We The People
“Here’s my take on my own post-AT struggle with the northern section of the Long Trail…”, David Hiscoe wrote to me the evening before I left for Vermont, including a link to the article that he composed in 2010 titled, “America’s Worst Trail: A Love Story.”
After watering my house plants and compartmentalizing oatmeal into sandwich baggies for the final time before my departure, I was catching up on emails.
I knew this name.
“Where had I seen Hiscoe’s name?”, I racked my brain.
Wait.
No way.
Was this the David Hiscoe that had authored the book, Take the Path of Most Resistance? The one that I had sold countless copies of during my time volunteering at the Appalachian Trail Museum?
Yes way.
It was.
And he has been reading my work? He reached out to me? Sarah?
Yes.
Yes, he did.
So I dove in.
Feet first.
“Is the reward always equal to the effort? Uh…maybe says this bloodied, bruised, and bandaged reader.”, he appetized.
“On most trails, 80 miles is a fairly leisurely six-day trip for me. But I had learned from bitter experience that this leafy gem of a New England footpath is, in fact, thoroughly Hobbesian: short, yes, but nasty and brutish.”, he continued, my alarm, steeping.
“Don’t judge a trail by its distance.”
80 miles over 6 days. I could relate. And just as most subscribe to the praise or the disdain of Yelp’s most recent restaurant review, I assured myself that Hiscoe was over-amplifying the terrain that I was hours from traversing.
I proceeded with both disbelief and intrigue, “Hiking this path, above all, is a miserable and dangerous experience…As a hiking trail, it’s the mother of all disasters."
“Disasters?? The mother of ALL?!?”, I recited within.
Only to be met with his illustrative descriptor, graphic by Marcos Chin.
This hiker’s distress, frailty and uncertainty is clearly depicted through the artfulness of his illustrator. I read on, now more apprehensive than before.
“…it’s an eroded, ankle-torquing mess, partly because of the terrain, but mostly, I’ve come to suspect, because the folks who laid it out did not really believe that anyone would actually hike it.”
Gulp.
And certainly not by oneself, I presumed.
I replied to Hiscoe after my descent into Boston, “Eeeeek! Should I have read that the day before I embark?!?”.
“You will love the hike. Tough but beautiful and a ton of fun. Best of luck!”, he cheered me on through his computer screen, in his reply.
“Once and for all, stop underestimating yourself as a backpacker, Dips. You are a bad a$$ m***** f*****. Now go and prove this to yourself. ”
“It’s been cancelled.”
“Cancelled?!”, I retorted in exhaustion, draped over the ticket counter, to the Cape Air clerk who was assigned with delivering the news.
The wings of Hurricane Ian had deemed it unsafe for the Cessna to fly from Boston, Massachusetts to Rutland, Vermont. The Cessna that was scheduled to deliver me to the trailhead where I would commence my trek to Canada.
Hiscoe’s frightening tales proving to foreshadow, even prior to me having the opportunity to meet said spawn of the devil.
“If you want to get to Rutland today, take the Dartmouth Coach to Hanover. It’s super easy, grab it at terminal C. Pretty comfortable ride, I’ll pick you up.”, Honey Dick reached out, a Rutland native.
I had never met Honey D.
But I had hiked with Bear Legs in Virginia last summer. And Bear Legs and Honey D are friends. Therefore, Honey D and I were friends. That’s how the trail works, folks.
Honey D (pictured, left) and Bear Legs, Franconia Ridge, New Hampshire. September 6th, 2021.
The Dartmouth Coach, Hanover, NH.
3 hour bus ride…stretttccchhh!
Honey D for the save!
“Leap, and the net will appear.”
Sergeant Pepper.
My net.
Pepper & I.
Sweet serendipity positioned Pepper to be in New England during my solo start on the Long Trail. Her experience, fortitude, and friendship carried me through my first five days, which were filled with torrential downpours, broken spirits, tree tears, countless snot rockets, serial wipeouts, her broken pack strap, and my audible prayers for a fried fish sandwich and a hot bath.
Sergeant Pepper got me to the starting line when I was too intimidated to show up alone.
