The Long Trail was the inspiration
for the Appalachian Trail, which was later superimposed upon it for a distance of some one hundred miles.  
 
Friday--August 18, 2000
Trail Day--87/38
Trail Mile--1200/495
Location--VT103, thence to The Country Squire Motel, North Clarendon, Vermont, Elizabeth Anne "Bette" Mangels, proprietor
 
I’ve made a doozie of a blunder here at the Inn.  I slept soundly last night, getting rest in concentrate.  However, I awoke at 3:00 a.m.  I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I headed down to the spacious, comfortable lobby to work my correspondence.  While taking my shower last evening, I stomped out my socks, as I customarily do.  But they weren't drying where I'd hung them in my room, so I got the bright idea of taking them down with me to the lobby, and draping them over one of the table lamps to dry.  When I returned to my room at 4:30, I forgot to bring my socks with me.  Oh yes, the kind lady whose responsibility it is to see that everything is kept tidy for all the guests--well, she finds them and pulls them down first thing.  When I finally remember and rush back down to the lobby, I discover that my socks are gone, and I realize that I'm going to catch Holy Sam from the housekeeper!  Pondering, I seriously consider sacrificing the socks, since I have a spare pair, thus avoiding the entire embarrassment.  But better judgment prevails, and I ‘fess up--and I do catch Holy Sam.  As the sweet lady hands me back my (dry) socks, I mutter, with my head down, “Well ma'am, I did take my shoes off outside before I came in yesterday!”  You know that one-eyebrow-up look.  Oh, yes!

Funny thing happened in the bar last. I was enjoying the company of friends when a call came in from Fanny Pack.  The barkeep calls me over, and as I pick up the phone, I'm wondering how he knows I'm here.  “Hey, Fanny Pack, how's it goin’?”  I bark into the phone.  I’m greeted by total silence--there's no answer for the longest time--then he responds, “Is that you, Nomad?”  I reply, “Yes Fanny Pack, it's me, Nomad.”  More hesitation, then, “Is this the Nimblewill Nomad?”  Now, I’m almost shouting, “Yes Fanny Pack, it’s me, Nomad.”  It's then that I realize what's happened.  Fanny Pack and I are great friends, but he is also a great friend with my good friend, Nomad '98, who is hiking again this year, and who has been sitting at the bar with me.  Turns out, the call was not for Nimblewill Nomad, but for Nomad '98!  Anyway, as always, it was great talking with you Fanny Pack!

Since I hiked through here in ’98, there’s been major trail relocations around Sherburne.  The trail no loner crosses US4 by the Inn.  It’s been moved a considerable distance to the west. The old AT past the Inn still remains but is now a blue blaze.  Shepherd and I decide to hike out on the blue blaze.

Though there are many ups and downs today, the treadway is reasonably friendly, and Shepherd and I make very good time with a pace of three miles per hour.  We're in early at VT103 and get a ride to Country Squire Motel.  This has been a very good hiking day.

Saturday--August 19, 2000
Trail Day--88/39
Trail Mile--1215/510
Location--USFS10/Danby-Landgrove Road, thence to Iroquois Landing Campground, North Clarendon, Vermont
 
After juice, coffee and donuts, we load up and Elizabeth Anne drives us to the general store, then back to the trailhead at VT103.  We've had a very pleasant stay with you, Bette.  Thanks!

What an amazing day this turns out to be, great for hiking and great for meeting and making friends.

As Shepherd and I cross Wallingford Road there's a backpack leaning against the crash-rail, and we soon see the owner racing down the mountain toward us.  Here we meet Dawn Belcher Stringer, a friend of Nina Waterfall Baxley, whom I've been so anxious to meet.  Nina is the other southbound AT correspondent for GORP.com, and we had exchanged email messages nearly a year ago while she was preparing to hike the Pinhoti Trail in Alabama.  Belcher, who is northbound on the AT and who started the day at Wallingford Road, found out that Waterfall had just passed through southbound, and she'd set out to catch her good friend, with no luck.  So today it looks like I'll finally get to meet Waterfall, if we can catch her!

