Date: 2016-08-23
From: Salisbury, CT

To: North Adams, MA
Miles today: 0.0
Weather: overcast clouds

Let's go back in time a bit, to my adventures in Massachusetts. It was an interesting state:When I last left you, I was on my way into Salisbury, Connecticut. Salisbury is a distinctly charming town, freakishly similar to the fictional village of Stars Hollow from that seminal classic WB show Gilmore Girls. There's a big white inn in the middle of town, a quirky family owned grocery store that I can imagine being owned by a blustering bald man in a sweater vest a la Taylor Doose, and a cast of friendly eccentrics who greeted me from their benches as I passed. There were cluttered antique stores, a pharmacy that hadn't changed since the forties, and multiple oddly specific coffee shops. A woman who didn't see me at the crosswalk stopped her car to apologize for driving through. My first stop was the Post Office, where Mama Bee sent my next care package and the good people of REI shipped a new pair of boots. The postmaster greeted me."You don't smell like a thruhiker."I accepted this highest of compliments with as much grace as I could muster. He told me a few of his favorite smelly hiker anecdotes, then went off in search of my packages. I handed him my ID, the picture taken in the good old long haired, tweezed eyebrows, still owned mascara days. "This person doesn't look crazy enough to hike the trail," the venerable postmaster informed me.I assume that meant I now looked sufficiently crazy. He handed over the packages.Seated outside on the sidewalk, I eagerly pawed through my new arrivals- freeze dried Pad Thai, brand new socks, all the luxuries a hiker could hope for- and answered questions from the passing old-timers, the only people who still go to the post office. After hastily stuffing my new gear into my pack and finding the cleverly disguised trash can (the people of Salisbury like to cover everything in flowers), I called a legendary Trail Angel named Vanessa to ask for a bunk for the night. She invited me to come over immediately and greeted me at the front door of her cozy 300 year old house in an apron. Her hiker room featured bunk beds with matching bedspreads, her shower had the water pressure of a power washer, and she immediately took my dirty laundry. I was in heaven. It was like visiting your grandma, if your grandma happened to be a private chef with two enormous dogs that followed her everywhere. Shortly after I arrived, a fellow hiker named Wolverine turned up. We quickly stumbled upon the awkward fact of his being a Michigan alum (thus the trail name) whilst I was wearing an Ohio State logo. We agreed to disagree, let sleeping dogs lie, as it were, and set off for the grocery store. Outside the store, I stumbled upon a few of the famous Young Pups, last spotted in PA- Warrior was seated with Frost and Rainman at a table on the green. Frost offered a fist."Really, we're fist bumping right now?""Terrorist handshake," he informed me.We shot the breeze for a few minutes, but my stomach was grumbling, so I soon ducked into the store. After dropping a pretty penny on every fresh fruit I could find, I retreated to Vanessa's. She offered Wolverine and I beers and pizza, which we gratefully accepted, then we discussed typical trail stuff for the rest of the night.I slept like a baby, waking refreshed but eager for coffee. We packed our bags, then wandered down to a coffee shop for breakfast with the locals. After discussing architecture- more specifically, the difficulties of being an architect- for a bit, Wolverine ventured back to the grocery store and I retreated to a conference room in town hall to charge my phone and journal. I am dangerously reliant on Yelp, which told me to go eat lunch at the aforementioned White Hart Inn, so there I ventured, hoping to avoid the threatening thunderheads rolling in. When I reached The Taproom, their bar, I discovered two southbound section hikers, Gypsy Toes and Little Foot, laughing raucously with the bartender. Half a beer later, I was laughing hysterically with them. They were the kind of people that made new best friends wherever they went and never ran out of stories. At one point, I was so distracted by them that I accidentally dumped an entire bottle of ketchup on my plate. The bartender and other hikers teased me mercilessly, briefly renaming me Heinz. After a few hours, we determined that the supposed thunderstorms were not actually going to turn up and reluctantly shouldered our packs once again. As soon as we stepped outside, the rain started. We stared out at the sideways rain in fury. The laughing bartender