A Thru-hike of Vermont’s Long Trail: Part Two

Churchill Scott to Taylor Lodge; 101 miles

Day 6 (6/9/20): 21 miles

Churchill Scott to Sunrise

There I stood, at mile 105, in front of the sign which marked the LT’s divergence from the AT. Today I would continue north to Canada, rather than east to New Hampshire. The occasion felt momentous; I paused next to the sign to shed a layer and drink some water. Just then, a sobo (south-bounder) came zipping down the trail towards me. We exchanged a few words; he exclaimed over all the moose poop up north—he didn’t turn out to be wrong either—and I assured him of the nice, relatively poop-free trail coming up.

“Goodluck!” He shouted over his shoulder as he continued on.

I donned my pack, now heavy with food from the morning’s resupply, and began walking north. I had no idea of the many challenges that lay ahead for me on this winding path through the Green Mountains, but I felt ready, ready for something new. 

After I passed Rolston Rest Shelter, the trail became less defined, it twisted and wound its way through overgrown stands of trees, up steep embankments, over boulders, and across small streams, the path often obscured by leaves and downed trees. At one point, I found myself side-hilling on rather steep terrain, with a partially obscured view of the neighboring ridge. The sweet smell of pine sap filled my nostrils and I had to concentrate on my feet to avoid a fall that would surely break some essential part of me. 

After the turn off for David Logan Shelter, about 7.5 miles later, the trail improved slightly, becoming easier to follow, with fewer ups and downs. 

At some point I decided I would walk all the way to Sunrise Shelter, even though I’d initially planned for the day to be shorter than 20 miles; it was still early and I was enjoying discovering new territory. 

When I reached Sunrise, I had dinner with three hikers, one of whom I’d met earlier in the day, she was out for a section-hike and had already completed the AT, PCT, and PNT, in previous years. It was nice to meet another girl hiking alone. 

I was sorely tired and so I excused myself early and crawled into my tent. I threw in some ear plugs in the event that any of my neighbors snored and drifted slowly to sleep as darkness fell. 

Day 7 (6/10/20): 18 miles 

Sunrise to Emily Proctor

The morning dawned clear and cool, growing hotter as the day progressed. I climbed Mt. Horrid first thing, out of Brandon Gap, then continued on over Cape Lookoff Mountain, and Gillespie Peak. I kept a slow pace, stopping every few miles to eat a snack, take in the beauty of the woods, and peer off the ridge from between the spruce trees. At one point I laid out on a ski deck that was receiving a strong breeze and almost fell asleep. I was roused by a family on a day hike, the man assured me there was no shame in taking a nap, but regardless, I needed to get moving if I was going to make it any real distance that afternoon. 

I climbed over a final, unnamed mountain and then descended off the ridge to Middlebury gap. 

Just as I was about to cross the road, I encountered two women who felt compelled to tell me there were “no more rocks going north”. The statement was illogical, and I didn’t believe them, but that didn’t stop their words from rattling around in my tired brain for the next 4 hours as I tripped, scrambled and scraped my way up and down progressively steeper, rockier mountainsides. 

I climbed Burnt Hill quickly, pausing at the Boyce Shelter to gather some water, and then I proceeded to slog my way up Mt. Boyce and then Battell Mountain. 

Battell almost killed me; I was so zapped by the time I staggered up it’s nearly vertical stone steps and reached the top, I could barely make it down the other side—which felt like another up, more so than a down, if I’m being honest—I felt depleted, painfully stiff, and very irritable. I’d made a conscious effort to eat more throughout the day, and I knew eventually the increase in calories would pay off, but for now I was just bone tired. 

I was also profoundly disappointed in myself for not wanting to hike any further that day when I reached the Emily Proctor Shelter around 4pm. The two guys I’d met at Sunrise Shelter the night before showed up a couple hours after me, which definitely bruised my ego. No one had managed to keep pace with me yet; it was a good opportunity for me to check myself, regardless, to get back in touch with my “why”, and to tamp down my pride. I came out here to find peace, not to set any records—not that I was even close to setting one—and if I didn’t want to camp around people, I could always stealth camp going forward. I released my negative thoughts, replacing them with food: Poptarts and ramen. After eating, I called my family, massaged my feed with CBD balm, and passed out by 7pm listening to the wind roar through the trees, bringing with it waves of pelting rain.   