We haven't gone another quarter-mile when hiking toward us comes Chuck Swamp Eagle Wilson!  I had corresponded with him by email and talked with him by phone well over a year ago when he was hiking north from Key West on the Florida National Scenic Trail--and here our paths cross today.  Swamp Eagle is headed for the Cliffs of Forillon at Cap Gaspé, the old Nomad, for Key West!  As we meet, we hug and hoot with great excitement.

We discuss the unfortunate crossing of the ways with Belcher and Waterfall, and the decision is for Swamp Eagle to catch Belcher and for us to catch Waterfall at FSR10.  The plan is for Swamp Eagle’s wife, Honeycomb, to pick us up there, and we'll all spend the evening together at their motor home.

Well, after some anxious moments, as the plans seemed to be coming apart, we're all finally together.  Oh, and did I mention that Waterfall and Swamp Eagle are the best of friends, Swamp Eagle having rescued Waterfall from a flash flood in Alabama earlier this year, thus, from that incident, the origin of her interesting trail name!

In the evening, Honeycomb drives us to Whistlestop Restaurant where she and Swamp Eagle treat us all to dinner.  Then it's back to the their motor home to work the strategy that will give Swamp Eagle his best shot at finishing the SIA/IAT in Canada before he gets iced out.

What a remarkable day.  We’re supposed to believe that these circumstances are mere coincidence. But we all know there is some other power at play here!

Sunday--August 20, 2000
Trail Day--89/40
Trail Mile--1232/527
Location--VT11/30, thence to Manchester Center, Vermont, Sutton's Place, Frank Sutton, proprietor
 
I tented last night at the campground, a beautifully manicured lawn with picnic table right next, everything dry for a change.  I'm not used to sitting at a dry picnic table, let alone having a dry place to pitch!  At the motor home this morning, Swamp Eagle and Honeycomb have piping hot coffee and breakfast prepared for all of us--and we tarry to enjoy each other's company for just awhile longer.  Then it's time to load up.  We see Belcher and Swamp Eagle off as they head on north at VT103.  Time for lots of hugs and hesitancy, followed by more hugs and pictures.  Then Honeycomb turns Waterfall and me loose back at FSR10 as we head on south.

*Swamp Eagle, I pray for your continued safe passage o’er the AT, then, as you continue on the SIA/IAT into Canada, I pray, also, for your successful completion of your AMT/ECT treks.  You've got a long way to go north of Katahdin, but you've paid your dues.  I’m confident that the strategy we've worked will get you past the ice on the tundra in the Chic Chocs.   I know the wicked intensity that is the quest, to reach the Cliffs of Forillon at Cap Gaspé, Quebec.  God Speed my dear friend!

Waterfall and I hike together for a while, and when she decides to take a break, I decide to move on.  Aww, but aren't good-byes so incredibly difficult!  I must try with all my might not to let this day drift to a funky finish.

Oh, but I have plenty to keep me occupied as I continue pounding out the miles south.  There’s Baker Peak, Peru Peak, Styles Peak, and finally Bromley Mountain.

At VT11/30 I get a ride just fine into Manchester Center.  Along the way I see Shepherd and Easy Rider‘00 walking the shoulder, and I get out to join them for the remaining short distance downtown.  After pizza and a few frosty tall ones we head over to Sutton's Place to share a room.

It is good that I am with friends here this evening, for leaving good friends behind often brings little more than solitary loneliness--and loneliness is always poor company.

* Chuck Swamp Eagle Wilson departed the southernmost point of the eastern North American continent in Key West, Florida on November 14, 1999.  On November 5, 2000, and 4614 miles later, he successfully completed his thru-hike o’er the Eastern Continental Trail at the Cliffs of Forillon, where the Appalachians plunge to the sea at Cap Gaspé, Quebec.
 
Monday--August 21, 2000
Trail Day--90/41
Trail Mile--1250/545
Location--Arlington-West Wardsboro Road, thence to Manchester Center, Vermont, Sutton's Place
 
My very good hiking friends from '98, brothers Chris Yogi and Carl BooBoo Schmid, have moved from Arkansas to Arlington, Vermont.  Yogi, whom I ran into in Rangeley, Maine, and who is doing a southbound this year, made me promise to give his brother a call as soon as I reached Manchester Center, so last evening I called BooBoo.  We made arrangements to meet for breakfast this morning, and since BooBoo has wheels, he shuttles us around, first to the post office and then back to the trail.  I was concerned that he might miss work.  Oh yes, he's late for work.  Thanks BooBoo, it's been great seeing you again!

