Days 118-124: The Mosquitoes of Massachusetts

Day 118. August 8th: Laurel Ridge to Tom Leonard Shelter – 20 miles

Our first morning in Massachusetts, the trail follows broad, rocky ledges up to Mount Race. Thick clouds blanket the valley to our right, and the undercast makes the ridge seem miles above the ground instead of barely 2000 feet.

That afternoon, clouds gather, and in the humid pre-storm air, the mosquitoes are the worst I’ve ever experienced. We find ourselves half-jogging to evade them, but they land and cling to our clothes, biting through the fabric. It’s impossible to stop without being devoured. We’re covering the flat trail approaching Great Barrington at over three miles per hour, much faster than the terrain or my health have allowed since the gentle farmland of southern Pennsylvania. We’ve descended nearly 1500 feet from Mount Race and Mount Everett this morning, and this valley is marshy and threaded with slow-moving streams that flow into the nearby Housatonic river.

At one point, we reach a bridge that’s six or eight feet above the water, and to cross it, we have to climb up a ladder. In just the brief moment I’m forced to stop and climb, dozens of mosquitoes catch me and land. I haul myself up and then run across the bridge, sliding down the opposite side more like a fireman’s pole than a ladder. When the thunderstorm finally arrives, I welcome the torrential downpour, because at least it offers a respite from the relentless insects.

In almost every U.S. state I’ve ever visited, locals joke that the state bird is the mosquito. It’s like that ubiquitous joke about the weather—"If you don’t like it, wait five minutes.” Just like every state believes it has particularly fickle weather patterns, every state believes it has particularly troublesome mosquitoes. But based on living outdoors for six months on the East coast, if any state should boast about the severity of its mosquito population, it’s Massachusetts.

Day 119. August 9th: Tom Leonard to Upper Goose Pond Shelter – 21 miles

As summer stretches into the middle of August, we start to notice the days getting shorter. In June, in Virginia, we could sleep in, hike a 20+ mile day, and set up camp before dusk. Not anymore. Last night, to finish our 20-mile day, we had to hike by headlamp. And as we approached the shelter, I noticed that my light was getting… dim. I won’t have a chance to replace my batteries until Dalton, 40 miles away, so planning to night-hike might not be a great idea. I have my phone flashlight as a backup light source, but I also have limited juice remaining in my 10,000 mAh power bank.

It rains throughout the morning, but even though the mud is sometimes up to our laces, the terrain is mostly easy. We’ve heard glowing reviews from Sobos about Upper Goose Pond shelter, where the caretakers prepare pancakes for hikers in the morning, so we’ve set an ambitious goal of 21 miles for the day. I’ve continued to feel much better than in early Connecticut, but still, 41 miles in two days is daunting. A few hours before dusk, I start to worry about being forced to night-hike by the dwindling light of my headlamp.

“You go ahead,” I tell Etienne, “but trade headlamps with me.” With his long legs and two functional knees, he can hike twice as fast as I can. He’ll have no trouble getting to the cabin by sunset, so he won’t need a light. “I’ll try to make it there tonight, but if I can’t, I’ll stealth camp and get up early to catch you in the morning. Just save me some pancakes.”

He’s reluctant at first, but eventually agrees. I feel a twinge of worry as I watch him disappear in front of me. I think back to Maryland, when I couldn’t keep up with Rob and Ash. I thought I’d catch them the next morning, too, but instead we hadn’t crossed paths again until Boiling Springs.

That’s not going to happen, I tell myself. My body might force me to hike slowly, but that won’t matter if I just refuse to stop. I’m saving my phone battery, so I push hard all afternoon to the sound of my shoes splashing through puddles and the drone of mosquitoes. At dusk, I pause for a snack and put on Etienne’s headlamp. I can set up my tent here, alone, or I can hike another three miles through the darkness to Upper Goose Pond.

There will be blueberry pancakes at Upper Goose Pond, so it’s an easy choice.

I shoulder my pack, adjust the headlamp, and start walking. The trail is seeping with rainwater, and my shoes get soaked through. It’s 9pm when I arrive at Upper Goose Pond. Etienne has pitched his tent beside the cabin, and when I call out his name, I see the comically feeble glow of my mostly-dead headlamp switch on within. “You made it!” he says.

