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

Taylor Lodge to the monument at the Canadian border; 76 miles

Day 11 (6/14/20): 16 miles

Taylor Lodge to White Face

I woke up to a gorgeous morning; the sky was still pastel pinks and yellows through the trees, and I was in no hurry to go anywhere. I’d just had my best night of sleep yet. 

I shuffled out of my tent and stiffly retrieved my food bag from where it was suspended. I groaned internally; it was so heavy. Why did I do this to myself? Because you just had to have those Poptarts and that extra, heavy-as-lead bag of trail mix, I thought. 

After stuffing camp back into my pack—a magic trick that always left me in awe—I began walking. I had some nebulous terrain I needed to navigate through, before beginning the actual climb up Mansfield, but it passed quickly, and before I knew it, I was ascending the Forehead. I paused at the first ladder and realized it was going to be this sort of hike. One ladder led to another, and then a sheer boulder scramble over an exposed precipice—thank God for good weather, I sighed, doing this in the rain would suck. The views were magnificent, though, and once I reached the summit of the Forehead, the walk became beautifully easy, all the way to the Chin, the highest point in Vermont. There were three other people already up there when I arrived, and it wasn’t even 9:30AM! I shucked my pack, dug out my wool skullcap and gloves, and threw on my raincoat to trap in some body heat; I could feel myself getting cold already. Sparse clouds stood out dramatically against the brilliant blue of the sky, and a dark eyed junco hopped about, peeking out from behind a rock every now and again, waiting for crumbs to fall from the snacks I was very carefully eating. I had a feeling, neon orange “cheese” crackers with peanut butter wouldn’t exactly agree with most birds’ constitutions, hell, I wasn’t sure they agreed with mine!

I set my camera timer and took some summit photos of myself standing on a variety of rocks, and as usual, about one in four turned out half-way decent. More people were starting to show up, including one very loud group of guys, so I packed up and began the very steep descent off the Chin. At one point, I hurled my trekking poles down a steep slab and simply butt-scooted after them. An hour later, at the base of Mansfield, my knees screaming their mutual hate and discomfort at me, I ran into two girls who congratulated me on being almost done with my hike—thinking I’d be done when I reached the road. 

I said, “Thank you! But I’ve still got to walk to Canada.” 

They looked dumbfounded and asked me where I’d started. After I quickly explained, one of them asked, “So you just walk every day? All day?” She seemed simultaneously horrified and perplexed. 

Well when you put it like that, I thought, it does sound pretty un-fun. 

But instead I said, “Uh, yeah, that’s the idea.” And I love every minute of it.

After crossing the road and walking on a lovely boardwalk through some wetlands, I began the climb out of Smuggler’s Notch. It started out gradual, but my body was tired, and I was moving slow. I kept checking the map on my Inreach to gauge my progress, and it continued to show the summit as being far, far away. At one point, I became convinced I was no longer on the Long Trail, this happens sometimes, I’ll realize I haven’t seen a blaze in a while and fear I missed a fork in the path. Eventually, though, I passed one of those faithful white, albeit faded, rectangular swaths painted onto the trunk of a tree and sighed with relief. 

When my climb topped out, I passed Sterling Pond; it was gorgeous, but the small beach on its serene waters was swarmed with people. They clearly did not go through what I did to get up here, I thought as I considered their flipflops, khaki shorts and unsoiled Polo’s. As usual, when I found myself in a populated area while on a thru-hike, I became acutely aware of my stench and overall filthiness. I moved on quickly, despite my longing to submerge myself in the cool water. 

I proceeded to haul myself up Madonna peak and then Morse in a similarly slow and agonizing fashion. Descending Morse was pure pain. The outside of my right knee panged sharply each time I picked my foot up and bent my knee, and the bottoms of my feet felt like I had strips of sandpaper in my shoes—salt rash—fuck. I’d been mostly good about rinsing out my socks and changing them every (other) day, but apparently, I needed to do better. I limped into camp around 4PM and set about doing the necessary self-care. 

