VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN -3-

Camhalia talking on her cell phone

Camhalia, the sweet field staff in the above picture that I met at the summit of Mount Mansfield is, who convinces me to take the Long Trail going down rather than Hell Brook trail, the–semi upright-wall. It doesn’t take much effort on her part to do so, really, I'm at a point I’d take any route back but Hell Brook. It was a "hell" of a hike up both literally and metaphorically, I don't want to do it in reverse, which will be definitely more difficult on the already slippery and wet boulders. And at this point, I don't even know, yet, what the skies of Vermont are holding for my near future before I reach the road for the evening! Later on, I will realize what a smart guidance that was when I read on one of the flyers that Hell Brook trail is to be used for ascent only, not for descent.  

the father and son set I will meet twice



the color of the storm over Burlington



Thus, starts my down hike along Profanity Trail that is supposed to intersect with Long Trail as the light gradually but steadily fades away from the forest. I can't say, if this is simply because I am going deeper and deeper in to the dense forest or whether the rumbling wrath of the skies over Burlington I listened to throughout the half hour I was at the summit has something to do with the dark settling down more and more around me. To tell the truth, I am a bit frightened of going deeper into the forest all by myself. With these thoughts, I come to the intersection that drops me onto Long Trail where I come across one of the father-son duos that I saw at the summit. I wonder, quietly, if they will take Long Trail. When they tell me they are going to Taft Lodge, and that it is right around the corner, I think "Hmmm, why not? a few minutes of delay wouldn't hurt" and follow them. He is right, in 0.1 mile, we arrive at a well secluded small cottage, in very good shape. As I am marveling at what lovely and truly a lodge they, the volunteers had constructed in the middle of nowhere, we step into the one-room space of Taft Lodge. Before I can even complete my thought process of marveling, an unimaginable rain ensues. The roof sounds like it is going to collapse any minute with the beating it suffers under the whipping of the pour. Outside the open door is a sheer curtain of water pouring from up above. In Turkish we would call this as-if-the-bottom-of-the-sky-had-fallen-off kind of rain.



look carefully, you will see the sheet of water coming down



The father is stunned with how timely our arrival in the lodge has been, so am I. On one hand, I am enjoying this unexpected adventure from the safety of the Taft Lodge, but on the other, my mind is dealing with all kinds of questions: Am I going to be able to leave, am I going to be safe on the trail after this torrential downfall, can I stay here overnight with no water left? .... The three young men, who have already settled down at the lodge for the night and the father strike up a conversation about a couple going up when the thunder and the lightening had already started beating up the summit, this was after I left the summit, for sure. Before the conversation is over, a couple walks in, soaked from head to toe, sure enough that’s them. It becomes all too clear that I can't leave under the given circumstances. Diana is her name. They take off their wettest clothes they are able to take off in public and still remain decent, and they let the less wet ones to dry with their body heat. She takes two sandwiches out of her backpack, which were prepared with the hopes to eat at the summit just like we all did, alas, they have to suffice with the dry safety of the lodge and watch the end-of-the-world type of a scene outside through the open door. They collapse onto the bench and start eating their sandwiches as I learn more about them. After chatting about nature's surprises she volunteers that they are from New Jersey and she works at a bank. They share with me their dried, organic papaya; sweet, that is what people do on the trails. The father and the son declare this is their last day, they are to return home the following day via the Underhill area where their car is parked. The trio of young men on the other hand will continue north on Long Trail tomorrow and on for several more days. Their goal for today in fact was to push toward Sterling Pond leanto, which is the next shelter on Green Mountain Range, but under these circumstances, they choose to be safe. Smart boys, but what DO I do, under these circumstances? One positive thing is that Dianne, her husband and I are on the same boat. We are not prepared to stay at the lodge, we have to find a way to go down. And we will, at least I will, the skies listen to my silent plea and open up around 4, in fact even the sun comes out after that horrendous hour-long downpour! As soon as rain stops, I say my good-byes to everyone and take off, hoping Dianne and her husband will follow, they never do. Unless, they were much slower than I, they might have tried the summit one more time. I hope they did.

central beam documenting the lodge's age and name

I must say it is a scary down-path. The forest is saturated with water with all of its components, not only its soil under my feet but its leaves and branches above and below, its underbrush, and its rocks with all their cracks. Although it will never rain until I get into my car, I get soaked all the same since any branch I hold onto or even touch by mistake, and that will happen too many times, pour all the juice they have been nesting in that saturation over my soon-to-become useless rain jacket. Anything I put my foot on without holding onto something, is a trap calling for an uncalled for fall, most of which I manage to stop but two. I fall on my back on both times, thanks to my backpack with no severe injury except for a hematoma on my left forearm. The deeper I go into the forest, the more doubtful I become that I am on the right path. Typical delusion of wilderness. I check teh map in my mind many many times and decide there is no way I can be on the wrong path and I press on. I thank the volunteers over and over again, who have painted white patches on the rocks and trees, which come to my rescue every time I feel, “I wonder if I took a wrong turn.” I recall affectionately my colleague Tim who had once told us a story about his backpacking trip in the wilderness of Alaska. After being by himself for a week, he was interpreting every dark shadow as a grizzly approaching him and getting his gun ready in his paranoia. That's where I almost am. At some point I even call "Hello" in hopes that the couple may be close enough behind me, alas, with no response or I may scare away if there is any scary wild life near me. I manage to remain calm and listen to potential sounds of the traffic, from down below. Is it real or wishful delusion, I don’t know. But I am surely heading down toward lower grounds; that is a good sign. Without seeing any more souls on the trail I finally make it to the road and I must confess with a feeling of a slight triumph.