(HOST) This week, commentator Vic Henningsen is celebrating the anniversary of his own end-to-end trip on Vermont’s Long Trail – a journey that didn’t end at the Canadian border.
(HENNINGSEN) Forty years ago, my oldest friend and I were finishing our end-to-end trek on the Long Trail. Unbeknownst to us, we were about to start an unplanned race against time.
Coping with a hot, humid summer much like this one, we hiked in the early mornings and the long evenings – eating lunch, napping and reading during the midday heat.
Although we did put in one twenty mile day, we weren’t in a hurry – the whole thing took just over a month.
In 1970 the Trail was dominated by people in their twenties. We met all kinds: political activists, lonely poets, back-to-the-landers with names like Starflower and Thor.
You never knew who or what you’d find at a shelter.
Youth culture was a problem for the Green Mountain Club volunteers who maintained those shelters. Crossing Appalachian Gap we encountered two GMC old-timers, one of whom complained bitterly about recreational drug use and sexual activity at the shelters. The other nodded sympathetically and responded, "Well, at least they’re not littering."
On top of Jay Peak, the tram operator leaned out and asked, "One of you named Elliott? Your draft board’s looking for you." Suddenly, ten miles short of the Canadian border, we had a new challenge: finish the hike, get back to the car we’d stashed at Williamstown, Mass, and make a draft hearing in New York.
In forty-eight hours.
Here, the trip became an epic. We hiked late, got up early and were on the border by mid-morning. With no cash for a bus we hitch-hiked south. Travelling salesmen and a couple of loggers were accommodating, but – dirty and smelly – we weren’t very appealing passengers. We’d been stuck for hours on Route 5 in Wells River when a truck with emergency flashers slowed down enough for us to notice the sign reading "DANGER-EXPLOSIVES".
"Hi," said the driver, "We’re carrying nitroglycerine. We don’t go fast, but if you’ll share the risk, we’ll share the ride." Desperate, into the back we went, nervously positioning ourselves to avoid the jars of nitro.
At dawn in West Brattleboro we caught a lift from a scruffy guy in an old VW bug with Oregon plates. Bumping over Rte 9 he told us he’d taught gifted and talented children, but chucked it and drove south through Central America all the way to the Panama Canal Zone, then north as far as Nova Scotia. Now he was on his way back west.
"Why’d you do all that?" we asked.
"I got sick of gifted and talented kids."
Well, we made it – just – and my friend managed to stay on good terms with Uncle Sam. But that summer journey full of colorful characters remains vivid in my mind.
It was really end-to-end twice: once on foot and once by courtesy of those who took pity on us at the roadside.
Looking back, I’m not sure which I enjoyed more.