Kent

Kent, 4 October 2008

The temperature at dawn is lower than the day before. My multi tasks watch shows 42°F, a drop of 11°F from yesterday morning. The cold forces me to wear gloves. At 7.15 am, I leave my stealth campsite near Yellow Trail’s fork. On the morning of October 15, 2002, I endured an icy night, in the vicinity, when I camped alongside Macedonian Brook, a mile north from Kent. It was 23°F and my tent was blanketed by a thick frost.

Until the crossing of Hudson River, the canopy has remained uniformly green; but not anymore while I am nearing the border of Connecticut, which I should cross this morning. Rays of sunshine cut through the thick foliage. Leaves of poplar are turning yellow at a faster pace than the ones of oak. Some days ago, I wonder where I will bump into foliage season. I reach it today in New England.

The trail follows Hammersly Ridge, for a while, before entering a swamp zone, then drops to Deer Hollow Creek drainage. Walking is uneventful until that creek, which is surrounded by lovely pine trees. I spot an excellent campsite on soft needle’s mattress. However, with an extra 2.7 miles to go, darkness would have caught me in the woods. It is better to stop in the fading daylight to find the best campsite.

The border of Connecticut is mentioned at Road 55. Two signboards hang up at a nearby oak tree. One say: “Welcome to the Connecticut section of the Appalachian Trail and the other:”Camping permitted only at designated sites.” The restriction alters my mood, as I prefer stealth campsite above all. Connecticut is the tenth State for North-bounders. It has taken me four days to cross the eighty-eight miles of New York State. With its fifty-two mile’s stretch, Connecticut’s section is doable in two days for strong hikers or in three days for average ones.

I am longing to stop in Kent since Duncannon in Pennsylvania. While I was leaving that former industrial town, alongside Susquehanna River, I figured out when I would reach Kent. With 318 miles to go, I guessed the date of October 4. My prediction has been right. I have walked that distance in sixteen days. The stage today is only sixteen miles. I expect to be in Kent in the middle of afternoon. An early arrival in town will leave me plenty of time to do laundry, shopping and dining at Fife’n Drum, a restaurant where I had been while I was living in New York City.

After namesake hill, the trail drops to Ten Miles River. Unlike its name suggest, the river is fourteen miles long. It is formed at the confluence of Webbatuck Creek and Wassaic Creek, and it flows into Housatonic River. According to the Indians, Washaic means “land of difficult access.” Despite its short length, Ten River is a mighty one whose fording is perilous. The trail follows its bank, for half a mile, before crossing it, on a red iron pedestrian bridge, at its mouth at Housatonic River. I take a snapshot of the two rivers merging in whirling streams. Then, the trail turns north and follows the left bank of Housatonic River.

On an escarpment on the other side of the river stands an awesome modern house. Its three floors are encroached on a steep hill. The top with its garage gives way to a road on the plateau and the bottom is on stilts. This house epitomizes the wealth of Connecticut, which has the highest per capita income in the country.

The river goes now through a narrows. White foam bleaches black rock slabs where the water is cascading. Two young anglers are fishing in a natural pool carved in the rock. I bid them good day. At Bull Bridge, the river is tamed again. The bridge takes its name from two brothers: Isaac and Jacob Bull, who started an ironworks here in 1760. The covered timber truss bridge, which was build up in 1842, has been listed on the national register of historic places. The trail climbs toward Schaghticoke Mountain. It is a long traverse to the westside of the mountain in order to avoid some cliffs. I take pictures at Indian Rocks vista. The view extends to the East. On top of a nearby hill lays a golf course.

On the northern side of the mountain, I encounter a strange signal: “Schaghticoke Indian Reservation”. Back home, I have done some research to that unknown reservation. Located on the border of New York State and Connecticut, the reservation is only 400 acres. The name means “where the river forks” in Algonquian dialect. The reservation was dedicated, in 1760, by the colony of Connecticut, to the descendants of Mohican, Potatuck, Weantinock, Tunxis and Podunk. Depleted of Indians, the reservation is now a wilderness habitat for timber and copper rattlesnakes.

The trail undulates on a rim above Housatonic River. After Mount Algo, it goes down to Macedonian Creek, a tributary of Housatonic River. I decide to pitch my tent at the same spot where I camped in 2002. It is a secluded stealth campsite, at the farthest bend of the creek. I enjoy a bath in the swift cold stream. Clean again, I can go back to town.

In a new football field, at the entrance of Kent, are playing girls. The local team faces another one from boarding school. With the opening of a high school, fancy shops are sprouting in Kent. At the laundry, I meet two girls from the boarding school. One is from Rhode Island and the other from Texas. With tuition of $48000, whose family can afford it? The well-educated girls have already traveled twice to Europe. At the outfitter shop, I buy light gloves from North Face and vanilla gel. Davis IGA Supermarket is very good for long-term resupply. I need not much as I intend to stop in Salisbury, a town two days ahead.

At 5 pm sharp, I am the first customer to enter Fife and Drum restaurant. I am offered a table near a chimney. Prices have more than doubled in ten years in that trendy restaurant. Families of boarding school girls are filling quickly the tables and, at 6 pm, the restaurant is filled. I order lamb shack and striped bass. Both are uninspiring to my taste and the lamb is not cooked enough. As I am dissatisfied, a manager offers me another glass of wine. People are waiting for a table. I gulp the third glass. The whole world is about three drinks behind, said Humphrey Bogart