For the purposes of keeping things at least a little bit shorter, I'll be breaking up my full recap by the North and South sections. Click here to read about why I started this hike in the first place, and here to read about how I prepared to hop on the trail. June 30th: this is getting real After a long day of packing up my apartment, moving out, driving home, sorting out food, packing and repacking my backpack, and trying to remember any last-minute items I needed to pick up (luckily, there were none), my alarm goes off at 7 am & I roll out of bed to get ready to head to Vermont. My parents drive my friend (who will do the first 5 days) and me the 10 hours to Jay, Vermont, where we grab dinner and spend the night at the Jay Village Inn. I'm nervous, excited, and ready to finally start this adventure. July 1st: and so it begins 10 miles: 1.3 into the terminus, 8.7 to Laura Woodward After a leisurely breakfast at the country store across the road from the inn and a quick stop back to our rooms to use the bathroom, we bump down the rough trail to get to the approach of the Long Trail. I spray my first of many coats of bug spray, tuck my pants into my socks, and put on my backpack, already surprised at how heavy it feels. The 1.3 mile hike into the terminus of the LT gains nearly 1,000 feet in that distance, and I'm sweating and tired before I even make it to the border. My parents (rockstars that they are) hike in with the two of us, take our picture at the border, and remind us that there's no shame in stopping early if we need to. We're determined to try our best and, already humbled by the trail, begin our journey. On our way to Laura Woodward, we peak several small mountains (some are marked, some are not) and quickly realize that the Long Trail will be a lot of pain with little visual reward — wooded summits are commonplace, offering little-to-no views of the elevation we're climbing. We run into a hiker about to finish, who tells us we'll have a hard section "between miles 35 and 135" and to "enjoy every minute of the hike." After some demoralizing climbs, we take a break, eat a snack, and press forward. We stop at Shooting Star shelter for lunch, where I quickly realize that I will not be able to choke down tortillas and peanut butter every day for lunch. After bumping over Doll Peak (twice, as there are two deceivingly large humps to go over), we roll into Laura Woodward shelter, filter water from a puddle-type creek, cook dinner, and figure out how to do a PCT bear hang. There's a beautiful sunset filtering through the trees, calming my nerves and reminding me that all of this — the climbing, the food, the new experiences — is such a gift. We stretch, attempt to dry our shoes, and roll into our sleeping bags, excited but nervous for what tomorrow will bring. Day 2: the day shit gets real 8.3 miles: Laura Woodward to Hazen's Notch Although I've never slept well outdoors, the combination of several hectic weeks and three nights of little sleep means I wake up more rested than expected, an experience my trail partner Mountain Goat did not share. We eat breakfast, pack up camp, and hop on the trail, and my hips — abused by the hip belt on my pack — immediately protest. My legs, however, aren't sore, and I remind myself to be thankful for that as we move forward. We pass two hikers on our way up to Jay Peak who remind us to focus on "relentless forward progress," a mantra that will stay with me throughout the rest of the hike. After some confusion as we come out of the woods and try to figure out where the trail goes (straight up the ski hill), we summit Jay Peak, which is totally socked in by fog. While views would have been nice, the fog is comforting and eerily beautiful, something I appreciate more than I expect. The rest of the day is relentless, involving several mountains, many slippery rocks, and constant PUDs (pointless ups and downs) that make my knees ache. Already, I've realized that I need arch support for my shoes that I won't be able to get for at least three days, and the last several miles into Hazen's Notch are a painful hobble. It takes us 7.5 hours after leaving camp to make it the 8.3 miles to Hazen's Notch, and I'm trying very hard to get out of my head and take the trail one day — and one step — at a time. Just as I've managed to calm myself down, I see a sign reminding me I have 254.6 miles to go before I reach the southern terminus, a distance that seems overwhelmingly far away. After soaking my feet in the freezing creek, rolling out my arches on my golf ball, and doing some yoga, my spirits are lifted. Mountain Goat and I joke with others who are about to finish their thru-hike and then go to bed early, hoping the next day's mileage will pass quickly. Day 3: Trenchfoot 14.6 miles: Hazen's Notch to Spruce Ledge Camp The morning starts out chilly and rainy, but I choke down my stale granola, pack my bag, and get ready to