Woods Wanderer

Breaking away from busy-ness, I loaded my backpack then drove to Southern Vermont to hike a relatively easy 14-mile loop in the Green Mountain National Forest. I had done the exact same hike with Judy 26 years earlier, but a lot of things can change over time. I was curious as to what I would remember and what would be new to me. This was also a shakedown hike, for I had my eye on a much bigger loop in the Adirondacks that would take a week to do. If this went well, I would backpack that next year.

A mile into the woods headed south on the Long Trail, I passed Big Branch Shelter. It looked vaguely familiar, but I did not remember the footbridge over the Big Branch stream. I crossed it, going deeper into the Big Branch Wilderness. Shortly after that I left the LT, hiking the Old Job Trail instead. The trail didn’t look familiar, but the Old Job Shelter did when I reached it. By then my t-shirt was soaked with sweat. The forest has been very humid this year.

Beyond the shelter, the Old Job Trail veered away from the stream. It was a completely new section of trail. By new I mean blazed during the past 2 decades. Eventually, I hit a forestry road that went back to the stream. The stream was a tributary of Big Branch by then called Lake Brook. The trail, following an old woods road, ran along the stream. That much I remembered. By the time I reached the stream crossing where I intended to make camp, I was wiped out. I had only done 800 feet of road-grade elevation over 6 miles, but I was not in as good a shape as I thought.

I set up my tent near where a new bridge crossed the stream – one sturdy enough to handle a vehicle for whatever reason. It started raining just as I finished making camp, so I slipped into my tent for a much-needed nap. When I got up, I fixed dinner on my stove, foregoing a campfire. I was too tired and achy to gather wood, much less deal with drying it out.

The next morning, I arose even more achy after a long night of tossing and turning. My left hip was sore from sleeping on the ground. Hmm… With eight miles ahead, I thought it best to hike a little more today instead of hanging out here a day as intended and doing it all on the last day. I packed up my gear and headed out by 8 am. After a one-mile hike west, returning to the Long Trail, I turned north. I spent the better part of the morning climbing Baker Peak. I remembered it being a short, very easy ascent. It was not. Another “new” section of trail lengthened the hike, linking up with Baker Peak Trail that was a rocky scramble straight up through conifers. I struggled to stay on my feet.

After that, it was an easy downhill walk to Lost Pond Shelter. Lean, muscular thru-hikers half my age or less breezed past me. I soaked another t-shirt before landing at the shelter a little past noon. I set up my tent and, sure enough, was chased into it by yet another t-storm. Afterward the sun was shining so I sat on a downed tree, ignoring a few other hikers camped around the shelter. That’s when I realized that the weeklong solo backpacking trip I had planned for next year was a bad idea. I’m too old, soft and fat to do it without being completely miserable in the process. I could get in better shape and lose some weight, but there’s nothing I can do about being 69 years old. What began with one hip complaining had become a chorus of aching joints.

The 3-mile hike out the next day was easy enough, but the roots and rocks were hard on my ankles despite sturdy hiking poles. I soaked a third t-shirt with sweat. Yeah, having backpacked for half a century, I’ve had a good run. But now it’s time to start doing things a little differently. I don’t want to be carried out of the woods someday.

Tags: backpacking, solo hiking, the passage of time, wilderness travel

Sometimes hiking is a way to process my thoughts. Thinking goes well with walking, as Thoreau, Emerson, and so many others have preached. Other times a hike is just a hike – a way of getting out of my head. It all depends upon what precedes it, and what my frame of mind is at the time.

After writing an intense, philosophical essay yesterday, I took my wife’s advice and headed for the woods. I desperately needed to put an end to thinking in abstractions, at least for the day and just be physical for a while. I didn’t want to drive an hour into the mountains, though, so I settled for hiking at Niquette Bay State Park. It’s only 25 minutes away.

The parking lot was nearly empty when I pulled into it. No doubt the dark clouds overhead and sudden flurry of sleet had something to do with that. With temps hovering around freezing and a brisk wind blowing, more sensible people were staying indoors. But I needed to be outdoors, and was glad to have the park largely to myself.

