Peak-Bagging Challenges in the Berkshires

City slicker loves the outdoors. He's mountaineered ranges all over the United States including the still-active volcano, Mount Fuji, in Japan. Still, mosquitos and small black flies drive him to distraction and we both forget to tote a can of bug repellent to the top of Mount Greylock. But biting bugs are the least of our worries when we hear a crack of thunder in the distance.

We quicken our pace and skip the occasional water break. The thick tree canopy catches the majority of raindrops and the trail stays dry long enough for us to get navigate the steep stuff. Then, the rain begins pelting us like a monsoon in South East Asia; blinding, torrential and deafening. I break into a wild gait hoping to outrun the storm and praying city slicker can keep up.

The true danger is not in the storm itself but the slippery granite and loose stubble we pound over. Occasionally, I lose control of my speed and brace myself for a twisted ankle or worst yet, a broken bone. My now weightless black hiking bag slams against my sweaty back but keeps me partially dry. City slicker pleads we seek refuge somewhere but there's no place to go and we just passed a sign that said "1 mile left."

Gone are the odds of finding the missing sunglasses or meeting up with mama bear and baby bear again (thankfully). At the speed we're running everything whips by in a blink of an eye along with the trails we're suppose to take to get us back to the car. As mentioned in previous post, Mount Greylock suffers from a serious lack of markers and relying on a visitors map proves worthless.

We are lost, an inevitable conclusion. Our 1 mile marker turns into 2, then 3, then possibly 4 miles. We stop, backtrack and finally stand helpless in the deep woods of the Berkshires; sopping wet, zero cell phone coverage and unlikely to find assistance from another hiker.

I brag about having a compass head and never needing directions but today proves otherwise. Most disconcerting is it's getting darker by the minute and we've run out of options. Just then I hear the familiar sound of a moving vehicle. Our saving grace! I tear through the brush and downed trees and spring out the woods like a jack rabbit on fire. I'm within inches from the passing white pickup on a worn gravel road when the driver comes to a screeching halt.

The driver, thinning white hair with crazy hillbilly eyes and plaid overalls, rolls down his side window.

I'm busting with relief. "Sir, we just climbed Mount Greylock but now we're lost. Can you help?" Suddenly, visions of a scary movie from my youth flood back to me handing the shredded map to this bizarre-looking stranger.

"Shucks, Missy, your way down here," he points out. "You need to be up here."

With trepidation and uncertainty I pony up the bravado to ask "Can we jump a ride with you if your going that way?"

"Sure, hop in the back," he says.

City slicker and I smile from ear-to-ear bouncing down the road in the back of the local's open pickup. No matter where we're going or who our driver is, being here is far more desirable to sleeping on wet moss and smelly leaves all night. A late day climb to the top of Mount Greylock... who would have thought it could be this much fun?