Date: 2003-08-03
From: Winturri Shelter

To: Cloudland Shelter
Miles today: 10.0

I pull my earplugs out in the morning and - pop! - the roar of the waterfall swims back into focus. Through earplugs, it was simply a lulling white noise. I slept like a dead person but awake with a kink between my shoulder blades. Ouch! Decidedly alive.After all these damp miles, putting on damp clothes is one Trail pleasure to which I am simply still not accustomed. The flesh crawls as the chill, clammy shirt (or shorts or underclothes) goes on, and the stickiness begins immediately.The air is thick and still today, congealing unpleasantly about our damp persons. It is hard to breathe. Sweat does not evaporate, but merely drips down into the eyes, off the chin, between the shoulder blades.I chat awhile with Finch as we hike. He did his dissertation on certain habits of the house finch, a western bird artificially transported to the east coast. Seems the birds were pests in California and northern Mexico, eating fruit and flower buds. So they were trapped extensively in the 30s, and - voila! - in the entreprenurial spirit of capitalism, were sold as cage pets on the east coast, marketed as Hollywood finchs.The practice was banned, and then enforced in the early 1940s, so pet stores simply opened the cages and released the evidence. Everyone thought the birds would die in the harsh eastern winters, but a small population on Long Island survived, then thrived, providing the seed stock for all the house finches on the east coast, to which they spread.Out east, they filled a niche, feasting on suburban bird feeders and ornamentals. In fact, at one point, house finches were the most common bird at feeders, so successful was their spread. They resemble purple finches, though are not as darkly washed with raspberry. A recessive gene in this closely-related population sometimes shows up as a yellow wash.The things you learn on the AT!Actually, Finch did some banding of these finches, several thousand, and his research was startling. He proved that this non-migratory species started to migrate south for the winter. Canadian finches went to the midwest, and east coast finches moved south. It was ground-breaking work, showing how a non-migratory species adapted to a new climate and began to move.In fact, thanks to irrigation and suburban watering, the house finch populations, east and west, have finally met - in Texas. But about 90 percent of the east coast house finches have died out from an eye disease that causes them to go blind. They catch it from the bird feeders, underscoring the importance of disinfecting bird feeders regularly.Soon Finch took off, and Chief and I tramped through some high and low meadows, dotted with Queen Anne's lace, black-eyed susans, red clover, goldenrod, bachelor buttons, pink milkweed. The open space is a nice contrast, but still no breeze.We cross a road that would take us to Woodstock, VT, a seminal destination for my generation. But, alas, even children grow older.We stop frequently, drinking and eating and trying to fill our lungs with the heavy air. It's like trying to breathe through a wet washcloth. At one point, thinking we might hitch into South Pomfret on a very lightly traveled road, I lay down slap in the middle of the two-lane to stretch out my back. I am trying to stretch it out, the kink in there, and the pavement is the only flat, relatively clean ground for miles. I'm prepared to leap up at the first sound of traffic, but there is little. The roadbed is cold against my sweaty back and, for the first time today, I feel my temperature dropping. Bliss! Free AC on the AT! Imagine, though, doing this in "everyday" life - lying in a road on your back. Someone would think you were drunk, and call the cops.I hear a car and leap up, thumb hung out hopefuly. It is a Vermont matron in her new Volvo Cross-Country station wagon. She veers well into the oncoming lane to avoid meeting my eye. It's always a bad sign when they cross over the centerline. We pass within feet of each other, yet absolute worlds apart. And I even used to own a Volvo. I bet she'd have stopped if she'd known that...It's also the day of roads. Small roads weave through the mountains, and today, since we are cutting diagonally across the ridges to reach the distant White Mountains, we are on the Ver-mont Roller Coaster. Up, up, up a Stecoah-Gap-esque slope (steep, muddy and unswitchbacked), then crest the top and wham! - right down again, down to a road, where the process repeats itself. We cross seven roads in 11 miles, and that's alotta up-n-down. We make slow time in the heat and PUDS. The best part of the day is lunch at a cold creek near Pomfret Rd. I sit on a mossy boulder and soak my feet in the icy stream, cooling off. A SOBO woman stops too, but doesn't speak or return our friendly waves.By mid-afternoon, we are cooked. I am shocked to learn that after 8 hours of hard work, we have only traveled a mere 10 miles. Between breaks to catch our breath in the thick air and the numerous uphill trudges, we've barely done over 1 mile an hour. That's southern Maine mileage without the payoff of views, though we did meet a couple with a border collie on the open top of one trudge.Now, also, a thunderstorm is pursuing us. We decide to bag the Thistle Hill shelter as a destination. Cloudland hut is right up the trail a half mile. Uhhhh, but it's .6 miles OFF the Trail. The rain chases us in.I check the register. Being so far off the Trail, visitors appear only every other night or so. I try to sign in, but the point on the little nub of a pencil is broken.On the AT, I carry a small, folding sewing scissors, courtesy of Clyde, my Long Trail partner. It has proven adequate for every task on the AT - until now. No worries, Chief carries a pocket knife.Chief is sitting on the edge of the shelter, head in his hands. He looks whipped. I place the stub and the register beside him."Chief, no rush, but when you regather your wits, would you sharpen this stub?"He raises his head wearily and looks at me. "Honey," he says in his southern drawl, "I don't think there is a wit left in my head."It is true. We are melting. I set up my mattress and within minutes fall slap asleep; Chief just lays back on the bare floor and crashes out. Neither of us moves for a full two hours.The heat has sucked us flat out. There is no steam left.Eventually we rouse and shovel some fuel inside. After supper chores are over, Chief walks over the ridge to see the open air privy. It's a pit toilet, no walls. Chief returns, shaking his head: "Talk about sitting on top of the world. Won't have to ask if anybody's on it."We fall asleep to the rain.