New Hampshire

My home state, number 13 out of the total 14. I crossed into Hanover on 8th of September. This was a bit on the late side as far as thru-hiking was concerned since Baxter State Park and Katahdin closed to overnight use on October 15th.

White Gas in the hobo jungle amidst the ivy

That left five weeks to do the last 400 miles over the toughest terrain found on the trail. It didn't look promising. I had it fixed in my mind that there was really nothing I could do. As I was tired all the time, speeding up was out of the question. Since I was fixated on the purist ideals, I was also not going to hitch to Katahdin and hike in reverse to where I left off, also known as flip-flopping. I pushed the concerns of time out of my head and doggedly pushed forward.

But first, I had to take a few days off in Hanover and try to regain some strength. Hanover (or Hangover in hiker-ese) was not the most accommodating trail town. The only options available are to either stay in certain fraternities that allowed hikers or shell out $200 for the only hotel in town. Both happened to be out of the question. You see, I arrived in Hanover during the student's mid-semester break which meant that the frat houses were closed. A group of us ended up tenting like refugees on the grass between the dining hall and a frat house until the coeds politely kicked us out.

The Vermonster: this bucket of ice cream is available for $30 at your local Ben & Jerry's store and feeds a party of six thru-hikers. (Use as directed. For professional use only. Ben & Jerry's is not liable for any health problems that may develop upon consumption.)

Summer was dying. Gone were the long hours of daylight when I could hike until nine in the evening without my headlamp. The sun now set in the early hours between seven and eight, and there was now a definite coolness to the air. Some hikers had resigned themselves to the fact that they wouldn't make the end and decided to have a good time for the last few days of the season and take their time. It was no longer the matter of making it to Katahdin; it was now to see how far they would get. I never made that choice. For me the hike was always about seeing how far I could get. I surprised myself by making Hiawassee. I surprised myself by making Fontana Dam, Hot Springs, Damascus and Pearisburg. I surprised myself up the entire range of Appalachians. Making the tiny town of Hanover far exceeded my wildest hopes. I was starting to wonder how the hike would end.

I hiked out of Hanover, my pack heavy with a week's worth of food. In the days that followed, I couldn't seem to break a rut of ten mile days. On the third night out, I stayed at the Atwell Hilton, an old park service building that was now condemned but had a grassy yard that hikers were allowed to camp in. Attached to house on the side was a makeshift awning built with a tarp and a fire ring underneath.

Can you really feel threatened by a hurricane named “Floyd?” I can't. Not even with scenes like this. I found it almost…comical.

That night, me and a few other hikers were visited by Dizzy B, a trail angel who came to the Hilton every night with a cooler full of drinks. I couldn't imagine the expense she went through, coming by with sodas and beers every night for the hiking season, but I welcomed it. It turned out to be the last bit of trail magic I encountered.

The weather turned cool and gray as I hiked up Moosilauke, the first mountain to stretch above tree line, that magic realm where the weather was too fierce for trees to live. On the way up I met a day hiker coming down. He told me that a hurricane was predicted to pass over the area, of course it was doubtful if it would still be considered a hurricane by then. I thanked him for the information. If this was true, it would be wise for me to head into Lincoln tomorrow from Kinsman Notch instead of the day after from Franconia Notch. It was a great plan and would have worked had Hurricane Floyd not been early. I went to bed that night in Beaver Brook Shelter. Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard the rain start. By the time morning arrived, the shelter was situated on an island. This was no weather to be hiking in. I had hiked Moosilauke before from this trail, I knew that the 1.3 miles between the shelter and the road contained some of the worst terrain encountered on the trail. The grading is so steep coming down to Kinsman Notch that the trail maintainers bolted wooden steps into rock slabs to facilitate the descent. The path also bordered Beaver Brook which was sure to be a raging torrent.

A moody day at Kinsman Pond.

