Trail Log #36, Day 81, A Change of Heart
Trail Log #36, Day 81, A Change of Heart
I'm beginning to think Change is the currency in which the Trail deals.
August 2, Day 81
Maybe there was something foul in the filthy pond water after all.
Around midnight last night, I was driven from my tent to stumble, half-awake and delirious, away from the other tents. There, I proceeded to shit my guts out. It would have been a fantastic time to have a privy, but since we aren’t camped at a true shelter, I was shit out of luck. Pun absolutely intended.
And so, once again at dawn, I stumble from my tent to frantically scrape yet another hole into the ground to evacuate my furious stomach. When it’s over, I groan. I guess I’m awake now. It’s too early to start hiking, so I return to my tent for another half hour to attempt to get a few extra minutes of sleep. When I give up and re-emerge, Costco is making breakfast. I ask him how his stomach is feeling, and he says he’s okay, which means I can’t blame my tumultuous tummy on the water. Thank god it seems to have died down.
I hang around long enough to nibble on my protein bar breakfast. Then we part ways for the day and agree to meet up tonight at Guyot Shelter. It’s only five miles away, but there’s rain in the forecast and I’d rather avoid slogging through that if I can.
I set out strong and breeze up Mt Garfield to Hamilton’s “Non-Stop,” which if you haven’t heard it, you should go listen to right now. It’s strangely the perfect accompaniment to a chaotic mind. I spin a slow circle in time with the most hectic chorus of the song, taking in the sun hanging low over the ridge. I pick out Franconia Ridge, the tan peaks of Lafayette and Lincoln distinct against the lush, green surroundings. Hard to believe I was just standing on those peaks, and here they are in the rearview mirror. How strange is the passing of time and the changing of circumstances.
“How do you write like you’re running out of time!? He will never be satisfied!”
The whirling of the music is a fitting match for my spinning mind. I imagine the characters in Hamilton spinning like the blurry smear of motion on a carousel. Though a few days have blunted the sharp panic I felt at Liberty Spring, the dull knowing that I might very well be alone again has not retreated. The worst part is I can’t decide what’s best: to push on alone or to continue with Costco. There are still things I sense I need to learn out here; are they best conveyed in the safety of solitude or in the shared joy - and risk - of being in relationship with another?
I sigh. These are questions that have no answer. I hike off the ridge and do my best to leave my thoughts at the summit.
At least there’s another Hut today. I arrive sooner than expected and grin, my angst falling away. I like this Hut even more than the Lonesome Lake Hut. It looks smaller, but it’s situated on a beautiful overlook, mountains unfolding out to the horizon.
It’s about lunchtime, so I head inside to grab a bowl of free lentil soup and some black coffee, carrying both treasures to the warm wooden picnic-style tables in the main room. I sweep a furtive glance around the Hut, wondering if it’s kosher to pull out my camp stove and cook indoors. But since there’s no more than five people here, I do it anyway, boiling water for a ramen packet. I text Costco that I’ll be here for a while.
When I see him arrive, I point out the chess set sitting nearby. One of the random things we’d discussed over our hours of hiking together was our shared fondness for chess. He spoke as if he wasn’t very good at it, so I figured I had a sporting chance of kicking his ass. I don’t. He thoroughly beats me once, then twice, and I quickly give up and accuse him of hustling me. He smiles a little, but even here, I can tell he’s distant, as though the warmth usually radiating from him has cooled, retreated inward.
Costco hasn’t eaten yet, so rather than deal with any more awkwardness, I honor our “hike alone” creed, scurrying out of the Hut in an attempt to outrun both our strained dynamic and the rain that’s coming for me. But my efforts are in vain. I throw anxious glances overhead, noting the progressive graying of the skies: a light and gentle silver soon transitions to a sharp, dark steel, foreboding as the back of a knife. I stop to retrieve my blue pack rain cover, lashing it around my pack before plodding onward.
The downpour comes halfway up South Twin Mountain. As much as I was hoping to avoid a soaking, a strange acceptance washes over me, my mind going pleasantly blank. The last time I was stuck in rain like this was in Vermont. I’m not – for some reason – anywhere near as mentally low as I was then. Rain is rain. It’s not fun, but it’s part of the Trail. I’ve been through worse than this. I survived Vermont. I survived my month of homeless couch crashing. I survived the fracturing of my relationship. When stacked against those odds, dealing with Costco’s indecision and a thunderstorm isn’t the worst that has happened to me.