Fish ✅.
Steamy bath 🚫.
1 for 2.
Albeit, a steamy shower is never unwelcome. Even when shared with mud-ridden trail runners.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
Like Hiscoe, many Long Trail hikers first learned of this trail during their thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. Myself included. Roughly less than 200 hikers complete it in a continuous trip each year. Tagged as our nation’s first long distance path, it was sculpted in 1910 and has since been expanded to 272 miles in length.
With wind-burnt lips, a bandana bathed in both snot and yellow mustard, a musk that only a Porta John could compete with, and a finger that was badly bruised and as crooked as Nixon, I defeatedly walked south on VT Route 15, looking for a place to stay the night. Off-trail, alone, hungry, ripe, and desperate, it was me vs. the leaf peepers of Johnson, Vermont, arm wrestling for lodging.
The filament lights that hung from Moog’s Joint, the local watering hole, my north star.
“You’re a hiker.”, Moog declared, not asked. He simply knew. And he offered me a spot on their lawn to build my home for the night. I would deal with tomorrow, well, tomorrow.
Left, right, left…
John Proellochs has always reminded me of this.
Moog’s Joint.
Moog, the owner and operator.
Camped out back!
Then in walked Kevin.
In the rain. And a tank top. Kevin, the proprietor of Waffle Wagon, shared that he lived in the center of town. With ‘good soaps’, he said. And numerous cats. But also with a couch to spare. “Stay with me tomorrow night. You look safe.”, Kevin proposed, after he learned of my destitution.
Kevin.
After hanging my tent to dry in Kevin’s courtyard, rinsing my body and borrowing an undershirt, he dropped me off at the entrance of Copley Hospital’s emergency room for X-rays of my hand while he shopped for groceries.
“Do you feel depressed? Do you feel like hurting yourself? Someone else?”, the triage nurse asked, his clipboard in hand and his gaze pointed towards the blades of grass nestled in between each of my toes.
Moog had just cut the lawn.
“No.” “No.” “No.”, I replied in sequence.
“Do you feel safe at home?”, he continued.
Standard intake questions?
Sure.
But more so motivated by my appearing a rolling stone?
No doubt about it.
Contently dry and dressed in Kevin’s toothpaste-stained shamrock green tee, Marmot rainpants, open-toed Tevas, and a quilted coat, with wet hair and a myriad of abrasions, but without a bra or gutchies, I decided to dance with his inquires, “Yes. Yes, I feel completely safe staying with the stranger that I met at Moog’s last night. He has really good soaps. And my undergarments are at the laundromat.”
They are still talking about me a month later.
I assure you.
With my newly diagnosed fractured middle phalange, should I continue? Could I continue? Thoughts of the handholds and rock scrambles to come, as well as the descent of Jay Peak- all baking in my head.
“If it is not safe, call it. If you are super uncomfortable, keep going.”
I wanted to use my injury as a excuse to get off of that sadistic trail. So that it wouldn’t have been me that decided to quit.
I called myself out.
The following morning, Kevin dropped me off on the shoulder of VT Route 15. Precisely where I had gotten off of the trail a mere 36 hours prior.
And with 49.1 miles to Canada, I headed north.
“How beautifully you are learning the art of surrender, the courage to let go, in the wild of your unknowns.”
All I really need to know, I learned…
…on the Long Trail.