offered us a ride back to the trail as soon as the rain stopped, which we took her up on.I finally hit the trail at four pm and began a long, gradual climb up to the first shelter, famed for its awesome sunrise views. It was cold, like, really really cold. Wolverine and I shared the shelter with a Ridgerunner from the local trail club and two French Canadians known as the Yellow Birds, who asked me delightful questions like, "why is it cold?" and "what is a Dollar General?" in their endearing accents for much of the evening.I woke up to watch the sunrise, then fell asleep again for a few hours, making me the last person out of camp. I climbed a big ole mountain, Bear Mountain, the highest peak in Connecticut, then dropped into a beautiful gorge, featuring a luxurious hemlock forest and a mountain stream tumbling over mossy boulders and into deep swimming holes that I would've thoroughly enjoyed, except it was barely 50 degrees outside. After lunch on a boulder, I crossed the state line into Massachusetts. I tried to take a selfie with the sign, but that didn't end well, so instead I just scrawled something pithy about the Romney family in the register and kept going. Up and over Mt. Race, boom, I climbed my first Massachusetts mountain. For about half a mile, the trail follows narrow rock ledges on the ridgeline. The views were breathtaking; real mountains, big ones, as far as the eye could see in every direction. I had found the Berkshires. I stopped to FaceTime with Mama Bee, so she could see the mountains in real time. As we talked, a thruhiker I didn't recognize walked up and greeted me:"Rigby! Hey! I haven't seen you since [mumble].""Yeaaah, hey you, how are ya?"This went on for a few moments. Finally, I had to ask, "sorry, what's your name?""Backbone! It's okay, you were really drunk last time I met you."My mother was still on the line.I immediately remembered Backbone, we met briefly at The Doyle, in Duncannon, PA. He was one of the hikers who had been sucked into the vortex for several days and were at least three sheets to the wind when I dropped in around noon. I therefore bristled at the suggestion I had been the drunk one."I'm about 95% sure you were the drunk one, you look different, more sober and clean now," I joked.He laughed and continued on. Mom looked at me suspiciously. "He was the drunk one, I swear." Eventually, after a failed attempt to FaceTime with my golden retriever, I said goodbye to Mama and continued to the summit. Backbone was there and we hiked together over Mt. Everett, whose summit was completely obscured by a gaggle of preteens, and down to the next shelter. Massachusetts is famous for its big loft and bunk style shelters that comfortably sleep 10. The Yellow Birds were already in the loft, Backbone and the Ridgerunner from last night each took a bottom bunk. Rather than settle into the middle of that smelly snore fest, I set up my hammock. A few minutes later, a middle aged man arrived."How many people are in the shelter?" He demanded.We told him. "Oh, well I have a group of thirteen kids [the summit obscuring gaggle from before] and we were hoping to get the shelter."None of us moved. Groups aren't supposed to sleep in shelters, everyone knew that. Especially not groups of kids, because they tend to suck. In other news, your not supposed to hike in groups that big, given the environmental impact and general obnoxiousness.He stared at us for a bit, as if we would all decide to pack up and move on for his benefit."There's another shelter with plenty of tenting [emphasis on tenting here] only .1 miles from here." The ridge runner said helpfully."I'm well aware of that," our new friend snapped, "we were really hoping for this shelter."We remained unmoved and he finally left, grumbling. The Ridgerunner mentioned that he should probably go figure out what organization the guy was with so they could have an official discussion about the rules of the trail, but instead he stayed in his sleeping bag. I can't blame him.It was cold again, so I happily stayed in my hammock, reading a freaky thriller about multiple psychopaths, until 9 am. I expected everyone to be long gone, but Backbone is apparently as big a slacker as I am and was still in his sleeping bag. He did manage to convince me to do 18 miles that day, despite the late hour, so, after practicing yoga handstands and generally dicking around for a bit longer, we left the shelter together. I've mentioned before that I don't hike with other people often. I tend to stop and stare at space at inconvenient times, I'm always picking up trash, and I ALWAYS have to pee, but none of this seemed to phase