Speak of the devil; my phone buzzes. It’s Costco. “I left but I turned around, I’m gonna wait at the hut a bit longer until the rain lets up.”
Despite the wave of optimism I was just surfing, my heart sinks. He was supposed to head out after me. Cell signal has been iffy, and FarOut warns that there’s none at Guyout.
I stop and text a quick reply: “Ok. So, the plan is to set up camp at guyot shelter then?”
Then I turn and continue through the rain.
I check my phone a few minutes later, aware that I’ll soon be heading into the no-signal zone. There’s no reply. The rain tapers down to a drizzle, so to buy time, I sit under a tree and force down a protein bar.
Costco still hasn’t replied when I’m done with my snack break. If he’s still in the Hut like he said, he has cell signal. Which means he’s purposefully ignoring my texts.
I send a last text, my Hail Mary of sorts: “Pretty sure the FarOut comments say no service at all at this shelter so if you text me and I don’t reply, that’s why. I’m heading out from my snack break - and this one spot of cell signal - to the shelter now. See you there.”
Even as I send this, something deep and resonant says I will not see him there. It’s so easy: all he needs to do is either hike past Guyot or stop way before Guyot. This is the easiest way for him to split off from me and catch the Katahdin-bound tramily. He won’t admit it, but I can sense his unease every time he’s around me. He’d rather push his limits with the faster tramily, and I can’t blame him. Why should he hobble his hike with a slowpoke like me? Hike your own hike and all that. He’s too kind to tell me this and too ambitious to continue traveling at a snail’s pace with me, which is why we’ve been trapped in this torturous limbo. It's easier this way. He will probably stealth somewhere before Guyot.
It is what it is. What can I do? Simply accept it. The Trail dishes out what it will dish out. I learned long ago not to fight it. But I’m still human. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.
Disheartened, I stand and re-shoulder my moist pack - a dreadful sensation against my soaked, cold shirt - and continue up the Trail. The summit is socked in when I arrive, engulfed in swirling white clouds. I wish I could see this view on a clear day, but there’s a certain mystery, a certain haunting loneliness to the gray rocks shrouded in mist and dark clouds. If wide-open mountain vistas beneath bluebird skies evoke feelings of giddiness and triumph, then sleepy, moody, socked-in summits make me feel like I am turning inward. Like I am folding over, being washed clean from within. Is it possible to feel so “seen” by a landscape? Who knows. I pause for a few photos that I know will never capture this feeling or magical place before I hike on.
I’m a mile out from the shelter and the rain is coming down steadily harder. All that’s left is to negotiate the steep, mile-long blue-blaze…damn, what a day for the shelter to be this out of the way. Half way down the blue-blaze, the rain begins beating down with a fury. I scuttle off the Trail to duck beneath a sturdy-looking pine. Unfortunately, the pine has already been thoroughly soaked, and so it doesn’t do much but blunt the rain a little. I stare blankly at the curtain of mist enshrouding the world outside my tiny shelter, waiting for it to lessen enough for me to bolt the rest of the way to the shelter. I no longer care about the Trail and adaptability and blablabla; I’m fed up and ready to be out of the rain. Now that I’ve written Costco off, all I want now is to curl up in my (hopefully dry) tent and sleep. I’ll figure everything else out in the morning.
I eventually conclude the rain isn’t going to let up one bit, so I book it the remaining .1 to the shelter, taking the full force of the sheets of rain battering the ridge. I jog as fast as I dare along the ankle-roller rocks lining the way. I’m terrified of running along the slick rocks, but I’m more concerned with keeping warm; jogging barely staves off the shivering as water streams in rivulets down my face and soaks through my clothes.
The long-ass blue blaze finally, finally spits me out at the overlook to the Guyot Shelter, nestled against the mountainside. I claim a soaked wooden tent platform and pitch my tent wicked fast in an attempt to keep the interior rain-free, yanking the rain fly over the mesh top. After I’ve crammed my stuff safely inside, I grab my water bag, stove, and food bag and pick my way down the mountain face to the shelter.
I’m not prepared for the gorgeous two-story structure, a gleaming marvel of pine and polished wood. It’s perched on the very edge of a sheer drop; not a far drop, but significant nonetheless, resting on stilts with a giant deck and a screen protecting the front rails. Several day hikers and thru-hikers are already lazing around the shelter. I can easily pick out the day-hiking Hut hoppers; one group has a cast iron skillet. I do a double take at the contents of the skillet - they’re frying up a fucking mirepoix. I try to ignore the tantalizing aroma of melty butter, onions, celery, and carrots as my mouth waters in rebellion. I stir boiling water into my mashed potatoes packet and add in the contents of a pack of chicken; a far cry from a tasty mirepoix, which may as well be gourmet to me.