I learned that it was more difficult to maintain my drive because I have a nest, a home, a bathtub to call my own, to dream of when the hail is blowing sideways. While on the Appalachian Trail, I had no place to call my own. To return to. It was simply easier to keep walking. I learned to choose my thoughts. I focused on gratitude while donning my saturated, muddy, icy-cold socks each morning. That somehow seemed to make them feel a little warmer. I learned to withhold complaint when faced with 1,000 feet of vertical gain over a short 1 mile trajectory after facing the sheer terror of Mount Mansfield’s ascent over its forehead. If I wasn’t on the edge of a 4,393 foot mountain’s perimeter, I was safe. I learned that when I cried during breakfast at the Waitsfield Inn, it was because Pepper had left. Because I was categorically alone, and my age-old attachment anxiety was staring me in the face. Without blinking. What was I so afraid of? It wasn’t going hungry. It wasn’t getting injured. Or lost. It wasn’t even death. I learned that I was afraid of feeling lonely. When I summited Camel’s Hump, my first solo 4,000 foot peak to date, I learned that I am not afraid anymore. I learned how far that I have come since September of 2020 when I passed a solo female section hiker in northern Virginia, and turned to Katie, “She is out here all by herself?!”. I learned that backpacking is therapy. It has broken me of my need for control. Order. A plan. And has dissolved my tolerance for disrespect. I learned that my desire for being uncomfortable is on the rise. Off of the mountain tops, most importantly. That’s where the magic happens. I learned that confidence isn’t a coincidence. And that to be anxious, is to be intelligent, excited, and aware. Larry Holmes taught me this.
I learned that it is possible to get into a verbal altercation with a tree. “What the f$@# DUDE?!?!”, I accused the oak. After all, it had very intentionally grabbed ahold of the loop of my pee rag, breaking my forward momentum, sending me turtled onto my back.
I learned that David Hiscoe does not exaggerate. “…coming back home earlier than I planned each year, tail between my legs, some part of my body in a cast, ACE bandage, or studded with new sutures…”, he detailed his repeated returns to the Long Trail as he worked toward his completion. My own completion gifting me with a fractured phalange (hand problem), a torn lateral collateral ligament (knee problem), a concussion injury (head problem), all topped with a dollop of ringworm between my shoulder blades (creepy, crawly skin problem).
I learned that it is the people.
The fabric of people that are woven into each of our tapestries.
The tapestry of our lives.
We the people.
The Yellow Deli, Rutland, Vermont, 9.22.22.
Rocks, French Press, myself, Ballsack, and Sergeant Pepper, thru hikers of the AT class of 2021, serendipitously met at the Hop ‘N Moose, Rutland, VT.
Olive oil in a Dr. Pepper bottle. Hostel life at its epitome.
Pac-Man.
The Wizard and I exchanged my fuel canister for his sewing thread.
Ruth. Ruth. Ruth. A 77 year old inspiration. Ruth was hiking southbound on the Long Trail when we met at the Yellow Deli in Rutland. Her personally transcribed trail guides were a representation for her thoughtfulness. Ruth snuck me into the Deli after hours, proud to have met a friend with which to pay it forward. To protect. Ruth wished me well as we parted ways, “My wish for you, Sarah?…that you meet someone to love as much as I loved my husband.”
Ashanti, my bunk mate.
After sharing trail for roughly 100 miles, at northbound mile 1,705.3 of the Appalachian Trail and mile 104.5 of the Long Trail, after crossing VT Route 4, the path bifurcates. On August, 30th, 2021, I made a right, headed for Hanover, New Hampshire. This year, on September, 24th, 2022, I took a left for Canada.
My 1st Long Trail registrar entry, David Logan Shelter.
Coach Cate.
Many Homes played Never Going Back Again for us after dusk at Sucker Brook Shelter.
I call this the “Freedom Step”.
Hikers can spend so much time, tip toeing around the mud that is. Which is ultimately unavoidable. Just get in there! There is freedom and speed in embracing the muck. In this step.
Sunset from Skylight Lodge.
Socks & Slippy, brothers from Michigan, completed the entire Long Trail in twenty days. 272 grueling miles in only 20 days. For reference, it took me 18 days to traverse 173. Slow clap 👏🏼 boys!
Slippy, Socks, and Pepper cooking and keeping warm inside of Skylight Lodge.
Steven, Zaakiyah, Irfaan, Keith, Teresa, Pepper, & I at Battle Shelter.
Summit of Mount Abraham.
The forecast, not allowing for views.
Water only to the left ⬅️ (eye roll…).
And at the summit of Mount Ellen’s 4,083 feet…we get…drumroll…an ankle high cairn!!
Pass through the ski lift over Mad River Glen.
Welcome to the human obstacle course that is the Vermont Long Trail.
