The Northern Terminus

I couldn't help but do a separate post (previous) when I came across that stunning view of Mt. Katahdin up on the Rainbow Ledges, near the end of the 100 Mile Wilderness. I have a little catching up to do though, covering the time spent getting there from Caratunk.

I left Caratunk on Sunday the 31st of July, heading to Monson, 33 miles away. What I remember most about those 33 miles was that the blueberries were ripe and plentiful, particularly around Moxie Bald Mountain. Monson is at the start of thee 100 Mile Wilderness, through which there would be no towns, resupply, etc., so I spent some time there making sure I had all of the supplies I needed for the final push to Baxter State Park (where Mt. Katahdin is located). I stayed at a hostel right on Lake Hebron, and had a nice view of the lake from my window. On the first floor of the building where the hostel was located was the only restaurant in town, a full-spectrum pub that offered everything from burgers to sushi and fresh Maine fish from the coast. It featured a large, outdoor patio right on the lake. A few kayaks were available for hostel residents if they wanted to use them also, no waiver form needed.

View from the hostel.

The 100 Mile Wilderness is on private land owned almost entirely by a few large lumber companies. These companies have a long history of working with the citizens of Maine, allowing them access for hunting, fishing, hiking. etc. The roads and bridges that allow access are privately owned and maintained, so fees are charged at gated access points. Hikers on foot never see these gates and aren't charged fees anyway. It's good public relations to have the AT run through such a large swath of land owned by "Big Lumber", and the companies seem to be good stewards.

The area was beautiful, full of pines, spruces, cedars, enormous moss- and fern-covered boulders, and lake after lake, many of them quite large. Some of these lakes could only be accessed on foot or by float plane, where passengers are flown to remote fishing lodges.

Lake,

Stream.

My first glimpse of Mt. Katahdin was on the north side of White Cap Mountain, about 40 miles north of Monson. It was still quite far away, but it motivated me to pick up my pace even more. As an aside, I actually had my down jacket and insulated gloves on while on top of windy White Cap Mountain in the early evening. A few hours earlier I had been sweating below the tree line several thousand vertical feet lower. I found that I used my down jacket, gloves and wool hat a few times in New Hampshire and Maine. I was glad that I hung onto them through the mid-Atlantic states.

I reverted back to my old ways of pushing myself hard and hiking well into the night. Although I never saw a moose in Maine I heard a few of them crashing through pine limbs when they detected me coming down the trail at night with my headlamp. I was so used to animal noises along the trail that they didn't startle me anymore. There were plenty of moose droppings along the trail, so they were certainly around.

Somewhere toward the end of the 100 Mile Wilderness the trail ran along a large lake. It then ran straight into a hammock occupied by a young, exhausted woman who said she was just resting before continuing (it was mid-afternoon). I thought I must have inadvertently taken a side trail so I asked her where the trail was. She wearily pointed up a hill. I walked up the hill for a hundred yards or so and saw nothing. I backtracked and realized that she had strung her hammock directly across the trail, completely blocking it. I ducked under her rope and kept going.

Sometimes the trail is poorly marked. Sometimes occasional signs can be missed also, as your eyes are often focused down, trying to navigate through the roots and rocks. 99% of the time you will stay on the trail if you follow the well-worn path, occasionally glancing up to make sure there are still white blazes. In one case, while hiking at night towards the end of the 100 Mile Wilderness, the well-worn path led to a "viewpoint", marked with a small sign mounted very high on a tree that I missed. The viewpoint was a cliff above a gorge and had I kept on walking I would have ended up at the bottom of the gorge. I didn't get within 10 feet of the edge, but it made me think.

The 100 Mile Wilderness ends at Abol Bridge, which crosses the rather large West Kennebec River. There is a campground, with a store and restarant there and not much else. The border of Baxter State Park is less than a quarter mile away. I arrived there on Saturday the 6th of August, paid $5 for a shower, and had dinner at the restaurant. I ran into some people, such as Four Year, who I had been playing leapfrog with for over a thousand miles. Since the campground was full, I stealth camped in a nice spot right beside the river. My plan was to wake up early, walk the 9.5 miles through Baxter State Park to the base of Mt. Katahdin, climb over five miles to the top, climb down, and the hitch-hike almost 24 miles into Millinocket.

My plan worked quite well. While many like to break that section into two days, I was ready to see the view from the top and complete my journey. I left Abol Bridge around 6:00 AM on Sunday, and the 9.5 mile hike to the ranger station was surprisingly nice. It paralled the West Kennebec River for a while. And later Katahdin Stream. I was quite surprised at high volume of water in both since it was early August. I arrived at the ranger station and dropped off about half of my gear before heading up the mountain. The Rangers had a box full of daypack for thru hikers to use, but I decided to just use mine and left my tent, sleeping bag, and other items I wouldn't need that day in a large trash bag (I always carry a few) and headed up the Mountain.

The climb started at 1,000 feet and ended at the 5,265 foot summit. The first mile paralleled Katahdin Stream, with many cascades and falls. It then grew steeper until we were above the tree line, where the toughest section of the trail, the middle section, started. It involved a little rock climbing, with grab bars and rungs occasionally positioned in spots where you would have a tough time continuing without them. The last 1000 vertical feet was a nice surprise, as it leveled out a little onto a plateau. There were stunning views the rest of the way to the summit, and some occasion cold, wind-driven rain, but it didn't last long.

Deceiving.
The actual summit is about a mile and a quarter (and about 1000 vertical feet) further than what is seen in this photo.

At various points along the trail I passed by about 10 thru hikers that I recognized who were on their way down, having left earlier as they had camped the night before near the base. I congratulated all and they all told me that the view from the summit was awesome. It was.

