Redtail

My preparation for this hike, or “walk in the woods” as my mother repeatedly called it, is difficult to measure. While I had always thought that hiking the Long Trail would be fun and worthwhile, the prospect of setting foot up this trail had only begun to materialize in the previous months. Despite many attempts to prepare for the hike, both mentally and physically, I set foot on the trail that day relying mostly upon grit and stamina to guide me north. I had a guidebook and map, a week’s worth of food, boots that had never tested on the trail, and pulled north by an eagerness that engulfs many would be voyagers. My longest hike to that point had been two nights; this trip would take as much as three weeks. Much of my equipment was 15 years old and I had only acquired on substantial discount by working at an outdoor outfitter during college.


If a hiking instructor designed the Long Trail and each section tailored to their requirements, they did a job on par with the Almighty Creator and the rest of His miracles. The Long Trail starts flat and modest, with occasional climbs serving as a harbinger of what’s to come further up the trail. While each hiker proceeds at their own pace, the southern section of the Long Trail prepares hikers for the highest peaks of the Green Mountains in central Vermont and the wildly undulating peaks and gaps of the northernmost reaches. What the southern section may lack in physical difficulty, it compensates for in mental training of what lies ahead. It was during this time while hiking many lonely miles that I had the time to talk with myself, ask questions, listen for answers, and simply learn.


The trail however, is far from a lonely place, and the first lesson that I learned, was that I need others. I pulled into my first camp that first evening at about 6 p.m. I was startled to find a shelter full of people, tents dotting the well-worn woods, and even a hammock strung between two trees. It was Labor Day weekend, the most popular time for hiking. The Long Trail also happens to coincide with the Appalachian Trail for the first 100 miles, and by that time of the season, the tail end of the bubble of hikers that had left Springer Mountain Georgia in March had made it this far. I was fortunate to secure the last sleeping space in the shelter. Attempting to appear as though I knew what I was doing and that I certainly belonged here, I set about to getting dinner ready and preparing for the night ahead.

Trail names are an integral part of life in the trail community. Originally growing out of the back to nature movement and the popularity of escaping on the Appalachian Trail, trail names offer the hiker a pseudo personality and certain anonymity while amongst strangers. Some prefer to allow themselves to be “named” while on the trail, but you run the risk of being assigned a name garnered from your idiosyncratic personality or bad habit, such as “Gobbles” or “Natural Disaster.” I was prepared to call myself “Redtail.” There was an obvious connotation to the bird of prey and being in the out of doors. A second meaning was my backpack was bright red and resembled my hiking tail. The name has stood the test of time for me. What is important about trail names however, are the stories that spill forth from them and how they become part and parcel of life on the trail for some. 

Camel's Hump, and Huntington, Vermont

My quest to hike the Long Trail began at some point in college while I was attending the University of Vermont.  During my freshman and sophomore summers, I was fortunate to land the best work-study job I could imagine; I was paid to hike each day. Granted, I was required to dig some soil samples, count some moths and be devoured by black flies all summer long. Yet on the mountain those summers I developed as a hiker and my ecology skills were greatly enhanced.

Our daily routine required picking up the University research van from the garage, gathering the other workers at the Etymology lab, and then heading towards the mountains. During our commute, there seemed to be many stops along the way; coffee, sandwich at Beaudry’s in Huntington, and a variety of alternative routes all designed to make our trip to the trail head last as long as possible. There was tremendous freedom granted to us and through we often took various liberties, we always accomplished the task for the day, which was assisting with research of high elevation forest decline.

I discovered two things during this time; I found Camel’s Hump in Huntington to be a sacred place for me, and the Long Trail. Camel’s Hump, at 4084 feet, is significant in many ways. Its summit provides extraordinary views in all directions; on clear days you can see north all the way to Montreal, the White Mountains to the east and the High Peaks of the Adirondacks to the west. It is a mountain preserved in its near wild state and not blemished by ski resorts, summit roads or state parks. Yet, it is also accessible and not so overwhelming that it invokes fear. Henry David Thorough, the seminal lover of nature, in his book “The Maine Woods,” was so overwhelmed when climbing Mount Katahdin that he found himself driven to his knees in fear when truly confronted with wilderness. Camel’s Hump is more welcoming than that, yet still a place where one can find solitude and escape.

Vermont’s  Long Trail, a “footpath in the wilderness” conceived by James P. Taylor whilst sitting atop Stratton Mountain that connects all the high peaks of the Green Mountains, crosses the summit of Camel’s Hump on its journey from the Massachusetts’ – Vermont border to the Canadian border. I cannot pinpoint the moment when I first realized the Long Trail was a real, tangible entity and not an abstract phantom of a pursuit. I have found in my years my powers of comprehension sometimes lag far behind my intellect. This could also be the result of not dreaming too big. Being raised the child of distant yet pragmatic parents, my father’s greatest lessons that he taught to me were to start working early and never expect too much more than a paycheck in this world.

