We spent the end of May hiking through Connecticut and into Massachusetts. The weather was still mostly rainy, but we were also getting more and more peeks of sun throughout the days. The terrain was beautiful but very rocky, with all the ups and downs reminding me of the early days in North Carolina. At the end of the day, my body would be sore. Especially through Virginia, but in New York and New Jersey, too, hiking had stopped tiring me out. The fifty-one miles of trail through Connecticut was proving challenging, and that actually felt good. The hiking here was more technical—there were boulders to climb over, steep ascents and rocky descents, and what seemed like endless brooks to ford.
One morning, Erin and I were hiking along in silence. I had my head down watching for rocks (one thing that remained unchanged over the course of the hike was my clumsiness), when I almost ran into the back of Erin, who had stopped short. I looked up and saw why. In front of us was a raging river, with no bridge for crossing. The water directly in front of us was calf deep, but was moving very fast over a very slick and rocky bottom. About fifteen feet downstream was a small waterfall and there the water was much deeper and the rocks became boulders, making any slip in the shallower part potentially quite dangerous.
“Is there supposed to be a river crossing today?” Erin asked, as we both stood staring at the impossible puzzle in front of us.
I checked the guidebook and saw it listed this water as “Guinea Brook.”
“They got a loose definition of brook,” I said. “You think they want us to cross on that tree? There’s no way. I mean, you fall off that and you could die.”
To our right, about ten feet above the boulders and rushing deep water, was a fallen tree, stretching from one side of the “brook” to the other. This was not a log bridge flattened out by a trail crew. There was no safe way to walk upright over it.
Just as I was thinking, “There is no way in hell,” Erin announced, “I’m going to try it.”
I watched in horror as Erin climbed, pack still on her back, up the base of the tree and straddled the log. She inched her way out over the water, repeating a frantic, “fuck, dude, fuck, dude.” She slowly made her way across, while I stood on the ground, heart in my throat, fists clinched, joining in her “fuck, dude” chant. About halfway across, she started feeling a little more confident and sped her progress. I began to breathe normally too, when suddenly, her pack shifted, throwing her weight off balance and causing her to lurch sideways to the right. Instinctively, Erin’s thighs tightened around the log, she lowered her torso, and her left hand flung out. As her body tipped perilously, her fingers found a branch stub to grasp. Pulling on the branch, she righted herself slowly and sat there for a minute, calming her rapid breathing.
“Fuck. DUDE,” she said, and started inching again. When she’d teetered, my body had unconsciously collapsed into a ball and as Erin finally made it safely to the other bank and off the tree, I unwrapped my arms from around my knees and stood up, shaking out the tension.
“Well, there’s no fucking way I’m doing that,” I called across.
“Why not? Piece of cake,” Erin’s laugh was full of nervous energy.
I decided fording the shallower part was my only option. I took off my boots and socks and strapped them to the back of my pack. Crossing in boots might be safer, but my feet were still torn up from blisters, and walking in soaked boots for the next few days sounded almost worse than falling off the log. I walked as far upstream from the waterfall as I could, and slid down the bank. I plunged both feet in and sharply inhaled—the water was freezing and the current was strong. I used my hiking poles to find firm holds and tentatively made my way across. With only a few tense moments in between, I found myself at the other side. I threw my poles up onto the bank and just as I was pulling myself up onto the shore, I heard a splash. I turned quickly and saw that my boots and socks had slipped from my pack and were now caught, underwater, on a rock about three feet away. I said all the cuss words I knew, retrieved the now soaked boots and finally hauled myself up the bank.
“Jesus. It’s not even 9am,” Erin said as I sat down beside her.
Later that same day, we found See Blue at our designated meeting spot. He’d hiked in pizza and candy to the shelter for us. We cheered. Both for our pal and for the food. He told us about visiting his grandma and we told him about New York City. Erin and I talked over each other, describing our harrowing river crossing earlier that morning, an incident we were already describing as funny, rather than scary. I watched Blue’s face turn dark.
“I don’t like that you girls were alone,” he said gruffly.
“What are you talking about? We’re always alone out here,” I said, sincerely confused.
“Yeah, but I would have come back to look for you.”
Erin and I exchanged a look, not sure what had triggered this sudden bout of concern.
“We know, Blue,” Erin said gently. “You’re the best big brother.”
The next day, May 29th, the three of us hiked the last bit of Connecticut, the trail running right through the picturesque town of Salisbury, and up Connecticut’s Bear Mountain, which sits on the border with Massachusetts. We were getting a sense of New England—beautiful scenery, but also plenty of road crossings, which meant plenty of opportunities to go into town and eat.
“I definitely prefer this Bear Mountain,” I said, as we sat, three across, on the rocky peak, eating lunch. “You guys! It’s almost summer.” For once, the sky was clear and we had an unbelievable view of the now lush green mountains and valley below. I looked at my two friends, happy that our little trio was together.
That night, we lay in our sleeping bags at the shelter, watching the last of the sunlight fade away, when we heard a commotion outside.
“Sweet n’ Low? Not Yet?” A familiar voice called out our trail names.
Erin jumped out of her bunk, and peered around the corner.
“Nango! And Ben!” she exclaimed, hugging them one after the other. “I can’t believe you guys are here!”
What followed was, as I wrote in my journal afterwards, “the craziest day ever.”