Still Chapter 18. August 16, 1983.

Today began with the final three-and-a-half miles of the eastern fork of the Taconic Range, starting with Mount Bushnell and its excellent views.

Then came Jug End.

The trail down Jug End had just been relocated. Gone was the killer descent I remembered from my previous trips. In no time, I was on the dirt-surfaced Jug End Road, beginning the five-and-a-half mile Housatonic Valley roadwalk, crossing over from the Taconics to the Berkshires. An excellent little piped spring was located just a quarter mile into the roadwalk, an opportunity to chug water and fill my canteen.

Still Chapter 18. Still August 16, 1983.

The rest of August 16, and all of August 17 and 18 combined I took no more pics. I shot this interesting old shack on a tiny pond near the summit of Mount Greylock on August 19. I spent all of this time period in the Berkshires and high mountain ponds were a pleasant recurring feature of the Berkshires, so this pic can stand in for Benedict Pond, Upper Goose Pond, Finerty Pond, Anthony Pond and Gore Pond.

We stayed at Mount Wilcox South Shelter the night of August 16 after a 20-mile day. The shelter's resident porcupine gnawed away at the shelter and my sleep constantly all night. We camped for the night next to Finerty Pond on August 17. That followed a 16-mile day featuring another big Massachusetts roadwalk far less pleasant than the Housatonic Valley crossing.

August 18, it rained. Sometimes it drizzled, the rest of the time it came down steady. It rained all day; it never stopped. I plowed through more than 15 miles that day in less than six hours, two sprints sandwiched around a 45-minute break at a shelter, the one place I could get out of the rain all day. We spent that evening enjoying the amenities of a town's community center, which included a TV, hot showers, a sauna, a pool, and some padded wrestling mats on which we could sleep. This thoughtful generosity was abused by some over the years, so no one gets to stay there anymore. Still Chapter 18.

It never completely cleared, as you can see from the two pics above at that pond near the summit. My mom picked me up at the summit of Mount Greylock at the end of a 17-mile day. I was hoping for better visibility when I resumed my hike here the next day. As you can see, I got it.

Now August 20, 1983. Still Chapter 18.

There weren't a lot of options to let her see the tops of mountains, but Mount Greylock, with its paved auto road to the summit, was a good one. So, I had her meet me there for the first night, which gave me a second chance at the summit ridge views if August 20 was a better day. It was.

I needed road crossing at both ends for day hiking. Road crossings were far less common up here, especially paved roads.

I carried my backpack today, but it weighed in at a mere ten pounds. I had a warm shirt, a canteen containing about a cup of water, my camera, guidebook, and trail map. That light weight was a big plus, particularly since the trail down the north side of Greylock was much more rugged than yesterday's ascent, with many steep and eroded sections.

Still August 20, 1983. Still Chapter 18.

August 21, 1983. Beginning of Chapter 19. Picking up where the previous day's hike left off, Route 2 in the middle of the bustling college town of North Adams, Massachusetts. The climb out of the Hoosic valley was long, but on a nice section of trail.

Mount Greylock rose massively as a backdrop to the south, and westward I could make out a northern spur of the Taconics. A short while later, another climb brought me to a spot called Eph's Lookout with similar views. After the second lookout, the Appalachian Trail leveled off as it followed the ridge crest. About a mile later, I arrived at a Green Mountain Club trail register. I was at the Vermont state line and the southern terminus of their Long Trail.

Still Chapter 19.

The downside of day hiking with my mother shuttling me to and from the trailheads is she was not a morning person. In spite of the almost weightless backpack I was carrying, every day seemed to be a race against darkness.

I made tracks along the ridge today, racing the sunset.

There were a few nice views from this ridge. The brilliant sunshine and brilliant blue sky were just a little more intense due to the altitude and slightly thinner atmosphere. Greater heights lay ahead not very far down the road.

Still August 21, 1983. Still Chapter 19.

I crossed County Road along the ridge crest seven miles into the hike. My original intention had been to hike the 13.5 miles from Greylock’s summit to this road yesterday, until I noticed that would leave me with a short day today as a result of the lack of road crossings along the trail in Vermont. My guidebook called this a gravel road passable by car. It was in fact a one-lane, rutted dirt track. My mother would have needed to drive her sedan solo over this road yesterday evening to pick me up. Bullet dodged.

Near the end of the nineteen-mile day, I came upon the grassy, scrub-grown summit of Harmon Hill, with the finest views of the day. To the west, the small city of Bennington, Vermont lay cradled in a long green valley surrounded by mountains.