I've been feeling really strong, and since the treadway has opened up some, I'm really starting to move, cranking out the miles.  On the uphills I'm able to maintain a two mile per hour pace, on flat terrain, three and with “Nomad's Neutral” kicking in on the downhills, I'm cruising right along at four miles per hour.  So, an eighteen-mile day takes just a little over six hours--not a bad hiking day at all.

The trail today passes Stratton Pond, one of the most picturesque sites along the trail.  The weather is fair and the pond is a show.  The climb up Stratton is a long, steady pull, but I make it without difficulty. Stratton Mountain is a special place in the annals of the AT, for it was on this summit that Benton MacKaye first envisioned a trail o'er the backbone of the central Appalachian range.  Myron Avery was inspired by that dream and ran with it, most-near single-handedly building the trail in the process.

The trail off Stratton is a cruise, and I reach Kelly Stand Road before seven to get a ride back to Manchester Center and Sutton's Place.  Frank welcomes me again, and for dinner I head to the Sirloin Saloon for a great steak.  Life is indeed good!

Tuesday--August 22, 2000
Trail Day--91/42
Trail Mile--1270/565
Location--By the Trail one mile North of Melville Nauheim Shelter, Vermont
 
I called the Schmids again last night and talked with BooBoo's mother.  I told her that I needed a ride back to the trail again, so just a little after eight this morning, BooBoo appears with a beaming smile.  Seems he can pretty much set his own hours at work, so he takes the time to shuttle Shepherd and me around again.  Shepherd is returning to the trail today, having taken a day off, so after breakfast we load up again and head for the trail.  Thanks again, BooBoo!

The day is clear and cool, and the sun feels so warm and welcome.  The treadway, which has been full of huge mud holes, is even drying out.  The wave of northbounders continues, and many who pass today recognize me and stop to talk.  It's going to be hard to find a hat to fit this head pretty soon!

With so many hikers on the trail, the shelters tend to be crowded, so anticipating a full house, I pull up short of Melville Nauheim Shelter to pitch just off the trail for the evening.  It’s been great seeing and spending time with old friends-- but I miss my solitude.

Wednesday--August 23, 2000
Trail Day--92/43
Trail Mile--1297/592
Location--Mount. Greylock, Summit Road, Bascom Lodge, Massachusetts
 
I'm up and break camp to a glorious day, but no sooner am I on the trail than the sky darks over and the rains begin anew.  So much for the dry treadway.  It doesn't take long for the mudboggin’ to return as the trail once more fills with water.

I'm bound and determined to make the miles today, twenty-seven, so I trudge on, my feet soaked from the ankle-deep sludge, my pack and me soaked from sweat.  There are many long, hard pulls today, how many I can't count.  The last, Mount Greylock, is the hardest by far.  The wind is whipping on the summit, driving the rain in a rage.  I can see only the base of the monument in the murk.

Bascom Lodge is a welcome sight, fading in and out like a mirage in the clouds and rain.  What a joy to be out of it as Alex Steel, Assistant Manager, welcomes me.  “Bring your pack in and get dried off,” he says,  “You're made it in time for dinner.”  Ahh, this is the way to end a long, hard day!  I am pleased with myself for slogging on today; I did the twenty-seven.  Another state lies behind me now. Three down, thirteen to go.  Thanks, Magic, for the great meal and for the lunch to take along tomorrow.

Thursday--August 24, 2000
Trail Day--9--4
Trail Mile--1313/609
Location--MA8/9, Dalton Massachusetts, The Inn at Village Square, Lee Walton, proprietor
 
The storm continued throughout the night, the wind making shrill and mournful sounds as it whistled and shook the Lodge, but I slept in sweet contentment in the warmth and shelter of Bascom, on the highest point in Massachusetts. After a great breakfast prepared by Magic, I'm out into the gloom and on my way south to Dalton.

