Left Wiley shelter before dawn and made Kent, CT by noon. It was a town sprung up around prep school and so there were ice cream, girls, cool taverns, and used books aplenty.
Inspired by the heat I sent home my cold weather gear to my parent’s new, lakeside address that as of yet doesn’t quite have the ring of “home.”

Went to a bar, got a burger, had a drink, encountered a bamboozling riddle, and left the bar bamboozled. (Give it a shot if you dare)

After, I sat drinking a half gallon of chocolate milk in a thick glass container on a shady roadside bench. The affluent crowd was familiar. Both of my home-towns, the suburbia of Mountain Brook, AL and the manicured lawns of Elon, were reflected here, in the polarized tint of Audi windows and designer sunglasses. The women all wore sundresses and little hats, while the men had tucked in shirts and spines that never bent, were always ramrod straight, a posture that bespoke years on the manager-to-be waitlist.
Dave, a teacher at Kent’s all-girl boarding school gave us a ride back to the trailhead later at his wife and daughter’s behest.
Five minutes after hitting the trail it began to rain. Lightly at first, then hard. Sweeping sheets of it. We pushed through it happily as it was a far-cry better than the 90 degree heat.
4 miles to the shelter. The rain helped. We got there after dark.

No pain, no rain, no Maine — Nomad