The sun sets on August 21, 1983. Still Chapter 19.

There were a few good lookouts along the wooded ridge crest, and none were totally obscured by clouds. Rather than the usual solid, low overcast, this rainy day in the mountains was marked by a higher, mid-level overcast, with scattered small clouds drifting past at my altitude. The trail elevation hovered in the 3000- to 3500-foot range all day, while the ceiling was at about 5000 feet.

About halfway through the hike, I spent a few minutes at the Glastenbury Mountain fire tower. I walked in a continuous downpour from just past Glastenbury Mountain to the end of today's trail, journeying along boggy ridges speckled with beaver ponds. I came out on the Arlington-West Wardsboro Road at 7:15 -- a half-hour late, but my ride was not there. My mother drove up as I was walking a few minutes later. She had become lost, as the beginning of this road was somewhat difficult to locate. I drove back to the motel. It was a slow ride through all of that fog. I had earned my twenty miles today, and the long, hot shower afterwards.

Night falls on August 22, 1983. Still Chapter 19.

The pond's hollow was a slight depression in a wide plateau which nestled against the western slope of 3900-foot Stratton Mountain. The western shore of the lake gave a picturesque view of that famous mountain.

Still August 23, 1983. Still Chapter 19.

Initially, it skirted the south shore of Stratton Pond, a sparkling cobalt through the trees. After brushing the western shore, with that view of Stratton Mountain, the trail passed through a number of mossy bogs, crossing them on wooden bridging and steppingstones.

Late in the day, an outcrop called Prospect Rock and a side trip to Spruce Peak each provided sweeping panoramic views of the town of Manchester, Vermont, its green valley, and the surrounding mountains.

I arrived at Vermont 30 at 8:00, a full half-hour late and drove back to the motel beneath an enormous Vermont moon. This was a very different way of seeing the country than backpacking. Then, I saw a long, narrow corridor. Now, I was getting a much broader picture of the surrounding area as well.

To be specific, I did not quite need to average two-and-a-half miles per hour that day. I had a twenty-minute cushion. So, naturally, I blew fifteen minutes of that cushion atop Bromley's 3260-foot summit.

Still August 24, 1983. Still Chapter 19.

Thanks to a mass of dry, crystal-clear air entrenched over New England today, I gazed out upon an expanse of country covering hundreds of square miles, from the Adirondack Mountains of New York in the west to the White Mountains of New Hampshire to the east.

The Appalachian Trail descended very gradually along the north ridge, through a beautiful forest of balsam fir and red spruce. Then I was descending into Mad Tom Notch.

As a backpacker with some New England experience, seeing the word notch in your guidebook could really get the blood pumping and the sweat glands going.

The top of Styles Peak was 3394 feet above sea level -- about 270 feet higher than Bromley's. The views were almost as nice, almost another 360-degree panorama, although not quite as unobstructed. I had to spend a few minutes taking it all in. On almost any other day, this mountain would have been the main highlight of the hike.

The Appalachian Trail continued along a somewhat muddy ridge crest sprinkled liberally with small bogs. The lush spruce-fir forest testified to a damp climate similar in some respects to the southern Appalachians, but this woodland had a completely different feel.

I crossed over several knobs along the crest to Peru Peak. This summit, at 3429 feet, was the highest I crossed that day, but the peak was heavily wooded. A side trail led off a few yards from the AT to a viewpoint which was barely a peephole. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this mountain also.

The trail followed the eastern shore of Griffith Lake for a while. It was another lovely spot, one of the many large mountain lakes I have passed in New England. I stopped for a couple of minutes on the shore to listen to the rippling of the waters and to savor the views of the surrounding mountains before I went on.

Still August 24, 1983. Still Chapter 19.

The Valley of Vermont below to my west dominated the view, tiny villages dispersed among the green pastures and forests of rural New England. U.S. Route 7, as usual, was a rural two-lane winding along the valley floor. Across the valley, the Taconic Range was several winding strands of lower mountains stretching to the north and south horizons. Valley and mountains were backlit by the soft golden light of the westering sun. It was another late day on the trail.

Because Baker Peak lacked the commercial development of Bromley, this became my favorite vista of the day and a fitting climax to a perfect hike.

The final five miles were quietly pretty. The trail passed a succession of scenic little ravines and streams.

Night was falling like a rock as I cruised the last mile to the Danby-Landgrove Road. I made it to the road at 8:03, having wrung every drop of usable twilight from the waning day. Five minutes later, it was pitch dark.

This brings us to the end of August 24, 1983. Still Chapter 19.