Bernard Martoia
The trail, spacious enough for a single shelter, served as Waffle Print’s sleeping quarters for the night. The natural resting place offered an unanticipated benefit to the camper. With the rain fly fanned out past the trodden soil path, the inner tent was nestled in the trench, keeping the sleeper from turning and aggravating his health.
Despite two injuries from yesterday’s arduous 28-mile stage, he enjoyed deep sleep.
The watch buzzer woke him at 6 a.m. He longed to learn about the weather, yet mindful of avoiding any harm, so he crawled out of the tent.
His tibia’s wound resembled a burning ember on his skin, but his torn knee lacked sensation.
A brilliant full moon hung in the sky, its light piercing the forest canopy and tracing the trail’s path.
As he unwrapped the towel to show his throbbing shinbone, he feared an infection. Without a pharmacy kit, he was unable not treat the deep wound. Aware of his body’s protest, he started off at a glacial crawl to gauge the extent of his injuries.
A couple of minutes later, he arrived at a spectacular dam on South Alder Brook. The half-mile-long artificial lake featured a hillock, home to a beaver family responsible for building the embankment.
Bare tree trunks, like ghostly fingers, clawed their way out of the fog-shrouded gray water. His artistic viewpoint served as a catalyst for him to overcome his profound distress.
Beyond the swamp, the pathway skirted the Story Spring Shelter, positioned above Alder Brook’s north branch. The refuge stood empty, a usual occurrence during former peak foliage seasons.
By the hour’s end, Waffle Print’s legs regained a pleasing sense of control. He expressed gratitude to the Almighty for this unanticipated turn of events.
While advancing northward, the hiker encountered the Daniel Webster Memorial State Historic Site next to an unpaved roadway.
Despite not being born in Vermont, the politician gave a significant speech in that secluded field during a Whig Party convention, attracting 15,000 attendees on July 4, 1840.
“Hard to imagine a big group way out here,” the hiker mused. His gaze fixed upon the substantial hindrance presented by the stage, which began following the historical digression.
At 3,936 feet, Stratton Mountain holds the distinction of being southern Vermont’s highest peak.
Notwithstanding his injuries, he approached the three-mile ascent with equanimity. His sole attention centered on reaching the Vermont 11/30 Road prior to dusk, a required action for thumbing rides in Manchester.
While the crafted trail provided a steady incline, he arrived at the summit at the moment the sun pierced the hazy sky.
As he passed, the woman in her seventies tending the cabin offered a welcome.
After that, he placed the backpack at the base of the fire tower and ascended the wire staircase that led to the hatch beneath the observatory deck.
The possibility of the trapdoor being closed exacerbated his anxiety. The recent remembrance of the locked portal on Glastenbury Mountain, requiring the engagement of both his head and hands to open, weighed on him. With injuries on both his legs, he understood this was not the day to test his physical strength. The gateway was ajar when he was fifty feet in the air, a positive turn of events that hinted at a more accessible passage.
When he reached the observation deck, a sigh escaped his lips. He cast his eyes upon the boundless horizon, attempting to orient himself. Northbound on the Appalachian Trail for a couple of days would lead to Bromley Peak and its ski slopes cutting through the woods. Amidst the endless forest, that remained the sole certainty for him.
The account suggests Benton MacKaye, in his youth, formed his preliminary concept for an eastern continental pathway in that place at the start of the 1900s. In 1921, he served as the visionary behind the Appalachian Trail.
A large turnout occurred when Waffle Print returned to the caretaker cabin.
“It’s my last moment of the season,” declared the old woman. Seven people carried her belongings toward the valley. A cable car awaited her party at the end of a side path on the northern slopes.
How long have you been around? He asked her.
She replied, “Since Memorial Day,” as if it held no significance.
“Quite a while,” he shot back.
The cabin, the size of a small bedroom, was devoid of basic facilities, including a bathroom.
“I’m never bored here. I got to read a bunch of books. Check out the mules,” she said, gesturing to the three beasts piled high with goods.
“Have a good trip returning to the civilized world,” he wished her.
Technological advancements made the fire-watcher’s occupation, much like the lighthouse keeper’s, redundant. Cold machines took over the job of human eyes, detecting any suspicious smoke.
As the trail wound downhill on the mountain’s western flank, a powerful aroma permeated the atmosphere. The scent emanated from a compact bed of spruce needles rotting on the wet soil.
The landscape transformed below 2500 feet, with the evergreen pines surrendering their dominance to a multitude of broad-leaved deciduous trees. With the vibrant foliage having just passed its prime, the sunlight descended in dappled patterns onto the path.