View from the top.

Mission accomplished!

I only spent about five minutes on top as I was a late starter and still had a long day ahead, but I took a few pictures and chatted with the others who were enjoying the views as well.

I didn't arrive back to the ranger station until after 6:30. While getting my pack in order I noticed that my water bottle was missing. It was actually just a re-purposed Gatorade bottle, but it had been with me since Georgia. I had taken a drink from it just a mile previously, but I wasn't about to go back and get it. I had picked up someone's Smartwater bottle earlier in the day that had fallen from a pack and disposed of it later at the campground. Someone was going to have to return the favor.

It's almost 24 miles from the ranger station to Millinocket, the nearest town. I started hitchhiking at around 7:00 PM and was picked up by two young guys from southern Maine who were just heading to the next campground, but I was appreciative for the ride anyway. When they arrived at the campground a third member of their party flagged them down and told them that he had received permission from his Dad to use his credit card (for emergencies) to buy a five man tent in Millenocket, and that the store closed at 9:00. How fortuitous for me; I got a ride all the way into Millinocket.

It turns out that these guys also summited Katahdin that day and were a group of five. There was supposed to have been a sixth, but he dropped out. Unfortunately, he was the one who they all gave money to who "supposedly" had reserved and paid in advance for a lean-to shelter for all of them for three nights. He didn't, however, and the five found themselves having to stay at a tent site without a tent, hence the trip to town. Their friend had some explaining to do. I sensed that they were a little short in cash, so I gave them some gas money and my leftover freeze dried food when we arrived in town. They were very appreciative. I then walked to a motel I had called earlier and began to unwind.

Just another day on the trail.

Within Reach

Near the end of the Hundred Mile Wilderness. Mt. Katahdin in sight!

The Ferryman

My last post left off after passing through the very scenic Saddleback Mountains in Maine, in between Rangely and Stratten. I continued on past the Saddleback Mountains and headed to Crocker Mountain, skirting Sugarloaf Mountain along the way.

The route up South Crocker Mountain seemed like it would never end. It started low in a ravine and then had a "psych" point about halfway up where the stubby pines turned to bare rocks. Normally, that would be near the peak, but the trail reverted to trees and continued upward for a long time. After the Crocker Mountains I descended to the Valley and caught a ride to Stratten, Maine, my next waypoint.

Valley in Maine.

Stratten is a one-horse town but it had a motel, a small supermarket, and a decent restaurant. I had a delicious meal at the White Wolf Inn. The motel I stayed in was run by the same couple that ran the Farmhouse Inn hostel in Rangely, but it was overpriced for the crappy place that it was.

Leaving Stratten on the 28th of July, I started hiking up the Bigelow Mountains, which some southbounders had told me were quite nice. They were. After lots of vertical I found myself on top of Avery Peak, named after Myron Avery, the man who actually made the Appalachian Trail come to fruition. There is an impressive bronze plaque on top of the peak commemorating his accomplishments.

Maine mountain.

Valley view.

View from Avery Peak.

The Kennebec River was still over 20 miles away, and I would only be able to cross it if I was there between 9:00 AM and 2:00 PM. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy  (ATC) contracts with a local guide service to ferry hikers across by canoe, but only between those hours. It's free to hikers. The Kennebec can't be forded, as it is wide, deep in the middle, and upstream dam releases can cause sudden level increases.

The ferryman was on the north side of the river when I arrived, fishing from the bank, so I waved an orange flag (provided) and he saw me. When he had paddled over to my side of the river I instinctively grabbed the bow to pull it up on the sandy shore, which would allow him to disembark on dry land. He admonished me for touching the "watercraft" before receiving my safety briefing and signing a waiver. I'd never heard a canoe called a watercraft before, thinking that term more appropriate for boats with motors and/or sails, but I played along. I obediently listened to my safety briefing, signed the waiver, cinched my life vest, and cautiously stepped inside the canoe after he granted me permission to board.

I noticed a second paddle, grabbed it (again, instinctively) and before the blade hit the water the ferryman told me to paddle lightly. I told him that I wouldn't veer the canoe off course, that the bow paddler was an afterthought, mainly there for ballast anyway, and that all the control was in the stern. He didn't give me any more directives after that. I got to thinking that I may have had at least as much time in the stern of canoe as he did, since I practically lived in one during the summers of my youth and young adulthood. He was actually a really nice guy, and I don't blame him for assuming that his passengers don't know a thing about canoes. After all, he has a responsibility to ferry a few thousand people safely across the river each year. He gave me good advice on where to stay in Caratunk (the small town on the other side of the river) and said "Tell them that the Great Northerner sent you; they"ll treat you right."

Great Northerner.

I walked two miles west to "Northern Outdoors," a resort/campground that specializes in whitewater trips. For $25 a night I had a cabin tent just 100 yards from the Kennebec River. It felt like a mansion. I stayed for two nights, resting up for the final 150 miles. My next stop is Monson, about 40 miles away. Then comes the 100 Mile Wilderness and Mt. Katahdin.

Entering Maine

I still had a few rough miles of New Hampshire to hike through when I left Gorham, particularly the Wildcat Mountain peaks. Wildcat Mountain is home to a ski area and a gondola brings tourists and hikers up during the summer. They say you can see the Atlantic Ocean on a clear day, just like on Mount Washington. However, just like Mount Washington, all I saw was the inside of a cloud.

