One mile after making my promise to God atop Eph’s Lookout, I claimed Vermont as my twelfth state.

In the Green Mountain State, the AT follows the Long Trail, the first long-distance trail ever constructed, running the length of Vermont from the Massachusetts border on the south to the Canadian border on the north. The AT and the LT run together for a hundred miles, over many of the summits and high ridges of the Green Mountains. Near Killington, the two trails split. The Appalachian Trail heads east to New Hampshire and the Long Trail continues north to Canada.

The day was hot, but trail conditions were not too difficult. Eighteen miles into the new state, the trail crossed Rt. 9 and I met my first Vermont trail magic. At a parking area, two former hikers invited me to raid a cooler filled with soft drinks. Two cans of pop and three bags of snacks propelled me forward with a new burst of energy.

One of my goals on this trek was to hike one day of thirty miles or more. This seemed like a good day to do it.

At seven in the evening, I arrived at Goddard Shelter, in a lovely setting close to the summit of Glastenbury Mountain. Towering pines surrounded the shelter, and a crystal clear spring flowed only a few feet away. I’d already hiked 28.5 miles and the next shelter was four miles away. Those four miles would put my day well over my thirty-mile goal.

At Goddard, three section hikers had set up their tents outside the shelter and generously told me I could set up mine inside if I wished. I debated. How important was that goal of thirty miles?

One of the hikers talked proudly of the long and hard eighteen miles he’d done that day. “How far did you hike today?” he asked me. I paused for dramatic effect and then tried to answer nonchalantly.

“Twenty-eight and a half miles.”

“Wow! Are you a thru-hiker?”

“Yes, I am. I’ve just passed the 1600-mile mark today.”

“Hey, guys!” he yelled to his buddies. “Get over here! This guy hiked over twenty-eight miles today and 1,600 on the trail.” I was a celebrity. The importance of making those thirty miles receded as the three hikers gathered around and listened to my stories. That morning I’d asked God to send interesting people into my life that day, and now here they were, even if they were only interested in what I’d done.

The simple pleasures of the evening—good conversation, a cold and clear spring, a shelter nestled in the pines—convinced me that I was done hiking for the day. With the evening light slanting through the trees, I set up my tent inside Goddard Shelter and cooked my meal. The soft sounds of swaying pines lulled me to sleep. I never achieved my goal of thirty miles, and I have no regrets.

The section hikers never stirred as I left Goddard Shelter at the first hint of morning light.

I managed only nineteen tiring miles that day. In the Green Mountain National Forest, I trudged up Stratton Mountain. On the summit, I climbed even farther, scrambling to the top of a fire tower to take in the stunning vista of mountains dotted with ski slopes. That night, I stood on the shore of Stratton Pond and soaked up the peaceful mood created by placid waters reflecting the surrounding mountains.

Stratton Pond Shelter was a newer A-frame construction with an extended roof that protected several benches and a picnic table. For several hours I had the shelter to myself; at dusk, another hiker showed up. The young man’s mother had recently passed away, and our conversation reminded me of the pain of my children’s loss.

Our shared sadness and reminiscing was interrupted by a new member of the hiking community, who came running at full speed toward the shelter. He carried no food or water. As he approached the few steps leading to the front of the shelter and prepared to leap inside, the young man and I both yelled, “STOP!”

The German shepherd obediently stopped. We expected a hiker to arrive and claim him, but no one else appeared. The dog wore a collar with no tags. We took compassion on this traveler and fed him, but never allowed him inside the shelter. He was obviously well-trained and obeyed our commands to stay outside. At least, he obeyed until we were asleep. When I awoke the next morning, the dog was lying beside my bunk. Perhaps I had needed a guardian that night.

My next hiking partner would be a German shepherd. The young hiker left the shelter shortly before I did in the morning, and I encouraged the dog to follow him. No luck. He was obviously waiting for me. I did not wish to be responsible for a dog on the trail; the shepherd, however, seemed to think he was responsible for me.

All morning he stayed with me, leading the way. Occasionally he’d glance back to make certain I was keeping up. Several times, I darted down a side trail in hopes of losing him, but that dog turned back and found me again every time. I stopped to filter water from a stream; he drank too, and then plopped down in the water just upstream from me. That put an end to my filtering; I still had a small supply of water left and didn’t relish the thought of drinking dog-flavored water.

Early in the afternoon, the trail crossed Vermont Rt. 11/30 and cut through a parking area before entering the woods again. The summer day had heated up; I was hot and thirsty and needed to find more water soon. But I spotted relief. A half-full (or half-empty, depending on your point of view) two-liter bottle of Diet Coke lay in a ditch alongside the parking area. I sniffed the contents briefly and then, much to my own disbelief, quickly guzzled down the warm liquid.