rock and roll on Day 3. The trail is slippery and almost constant rock, and immediately after joking to Mountain Goat that my goal is to not fall during the day, I slip and skid a few feet down the hill. A few minutes later, I fall again, this time twisting my knee in an awkward position. Luckily, nothing is seriously injured, but I'm intimidated at the thought of doing this for another 12 (and 254.6) miles. When we stop for lunch, we realize that our mileage is off: we have 8.6 miles left to cover instead of 6. Although slightly demoralized, we leave the shelter and spend a few minutes trying to find the trail — once we do, I immediately fall again, but at this point, I'm used to it :) We're less than 3 miles from camp when the soles of my feet, which are already sore, start itching, then burning. I take off my socks and discover that my feet are white and wrinkly, but there's nothing I can do but hike in my Chacos and hope for the best. Immediately after this, we climb our first ladder and cross into Devil's Gulch and are amazed by how mystical it seems — despite having more miles to go, we feel like we are on an adult playground and soak in what is the clear highlight of the trail so far. While morale is high, my body is tired and my feet are screaming in pain, making the last trek to camp seem to last forever. Mountain Goat stays in front of me, helping me stay motivated, and we eventually climb the 830 vertical feet to stay at Spruce Ledge for the evening. Although we should have gotten water before the shelter (there's nothing reliable there), we luckily have enough for dinner, breakfast, and to get to the next water source. We also see a well-placed ad for Nye's Bed and Breakfast near Johnson and decide to try to stay there if possible when we resupply. Day 4: "Your first real mountain is yet to come" 15.1 miles: Spruce Ledge to Roundtop We wake up and discover that our socks, despite being hung from the clotheslines inside the shelter, are still totally soaked from the days prior. I decide to save my last dry pair to hike into town the next day, so I put on mud-crusted socks/shoes and remind myself that I'll step in a puddle soon anyway. Another hiker, Toejam, has informed us that we have an "easy 15 miles" ahead of us, but when we spend the first part of the day climbing a steep uphill, we're not sure we're in agreement about what "easy" means. Despite our misgivings, the day is better than others have been so far, featuring flat sections of trail and some smooth terrain. I try to appreciate this, but my arches begin aching less than a mile into the day, and we learn that the bed and breakfast has no room for hikers, which is more than a little demoralizing. When we stop for lunch, I try to fix the hot spots building on my feet, which requires more Moleskine than I wanted to use. When we hop back on the trail, Mountain Goat's knee begins seizing up and we both are hobbling as we climb up and over Laraway. On the other side, however, we are treated to our first views of the trail and to some trail magic in the form of lettuce & carrots from a day hiker, which boosts our spirits and makes everything in the last 4 days completely and totally worth it. I do a quick attitude reset and remind myself to be grateful that I have the opportunity to be here. I'm absurdly thankful for Mountain Goat and her support on the first few days of the trail — she's crushing the hills and pulling me with her. Buoyed by the thought of a resupply that includes arch supports, a knee brace, and a lunch food that isn't tortillas, Mountain Goat and I make it to camp by 5:30, cook dinner, do a bear hang, and enjoy the sunset. Somewhere in there, we're reminded at the (very full) shelter that we haven't even climbed the first "real" mountain of the trail, a fact that does nothing to make us excited for the coming days. However, we discover that the friend of a hiker will be driving into Johnson tomorrow and is willing to take us there, which means laundry & food & less walking than expected, which does wonders for the morale. We agree to meet at the trailhead by 9 the next morning and crawl into our sleeping bags. Day 5: a turning point 7.6 miles: Roundtop to Bear Hollow w/a resupply in Johnson In the morning, we make breakfast and chat with other hikers, half of whom are days away from finishing while others have many miles to go. I discover that my pinky toe, which I initially thought was just sore, is actually completely covered on the bottom by a blister, which I drain, clean, and cover. Although my feet are "not well" according to Mountain Goat, I'm determined to be a good sport. The mileage in the morning passes quickly — we peak Roundtop at 7:45 and have long stretches of smooth dirt, lifting our spirits considerably. We're both dreaming of fresh food and sandwiches in town. Our trail friend drives us to Sterling Market, we say goodbye, and then we spend the