Upon first glance, hiking the Long Trail was akin to climbing Mount Everest to me. It had the romantic appeal of facing the edge of your abilities, the seduction of solitude and communion with nature, yet the elusiveness of a feat too incomprehensible to begin to undertake. It was filed in the same category of those other adventures that a life lived safely never seems to accomplish; visit the Seven Wonders, sail across the ocean, play in a World Series game or become President of the United States, etc. Yet completing a hike of the Long Trail remained a solid fascination in my mind.

For Vermonters, the Long Trail is as much a part of the state’s identity as its cows, small towns and long winters. The Long Trail however, holds greater distinction beyond the borders of this state. It is the oldest (known) long distance hiking path in the United States. It also gave birth to the idea of the Appalachian Trail, when Benton McKaye, sitting upon the same summit of Stratton Mountain in 1921 that James P. Taylor sat years before, conceived of a trail that connected all the summits of the east coast, from Maine to Georgia. For many who have hiked the Appalachian Trail, many return to hike the Long Trail, or make the (relatively) short detour north to the Canadian border and include it on their AT Thru Hike. 

This I Believe…

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” Nelson Mandela


I believe in the power of the human spirit. We are not victims and possess unlimited power to shape our own realities.


I believe in God. And I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe we live to serve a greater purpose and that our creation is not simply an evolution of some gases and goo. While this belief does often need my attention, I find the conflict with this belief often comes from others and not from inside myself. I do believe God is real, but what real is only matters to me. I am ok with how others choose to worship, but feel it inappropriate to put one faith or method of worship above another. I can be just as close to my Creator while sitting alone on a mountaintop as when in a congregation of like minded believers. I believe that “preaching to the choir” serves only to keep us safe. I would prefer that my life is lived an example of what I believe.


I believe we are responsible for only one thing in this life – ourselves. While we may decorate our lives with spouses, family, jobs and children, we still can only be master of our own soul. How we live our life and make our choices has incredible power on who constitute our spouses, family, jobs and children.
My personal mission statement, which is an extension of my beliefs:


To continually strive for myself, my family and my friends:

• To be available and present for my wife and children,
• To model a healthy and active lifestyle,
• To remain close to nature through thought and deed,
• To be an active member in my community and contribute through teaching and sharing.

Beliefs can shift over time, and they may need to adapt to certain life situations, but ultimately I do not believe we ever discard our core beliefs. For example, while my belief in God has changed in my years, I still believe in God.


Finally, I believe it can be painful yet necessary to capture what I believe in words on paper. I feel I act on what I believe minute by minute throughout each day; yet articulating those beliefs can be elusive if not intimidating. And I believe that I have a very long list of beliefs that still need to be unearthed and captured.

"What If I Succeed?"

“What’s important to you in your life at this time? What message do you think your life sends to others? What pivotal lessons have you learned from living your life in the last few years?”  Robert J. Nash

On Saturday, September 2, 2006, at approximately 3:00 p.m., I stepped from one circle of my life back into another that I had not been familiar with in some time. Hurricane Ernesto swirled to the south, a two year old boy screamed in shrill cries of fear and loneliness. Then, finally, a car horn signaled a distant report. I was alone, headed north, with 50 poorly packed pounds strapped to my soon to be aching back. This was a beginning and an end.

The great mountaineer Sir George Mallory, when asked why he climbed the world’s highest and most extreme peaks, answered simply, “Because it’s there.” Nike created one the most successful tag lines in advertising history with their simple “Just Do It” slogan. In my mind, I asked myself the question, “What if I succeed?” It was a question that would echo through my mind for the next 272 miles and 22 days on this journey back to myself. In a way, there was another version of myself waiting at the end of this journey. Perhaps someone had left dropped him off there many years ago, or perhaps he left me and we traveled different paths until we would soon be reconnected.

My motivation for this journey was both shallow and deep. Much as Mallory quipped and Nike urged, this was a journey to take simply because it existed, and at some level my ego and machismo needed it. Further in, I discovered I desired this journey to prove that I could, and to learn what I did not know. As much as I pondered why this journey meant something to me, it was not until it meant something to those closest to me that it became a reality.

This journey was nothing more than the simple act of walking. It was decorated with wool socks, polypro shirt, leather boots, and a smattering of equipment compiled over a lifetime from various sources and people. The walking was easy at times, boring often, and occasionally sublime. The footing was interrupted incessantly with roots, rocks and glorious mud. It is a journey that few ever undertake, and those that do, rarely finish. Yet, it was still walking, an act we perform daily. Would I finish? Would I meet myself there? What if I succeed?