Like a homecoming
New York Appalachian Trail, Part One
This is the fifth installment in a series about section hiking the AT. The previous installment is here, and the fun begins here.
Day Eight: Wildcat Shelter to Island Pond (11.6 trail miles)
The sky was already spitting as I pulled down the tent early the next morning, but it didn’t really open up until we ducked under the shelter awning. Fortunately, Fenix was already packed and nearly ready to go, so there was a sliver of floor space where we could prepare breakfast and redistribute our gear. The woods around us dripped morosely.
The other hikers were beginning to stir, and immediately observed that the rain had started early, and thunderstorms were forecast that afternoon. The section hikers heading south were making plans to get off trail and stay at a hostel. The young men heading north were revising their 20+ mile day to a 15-mile day, ending at Fingerboard Shelter, the next shelter after this one. That was also where I was headed. Fenix was also probably going to stay there, since he seemed to be averaging 15-mile days. I mentally prepared myself to reach the shelter long after these faster, fitter hikers, knowing I would probably have to tent in the thunderstorm.
The rain let up a bit around 8am, and E and I jumped at the chance to start walking in the relative calm. When we said goodbye, I teared up. It was ridiculous, since I was only planning on spending two more nights on trail before returning to the city. But it was still a wrench to watch him walk away in the other direction.
Once I was alone, I tried to hike fast. I didn’t know how long I would have before it started raining again. And I had this idea that I wanted to travel over as much ground as possible before the young men caught up to me—partially to prove that I wasn’t slow, and partially because if something bad happened, like I slipped and fell on wet rock, there wouldn’t be many more hikers coming up behind me. Both odd, paranoid thoughts, but there you have it.
Other than those little anxieties and the lingering bittersweet feeling of leaving E behind, it was lovely hiking—damp, cool, breezy, and mostly flat to start. When I snapped E a picture from a waterfall around 9am, he was already on a bus back to the city. He’d jogged back to town and caught it just as it was pulling up to the stop.
Although the weather cleared to patchy sun, the terrain did not stay easy. The climbs were short, but brutal, following an endless stream of jagged, craggy boulders. I took a short break at the top of one of these climbs, swirling water around my mouth while chewing dried mango to approximate something like juice. The first of the faster thru-hikers passed me. The other wasn’t far behind.
On one of the short ridge walks, the trail passed through a stand of pine trees. All but a few of the needles were a sickly orange color. Dying, maybe, or dead. I’m not sure from what.
The most delightful surprise of the day was Little Dam Lake, which was nearly covered in delicate lily pads. I stopped to snack and watch a family of geese and goslings float across the water. Yellow irises grew in clusters in the crooks of the bank. The entire scene was soft, gentle, bucolic.
A very young man—a teenager, best I could tell—passed me as I tried, in vain, to capture the scene on my phone. (I had stashed my camera safely in my bag that morning, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the skies opened.) But he wasn’t hiking much faster than me, so I ended up following him for some time, although we never exchanged a word.
He did eventually shake me on one of the steeper climbs. I was gassed. I had been hiking hard all day, with only short breaks. I made myself stop somewhere near the top of Arden Mountain to jam an energy bar down my throat. I hoped it would stave off the shakiness that was creeping into my legs, perhaps from low blood sugar, or maybe just from the steady, unrelenting movement. But I didn’t want to let up the pace, because the wind had already picked up, especially on the ridges, and the sky was darkening.
Finally, I reached the top of Agony Grind. I’ve climbed it at least once before, but only in the other direction (south/up) and it was certainly steep and challenging. But I suspect the route north is how it earned its moniker, because your knees really do grind, like a mill, on the long, precipitous descent, first sliding over long smooth rock surfaces, and then walking/hopping down a rough rock staircase. I began to wince and grimace with every step. As I neared the bottom, a woman and her dog were closing in on me—the dog literally at my heels—and I pulled to the side to let them pass.
I reached Route 17 just after 2pm. Across the road was the familiar sign for Harriman State Park, which made my chest swell and my eyes tear up again. I’ve hiked in Harriman more than any other park, and arriving there as part of a longer journey felt momentous. Like a homecoming.
I triumphantly texted E as I walked across the bridge over I87, to tell him that I did in fact reach the road before the last bus—not that it mattered for anything other than bragging rights, because I wasn’t taking the bus, but I wanted him to know I could have.
The sky was darker, the wind was pulling me along, and I still had four miles to go before the shelter. E texted radar screenshots showing a series of light-to-moderate storms headed in my direction, little purple blobs surrounded by blue.
I passed the woman with a dog as she sat filtering water, and learned she was in fact a thru-hiker, but was “slack-packing” that day because of the weather and terrain. Someone was going to drop off her pack at the road crossing before Fingerboard. I calculated how many shelter spots would be taken before I got there tonight. Up to six? Maybe more, if there were southbound hikers there, too.
By the time I reached Island Pond, it had started to rain again. I had a choice to make. I could hike three more miles through the storm, and almost certainly have to tent at Fingerboard, because I doubted there would be room to squeeze into the shelter. (Shelters are always more popular when it’s raining.) It wouldn’t be easy or fast. I was already so tired, so I doubted I could keep up my earlier pace, even if the weather had been fine, and the rain—and wind, and thunder, and lightning—would slow me down even more.
Or I could set up the tent now, at Island Pond, before the storm got any worse.
The thing is, Island Pond is not a designated campsite. I know plenty of people ignore that—and if I didn’t, the multiple fire rings and scattered shards of broken glass would have tipped me off—but I try my best to respect park/trail rules and regulations to the best of my ability at all times, and especially when I know I’m going to be writing about a trip. I don’t want to encourage rule-breaking by example.
But I was, as I said, so tired, and the weather was getting worse, and if there was ever a time to bend the rules, it felt like this was it. At first I tried to set up my tent at the top of a hill. But as soon as it was up the sides caught the wind like a sail, pulling one of the stakes loose. I suddenly saw how easy it would be to lose my tent completely in a gust of wind, and flattened it before that could happen. I paced around. This wouldn’t work. I tried not to panic.
I moved down the hill to a more sheltered clearing. This meant I had to tent beneath a big tree, which I eyed carefully, looking for widowmakers. But I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. I threw the tent up again and immediately crawled inside with my backpack. I leaned back against it and sighed. The walls shook noisily in the wind. The rain drummed against the silnylon. I read my book for a bit, and then slept.
I napped through the rest of the afternoon squall, then emerged in a period of relative calm to collect water and prepare dinner. I was a little bit lonely, and quite a bit jumpy, and I didn’t have cell phone service in the tent, so I couldn’t alleviate either sensation by texting E.
I woke in the night to another deafening barrage of rain, and switched my head to the side of the tent I deemed less likely to be crushed by a falling limb. Then I endeavored to fall back asleep.
