Vermont: Fire Towers, Ski Resorts, and Farm Stands

 

I woke up to my hip resting on a root. My sleeping pad had recently begun slowly leaking air overnight. Despite my body reaching the ground I had found that I was so exhausted at the end of each day that I would still sleep through most of the night despite the discomfort. When I packed away my tent in the morning, Hotdog was pushing an upright dead tree. I had noticed it the night before, and after a weak push, decided it was safe. Within 90 seconds Hotdog had the whole tree falling to the ground, directly where my tent was set up shortly before. If the weather had been worse, I could have been squashed like a bug in the middle of my sleep.

 

 

My mind quickly grasps an unwarranted victim mentality. As I stare at the white compression sleeve hugging my right knee I think about all of the things I felt I was doing right. I had spent years training for ultramarathons and doing prehab, I sacrificed things like a stove and extra clothing to keep my pack weight as low as possible, and I was at the prime young age of 25. Why had I suddenly come face to face with all these issues? Why had Hotdog, who had prior injuries to both knees, been doing fine? How had people much older than me with heavier packs been cruising along just fine?

 

This mindset was getting me nowhere and did nothing but suck up my energy. I thought about my father who at 50 years of age had completed the grueling Michigan State Police Academy at the top of his class, decades older than most other recruits. I also thought about my Finnish heritage, which makes up nearly 3/4 of my genetic mockup. Well known for the term Sisu, which roughly translates to a sustained strength of will and perseverance in the face of adversity, I felt that the power to keep moving forward was in my blood. Whether the genetic passing of this trait was true or not was aside the point; what mattered more was my belief that it was.

 

So, I hiked on, one step after the other. As Hotdog bounced up the trail like a hare, I took the tortoise approach. Slow & steady forward progress. I ran through different possibilities in my head. Not to mope about my situation, but to better prepare myself for the future. If things escalated I would first let my attachment to Hotdog go. I could take extra time to see if my knee heals or hike much smaller days as a form of active recovery. If things persisted I would get a medical check-up and inquire about the possibilities of a cortisone shot. If all else failed I would consider what to this point had been unthinkable to me: quitting. I hated even thinking about it, but it was necessary to bring it up to protect myself from being blindsided. With all this, I had my contingency plan in place.

 

 

I found Hotdog ahead of me 6 miles into the day talking to a nice day hiker named Jeff. He mentioned it was his 70th birthday, but he looked great for his age. He kept along with our brisk hiking pace for several miles and we talked about every topic imaginable like adventures, my career, and how to live happily in life. You’d be surprised how well you can get to know someone when you simply go for a walk together.

 

Hotdog had been reading up on a state profile of Vermont he had found online. I remember him telling me there was supposedly a “surprising lack of rocks”, but as my knees screamed at me as I hopped down huge rock steps from Harmon Hill down to Route 9 I laughed at myself for getting duped once again into believing that any section of the AT would be easy. At the bottom, we took a long rest near a river and then began making our way up the final 10 miles of the day to Glastonbury Mountain.  

 

The miles were a slow, steady, and relatively uneventful grind through the green tunnel. Once I hiked a little over 3,000 feet the terrain began to change to a beautiful homogenous forest of pointy pines. We hiked past hikers at the shelter and set up camp at Glastonbury Mountain’s wooded summit. We were the only ones camping at the summit and we couldn’t resist climbing up the fire tower to take in the views. The views were beautiful with evergreen tops and mountains in every direction, but what excited us most was looking out North and seeing the mountains increase in size. As the sun set we sat on the cold wooden base of the tower’s deck to escape the wind and ate cold couscous and peanut butter bagels.

 

 

We were late to pack up our gear in the morning and were punished with a light rain that wetted our tent flys. I checked the weather on my phone and saw the rain was only supposed to last another hour. I told Hotdog, “Don’t worry. It should only last an hour or two”, but the mountains never seem to cooperate with the weather forecast. It ended up raining all day.

 

We hadn’t faced being wet and cold since the south. We kept on moving at a steady pace to stay warm. We took one long break sitting on the wet ground near a stream. Hotdog and I have always operated in a way where when one of us is down, the other is there to lift their spirits and raise the team morale. However, at this crossing, all either of us could think about was how badly we wished we were home. New injuries had become a constant, a hundred days in and the trail rarely left the green tunnel, we were deeply homesick, and then to add insult to injury, now we were wet and cold. While hiking the AT is the greatest adventure I’ve ever had, the challenges also weigh on you, and some days they just sap your energy completely. Despite our woes, we didn’t find our mood completely down. As we talked about the comforts we’d experience at home, we joked and laughed hysterically. Humor is our coping mechanism of choice.