Backbone, so we hiked most of the day together. He talked a lot, and I gotta say, he's a real interesting character. In addition to doing yoga, he enjoys Jui Jitsu, Spartan races, collecting knives, teaching rifle and Revolutionary War history classes, and Anarchist philosophy. If you know me well, you can imagine how I reacted to some of these conversations.Late in the evening, having let Backbone go on ahead, I passed a field of goats who bleated at me and ran for cover. I assume they thought I was a bear or mountain lion or something. I then journeyed around a stunning lake, with the sun setting on the far side. Then mom pocket dialed me while bragging about me at a cocktail party. Finally, I followed rocky ledges along a ridgeline and watched the sun set. Incredibly, even though I reached the shelter at 8:30 on a Friday night, we were the only people there. I immediately claimed the loft in order to get out of the ferocious wind. The next morning, Backbone got it together enough to leave early, since he had a package waiting in Tyringham and the post office closed at noon. I happily did NOT move until at least 9 am, then ventured out into the world. The trail down from Mt. Wilcox would've been a nice hike, if not for the torrential rain that struck shortly after I began walking. The rain fell sideways in heavy sheets, thunder crashed, and the trail quickly flooded. I wrapped my torso and backpack in my poncho tarp and resigned myself to being otherwise soaked. Since my boots were saturated, I splashed in puddles. Whenever the rain got heavier, I'd turn my face heavenward and dared Mother Nature to "bring it, bitch." Fighting the rain is an exercise in utter futility. After a few hours, Mama Nature wore herself out and settled instead for being dreary and cold. I stopped to call Mary, one of my bestest buds from home but soon had to continue on in the name of not-becoming-hypothermic. Around 5:30, I finally reached the half mile spur trail to Upper Goose Pond Cabin, the most magical place on earth. The little red cabin was donated to the National Park Service and is now maintained for thru-hikers and locals to enjoy. In the bunkhouse- complete with mattresses and therefore better than many hostels- I found Backbone and two section hikers snuggled into their bags in an effort to shake the chill from their bones. Downstairs, the volunteer caretaker, Bambi, and her two dogs (one of which was a pony sized wolfhound) greeted me from their spots by the roaring fire. I was in love with this place, even the rowdy Cub Scouts whose valiant efforts to filter water kept me entertained as I cooked dinner. The sun peeked through the beleaguered rain clouds, so we enjoyed a stunning sunset from the dock.The next morning, Bambi made us all pancakes and coffee, a proud UGP Cabin tradition, and I washed dishes with a friendly section hiker out back. There's no electricity or running water, so the water for dishes is boiled over the gas stove and poured into large rubber tubs. Backbone had suggested a zero day at the cabin, so I was content to find a seat and a book after breakfast chores. Later in the morning, we took the canoe out to the island in the center of the pond. Backbone insisted upon steering, despite the fact that he had no idea how, so there were quite a few unscheduled detours on the way. The wind was ferocious, which didn't help, but we eventually made it to the island and ate second breakfast on a boulder. Next, we paddled, circuitously because Backbone said "he was getting the hang of it" when I offered to steer, to the spring on the opposite side of the pond and filled 30 gallon jugs for the cabin. The caretakers normally do this once a day, but we offered to take on the chore as payment for our otherwise free zero day. By the time we made it back to the cabin and lugged all 30 jugs uphill to the porch (all the while being watched suspiciously by bewildered picnickers) Bambi was packed up and ready to leave. Her tenure as volunteer caretaker was over and she was replaced by Nancy, a certified badass from Maine who winter camps and is vegan and teaches math. We all settled in for a chilly afternoon inside and listened with amusement as a gaggle of NOBOs played chess and told fart jokes. They moved on to catch a ride into town for the weekend and Backbone, Nancy, and a section hiked named Trotter spent the evening discussing vegan food. I read Under the Banner of Heaven as they debated the best multivitamins to hike with. My only contribution to the conversation went thusly: "You know, Poptarts ARE fortified."I was met with stony silence, not even a polite chuckle and therefore