And in Ellen’s descent, we met rebar roads.
“And at each trailhead, we feel ourselves become somebody stronger and more heroic.”, David Hiscoe wrote.
Appalachian Gap, 9.28.22
I met Ricky & Diane, from Long Island, NY, during breakfast in Waitsfield.
Dishes in the bathroom sink.
Pepper & plants at the laundromat.
I learned not to add my Frogg Toggs rain jacket to the dryer. **Public Service Announcement- it melts. Shrinks to mini. Like, chihuahua mini. I was shuttled to Montpelier, Vermont for its replacement.
Because of this delay, this inconvenience, I met Charlene, from Calgary, Canada.
“You are changing the world one step at a time.”, she wrote after our happenstance meeting.
Charlene and I, now kindreds.
Serendipity.
Stacked down trees, adding to the difficulty of this maze, “Over or under?”.
Emotions over scones at the Waitsfield Inn, Angel talked me through my fears as I stared out to the lawn.
Bruce offered his helping hand as he saw me return to trail alone, sharing his contact information to lend a ride if I needed he and his wife as I continued north.
The bonus of cold-weather hiking is the ability to pack out spinach, cheese and other nutrient-rich foods.
Life “water.”
Meet White Noise, from London, England. We met crossing trajectories, as he hiked southbound to the Massachusetts border.
Just as the Appalachian Trail does, the Long Trail also uses white blazes for direction.
I thanked the aged pines for their roots that are essential for handholds to maintain balance.
View from the peak of Burnt Rock Mountain.
Ascending to the summit of Mount Ethan Allen.
One of the many summits of Camel’s Hump.
Mountains aren’t teepees, Wallflower always reminded me.
Half-way there!
And at the top, I wasn’t afraid anymore.
And in my rear view, the summit of the Hump.
The best views can be behind you. Proving to oneself, what we are capable of. Where we’ve been.
And then the toes started to “surrender”, we’ll call it.
When your spinach begins to wilt, you add it to your ramen.
Hair- 1, Cheap a$$ comb, 0.
It’s never just “flat”.
Crossing the Winooski River, 10.2.22.
Resupplying in Waterbury, Vermont.
Meet Nonie and Gavin, on their 2nd date, and at 19 years young, they offered me a hitch back to the Best Western after pulled pork at Prohibition Pig.
“I think that you’re older than my Mom!”, Gavin was mind blown.
Shoe dryer.
The view of Camel’s hump from Joy’s shuttle back to trail, VT Route 2.
My first night sleeping in the 20’s on the LT, Bolton Mountain.
Butler Lodge.
The Long Trail’s lodges are 4-sided lean to’s. Unheated, but with protection from the wind at higher elevations.
Sunset from the inside of Butler Lodge. I asked its caretaker, Dan, of both the pearls and cautions for my hike of Mount Mansfield, planned for the next morning.
“I don’t think that you’re at risk of imminent death.”, was his response.
Thank you, caretaker Dan.
New York’s Adirondacks to the West.
Meet Kerry, a freelancer for the Vermont Film Festival. After sharing my experience, Kerry was relieved, “I needed to hear that I was doing the right thing.”
The right thing, being the author of our own story.
“On the northern two-thirds of the LT, and I swear against my mother’s good name that this is not an exaggeration- the next horizontal 9 feet forward is as likely as not attained first by dropping down 16 feet vertically…”, I hiked through Hiscoe’s forewarning.
And on my traverse of the ravine across Mansfield’s Forehead, I was more terrified than ever before, including my time on the Appalachian Trail.
Shaking. Sobbing, actually. And alone.
Should I backtrack? Return to the base?
No. I move forward.
I called on my senses and continued north.
Mount Mansfield, in my rear view.
Meet Goldilocks and Michelle. Goldilocks (stage right), a Long Trail End-to-Ender herself, returned trail magic to me with a mango, cheddar bagel sandwich, while Michelle offered her home to me when I had nowhere to stay. Garage code and all.
As perfect strangers.
No longer.
Shredded wheat with evaporated milk when the oatmeal grew old.