I was focused on Maine, but it took almost two days to get there. It was a major feeling of satisfaction when I arrived at the Maine border. I was under the mistaken notion that Maine would be easier than New Hampshire (and it is overall), but the first 100 miles of Maine contain some rough terrain, including the worst (or most fun, depending your perspective) single mile of the trail. It's called the Mahoosuc Notch, and it is a mile-long gorge of enormous boulders, taking about three to four hours to navigate through.

As soon as I entered Mahoosuc Notch I felt the temperature almost instantly drop about 15 degrees. The only other time I had experienced such a rapid temperature drop was when I walked down into a swollen stream one night in Virginia, but I didn't hear any water. I soon found out why the temperature had dropped, though. As I aimed my headlamp (I was hiking at night) down between the voids in the boulders I could see large amounts of ice and hard-packed snow. I was not expecting that since it was mid-July and I was only at about 2,500 feet in elevation. The steepness of the gorge and the below-grade voids slowed the melting process considerably. I imagine that some of it never melts.

Climbing through the boulders was a challenge. At times I had to take my pack off and push it through first because the route was not big enough for me and my pack to fit through at the same time. Some of the boulders were as big as houses, and at times I was completely under them, almost as if in a cave. I spent about four hours in the Notch, cooking dinner halfway through. All in all, it was fun.

Only 281.4 miles to go from this point.

After camping for the night, I made my way up Mahoosuc Arm, a notoriously difficult uphill climb that leads to Mt. Speck. It was just as rough as anything in New Hampshire, and it often required both hands and both feet. My trekking poles were stored away for that section.

On Friday night, July 22nd, I stayed at the Pine Ellis Hostel in Andover, Maine. It was eight miles from the trail, but a nice elderly lady stopped and gave me a ride for the last four miles. I ran into some people at the hostel that I had seen before, and met a few others that I hadn't. They included a recently retired Army helicopter pilot who will be attending culinary school when he finishes the trail. I also met a friendly Berliner, whose English skills weren't as good as other Germans I had met. He explained that he was raised in East Germany and had been required to learn Russian all through school. The Berlin Wall didn't fall until he was in his early 20's. The hostel was run by a couple of kind elderly ladies and it was a nice night away from the trail.

The next few days were a little easier, but still time-consuming. The numerous rocks and exposed roots prevented any sort of rhythmic stride. The scenery was beautiful though and I passed by many lakes and ponds. I was looking forward to arriving in Rangely, Maine since my final pair of trail runners were waiting for me at the Post office there. My third pair was falling apart and I already had to patch them in several spots.

A sample of a Maine pond.

And a sample of a Maine view.

I arrived at the trailhead outside of Rangely on Sunday morning, after walking through rain most of the previous day. It was a nine mile walk to town, but after walking a half mile with my thumb out I was picked up by a young, vacationing couple from Arlington, VA. They had just spent one night backpacking in the mountains and were fascinated to hear what it's like to spend months on the trail.

Rangely is a nice town surrounded by lakes and mountains. It's a little on the tourist side, but not overwhelmingly so. I ate at a local restaurant and stopped by the local outfitter for a few supplies. It being Sunday I couldn't pick up my new shoes at the Post Office yet, so I headed to the Farmhouse Inn hostel, located a mile outside of town. It had been highly recommended by some southbounders who I had met in Andover.

The Farmhouse Inn was just that, an old 18th century farmhouse. It was run by a couple who had four polite young children, two of their own and two adopted from overseas. I ran into three or four people who I had met previously and met some new southbounders. One was a preacher from Texas who felt "called" to the trail. There was also a hippy couple who lived in a modified old "short bus" when they weren't on the trail. It was parked outside. I also met a Scottish guy from the Isle of Skye who started the trail three weeks after finding out about it.

I took a zero day in Rangely, picked up my shoes from the post office, and bought some shoe "Goop" in town to reinforce the known weak areas before I started wearing them. I let them dry overnight and wore them on the trail today. So far, so good. The trail went back over 4,000 feet to the top of Saddleback Mountain and a few other nearby peaks. The rest of the country might be suffering a heat wave, but I had on a jacket and gloves on this morning while facing stuff winds on top of those peaks.

Taken while heading to the top of Saddleback Mountain.

Good footwear makes a big difference on the trail.

Looking to the summit of Saddleback Mountain.

Summit of Saddleback Mountain.

View through the clouds.

Below the clouds while heading down Saddleback Mountain.

All of the northbounders are getting excited about closing in on Mt. Katahdin. I'll pass by the 2,000 mile point tomorrow.

The Presidents

"The Presidents," that's what hikers call the Presidential Range in the White Mountains, the highest peaks above the tree line. Most of the peaks are named after former presidents, the most famous being, of course, Mount Washington. I started hiking up to the Presidents on Tuesday, July 12th from Franconia Notch.

After a long day's hike I arrived at one of the most spectacular peaks, Mount Lafayette, right around sunset. Although Lafayette wasn't a president, New Hampshire residents evidently thought quite highly of him, because it is one of the nicer peaks in the range. It was a beautiful, windless evening and several hikers were camped right near the peak that night, protected by some stone walls should the winds pick up. I talked to them for a while and then headed down to the tree line where I prefer to camp. The next day I hiked over Mount Garfield, and then reached the summit of South Twin Mountain, after a tough climb reminiscent of Kinsman Mountain a few days earlier. The view from South Twin Mountain was quite nice, but I was bitten badly by some voracious insects at the peak, where I stopped for about 15 minutes. After going over Mount Guyot, the trail went down to the very scenic, and refreshing Zealand Falls. I removed my shoes and socks and let my feet enjoy the cool water for a while.

The view from South Twin Mountain, looking left to right: Mount Garfield, Mount Lafayette, Mount Lincoln.

