Their response? Utter silence. But presumably thanks for the check.

Dear GMC,

First, I’d like to offer a brief history of my summertime activities since 1996:

1996: Arrive at Springer Mountain, Georgia on April 2, and hike north, more or less, along the Appalachian Trail until October 1, ending in Delaware Water Gap, and having walked the entire trail, more or less, except for Maine. Experience wonder and beauty, and pain. Make many mistakes, which contribute enormously to the joys of the hike (in retrospect). Trail life becomes a life style, and I vow to return again some day.

1997: Someday arrives in early July, as I set out on the AT once more, northbound from Connecticut, aiming for Katahdin. Travel more expediently this year, with lighter-weight pack and shoes instead of boots. The going does indeed become easier with experience gained. Make fewer mistakes, but make up for it with one big mistake that results in an incapacitating stomach illness in Maine’s 100 mile wilderness. Hobble through the brush, up Katahdin and out of the woods for Labor Day. The AT completed at last, distance hiking firmly infused in the blood, I set my sights on the west coast and the Pacific Crest Trail.

1998: El Nino sets its sights on the west coast, as well, and the resulting mountain snowpack forces a change in plans. Trail food already purchased makes for a great excuse to return to the AT, the start of an endless string of excuses to keep hiking forever. Set foot again on Springer Mountain, lighter afoot still, northbound but destination unknown. Is this the same AT that just two years ago brought such trial and tribulation my way? Alas, the challenge is less. Perhaps is the adventure, too. But the pure freedom of traveling self-contained remains, and I begin to see the hiking as a kind of art – a brushstroke on nature’s great canvas. I cruise through Damascus, VA and beyond for a few miles more, then skip ahead to Pennsylvania, to see what the AT’s up to up there. Right idea, wrong application, this particular hike. And so I decide to head West. Arrive in Denver August 5, and proceed to Waterton Canyon and the northern end of the Colorado Trail. With sights on Durango, some 500 miles away, I head south into terra incognita, that great adventure-maker. Like a student at the start of the new semester, I take what I know and hope to apply it toward the unknown, hoping to pass. And indeed I pass many a pass, some over 12,000 feet in elevation. Note many things of wonder, and many contrasts from the eastern forests I’d known. The dryness of the vegetation, the blue skies, thin cool air, the bugling of elk, and the vast stillness. The endless solitude...

1999: At last the chance arrives to hike the Pacific Crest, but resources limit my available time. The solution is to hike as far as possible, making the most of my window of opportunity. Having become a firm advocate of lightweight hiking techniques and higher-mileage itineraries, after working with PCT Handbook author Ray Jardine, I apply this to “the latest hiking project,” and am aglow with the joys of my 14-pound pack. I glide over chaparral-cloaked hills, piney desert mountain ranges, Mojave Desert basins, and finally the grand and infinite Sierra Nevada, the range of light. “This is not the East!” I must exclaim. (As I stand atop Mt. Whitney @ 14,497 feet.) Nor is it the Rocky Mountains, come to find out. The West is not simply “the West” any more than the East can be generalized, labeled and dismissed. Patterns do emerge, certainly, but it seems that nature always leaves room for the unexpected, the variable, the different by degrees. Every step of those 825 miles of PCT I walked brought something new. And how could it be any other way, when even an armchair traveler could behold the vast differences between Mile 1 and Mile 800? Between old Mexico and the skyscraping Sierra!

I can now say I’ve seen both, and the PCT and Long Trail are very different creatures. Distinct, but each as beautiful as the other in its own way. The beauty, as always, is in the eye of the beholder alone; and one thing I’ve learned over the course of my rambles, (of which I’ve just rambled on about) is that the eye can be cultivated to behold beauty in all of nature’s artwork. Trails are, after all, just a means of seeing a tiny part of the whole painting, a cross section of our living, breathing planet – ma nature in all her endless moods and stylings. For me, the beauty of the Long Trail would lie in the discovery, as I’d experience once again, for the first time, the leafy green of our northeastern forests. And yes, the LT would also represent another trail to be won, through days and weeks of hard walking; more miles to be gained. It would present the opportunity to further my understanding of the skills and methods of distance hiking. And it seemed like another great excuse for a hike, since – would you look at that – I do believe I’ve already walked about 100 miles of this route while doing the AT! No sense in leaving unfinished business lying about – let’s walk the entire Long Trail, end to end. A long list of excuses these past several years – but does this kind of freedom really need justifying?