Today is a comparatively short day, only seventeen miles, and mostly downhill.  As I descend the mountain, the heavens brighten and the sun breaks through, making for a perfect hiking day weatherwise.  But this treadway will not be dry or the ankle-swallowing mud gone for a very long time.

Today there are stiles over fences that are really in service, and I must dodge the first cow patties on my journey south. Crossing the little valley near Cheshire, the trail passes through the center of a cornfield; plenty of diversions today!

In Dalton lives my good friend (and many a hiker's good friend) Tom Levardi.  I stop by his grand home to see him for a few minutes before heading on to the Inn.  I camped in Tom's yard in '98, but this year I'm behind on my journal entries and correspondence, so I must find a place to get my feet up where I can write.  After a great meal at The Shamrock Restaurant and Pub, I settle in at the Inn at Village Square--a little pricey, but a great room.  I even have my own telephone.  What luxuries!

Friday--August 25, 2000
Trail Day--94/45
Trail Mile--1334/630
Location--Upper Goose Pond Cabin, Massachusetts
 
I'm out and down the main drag to Duff and Dell's, Dalton's favorite hangout for morning coffee--and great trail breakfasts.  On the way out of town, I stop again at Tom Levardi’s home to talk awhile with members of the clan that are still milling about.  As I leave Depot Street and cross the tracks to climb Grange Hill, I stop to tie on my sweatband and remove my shirt; it’s going to be a glorious warm day. What a joy to be alive!

The makeup of the forest has been constantly changing since the trail descended Mount Greylock.  Today I take pleasure in walking in the beauty of such an old familiar friend again, one so common to the understory all throughout the central and southern highlands, the lush, green mountain laurel.  The spruce and fir, so common all along the trail to the north, have retreated now to occupy only the highest reaches, and there are more white pine and hemlock and hardwood to take their place.  The miles are accumulating, slowly adding up, finally meaning something.  I’m actually getting somewhere, and the trail and all that surrounds it and gives it life is testimony to that success.  And the treadway is so kind in comparison to what I’ve been dealing with.  I can actually stretch my legs and move out with confidence.  Even the mud is not annoying, for again today the treadway is drying, requiring much less jumping and dodging about.

If you've followed along on all my journeys, you'll know that I've yet to see a bear along the trail, not a single bruin in nearly six thousand miles.  Today, a northbounder stops to chat and to tell me about the bear he's just seen.  “Ambled along the trail right in front of me, even got up on the puncheons,” says he.  And sure enough in just awhile--and no, I didn't see the bear--right there on the split logs and along for the greatest distance are these unmistakable wet paw prints!  Skunked again!  There'll be no bear picture for the cover of my book.  Just as well.  I've chosen a hiker.  Much more appropriate, don't you agree?

At Washington Mountain Road, I stop to see friends Roy and Marilyn Wiley.  Roy is busy tending his blueberry patch.  He has over 1,200 high-bush blueberry plants, and they're all full of cherry-sized blueberries.  Folks keep coming and then going with buckets of blueberries all the while as Roy and I relax and talk.  Marilyn has come to be known among hikers and on the trail as The Cookie Lady, for over the years and traditionally now, all the hikers stopping by their farm to fill their water bottles are treated to fresh-baked cookies, compliments of Marilyn.  I don't get to see her today.  Roy says she's working a regular job now.  Wouldn't you know--The Cookie Lady is one of the cooks for the local school lunch program!  It’s been great seeing you again, Roy.  Oh, and thanks, Cookie Lady, for the great cookies; Roy's been handin’ ‘em out!

Lots of ups and downs today.  First, Grange Hill, then Warner Hill, October Mountain, Bald Top Mountain and finally Becket Mountain.  But I'm able to hold three miles per hour for the day to arrive early and in good stead at Upper Goose Pond Cabin.  I'm greeted by Dottie, caretaker for the week, and I quickly settle in for the evening.  I've got a stack of five “twenties” to do to get into Kent, Connecticut by next Tuesday, my scheduled date of arrival there.  The first of these five's been a breeze.