I had camp all to myself again, much to my relief, and I fell asleep before the sun had even begun to set.   

Day 12 (6/15/20): 19 miles

White Face to Corliss

Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump—I screamed. 

Something was pounding towards my face on the other side of my tent wall. I sensed it take a hard left at the sound of my yell, and then heard it run up the hill on the other side of me. I relaxed back into my sleeping bag and reached for my watch. 4:00AM. Sigh. 

Just as I was drifting back to sleep, I heard it coming back, bounding towards me. I yelled again and barked like a dog, my usual go-to, scary noise; nothing deterred it, though, the galloping continued. I tried to catch a glimpse of the creature, but the silver, pre-dawn light made it impossible to discern its identity. 

An hour later, at 5AM, I decided to get up. Whatever the thing was, it clearly didn’t intend to barrel me down or attack my tent, so I packed up my sleep system and crawled out to meet the morning. 

Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump—

My head shot up and there it was, or rather, there they were. 

Bunnies! Giant bunnies, one grey, one brown, and they were quite literally running circles around me. A laugh exploded from my chest at the thought of me barking at a rabbit, cowering in my tent, thinking it was—I don’t know—something sinister?

I finished stuffing things in my pack while the bunnies zipped by every few minutes, and then I set about disassembling a highly unnecessary fire ring built near to where I’d pitched my tent. Someone had been so kind as to leave a brick of tinfoil, that weighed seemingly half a pound, buried in the coals; I cringed as I stuffed it into one of the outer pockets on my backpack with my personal trash. 

Do it for the bunnies, I thought.

My hike began with a steep, but short, climb up White Face, and continued with a steep, then gradual, descent to route 15; my right knee pinged me the whole way, stating its overall dissatisfaction with downhills. 

I acknowledged that I could just finish my hike a day later, then all the food I was carrying would make sense, but it felt important somehow that I finish in less than 14 days. And the terrain was easing up at least for now. I found myself walking on a logging road for several miles, and then a bike path, and then on smooth trail that was only occasionally steep. I climbed over Prospect Rock, which had a lovely view at the top of the Lamoille River Valley, but there were too many mosquitos and flies swarming for me to stop. The weather had turned hot and humid, and I was traveling at a lower elevation.

My final climb of the day was Laraway Mountain; overall, the ascent was smooth, but towards the top, just below the viewpoint, I started running out of steam, the heat was taking a major toll on my energy level. Prior to starting my climb, I met a sobo by the name of Yoda, as I’d been seeing more and more sobos in the last two days, I asked him how he’d got to the Northern Terminus. Within a few moments, I’d given him my contact info to pass on to a friend of his who ran a hiker shuttle. I expressed my profound thanks for his help and we both hiked on, our separate ways. 

I didn’t have a plan for getting back to my car, you see, which is pretty standard. All I cared about was getting to Canada; I figured, if I could do that, I could definitely figure out my way back to Massachusetts. I’m a meticulous planner, up to a point, and then I lose interest in the finer details as I start to fantasize about the grander plan, placing confidence on my spontaneity and love of adventure to bring the ordeal full circle. Basically, I don’t need to know how the story ends, just so long as there is a story. 

At the top of Laraway, I called my mom and ate some snacks. A cloud of black flies hung out on my leeward side, a few of the most determined managed to infiltrate my bug head-netting. By the time I reached Corliss Camp on the other side of the mountain, I was done, mentally and physically. The mosquitos were heinous, so I grabbed water quickly from the piped spring a few yards away from the shelter, and got in my tent, only leaving it occasionally to pee—in full bug regalia, of course, which meant: bug net, Gore-tex rain jacket with hood up over bug net, and long-pants tucked into socks. I don’t mess around. 