I spent the day in the shelter with the “Gourmets,” a couple going by the individual trail names of the “Flying Hawaiian” and “The Baker.” I had been running into them since the Vermont line, however, once we compared stories it turned out we had been at Fontana Dam the same night although neither of us remembered the other. The Gourmets had a rare hiking style that I had to admire. They never did big miles instead keeping their daily average around ten or so miles. The kicker was that they never took a day off and rarely stayed at shelters instead camping as soon as they found a spot in the early evening. Consequently, I had passed them nine or ten times since I had met them. I would surge ahead for a few 18-20 mile stretches and then take a few days off. Slow and steady, they would catch up and I would pass them again and so on. We were a walking Ęsop's fable about the Tortoise and the Hare. Strangely, our encounters pleased me to no end, and I grew to envy their lifestyle.

It rained unceasingly until it abruptly stopped 24 hours later and by that time, the mountain was hemorrhaging water. My food supply was running low and now I had to leave the mountain and head to town. As expected, it was a treacherous foray down the mountain. I questioned the judgment of staying that day in the shelter since it had only rained more while I stayed there and would have been far less dangerous the day before. Nevertheless, I got within 100 feet of the road without mishap (which was good as a fall into the Beaver Brook would have assuredly killed me) only to slip and fall flat on my ass in a puddle roughly the size of Lake Baikal. I could only laugh at that point. It was the safest place I could have had a fall, and in 1700 miles it was only my second fall.

I did not leave misfortune on the mountain. The town of North Woodstock was infested with Scots as there was some kind of Highland Festival nearby. My hopes of getting out of the rain and into something dry and smelling...well, not smelling nice but at least better, were dashed as all available lodging was taken. This lead to some interesting sleeping arrangements among the hikers. The owner of one lodging house offered to let me sleep on his porch for a few bucks and I accepted since there was little alternative. Some hikers stealth camped by the river that flowed through town; Tagalong and Waterfall slept in the Laundromat and ended up surprising some old lady at 5:30 the next morning.

It took a few days to leave the town of Woodstock, partly because of the omnipresent fatigue I was experiencing and partly because I was subconsciously trying to extend the waning hiking season. Not two days later, I was back again, this time from Franconia Notch. There were some familiar faces. Leaping Gnome was back on the trail and hiking with Swampfox again, and I had once again met up with Raindancer and Orion. The five of us ended up ended up going to a motel.

Blah blah blah blah…I'm running out of things to say so I'll just let the picture speak for itself.

I had nice weather for my traverse of the White Mountains. It wasn't long before I lost Leaping Gnome and Swampfox. Raindancer and I joined up with Lu and Whitebark, even though I acted like a total slob towards them around Zealand Hut. I sometimes wonder the root of my behavior at that point; my fatigue at this point was all-consuming and may have been a factor. Not a few miles after, they forgave me (I think), and we hiked on as a team across the Presidentials. The weather was perfect for the traverse, even though foul conditions are much more common at this time of the year. I ended up leaving the rest of them to stay at a cabin a mile off the trail, while they planned on a stealth camp at Madison Hut

That night, I ate supper but it did not seem like enough food. I was full but hungry - it was an odd feeling. The next day, it took all the strength I had to make the miles to Pinkham Notch, yet I was miles short of where I wanted to spend the night. I was too tired to push on. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep. Maybe…it was time to call it a hike.

No. Not yet. I hitched into Gorham. I would recuperate for a few days in town, then see what I wanted to do. And, any decision about continuing or quitting would be made while on the trail. This suddenly became an important point. I went to the barn where I saw several familiar faces: Orion, Raindancer, Tagalong and Waterfall. Leaping Gnome and Swampfox were in town as well but staying at the other hiker hostel. Swampfox got sick not long after Franconia Notch and the two of them skipped a large section of trail between here and there.

While in town, a storm blew through the mountains and dusted the high peaks with snow. It never melted. In this shadow, I talked to Gnome and Rubicon about how I was feeling. They agreed with me that the trail was the best spot to make this decision. Leaping Gnome and Swampfox did a day hike up Mt. Washington, then rented a car and went along with Raindancer to Baxter State Park for an assault on Katahdin. Rubicon, Orion and everyone else I knew was ahead. Suddenly I felt very alone. Finally, five days after I arrived and as the hostel I was staying in prepared to close for the season, I saddled up the pack and hitched back to the trail. The hike would go on. In the face of adversity, it would go on.

I think.