On August 3, 1999 I began my solo Long Trail journey, with the goal of hiking the route end to end, south to north, over the course of several weeks. Actually, my planned itinerary had me finishing in around 16 days. I knew this would be ambitious, but still it seemed within the realm of possibilities. In fact, an expedient trip was an underlying goal, and this went hand in hand with my lightweight hiking approach. By carrying less weight, I could hike more miles each day for the same energy expenditure as the “old me” (refer back to 1996 and the AT) used when hiking far fewer miles. On the PCT, thru-hikers need to cover a great many miles in a comparatively short hiking season. This calls for higher daily mileages, which for me became the norm after a few weeks of Crest walking. I wanted to see whether I could make that same approach work in the rugged hills of Vermont, for the sake of challenge and because, at the end of the day, a job well done makes for greater glory, and better sleep.

When traveling ambitiously afield, most of the day may be spent hiking. It can be a time of rising early, packing eagerly, and of heading off with breakfast in hand. Of feeling the legs and heart awakening slowly, rising to the tasks before them, for another day. Of the mind planning the day’s hiking goals – how far will we get, and where to? Where’s the next source of water, and will that be a good place for a break? Call it conscious hiking: the mind directing the body toward a certain end. The artistry of distance hiking also allows the body to create and direct. Sometimes the bodily senses may overwhelm the conscious mind as nature’s impulses come flooding in, and suddenly nothing much matters but the flute-like call of the thrush, or the flash and crash of an approaching storm. The feet dance down the trail, over root and rock, rhythmically rolling along. Left right left right left right left. The hours pass while the mantra rises to greater proportions. Strange, sylvan ideas float into the mind, and accustomed to the great elbow room of the forest, they stretch out and make themselves comfortable. The world’s greatest problems are solved. Unimaginable devices are invented and put to some noble use. And too, the past comes alive. Thoughts entertained some time ago may reappear from nowhere. Maybe something surprising emerges, some new answer to old questions. Perhaps a former hike or a lovely vista is revisited. So while the goal of my Long Trail hike may have been a foregone conclusion, each day offered the body and mind new adventures. I’d like to offer a few random samples from the journey, now. A “Long Trail Adventure” montage, so to speak. These I present in chronological order per my journey, though I weave no thread between them.

I used the trail name “Blister-free” while on the LT this year, a name more or less representative of fact, and which I’ve used since ’96.

Best wishes,
Brett Tucker

~ Snippets from Blister-free’s Long Trail Adventure ~

Buses

"Hello," I said. "Didn't I see you on the bus to Williamstown?" It was my first encounter with another hiker, and it came less than a minute after I ventured onto the Pine Cobble approach trail. I was really getting into the scenery about then, having been away from these types of forests for a number of months. But the distraction was pleasant. I figured he was a fellow Long Trail hiker when I saw him on my bus ride that afternoon, judging by the pack, the anxious look in the eye, and the uncanny way we both made the same bus connections. This fellow was a Brit, overseas to spend a week on the AT/LT, ending up "wherever I get." His prior experience with American hiking had been in New York and New Jersey. I assured him that Vermont was nothing like that, and he should have a wonderful time of it. Sensing our differences in hiking pace and goals, I bid the chap adieu and pressed on through the verdant hardwood forest in search of the Seth Warner shelter, as remembered from AT hiking days.

