Glastenbury’s Secrets: Days 155-162

And so on the third of September in the year 2001, this hiker passed into the state of Vermont. It was another state in which he had never previously set foot. He marveled at the beauty of the Green Mountain National Forest, identified his first beaver pond and dam, turned a cold shoulder to the brisk wind from the north, scoffed at the early hour of the setting sun, and walked on.

I noticed a change of scenery immediately upon entering the state, similar to the way the pavement on a road changes when you cross a state line. Or maybe the change in scenery was just the feeling of being here, finally in the northern reaches of the Appalachian Trail, sensing the approach of a new season out here.

After meeting a group of at least ten or fifteen freshman from Williamstown College at the Seth Warner Shelter, I decided to push on seven more miles to the next shelter. I arrived at last in waning daylight after paralleling a creek for what felt like an eternity, and I am all alone at Congdon Shelter for the night. The setting is quiet and peaceful. Life is good.

My seventh grade “Earth Science” teacher, Mr. Stefanyak, is possibly one of the first people that told me, and my class, about the existence of the Appalachian Trail.

I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I have the feeling that he was the first person to elaborate on the Trail. He taught Earth Science.

Nothing delighted some of us more than getting on the poor guy’s nerves. After all, there were pretty girls to impress. I remember once he got in my face and was setting me straight for some idiotic thing I’d said or done, and the way his face contorted into all kinds of funny shapes because he was pissed off was extremely amusing to me. I could barely keep a straight face, and that of course only made him more angry.

Our class could be quite terrible to him, and we were supposed to be the “honors” group…

He’d been teaching at the school since at least the early 1970s, and by the time my class came around in the 90s, you could tell he was just doing his time until he could collect retirement – burned out on work. It was obvious he’d been using the same lesson plans for fifteen years – giving all his homework assignments directly out of the textbook, giving the textbook publisher’s issued tests, and showing slide projection films that were copyrighted in the 1970’s. The nature of limestone, granite, and igneous rocks didn’t change much over the years, I suppose.

Every once in a while, though, he’d teach the lesson for about ten minutes, and then his eyes would light up and he’d go off telling some interesting story for the rest of the class period about something totally off topic, like his vacations camping and hunting in Canada. I don’t think we would ever act up that much when he’d tell those stories – they were usually interesting. We weren’t going to be tested on any of it, but I felt as though those were the moments when we really did some learning.

Anyway, he was always talking about his good times “up in Canada” with his buddies. On one of those days he mentioned the Appalachian Trail.

Sometime maybe a little more than a year ago, I was paging through the local newspaper, and something caught my eye. It was an obituary listing for Mr. Stefanyak. He was in Canada.

It was a short hike today to the road crossing to town. I was greeted just before the road by about fifty students from a local elementary school. They were struggling up the mountain for some sort of nature field trip. The adults were struggling the most, and there were two women I passed who were way behind the group, in what seemed to be utter torture. They had a sense of humor about it, saying “Back here away from the kids we can curse while going up this thing!” I got a kick out of that.

It took a long time for me to get a ride to town. It was a little aggravating because I only really needed to go to town for an item or two of food resupply, and of course to hit up the golden McDonalds in this town (I can’t believe I crave McDonalds).

A friendly guy eventually helped me out with a lift, and this town is fairly busy and hip compared to most along the trail, so what the hell, I’m staying the night. Oh and what do you know, Ronin caught up with me and he’s here too. Life is good.

Wow. What an afternoon. What an evening! I love the trail.

The day was already half-spent by the time I got a hitch back up to the trail from a nice couple, but somehow it didn’t matter to me. I felt so good. The miles flew by like nothing as I glided effortlessly along the footpath, thinking about all kinds of things – holidays, trail magic that I’ll do next summer, etc. The sky was as clear as could be.

I saw only one hiker all afternoon, and it was a brief encounter as I passed by in my euphoric rhythm. I think I took off my pack just twice in ten miles – once to visit the silent, serenely perfect Melville Nauheim Shelter, and once to consult the map, gauge my position, and look out upon the highest peak on the horizon – Glastenbury Mountain – my destination for the night.

And what a destination it was. I made it to the Goddard Shelter at dusk and was welcomed by a surprisingly near-full house. Dropping my pack, I hastily grabbed a few things and hoofed the short distance to the top of the mountain to take in the sunset. This summit is nothing but evergreens, and it smelled like Christmas on the way up it in the fading light.