Day 8 (6/11/20): 20 miles 

Emily Proctor to Theron Dean

I thought I loved horses the most, that I would never find anything I was more passionate about than riding. But I love backpacking more. I love climbing mountains more than anything else I’ve ever done in my whole life. I love the pain, the crusty, sweaty, filthiness, the absolute exhaustion, the broken feeling in my feet and knees, the doubt replaced by triumph when I near the peak, the stunning life forms I pass by, the rapidly changing weather; I love the solitude and the many and varied bird songs, and the bugs that force me to remain present for all of it. 

At some point, soon after breaking camp, and while running madly through a complete and utter downpour over Wilson, Roosevelt, Cleveland, and Grant peaks, I smashed my forehead into a downed tree. This sort of thing happens a lot, usually because I am wearing a brimmed hat, walking too fast, and because 90% of all downed trees fall to exactly my eye-brow level—making them essentially invisible to me (because of the hat and the speed)—so really, it’s well within my rights to scream at them when they hit me, which is what I did. And I continued to make a variety of vocalizations to express my annoyance as I clambered up out of the mud. I stuffed a protein bar into my mouth realizing my hanger, then I kept walking. My pace was quick and despite the accident, I was in a great mood; I made it down to Lincoln Gap before 10am and plopped down in the parking on the gravel, the contents of my food bag spilling out next to me. I ate alternating handfuls of dried mango and pepperoncini kettle chips, watching two GMC (green mountain club) caretakers unload gear from their truck. 

The day was still foggy, and I was excited to get up Mt. Abraham—my second peak of the trip over 4,000ft—so I cut my eating short, packed up, crossed the road, and started the climb up to Lincoln Ridge. The summit was being pounded by wind as I scrambled up boulders and slab akin to the summit trail on Mt. Killington. I rose up into a billowing cloud of tiny, fog filaments and relished the force of the wind, which persisted as I continued on over Lincoln Peak, Nancy Hanks, and Mt. Ellen, another of Vermont’s 4,000 footers. 

But somewhere along my descent of Mt. Ellen, I took a wrong turn. I didn’t realize my mistake until I was half a mile down a ski slope. I consulted my GPS; when that didn’t help, I turned on my phone and utilized precious battery to consult Alltrails. I appeared to be on trail, but I knew I wasn’t. No one had walked here, there was no tread and the grass felt too spongy beneath my feet. I knew the LT must be far below me, somewhere off to my left, so I peered into the woods, getting more and more frustrated. My head throbbed—maybe from my earlier collision with the tree—more likely than not, though, it was from the crazy changes in atmospheric pressure and the morning’s storm. 

I began walking back up the ski slope, calves on fire, swearing up a storm and half-crying because what-the-hell-I-can-cry-if-I-want-to. I didn’t see any signs for the LT on my way back up, so naturally I became angrier, blaming anything and everyone I could think of for the poor signage, “How dare ‘they’ fail to blaze important turns? It’s all ‘their’ fault that I just wasted precious steps wandering around on this stupid ski hill!”—knowing full well that I chose to come out here of my own volition and bumble around in the fog on mountaintops, and truthfully I was incredibly grateful for any trail at all, because I know what it’s like to walk without one. 

Eventually I gave up searching for the turn-off and crashed my way headlong into the woods to find the trail. Success came quickly and without warning, suddenly I was standing on that blessed, narrow strip of well-trod earth, winding my way purposefully downhill, once more. 

I cleared two more peaks before arriving at Theron Dean Shelter that afternoon; upon my arrival I immediately fell under the spell of Camel’s Hump, mesmerized by my view of the distinct rock pinnacle, rising above the surrounding hills. I didn’t hurry to set up my tent, I just dropped my pack, sat down on a rock, and gazed with reverence over my route for tomorrow. 