 

 

Once we were just about cold enough to shiver we moved onward toward Stratton Mountain, a popular ski area. As we neared the top of the mountain we looked up at the fire tower hanging in the white misty sky. “It looks enclosed”, one of us said, “maybe it would be a good place to take a break”. The wind battered us on the way up, and when we reached the top our luck wasn’t much better. The draft worked its way in through the open bottom and several shattered windows. We sat uncomfortably for a few minutes, unexcited about the journey back down the tower. On the bright side, our adrenaline started running to fuel us for a few more miles. We saw a comment that this was one of the best views on the AT thus far, but all we had seen was a sea of white.

 

 

The good thing about being caught in the rain on the trail is that your only choice is to keep moving and make steady progress. After Stratton Mountain we made quick time to a campsite near a river we had been scoping out on our map. When we arrived we found a ton of camping gear set up by an off-duty trail crew from the Green Mountain Club. I found a clear spot to set up my tent, and Hotdog opted to try cowboy camping under the trail crew’s tarp. He would later wake up and set up his tent after facing a battalion of slugs attacking him at all angles. When I opened up my pack liner I was dismayed to pull out a wet sleeping bag. A hole had formed in my liner and now all the things I usually meant to keep dry like my sleeping bag, pillow, sleeping pad, and socks, were all wet. I didn’t have a single piece of dry gear for the night and I was mentally and physically exhausted from the day. I slithered into my sleeping bag, feeling more like a salamander than a human, and slowly fell asleep as I tried to focus on the few dry areas of my bag.

 

I woke up frustrated, slamming my fist on the ground beneath my tent. I put my sopping wet shirt on, packed up my stuff, and began the 9-mile hike to the road crossing where we would find a ride to town in Manchester Center. I hiked alone and began to spiral. Uncertainty about what lies ahead for me and indecisiveness about the best course of action for my knee spun through my head like a broken record. My breathing rate increased and tears began to well up. Just as my emotions began to go numb I saw the canopy tents across the street.

 

Trail magic has a funny way of showing up just when you think you’ve hit your breaking point. Two ladies, one from the magazine “Trails” and the other from outdoor gear company Nemo, were giving out drinks and gear, while next door a big family from Massachusetts was making blueberry pancakes, hot fries, eggs, and more. They made me feel like family, and I was reminded of what makes this trail so special. My cup was slowly filling up from empty.

 

We caught a ride into the town of Manchester, a boujee spot with outlets from brands like Armani. The town seemed geared toward ski tourism. In the middle of a strip mall parking lot, we found a wood chip island with a trash can and picnic tables. We sat there for hours. This is what you come to appreciate as a thru-hiker. Afterward, we scrambled to the outfitter to exchange our torn-up Darn Tough socks.

 

 

We had dinner at a restaurant called Christo’s, where we had Greek salad, pizza, and a Peroni. I’d made a lot of sacrifices up until this point. In most cases, I would take tenting and a porta potty over an expensive hotel room, and for resupply, I bought endless jars of store-brand peanut butter over brand-name goodies. With my will to keep on hiking rapidly deteriorating this close to the end, I wasn’t going to hesitate to treat myself to a few luxuries to boost my spirits.

 

 

After eating we went to the laundromat decked out in our rain gear turned sauna suit. We washed our hiking clothes and sat down, sweating buckets as we waited. We camped peacefully that night on the lawn of the VFW, situated directly between a flowing river and a road.

 

 

The indecisiveness around my knee was still killing me. For my sanity, I had to decide how I’d move forward: rest or push. The opinions I got from others varied greatly. It was clear there was no single correct decision. A little bit of rest wasn’t guaranteed to help. It hadn’t worked out for my foot in New Jersey. I also recognized that this trip was more a story of Hotdog and Tomcat than it was two separate stories. I didn’t want to split up our crew, so I decided I’d keep pushing onward. If I made it to Katahdin I’d take all the rest and recovery I needed at home afterward. The best way forward is through.