Saturday--August 26, 2000
Trail Day--95/46
Trail Mile--1354/650
Location--Lake Buel Road, Massachusetts, thence to East Mountain Retreat Center, Reverend Lois F. Rose, Director
 
Hikers have lugged in bags of blueberries from Roy's blueberry patch.  So what better use than for blueberry pancakes!  Oh, and is Dottie a master at flippin'!  Somehow she manages to keep the platters stacked full of blueberry pancakes this morning as thirteen of us wolf and wash 'em down with pot after pot of fresh-perked coffee.  Yes indeedy, this day has started off in grand fashion.  Thanks, Dottie, you're the star in a five-star operation!

I am treated to another warm, sun-drenched day.  What a remarkable and oh-such-a-welcome change in the weather!  There are lots more ups and downs today, and lots more mud.  But the mud is less troublesome as the treadway continues to dry.  The climbs and bail-offs slow me down though, and it's after four when I arrive at Reverend Rose's East Mountain Retreat.  She sees me and comes straight away to greet me.  Ahh, these are the moments that are shaping “Odyssey 2000” into such a memorable experience.  Lois, what a joy seeing your warm smile and peaceful countenance again!  God bless you, my dear friend.

Sunday--August 26, 2000
Trail Day--96/47
Trail Mile--1378/674
Location--Brassie Brook Lean-to, Connecticut
 
I enjoyed a great evening last at East Mountain Retreat.  I ordered a large supreme pizza to be delivered, along with a liter of Mountain Dew.  As soon as I stepped out of the shower, the pizza arrived.  They were out of Mountain Dew, so I ended up with a two-liter bottle of Coke as a bonus.  Yup, I drank the whole thing.  Oh yes, and I also ate the entire sixteen-inch supreme pizza!

I had only a moment to talk with Reverend Rose earlier as she was in haste to perform a wedding.  But in the evening she came by, and we had the longest chat.  We talked about many things, like how families can break up and drift apart, and how one can become lonely and heartbroken in the process.  Ministers have their problems, too, so the conversation, the give and take of it, was equally shared.  In 1998, I was the first to pen an entry in Reverend Rose's thru-hiker register.  And now, two years later, as the book is nearly filled, I will make the last.  Much has happened in both Reverend Rose's life and in mine during that span of time.  On balance, it’s been mostly for the better.  Thanks, Lois, for being here for me.  It's been such a joy seeing you again and to know that the East Mountain Retreat has become all you've prayed it would be!

The day is absolutely perfect for hiking--warm and sunny, with the most refreshing and gentle cool breeze.  I'm in the Berkshires now, no match for the mountainous hulks to the north in the Whites, the Mahoosucs or the Chic Chocs, but I'm huffing and out of breath from the challenge of the many pulls.  From high vantage, these mountains are such a graceful and peaceful lot, all standing proudly about like a crowd to the horizon, as if patiently waiting for some grand show to begin.

I put another state behind me today as I finish the trail in Massachusetts.  That's two Canadian Provinces and four states as I enter Connecticut.  Seems that every state has its Bear Mountain, and I'm faced with the climb up the one in Connecticut first thing.  Toward evening I'm at Brassie Brook Lean-to, a lovely area with acres of lush mountain laurel and such grand over story, with the happy, rollicking brook running straight through.  I have the little shelter to myself, for it seems that almost all the northbounders are north and the southbounders, south.  From reading the entries in the shelter register, I see that the Ridgerunner program has just shut down for the season.
This has been a fine hiking day, capped now by this quiet, peaceful place to dwell for the evening.

Monday--August 27, 2000
Trail Day--97/48
Trail Mile--1401/697
Location--Trailside South of Carse Brook, Connecticut
 
The Berkshires are standing full dress today, a day for inspection, and I'm the inspector! And what better high ground to see them at attention, than from Lion's Head, Billy's View and Rand's View.  I don't remember any of these places from '98 (no doubt, it was raining), but I will remember this day, and the beauty of the Berkshires.