That night I fell asleep listening to the luting song of the Hermit Thrush, intermixed with the joyful call of white throated sparrow—“oh sweet, Canada, Canada, Canada”—and I dreamed of walking not just a hundred more miles, but thousands, of all the beauty I would see, and all the thoughts I would think… 

Day 9 (6/12/20): 23 miles

Theron Dean to Route 2     

In the morning, I gave Camel’s Hump a final salute from the overlook, knowing I’d be climbing its prominence this very afternoon, and I started down into Appalachian Gap, a steep descent fraught with rebar and plenty of opportunities to employ the technical butt-slide. The climb out of the gap was much the same, but the reverse, more rebar and plenty of opportunities to haul my weight up essentially vertical slab using exposed roots and cracks in the rock. Over Baby Stark, then Molly Stark, and down again to Birches Glen, where I ran into The String bean! He was headed south, and though I did not know it at the time, he was in the process of setting the new FKT (fastest known time) for the LT, and would complete it in less than 5 days, carrying the names of Trayvon Martin, Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, Freddie Gray, Manuel Ellis, and Breonna Taylor—all of whom lost their lives to police brutality and gross human rights violations—written on rocks in his backpack. I was a bit starstruck, to say the least; I’d followed The String Bean on social media ever since he set the FKT on the AT in 2017, and that was after he set the FKT on the PCT in 2014. Pretty freakin cool. 

The rest of my day unfolded under clear skies and with a light heart, I reached the base of Camel’s Hump after three separate and taxing climbs up Burnt Rock Mountain, Mt. Ira Allen, and Mt. Ethan Allen. The trail felt like the AT in southern Maine, each mile feeling like 2. The trail was alternating slab and black mud of unknowable depth, laced with roots and sparsely littered with rocks. 

And Camel’s Hump proved to be of greater caliber than anything else I’d climbed so far; it was the ultimate stair master. I huffed and gasped and spluttered my way to the top at a break-neck speed. Hurling myself up boulders and pounding my feet over rock piles. The summit came at the price of one gallon of sweat and two sore knees, so I sat up there for a long while, soaking in the view and enjoying the steady breeze. There were plenty of other viewers as well. I tried to stay down wind of all of them so as not to knock anyone unconscious with my pungency, but there were just too many of them scattered all about; I gave up and sat down and began stuffing my face with every snack I had left in my pack. Tomorrow I would resupply in Richmond, so I could eat the rest of the food I was carrying, today, if I wanted. I did want. 

Half an hour later, I descended the Hump with Hermit, a hiker whose log entries I’d been reading in the shelters over the course of the last 8 days. His company was greatly appreciated, and we passed the 6 miles down to Duxbury road quickly, swapping stories and talking about life, parting ways in a parking lot where he was due to meet his parents for a day off trail.  

I continued on, unsure of where I’d be camping that night and wanting to get as close to the turn off for Richmond as I could, while still camping on trail. While I plodded along through farm fields corridors of swaying ferns, I pondered the amazing community that existed out here in the woods, how I would encounter people, no matter how briefly, and immediately connect with them over a shared purpose—walking. I was so grateful for my life, for my desire to travel on foot, and for being here, wherever here was. 

Unbeknownst to me, the trail was rerouted in a previous year, so that it no longer passed within 3 miles of Richmond, but rather, 5, crossing the Winooski river on a newly constructed suspension bridge. That meant my walk into town tomorrow would be much longer, and now I was unsure of where I would camp tonight. In a normal year, I would have just gone all the way into town and stayed in a motel or a hostel, but nothing was open due to Covid19, so I had to stay somewhere in the woods. I was about to cross a massive highway and apparently walk through a neighborhood, though, so what-the-hell? Where would I sleep? 

I digested the fact that I would have to hike further north to find camp, then backtrack in the morning to get to town. I hated backtracking, but alas, there was no alternative. I checked in with my family, and as soon as I heard my parent’s voices, I felt reassured. 

Camp didn’t reveal itself easily though; first, I tried to pitch my tent in a dry creek bed—idiotic, I know—I was loath to hike up another hill. I tried repeatedly to stick my tent stakes into the sandy soil and repeatedly, they pulled out. I yelled in frustration and pinched my brow, on the verge of an exhaustion induced temper tantrum. I looked around and noticed the absurdity of what I was trying to do, there was trash everywhere, mixed into the deep piles of leaves and debris, surrounding the very not-flat spot on which I was trying to erect my house. What the fuck, I thought, I wouldn’t sleep well here anyways. I jammed everything back into my pack and ran up the hill, fueled by anger over my own stubbornness—if I had just walked up this damn hill to begin with, I would be in my tent already! 

I crawled into my tent just as night was falling, realizing my chosen spot was not-flat, simultaneously deciding I did not-care. 