 

We woke up and knocked out our errands. First, we resupplied and then headed to the post office before looking for a ride back to the trail. We walked the busy Route 11 in the direction of the trailhead with our thumbs stuck out. After 20 minutes my arm started to get tired. Hotdog was yapping about how he knew a Nissan Rogue, his vehicle of choice back home, would pick us up, so I was delighted when I turned around at the sound of a honk and saw a white Subaru Crosstrek, the exact car I drive at home, pulled off on the side of the road. Its driver was a man with a trim white beard and an upstate New York accent. It was our buddy Nails. He had gotten off trail to visit home for a few days and we were lucky enough to stumble by him. The cost for our ride was him giving us a little shit for not making it further since we last saw him in Mass. A fair trade in my book.

 

 

Back on the trail, it was a smooth 3-mile climb up Mt. Bromley. Near the top, we found an old friend Strider who we had last spoken to near the Shenandoah’s. We looked on at a viewpoint toward Stratton Mountain, which we had climbed on a miserable day a couple of days earlier. At the top of Bromley, we sat at a ski patrol lodge equipped with electrical outlets and a dryer for hikers to use. We sat around for a break and asked Strider what had happened to her Tramily of Milwaukee, Polo, & 6foot. She said they were pushing big 25-mile days consistently, but she was happy with her 20-mile days. She seemed cool and unbothered by this. If Hotdog and I weren’t friends pre-trail, I couldn’t help but think he would have gotten on ahead of me by now too with my broken body. I was struck with a complex feeling of guilt that I was holding him back, but also gratitude that he was deciding to stick around with me.

 

 

We left Strider on Bromley and took off down the trail at our typical pace. On the way, we met a couple named Cloud and Boost who were thru-hiking the Long Trail. We leapfrogged them back and forth a few times, and every time we’d leave they’d say, “See ya Hotdog and.. sorry what was your name again?”. I had long noticed a pattern where everyone we met would remember the name Hotdog but never Tomcat. Hotdog loved to remind me of this.

 

 

We arrived at Little Rock Pond in the twilight. The pond was beautiful with a mountainous backdrop and it would have made a beautiful swimming hole. A large downed birch tree lay on a small beach and jutted out into the water. We scooped up our water and sat down to filter and admire the view. This was the Vermont we had been seeking since we entered the state. All we were missing was the sound of a loon call. The campsite seemed full up from the weekend crowd, so we moved further up to camp on sloped ground in the overflow area.

 

 

The forest we traversed through in the morning was invigorating. Small balsam firs lined the trail amid mossy ground cover. The smell of the trees let out a strong aroma akin to a winter candle. I walked several pleasant morning miles between the trees until we came across a small bridge with a sign that read “vortex ahead”. Trail magic was awaiting us. Our motto, “hope for the best; expect the best”, typically a fast track to disappointment, was working out in our favor now.

 

 

Two quirky older men, one of them named “The Spineless Cougar”, were at a trailhead parking lot with several chairs and tables set up. They had trail magic down to a science. First, they made us delicious blueberry pancakes, and while we waited we grabbed coffee, hard-boiled eggs, and cookies from the tables. They had plenty of other snacks, resupply options, and small medical and repair accessories as well. After finishing two rounds of pancakes they asked if we’d like any hotdogs. As a vegetarian I politely declined, then they asked if I wanted a veggie dog, to which I replied with an over-enthusiastic, “YES!”. It never ceases to amaze me how accommodating many of the folks who offer trail magic are.

 

After sitting at trail magic for a while a woman headed southbound named “Snow Leopard” came by. She was from the Czech Republic and one of the first few true SOBO thru-hikers we had met thus far. She had already thru-hiked the PCT and when we asked her which trail she preferred she didn’t have a solid answer yet, but in a thick Czech accent she said, “PCT for babies” as she mimicked pushing a baby stroller. Assumingly about the PCT’s smooth surface and gentle grading. While we all chatted, Hotdog was putting maple syrup on his hotdog as we all looked on in disgust. He said it was delicious, but I had a hunch he was too prideful to admit a normally dressed hotdog was much better. None of us were willing to follow his experiment.