A short time later I came upon the Zealand Falls AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club) Hut, which stood directly adjacent to the trail. It looked like a large vacation home, not fitting in with the rugged simplicity of the rest of the trail. I heard an air compressor occasionally turn on while some workers were replacing some siding. This was the second AMC Hut I had come across so far and there would be more scattered throughout the White Mountains.

The AMC predates the Appalachian Trail and started building simple shelters in the early 20th century to protect its members on their high mountain climbs. These huts have morphed into quite fancy (by trail standards) establishments over the years. They have full kitchens, running water, composting bathrooms, large common/dining areas, and multiple bunk rooms. They are staffed during the summer by college students (many are members if the Dartmouth Outing Club). For about $125 a night, guests with reservations receive a bed in a bunk room (they must provide their own sleeping bag) as well as dinner and breakfast. The huts have electricity provided by solar power and wind generators. All food, supplies, and trash are hauled in and out by the staff using huge, antiquated wooden pack frames. There is no road access to any of these shelters, and the staff, acting as sherpas, must make daily trips to a trail head for resupply. These trips can be as long as 3 or 4 miles one way, often over extremely difficult terrain. It is not a summer job for the lazy. I passed a few of these college student sherpas on the trail and they told me they typically carry between 40 and 80 pound loads.

Non-guests are welcome to stop in and get water, buy beverages and snacks, and hang out in the common areas during the day. The huts allow a few non-guests to stay the night in a "work for stay" program. They don't get a bunk, but can sleep in the common area and receive dinner and breakfast in return for helping to serve meals, performing cleanup chores, etc. In dire weather though, the huts won't turn anyone away.

Besides the huts, the AMC also runs tenting campsites along the trail with caretakers and composting toilets. The cost is $10 per night, which some hikers grumble about.

The weather report called for inclement weather for next day, so when I arrived at Crawford Gap I decided to stay at a state-run campground by the Dry River (definitely not dry) which had inexpensive (and clean) laundry and shower facilities (nice). I was glad I stayed there because that night I experienced torrential rain, the heaviest to date. My little tent performed like a champ though. When the weather cleared on Friday I started hiking toward Mount Washington, spending the night near some scenic cliffs on Mount Webster.

Morning view from the trail while heading up toward Mount Washington.

Near Mt. Washington.

The next day started out sunny, and I passed over Mt. Pierce (renamed Mt. Clinton), Mt. Eisenhower, Mt. Franklin and Mt. Monroe (every separate pointy thing has a name) before beginning up Mt. Washington. Unfortunately, clouds were rolling in and I was walking through fog for the rest of the day.

I passed by a very busy Lake of the Clouds AMC Hut, stopping to get some coffee and a brownie. I ran into "Hail," a thru hiker I had met earlier at the Hikers Welcome hostel. His father had joined him for a few days.

AMC hut.

The last 1.5 miles to the summit seemed interminable, and when I arrived at the top I was astounded at how many people were there. Hundreds of hikers and others were milling around, both outside and in the large visitors center / cafeteria / gift shop.

Quite a popular spot for a photo (the summit is identified by the sign on the right).

A local told me it was the busiest day of the year because of a fundraiser called "Seek the Peak" for the weather observatory there. Many drove to the top (including a motorcycle gang with full leather regalia), others took the cog train and hiked down (or vice versa) and other hardy souls were hiking both up and down. A few, like me, were just passing through. I heard lots of French being spoken, so there must have been a Canadian contingent there.

Cog train.

I ate lunch with a couple of friendly locals and then hung out in the backpackers' dungeon in the basement for a little while charging my phone. I chatted with Hail and his dad, as well as with a few section-hiking college students, all good company. I then hit the trail again, still in the fog, crossing over the cog railway and then on to Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Madison. The trail around Mt. Madison was extremely rugged. I then descended down about 3,000 vertical feet, out of the clouds, and found a nice camping spot near a stream. It rained most of the night, but stopped in the morning. I packed up my wet tent and hiked to Pinkham Notch to take a zero day in Gorham, NH. The Whites were now mostly behind me.

The Whites

Since the day I started the trail I recall other hikers saying things like, "If you think this is tough, just wait until you get to the Whites."

The "Whites," of course, are the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and I began hiking in them a few days ago. The White Mountain National Forest starts quite near Hanover, NH, and includes some fairly challenging summits such as Smarts Mountain and Mt. Cube. The word on the trail is that the Whites really begin at Mt. Moosilauke, near Warren, NH. I decided to stay at the "Hikers Welcome" hostel in Glencliff, NH, just outside of Warren to shower, do laundry and prepare to take on the Whites.

The Hikers Welcome Hostel was at more than maximum capacity. It would have been comfortable with 12 or fewer hikers, but because the weather had soured there were twice that number staying there. A single outdoor shower and toilet served all of us. I ran into some people I had met before on the trail, and some new people as well. Most decided to sit out Saturday the 9th because of the rain forecast, but some of us decided to press on. The hostel offered a "slackpacking" option that two retired guys from Virginia and I opted for.

Slackpacking means you leave your tent, sleeping bag, etc. at the hostel and get shuttled to a trail head farther north (in this case Kinsman Notch). We then hiked 10 miles south to the hostel. The next day (Sunday the 10th) we were shuttled back to the trail head to continue north. It was nice having a half-weight pack as the hike over Mt. Moosilauke was extraordinarily challenging, my toughest day on the trail yet.

