After a couple hours of hiking, I emerged from the woods and walked into the the little provincial hamburg of Salisbury. On the way there were some sort of local volunteers deploying road blocks from golf carts retrofitted with police lights. I wondered what that was for. Looked official.
Turns out it was Memorial Day and I’d just missed the parade. The red, white and blue streamers had come and gone to the blare of trumpets and drums (which I’d heard from the trail), but people were still milling around in front of the town hall and offered me free ice cream and lemonade, because a tardy patriot is still a patriot.
I left my Toronto blue jays hat inside my bag. Didn’t want to confuse anyone.
After a quick lunch at the White Hart Inn and a bill that hurt my heart, Cosmo, Gary and I were picked up in a red hatchback by a guy named Hudson who took us to his hostel, The Bearded Woods Dine and Bunk. And again, the Connecticuters (or Connecticutians or Connecticutensians or just “Nutmeggers” if none of the above suits you) provided just what hikers need. Showers, laundry, bunks, cable, wifi, home-cooked dinner and breakfast, free lemonade, affordable snacks, and clotheslines out back to dry wet tents. And a hammock too.

Low lit dinner on a screen porch. Wine bought and shared by new friends. The pleasant company and conversation that comes when you have a group of people all intrigued by different things. Never a dull moment around the big table covered in an Old Glory tablecloth.

Dinner lasts a long time. And for good reason: no one wants to get up. That’s the first step towards goodbye.
The next day our friends are gone, but we’re zeroing so we’ve got the place to ourselves.
Delicious breakfast. Coffee. Tea.
Sat in the hammock all day. Gonna get one of those bad boys soon as I get home.
Had a hatchet throwing contest with Cosmo. Hudson stepped in after Cosmo chucked on of the damn things 30 yards into the woods.
Watched a homemade AT film titled Flip-Flop-Flippin starring a self-appointed comedian named Squatch who was, according to our hosts, notorious for skipping town to pursue rumors of Bigfoot as they popped up here and there. The piece was a masterwork and had this year’s hikers in tears at most points (which was somewhat expected) and struck powerfully silent by others (which was not).
We left the next day, embarking on. 17 mile slack pack over the Teconic Range. “Slack-packing,” to those not in the know, is when your host takes your big pack, gives you a little one, and picks you up or brings you your big pack back after you’ve hiked 20 miles on strangely light feet.

So that was how I crossed into Mass, on a cloud. Then it was some cliff-walking on Mt. Race, to a wayward road to pick up our bags from Hudson, and 2 miles more to a farmer’s field where we cowboy camped in the open. Just sleeping bags and fireflies. No tents.
The alarm tomorrow might be Jethro on a tractor — Nomad