 

We left trail magic after spending far too much time there. Time always seems to melt away when there are chairs and tables full of free food in front of you. We felt refueled for a big push to Clarendon Gorge, where we found a lot of locals taking advantage of the sunny weather to lay out and go for a swim. Hotdog and I followed their example and climbed down the jagged white rock into the long eroded gorge. We enjoyed swimming and washing off the dry salty sweat off our clothes in the mix of fast-moving falls and pools. I dreaded the thought of moving directly onto a steep climb in the mid-day heat.

 

After a few hours of steady hiking, we walked a quarter mile off trail through beautiful farmland to reach Stone’s Throw Farm Stand an hour before they closed. Filled with delicious-looking Vermont-made products, I grabbed myself a ginger cookie ice cream sandwich to cool off and a maple-infused cold brew for a late-day caffeine hit to fuel me up Killington Peak, the largest mountain along the AT in Vermont. We took a moment to rest up on the porch, knowing we had a tough climb and late night ahead of us.

 

 

Back on the trail, I felt the discomfort in my knee working its way up to my head again. I pulled out my phone and started an audiobook from David Goggins, an inspirational figure who holds accolades as a Navy Seal, ultra runner, and an overall endurance athlete. At best I figured I could rework my mindset to become disciplined and embrace the pain, and at worst I could use it as short-term motivation like an aural shot of espresso. However, the best part of listening to David Goggins was embracing his personality and yelling quotes at Hotdog, “When you think you’re done, your body is only at 40% of what it’s capable of! Stay Hard!”.

 

At the base of Killington, we crossed the marker signifying 500 miles from Katahdin. It was a surreal moment. In the grand scheme of the trail, 500 miles was nothing. We had less than a quarter to go, but looking at the number independently it felt like a monstrous number of miles left, especially considering that the hardest miles were still ahead of us in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the numerous ranges in Maine. This was not a comforting thought.

 

 

We ground our way up the mountain one step and one pole plant after another. Slowly, the air began to cool, the forest began to thin out, and the ratio of evergreens grew larger. The sun had set and soon the twilight was heading out with it. We pulled our headlamps on and continued on the rocky and technical climb forward. Between the tough terrain, the limited and distorted view of the light from my torch, and my tired legs and mind, I found myself stumbling and tripping over rocks and roots every few steps.

 

Half a mile before the peak we scanned around looking for the stealth site someone mentioned in a comment on FarOut. We struggled to locate it in the dark, but eventually found a small clearing through small pokey evergreens, and straight through was a small stealth site just big enough for two tents. We cleared away the debris, set up camp, and went to sleep. I was too tired to worry about the widow-makers I had seen hanging above.

 

 

In the morning we woke up to an alarm of ducks quacking and an old car horn. This was my attempt at comedy, and it seemed to work well on Hotdog. It was a quick hike to Cooper Lodge Shelter. We dropped our packs off and began the ascent up the steep quarter-mile blue blaze to Killington Peak. It was our first 4,000fter in New England and we relished the feeling of being on a large mountain once again. To the Northeast, we looked at the silhouettes of large mountains which we guessed were the Whites.

 

 

We climbed down the other side of the mountain a bit to find the Gondola and ski lodge. Devastatingly, they were both closed. Adirondack chairs were set up with a nice view towards the mountains and a trail runner came running up the ski run. Me and Hotdog fantasized about how nice it would be to be here with our partners. Instead of hiking 12 hours a day we could go for a 3-hour trail run, take the gondola up the mountain, and hang out in a hot tub sipping mimosas. I was snapped out of my fantasy by the image of Goggins yelling at me, “Stay Hard!”.

 

 

We sped down the long descent from Killington to Route 4. We waited a long while for a bus to take us into Rutland, and just as we were about to give up hope it arrived. As we pulled into the metro station I was surprised at the size of the city. It is the fourth largest city in Vermont, but as far as trail towns go it felt like New York City. Our energy levels were at an all-time low, but stopping at The Sandwich Shoppe we were delighted to be welcomed in like family. Hotdog and I both ate 2 sandwiches and then moved on to Walmart to resupply.

 

Walmart was incredibly busy for a weekday. After being in the woods for days on end, hopping into hordes of people at the grocery store can be a nightmare. My brain was slowly filled with overwhelm as I filled my cart and scurried out as quickly as I could. With time to kill before the next bus back to the trail, we stopped at a bar called Two Shea’s for a beer to take the edge off.