The trail up Mt. Moosilauke was extremely steep, running along a cascading stream for several miles. It was raining, which further added to the difficulty. By the time I got to the top of Mt Moosilauke it was so cold and windy that I pulled out a pair of spare wool socks to use as field-expedient mittens. They worked quite well. I thoroughly enjoyed that 10 mile hike though, and when we returned to the hostel with exhilarated looks on our faces you could see the looks of regret among the majority of hostel stayers who decided not to hike that day.

Hostels are interesting places. This one was a very laid back place, run by a guy who is the rare "triple-crowner," meaning he has hiked the entire Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, and Continental Divide Trail. That's more than impressive. The crowd at the hostel on the weekend I stayed there was a mix of younger and older hikers. It was enlightening talking to them around the campfire at night. Some were older hikers like me, including a doctor, an engineer, and several retired county workers (the Virginia guys I slackpacked with). Others were much younger, some having firm plans (starting nursing school or law school in the fall), and others searching, having no firm plans at all. One couple had met on the trail and married three days earlier.

On Sunday it was still raining, so many decided to stay at the hostel another day. Others, like me and the Virginia retirees, decided to press on so we were dropped off at Kinsman Gap again (the north side of Mt. Moosilauke), this time hiking north to Franconia Notch, over Kinsman Ridge. It turned out to be the toughest day on the trail to date. In fact, you would be hard pressed to even call parts of it a trail; it was more like a route, in the climbing sense.

More than a few times I had to stop and plan a route forward, be it an ascent or descent. The trail was so steep, rocky, and slick that any misstep could have very negative consequences. I recalled the German motel proprietor in Bear Mountain, NY telling me that when he had hiked the Whites there were times where he would just throw his trekking poles down a hill and climb down after them, since he needed to use his hands as well as his feet to climb down.  I found myself doing just that as well.

The rain was pervasive, and sections of the trail looked more like streams than trails. Some sections were completely submerged. While I could occasionally veer off trail to high ground, sometimes the woods were so dense that I had to walk through deep water. On at least three occasions I had to cross very swollen streams with no foot bridge. One of them required looking  up and down stream to find a place to cross, and even then getting soaked up to my knees.

I stealth camped that night at Franconia Notch State Park, and it continued to rain through most of the night. I was glad I seam-sealed my tent at the Lake.

On Monday I walked about 5 miles in Lincoln, NH to dry out and resupply. On the way into town the road paralleled the Pemi River. I stopped along the river to dry out my tent and saw some ducks in the water. One of them would occasionally break off from the group and run a length rapids, using his webbed feet to steer around rocks. They were quite good at it.

I saw a bear raiding a dumpster on the way back to the trail. Bear #4

Vermont

The Green Mountains of Vermont are appropriately named. The Appalachian Trail has often been called the green tunnel, and the Vermont section lives up to that as much as any part I've already hiked.

Unfortunately, foot pain was one thing that stood out in Vermont. My left foot continued to give me trouble and downhills were the worst. The long downhill into Bennington led me to decide to rest my foot yet again. I spent the night of the 20th of June in a motel and then went to a walk in clinic the next day. The doctor (or PA) told me mostly what I already knew, but at least confirmed that I didn't have stress or hairline bone fracture. It was a mild sprain.

I stayed another night at the motel resting my foot. For some reason, a number of construction workers staying at the motel decided to back their pickup directly in front of my room to have a tailgate barbecue. I was sociable and talked with them for a while until they all started smoking marijuana. Bed time.

The steep climb out of Bennington went well, and my foot felt good with a new Ace bandage. I looked forward to getting to the tops of hills because then I could see something besides the endless green tunnel. The first 100 miles or so of the AT in Vermont coincides with Vermont's Long Trail, which extends all the way to the Canadian border. The trail was noticeably more crowded and I ran into a number of hikers who were hiking the Long Trail, not the AT.

Apparently the annual Rainbow Family gathering was being held somewhere in Vermont's Green Mountains this year and I ran into a few hikers who were headed there. One, a very healthy looking 22 year old, said he was glad he claimed his food stamps before coming. It's a way of life for some I suppose.

The trail runs right by many well known ski areas, including Stratton, Bromley, and Killington (all named after peaks or mountains). At times, the trail was on what are ski slopes in the winter. It was on top of Stratton Mountain that the founder of the AT, Bentonville MacKaye, claims to have conceived of the idea while sitting in a tree.

The Long Trail broke off from the AT right near Killington. My guidebook mentioned that there was an hourly bus into nearby Rutland, so I went into Rutland to do laundry, since it had been a few days and the weather was hot.

I had been planning to take a week break and rent a car in Hanover, New Hampshire so that I could head down to my family's lake place in NJ, where my sister, brother, and mother would be for a few days. Because my foot had not been healing well, however, I decided to get off the trail in Woodstock, VT (about 20 trail miles sooner than originally planned). I took a bus to White River Junction, VT, just across the Connecticut River from Hanover, where I rented a car.

After a week at the Lake my foot felt 100%, so I was optimistic as I returned to the trail on July 4th, taking a bus back to Woodstock (a very nice town). It's a four mile walk to the trail head, but a trail volunteer offered me a ride for the last few miles.

While on the bus to Woodstock I had an interesting conversation with a Kurd from Turkey. He made it a point to let me know that although he was a Turkish citizen and carried a Turkish passport, he was not a Turk. He was heading to Rutland/Killington to work for 90 days as part of a student/work visa program to improve his English. His older brother, now a physician, had done it five years earlier and highly recommended it to him.