Day 13 (6/16/20): 21 miles

Corliss to Hazen’s Notch

I’d fallen asleep to the myriad chatter of ravens last night, and slept fitfully, dreaming I was unprepared for my recent expedition on the norther ice field in Patagonia, then dreaming I was trapped at a school that was more of a compound than an educational facility, and I just didn’t fit in. When I finally woke, I wanted nothing more than to walk away from Corliss Camp and get on with my day.

I climbed Butternut Mountain, straight out of camp, and then another unnamed mountain before passing through Devil’s Gulch, a boulder strewn chasm, and finally out onto Route 118. Belvidere mountain lay ahead and I was hoping for cell service on its summit so that I could work on getting a shuttle nailed down. 

Once at the top, or at least the top as far as the LT was concerned, I saw a sign pointing .2 miles “up” to the summit fire tower. I looked at the sign without enthusiasm, “No thank you.”

I called two numbers that Yoda’s friend had sent to me, and a voice answered the second one, I had secured a ride! A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders and I bounded down from the summit, feeling excited and hopeful. 

My feelings of elation were short-lived, however; the climb up Tillotson was buggy and brutal, the trail became narrow and winding, full of boulders, mud, exposed roots, fallen trees and overhung branches. I felt like I was suffocating in the tight, still corridor. The descent was no better. Haystack proved to be even worse. 

I’d been climbing for hours it seemed, and I still had not yet made the summit; it felt as though every time I gained one hundred feet, I then lost fifty. Defeatist thoughts clouded my mind and every part of me wanted to quit. And when I finally made it over the crest and I saw a sign which read .2 miles off-trail to the “actual” summit, I once again found myself saying, “No thank you.”

Once down to the road at Hazen’s Notch, I felt true exhaustion settle over me, not only from the 19 miles I’d walked so far that day, but cumulative exhaustion from the entire trip. 

Just two more miles, I thought. And of course, the partial climb up the backside of Sugar Loaf proved to be a real calf-burner. Nothing was easy for me at this point; I was pouring sweat with every step, my face was crusted in a quarter inch layer of salt and new parts of my body were chafing from salt rash. I found myself praying for water, an ice-cold, babbling brook, when suddenly, I heard it, the sound of my salvation. 

Running water. 

Well, it was more of a gentle gurgle than it was a run, but I didn’t care, I threw my pack down and proceeded to splash my face and neck, I took my shoes off and stood barefoot in the deepest pool I could find, I scooped up water with my cut-off water bottle bottom and carried it away from the source to give myself a mini, and much needed, bath. In the cold water, I experienced true relief and I thanked the Universe for leading me here, to this moment of gratitude.  

Thirty minutes later I was passing the sign for Hazen’s Notch Shelter, 17.2 miles to Canada, 254 miles to Massachusetts, it read. I stood in awe, my exhaustion quickly evaporating. I experienced a momentary burst of energy which carried me over one more hill, where upon I crashed and proceeded to make camp on a flat, leaf strewn surface, 50 or so yards from the trail. 

My last night on the Long Trail. It was hard to believe that less than two weeks ago, I was full of misery and doubt, unsure why I believed that hiking this trail would bring me peace, but sure enough, peace it had brought me. I settled into my sleeping bag and skimmed over the last 12 days in mind’s eye. 

I fell asleep listening to a woodpecker fuss and knock against the trunk of a dead tree somewhere up above me, wondering over how lucky I was to be here, in this moment, bearing witness to something so radically simple, yet simultaneously complex—life unfolding in the woods. 

Day 14 (6/17/20): 20 miles

Hazen’s Notch to Border Monument

I awoke an hour earlier than usual to my alarm and was immediately full of nerves. It didn’t make any rational sense to be nervous, if I had walked 254 miles, I could walk 17 more, but for some reason, I was stricken with doubt. I packed up camp in a hurry and dug my usual cat hole, far back from the trail and well away from any water sources, then I started walking, and pouring sweat, almost immediately.

