August 29, 2008
The Unwashed and the Upper Crust in Connecticut
By CHRISTOPHER PERCY COLLIER
ARRIVING in Kent, Conn., fresh off the Appalachian Trail, two hikers who go by the trail names Mudbug and Bones ambled for about a quarter of a mile along a country road. First they passed the well-kept athletic fields and stately brick structures of the Kent School. Then came two chocolate shops, a trio of hulking bovine statues, a smattering of art galleries and a series of sidewalk cafes.
Designer purses hung on racks not far from a Victorian house doubling as an antiques shop. A shiny black Porsche was parked on the street nearby. The camping supply store, when they arrived there, was selling backpacks alongside pink-and-green neckties bearing the preppy fashion design label Vineyard Vines. Mudbug carried a gray, javelin-sized walking staff fully stripped of its bark. Bones wore a light brown bandanna. His teak-stained ukulele was rolled up in a gray sleeping pad. Both sported beards and backpacks.
Like many hikers of the Appalachian Trail, Bones and Mudbug (whose names off the trail are Andrew Simpson and Tyler Geymann) hold that there are only two kinds of towns along the way: those friendly to hikers and those not. At first, they weren’t sure which side of the fence the upscale town of Kent was on.
Then the silence was broken.
“So have you seen any bears?” asked Larry Cunningham, a jovial middle-aged patron of Caralee’s restaurant who was eating brunch at an outdoor table not far from a woman wearing a shirt from Taft, another Connecticut boarding school.
“Sixteen,” Mr. Geymann said casually as he adjusted a strap on his pack. “There were a lot in New Jersey.”
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http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/29/tr...se&oref=slogin