Date: 2004-08-07
From: Georgia

To: Maine
Miles today: 1571.5
Weather: light rain

Mile 1571.5Mt. GreylockHighest Elev. in MAAugust 7, 04Strange night. All alone here in the bunkhouse behind Bascom Lodge high atop Mt. Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts. TheBascom, a lovely old lodge with breathtaking views to the south andwest, provides bunks, blankets and pillows and access to the lodge'sshowers for ten bucks, a lot less than the cost of a room in the lodgeitself. But down here in the bunkhouse tonight I am the lonethruhiker, and as I walk from lodge to bunks in the growing darkand cold , the clouds settle on the mountain and the feeling is rathereerie, rather like being in the film The Shining. I am stunned at thewinterlike conditions of the past week here in the Berkshires. It'sthe first week of August! It can't be in the forties! But it istonight, and the other day whilst hiking I donned my fleece for thefirst time since The Smokey Mountains, wearing it while hiking that is.Now to add to the creepy Shining theme, a flashlight beam searches inthe window of the bunkhouse and someone jiggles the lock on the door. I have locked it. Why not? I'm the only one here and it's frikkenspooky out there so, so, so there!I remove the keyboard from my lap, climb out from beneath a mountain ofblankets and go to the door. Opening it, I see only the wisps ofclouds swirling around in the dark. There is no one there. But I am not entirely alone. A bold little mouse came out to inspectmy food cache a while back when I still had the light on. I found afive gallon paint bucket with a firm lid and locked up my food for thenight. Sorry, pal. No frills, someone called it.   It was a lodge like this one somewherea ways back and they offered, in addition to their normal high pricerooms, "no frills" rooms for thruhikers. It's funny. But it's good. I don't much care for frills anyway. It seems to me I have stayed in nearly a hundred funky places like thisin the past four and a half months. Last night in Dalton MA, I showedup at the Shell Station in town and, on a tip from other thruhikers (one not published in the guidebook), I got hooked up with Rob, a localmusician and friend to thruhikers. There I found Jolan-Jolan, Skins,Hemingway and a few others all flopped out watching Jurassic Park onTV. When I first came in the house, I went to sit on the couch in theliving room and was told by Rob, "Nope, sorry son. Out on the porchuntil you've showered." I'd bought a giant jug of some locally brewedIPA, and was already sipping on it and pouring cups for the boys, so Itook it in stride. "I'll be out here in the quarantine enjoying mybeer,'' I said, fully willing to take a shower but having to wait tilit was unoccupied.I've slept on floors, on picnic tables in small town pavilions wherelocals gather for barbecues and feasts and whatnot. I've slept onrooftops, in basements, in an old jail, in stone huts built by men ofthe Depression and in sweet old log cabins atop mountains or on edge oflong prairie or pond. I've had a few motel nights, not many. And ofcourse I've slept out under the stars and through torrential rains. And I've slept side by side with other thruhikers in dozens ofshelters, cabins of the 3-walled variety. But I have rarely been alonein a structure or hostel of any kind. Tonight is unique. I see in the lodge ledger that I have just aboutcaught Mousebait and White Patch. I am glad. I caught up to Chris andhis girl Elly (not to be confused with my Elly, who by now has summitedKatahdin and gone home to her commune in Virginia). But Chris and Ellyfell behind me just as fast, and Rooney Tunes, too.   And Jessica andEric have never caught up. And I, driven by the prize and a strongbody addicted to its new twenty mile/day regimen, can't stop to letthem catch up. So I am alone.I could have zeroed in Dalton. Coulda had Rob drive me the ten milesto Cheshire to get my food drop at the local PO this Saturday morning. But I chose to rise, hungover as hell from half a dozen Budweisers atopmy jug of local brew, and hike out, made Cheshire just before the P.O.closed for the weekend, then humped it, slower than molasses and sickas a dog, up the highest mountain in Mass. Dumb ass. But no. I hadto go. A lot of people, guys, I was gonna say, and it is mostly theguys who do this, find a snug haven like Rob's and stick there awhile,rest up, vegg out.   I thought about it this morning, Budweiser-beatenas I was, but my mind was made up the moment someone lit a cigarette inthe house and the TV clicked on and the day of testosterone loafingbegan. I was out the door in seconds flat.That's the beauty of the trek. You can always just keep moving, andthe woods are free.Live from The Shining Mountain Lodge in the eerie mists and phantom snowdrifts of a freezing August night in New England, I paint pictures foryou from bed like Frida Kahlo, and like Frida, I mostly paint myself. -RSM