Day 4: Jay Camp to Spruce Ledge Camp

And on the fourth day, I increased my mileage from around or under 5 miles daily, to a notch over 20. I really picked up speed. By riding in cars between Route 242 and Route 118. 

That section of the Long Trail is part of what I already day-hiked last autumn, so this morning I decided it was best to head to Montgomery Center and get some tape and glue for my split boot. On Route 242, the first car that passed picked me up -- the driver, a lady snowboarding enthusiast a few years younger than me. We talked about knee surgeries and Aer Lingus, and she dropped me at the little supermarket in town. The cashier noted my pack, stated firmly: "you'll leave that at the door". On my way out, she and the store's other customer debated which likely weighed more, me or the backpack. 

I had a longer wait for a hitchy-ride down 118. That was OK -- I stood in the sun by the side of the road, periodically raising my "118 S" sign and trying to strike a balance between looking pitiful enough to pick up, but tough enough not to mess with. A younger-than-me dude eventually pulled over, gave me a lift to the trailhead and played some Danish metal with "Johnny Cash influences" through the sound system that took up the entire trunk of the car. It was nice to hear some clicky kick-drum through real speakers rather than my own mental jukebox. 

Off, southwards, into Division 11 and onto the first bit of the Long Trail that I hadn't already hiked in the past. I was heading towards Devil's Gulch, and was happy that I only had a few miles to go and plenty of daylight.

heart-shaped rock

The ladder leads up into the gulch, a creepy jumble of boulders and quasi-canyons.

The triangle-space is the trail here. 

The gulch was pretty tough, slow going. Largely, this was because my pack was a bit too heavy and wide for many of the narrow rocky scrambles. I'd climb a ladder or a boulder-sequence, my pack pushing against the rocky sides of the gulch, or pulling me backwards as I inched over jagged rocks. But the weather was great, and I really loved the creepy gulch. Until I reached the ledge of terror right near the northern end.

The ledge was a couple of feet wide, and to the right was a drop to jagged boulders on the floor of the gulch. Later, someone would tell me there was an old moose skeleton somewhere down there. I'm glad I didn't know this at the time. Ahead of me, a smooth near-vertical bit of rock ascended probably 8 or 9 feet to the next bit of trail. The Long Trail white blaze was casually daubed onto this rock. There was nowhere to grip; I couldn't go that way.

To the left of the rockface, a more jagged rock offered a few hand and foot-holds, for a scramblier route up to the trail. Being a few inches further to the left of the ledge and the drop was another advantage of this route. The main disadvantage, though, was that immediately to the left of the "high road" was a cliff face going straight up. Standing at the start of the "high road", the cliff face pushed my backpack to the right so I couldn't keep my feet on the ledges. It became clear I couldn't climb the "high road" with 60 pounds of pack being pushed firmly towards the ledge I'd started on. And towards the drop.

Screw the pack. I dug around and found my $3 lightweight rope-cord that I'd impulsively bought at WalMart the day before the trip. It had felt like a probably-good-thing to have.  I looped the rope through the top handle of the backpack, then loosely around my own waist. I lashed my hiking poles to the outside of my pack. I put my cell-phone in my zipper pocket, and jammed my wedding ring tight on my middle finger. I refused to have an accident in a place without cell reception. I clung with monkey fingers and toes and made it up the rocky ledges on my first attempt. Without the pack wobbling around and pushing me down, I felt nimble and quick. I sat on the trail above my pack, and did a bit of breathing. I took the rope off my waist, and knotted the end to an embedded tree-root.

I wondered whether I was strong enough to haul the pack up from its distance below me. I refused to follow the pack into the gulch if it did tumble. I braced the rope around a jagged rock, and heaved. The bag moved grudgingly up the rock face, and I pressed the rope to the rock with my boot each time I gained a few inches. The rope held. I reunited the backpack with my body, and walked up the trail a way out of the gulch before I sat down and took a slightly gelatinous, giddy break.

Soon, I saw the spur trail up to Spruce Ledge Camp -- easily one of the most beautiful places I've been. The camp itself was taken over by a school group, so I pitched my tent and went to cook my ramen at the lookout over Ritterbusch Pond.

Note the scale of my tent in comparison to the camp with space for 10 people. 

Two rangy, speedy northbound thru-hiking gents showed up, accompanied by a springy, fluid dog called Maya. She was carrying a dog backpack with her own gear (snacks, tweezers for ticks, etc). Half-beagle, half Australian cattle dog, she was gorgeous with a blue-grey saddle and tan patches. We sat and chatted about what I'm starting to recognise as the usual hiker stuff -- gear, shelters, trail conditions -- as Maya rollercoastered around the bench. Mike, a graphic designer with a 10-pound base-weight pack, pointed out the good and the "shitty" shelters on the southbound map. Steve, waiting to hear his bar exam results and spending "the other half" of the summer outside, thought that being a freelance percussionist was probably the best job description he'd heard on the trail.

It is a pretty cool job. I'm lucky.