Frogs

Early morning, clear skies. Up and at 'em, feeling good. Down the trail with sun rising on my right. Vista on the left, then a pond or two. There, the frogs play their one-trick tune, that banjo-esque twang, but not with such harmony as I'd recalled from summers past. The water level looks low, probably from the drought. On to Congdon Camp for a snack break. North then to Harmon Hill and its overlook of Bennington, hot on the heels of a northbound AT thru-hiker (hard to catch some of these). Down the canyon to Vt. 9 and up the other side. The sky grows cloudy. Pass the next shelter, onward. Big miles, long days, let's start off on the right foot. Getting late, growing tired, estimations of distance well off the mark. I can still remember Goddard shelter, my destination, like my last visit was yesterday, but at this rate it could take until tomorrow to reach it. Determination. A final climb at dusk. The faint sound of voices emerges from the forest and rises slowly. Then a sudden clap of thunder. And at last, the shelter! Strewn with hikers and their belongings, it is a veritable fallout bunker at 3800'. On cue, rain and hail beat down on Goddard's metal roof. I am home, high and dry. So much for a night under the stars as planned. Time to sleep with the mice, and the chatter of strangers making friendly, with the sounds of snoring, and the rain and wind howling at my doorstep. A thousand Appalachian Trail memories are brought back to life.

Pizza

Why yes, the pack does feel rather heavy. But then it always does the day I leave town. Has something to do with the fresh load of food, destined for eventual consumption but serving as dead weight for now. And of course heading uphill, the natural way out of town, amplifies the overall burden as well. Hard to leave that Manchester Center, despite all the yuppie consumerism. But hey, build it and they will come. The pizza place in town had built a pie just for me the night before, and I came. And I ate. I think I also had them throw a cheese steak onto my order, and as I recall, that served as a midnight snack. Or was it breakfast? Either way, nice that the Zion church hostel has a microwave for hiker use. Eating well in town certainly has its advantages. Beyond satisfying the unavoidable trail-induced cravings, there is the option to bolster one's nutritional reserves. Carb'ed up and topped off, the body's fuel tank can run for quite a few miles, almost offsetting the additional load carried from town. Up Bromley ski mountain I go, then. Feeling good. What the heck, let's try running this last pitch, here along the ski run to the observation deck. Way to go! But enough of that; I'll get farther by slowing down and taking in the sights, of which there are many from this ridge.

Spuds

"And she lifted her petticoat, lazy and slow. And I rolled up my sleeves, for to buckle her shoe." I've come to love the traditional Irish folk music, even if some of the lyrical numbers are a tad foreign to my western ear. Probably the majority of my Gaelic exposure has happened right here, while dining and soaking in the ambience at McGrath's Irish Pub, located at the Inn at Long Trail. What a beautiful fall-like day here in August, the perfect conditions to hike from Clarendon Gorge, up and over Killington, and down to Sherburne Pass. And what better way to end the festivities than with a stopover at the Inn, and some Irish Spuds (with roasted veggies, please) at the pub. Ah, the sun in the eyes all day, (good for the eyeballs) wind in the hair, crisp clean air in the lungs, and now a few potatoes, a burger, and an order of super nachos (to go, please) in the digestive tract. And where do I think I'm going at this hour? Back to the woods? While I thoroughly enjoy night hiking, I will admit that the sudden contrast in hospitality could make for a bout of indigestion. Better stay the night upstairs, here at the foot of Deer Leap. Here's an opportunity to get clean, and to contrast the sacred, spartan provisions of nature with the modern box spring and mattress, the thematically appointed room, the indoor plumbing. Indeed, we can thank nature for these amenities. At some point in history somebody decided to turn his back on nature, and what could she do but to show him the door, among other inventions.

