about luck

At a lookout, we stopped for lunch, where I discovered a penny, face-up. Leaving it in its place, I gave Dawn hints to locate her luck. A few nudges later, she found it, and into her pocket it went.

After many mosquito bites, tick bites, bee stings, and bruises, Dawn is still here with me. What's more, she's still smiling. With a disposition like this, I hope her luck is stock-piled and on it's way.

Rested and watered, we continued on trail. Soon though, the blazes turned from their distinct bright baby blue to a slopped-on black and blue, and there were fewer. The trail had also become more faint, moving through a poison-ivy-infested mountainside of scree and downed trees. Still the new, or rather older, looking blazes kept coming, egging us on.

Scratch after scrape, low branch after log, we made our way down the hill. We marco-poloed to each other. "Didja find it?" "Not sure!" We reminded each other that to retreat back, uphill was a less desireable option. Beckoned onward by just enough brighter blazes, we were assured of our investment in this trail and pushed onward.

How did this happen?

Was it a recent storm that made this section nearly impassible? Did the property owner's vendetta against hikers leave the trail to fall into disrepair? Did Dawn's penny fall out of her pocket?

Or was it the old Mettabasset, now rerouted and...

We came to a clearing.

Side by side, we ran into a well-blazed, bright, cleared and beautiful trail, undoutably our beloved New England Scenic Trail. We had spent well over an hour lost on its former-self.   We were mad at it, but mostly happy to see it again. Looking back at the way we came we saw that no one else heading the other direction could make the same mistake. The old trail slipped back into the woods quietly and seemingly beign.

I could feel the sting of all the scrapes as my adrenaline level fell. Then the disappointment set in as Dawn and I realized we were the ones at fault.

Though now proven false, Dawn and I both agreed that the story of the disgruntled owner neglecting the trail was our favorite. Yeah, we nodded to each other, that sounds a whole lot better.


As we approached the next road crossing, I saw a sign for "Cattails Shelter." Though the guide book didn't reference it, we followed the sign's arrow to two lean-to style shelters, sitting adjacent to one-another. They were like a doll's house, hinged apart, setting open so you could play with what was inside. After reading the log book/register we found that the shelter was not affiliated with CFPA or the New England Trail, but built and maintained by the owner of the private property on which it sat, David Peters. Clearly he was not the bad guy we were looking for. He was a man of the best kind.

We spent the night, indulging.  Dawn's shiny penny still safely housed in her pocket, and ready to go again the next day.