George Cathcart's Appalachian Trail Journals -- Part III (Selections)

7-24 7:22 p.m. Seth Warner Shelter, Vermont.VERMONT! This is the first state on the AT that I had never been in before. I've also never been in N.H. or Maine. 8:18 p.m. Too many people here tonight. I've come and set up the tent about 50 yards from the shelter. There are even too many people here. Tony McGuire is here. So is Jim Lustig, a thru-hiker I had not met before. But the rest of these people are weekenders -- 12 of them all together, and I think 3 or 4 more down near the brook. Then the 5 thru hikers (Chris & Alf, of course, are also here), and this is a mob. It's a quiet mob. We 5 have been the loudest, telling Trail tales, and generally either intimidating or amusing the weekenders. Actually, all the weekenders are nice but one old guy -- he made a point of telling Alf he's 67 -- who is loaded with gratuitous advice and stories. He's very boring. I think it was mainly for his sake we started telling trail tales, especially obscene ones. He finally left us alone. Anway, it's been a nice hike today, just over 13 miles, a few very nice views, especially from Mt. Williams, down over the Hoosic Valley over the communities of Greylock and North Adams. Then it was a steep but not too rough descent down to Mass. 2, where Chris & Alf & I ate lunch under a big shade tree. After lunch I walked into a lady's back yard and asked her for water and would it be all right if we left our garbage in her can. Of course. There's a lot of rumbling in my stomach tonight, which is not a good sign. I've had completely loose bowels for 2 days now, though I have no other signs of dysentery -- no cramps or weakness or fever. It may just be from overindulging in Dalton the other day. Anyway, after lunch we started to climb into Vt. I loved it. The Trail went up gradually beside a brook for over a mile then cut away and climbed steeply to a ridge top, good views. I took a break there beside a pretty little marsh and waited for Chris and Alf. Chris hasn't been feeling good today; she's like I was yesterday, headachy, out of energy, etc. Hiker's blahs. I think the short day today was good for her. I think it was good for all of us. It's great to be in Vermont. Thrushes are singing to each other near me now as darkness envelops the tent. The birches are incredible, or is it just because this is Robert Frost's state? No matter. He was right about the birches. There is also a fragrance of pine here that overcomes even my own stench. I enjoy hiking with Chris and Alf. Alf gets a little impatient at times and doesn't like to take breaks, but I think it's because he's very slow on climbs. And that's because he smokes cigarettes. Incredible, but true. Chris is delightful to hike with. She's a little pixie with short blond hair in a page boy, John Denver glasses, even a John Denver face, come to think of it. She's a delightful conversationalist, with a great sense of humor and a compelling way with stories. She positively lights up when she tells of her hikes (treks, she calls them) in the Himalayas. Alf is married, has children. Chris is divorced, no kids. I'm not quite sure what their relationship is, but I'm pretty sure it's on the level. I don't know why they've come to like me so much, except of course for my shining personality, sharp wit, easy-going nature, rib-tickling sense of humor and rugged good looks. But last night Alf honored me with another Aussie souvenir. I now have my kangaroo, my Tasmanian flag and, get this, an official Australian tourist promotion flag lapel pin. I believe I'm the only thru-hiker with all 3 of those things. How about that!

7-25 -- 7:10 p.m. On the top bunk of the Melville Nauheim shelter. The afternoon hike was great. There still aren't a lot of views, but on top of Harmon Hill there were raspberries and excellent views of Bennington and Mt. Anthony. I took a lot of pictures of Tony and Chris picking raspberries there. Then it was a steep descent to Rt. 9, the first highway crossing in Vt. There were rocks arranged as steps on the descent; someone's done a lot of work for that. Then, of course, it was a steep climb up the other side for a mile and a half. It wasn't all that bad really, but we just haven't had long climbs in many weeks. There have been some steep ones, but rarely for more than a few hundred feet. We're in real mountains again now, even though the elevations aren't that great yet. Vermont is just about right for the real tough climbs coming up in N.H. Anyway, I've been in great spirits all day. It does just keep getting better and better. As I was doing early in the hike, I find myself laughing as I walk along, feeling high and giddy and good. The weather's right, the mountains are beautiful, the company's fine (Chris, Alf and Tony are with me now). I may have been afraid of the Whites and the Mahoosucs before, but I think I'll be more than ready for them when I get there. I'm so glad now that I stuck it out through the hard and sometimes dull middle parts of the Trail. To have given up then (I was never all that close to doing so, I don't think) and missed New England would have been a tragedy.

