This summer, I got it into my head that a great way to celebrate 50 years on the planet would be to take on the 50-mile hike on the Appalachian Trail from Hanover to Moosilauke, which I’d never attempted. As an undergrad, I’d hiked most sections of the trail, but never the Fifty. My good friend and former student, Susan Dunklee ’08, a three-time Olympian who is now biathlon director at the Craftsbury Outdoor Center, agreed to join me. She had hiked the Fifty during her sophomore summer. We decided to go around the time of the solstice, to take advantage of the light. We planned to leave Hanover at 12 a.m. on Wednesday, June 19 and arrive at the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge in time for dinner the same day. We didn’t fully absorb the fact that we were tackling this during one of the worst heatwaves New England has seen in recent years.

Susan came over on Tuesday afternoon to pack. We went shopping for last-minute essentials before my husband, John, dropped us off in Wilder, Vermont where we had dinner with my former Foley housemate, Hannah (Mertaugh) Jensen ’96 and her husband Glenn. Hannah had hiked the Fifty as a sophomore, like Susan. She thought we were a bit nuts to do it in such hot weather, but was still supportive and drove us to the trailhead for our midnight departure.
As we hiked uphill in the darkness toward Velvet Rocks, the air felt like hot pea soup, a muggy river valley special. Fortunately, on the back side the temperature dropped a bit, and we settled into our routine, hiking swiftly and jogging on flat terrain. Susan set a timer on repeat and we stopped every 45 minutes for an electrolyte boost and small snack.

Nighttime was magical: The fields above Dogford Road were filled with fireflies, and luna moths fluttered all around us in the woods on Moose Mountain. We followed the tracks of a skunk and encountered some fresh spray—which may have been aimed at us, but didn’t stick. As dawn crept in, the forest on the back side of Moose Mountain filled with birdsong as we headed up Holt’s Ledge. Two squawking birds awkwardly flew right in front of us, and then a strange creature growled, hissed, and charged from our left. Susan first thought it was a porcupine, and I thought it was a raccoon, but it turned out to be a mother grouse, fluffed up and fiercely defending her young. We later saw two black bears.

Then the light intensified, and we began our climb up Smarts, sweating all the way up. I developed bad gut cramps and felt like puking with every step. It was a rough ascent over the saddle to the summit and we capped it off with a grueling climb up the fire tower—which, as a glass enclosure, was quite a hotbox.

We met my husband and kids at the 27-mile mark at 10:30 a.m., two hours later than expected. By that point, the sun was baking hot, and insects swarmed and dive-bombed us in the humidity. I felt a bit better as we ate grilled cheese sandwiches, reloaded with more water and snacks, took a quick dunk in the river, and shed our disgusting clothing from the first leg of the journey.

Wearing fresh clothes felt great—for about five minutes. The lower woods on Mt. Cube were like a green-leafed oven, with blinding white light over each exposed rock outcropping. Whenever we could, we dunked our bandanas into the streams for a brief infusion of cold. We didn’t make great time, and drank most of the water that was supposed to last us for the next 20 miles. Unbelievably, at one road crossing a kind soul had left an insulated grocery bag filled with ice, bottled water, and granola bars, with a handwritten note saying: “Stay safe in this heat! Enjoy your hike!” We never would have made it without that water.

Hiking up Ore Hill, I alternated sips of water and bites of electrolyte gummies, but Susan had reached a low point. We were miles from our next support station, and the heat was infernal. It was time to break into the s’mores Pop-Tarts that Austyn (Fudge) Borjigan ’98 had mailed to us from Utah for our journey. Her enclosed note had said to save them for an emergency—a callback to 1995, when she and other trail crew members had helped rescue me and a friend after we were lost in the Second College Grant without supplies, and the Pop-Tarts she gave us then were our first food in a day.

A few miles later, we heard thunder rumbling. We began to climb Mt. Mist as the storm swept in and knocked a large dead branch out of the canopy. Lightning struck nearby. The storm passed, but we were rattled and the descent down Mt. Mist felt quite long. Hurrying to get to our next aid station, we both got grumpy after having to take our shoes off for a stream crossing.

On the road up to the Glencliff trailhead, we saw Viva Hardigg ’84 waiting for us in her big white hat. She held a novel—she’d been there quite a while—and I felt terrible that she was about to miss Lodge dinner. She gave us watermelon, some delicious homemade chocolate praline brownies, hiking poles, more water, and more dry clothes. Then she headed to the Lodge, where she joined John, the kids, Hannah and Glenn, who had come to hike the mountain in the afternoon, and Susan’s partner, Bertrand. We certainly did not make it there in time for dinner.

The air felt fresher as we headed out again. The mosquitoes were out in full force after the rain, and we constantly slapped ourselves to ward them off. Glencliff has never felt like such a slog. Finally, in the fading light, we made it to Moosilauke’s South Peak, ate some more gummies, and set off along the ridge. The mountains to the left in Vermont, towards home, were silhouetted in mist and pink light. Beside us, the alpine flowers bloomed in white and pink profusion. We made it to the true summit for the last of the light, then headed down in the dark. One of my favorite moments of the hike was looking to the east from the last wooded ridge of the trail—nothing in sight but dark mist covering endless woods, and the solitary lights of the Lodge waiting for us deep in the ravine. But we still had a long way to go. I hike Gorge Brook often, and often trail run it, and it’s never felt as rocky or steep. Or long.

After an hour, we saw headlamps and heard familiar voices—John, Bertrand, and my daughter Kate. Their company cheered us up immensely and helped us finish the journey. We got to the Lodge at 11:20 p.m., too tired even to eat what the crew had thoughtfully left in the fridge for us. We slept hard. In the morning, Lodge oatmeal never tasted better.

Jenny Land Mackenzie lives in Peacham, Vermont with her husband and twin daughters, and teaches at St. Johnsbury Academy.