next hour wandering grocery aisles, slightly overwhelmed by all our options. I get a yogurt and a sub and a cherry coke and ranch bugles for lunch, resupply for the trail, and sit with Mountain Goat outside to divvy up the food into our packs. Unfortunately, there's nowhere in town to get a knee brace or arch supports and the hardware store is closed for the observance of the 4th of July, so I mentally prepare myself for another 6 days of hobbling and cross my fingers that the strain I'm putting on my plantar fascia doesn't cause any long-term issues. We spend the next few hours at the laundromat, where I rinse my hair in the sink for the first time in 5 days, charge my phone, download several new books on my Kindle, and enjoy eating lunch in a chair in my rain gear and shorts. With fresh clothes and full bellies, we feel like new women and are ready to get back on the trail. The first mile toward our next shelter is on a smooth, gradual dirt path, and I'm lulled into a false sense of ease. The next 3.5, however, are on a logging road that goes up for what seems like forever. We play music and settle into a rhythm of up up up that will become familiar on the rest of the trail, and we're sweaty but satisfied when we get to camp. Mountain Goat needs to get off the trail earlier than planned, so we discuss the logistics of what that looks like, divvy up food, and prepare to part ways in the morning. Despite that, we're grateful for the time we spent together and look forward to reconnecting when I'm off the trail at the end of July. I talk on the phone with my partner for a while, feeling excited but slightly nervous at the thought of being solo. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to what's coming next! Day 6: Why is there so much f#%@ing climbing??? 13.5 miles: Buchanan to Taft This morning is our latest start so far, but it feels nice to ease into the trail. After saying goodbye to Mountain Goat, I spend the first 3 hours of the day climbing up up up up up, summiting Whiteface, which feels completely and utterly relentless. My efforts are rewarded with more fog and a storm rolling in, and I scramble to try to get off the summit and to a lower elevation. The downhill is steep and rocky, often requiring me to ease myself down with my hands, and I'm suddenly glad I spent so much time rock climbing before coming on the trail. Lunch is cheese on a hamburger roll, another source of joy: no more tortillas! Soon after lunch, I start climbing again. I have a moment of fear when I place a foot wrong at the top of a 10-foot wet rock face, cheese-gratering back down the surface I just edged my way up. Somehow, I'm completely uninjured, but it's a good reality check to tread carefully. I continue my climb up toward Madonna Peak, constantly repeating "little steps, big progress," and I'm met with views and wildflowers and a sense of peace that can only come from physical exhaustion and pride and the knowledge that there's still a long way to go. This is, mentally and physically, the hardest day of the trail for me (and keeps that title for the rest of my time on the LT). I make it to Sterling Pond, refill on water, and have to dig deep to keep moving — I want to stop early, but know I have several hard days of climbing in front of me and need to stay on track for my resupply at Lincoln Gap. A section hiker assures me that the next 4ish miles to Taft Lodge are "rugged but switchbacky," so I tell myself that I'll be fine and decide to press on toward Taft without looking at the elevation profile on the map. When I reach Smuggler's Notch, I'm mentally and physically done, but still have 2 miles left to go to reach the shelter. The trail is rocky and rooty and completely free of switchbacks, and as I climb up Mansfield, I gain almost 2100 feet in 1.7 miles (the full climb has 2800 feet in 2.3 miles). This climb is a constant slog with a lot of swearing under my breath — I cannot remember the last time I was this tired and in this much pain. I stop often, leaning my forehead onto my trekking poles and feeling completely spent. Every time I say "I can't do this," I follow it up with a half-hearted "I can do this, I just don't want to" — and then, for someone who doesn't swear, I spend a lot of time saying the f-word. I limp into camp around 7:20 and have never been more glad to see a shelter. I write in my camp journal and bundle into my puffy and sit on the deck of Taft Lodge, feeling drained and proud and excited to summit Mansfield in the morning. Day 7: views on views on views 14.5 miles: Taft to Buchanan I wake up at 7 the next morning and sit on the deck while talking with others, eating oatmeal and drinking instant coffee and feeling buoyed by the sunshine that is easing through the clouds. I pack up my things and set off toward the summit, a climb that feels far easier than the trek to the shelter the night before, even though it is more of a rock