7-30 -- 7:04 p.m. The bar at the Inn at Long Trail, Sherburne Pass. One minor and one near-disaster today, but I'm in good spirits even with very sore feet after the rocky, rooty route up Killington Peak. The near-disaster occurred after a lovely start from the shelter at 7:15 this morning. It was a nice steep climb to the top of Beacon Hill, where there were good views. The Trail went through pasture land and woods. At one point I heard a rustling up a tree and saw a raccoon scrambling up, not 20 feet away. It stopped and I talked to it for a while, trying to assure it I meant no harm, and trying unsuccessfully to talk it down. No luck. As I walked away, I shouted back, "But you'd make a fine hat!" The 'coon raced up the tree. A little later I was descending toward Cold River Road and the grocery store there. The Trail was dirt, neither rocks nor roots, but very steep. I should have known better. I hit a still-wet spot and skidded. My left knee went under me and I heard a loud snap and felt a sharp pain. Tears immediately welled up, not from pain but from the possibility that this could be the end of the hike. I got up immediately and kept walking. The knee was sore, and I had to favor it, but it soon was all right. I said a little prayer of thanks and kept going, but got angry with myself for slipping 2 more times as I descended. I made it to the store and got a few needed groceries and a pint of chocolate chip ice cream. C & A and Tony showed up, and then I had the urge to have another pint of ice cream. So I did. Tony and I left together and headed up the road til an old lady on the road hailed us and informed us we had missed the Trail. She told us where to go and said she'd been doing this all summer. It's the one complaint I have about Vermont. Intersections at roads are very poorly marked. All too often I've had to stop, drop my pack and look up where to go at roads because the blazing couldn't be seen. The fact that the old lady had had to send so many people back proved to me that it was poorly marked. Anyway, we got back on the Trail and started the easy, gradual beginning of the climb up Killington. It was a lovely ascent, along a series of brooks tumbling through small ravines. But soon I was disturbed by a filling feeling in my lower bowel. No sweat, I thought, I'll make the next shelter, and I kept going. The feeling got more urgent and I picked up my pace. Suddenly I knew I wasn't going to make the shelter. I crashed off into the weeds and got just, well, almost out of sight of the Trail, but it was too late. When I got done with the cleanup I buried the shorts I'd been wearing, those tattered black nylon running shorts Ted Whitaker gave me, and checked the guidebook to find I was a quarter mile from the shelter. I found C & A and Tony there, and they were all sympathetic, and Alf told a funny story about losing it on a bus once, and that made me feel a little better. I rested a few minutes after they had left and then started the long rugged climb along Little Killington and on up K. Peak itself. I caught up with Tony, then we found C & A just as they dropped their packs to take the side trail up to K. Peak summit. We joined them and scrambled up. There at the top we found a few dozen tourists who had come up by ski lift. What a riot! All those tourists were standing there gawking and taking pictures of us as we came up over the rocks. I felt like an animal, but found it amusing. We went to the cafeteria for lunch -- I had a chili dog, of course, what better after an attack of trots? More stares from the tourists. Maybe that's [why] I'm in such a good mood. And as we left, one old lady said, "There they go! God bless youse!" "Thank you!" we chorused, laughing. "What are yez lookin' for?" she asked. "Moose!" we all shouted. Then we scrambled back down to our packs. Tony said the rocky side Trail reminded him of the Trail up Katahdin, up to tree line. After that, he said, it gets rough. Ha! Oh, well, by that time it would take a vertical wall with concertina wire and machine gunners to stop me. At Pico Shelter I found that the register was full, so I packed it up and left my own. Then Chris and I practically ran down the mountain after Alf, who had refused to stay and sign my register. Alf says he thinks the register will be stolen w/o being returned to me. If it is, I'll know he did it. Well, anyway, here we are now at the Inn at Long Trail, a pretty good deal and $6/person. Alf & Tony & I are sharing a room, and Chris is sharing a room with a southbound thru-hiker named Teresa. It's the "hiker's special," dormitory type accommodations, hot bath, and there's a hot tub here that I think I'm going to go soak in after I eat my second ham sandwich, and then I'm going to come -- Oh, never mind, I'll explain later.

