I am staying at a shelter atop a 4,400 foot mountain. Through the window next to me, I’m watching the red ball of sun drop behind the distant mountains.  I could be outside with the other hikers, but I am on a bit of a low. I feel a bit tired. Fatigued I guess. But it is more emotional than anything. I was speaking earlier with another thru-hiker in the shelter when Rockhound called out the “Sox beat Yanks” when he heard it on the radio. This other thru-hiker is a loudmouth and not only started trash-talking the Sox but also said “Boston is a $#@% town anyway.”

I hike to get away from comments like that. I don’t need this jerk giving me shit without anything to back it up. The good news, I guess, is that he’s hiking fast and will be gone tomorrow. I get to wake up to a brand new day without him.

And he’s wrong. This is the year the Sox win the Series.

We had a couple nice breaks during the hike today. We stopped first at a rocky beach at a turn in a river and once at a shelter where I fried up a morel mushroom I’d pick with some ramps (wild onions) and some summer sausage. Green One, Rockhound, and I were lunching with Wonderlust, an 80 year-old who’s hiking with no real end point in mind. We heard some good stories of his life in Kansas over lunch.

We’re now 64 miles outside Pearisburg, VA and we’re trying to figure out whether to try for town in 3 long days or 4 comfortable ones. Tomorrow will tell.