Nettles

The stinging nettle is a sun-loving plant. Like many northeastern plants and wildflowers, it takes advantage of the brief period between the start of the spring thaw and the leafing out of the forest canopy, a time when the soil is fit to nurture growth and maximum sunlight reaches the forest floor. Then, like the fabled bean stalk leading up toward the clouds, nettle takes off and never looks back. Oh sure, its growth and population are generally curbed by the sun-greedy shade trees of summer. But not so this year; not since the ice storm of '98 brought what seems like every branch, stem, and twig crashing to earth, opening up the canopy dramatically, and allowing light to pour in on our nettle day after day. Like a cell mutated wildly by an overabundance of ultraviolet radiation, stinging nettle became the leitmotif of this summer's Long Trail hiker. Those hardy northbound travelers who turned left at Maine Junction, rather than right, would feel the wrath of this toxicodendron again and again, as it swooped over the trail corridor and across legs, arms, and the like. Nettle and its innumerable vegetable cohorts seemed bent on overtaking the trail, of obliterating any trace of it. Along with their close, though inanimate, friends - the rocks - they nearly insisted that hikers not hike so much as evade, circumnavigate, stumble, and route-find. So who's to blame here, anyway? Well, we could fault the nettle, the way we curse the mosquitoes, the rain, or the heat. But then nettle is just doing its job, growing and causing allergic reactions in the non-native population. We could blame the ice storm. This isn't nearly as fun as blaming the nettle, though, since it's past history. Plants we can yell at directly. And yes, we could always blame the maintaining organization whose job it is to keep the trail walkable, if not always presentable or "enjoyable." But at the end of the day, and as the histamine reaction fades, I have only myself to blame for bringing unrealistic expectations to the trail. You see, the trail always wins these kinds of arguments, and I'm best off remembering this before raising my voice. The obstacles we face in the wilderness are mostly of our own making. They are borne in the mind, but the mind can also elect to see things in a more positive way. And so the nettle grows, but I'm having a good time just the same. Maybe my attitude will rub off on others.

Rocks

The weather was exhibiting a mood most foul, and the rocks, slabs, ledges, boulders, talus, and scree were drenched to the core, slippery as few things can be. I clambered my way up another hanging garden of stone, already overtaxed by a long day of hiking more in the vertical than the horizontal. Many miles earlier I had proclaimed (to myself) that this terrain was every bit the equal of Maine's Mahoosuc portion of the Appalachian Trail. Granted, it lacked The Notch, but I was convinced it made up for that with its sheer length and consistency of tedious, technical walking. This is no place for the timid or frail. Certainly this portion of the Long Trail is negotiable by fit, experienced, youthful sorts only. Just then, a figure appeared around a bend in the rocky path. Hard to distinguish at first from the mist, fog, and ensuing darkness, the man drew closer, apparently wearing a daypack and carrying a stick. Assuming that he had just been where I was headed, I tried, "How far to the next shelter?" His trail-hardened face responded with a look of sober engagement. "Oh, maybe 2 miles," came the reply after brief calculation; then, "Any idea how far to Appalachian Gap?" (I informed him of the facts - almost there, just one more slippy dippy downhill.) Judging from his voice, he sounded a little tired, but at an estimated age of 70, perhaps 75, he was clearly entitled to be. Especially when he revealed that his starting point for the day had been Jonesville, some 23 miles to the north. This fellow adventurer stood tall, thin, and strong, with stout posture and an aura of health that belied his years. Like me, he was traveling solo. His wife and car, he hoped, were awaiting his arrival at App. Gap. Asked for his thoughts on covering such a vast and remarkable distance since only that morning, over such difficult terrain, the man replied, "A bit much for one day… Yes, a bit much." I was awestruck. Continuing on to my shelter, over and under tortuous obstacles, I drew genuine inspiration from our encounter. And I thought of him numerous times as I made passage to Jonesville over the following TWO days.