By the babbling rivulet that cut across the trail, he found a pleasant spot to refresh himself with a snack. He reclined on a layer of golden leaves, soaking up the sun’s rays for a fleeting moment. A persistent itch emanated from the deep scar on his left tibia, yet he refrained from scratching it with his soiled hands.
A chilling breeze washed over him as he arrived at the edge of Stratton Pond at noon. Against the backdrop of the profound blue water, the red heather seemed to glow. Around the glacial lake, blueberry bushes grew by the shore, their branches heavy with the final plump, ripe fruit of the season. Expecting the usual flavor rush, he grabbed a few, only to find them bland and unappetizing, their taste dulled by the sub-freezing overnight temperatures. He spat them out.
“Only ten miles left until the turnoff for Manchester,” he mused inwardly, disheartened by the prospect of leaving this perfect place.
The path proceeded along a ridge overlooking Bourne Brook. When he pushed through an overgrown fern section, his eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of a snake at the last second, but the creature slithered away before he even reached for his camera.
As the creek tumbled into a gorge, the trail converged with a forest road. He rediscovered the simple joy of a dirt path walk, a pleasant moment that ceased when the route shifted course northward.
Perched atop Prospect Rock, a rugged outcrop adorned with massive stone slabs, he caught sight of the valley where Manchester lay nestled. His impatience increased with every step as the track undulated along the crest leading to Spruce Peak.
From the mountaintop, the trail dropped toward the lowlands. The foliage displayed a brilliant spectacle of golden and red leaves, illuminated by the sun as it reached its zenith below two thousand feet.
The road snaked into the distance, visible from the power line clearing. With an eagerness reminiscent of a horse scenting the barn, he rushed toward the VT 11/30 highway.
At 4:50 p.m., he stood on the shoulder of the paved thoroughfare. He was about to extend his hand for a lift into town when a stylish BMW convertible, its engine a low purr, drew up beside him. From his car to his clothes, his bearing to his accent, nothing about him pointed to Vermont.
“Where are you from?” Waffle Print sought understanding.“I’ve lived in New York, but Manchester is where I’m at for a month,” he responded.
“I believe that’s the case,” the hitchhiker answered, a knowing smile on his face.
In his early forties, the driver possessed a welcoming demeanor that put him at ease. Similar to him, he had resided in NYC. As a result, the two established a rapport for lighthearted discussion.
His career as a head teacher underwent a change. He spent ten years in a New York City school, and the endless parade of students uninterested in learning, who also made life difficult for their peers, pushed him to his limit.
The allure of nature and its pastimes proved so compelling that he took a job in Vermont, despite the lower earnings.
He admitted, “I’m still in vacation mode,” as he pointed to the vibrant leaves.
Arriving in Manchester, the Northshire Bookstore stood at the crossroads of four directions.
“I love this bookshop and know the guy who runs it.” The driver offered clarification. He conveyed his happiness about living in such humble, but attractive surroundings.
“Residing here would be delightful for me as well,” Waffle Print chimed in.
Then, the head teacher transported him a block to Sutton’s Place, a lodging with a mid-range price tag.
The innkeeper stood as a lanky man in his sixties. Upon recognizing the guest’s accent, he began speaking in French. His excellent command yielded to the utter bewilderment the guest experienced when looking at his face.
“I have seen him, but I can’t recall where I met him.” He posed the question to himself.
He soon remembered the answer. The compliment, which emphasized his striking resemblance to the film actor Donald Sutherland, annoyed the host.
“Everyone keeps saying it, but they’re wrong. It’s me that the celebrity resembles.” He proclaimed with strong conviction in flawless French.
Waffle Print erupted into laughter in response to his clever comment.
The backpacker failed to experience the relaxation offered by the comfortable bedroom. After a quick wash and addressing the serious wound on his lower leg, he put on his other clothes.
His customary commitment to the task commandeered his time in the city. After going to the laundromat, he entered the pharmacy to get band-aids, cotton, and antiseptic cream. Afterward, he bought supplies for the last part of his trip.
Next, he returned to the laundry, placed the garments in the dryer, and watched the local news broadcast.
An attractive journalist provided commentary on the radar map screen: “Expect sunshine tomorrow, then a major storm will bring heavy rain to New England that night.”
Despite the data being a weight, he trusted his own capacity to lessen its adverse effects.
After his clothes had finished drying, the hiker journeyed to the Sirloin Saloon. The mediocre Prime Rib steak almost found redemption in two glasses of Pinot Noir, these assisting him in his forgetting of the poor supper.
“I ought to endeavor to remain upbeat, despite my disposition,” he reflected, emptying his drink. “After 22 miles and a pair of busted legs, complaining seems silly, right?” He concluded with a sigh.