I took my time meandering around the park on the outermost loop, comfortable enough wearing a hat, gloves and four layers. I was surprised to see a small tree, gnawed by a beaver, blocking the wooden walkway across the small wetland. Why hadn’t the park ranger removed it? Oh, that’s right – the park is closed for the season. I climbed over it and continued my hike.

I stopped to check out the rippling waters of Lake Champlain from a small beach and stopped again at a lookout on high ground to see Mount Mansfield peeking through clouds in the distance. Got my boots dirty in the muddy spots of the not-yet-frozen ground. Yet another flurry of sleet commenced as I was finishing the walk. By then I had broken a sweat and was feeling the chill. No matter. I got a good woods-fix during my hike and was happy enough to be indoors the rest of the day. The next time I go out, there will probably be snow on the ground.

Tags: being in the moment, early winter, solo hiking

After a lengthy session on the computer, putting together a collection of philosophical essays, I pull on my boots, grab a teardrop pack then head out the door. I drive to the Milton Pond Town Forest only half an hour away for a day hike. I’m not in the mood for a longer drive into the mountains, but I need a woods fix. This’ll have to do.

Late morning and mid-week, there’s only one other car parked at the trailhead. This town forest isn’t a wilderness, but it looks like I’ll have the place pretty much to myself for a while. That’s good. That’ll make it easier to groove on the wild.

The three-quarter-mile Pond Access Trail is a beaten path, ten feet wide in places, but it gets me to Four Corners where there are several options. Usually I do the Pond Circuit Trail, as most people do, but this time I opt for the longer Ridgeline Trail. A much narrower trail, it winds deeper into the woods, away from the pond, then swings around in a 3-mile loop. I break a sweat as the path slowly rises to higher ground.

Numerous mud holes, high humidity, and red efts on the trail tell the story: it has been a very wet summer. The vegetation is thick, giving this forest a wilder feeling than one would expect while hiking anywhere in the mostly developed Champlain Valley. I’m digging it. I’m also maintaining a steady, two-mile clip and feeling the burn in my legs. Yeah, after nine straight days of philosophical abstractions, it feels good to be physical. It feels good to connect with my animal self.

Just before reaching a saddle between two hills, I stop long enough to catch my breath and drink some water. There’s no breeze, no birds singing, no sound at all. I’m pleasantly surprised by this deep forest silence. The rest of the hike is just as pleasant. A pair of hikers slips past me while I’m lounging at a lookout, eating lunch an hour later, but I’m still feeling the wildness. And before even finishing this hike, I resolve to come back and do this trail again soon, real soon. It’s so close to home.

Tags: Champlain Valley, solo hiking, Vermont woods, wildness

April is a bit early to go backpacking in the Adirondacks. I expected to see snow. So imagine my relief when I parked my car at the trailhead to the Hudson Gorge Wilderness, looked around, and saw no white stuff. With temps in the 50s and a partly cloudy sky overhead, it was a good way to start the outing.

I traveled fast and light along the OK Slip Falls Trail with only a 30-pound pack on my back and 20 pounds less flab on my body. My trekking poles clicked against the roots and rocks along the trail, flushing a ruffed grouse. Not much in the way of wildflowers in bloom, and evergreen wood ferns were still pressed flat against the ground. Evidently, the snow cover had just recently melted away.

Three miles back, I caught a glimpse of the impressive OK Slip Falls through the trees – one of the highest falls in the Adirondacks, tucked away in the woods. After that I hiked another mile to the Hudson Gorge, where the Hudson River cuts through the mountains. Backtracking past the falls, I made camp along a feeder stream to OK Slip Brook. There I fired up my stove and fixed dinner. No campfire this time out. The forest was too dry. Too dry, that is, until a steady rain commenced, which lasted all night long.

Arising the next morning, I felt the strange calm that usually follows a night spent alone in deep woods. Mist gathered in the trees as I fixed breakfast. Stream rushing along, otherwise silence. My joints ached as I arose from my seat along the brook, reminding me of the passage of time – decades doing this. I looked around, marveling at the growth and decay all around me, wondering as I have so many times before how it all came to be. Nature is inscrutable.

Tags: Adirondacks, backpacking, solo hiking, springtime, wildness