“I made it.” I’m exhausted, but proud of myself. It may have taken me nearly 14 hours, but I hiked 21 miles today.

Day 120. August 10th: Upper Goose Pond to Kaywood Shelter – 18 miles

The blueberry pancakes at Upper Goose Pond Cabin are everything I hoped. There are nearly two dozen thru-hikers here, the biggest bubble we’ve encountered since Kent, but the volunteer caretakers are unfazed, cranking out plate after plate.

Once we’re fed, we pack up and get moving. The sun is bright and warm, but it does little to dry out the soggy trail, and my shoes and socks are still wet from the evening before. We take a break at the famous Cookie Lady’s house. She isn’t home when we arrive, but we are lounging in the designated hiker area in her front yard when she and her husband pull into the driveway. They are elderly and very kind—just moments after they go into the house, they reemerge with a plate of homemade cookies. We thank her profusely and buy a few of the cold drinks and the blueberries she offers for sale. I read about the Cookie Lady in trail guidebooks and memoirs, and I return to the trail feeling like I just met an AT celebrity.

Day 121. August 11th: Kaywood Shelter to Dalton – 3 miles

It pours all night, and the forecast calls for three more inches of rain in the next 48 hours. We decide to nero into Dalton and stay with another legendary trail angel, Tom Levardi. The AT cuts straight through quiet neighborhoods on its way through Dalton, MA, and at first, I’m worried that from the vague map in my guidebook that we’ll walk past Tom’s house without noticing it. But then we see a garden planter full of trekking poles. When we get closer, we can see tents in the back yard. This must be the place.

As we wander up to the porch, Tom emerges from the house and introduces himself. He’s kind but stern, and he promptly lays out the rules of camping in his yard. We agree to behave ourselves and set up camp, then spend a leisurely day showering at the local rec center, resupplying at Walmart, and chatting with Tom and the other hikers on the porch. It rains all day and into the night.

Random trail magic bananas left on our packs by a stranger while we were in the grocery store.

Day 122. August 12th: Slack Pack from Cheshire to Dalton – 10 miles

We’re nearly 1600 miles into the trail, and I have carried all of my belongings the entire way. After nearly sixty miles in our first three days in Massachusetts, though, my knee hurts. I’m feeling better about my chances of finishing the trail than when I had my mini-breakdown in Connecticut, but my situation still feels precarious enough that I’ve decided to prioritize finishing the trail over my strict purist hiker notions. So, today, for the first time, we slackpack.

Slackpacking is when a hiker utilizes shuttles to hike a stretch of trail with only a daypack instead of full overnight gear. Today, Tom shuttles us 10 miles north, and we hike south back to his house to spend another night in his back yard. Tomorrow morning, he’ll shuttle us to the same spot again so that we can continue northward. Doing so, I can give my knee a rest from a full day of hiking with my 20lb pack, but we haven’t lost as much time as taking a zero.

I thought I would have more reservations about “tainting” my hike this way, but instead, I enjoy myself immensely and appreciate the relief for my knee. The ground is wet and muddy, but it only rains briefly, and the forest is vibrant green and teeming with thousands of mushrooms of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

Day 123. August 13th: to Wilbur Clearing – 10 miles

The weather is better the next day, except when we reach Mount Greylock, the tallest mountain in Massachusetts. Greylock is famous for the inland lighthouse at its summit, but the clouds are so thick that we can’t even make out the top of the building. We’re told the views are amazing, but we’ll have to come back another time.

Day 124. August 14th: Wilbur Clearing to Seth Warner Shelter – 10 miles

The trail gets muddier as we approach our next border crossing: Vermont, and the start of the Long Trail. The AT will overlap with the LT for a few days, before splitting off east into the New Hampshire while the older footpath continues north to Canada.

I balance carefully on the rocks and logs, straddling a mud puddle in order to pose with the sign welcoming us to Vermont. We joke about the state’s nickname “Vermud” and how appropriate it seems, given the first few yards of the trail.

The joke feels less funny as we trudge through ankle-deep mud the remaining distance to our campsite at mile 1600. That night, rain pours on the fabric of our tents for over an hour, so we know the footing won’t be any better tomorrow. Clearly, “Vermud” is not just a nickname.