a taste of the SHT: Fredenberg Creek to Sugar Loaf Road, 9 miles

You can be the lead in your own life.

Kerry Washington

I wake to clear skies and the squirrels chattering again. Their mutterings sound like the gurgling of the tiny creek I’m camped above. I lay in the alicoop cozy and not so sure I want to stir. Yesterday I was full of spit and vinegar, moving fast and strong up those famously rocky and steep bits of Minnesota’s North Short – a trifle compared to anything in the “real” mountains, but a slog in that minuscule span of time, the breath heavy and the (healthy) heart pounding.

The squirrels aren’t going to let me sleep, one visiting just to see if I might have gotten careless with my food. No such luck! OK, I’ll get up, sitting up first in the palace that is the alicoop 2, my Gossamer Gear “The One,” a single walled, single piece tent set with my walking sticks and six pegs. It rained last night, so I’m careful not to brush against the ceiling, damp to the touch. But as I said, it’s giant and I have loads of room to pack up, throw out my gear bit by bit, then dress and prepare to go

I have no idea why this became such a habit, but I don’t eat until I’m well along on the trail. Did that do me in, not getting enough nutrition and liquid? Or is it just wanting to get a move on as if dawdling will slow the momentum. Yesterday I felt like a thru-hiker, moving fast and smooth, ticking off miles while still taking pictures and breaks at the best spots. Today I’m getting a small taste of the other side of the thru-hiker, the one beginning to feel like they’ve walked past the same tree a hundred times and less thrilled about a steep ascent right at the start.

But it takes me out of the dense green and up to exposed rock. “Tower View” a sign reads and there it is, a tower closer to the lake. The sky is clear, but thick and humid. My view isn’t obstructed by mist, by neither is it crisp. The trail takes a sharp turn and goes right back into the forest as if through a leafy tunnel.

My mind wanders and I think of the ease in yesterday’s non-stop conversation with the air, the laughter at my sometimes silly mistakes and the feeling that with each step I was coming closer to that state of bliss where I feel the spirit close at hand. Today, it’s a bit more forced over warped boardwalks, along root-filled paths strewn with boulders where I have to watch every step and down steeply on dried mud.

The next site feels much further away than the mileage indicates. I’m so glad I stopped myself from moving further last night even when I felt so good. It was 6:30 when I finally arrived and I would have been walking this in dim light indeed. The site is not all that special either, next to a river and tucked among the trees.

My goal is Alfred’s Pond, a place I sat for hours a few years back, so still dragonflies landed on my knees. First I cross a road, then again just before a truck passes. I do like meeting people at roads who might “sell me a beer” but when they’re driving by and kicking up dust it always spooks me a little if they see me crossing, so I move fast and let the forest swallow me back in.

From Dyer’s Creek, it’s back up and I feel my legs now, tired from yesterday’s overkill exertion, ready for a break. A horsefly buzzes me as if to emphasize that today is a new day and I’m going to feel the challenge more deeply. I grab my bug burka out of a side pocket and throw it over my head. He doesn’t take the hint, but at least won’t land on my face. I stop to scoop up a few raspberries, perfectly plump and tart falling into my fingers right when I touch them. As I reach for seconds, the horsefly lands on my outstretched hand, noticing his lovely pale brown wings folded back before I swat him dead.

It’s not long before I follow a meadow again to my right hidden by a scrim of trees and nestled inside is the pond, just as I remember it, trees reflected in its placid blue surface. A dragonfly with a sporty blue striped body hovers close by, clearly keeping the place clear of mosquitos and horseflies. There’s a boardwalk to the edge with two triangular benches. I pull out the bear canister from my pack and make breakfast, first cereal, then a shake followed by two bars. It didn’t take long for hiker hunger to hit me. The raspberries clearly weren’t enough.

I look down at my GPS thinking I probably ought to check in with Richard. I fully intended to hike all day, but what’s this? “I’m in Duluth and will check in when I hit Silver Bay!” He’s already on the North Shore. I was prepared to keep walking, but come to think of it, I think I might have had enough for this test trip. I bluetooth the phone to the GPS and write a message – short, since only 140 characters are allowed like Twitter – and suggest we meet at the next state park, Caribou Falls.

I pack up and begin moving, suddenly realizing I’ll be crossing yet another road and maybe he just wants to get this pick up over and done with, so I amend my message and press send hoping we don’t miss each other. Just then I hear the lovely descending melody of a White Throated Sparrow, perhaps my favorite of the birds in my north woods world. His gentleness feels encouraging, you’ve done well here, you came back to the trail and you soaked it in both as an observer who lingered and slept out and as one simply moving through.

There is so much peace in walking and I feared I’d lost touch with that feeling. I was desperately out of sorts in Montana, I realize now walking these final miles to meet Richard on rickety boards over a swamp, one high above a wash out and bouncing as I put my weight on it. On the CDT I was suffering in the heat and from having to climb over so many blowdowns as well as never clicking with the people I was walking with, if you can call it that since I never could keep up with them.

The real problem, I think, is that I was disconnected with myself. I somehow lost the sense that what I was doing mattered, that, in fact I mattered. And then my body betrayed me and just gave up out there. Next week I’ll know more about how we plan to move forward with a heart that begins racing out of control every so often, but out here on these three days, I’ve had no symptoms whatsoever.

Thank goodness.

The walking is flat and easy now, as long as I carefully step over exposed roots and stay upright on the boards. I start to sing one of my favorite songs of all, Randall Thompson’s setting of Robert Frost’s “The Pasture.” I whistle the piano part then sing the last line, taking a huge pause in between lines.

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

Just as I get to the end of the second stanza, I hear whistling coming down the path. It’s Richard!