Sterling Pond, 10.6.22.
Madonna Peak, atop Smuggler’s Notch, white blazed.
Meet Maura and Nancy, collectively completing the LT over the fall. We filtered water together at Whiteface Shelter, and they shared their information, should I need a thing after I hiked on. “Anything at all.”, they insisted.
My hand took the burden of my weight after a fall while descending the rockslides of Whiteface Mountain.
Radiology department, Copley Hospital, Morrisville, Vermont.
I met Moondoggie and Trail Angel over calzones after my discharge.
Sinkhole!
“Tree tears”…is it raining? Or are the trees just shedding yesterday’s showers in today’s wind?
And on October 8th, 2022, a Michelin Star chef, a Wall Street broker, and a firefighter walked into Corliss Camp…
While listening to the San Diego Padres.
Stand-Up, White Whale, Molasses Weasel and I will be friends for years.
“…a stick or something.”, they say.
A note left by a pervious hiker, Spruce Ledge Camp, 10.9.22.
Java.
Trail journaling at Spruce Ledge Camp.
Devil’s Gulch has been compared to Maine’s Mahoosuc Notch, but is in actuality, nothing in comparison.
Nothing.
Devil’s Gulch.
On October 9th, 2021, exactly 365 days prior, I camped on the shoulder of a logging road, mostly naked and completely empty, bordering Rainbow Lake in Maine’s 100 Mile Wilderness, the night before I began my summit into Baxter State Park to complete my thru hike of the Appalachian Trail.
My, what a year will bring.
And the feet continue to…surrender.
Morning coffee = hand warmer.
When you slip, fall and whack the back of your head on a boulder, just lay there for a bit.
Enjoy the view.
Summiting Jay Peak.
I seriously considered quitting at this junction with 17.2 miles to Canada. I felt that I had nothing left to give. That I simply wasn’t able to continue.
But because I did continue, I had an entire mountain to myself.
I had Jay Peak, and all of its 3,858 feet, to myself. Without another soul.
Your feet will take you where your mind lets them.
And when we walk, we slow down. We feel. We see.
We see little hearts carved out in leaves.
2.6 to go!
And at 6 p.m. on October 12th, I made it to our nation’s border.
Canada’s Notre Dame range.
With my left foot in Canada and my right in the United States, I saluted.
Meet Julie, the owner and proprietor of Journey’s Salon & Guest House, North Troy, Vermont.
Julie saved my a$$ after an unexpected 3.1 mile descent off of the Long Trail, in my headlamp, and without an ounce of energy left.
3.1 miles that were necessary for my exit.
Julie’s space was unearthing.
Her art table with inspiration from her father.
My trail runners, laid to rest in North Troy.
Meet Wendy, who drove me back to Rutland for my return flight the next day.
Not without a stop at Alchemist Beer, Stowe, Vermont. Bucket list!
Meet Needs A Plan, a Rutland trail angel, who shuttled me from the Yellow Deli back to the Rutland “airport”.
Needs A Plan needed a PLAN.
Meeting him at his vehicle at 2:47 p.m., as opposed to our planned 2:45 p.m., wasn’t in his plan.
I heard about this.
All. Of. The. Way. There.
The Cessna 402, flying from Rutland, VT back to Boston, MA.
Meet Cactus Jack.
Thank you, Misana.
Pizza and greens with mentors that I am lucky enough to call close friends, Karen, Wendy, and Gail.
Meet Jenny and Michelle, who met at my talk alongside Heather Anderson at the Appalachian Trail museum.
Never having spent an overnight in the woods, they partnered to backpack together from Morgan Mill Road to Front Royal, Virginia over 32 miles of trail.
“We became friends because of you, Sarah.”
Nicky Smiles at the Pittsburgh Buddy Walk!
Happy Halloween from Joel Street!
Brad “Jingles” Kohler, neighbor and member of AT Class of 2022.
Ang and Bryan Foegelsonger, my people, host me each time that I travel to Shippensburg for my volunteering at the Appalachian Trail museum.
After 24 years, they are still my people.
Happy Halloween, y’all!
