I hesitate to tell people how little I really thought this thru. I’d only really glanced at maps of the trail, and so it hadn’t actual occurred to me that the train was taking me north of New York City (metro-north, duh!) On Monday I’d cried and said goodbye, but now I’m crossing the Hudson and getting to mountains that promise views of the city and signs that say it’s 34 mi away or 52 by foot. And I feel awful homesick and my heart aches. Along of course with my feet.
But such is life. Walk it off. And I do all the way to Hessian Lake at the bottom of Bear Mtn. I arrived at the concession stand as it was closing and got another chicken sandwich. Perhaps it was my naturally flirty demeanor, but the sisters who worked there kindly gave me two free slices of pizza and fries.
Food reviews seem somewhat silly, but I will say that it was better than Canopus Lake, but not as good as the morning’s stop at the really stellar Appalachian Market. The cook Ricky, made me a McRicky which is his breakfast sandwich with maple bacon, sausage, and cheese between two pancakes. I only regret not getting a Monte Cristo for the road, I’m sure it would have been fantastic.
I walked around the Hessian Lake, got emotional thinking about the Revolutionary War and chatted with some international students attending the local Shiva. It took awhile for them to accept the idea of this hike, which was a fun sort of conversation to have. I miss the talks I’d have in France with teenagers, where because of the language barrier (their crummy English, not my indefensibly bad French) everything is possible. Since no one has confidence in their own or the other’s comprehension, a whole conversation can take place without anything ever really being nailed down. It all just spreads forth in the eternal present.
Despite my leisurely chat I still felt the eternal presence of all that greasy food and it made for slow trip up Bear Mtn. Fortunately, the mountain has been thoroughly tamed. Recently, stone steps were crafted which take you up the 1300 ft with a more human rise/run than other mountains. They showed pictures of the volunteers who built it. The quality of the stonework led me to believe dwarvish hands were at work, but the women pictured didn’t seem like they came from Middle Earth at all. I guess the lack of runes was another clue.
Atop the mountain I met some northbound thru hikers: Tin Man, from North Carolina, Segway from Georgia, and Australian woman with beautiful black ink work all over her arm and legs; images of Frida Karlo and a spool and needle behind her ear. I was happy to sit with them and watch the sun set, but I was kicking myself for having so much more walking to do, now in the dark. In retrospect, I should have just found a secluded part of the mountain to set up camp.
Instead I followed the white blazes that signify the AT until they came to a street. No trail on the other side so I consulted my guide book which covers ever inch supposedly. It read ‘Perkins Memorial Drive.’ So what to do with this road was up to me. Left, right, or across. Left was downhill so my lazy instincts pulled me there. Eventually, I found the blazes again and followed them into the woods. I was racing downhill building up a blister to remember, perhaps only a mile or so the next shelter. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
When the trail dumped me out of the woods it was dark and it took me awhile to realize I was at the backside of Hessian Lake where I’d been chatting the afternoon light away not long ago. I tried really hard to unrealized it, to climb back in the womb my cheery misconception where I’d been living so happily only a few seconds ago. But you can’t indulge stinkin’ thinkin’ like that, so it was back from whence I came up those now clearly yellow blazes to try and find some flat stealthy spot to camp. I felt a little tired and bitter as I lanced my blisters, but in all things there is victory. Especially, considering how much I felt like the blister being lanced at my last job.
Shortcut to New Orleans 