On June 27, another hot and muggy day, we entered Connecticut. Ten miles ahead was the town of Kent. We needed a break, so we called ahead to book a room. No price would be too great for a shower.
I was wrong; $120 did seem too much to pay for a shower. Kent was an upscale town, a playground for rich folks from New York City. Antique shops, B&Bs, expensive chocolate stores, and other attractions made Kent inviting, but too pricey for hikers interested only in a shower and rest.
Garmin called the owner of Backcountry Outfitters to inquire about getting a ride to nearby Wingdale, in hopes of finding a cheaper room. The owner agreed to pick us up at the road crossing, take us to our motel, and pick us up again in the morning to return to Kent, where we all had scheduled food drops. Fargo, who thoroughly enjoyed staying in shelters, would stay behind in the woods.
We came to the road crossing where we would meet our ride and a BMW convertible was waiting for us. The ride was exhilarating and the motel was indeed cheaper—only $60 for our shower. What we had not considered, though, was the price of gas. The next morning when our BMW taxi dropped us off in Kent, we paid another $60 for the ride. Our shower had cost us $120, after all.
I walked the streets of Kent, admiring antique stores and art galleries. Garmin was meeting a former school friend at a road crossing several miles up the trail, so he was already gone by the time I stuck out my thumb for a ride back to the trail.
As I rode back to the trail in a beat-up Volvo, I spotted a floppy hat and a flute and knew that Padre would probably be catching up with me soon.
Seven miles later, I found Fargo relaxing at the Stewart Hollow Brook Lean-to. I convinced him break time was over, and he joined me again. I wanted to keep on schedule for my “Connecticut Plan.” The truth was, I longed for more comforts. I would probably be in Connecticut for three nights, and if all went according to plan, I would spend all three nights in a soft bed. I’d had my fill of shelters and stealth camping for now.
We followed the Housatonic River for several miles; the path was level, with the best trail conditions we had seen in days. A familiar figure was walking toward us, headed south. We greeted him.
“Hey, Garmin, enjoy your trip back to Georgia.”
His internal compass had failed him again, and we turned him around and headed him north to meet his friend.
My plan was working to perfection. The second night I had a soft bed in Cornwall Bridge and a great six o’clock breakfast at Baird’s General Store.
The third leg of Connecticut took me 21.6 miles to Salisbury. From the top of Prospect Mountain, I called Maria McCabe. Maria was an eighty-year-old lady in Salisbury who opened her home to thru-hikers. I made my call in the evening and interrupted Maria’s card game with her brother-in-law.
“Hey, Maria, there’s two good-looking middle-aged men wanting to stay at your house tonight. How does that suit you?”
“I’m taking quarters from my brother-in-law right now, and he’s still got a few left that I want,” she replied. “But if you’re at Lower Cobble Road at seven o’clock, we’ll pick you up.”
As we approached Lower Cobble Road later that evening, an elderly lady appeared at the trailhead and yelled up to us, “Where are those good-looking men I was promised?”
“Just wait till we get showered and into fresh clothes. You’ll be impressed.”
Going to Maria McCabe’s was like going to grandmother’s house. She welcomed us as if we were family. We learned she had outlived two husbands and several boyfriends and took in hikers to supplement her Social Security income. I’m not certain how much the hiker boarding helped her budget, since she didn’t charge much and allowed us to raid her refrigerator. I believe she thrived, instead, on the hiker conversation.
She brought out a notebook where guests had written notes of thanks for her hospitality. In the cold of winter, she told us, when she was lonely or sad, she would take out this hiker journal and read all of the nice things people had said about her.
As we retired, Maria told us that she never moved any body parts before eight in the morning, but we were welcome to cook our own breakfast. Fargo and I were in the kitchen by six, and I cooked eggs and bacon for us both. Before we left the McCabe house, we wrote nice things in the journal for Maria to read on some dark and cold winter day.
We navigated our way out of Salisbury, following directions Maria had given us the night before. The early morning was already hot and muggy, and we were sweating long before we started our last Connecticut climb, Bear Mountain.
Back in 1885, a local man was convinced that the highest point in the state was atop Bear Mountain, so he hired a mason to construct a tower on the summit that would be visible to the surrounding countryside. Somehow the mason managed to haul 350 tons of rock to the mountaintop and designed a rock pile in the shape of a pyramid without using any mortar whatsoever. Turns out the mountain wasn’t the highest point in Connecticut after all, even though a plaque embedded in the rocks still makes the claim. The pyramid eventually collapsed, and although several attempts were made to rebuild it, maintenance became too troublesome over time. The pile was stabilized and the plaque inserted into the side of the rubble.
Fargo suggested I scamper to the top and have my picture taken on this so-called highest point. The view was splendid. To the south lay the Berkshire Mountains; to the west, the Catskill Mountains; to the east, the Housatonic Valley unfolded; and to the north, Mt. Greylock boasted its summit as the highest point in Massachusetts.
All along my journey, I was intrigued by the importance folks put on the highest point in any state. The only state that bragged on its low point was New York, where I’d walked through the zoo.
A mile later, we were in beautiful Sages Ravine. The trail followed a brook whose waters cascaded over rocks and gathered in lovely, inviting pools. Large trees sheltered us as the scenic stretch of trail led out of Connecticut and into Massachusetts. On one tree, a sign fastened above a white blaze welcomed us to my eleventh state. Just a few days earlier, entering Connecticut had given me a psychological lift; I was finally in New England. The southern states were done; the middle states were finished; I just had to finish these New England states—and then I could go home.