The ridges lie now in such a fashion that the trail must cross them to head ever southward, making for near-continual ascents and descents.  And between the ridges that run to the horizon, there are the valleys wherein lie all the quaint New England villages, with the trail running near to most of them.  So, on the ridges I am in the mountains I have come to know and to love, but as I descend each ridge, the crush and grind of the highway can be heard.  The far-off wilds of the north woods are behind me now, and the din of man is becoming more the way of these mountains.

I pitch for the evening just above Carse Brook, in the lingering warmth of the day.  I am alone again now, on "Odyssey 2000"--but I am not alone.

Tuesday--August 28, 2000
Trail Day--98/49
Trail Mile--1416/712
Location--CT341, Kent, Connecticut, The Gibbs House, Morette and Brian Orth, Innkeepers
 
When I'm in the comforts of a dwelling, even a shelter, I'm seldom able to roust myself out and get on the trail early.  But when sleeping in my little Nomad, first light usually gets me stirring.  It's quite a luxury on clear nights to just throw the vestibule back, exposing all the no-see-um netting to the sky, thus enabling me to enjoy the beauty and mystery of the woods and hills at night without the constant annoyance of the mosquitoes.  Last night was one of those special kinds of nights in the dark of the wood, the kind of night one can truly understand only by living the experience.

So this morning I'm up and cranking at a very respectable hour--respectable for getting in some miles early, that is.  I'm anxious to get on into Kent, where I plan to stay for the evening.  I have a short mileage day, only fifteen, having knocked out a couple of near twenty-fives from Dalton, and I would like to arrive by early afternoon.

The rollercoaster ride continues, but the treadway is open, and as I manage the pulls at a respectable pace, I'm cutting good time today.  The hum and clatter, and the noon whistle from every little berg can be heard now, even from the ridge, as the populated areas become increasingly more dense.  By one o'clock I make the final descent over the stiles and across a pasture to CT341 and Schaghticoke Road.  There is little traffic this time of day, but a kind fellow in his old pickup finally hauls it down, and I load for the ride to Kent.  Bouncing along, wedged between a mound of typical pickup bed junk and sitting on his grungy old spare, the wind and the warm New England sun working its charm on me, I reflect on the blessings of my health, my strength and resolve, and the remarkable success that is this journey, and I give thanks for it all.

Kent is a touristy place, as are many of the little mountain villages that lie only a hundred miles from Gotham--a tight-set little main drag of a downtown with shops all along.  I head right for the post office, which is closed (from one to two).  It seems to me that no matter when I hit the post office, it's closed; seem that way to you?

I'd planned on staying at the Fife and Drum, but the restaurant where the office is located is closed on Tuesdays, so I head for their gift shop.  The lady seems totally noncommittal about whether I can rent a room.  "I don't know if any rooms are available; I think they're all rented. I'll need to make a call," she replies as she heads for the back room.  I hear her dialing but there’s no conversation.  In a moment she returns.  "I can't get anybody, but I think we're all full."  That was her final comment as she turned away, abruptly ending the conversation, to busy herself with other things.  The screen door to the shop has an old fashioned return spring on it and as I leave, I push the door open wide and let it slam good and hard.

Aww, now why did I do that?  It’s my own fault.  The lady simply had me pegged as a bum--because, to her, I looked like a bum!  Ed Garvey is rollin’ over right now, I know he is, bless his soul.  Ed was a trail legend in his time.  He was known to admonish hikers for not being clean-shaven and neatly dressed.   In his classic book, Appalachian Hiker, published originally in 1971, I can remember reading, “No one expects the Appalachian Trail hiker to wear shirt, tie, business suit, and shiny shoes.  On the other hand, hikers…need not look like bums.”  Forgive me, Ed, I know you expected better, the trail deserves better, Sorry.

On up the street and in less than a block stands the beautiful Gibbs House, a lovely old two-story home.  I no sooner ring the doorbell than I'm greeted with a great big smile by Morette Orth.  She welcomes me and shows me to a lovely upstairs room with private bath directly across from she and her husband's private bedroom. I'm in and soon settled--and for a rate considerably less than the other place would have charged had they liked my looks.  I've my own phone right next the bed, and I'm able to catch up on my journal entries, correspondence and phone calls.  Things always do seem to work out for the better!