On the 5th of July I ran into a couple of kilt-wearing southbound guys who told me of the "best trail magic ever" just a few miles away where the trail crossed the White River. Sure enough, as soon as I crossed the river a young guy with dreadlocks waived me over to a porch across the street. It was the home of Linda, a recently retired trail angel extraordinaire. She asked me if I wanted breakfast or lunch and proceeded to serve me a delicious breakfast complete with eggs, sausage, potatoes, toast, and coffee. She said that she and her husband have been doing this for hikers for years and that banking good karma pays off. When her house was swept away during the Vermont floods a few years ago a group of volunteers showed up from Maryland with $25,000 worth of lumber and proceeded to build her a new one.

By the end of the day, Tuesday, July 5th, I left Vermont and entered NH.

Entering New England

I arrived in Connecticut Saturday, June 11. The trail runs through the northwestern part of the state, which is very rural, mountainous, and scenic. It started to rain shortly after I arrived there and it rained quite heavily for a few hours. My clothes and shoes were drenched, and I was in need of a laundromat anyway, so I looked in my trail guide and noticed that the town of Kent was less than a mile from the trail, and it had a laundromat.

The walk into town was quite scenic, passing by the Kent School, where a few people were practicing Lacrosse on a field. The trail crossed a bridge over the Housatonic River, right by the docks used by the Kent rowing team. Lacrosse and competitive rowing are almost unknown in most of the country, but are popular here.

Housatonic River.

After walking down Kent's remarkably scenic main street I found my way to the laundromat. I was actually surprised that Kent had a laundromat, as it is a very upscale town. It turns out that it is primarily a commercial laundry facility (the Kent School being one of its clients) that does a side business for walk-ins, such as hikers.

There were two other hikers when I arrived there, Dump Truck from NC and King Arthur from PA. The owner of the laundromat (Carly) made it clear to us that she only barely tolerated hikers. She was admonishing Dump Truck for putting his wet pack on a table when I arrived, and one of her employees was berating King Arthur for being in the bathroom too long (we have to use the bathroom to change).

While we were doing our laundry, King Arthur and I sat at some tables outside while Carly relayed her tales of woe concerning hikers to us. She said hikers sometimes put wet, unlaundered items in dryers, and that they sometimes get a little carried away trying to wash ALL of their clothes. She said that she was once in Wisconsin, where she had flown to see a Packers game, when she checked her security camera remotely and saw three male hikers completely naked in her laundromat while washing their clothes. King Arthur and I did our best to explain that these hikers were a minority.

There was an IGA across the street so we stocked up on food while our clothes were busy being laundered. I had some delicious local strawberries, far better than those giant, mutant strawberries from California. I talked with Dump Truck for a while; he's a recently retired community college English professor from NC who bemoaned the declining ability of many high school graduates to read and write with any degree of proficiency.

I spoke with a local at the laundromat who told me to ignore Carly, that she was just ornery. He said that she lives in the laundromat even though she has plenty of money (she had a new $50,000 pickup parked outside). I thought he meant that she spends too much time there, but he pointed to her office and said that she has a bed in there and actually lives there.

So much for Kent. Later in the day I was hiking in a rocky, steep section of Connecticut's mountains when I came across a young woman having a tough time getting her dog up a steep, rocky section. It was a 7 month old mutt with short legs. The dog had a pack with a handle on top, so she would grab the handle, lift him up, and then climb up to join him. He was a very patient dog who looked comical while being carried with his short legs sticking out. She just graduated from college with a history degree, didn't want to go to law school like many of her fellow history majors, so was hiking the trail while deciding what to do next. She seemed to lean toward going back to school to become certified in primary education. Her story seemed to be a typical of many younger people on the trail.  She (Alice) and her dog (Jack) stopped at the next shelter where her friends were waiting, while I kept going.

I ran into the two young Mississippi guys again. I had assumed that they were college students before because they had beards growing that makes them look older, but when I talked with them further they told me they were only 18 and recently out of high school. What a great adventure.

Connecticut is a rather short section of the trail so it only took two days to get through it. I particularly liked a stretch of ran right by the Housatonic River. One thing that struck me was that there were even more stone walls along the trail than I'd seen in New York. Almost all of the surrounding hills had once been largely cleared of trees and replaced with farms. If I remember my history, the abandonment of all those farms coincided with industrialization and westward expansion. I can certainly see why those farm families left for opportunities in the cities or more fertile grounds elsewhere. It must have been a hard scrabble existence in those rock strewn fields.

The fact that the forests had fully reclaimed those former farms without human intervention left me scratching my head over the extremely strict camping rules in states such as MD, NJ, NY, CT, and MA. Only a few decades ago you could camp just about anywhere in those public forests along the trail. Now, you can only camp in designated areas, which are limited in number and high density. It really takes some of the wild out of being in the wilderness. I sometimes stay in those designated areas, but at other times I engage in willful civil disobedience.

The Berkshire Mountains of Western Massachusetts actually start in Connecticut, and I crossed into Massachusetts on Monday, June 12. After some steep mountain sections, the trail went back down to the Housatonic River and crossed a major roadway near Great Barrington, MA. Since I hadn't showered in a while, I spent the night in a motel there after walking three miles into town.

Great Barrington is quite a nice town and is considered a tourist destination because of its proximity to the Berkshire Mountains and a nearby ski area. The young clerk at the Day's Inn told me that Smithsonian Magazine had rated it the best small town in America. An enormous stone wall guards an enormous stone building near the center of town. The informative clerk said it was a school for troubled rich kids.

It was a grueling two days from Great Barrington to Dalton, MA, an old, but scenic mill town. I covered 50 miles in those two days and pushed myself a little too hard. I started developing a pain in my left foot that became so severe that I was wincing and limping at times. Once I got to Dalton I decided that I really needed to take a "zero" day and let my foot rest and heal, so that's what I did.