A partial sheet of plywood lay along the roadside, probably blown off a passing truck. I pulled it from the weeds and stretched out on it for a short break. My trusty canine companion rested nearby. We lounged contentedly, only half-conscious. A car door slammed and a well-known voice roused me. “Hey dere, Apostle, dat’s a good-lookin’ partner wit you dere, don’tcha know. Und where did you get da soda?”

Fargo! He had taken a quick hitch into Manchester Center, several miles west, to resupply and was now returning to the trail.

“If I knew I was meeting you here, I’d have saved some Diet Coke for you. This dog showed up at the shelter last night, and now I can’t get him to leave my side.”

Fargo’s ride had not yet left the parking area, so we convinced him to take the German shepherd back into town. We coaxed it into the backseat, and it pressed a sad face to the rear window, watching me walk away with Fargo. But when the driver opened his door to enter the car, the dog jumped out and soon caught up with us. Once again we returned to the parking area, happy to find the driver waiting. This time, both dog and driver stayed in the car as we made our escape.

If that dog had stayed with me for several days, I probably couldn’t have sent him away. I’d already been thinking of names for him. I was glad that his life did improve as a result of meeting me. Another hiker told me later that he had been at the local outfitter when the driver brought the dog to town, and someone at the store had offered to adopt him. Back in Manchester Center, Vermont, someone has a very loyal dog who was my protector for a day.

It was good to have another human to talk with again. We covered just about every subject you could imagine on our stroll through the woods. There were a few hours every afternoon, though, when Fargo was silent. Those were the hours he spent with his headphones on, listening to National Public Radio. During those hours, I had the woods and my thoughts to myself. If anything important happened in the world, Fargo gave me an update.

I had ample warning of the thunderstorm rolling over White Rock Mountain, but I foolishly kept walking instead of donning rain gear. The downpour soon pummeled me. I squeezed myself under a small spruce, but it gave little shelter. By the time we arrived at White Rocks Cliff, I was cold and shivering. I called a hostel in Rutland and made reservations to be warm and dry.

The Back Home Again Hostel in downtown Rutland is run by the Twelve Tribes Community, a religious group living a communal lifestyle. The Twelve Tribes attempt to replicate the early church as it is described in the New Testament book of Acts.

In the early 1970s, Elbert Spriggs and his wife had a ministry in Chattanooga, Tennessee, working with several different denominations. One Sunday evening, he arrived at church and was dismayed to find it canceled due to the Super Bowl. His solution was to form his own church, calling it the Vine Community Church and meeting in a local park. Later, that church evolved into the Twelve Tribes, the Commonwealth of Israel. The members of the community take on Hebrew names, and all resources are pooled and distributed as needed. The women dress plainly and the men wear beards. Except for the ponytails on many of the men, these people look very much like the plain folks of my community.

From White Rocks Cliff, I also called Abner and Virginia, old acquaintances of our family who now live near Rutland. They knew of my hike and had offered to treat me to a meal whenever I passed through. I took them up on the offer and we ate at a nearby café, also run by the Twelve Tribes. Abner and Virginia were amazed at my appetite, and I’m sure the Twelve Tribes appreciated the large bill my friends cheerfully paid at the end of the evening.

Some consider the Twelve Tribes a cult, but their hostel offered us warm beds, hot showers, and friendly hospitality. One of the community members also gave me another nugget to ponder. “When we stopped going to church and started being the church,” he told me, “something wonderful happened.”

———

A community member drove us back to the trail in the morning. Good food and warm beds had rejuvenated us, and we were ready for whatever surprises Vermont had waiting up the trail.

The first surprise was more trail magic. The night before, I’d had a craving for Mountain Dew. I walked the short distance from downtown Rutland to a Wal-Mart, where I’d spotted a pop machine outside. The machine took my money but refused to give up the can of soda. Wal-Mart was already closed, so I had no choice but to go back to my room with my craving unsatisfied. Soon after getting back on the trail the next morning, we found a cooler and a box of snacks waiting in a clearing in the woods. A white plastic chair was provided for any weary hiker needing a break. I opened the cooler, and there was a block of ice surrounded by cans of Mountain Dew and Pepsi.

I may have overdone it just a little. After several Hostess Twinkies and three cans of soda, on top of the morning’s coffee, I had twenty-seven teaspoons of sugar in my system. I was a rocket, fueled for takeoff. I burned through my sugar buzz and nineteen miles in record time and left Fargo far behind, but we had planned our stop for the night, and we’d meet at the end of the day.

At one time, the Appalachian Trail passed through Killington just across from the Inn at Long Trail. This inn caters to skiers and hikers and is a must-stop for many because of its authentic Irish Pub and dining room. The dining room is actually built around a large boulder that juts into one side of the room. Where you expect to see a wall, you’re faced with a huge stone outcropping.

