Project Eveningland

7/9/2023 Sunday

Forecasts of late say more or less the same thing: it’s probably going to rain, maybe a lot. Which days it will actually rain is unclear. We’ve had whole dry days when the forecast spoke of inches of rain. That was not today. Today was some of the heaviest, most sustained rain I’ve seen on this journey. Or on any hike.

The Spidle family were readying themselves to take Hudson to play in a baseball game. Down in the “hiker den” I packed lightly for a 15 mile day. Wedge drove me to where I’d left off.

The first event of the day was the Lemon Squeezer. I made it through the narrow part with my pack on. But I got turned around and walked two miles in the wrong direction. I didn’t realize it until I arrived back at the same trailhead where Wedge had dropped me off. Oh, dear.

I got a ride from some nice folks at the trailhead, including a very New York lawyer. He and his friend found a spot where they could get me near enough to the trail by car, so I wouldn’t have to walk the same two miles a third time. He was sweet—he told me my mistake was a matter of “attorney-client privilege.” The mileage will work out fine. I tried to brush my mistake off and not let it cramp my style.

Back in the forest, I headed north. The William Brien shelter was only 2.6 miles away when the rain began. I still felt cranky about the mileage mixup. Then the rain got heavy. Then heavier. Then heavier still. It was a downpour. There was no point in rushing for the shelter because I was soaked through long before I was in range. Beyond a certain point, rain gear just can’t do much.

I reached the shelter where there was an older day hiker smoking cigarettes and inviting me to complain about the weather. I politely refused. He left shortly after I arrived. And then the rain got even heavier. I don’t have overnight gear with me—today was a “slack pack” day.

I sat in the old shelter eating a turkey sandwich that included perfectly cooked bacon that Cindy had made this morning. The bread Wedge suggested was outstanding. Blissfully chewy.

I’m miles from any road crossing and this shelter is not the best. It has been built onto a large rock, which forms the back wall. The Murphy cabin was built the same way (the Murphys were one of the families traveling with the infamous Donner Party in the mid 19th century). There’re a number of reasons people don’t usually build their house to open on a giant rock. It’s a good idea if you’re stranded for an entire winter in the Sierra Nevada in the middle of the 1800s and need to save construction time. But otherwise the tradeoffs of building against a rock are too severe. It will convey rain directly into the structure, which this rock did. I watched the water sheeting over its surface and onto the shelter floor.

Also the app has complaints about snakes living in the shelter bunks (most shelters don’t even have bunks; this one does). So even if I had a sleeping pad with me… yikes.

But at least I had my chair. I sat near the edge of the roof and watched the rain and chewed that wonderful Italian bread. Just what in the hell should I do? I planned to sit here and write and wait for it to slow down. Then I’d move on and see about getting to a road. There was service around the shelter but not in the shelter.

And yet somehow Wedge’s call rang through. He said the rain was going to last well into the night and that he wanted to come get me. Not a hard sell. I walked backwards two miles to reach a road crossing—I would have had to walk much farther if I’d kept going ahead. That’s the second time I’ve re-walked trail miles southbound today. Oy vey.

The walk back to the road was fascinating! The flood warnings began to reach my phone and beep through my headphones. The trail was a river. At times I walked through water almost as high as my knees. Mostly it was just ankle deep. The brownness of the water concealed the rocks, which meant some slipping and sliding and cursing. I could feel the cool water rushing through my shoes. It was soothing. I would be in real trouble if this had happened even just two months ago. As it was it was warm enough to prevent hypothermia.

There was no area to park at the road crossing, but Wedge pulled up exactly as I was walking out of the woods. He knew the roads well on account of living here. We only just made it out before some roads in Harriman State Park began closing due to rockslides.

I was soaked to the bone but grateful for the rescue and a dry place to return to.

The torrential rains washed away dirt, rock, and another big chunk of my remaining purism. There’s been terrible flooding up north that rendered long parts of the trail impassable. That may improve by the time I get there or it may not. If not, re-routes around closed areas will become necessary. It may not be possible to do a contiguous walk from Georgia to Maine on the AT. It just depends on conditions.

This was the heaviest rain I think I’ve ever walked in for any significant amount of time. Trip, buddy, it was heavier than that day we had above Hot Springs in 2021, though without the chill.