scramble than before. Everything — the alpine flowers, the blue skies, the endless mountains — feels special, and I can't stop feeling like I want the trail to last forever, an abrupt turnaround from yesterday's frustration. I'm learning that feelings pass quickly, so I hold onto the good and let go of the bad as much as I can. Two day hikers point out the distinct tip of Camel's Hump in the distance, and it starts to sink in that I'll be there in only 2 (!!) days. I take my time crossing first the Chin, then the Forehead, wanting to stretch out the views while staying cognizant of the knowledge that I have miles to go before I reach the shelter that evening. As I descend the mountain, I'm grateful that I'm going SOBO — the climb up was hard, but I would have been far more scared to go down the rock than I was to go up. As it is, I pick my way down roots and ladders and make it a goal to keep a good attitude, no matter what happens. That's tested almost immediately at lunch, where I discover that several hikers are hopping off the trail to try to avoid a serious rainstorm that promises to hit the next day and dump several inches of rain on top of a trail that is already muddy and slippery. As I climb Puffer mountain, which feels bigger than the elevation profile indicated, I'm grumpy and lonely and hoping for company at that evening's shelter. The day seems to last forever in a positive way, and, despite my nerves about the next day's storm, I stop to appreciate the way mushrooms sprout off the trees and an overlook and 2 jugs of water that are left as trail magic — I don't need them, but the kindness lifts me up just the same. The night ends by the fire at a shelter with 2 other hikers (one NOBO, one SOBO), and I'm determined to get up early the next morning to cram in miles before the rain begins. I wake up once in the middle of the night and step out of the shelter to look up at the sky, which is covered by the most beautiful, intense stars I've ever seen in my life. Here in the wilderness, miles from the closest road, shivering in the darkness, I feel like I'm coming home. Day 8: I get lucky 12 miles: Buchanan to Bamforth The first thing I hear when my alarm goes off is Gravy Train speaking from the top bunk, letting us know that we'll be getting 3 inches of rain starting at 10 am. I hustle through breakfast and book it back to the trail, practically jogging to make it as far as possible before the storm begins. As I hurtle down a lovely section of endless dirt switchbacks, I'm met by a day hiker and his three dogs: he passed another guy who was staying at the shelter, who told him to tell me that rain won't hit until 4. Immediately I'm less cranky and less stressed and totally stoked for the day, and I set off in a much better mood. I pass through a farm that the LT intersects and have to take off my pack to slither under a portion of an electric fence that crosses the trail and get charged by a fluffy white guard dog who (luckily) swerves at the fence line. Although I'm happy that rain won't come until later, I'm really in pain by the time I make it to the parking lot that indicates I have 2.7 miles to go to reach Bamforth. I cry for the first time as I sit on a rock and listen to a voice memo from my partner, who will be bringing salad and arch support and moral support when he meets me the next evening. I really really really don't want to do this climb, and just as I'm thinking that, another hiker who is starting from that point gets dropped off. We laugh and climb together, which makes the time pass quickly. We make it to Bamforth by 3pm and, although I'm tempted to try to make it up and over Camel's Hump, I'm worried about getting caught on the exposed summit. Instead, I camp wash my hair and read a book and eat a snack and chat with the other hikers at the shelter, trying to figure out how much misery waits for me the next day. I'm concerned at how much my arches are dying — even walking around camp has started to cause serious pain, but I'm unwilling to even consider stopping, especially since I know my partner will be meeting me with inserts soon. I'm repeatedly warned about Mt. Ethan Allen and go to bed anxious, knowing that I have a long day in front of me. Rain finally starts at midnight, and I spend the night frustrated that I didn't choose to summit while the rock was dry. Day 9: the day the stream is the trail 13.6 miles: Bamforth to Birch Glen I wake up and am on the trail at 6:45, intensely nauseated and stressed, and only manage to choke down some fruit snacks before beginning the 3.5 mile climb up to Camel's Hump. After a miserable hour of hiking where I try to decide whether I need to puke or something else, I dig an emergency cathole in the woods and feel much better for it afterward. I put some food in my stomach, play some worship music, and make 2 false-summits before reaching the top of Camel's Hump. On my way up, I