 

 

We headed back towards Killington with our next stop in sight: The Post Office. I had a new set of trekking poles to pick up. The ones I had been using up to this point traveled the entire trail with me, but both tips had fallen off a thousand miles ago and both straps ripped as well. Nordic skiing had taught me the value of leveraging your poles, and I was excited to save myself some energy on the climbs and lower the impact on my knees with a fresh pair. After picking up my poles we clobbered some ice cream at the gas station and then started our road walk back to the trail.

 

At the end of each day, I used to look forward to the comfort of my tent in the evening. However, since my sleeping pad had begun deflating, causing me to wake up throughout the night several times to blow it back up, I had dreaded getting to camp. As we walked past Kent Pond, I decided to take action and see if I could remedy the situation. I blew up my pad, hopped in the water, and held my pad beneath the surface looking for small air bubbles that might signal a puncture. Hotdog and I squeezed and contorted my pad for 15 minutes before giving up. The sun was out and it was a fine evening. I wasn’t going to count this as wasted time, so I waded out from shore and laid out on my mat to relax and catch some rays while I floated around the water. Afterward, we hiked a few more miles and called it an early day.

 

 

Hotdog woke up early and packed up his gear. He had a package to pick up near the New Hampshire border and wanted to get to the post office the following day before they closed. It was looking like I was set to get some alone time. As an introvert, I don’t mind having time by myself. I’d say I even thrive and recharge on solo time.

 

After weeks of trying not to get dropped by Hotdog, It felt good to let go and mosey out of camp at my own pace. Since the AT had split off from the Long Trail and began heading East, the rocks had finally started to dwindle. Aside from a cliff where the trail crew had set up a ladder for hikers, the walking was surprisingly easy.

 

 

Unfortunately, my right knee found a friend to share the suffering with: my left knee. While my right knee pain felt less noticeable over the day, as the rest of my body started to tire out, my left knee faced the opposite scenario. After a few miles, it would begin to hurt, and the only remedy was an extended break. Uphill climbs had been my pain-free refuge, but climbing had even started to irritate my knee. I pulled a mismatched pair of knee sleeves on both of my knees and soldiered on, determined not to let the trail break me. I thought I must have been a pathetic sight.

 

 

A few miles into the day I came across The Lookout, a simple private cabin that offers hikers a space to sleep and take refuge from the elements for a night. A ladder led up to an observation deck on top of the cabin to let hikers escape the green tunnel and get a fine view above the trees. It was a delightful area, and the trail had done the hard work of picking out a lunch spot for me. There was an influx of day hikers visiting The Lookout. In thru-hiking’s bizarre distortion of time and blending of days, I had nearly forgotten it was the 4th of July. I talked to a few nice families while eating my bagel with peanut butter. I appreciated the company, but it also spiked my feelings of homesickness as I fantasized about filling a tote full of food and going on a short hike to the beach on a sunny summer day. I snapped myself out of my fantasyland and hobbled back to the trail as my muscles warmed up again.

 

 

My body didn’t feel great, but I was delighted that the trail continued to be smooth and flat. Once the trail began to descend into a valley around midday I felt the heat picking up immensely. Thankfully there was a road crossing close ahead with a farm stand shortly off the trail. I break my days into smaller, less mentally overwhelming chunks, typically picking a few key milestones to motivate my feet to keep moving. In much of the South, these milestones were beautiful iconic views and big mountains, but since reaching the more urban mid-Atlantic states this shifted more to delis, pizzerias, and farm stands.

 

I walked into a building with a sign that read, “On the Edge Farm”, and was greeted by a nice older woman. We talked for a while and I asked if she had seen a hiker with bright orange sleeves come in. She thought about it for a second and then said, “Yes! I saw him sprawled out laying on my lawn talking on the phone for a while”. There was no doubt it was Hotdog. I bought myself an egg salad sandwich and a Vermont-made root beer. I sat around for a while to recharge my physical, mental, and electrical batteries and then roasted myself past my sweating point in the porta-potty before heading back to the trail.

 

 

A benefit of hiking solo that I greatly appreciate is that deciding when to stop for the day solely rests in my hands. In FarOut I scoped out two possible stealth sites to pick from. One spot had comments about a beautiful view, but also noted a kingdom of ticks in the field nearby. That was all the intel I needed to make my decision.