Despite my food envy, that old gratitude of “not hiking in the rain” kicks in, coloring the rest of the world in a lovely warmth. I’m relieved, overjoyed even, to sit beneath this giant shelter, protected by the yawning roof. I’m giddy watching the rain patter down outside, not on me. I watch the rain increase in strength again. While I savor my crappy mashed potatoes with a beautiful view through the trees, Costco drifts to mind. I wonder how he’s handling the rain, but I do my best to ignore it.
Darkness is beginning to lay down on the sleepy mountain when I hear a “HEY!” followed by a happy giggle.
I spin around. No way. Costco! In the dimming light, he rounds the corner of the shelter, trotting into camp and soaked to the bone. He’s waving like a maniac, grinning up at me.
“You made it!” I yell down in amazement. As much as I don’t want it to, my heart warms as if the clouds were parted by a shaft of sunlight. I didn’t think he’d be here.
I eat the rest of my dinner with him as he lights his camp stove. We have a chat with Skylar, the shelter caretaker, who shows up to collect our fee and hypes up this thing called the Bondcliff detour. We’ve heard about it through FarOut comments, but weren’t seriously considering going.
“You guys gotta check it out,” Skylar insists. “It’s worth the detour!”
The detour that he so casually drops is four long miles out of our way: two out and two back, up and over Mt. Bond and towards its arm, Bondcliff. Costco and I exchange glances and I ask if he wants to go. When he looks at me and grins, we don’t say anything, but I know – somehow – that we’re mostly okay again, that we’re sticking together. His words confirm it: “Of course we’re going!” he practically shouts.
The rest of the night, we have dinner, hang with the other hikers, and snipe at each other like normal. I didn’t know how much I missed that.
One of the day hikers has a small black puppy with them who loves cuddles and kisses. He squirms and bounces from my lap to Costco’s and back again. Costco, who said “fuck that” to setting up his hammock and has opted to sleep in the shelter, retrieves his sleeping bag, propping it in his lap for the puppy to nest. All the while, we sit with the hikers in the shelter, watching the remnants of the storm blow out its remaining fury. It leaves behind only a soft, pattering rain. I am almost manic with joy, knowing I’m not hiking in that anymore. I sputter a laugh as the puppy leaps onto my leg and covers my face in kisses. As the puppy crawls into Costco’s lap, I listen to him laughing in protest at the puppy kisses. I can’t help but smile; I’m giddy, my soul wriggling right along with the puppy’s squirmy butt.
The last of the rain clears out, chased away by wispy clouds and the setting sun. The stars come out slow. We watch them together with a Scottish hiker, another guy, and a woman who reminds me of Spitfire from back in Maryland. One of them is either a geography professor or pulls up a random geography quiz, but either way, we play geography-themed trivia while watching tiny red lights blinking on the far mountains – likely other hikers. “Trail TV,” we agree. In lieu of actual TV, tracking the tiny lights making their way down the mountain becomes immersive and entertaining. The serendipitous tranquility of this experience - shared with strangers on a hike - is not lost to me. Drifting, I track the blinking red lights, listening to the trivia game with varying amounts of attention as I scratch the sleeping puppy’s head.
As the night wears on and the other hikers turn in, the cocoon of darkness becoming security, Costco confirms that he has indeed decided to stay.
“I did want to push ahead to Katahdin,” he admits. “But doing that would keep me out here longer than I want. I don’t want to put off my life to go to Katahdin…but I don’t want to rush the rest of this trip either.”
“Yeah?” I say, hoping I sound casual. “That’s understandable.”
I imagine he nods, but the shelter has gone completely black; I’ll need to find my way back to my tent with my phone’s flashlight.
“I think it’s best to take my time through this shorter stretch. I want to savor it, not break myself trying to hike fast through the rest of the Whites. And I want to finish out our hikes, together, at Grafton Notch in Maine.”
I smile, not sure how to respond. Maybe there are times when words are unnecessary. Maybe sometimes, simple silence is best, a contented emptiness creeping to your side like a friend. And I wonder if I don’t need to justify wanting to have company; I don’t need to defend my “sacred Alone” either. I wonder if perhaps sharing this adventure with a friend is in itself, Enough, one of the many reasons to continue.
Haha! I know I've said it before, but there are so many ups and downs in this story! I was grinning ear to ear when I read that Costco showed up at the shelter!