Besides being grueling and sometimes painful, the hike from Great Barrington to Dalton was very scenic. It passed many streams and ponds. I saw more beaver activity, heard many bullfrogs, and came across my third bear so far on the trail. He didn't see me for a while so I watched him mosey up to his favorite scratching tree and give his claws a workout.

After leaving Dalton yesterday (June 17) the trail eventually led to some marble cliffs overlooking Cheshire, MA. I met "Blaze" who had to take three weeks off the trail in Bear Mountain, NY because of a hairline fracture in his foot. He had been a very fast hiker (faster than me), but was now slowing things down a little. My foot still wasn't 100%  but it seemed to be healing. It's a mild sprain I believe.

The trail went down into the small town of Cheshire and right past an ice cream shop. I bought a cup of chocolate ice cream and joined two other hikers at a picnic table, "Snickers" and "Rain Man." Rain Man had lived in Arlington, VA for a few years (currently in Atlanta) and was an avid bicyclist. We talked about some of the dual use trails around Arlington and the problems with bicyclists trying to share the same busy pathway with walkers and runners. We are both convinced that separate, or at least physically divided pathways  are needed. Another hiker, "Magic," from Dallas, TX showed up at the picnic table with an ice cream cone which plopped onto the table after a few licks. She went inside, got a spoon, and ate it right off of the table.

I camped high on a ridge last night in pine needles. It was a fine campground, even if it wasn't state sanctioned. While eating breakfast a large cow moose walked toward me. When she spied me she moved away a little but then spent several minutes curiously looking at me.  I did not think  that moose lived this far south, but I was only a few miles from Mount Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts at almost 3500 feet. A plaque at Mount Greylock later explained that the 12,000 acre Greylock State Reserve is the only sub-alpine region in the state. Hence the moose.

Trust me. There really is a moose in those trees.

WWII memorial at the top of Mt. Greylock.

I'm currently at a community center in North Adams, MA, charging my phone while typing. Next, I'll resupply at a grocery store and then it's on to Vermont, only four miles from here by trail.

Crossing the Hudson

I left the Church Hostel on Monday, June 6th. I began where I had left the trail, at the beginning of a remarkable one and a half mile long raised boardwalk that passed through a wetlands wildlife sanctuary outside of Vernon. It took ten years to construct using volunteer labor and donated materials. Unlike most of the trail, backpackers are far outnumbered by locals. I came across runners, power walkers, strollers, and dog walkers. I spoke with a woman walking her dog who, in jest, pleaded with me not to reveal that northwest NJ was such a beautiful place to live, lest too many others move there. The boardwalk ends with a wood suspension bridge that spans a creek.

Boardwalk.

View from boardwalk.

After the boardwalk was a very grueling climb to the top of a mountain. They call the climb the stairway to heaven because of the great views on top. I could see well onto New York State, as well as the Vernon ski slopes and the clean-up crew from the hippie fest in the valley below. Before long I was out of NJ and headed for the Hudson River, a little over 35 miles from where the trail leaves New Jersey.  Part of the walk included some very steep and rocky terrain. One section included steel ladder rungs because there was no other way to get up the steep rock face.

Not part of the stairway to heaven, but a stairway, nonetheless.

Toward the end of that very rocky section I spotted a Bear in the middle of the trail, about 70 feet in front of me, nibbling on some vegetation along the edge. It was a fairly large, very black bear. The Bear spied me and began moving down the trail away from me, occasionally glancing back warily. I managed to take a picture of it as it was moving away. After the Bear was out of sight I continued down the trail, mindful that I was walking in the same direction that the bear had retreated to. I never saw the Bear again though; wild bears have little desire to interact with people.

The best view of a Bear.

The final few miles of trail before the Hudson River descend down hundreds of steps from the top of Bear Mountain down to the town of the same name. Bear Mountain State Park encompasses the mountain as well as a large area beside the river and the Bear Mountain Bridge. It includes a number of stone buildings, a skating rink, a lake, a zoo a giant indoor merry-go-round, and more. For some reason, there were dozens of Orthodox Jews visiting the park. I passed by many while making my way to the Zoo, which the trail goes right through. The Zoo features a majestic, healthy looking bald eagle, as well as several unhealthy looking black bears, among other animals.

I passed through a Revolutionary War era fort (Fort Montgomery - captured by the British) while making my way to the little town of Bear Mountain and a small, hiker-friendly motel run by a German immigrant couple. A barbecue restaurant and a bagel place were both within a few hundred yards of the motel, so dinner and breakfast were covered. The motel owner gave me a ride to the bridge the next morning.

The Hudson River.

After crossing the Hudson I still had several days of hiking in New York before passing into Connecticut. I enjoyed the New York section of the trail, both east and west of the Hudson. It included much rocky terrain and passed through many former farms, as evidenced by the remaining stone walls. I saw more beaver activity in NY also, including seeing several rather large felled trees adjacent to beaver lodges. I did not know that beavers routinely gnaw through trees more than a foot in diameter, but they do.

Beaver power.

Beaver art.

New York has a number of nice state parks that the trail ran through, including Harriman, Bear Mountain, and Clarence Fahnestock State Parks. The New York section also featured great delis right near the trail. I was able to enjoy a deli meal for either lunch or dinner just about every day while hiking in New York.

NJ AT is Nice

It's been over 4 decades since I hiked parts of the Appalachian Trail in New Jersey, so I really don't remember much, nor did I have anything to compare it to, but I was very pleasantly surprised by what a nice section of trail it is. I'm not quite out of NJ, but I figured I'd make a short blog entry describing the last few days since I left Pennsylvania. I've been waiting too long between blog posts also, so I'm going to try and post more frequently.