slip down several feet of sheer rock before I'm able to arrest my fall, which is a jolt of adrenaline. I also give up on keeping my shoes dry: there is literally water rushing through the path, and I resign myself to having some very wet feet as the day goes on. The summit is socked in by fog, which is beautiful but frustrating, and the descent is almost straight down wet rock. By the time I make it to Montclair for lunch, I'm worried that I'll be hiking in the dark if I can't pick up the pace — I'm expecting the next 5 miles to be slow-going. I give myself 30 minutes to dry off my feet and take care of my blisters and roll out my arches and hope that my body cooperates for the rest of the day (and the rest of the hike), the only time I stop moving until I get to my destination at 6:30. Instead, I'm pleasantly surprised: the miles go by quickly and the terrain is no worse than anything I've climbed so far. Burnt Rock is challenging but beautiful, far enough below the tree line that I can see views of the mountains. I fall in the stream butt-first at one point, but my dry bag and the trash bag that lines my pack keeps that from being anything more than an inconvenience. I play music for the last few miles, get water before I reach camp, and make it my goal to cover the last 2 miles in less than the time it will take to listen to the Greatest Showman soundtrack. I beat my goal by 2 songs and immediately take off my soaked shoes and change into my long-sleeve shirt. Then I hear the distinctive sound of my partner clearing his throat as he approaches the shelter and suddenly the day of wet rock and wet trail and wet feet is forgotten — I have company and I get my first hug in 9 days and life is wonderful. I wring water out of my socks as we talk about what the trail has been like so far, we eat salad (!!) and canned peaches and graham crackers that he packed in, and I feel like the luckiest person alive as I get to share this adventure with a person that I love. Day 10: so this is what the trail is like 15.2 miles: Birch Glen to Sunset Ledge (primitive-camped) It's just Ryan and me at the shelter in the morning, and we take our time cooking breakfast, eating bacon and eggs that Ryan packed in as I boil water for coffee. When we set off from camp, we immediately start hiking uphill and continue to do so for the next 3 miles, climbing over rocks and pulling ourselves up the trail, sometimes literally. We can see Camel's Hump in the distance, and it's wild to me that something I climbed just yesterday already looks so far away. The day is sunny and clear — something I tell Ryan is not normal — but the trail is muddy and the climbs are steep, so he's still experiencing many of the realities of the trail. We summit several ski mountains and eat Swedish Fish and soak in the views and time together. With Ryan, I hike faster than my usual pace but also stop more often: I normally only pause for lunch and eat snacks while moving, but we both enjoy taking time to sit and enjoy views while sharing Chicken in a Biskit crackers and crunching on apples. Despite the morale boost of having Ryan here, my legs are feeling the effects of 10 straight days of high mileage and long climbs; when I first planned my itinerary using Guthooks, I underestimated mileage by as much as 2 miles per day, and today is no exception — I realize later that we went 15.2 miles rather than the 14 I had planned for. By the time we make it up Mount Abraham, my arches are screaming and my legs are tired and I'm ready to be done with 3 miles left to go. We're hoping to make it to Sunset Ledge in time to see the sunset, which promises to be stellar, which motivates me to keep moving, as does following Ryan (who I mentally trail-named Billy Goat because of how quickly he can move down the rocky downhills). We pick up my resupply at his car at Lincoln Gap, then hike fast up the 1.1 miles to Sunset Ledge; although it's all uphill, the trail is primarily smooth dirt and has switchbacks, making it one of the fastest miles of the day. We've timed our hike perfectly and we have some wiggle room before losing daylight, so we set up the tent, change into camp clothes, preset our bear hang, and start making dinner. The views are wild and the sunset is beautiful and we eat a hot meal while watching the colors fade out and the stars starts appearing. Ryan makes a run down to the car at 10 pm (boyfriend of the year!!) to retrieve the arch supports we forgot at the car because, as he puts it, "one hour of discomfort for me will avoid 4 more days of discomfort for you"). I wander around camp in circles for 20 minutes trying to find the bear hang and make it back to the tent just as Ryan jogs back up from the car. The night is cool and the stars are bright and I'm grateful to have a buddy at our campsite. Day 11: I get a trail name 11.3 miles: Sunset Ledge to Skyline Lodge We wake up in the morning to more good