August 1, 1982 7:56 p.m. Cloudland Shelter. A very short day today. It was just one of those days. Hiker's blahs. Headache, no energy, blyeah! Got a late start, had some tough climbs and just ran out of gas here. The final blow was having a hard time finding this shelter. It's listed at .1 mile from Cloudland Road, and we couldn't find it there. It's more like 1/2 a mile. Anyway, I was whipped, and Tony & Jim were feeling pretty low, so we ate lunch and crashed. Chris and Alf went on to Happy Hill Cabin. So tomorrow is Hanover, 15 miles from here over easy terrain. I should make it in plenty of time, and be able to get in a full day's hike on Tuesday, too. My initial study of the Whites seems to indicate it will slow me down too much to make my birthday party on Katahdin, but I'm not giving up yet. In order to stay here tonight I had to bum food from Tony. Tony got a mail drop a couple of days ago, so he has a pack full of food. He asked what I wanted, and I said, "What have you got?" Five minutes later he handed me a sheet of paper on which he had written "La Menu, Chez Antoine," and listed what he had. I chose chicken, mashed potatoes and corn. Jim later shared some of his fried matzo. Everything was excellent. I felt much better after my nap this afternoon. I didn't sleep well last night. I'm sure that was the main problem today. Tomorrow will be better. It's got to be.

8-13 7:15 a.m. In the tent beside the Trail at Osgood Cut-off. We got here at just about 8 p.m. yesterday. The total hike was less than 15 miles, and we took hardly any time off. Which is one way of expressing what it was like. Another way would be my feet. Then there are my knees. Knees and feet hurt so bad last night I needed Tylenol to get to sleep. And I'm not moving very fast this morning, which is all right, cause I'm not going very far today. Yesterday began beautifully. As darkness left, I could see out of the tent that it was going to be beautiful. Clear blue sky, no clouds, warm, perfect conditions for crossing the magnificent Presidential Range, 13 miles of it above tree line. We were late getting started. We kept hoping the sun would burn the dew off the tents, but we finally got impatient and left camp at 8:15. Very soon we had climbed above tree line on Mt. Clinton, and the show began. It was still easy enough. Fairly good footway -- excellent, in retrospect -- around Mt. Eisenhower and over Mt. Franklin, all the way down to Lakes of the Clouds hut, where we bought some Hershey Bars and caught our breath before climbing Mt. Washington. For the rest of the day, except in the Visitors Center atop Mt. Washington, we never "walked" again. The entire Northern Presidential Range is a great pile of boulders, covered with lichens, occasionally interspersed with some thin vegetation, but hiking the range means hopping from rock to rock, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes more or less level, but always hopping! The Trail to the top of Mt. Washington looked like a scene from Afghanistan. First there was the desolate mountain, then the line of people climbing up from the hut, looking -- from a distance -- like the news films we saw of guerillas in the Afghani mountains. Tony and I blew by the day hikers, which was fun. They stood there gasping as we went by with a cheery hello. But then came the summit. The blue sky had changed to leaden gray. Warm air was a damp 40 degrees up there. And the people. Fat people who had come up on the cog railway. Fat people who had come up in the van shuttles on the auto road. Fat, ugly people with loud, screaming obnoxious children who had paid the toll and driven up on the auto road. Tony and I held our breath and went to the cafeteria for chili and hot dogs. We survived, but it really was a shock after the wild climb up there to be confronted with "civilization" like that. Anyway, I also got to call home, and then we were back on the Trail.