The AT was rerouted when a ski resort purchased the land the trail crossed. Now the trail passes Killington west of town. When I came to U.S. 4, I took the short walk to the inn, wanting to make this well-known stop. I walked in and admired the hardwood floors, the fieldstone fireplace, and the rustic interior. And at the bar, a familiar face sat grinning at me.

“Hey dere, Apostle. Where ya been?” The last I’d seen Fargo, he was disappearing in my sugar buzz dust.

“Fargo! How did you beat me here?”

“I took dat udder trail up dere, da one dat goes tru da ski resort.”

“You blue-blazing cheesehead!” Fargo had found the old AT and gone across the ski resort property to cut off several miles. “Fargo, when you summit Mt. Katahdin—assuming you do before da missus calls you home—you’ll be thinking about all these miles of AT you missed.”

“Believe you me, Apostle, dat was da traditional route I hiked to get here. Und when I’m on dat Mt. Katahdin, I’ll just be glad dat I finally got dere!”

The inn’s French onion soup and shepherd’s pie were just as delicious as the hiker grapevine had promised, and we spent an enjoyable evening lounging about the inn. Fargo rummaged through the hiker box and found a sixteen-ounce can of SPAM. He didn’t want to carry an extra pound of weight, so he offered the can to me. I accepted, thinking it might make a unique meal the next evening.

But let me tell you, folks—just as wading through lots of spam and junk email on your computer can be unpleasant, so is trying to eat a whole pound of SPAM at one meal. The next night at the Winturri Shelter, I finished my usual hot meal and then unveiled my can of SPAM, much to the amusement of other shelter guests. My little folding camp knife sliced the chunk of mystery meat. Then I dropped each slice back into the bottom of the can and fried it on the stove, piece by piece. The first slice was delicious; the second slice was good; the third slice was tolerable; and the fourth slice was forced down.

I had eaten only half of the meat.

“Hey, Fargo, you want the rest?” He eagerly accepted, and then I saw his little plot. I’m sure he realized back at the inn that no one could eat that much SPAM at one sitting, and now he thanked me for carrying it all day for him.

———

The next night would be our last in Vermont, and as Fargo and I neared Happy Hill Shelter, a wonderful aroma drifted through the trees. A group of section hikers were grilling hamburgers over a fire. We didn’t even attempt subtlety. “Hey, guys, you have any extra hamburgers for two tired and hungry thru-hikers?” A fair exchange was arranged. Several fat and juicy hamburgers were traded for several hours of trail stories.

The next morning we hiked six easy miles, passed under I-91 near Norwich, and crossed the Connecticut River. Halfway across the concrete bridge, an embedded marker declared that we had entered our thirteenth state, New Hampshire.

West Wheelock Street led us toward downtown Hanover and Dartmouth College. Dartmouth was founded in 1769 by a Puritan minister for the purpose of evangelizing Native Americans and then sending them out as missionaries. I doubted that many missionaries were still being produced at this elite Ivy League school. Every year over sixteen thousand students apply for admission and about one thousand are accepted. Becoming a missionary is more difficult than it used to be. Many had called, but few were chosen.

The hiker rate at the local inn was a mere $250 per night, so we flagged a taxi and headed out of town to a more reasonable roadhouse.

Fargo had a mail drop arriving in the morning, and while he waited for the post office to open, I ran across the street to a pharmacy. I had decided to buy a little radio and headphones. Why get my news filtered through Fargo when I could hear it firsthand?

For the next several days, I hiked with my new companion. Instead of conversing with the Boy Scout troop and their sponsors at Moose Mountain Shelter, I lay in my tent, connected with the outside world. I was a well-informed hiker, traversing those first mountains in New Hampshire. I conquered Moose Mountain, Smarts Mountain, Mt. Cube, and Mt. Mist, all while enduring information overload.

But something was wrong. Out here in the woods, this toy was destroying my newfound freedom. I no longer heard my footsteps on the pine needles or the birds singing or the wind rustling through the trees. Sure, the golden oldies station was playing my kind of music. Bob Dylan and Crosby, Stills & Nash reminded me of my past, but somehow I was being robbed of the present. I had traded the joy of nature and conversing with God for a little radio clipped to my backpack.

The radio had to go. I stashed the radio at the bottom of my pack, and returned to living. If the world fell apart, Fargo would surely let me know.

I heard the ribbons of birdsong in the forest and the snap of a small branch under my foot. My music, my distraction, was the clicking of my poles and the sighing of the wind.

Thank You, God, for Your beautiful creation.

Welcome back, Apostle.