 

Late in the day, I stopped at a river to fill up the water I would need to make it up a steep climb to my dry campsite. After a slow and steady climb up the hill, I arrived at a pleasant clearing with a nice bench. There wasn’t a ton of space for a tent, but I had gotten pretty good at using some creativity to pitch my tent over the past few months. I oriented my vestibule with a great view towards a ski area and then enjoyed, or rather tolerated, a cold-soaked couscous meal as I quietly sat on the bench enjoying the peace and taking in the view.

 

 

I lay in my tent as the sun went down and looked off at the mountains and open sky. Far off I could see little bursts of color temporarily dotting the sky like stars. Most years I’d have to deal with heavy traffic and crowds to get a glimpse of the 4th of July fireworks, but this year I got to enjoy them in solitude. One burst of light stuck in the sky longer than others and it appeared to get closer to me. Eventually, I also heard the sound of heavy breathing nearby. The light came from a hiker’s headlamp. The hiker flashed their light at my tent before continuing off down the trail. I couldn’t believe that someone was still hiking so late into the night. The further we got into the trail, the more I appreciated getting camp set up before sundown. “What a maniac”, I said to myself, slightly in awe at this mystery figure.

 

I woke up early in the morning. For some odd reason, I find it much easier to get up and at it early when I’m hiking solo. After a few miles of cruising, I came across a hammock with no tarp hanging above and no underquilt cradled beneath. On the ground, I saw a tiny backpack and a pair of colorful Hoka Speedgoats nearby. The gear fit the bill of a hardcore hiker and ultrarunner I had met in Connecticut named Ultra. Ultra wasn’t afraid of night hiking, so he could have been the mystery hiker from the night before, but based on his speed he should have been much further ahead from the last time we saw him in Connecticut. I had fun connecting the puzzle pieces, but eventually, I gave up my Sherlock Holmes detective work and shifted focus. The hiker would likely catch me further along in the day.

 

 

Halfway through my day, I reached West Hartford a small town on the White River. The quiet hope of a hot coffee from a gas station had propelled me through the morning, but as I looked around the small village my coffee dreams slowly started to die. I sat down at a picnic table at the library and began to pull out a caffeine packet when I heard someone yelling at me from the house next door. “Hey! Do you want some coffee?”. The trail always provides.

 

I excitedly walked over to the porch where an older woman named Linda was sitting with another hiker. She offered me coffee, watermelon, and hard-boiled eggs. I gladly accepted all 3 and sat around for a while as I watched her cat lay out on the ground relaxed as could be. Linda was a trail angel who graciously let hikers sleep out in her backyard. As I flipped through her logbook I saw that Hotdog had stayed the night there last night. He had gotten Domino’s pizza and beer. I was admittedly a tad jealous.

 

 

I thanked Linda for her hospitality and began the road walk out of town. I was going to finish my day in New Hampshire and meet Hotdog in the afternoon. The trails out of West Hartford were smooth and rolling. The trail was covered in pine needles making for nice cushy ground that was a great help for my knees. A few miles from the end of my day I sensed a hiker coming up behind. A solid sense of trail awareness and orientation are some of the characteristics that make the trail name Tomcat a good fit.

 

 

The hiker was short but looked strong with each quick stride. It was Ultra. We talked for a bit, quickly catching up on the state of my knee, where Hotdog was, and how Ultra had gotten behind us (he had taken a break to visit home). He was also on a mission to catch a friend somewhere ahead, and as quickly as he had caught me he was gone ahead and soon completely out of my sight.

 

The trail eventually came to an end and the white blazes continued down a paved road through a residential area. Audis and 4Runners with bike racks lined the streets, signaling it as a wealthier area. I came ahead to the town of Norwich, VT. The hard pavement was battering my knees and I slowly and awkwardly stumbled ahead. The trees cleared as I reached a wider and busier road. I put on the sunglasses I found a few miles back on the trail.

 

The Connecticut River flowed directly in front of me. Straight ahead I began to see groups of younger people and student housing, and to the left, I saw the Dartmouth College Boathouse. As I crossed the river I entered New Hampshire and looked down at my sleeve-covered knees. The discomfort and awkwardness were only getting worse and as the crux of the trail, the White Mountains, loomed closely ahead, I wondered how the hell I was going to make it to Katahdin. As I struggled through each step, I remained in good spirits; the promise of town food was ahead.