(narrative continues at 2:21 p.m. Tourist Village Motel, Gorham, N.H.) The Trail was a rollercoaster of rocks, skirting the summits of Mts. Jefferson, Adams and others. The views were awesome. Eventually the noises of the cog railway and the tourists were behind us, and we had only the desolate mountains, rising straight up out of the Great Gulf above their trees, way above their trees. From Mt. Franklin to Mt. Madison we were never below 5,000 feet. The nearest trees were 1,000 feet below us. The mountains' summits were so far above the trees that there was no soil, no vegetation, just lichens on the massive boulders. In the cols were grasses and delicate little flowers holding it all together. Springs popped out of the rocks from time to time, and we filled our canteens from a small pool full of cool, gin-clear water on the ridge. But the exhilaration of the morning was gone. Awed though we were by the views, we were equally overwhelmed by the slow going over the boulders, and worried by the still gray sky above. The sun shone on spots in the valleys, but not on us on the ridge tops. It was after 5 when we finally reached Madison Hut, 3 miles from my targeted campsite. There was an alternative route around the summit of Mt. Madison, so we took it. It may have been a mistake. The route was poorly marked and even rougher than what we'd been doing, if that's possible. It skirted the south slope of Madison, so there was some krumholz, and even one white birch tree, hideously twisted and deformed by the winds and winters. I'll bet that tree was sorry it took up residence there, but it did have plenty of leaves. It took us an hour to do the mile around Madison and re-join the AT. A sign there said 2.2 miles to go to Osgood cut-off. It was 6:30. We started down the ridge line, which was a series of rock-pile ledges that went up and down and up and down and up and down for over a mile before finally dipping below tree line, where the rocks were joined by twisting, gnarled roots. It was getting dark, our bodies were pushing their limits, and we were getting quiet, even beyond the joking we usually make about tough conditions. I was worried about Tony, in fact. He's always in good spirits, but he was losing it. We finally reached the Cut-off, just before 8 p.m. The spring was there under the boulder, and there was a small, sort of flat grassy area about 50 feet below. I put up my tent there. Tony set up right at the Trail junction. I got water and was just about to cook when it began to rain. I cursed, zipped up the tent and dined on a cold can of turkey, all my remaining granola bars and some banana cream pudding. I tried to sleep but was assaulted by pain in my knees and legs and feet. Finally I took a couple of Tylenols and drifted out as the rain kept pelting the fly of the tent. I slept well, I think. When my bowels awakened me, I answered the call, then got back in the tent and made some more pudding for breakfast. We didn't get hiking until about 9:30. We had already decided not to go to Imp Shelter tonight, but rather to push on down to Highway 16 and hitchhike up here to Gorham a day early, get our mail and get rested. The Carter-Moriah Range lies ahead, and I've pushed too hard through here. I just talked to Katie on the phone, and she doesn't think she can come up at all. I'm certain now I can't make Katahdin by Sept. 2, so the time has come to relax and enjoy it. I believe Maine will be the most beautiful state. Even as I went to sleep 2 nights ago at Nauman campsite, I was thinking of camping by a Maine lake and listening to the soft call of a loon, and watching a moose bathe in the moonlight. Enough of the athletics. I've proved my point. A 34-year old man who was woefully out of shape from drinking and smoking can hike the AT and keep up with the kids. I am tough, I am disciplined, I am strong. I didn't have to go to Katahdin to prove that. But I did come out here to have fun, and for the rest of this hike, that's what I'm going to do. So, let the loons tune up, let the moose sharpen their antlers, let the fall leaves start to turn. Let the show begin. I'm coming to Maine. One last note: After friendly receptions at AMC huts all through the Whites, I was actually ignored this morning by the clerks at the Pinkham Notch camp desk. I stood there ten minutes trying to buy some candy while the clerks went to people all around me, all of whom had come in later. Finally I turned and said loudly to Tony, "Let's go to town. These people aren't interested in real hikers," and we walked out. Yeah, well, on to Maine.

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