Wednesday--August 29, 2000
Trail Day--99/50
Trail Mile--1437/733
Location--West Dover Road, Pawling, New York, Sha Ra Du Bed and Breakfast, Lee Stevens, proprietor
 
The post office opens at eight, and I'm right there ready to mail my bounce box along to Delaware Water Gap.  Then it's over to where all the locals hang out for breakfast at the little mom-n-pop.

Today is a busy day for Morette Orth, as it is her daughter's first day at school, but she finds time to run me up to the trail, and I'm out and moving south again by ten-thirty.  Thanks Brian and Morette, you've been very kind to me.

Today I put Connecticut behind as I enter New York.  Slowly but surely the mountains are flattening out, and the treadway is becoming much easier to manage.  Save for a couple of section hikers, a local trail maintainer named Walkie-Talkie, and Richard, a southbounder, with whom I hike for a short while, I have the trail to myself today.

I have made good time for a twenty-one mile day.  No problem getting a hitch, for within just moments after arriving at the road crossing, I'm in downtown Pawling.  I'd called Lee Stevens recently, and she'd given me directions to her B&B.  I spot the place and head right over.  Lee's waiting at the door with a big smile.  She hands me a key and directs me to my room on the second floor.  What a grand old place, very spacious with a large sitting room and a full kitchen.  The shower is one of the neatest I've seen, an old claw-foot cast-iron tub with a curtain all the way around, and the showerhead hooked to the ceiling!

In the evening I head for the Pawling Tavern for supper and a few tall ones. I have a fine pasta plate, and after my first longneck frosty, the locals pitch in, keeping a tall, cold one in front of me for the remainder of the evening.

I've really enjoyed this day, and the great folks of Pawling.

Thursday--August 30, 2000
Trail Day--100/51
Trail Mile--1455/751
Location--Hortontown Road, New York, RPH Shelter
 
I'm up, surprisingly before seven, headed for the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee and fix myself some breakfast.  When I'd talked to Lee by phone she said she'd haul me back to the trail, and at eight we're off.  Thanks, Lee.  I've had a great stay at Sha Ra Du B&B, and in your friendly little town of Pawling.

I've been thinking about a good old fashioned hotdog off and on for days, and after five miles of it this morning, and at NY55 I head east two-tenths of a mile to the Elite Dog, a mighty fine hiker-oasis of a motorhome-based hotdog stand.  The place is called Bob's, and Bob Barrett, a disabled American veteran, runs it.  He' just getting his little operation cranked up for the day, but he finds time to sit and chat while I down the two dogs he's prepared for me.  After signing his register, I glance through, seeing many familiar names. Spur was number 61 in '99 and 161 this year.  Swamp Eagle stopped by, and Grandma Soule was here, as were many others.

  Bob and I are the same age, born within days of each other in '38.  He went off to war and I went to the university. I got "educated," and he got shot-up.  The heroes of this day are different from the heroes of our time.  Most people today probably don’t even know what a DAV is.  And so I must say, "Bob, you're my kind of hero; thanks for your sacrifices in keepin' our country free.  God bless you, my friend!"

Near Mount Egbert, I see hikers coming toward me.  I've been on a not-so-enjoyable sideslab for the last while, all the while listening to the rasp and grind of the traffic below on I-84.  First thing I do after the usual exchange of cordialities is to start griping about the treadway.  I don't know why I'm acting like this; it's the first time.  Oh, and am I embarrassed and ashamed about what I've just said, as I discover I'm talking to Karen Lutz, representative, regional office, Appalachian Trail Conference, and Ron Rosen, Duchess/Putnam Counties Appalachian Trail Conference volunteer!  They're out to take a look at a recent relocation that has just been completed a little north of here.  I'm obviously holding them up, but enjoy the conversation, which I've encouraged, as we talk trail.  Their vehicles are parked at the RPH Shelter. I'll be spending the evening there, and Ron promises to bring me a coke.