On the peak there was an old, rickety fire tower that was weather-beaten and had more character than I can comprehend. It creaked and groaned intermittently in the wind as I climbed the wooden steps. One or two of them were broken or missing.

At the top was a view that blew my mind, a scene that struck me dumb of any insignificant, meek little thought or detail in our feeble human perception.

In all directions were rolling, beautiful mountains and trees, as far as the eye could see – not a sign of civilization anywhere. The wind blew strong and steady, slightly swaying the tower beneath my feet. The swaying sensation wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was invigorating.

Here I learned what the poets meant when they said the wind whispers to you, because at that moment it was undoubtedly telling great tales in a language far too great for me to comprehend. I began to grasp stories of all the landscape I beheld, of great and humble deeds done far and wide, of all of time.

I stood in awe and listened as the sun set over this magnificent land. I stood and wished that somebody could be there, wished that everybody I’ve ever given so much as the time of day in my twenty years could be there and experience the same – but I was alone. At least six hikers were just a five minute walk away, down at the shelter, and I had this place all to myself. An odd blessing of fortune it was.

The first stars were shining in the east by the time I turned away. I made my way back down through those woods that smelled of Christmas, back to where I’m bedding down for the night.

Here other hikers talk of insignificant comings and goings. I succumb and join in, paging through the register and nibbling on dinner. Out on the southern horizon from the shelter I can see back to Mount Greylock, back to the white beacon that shines from atop the monument on its summit. Life is good.

I was excited to get back up to the Glastenbury fire tower this morning to get a look at the view in full daylight. There was no wind, and the sky was much hazier than last night, but it was a great place to stop for a while nonetheless.

The rest of the day’s hike was rather uneventful. A few southbounders came through when I was having lunch at Story Spring Shelter, and I met a hiker going south named Bonepile. I had been behind him for a while when he was northbound, and reading his register entries, but he apparently flip-flopped during the heat wave in Jersey and has hiked this far south already. So this is where I could have been if I had chosen to flip too…

I found myself stuck at that shelter for two solid hours. I decided to push on seven more miles for the summit of Stratton Mountain, as the day was growing short. There was supposed to be a “warming hut” a mile or so off the trail on the summit, open for hikers to use overnight.

I was night-hiking by the time I reached the top of what was a significant climb up the mountain, and then it was another mile off the trail to this small building. Man, is it dark, windy, and cold! The Stratton Mountain fire tower was back on the trail but I didn’t even bother to go up it because I was so cold and determined to get to this hut.

I’m in here for the night with two section hikers who were quite surprised to see me arrive after dark, and now we’re enjoying life within four walls at this beautiful place. Life is good.

So I was told that there’s a gondola that runs from here (the summit of Stratton Mountain) down to a “resort” type area at the base with all-you-can-eat restaurants and all kinds of goodies. The gondola only runs on weekends.

Today is a Saturday.

I resisted and didn’t go down there, mostly because it was only fourteen miles from here to the road to Manchester Center. I needed to go there and resupply with food anyway. That doesn’t by any means indicate that I got up for an early start though, as I didn’t get packed and moving until noon.

The hike brought me down the mountain to Stratton Pond and the fairly new shelter there, which I stopped to take a look at. There were two lovebirds sitting at the pond itself, so I just kept on going, putting in some miles as the afternoon faded away over some relatively flat terrain. Prospect Rock was a cool place, looking down and out into a deep and abrupt gully – really just a valley wedged tightly between the ridge I was on and the opposing one. It seemed that a great view was to be had out to the right toward Manchester Center, but the thick haze held it at bay.

I rolled into Spruce Peak Shelter an hour before dark, just three miles shy of the road crossing to Manchester. After some brief debate, I chose to stay there for the night and try the hitch to town tomorrow, rather than trying to manage the hitch in the dark. There is one other section hiker here, and this is a very cozy shelter. Life is good.

It was a short hike to the road. I hitchhiked into town and spent the day taking care of errands, seam sealing my tent, and other fun stuff. Life is good.

I spent the whole day hanging around town. I don’t know why, but I just did.

The weather took a turn for the worse when it was time to hitchhike back up to the trail, so here I am spending the night in a motel on the outskirts of town. I’m packed and ready to go for an early start tomorrow. Life is good.