Chipmunks

Humanity can connect with the natural world. Sometimes the secret is food. Let me rephrase that: The creatures of the natural world will connect with humanity, provided that humanity has food and is inattentive. When the furry animals of the forest raid our picnic baskets, they act merely out of instinct, primal and all-powerful. When we see them doing it, and we make no effort to stop them, not only do we lose our food but we of course also take advantage of their sacred urges, allowing instinct to serve against them. Hardly the kind of connection a chipmunk needs in the harsh woods of northern Vermont. But what to do when we need that connection? How to respond after so much time spent observing the critters from the sidelines, but without a close encounter? And what happens when emotion blinds our better judgment? My brief stop at the Whiteface Shelter was intended only for a snack break, but in retrospect it was a highlight of the trip, a close brush with the world of animalia, for better or worse. The day was wet and blustery, and obviously Mr. Chipmunk, like me, sought a roof over his head and a bite to eat. No doubt he knew this place like the back of his paw. And he probably heard dinner bells with every pack zipper I unzipped and food package I opened. Elusive yet omnipresent, chippy quickly located the spoils, first scoping out the scene from on high, then moving in for the kill. In ever-tightening circles he scampered, around and around, closer and closer. He tried biting through the food bag, but I objected. He darted off for a second or two. And then he was back at it, this time eyeing the open lid of the peanut butter jar, upside down for his convenience. Again he watched my gestures of disapproval, but this time merely backed off a few inches to call my bluff. By the time my hand had reached the jar's lid, he was busily stuffing his cheeks with the excess peanut butter accumulated in its screw-on threads. But still I tried to rescind the offer. I pulled the lid slowly toward me, yet the little rodent kept right on eating, skillfully tracking the moving target with his muzzle. Clearly his wholehearted approach to mealtime was an easy match for my halfhearted objections. My hand was within an inch or two of his head when I lifted a finger, very slowly, and proceeded to stroke behind his ears. His nose quivered a touch, the beady eyes seemed to lock on to mine, but the critter did not balk. I felt along his furry flanks and then his little backbone. I could feel the chipmunk's entire body move in sympathy to his feeding face. Chippy eventually did leave, but not until his stomach was satisfied. Taking inventory as I packed my things to go, I saw that he hadn't taken much: a small amount of peanut butter and a few miscellaneous food scraps. But what he unknowingly gave back was substantial. He had lifted my spirits on a gloomy day. And he set me to pondering, not for the first time, the ethics of the forest.

Photos

Looking back at the photos I've taken on my journeys never fails to rekindle the memories. The pictures are like cue cards, 4" by 6" and glossy, prompting the mind for its lines, helping me recall the story as it unfolded day by day. Where was this? And who was that? What was I thinking, hearing, smelling, or feeling when I, or someone, took this photograph? Who was I then? Who am I now? Look there! There's mom jumping up and down for joy, as I make my way out of the woods and over to the waiting car. I remember that road crossing. It was the last one before Journey's End Road, and the completion of my Long Trail hike. Too bad I made the parents wait and worry all afternoon, but how could I predict exactly when I'd arrive? That's not easy when you're on foot, you know. And how could I forget the warmth of those dry, waiting clothes. Or the freshly made sandwiches. That sign there? Must be the sign just north of that same road crossing. Mom insisted on a posed shot here, since she wouldn't be following me to the northern terminus - journey's end - and the final, more significant signpost. Mom always likes to poke around the trail a ways near these road crossings, getting caught up in the drama of it all. And there it is! That most anticlimactic of signs, the rectangular affair nailed high on the final birch tree of the Long Trail, and facing the wrong way. La terminus du nord. Be careful or you'll miss it and continue right on into Quebec! Luckily, the camera flash really saved this photo, allowing you to easily read the wooden sign's chiseled scrawl. It was nearly dark about the time I finally got here. In fact, I can read the sign better now than I could when standing in front of it that evening. As the sign points out, this is the end of the line. Or the beginning. It really all depends on which way you're heading.

Dreams

I like to think that the Long Trail is merely a segment of a much longer path. No, not the Appalachian Trail. And not the PCT or the CT, either. The path I refer to is in the mind, and it stretches as far as our imaginations will carry us. It is the trail of dreams. As I approach the physical end of a particular trail, I'm already starting out on the next adventure - in the mind. On journey, the dream walks far ahead of me, and I struggle to keep up. And when at last my legs reach the end of the trail, I find the dream waiting for me. It sits off to the side as I pass by and descend out of the woods. It oversees as I hang the pack on the wall for another season. And it whispers to me, in a patient yet persuasive manner, as I go about my business in the world of traffic, noise, and deadlines. It strides beside me in the cold, winter woods, and we confer about the future, if only for the afternoon. Plans are made. Soon maps and guidebooks are purchased, along with any relevant gear. Then it's time to negotiate travel arrangements, and to purchase food. Lots of food. And of course: the loading of the pack. The paring of the load. The break-in of the shoes. The break-in of the feet! At last I hit the trail again - it could be anywhere, no matter. Keep it "lonely for contemplation," "remote for detachment," "narrow for chosen company," and I am happy. The dream presses ahead, floats over the hill and out of sight. I stride forward more casually. After all, what's the rush? We'll meet again.

Copyright © 2004-2005 Simblissity Ultralight