weather and I discover that, for the first time in 4 days, my socks have totally dried out overnight. We cook breakfast and break down camp and when I put on my backpack, I notice that it is totally and completely soaked. I'm worried that I popped my water bladder when I fell the day before, but discover that the lid of it just wasn't totally fastened. Although I'm starting the day with a wet butt and back, I'm just happy that all my gear is intact and everything will dry. I say goodbye to Ryan, who will hike back down to his car, and hop back on the trail, bummed that he's leaving but buoyed by the promise of a zero day in Killington in 4 days. 20 minutes into the hike, I pass by two GMC caretakers who strike up a conversation with me. When one discovers I don't have a trail name yet, she asks what's on my hat and, after hearing that it's lemons, she nicknames me Zester. Suddenly, I feel like a real hiker, and despite blisters and tired legs and a little bit of loneliness, the Long Trail feels like a place that I really belong. The rest of the day passes slowly — it's grey and humid and I can't find a rhythm and wow does my body hurt, but I listen to music and feel grounded by my labored breathing and pounding heartbeat as I climb yet another uphill. At the top of Mount Wilson, I take an hour to sit and look at the views and eat my remaining Swedish Fish and chat with a trail runner, who assures me that there is a 15-mile section coming up after Brandon Gap that is fully and completely trail-runnable. I pass another group of hikers who have settled in at a shelter when I stop to get water, and I'm excited to introduce myself using my trail name for the first time. By the time I make it to Skyline Lodge, I'm ready for a hot meal and for bed. For the first time on the trail, I'm alone at a shelter and, at first, this is panic-inducing. I let myself cry and feel sorry for myself for 20 minutes, but then do some grounding techniques and focus on how far from a road I am and how I've been craving alone time anyway. I cook my pasta and call Ryan and crawl into bed, where I'm so tired that I fall asleep within minutes. Day 12: sunshine changes the game 9.7 miles: Skyline to Sucker Brook I set my alarm for the sunrise, which Guthooks emphasizes should be incredible, but can only see a tinge of pink on the left edge of the sky — the rest is grey from the ever-present fog. I'm exhausted and know I have a short day in front of me, so I crawl back into my sleeping bag without setting an alarm and wake up at 8 feeling rested and happy and ready to go. I have 2 clean pairs of socks left and 3 days before I can do laundry, so I let myself put on a fresh, dry pair, the first time I've gotten to do that in at least 4 days. This is a game-changer and I can't stop smiling as I start the hike. Sometime in the afternoon, I pass the halfway point and it starts to sink in that I've powered myself through 135 miles of mud and ass-kicking climbs and knee-crunching descents. Ryan's arch supports have already made a difference and my pain levels have gone from searing to dull, making the remaining half of the trail feel far more manageable. The day passes quickly and ends at just the right time and I have the shelter to myself for almost 2 hours. In that time, I rinse out my underwear and lay out my clothes in the sun to dry and cook instant mashed potatoes and do yoga and soak in the feeling of sunshine soaking through my long-sleeve shirt. I'm warm and dry and happy and take the time to open my trail journal and write down more than what happened that day, jotting down the lessons the Long Trail has taught me and what my priorities are and what rhythms I want to establish when I get back to "real life." I'm eventually joined by two high-school graduates and we talk about jazz music and religion and the universe and books we recommend, and then we make a fire to dry out our clothes even more and I genuinely could not ask for a better day. Day 13: a zero is coming soon 12.8 miles: Sucker Brook to David Logan The three of us wake up at 6:30 to absolutely pouring rain, something that does little for the morale. Up until now, it's mostly rained overnight, so I tell myself that I'm overdue for this anyway. I change into my trail clothes before I leave the shelter, a good call because I'm soaked by the time I'm done wrestling my Ursack off the tree, but at least I'll have dry clothes that night when I get to camp. Back inside the shelter, I bundle into my puffy and eat my breakfast inside my sleeping bag, psyching myself up for a day that promises to be wet wet wet. I'm only a few minutes into the hike when the rain starts to slow and I can feel my mood lift as the dampness dissipates. The trail can't decide whether it wants to go up or down, but I don't mind; the elevation is less significant than most other days I've done thus far, and I'm enjoying the company of my own