Date: 2004-08-18
From: Sherman Brook, MA

To: Mudfest in Vermont
Miles today: 18.4

Another milestone was achieved this morning; I entered Vermont. My enthusiasm after crossing the border was dulled by the muddy condition of the trail. It was inundated with puddles of water and mud.I typically hike at a comfortable and steady pace that best suits the terrain, but that was rarely possible given the muddy conditions. I would approach a stretch of mud and slow down or stop in order to plan a route through or around the mire. When going around a muck zone, I would sometimes walk along the sloped edge of the trail. The trail is often sloped on the sides because over the years, the boots from legions of hikers have pounded a depression into the ground. The brush alongside the trail hangs over this slope, creating another obstacle. While walking along this slope, I would insert the end of a wooden hiking stick into the mire in order to maintain my balance.Sometimes I would try a different approach¢stepping over rocks and roots that protruded from the mud. These footholds came in all kinds of sizes and shapes; they were rarely flat. My feet became prematurely sore from stepping on them hour after hour.The trail was a rolling one through an open forest, although not as open as in parts of Massachusetts.There are few evergreen trees along this part of the trail.On top of a mountain was a small wooden box and post. The box contained a notebook for hikers to pen messages and observations in. There was a graffiti message scrawled to the post. The message criticized the presence of the American military in Iraq. Recently, I have observed similar graffiti about Iraq scrawled on other message boards and man made objects along the trail. There have also been messages criticizing the Iraq situation, and President Bush, appearing in the registers at shelters. I suspect that one long distance hiker is responsible for this campaign of ideological expression, not to mention the defacing of physical objects by graffiti.I had some odd encounters with people on the trail. I stopped and chatted with an older man who was section hiking southbound. We stopped and exchanged information about the sections of the trail that we were familiar with. During the conversation, he would stick out his tongue part ways and form a wad of saliva¢white and frothy¢on the tip of his tongue. After the wad had expanded in size, he would spit it out with what can be described as an emphatic spit. And then a new wad would start to congeal.After hiking for about sixteen miles, I crossed a large road and realized that I faced an ascent of one thousand feet, much of it steep. I had not noticed this ascent while examining the information in my guide book. The steepest part consisted of switchbacks, which gave way to straight up climbing. I was distressed at the prospect of making this ascent late in the day.While climbing the switchbacks, I observed a man in his sixties descending the slope ahead of me. He was not wearing a backpack or what can be described as hiker clothes. His street clothes were colored entirely black, except, if I recall correctly, his clean sneakers which were white. His long hair, tied into a pony tail, was also white. He was walking, or better said, strolling, with his hands behind his back.I greeted him and commented on the difficulty of the ascent. He looked at me with a smile and said, "Contemplate your progress. Contemplate your progress." And then he strolled off with a relaxed countenance, his hands still behind his back, reminding me of a monk on his way to vespers.I did not heed his advice. Humping a backpack up a steep incline is not a time for contemplation, at least not for me.I strung up my hammock near a shelter. There are several hikers camping here who I am not familiar with. Most of them are hiking The Long Trail which runs from the top to the bottom of Vermont. For 97 miles, The Appalachian Trail runs concurrently with the Long Trail. We ate our suppers at the picnic table and chatted.I am running low on food. At the last resupply in Massachusetts, I had miscalculated the amount of food inside of my backpack. I thought I was carrying more than was actually stored in there, so I purchased less than I needed. Tomorrow, there won't be any road crossings where I can hitch into a town to re-supply. On the next day, I might have to detour a ways in order to ride a ski gondola down Stratton Mountain in order to buy some food in a ski village that is open during the summer. In the meantime, I will be rationing my food intake.