went to bed early. Vegans.I hiked another few days with Backbone, including an entertaining resupply and town stop in Dalton. Backbone spent a mind boggling $130 on food at the fancy grocery store, despite having received a full resupply in the mail, then burned a similar amount of funds at the liquor store. On our way out of town, we happened upon the famous Dented Bear Canister, Rain and Sprinkle's airstream. Sprinkle had just returned from a shopping trip and offered both of us a beer, which we gratefully accepted. We chatted for almost an hour, then scurried up to a campsite to set up before sunset. The next morning, I discovered Backbone drinking some of his liquor store haul outside his tent and debating gun control laws with another hiker and, therefore, carried on without him. That day, I hiked over the Cheshire Rocks, with incredible views of the town of Cheshire and Mt Greylock across the valley. After a quick stop to pick up an amazing care package that Wendy mailed me, I started up the long slow climb to the summit of Greylock, the highest mountain in Massachusetts. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful hike, so I took my time. I reached the crowded peak (there's an auto road to the top) and spent a lot of time trying to explain thruhiking to a gaggle of elderly tourists. I was saved by the appearance of two fellow flip floppers, Chickenfoot and Disco, who I'd been following for weeks. They're a super cool couple from Indianapolis, but poor Chickenfoot had contracted Lyme disease and was struggling mightily to hike through the misery of doxycycline. I decided to stop for the night at the lodge on the summit, despite it being fairly early, so I paid up for a bunk in the hiker room. There was only one other hiker there, a NOBO named Ghost. We spent the evening sampling Massachusetts beers and swapping trail stories on the back porch while the regular tourists listened to a lengthy educational program about the Civilian Conservation Corps and ate their high-budget dinner. Ghost earned his trail name for his tendency to roll in late to camp, then leave early in the morning, so people never actually see him. But, the next morning he stuck around until eight, about 4 hours later than usual, because the inn promised free breakfast. We were both up at five and struggled to kill 3 hours before the dining room opened. When we finally gained admission, we were disappointed to find a meager snack of thoroughly crappy muffins and weak coffee. Chagrined, we each hoarded away three muffins before the tourists woke up, then headed out together. As we crossed the summit, we met another thru-hiker, Sin Nombre, who I instantly disliked (don't worry, he already knows this. My more astute fans will remember that I've been hiking with SN ever since this day) and continued on. Ghost and I hiked down to the crossroads to North Adams and Williamstown together and said our adieus, as he was hopping off trail to meet a friend and I had a resupply to do. North Adams has hilarious, junky loaner bikes for thruhikers to use, so I snagged one and peddled to Williamstown for a can of fuel and an Indian buffet near the college. As per usual, the host at the restaurant seated me as far away as possible from the other diners. Considering the whole place smelled like curry AND I had just showered at Greylock the night before, I was mildly miffed, but I guess that hiker stank never really goes away...Anyway, after lunch, it was back to the grocery store in North Adams, where I found Sin Nombre, Chickenfoot, and Disco lounging on the definitely-up-for-sale display furniture outside the store. Seated with them was what appeared to be a grizzled shrimp boat captain wearing the most tragically abused pair of used-to-be-pink swim trunks you've ever seen. He was using a whole pack of bologna and a loaf of white bread to make and consume some eight sandwiches. This was, as I soon discovered, the legendary Otis. Backbone had met him back in Virginia and looked up to him as some kind of hero. He even had a video of him at a shelter on his phone that he showed to everyone he met. When I told Otis this, he responded "Backbone? Do I know a Backbone? I've never heard of him." Which I obviously found hilarious. After spending a bit of time with this crew, I went to retrieve my pack and hit the trail again. A few miles in, I hit the Vermont border and the beginning of the Long Trail, the oldest footpath in America, which the AT follows for about 100 miles. Like my crossing into Massachusetts (and every other state to date) I happened to be alone, so I snapped a selfie and set foot into my next state.