Our destination for that day was a rustic New England inn in South Egremont, twelve miles ahead. The inn offered a hikers’ discount during the week if rooms were available. We would be celebrating that day. We expected to pass the 1500-mile mark that afternoon, and tomorrow was Fargo’s 57th birthday.
Before the celebrations, we had to conquer Mt. Everett. Its summit was covered with blueberries, and we bounded left and right off the trail, eating the delicious morsels. But the descent from Everett was tricky; the trail was slick, the rocks were slippery, and sitting and sliding was often the best way down. At breakfast in town the next day, we talked with a paramedic who told us they had been called out to Mt. Everett many times to rescue fallen hikers.
Once I had skidded to the bottom of Everett, I’d passed the 1500-mile mark of my hike. We had made it down the mountain with no serious mishaps, and we hitched a ride into South Egremont.
———
The Egremont Inn has welcomed guests for over 225 years, and was built first as a tavern in 1780. Six years later, the final battle of Shay’s Rebellion was fought and lost only one mile from the tavern. The rebellion was led by a group of farmers, angry at high taxes imposed by the state. In many cases, the state confiscated properties of those unable to pay. The farmers rebelled and, in effective protests, shut down local courts, prohibiting judges from enforcing the debt collections. In return, the government assembled a four-thousand-man militia to show the farmers who was in charge. At the battle near South Egremont, four farmers were killed and the rest fled north. Shay’s Rebellion was over.
During the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, the South Egremont Inn was used as a hospital. At different times in its history, it also housed a store, a school, a post office, a temperance house, and a hotel. Today it is a charming twenty-room inn. History creaked from the long flights of wooden steps leading to my hot shower and soft bed.
I was in danger of becoming soft myself. My hike was turning into a town-to-town trek. I found myself scheduling my days around towns, not shelters. Something was changing. I acknowledged that it wasn’t the soft beds that lured me into town; I could sleep just as well on a hard shelter floor or on the ground in the forest. I came to town for the people. I craved interaction with more folks than just my few fellow hikers.
Leaving town after breakfast at Mom’s Country Cafe, we passed the field where a tilting stone obelisk marked the battle of Shay’s Rebellion. The farmers’ last stand against the government had taken place here. Where are those brave farmers today when we need them? There are so few people still willing to take a stand against injustice.
The next two Massachusetts days were filled with river fordings, railroad crossings, and bog bridges across marshy lowlands. At mile 1,537, the trail crossed I-90 over an enclosed footbridge. The traffic whizzed beneath us as we walked over the Massachusetts Turnpike. Six weeks later, I would be rushing through here at 70 mph, but today I was still traveling between 2 and 3 mph.
Our goal was to be in Dalton, Massachusetts, for Fourth of July weekend. For several weeks, the trail grapevine had been telling us about the Bird Cage Hostel in Dalton; it was not listed in our guidebook, but our curiosity was roused and we hoped to celebrate the holiday there.
Early one morning, I set forth from the shelter by myself; Fargo would get a later start, but I was on a mission. I left the trail when it crossed Pittsfield Road. Just a short way down this road lived a lady I wished to meet, the famous cookie lady.
Marilyn and her husband run a small blueberry farm; hikers have been stopping here for many years, enjoying her home-baked cookies. No one was stirring at the shingled house when I arrived. I walked around the yard, admired potted plants, and dawdled on the front porch, signing a note board on the wall and making no attempt at quiet, hoping the household would soon wake up. Rufus finally realized a visitor had arrived, and he barked Marilyn awake.
The two chocolate chip cookies were good, but far more satisfying was my conversation with Marilyn Wiley, a real trail angel. I had woken her for two cookies, but the hospitality and warmth she gave in return brightened my day.
Sometimes it takes only a few kind words to transform someone’s day. How can we be too busy to tell the people we most cherish what they mean to us? I remembered Maria McCabe’s notebook, where total strangers had written “nice things” that warmed her in lonely times.
Maria McCabe knew the secret: seeds of kindness sown into others’ lives can return and encourage us in our own winters of loneliness.
———
Fargo was just arriving at the Pittsfield Road crossing as I came back to the trail after my chocolate chip detour. I kindly described for him the cookies I had eaten.
Shortly after noon, we followed the AT into Dalton. At first glance, the small town seems quintessential Americana, but it’s a real money town, built on money by money for money. Dalton’s largest employer is Crane & Company, producing all the paper used for Federal Reserve notes in America. Every piece of paper money in your wallet right now came from Dalton, Massachusetts.
But it wasn’t the money made here that warmed my spirits. What made my stay in Dalton a favorite memory was something of real value: families. Front porches and lawns were filled with family activities on this holiday weekend.
We’d found the Bird Cage Hostel, marked not by a sign but by a bird cage on the lawn, and my own hiker family was gathering there. Fargo, Padre, Rhino and Ronja, myself, and others celebrated the Fourth in Dalton. Another hostel in town invited the Bird Cage guests to a hiker feed, and we sat down to corn on the cob, baked beans, and an all-American picnic.
In this town that produces the money that often brings out the worst in people, I saw and felt what life is truly about: families, togetherness, unity, acceptance, respect, and love for God. Those ingredients build strong spines and foster the courage to do what’s right in any situation.
That’s something all the money in Dalton can never buy.