The Appalachian Trail’s shelter system makes a potentially overwhelming journey manageable by breaking it up into small segments. Each day becomes simple, just make it to the next shelter. One after another. Until you reach your destination, whatever or wherever that might actually be.
Wiley Shelter surprised me with its nonexistent mice population, hosting only a single skittish chipmunk that darted between the rafters in the morning light. I’d forgotten how much sleeping in shelters hurt when you’re a side sleeper, hips and shoulders pressed against hard wood through nothing but a Gossamer Gear 1/8″ foam pad. No inflatable air mattress, but at least it was easier to fly with than my usual bulky Walmart foam pad that screamed “hiker trash” anywhere besides the trail.
It strikes me as funny how, in my time between trails, I feel like I’m wearing a disguise. Pretending to be a productive member of society. Keep that sleeping pad hidden, wear khakis, and never let them see your spoon! But here, with yesterday’s sweat still clinging to my shirt and my shoulders protesting every movement, the mask falls away completely.
I took my time getting moving that first morning, not wanting to push my already-protesting body, but also because Kent, Connecticut waited only fifteen miles ahead. A resupply I didn’t yet need. My options narrowed to camping just before town after an easy thirteen-mile day, or pushing through Kent and back to trail for twenty-ish miles to the shelter beyond. With the extra miles for a town stop and a few hours of rest, I wasn’t sure my body could afford that ambition.
Going slow, I still reached Connecticut before 9am.
I found myself having lunch by the Housatonic River at 10am, finishing my last bag of chips. Out of food but not really craving anything. Sometimes the trail hints at the difference between wanting and needing, between hunger and appetite. But I had no hiker hunger yet.
In Kent’s cramped IGA, I met Big Pimpin and Frogger, southbound hikers with that easy trail confidence I remembered but hadn’t yet reclaimed. From the deli counter at the back of the store, I ordered a bagel with cream cheese and fried egg, washing it down with a half gallon of whole milk. Despite standing in a resupply town with empty food bags, I walked out without buying provisions. The logical part of my brain argued this was stupid, but my body wasn’t ready for the weight or the commitment.
After downing the bagel and milk, standing up from the bench outside the IGA proved difficult. Stiff and sore, the prospect of nine more miles to the next shelter felt less like adventure and more like punishment. South down the trail, back the way I came, Mount Algo Shelter called to me from just over a mile outside town. The prudent choice for someone clearly out of hiking shape.
But I hesitated at the turnoff. Did I want hot dogs from the cart on the edge of town? Was I afraid to go hungry? Or was it the nostalgia of the same guy who seemed to be running it from the same spot as when I’d hiked through years before, a constant in the ever-changing tapestry of experience? I didn’t need the calories, but when Big Pimpin and Frogger appeared ahead of me on the trail, admitting my limitations felt awkward. So I chose north, not on the trail, along River Road instead, which eventually rejoins the Appalachian Trail, avoiding the climbs and terrain my body couldn’t yet afford.
The road walk along the Housatonic River offered gentler miles as the sun tracked west, my destination felt distant, but I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Stewart Hollow Brook Shelter finally appeared in the fading light, where I met Boom Boom and Turtle, late northbound hikers pushing toward Katahdin with the determination I once carried.
My phone battery died again as the cell signal cut out with the sunset, leaving me properly disconnected for the first time in months. In the gathering darkness, surrounded by the quiet conversations of fellow hikers, I felt something settle that I hadn’t realized was restless.
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