Over the course of the next hour, hikers passing me, going in the opposite direction, advised that I could not cross the brook after Shannon road and would have to hike up to the high water route. I did not give that a lot of consideration. After high water crossings in the High Sierras, brooks on the AT in CT did not register on my alarm o meter, so I just thanked them for the advise and continued on, trying not to think about how close food was to the trail.
The last group of section hikers I encountered before Shannon Road, dealt the comment that changed my mind on my goal for the day. They told me there was a group of men in front of me headed to the next shelter. I had considered hunkering down at that shelter due to the high winds, but always dreaded a crowded shelter. I really dread most any shelter, but a crowded one was almost unbearable, and honestly, crammed in with a group of unknown men was even less appealing. I could have tarped, but really did not want to fight the 50-60 mph wind gusts headed our way.
I was still pondering my choices when I reached the road. Whimp, I muttered to myself as I looked down the desolate road that curved through the dark, wet trees. As I stood deciding, thunder rumbled overhead, and a stiff breeze pushed through the branches above me. I looked up, and rain drops spattered across my face, as if a spigot was slowly being turned on high above. As the deluge increased, I pulled out my phone, and leaned over to call the Hitching Post, protecting the phone from the now hard rain. I called for a shuttle, and 15 minutes later I was whisked down the toad to a small, clean motel.
The only real challenge for the day was ordering food. There was no place to go and only one place that would deliver for a minimum of 30 dollars. I figured I would order enough for dinner and breakfast. I ordered enough for a large dinner and a large breakfast, by hiker standards, and ate it all for dinner.
I may not yet be a hiking machine, but I am one hell of an eating machine