#183 Race Brook Falls to Tom Leonard Shelter - Day 108: MM1514.0M - MM1530.2 TD108
I lay here thinking about the things I’ve learned on the trail this year - the philosophies I’ve adopted, new directions I’ll take when I get home, and how old demons are fading away.
5-4-2023
Light rain fell all night, but my trusty tent kept me dry. It hasn’t yet failed me.
I pull my food bag from the bear box and have breakfast with the group of teachers and students from the Brooklyn High School.
One of the teacher’s weather apps says a major weather event is heading this way. They’re having a hard time figuring out how to hang tarps from the trees without them sliding around on the ropes, so I help them out - not my first rodeo.
I pack up my gear and tell my new friends good-bye. They’re surprised I’m leaving with the threat of storms in the immediate forecast. One of the many things I’ve learned from years of backpacking is that forecasters are often wrong, and their forecasts don’t usually reach the trail - and that my instincts are far more accurate.
This morning is no different.
I leave camp dreading the climb up Mt. Everette. It appears nearly straight up on the map. But climbing it isn’t nearly as bad as it looks on paper.
My phone rings about halfway up the mountain. It’s my friend Gov from around my hometown is checking in.
“Broheme! Get your lazy butt out of bed and get to work!” he jokes.
“Dude, I’ve climbed thirty-four mountains already this morning! What have you accomplished, three breakfasts?” I respond between gasps of breath.
I slow my upwards progress as the insults continue, but never stop hiking, despite labored breathing.
I meet two hikers near the summit who are heading back down. They tell me they’re training to hike the Grand Tetons in Wyoming this summer. I get excited when they tell me it’s snowing on top.
My friend is still on the phone and hears the guys talking about snow. He says I’m crazy.
By the time I get to the top only light flurries are floating in the wind.
Beyond the summit, I stop at Guilder Pond Picnic Area’s picnic pavilion for a snack break and sock change. I can hear a maintenance crew cutting limbs somewhere inside the tree line but never see them.
I meet five retired hikers who are heading up to Mt. Everette. They ask what brings me out here. I tell them the short version of my long story. One of them tells me she lived the same story and is still affected by it.
I hand her a card with the link to my stories on it and tell her of all the people I’ve met out here who are in the same place as us, that she’s not alone.
She asks if things ever get back to normal. I tell her that my experience so far has shown that things can get better, but it looks different than what’s hoped for. The situation may get better, but our lives and perceptions will forever be altered.
Coming off these mountains is becoming more dangerous. The integrity of my boot’s tread is causing me to slip and fall on my ass far too often when walking downward on wet boulders.
Pennsylvania, a.k.a. Rocksylvania, a.k.a. Where Boots Go to Die, has not only chewed holes in the sides of my boots, but has left them with almost no tread on bottom. I’m paying for it now.
I have to go slow and be very deliberate in my footing, each downward step has potential to be the trip-ender.
The trail mellows out beyond Mt Bushnell. It’s a bit overgrown and neglected, but at least it’s flat. I can make up some time here.
My stone-faced companion Wallace is here. He’s disguised in many decades’ worth of moss. He thinks I don’t know who’s behind the green beard, but I do. I wonder if he thinks I’m playing a trick on him, hiding behind my ever-lengthening gray beard.
The trail crosses a post-Revolutionary War Battlefield (2-27-1787) - the Last Battle of Shays Rebellion Monument.
This spot marks the final battle where farmers who had fought in the Revolutionary War came together to stand against the Massachusetts government’s over-taxation and Boston businessmen who were calling loans early, leading to foreclosures on the farmer’s property.
I dropped my pack near an old gravel driveway on the other side of the battlefield to have a snack.
My tent fly has been strapped to the outside of my pack all day to dry out from last night’s rain. Now dry, I stuff into my pack.
Big dark clouds quickly roll over the same mountains I spent all morning hiking across. They continue rolling across the sky over the valley, engulfing the sun.
The wind picks up and the temperature drops. I put my socks and boots back on my feet and my pack’s rain cover over it in anticipation of a rainy hike across the rest of the valley and up the next mountain to the shelter.