thoughts. Coming down Mount Horrid, I slip on the third-to-last step and whack the edge of my left hand on a rock. I'm concerned because my pinky is totally numb and starts to swell, but there's nothing I can do except hike on and hope I didn't break anything. My luck holds: within an hour, feeling comes back and, except for some stiffness, I'm totally fine. As soon as I cross Brandon Gap, the trail becomes noticeably smoother and more level, featuring real dirt instead of just jagged rock. I enjoy winding my way through foggy woods and get lost in the company of my own thoughts. Just before the elevation gain returns, I pass an AT hiker who has returned to finish the northern section of the LT, who tells me I'm "ballsy" for going SOBO. I spend the rest of the day telling myself that I'm a badass and getting excited for the next day, which promises a REAL shower at the end of it! I also get hit hard by hiker's hunger, something that will stick around for the rest of the trail. At David Logan, there are 5 NOBO hikers who are happy to share stories, and we spend the evening laughing and joking about what we have in store on the trail in front of us. I stretch and eat a spare PopTart and then read for a bit, content and excited for the Inn at the Long Trail the next day. Day 14: it's here it's here it's here 13.9 miles: David Logan to the Inn at the Long Trail I am raring to go when I wake up and can't wait to get the day started: the faster I hike, the sooner I'm done! I roll out of camp by 8:30 — not an early start, but not particularly late — and set off. Most of the morning is spent soaking in the details of nature around me: I'm enjoying small orange mushrooms and a random overlook I pass and the way the sunshine filters through the trees. I stop and eat lunch 7 miles into the day, perfectly halfway between David Logan and my final destination. An older hiker, Little John, assures me that the day's forecasted thunderstorm will pass by us, so I take my time after lunch, pausing to soak in the sun as I cross abandoned logging areas. Around 2:30, thunder crashes overhead and the skies open up with little warning and I am totally and completely drenched in my first time hiking through a thunderstorm on the LT. Any other day, this would be concerning — I have goosebumps and didn't even have time to get my raincoat out of the brain of my pack. Today, I'm comforted by the dryer that waits for me at the Inn and instead just chalk it up as part of the experience: I've always loved walking in the rain and there's no better moment to do it than now! And then, before I know it, I'm at Maine Junction and there's the sign that indicates that the LT and the AT are diverging and I know that I have approximately 100 miles left to go on this trail that has become my happy place. Although I have the option of taking Sherburne Pass, which will let out directly by the LT, I'm determined to only white-blaze the LT and instead meander through the trail. I've made great time moving through the storm and have crushed these miles faster than any other day on the LT, so I have some time to kill before my parents make it into town to meet me and I'm in no hurry. I dry out as I walk thanks to the sunshine that's coming through the trees and I genuinely cannot stop smiling as I go — I just keep thinking "how lucky am I???" The LT is an exercise in being thankful for the little things, and blue skies and clear light have become things I treasure. I make it to the parking lot and cross the road and sit on a rock and let myself take a breath — I've made it 14 full days on the Long Trail, despite never having done more than a single-night backpacking trip before setting off on this solo SOBO adventure, and I'm one mile down the road from not having to hike at all the next day. With that in mind, I set off toward the Inn along the busy road, methodically beating out my steps in rhythm with my hiking poles and my breathing, and before I know it I'm there and check in to my room and take a shower and feel like a new woman by the time my parents arrive.
I eat blueberries that they brought as we talk about highlights of the trail and the storm they drove through (that I had just hiked in) and joke about how all I had to do to get real, visible abs was carry a third of my bodyweight up and over mountains for two weeks. That night, I eat the best veggie burger I've ever tasted and split desserts with my parents and fall asleep on the pullout couch — I wake up once in the middle of the night totally and completely disoriented, and it takes me a minute of feeling above my head for a bunk or the walls of my tent to realize that I'm back in civilization, an adjustment that feels both larger and simpler than I expected.
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LizWriting, running, reading, and keeping it real along the way. Archives
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