BRASS PLAQUE in the sidewalk beside the luxury Hanover Inn
gives the Appalachian Trail mileage. We’ve walked 1,715 miles from Springer Mountain, Ga., and have (just) 439 miles remaining to Mount Katahdin, Maine.
BRASS PLAQUE in the sidewalk beside the luxury Hanover Inn gives the Appalachian Trail mileage. We’ve walked 1,715 miles from Springer Mountain, Ga., and have (just) 439 miles remaining to Mount Katahdin, Maine.Sitting in the rocking chairs in fromt of the hotel, we’re relaxing after hiking through Vermont, our 12th state on the Appalachian Trail. Students are playing soccer on the Dartmouth Green across the street. We enjoyed our time in Vermont among people who care for the outdoors and the environment. There are no billboards in the state. Strict zoning laws keep the downtowns alive. Thru-hikers on the Appapachian Trail are treated like sports heros. We stopped at the green grocer to purchase fresh fruit on the way to the Manchester Center Post Office. The shopkeeper would not let us pay. At the post office, a man insisted on taking us five miles up the mountain to the trail. It was out of his way, but he had always wanted to meet a thru-hiker. The Vermont hawk, however, was not so respectful. Hiking south of Stratton Mountain, we were surprised when a large bird made a frontal pass at Ann, missing her head by about six inches. Circling high in the air with a loud cry, the hawk attacked from the rear, hitting her pack cover and hat. Thoroughly shaken but wanting to avoid further attacks, Ann waved her stick in the air and cursed. The hawk retreated to await a less-intimidating hiker. Register entries at the next shelter revealed this particular hawk regularly made sport of attacking hikers. We even met two bird watchers searching for the “attack” hawk. We’ll take the rare hawk attacks, however, over the constant whine of mosquitoes and yellow flies. Comments from fellow hikers included, “I killed three yellow flies with one slap,” “The state bird of Massachusetts is the mosquito,” and “I told myself when I stopped having fun I was going home.” With fewer hikers on the trail, our hike has become less a social event and more an athletic event. We often have the shelters to ourselves, and have come to expect our “private” accommodations. Last night, in the face of an approaching thunderstorm, we continued past a shelter we expected would be crowded. As thunder and lightning got closer, we hurriedly set up camp next to a small stream. Our lightweight tarp set low to the ground served as tent with my hiking stick as tent pole. After a few initial sprinkles, we still had time to go to the stream for our daily bucket shower. Buckets of cold mountain water poured over our heads felt so good after a hot day on the trail. The full storm hit just as we got under the tarp. Thunder cracking contrasted with the steady sound of our Whisperlite stove as we cooked our supper of brown rice, lentils, dried tomatoes, and peppers. The rain poured in earnest as we crawled into our sleeping bags — dry, warm, and squeaky clean. Ann says you can’t feel that clean without getting really dirty.