Day 10 (6/13/20): 19 miles

Route 2 to Taylor Lodge

I ate chips for breakfast. There are only 3 occasions in one’s life where this is an acceptable way to start the day. Hiking hundreds of miles every-day-all-day is one, I’ll let you decide what the other two are. Who am I kidding? The world is your oyster, you can eat chips for breakfast if you want to. 

I walked the 5 miles into town along rt. 2 in a cold rain. My legs were bright red and wind burned by the time the town’s only stoplight came into view an hour later. 

Hotcoffeehotcoffeehotcoffeehotcoffee was my only mantra until I saw the gas station, and then it became gasstationgasstationgasstationgasstation. It’s ridiculously silly how exciting these things become when you spend 5 days or more without them. Like when in your life have you been excited to see a fuel pump? Probably only on the sole occasion you almost ran out of gas, well imagine that but with food, and then you’ll understand my excitement over a building containing every snack worth having AND hot coffee. 

The post office didn’t open for another half hour, so after getting my cup of hot, black coffee—that was sure to taste better than any other cup of coffee I’d ever had simply because of my self-inflicted deprivation, plus a cinnamon crumb muffin—I sat under the awning out of the rain and watched people put gas in their cars. 

A few people looked up at me from above their masks, then one of them addressed me. 

“Are you thru-hiking?” She asked.

“I am!” I beamed. 

“Do you want a ride back to the trail?” 

I melted with joy. I explained I was waiting on the post office and could we meet back here at 8:45. She agreed happily and so I headed down to the market. I was supposed to pick up another box in Johnson, 40 miles north via the trail, but I didn’t want to have to go into another town, so I decided I would grab a few extra things here in Richmond and make it the 88 miles to Canada on this final resupply. 

The ride back to the trail was a blur, I offered a series of profuse thank you’s to my trail angel and took a few moments to organize my pack in the parking lot. My only goal for the rest of the day was to get over Bolton Mountain, and I had no idea the monumental task this would become after a hefty resupply. I’d denied myself nothing in the market, I wanted the pitas and hummus, I bought them, I wanted salami and cheese, I got them, I wanted the chocolate Poptarts, I treated myself, and then I got to the post office and remembered how much food I had already mailed myself. 

So as I struggled at a snail’s pace up Bolton, I cursed the pitas and hummus, the deli meats and cheeses, and I vowed to eat ALL the Poptarts as soon as possible. 

Bolton. It was the gift I didn’t want, and it just kept giving. And just when I thought I’d crested its massive rise, I looked up and saw the summit still a mile away, taunting me. Just then a woman in psychedelic tights appeared, “This trail is hard!” She exclaimed and I nodded vehemently, agreeing through a mouthful of trail mix. She shook her head and continued on.

After a short break, I got up, and letting out the world’s most exasperated sigh, I put on my pack, vowing to finish the climb before next year—surely, I had enough food to last me that long—internal eyeroll. 

Food is probably the element of hiking that causes me the most grief. I’m afraid of not having enough, so I usually carry too much, but because I spend one ration carrying too much, I don’t get enough the next, and then I find myself racing into town early, hiking an unplanned, 30-mile day, in order to sate my stomach. I torture myself with dreams of burgers dressed in avocados, a fried egg, cheddar cheese, and bacon. I fantasize about fresh fruit and vegetables, and chocolate peanut butter ice cream, of course. Out here, food is king and I am its humble servant, hauling it on my back over mountains and racing towards its distant call in faraway towns. 

Finally, I made it over Bolton Mountain, but because it was only 2:30pm, I guilted myself into walking another 3.5 miles over Mt. Mayo (one of my favorite condiments, there truly was no escape) all the way down to Taylor Lodge at the base of Mt. Mansfield. 

I pitched my tent, listening to the voices of some day-hikers and their vicious chihuahua, which had apparently claimed the nearby shelter as its domain, violently fending off curious hikers who wandered to the entrance.  

And then all was quiet. Peace at last. The hummus container challenged me to consume its contents in their entirety, along with the pound of pitas, and I gallantly took the dare. 

I spent a long time contemplating the contour lines of Mansfield and then those of Madonna and Morse Peak, and sighed. It would be a short-day mileage-wise, but it would be beastly in the way of elevation change, especially with all this food weight. 

I drifted to sleep listening to the distant call of a barred owl, in an otherwise silent forest. Tomorrow will arrive tomorrow, I thought sleepily, thank goodness it was still only tonight.