I arrive at RPH around three, take a bath by the pitcher pump, wash my sweaty clothes, and then settle in for the evening.  In a short while Big John comes in.  He lives down the road and stops by most every evening to check on the thru-hikers to see what they might need.  "Would you like a pizza?" he says  "Oh, yes!" is the reflex reply.  Karen and Ron are back with my coke, and Big John is off to get my pizza.  Life, indeed, is good.  Thanks Ron and Big John!

In just a while, Walter comes in.  He's going to be part of HATT, a weekend-long hike that will link hikers all up and down the Appalachian Trail.  The plan is to create a link of hikers in contact with each other that will hike the entire AT over the Labor Day weekend, quite a project.  A friend of Spur's, a young lady with whom I've been in touch by email, Ready, also comes in for the evening, and we have a grand time chatting before calling it a day.

Friday--August 31, 2000
Trail Day--101/52
Trail Mile--1476/770
Location--Old West Point Road, Garrison, New York, Graymoor Friary
 
I had been so hoping to meet the caretaker of RPH.  I missed him during my stay in '98, and last night Big John said he doubted if Joe would be by, but first thing this morning comes Joe Hrouda, and we spend a grand time together.  Joe, you've got such a grand place here, and the campsite on south in the meadow by the AT is surely a dreamland to weary hikers.

The day is starting iffy with the weather, overcast and threatening, but as I climb Shenandoah Mountain the sun breaks through, and the day turns sunny and quite hot.  Most hikers have been complaining about these close, humid days, but I'm handling them just fine as I slug down plenty of water loaded with Conquest, an electrolyte replacement mix designed for use by ultra-marathoners, and provided me by Gary Bearbag Buffington, MD, the developer of Conquest, one of my sponsors for "Odyssey 2000."  Thanks Bearbag!

More ups and downs today, but the treadway is basically open, permitting me to stride out and cover the miles.  By 1:00 p.m. I've managed the fifteen miles to Canopus Hill Road.  Here, as I climb the little pop before the road crossing, and in half a daze from plodding, I look up to see two familiar faces, both with such happy, broad-beaming smiles, staring directly at me.  I can't believe my eyes; I must be seeing things. These folks live clear down in Roanoke, Virginia.  How can they be here in New York where the AT crosses this out-back county road, in what seems the middle of no place?  Oh my, but here they are, my very dear hiking friends from '98, Scott T-bone Walker Baldwin and Tulie Tulip Kaschub.  I am so taken by their presence that I can't speak.  Tears well up, filling my eyes, and I slump over my hiking poles.  They stand in silence, continuing to beam at me.  I finally manage to blurt, “Tulie, Tulip, is that you--and T-bone, T-bone Walker--Oh, glory be, it really is you!”  What a wonderful and unbelievable surprise!  Says T-Bone, "We're up here for a friend's wedding.  We've followed your progress, and knew you were in the area.  After stopping at RPH Shelter and seeing your register entry, and after talking with Joe, and looking at the map, we knew we could catch you here at Canopus Hill Road!"  After a couple of PBJs, built by Tulip, and near an hour of the greatest catching-up get-together, and again with tears welling and a lump in my throat, I bid these dear young friends good-bye, and I head on down the trail.

I can hardly wait for the completion of the hike today, for this day I reach Graymoor where my very dear friend, Father Fred Alvarez, is waiting to greet me.  Father Fred is a friend to countless hikers, for he is the host for all the Friars, and for Graymoor, where the doors have been open to hikers for years. It has been Father Fred's chosen duty to welcome the intrepids as they arrive, a duty he has enjoyed with obvious satisfaction and joy.  I first met Father Fred on my northbound odyssey in '98, and we became such immediate good friends.  As were the prayers of many, it was Father Fred's continued prayers that carried me through to the successful completion of that long and memorable journey.  So now, with great anticipation and excitement, I again enter the portals at Graymoor, and once again, just as before, Father Fred is here to greet me and to welcome me to Graymoor.  He then shows me to a spacious, private suite just for friends of the Friars, and as we go, he too is bubbling with excitement, for he, too, is happy to see me!  He insists on loaning me a set of his personal clothing while he takes all of mine to launder.   "Get ready for dinner," he says, "I'll be back for you at five-thirty."  And so I will, Father, and so I will.  What a blessed day this has been!