It was sweltering hot, even at 5AM, and the humidity was at an all-time high. I was soaked before I even reached the base of Bruce Peak, my first climb. Once up Bruce, I had a small descent before climbing Buchannan Peak and after that, a slightly longer descent and subsequent climb up Domey’s Dome, a title I pondered as I gasped and huffed my way to its summit. From the top of the dome, I believed I had a straight-forward descent to the road at the base of Jay Peak, my largest climb of the day, but I was wrong, I’d forgotten the climb over Gilpin, which still stood between me and Route 242. The climb came easily though, and I was filling my water bladder from an ice-cold spring near the road crossing by 8AM. I proceeded to summit Jay before 9AM. 

From the exposed, rocky crown of the mountain, I checked in with my shuttle to confirm our pickup time, holding my phone between my shoulder and ear while using both arms to fend off the swarm of black flies drifting back and forth around me in the lazy breeze; the summit was baking hot and each time the breeze faded, I was engulfed by the tiny, hungry mouths of my insect fan club. 

While Jay was by far the most prominent climb of the day, Doll peak was by far the most taxing. The trail was rough cut into the side of its steep slope, narrow and eroded and strewn with blow downs. My pace became agonizingly slow. The north face of the mountain was no better and after sinking shin deep in back mud, I started exercising extreme caution anytime the trail became boggy. Suddenly, I heard voices. Knowing that I was approaching Shooting Star Shelter, I quickened my step. 

It was noon when I arrived at the three walled structure balanced precariously on a steep, exposed slab of rock. The two hikers I encountered there were discussing pack weight. I stayed and talked with them for about an hour while I ate lunch and took a much needed break from the abuse of the trail. The girl was out on an overnight, testing out gear for her upcoming thru-hike; she described an overly protective boyfriend and mentioned that she was carrying weapons, when I asked what kind, she gestured to the large hatchet sticking out from a side pocket on her pack. 

“What are you going to do with that!?” I exclaimed, “Hack someone to death?” 

She laughed awkwardly and then said her pack weighed 50lbs, so she’d be willing to leave the hatchet at home. I then discovered that the other individual was carrying a liter of diluted bleach for “sanitizing purposes”. When I asked him what he was going to sanitize, he said, “My dishes?” 

I sighed, explaining to him that a liter of water weighs 2.2lbs and he could simply boil water with his stove to clean dishes with; I then added that if he was determined to carry bleach, he’d be better off carrying an eye-drop bottle of the concentrated liquid. I watched his brain silently explode behind his eyes. 

When the girl had packed up to leave, I saw her put a gallon sized Ziplock bag full of food on a shelf in the shelter. 

“Please don’t leave food here, the animals will have a party and then the shelter won’t be safe to sleep in anymore.” The concept seemed so simple to me; I was almost angry that I had to explain it. 

“Oh, gosh! I just figured another hiker might want it,” She clarified. 

“Maybe,” I replied. “But what’s more important is not encouraging wildlife to associate the shelters with food.” 

She nodded amicably and re-absorbed the parcel into her backpack. 

After helplessly watching the other hiker dump his bottle of bleach water out on the slab and cringing as it ran down into the vegetation, I abandoned them. I had 4.4 miles left until I reached the border; I didn’t want to spend any more time sitting around. 

I hurried across Route 105, pausing momentarily to take in my surroundings before dashing back into the woods and powering up Carleton Mountain. I was so far away from where I started, but without having walked all those miles, I never would have been able to appreciate the distance. 

I began my descent to the border monument with calm anticipation, my steps becoming almost reverent. A large sign appeared though the trees, identical to the one at the southern terminus of the LT, and then I saw the pointed head of the monument, tucked down low in a boulder strewn clearing just past the sign. 

Like all endings to long journeys, it came abruptly and paled in comparison to the thrill of the actual adventure. I felt nothing much of anything when I touched the obelisk, not relief nor joy, not even disappointment; I simply thought, there it is, because there it was—it had been there the whole time. 

All I had to do was walk.

Ivey “Kaleidoscope” Smith completed the Long Trail between the dates of

June 4, 2020 and June 17, 2020.