After crossing the Delaware the trail goes through a park along the river that is part of the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area. The trail then meanders up a beautiful trail that parallels a trout stream into Worthington State Forest. After reaching a plateau, the trail runs along a ridge for about 10 miles. Since it was a sunny day when I was there, there were great views of both the Delaware Valley and Pennsylvania to the west and the rolling hills and lakes of New Jersey to the east. The forest surrounding the trail was carpeted with either ferns or grass.

I passed Sunfish Pond, which is completely surrounded by hills, is completely undeveloped, and is spring fed from underneath. It's considered one of the seven natural wonders of New Jersey according to a sign I read. Honestly though, Lake Wildwood is bigger, nicer, and surrounded by even higher hills. I came to a rock cairn on top of a mountain with 360 degree views. It was a sunny day so I could see the Delaware River Valley and Pennsylvania to the west and some lakes and rolling hills of New Jersey to the east. It really was quite scenic.  I camped about 13 miles into NJ.

Rock cairn.

View to the East.

View to the West.

It rained hard that night and the next day (Friday, June 3) was drizzly and cloudy.  I had dinner in Culver's Gap, at a place called Gyp's, right on Kittatiny Lake, just 3/10 of a mile from the trail. I was sitting at a table right next to the Lake talking to one of the property owners of Kittatiny Lake. It's a private community with bylaws, etc. They don't allow any motorboats, not even electric trolling motors. He told me that the lake has plenty of trout and is completely fed from the undeveloped hills surrounding it on three sides. Sussex County, NJ really does have some beautiful places besides Lake Wildwood. After dinner I hiked about seven miles before camping.

The next day, the trail went through High Point State Park. The weather cleared and it was good hiking. I passed many old stone walls and many areas that looked like they had once been dairy farms or apple orchards. The trail dipped into New York State for a while and I noticed in my trail guide that the village of Unionville, NY was just a half mile from the trail. Unionville offered free tent camping to AT hikers in its city park, right behind their Village Office (that's what they call their town hall).

I decided to take Unionville up on its camping offer. Two others were already there and two guys from Virginia that I had passed on the trail earlier showed up also. Unionville is a wonderful small town that was a dairy production and distribution center in its heyday. There are lots of old Victorian era houses and buildings. Only three retail establishments exist there now: a pizza place, a bar and grill, and a classic general store/deli, all housed in old buildings. The general store had a large front porch with American flag bunting draped over the rail. The porch had half a dozen chairs out front and electrical outlets inviting hikers to charge their cell phones.

A town official stopped by our tents later and introduced himself. He said that Unionville had once been ambivalent about hikers, but a former mayor led an effort to encourage them to stop in Unionville. He told us that the town now loves hikers and that they significantly impact the three businesses I mentioned above. He said that of the thousands of hikers who have stopped in Unionville only two or three have ever caused problems.

Two of the other hikers and I decided to split a pizza, which we ate in the park Pavilion. It was quite delicious.

It rained on Saturday night, so we all dried our tents off in the pavilion before having delicious breakfast sandwiches at the general store's deli. Everyone was talking about the weather forecast for Sunday, which called for torrential rains and extremely strong winds. It rained heavily for about an hour at around noon, but then tapered off. However, the forecast called for the worst to hit at around 4:00 PM. Most hikers were planning to get off trail to ride it out, so I did too, after hiking only about 10 miles.

I'm currently staying at Saint Thomas Episcopal Church in Vernon, NJ, which has been running a hiker hostel for 20 years. For a $10 donation you get a warm, dry place to sleep, a shower, and use of laundry and kitchen facilities. There are at least 10 of us here tonight, a mix of older and younger hikers. The church is centrally located in town and is just a couple of miles from the trail. One of those trail angels stopped and offered me a ride almost as soon as I stepped off the trail and onto Route 517. I wasn't even hitchhiking.

The Episcopal Church hostel isn't staffed, but run on an honor system. Most hikers, being honorable, abide by the rules and put the requested $10 donation into the donation box provided. We were supposed to read their rules (which I did) and complete at least one of the dozen or so housekeeping chores that need to be accomplished daily. Being a rule abider (most of the time), I started on my chores right after I  and put a load of clothes in the washer. I emptied the trash cans and then went to work cleaning and organizing the hiker box, throwing things out that weren't useful to anyone. Just as I would never donate anything to a thrift store that wasn't fully usable, I wouldn't put anything in a hiker box that someone else wouldn't use. Some others push the envelope a little. I threw any food not in original, unopened, unpunctured packaging in the trash. Fuel canisters with almost no fuel went in the trash. A right handed glove with no matching left glove went in the trash. I then found two pairs of underwear, one men's, one women's. I asked the couple from Dallas who were sitting on a sofa if they would ever use underwear from a hiker box. They looked at me funny and then the woman responded "No, I wouldn't." I told them that I wouldn't either and proceeded to toss them in the trash. The woman then said "Wait, don't throw out the sports bra, someone might want it." I hadn't come across a sports bra yet, but I eventually did and it's execution was stayed. When done with my chores I washed my hands.

I was chatting with one of the hikers who I had seen before. He was a Wall Street refugee, burned out from being a bond broker. He was hiking the trail while waiting to go back to Duke (his Alma Mater) in the fall for a Masters and a career change. There were also a couple of polite young college kids from Mississippi who I'd seen a few times before. They were the ones who had passed me, shirtless and in the cold rain, outside of Duncannon, PA.

There were also a few people who weren't hikers, although they had packs. It turns out they were attending a Rainbow Family type of weekend hippie gathering a few miles away. The hostel is for AT hikers only, but we didn't report them. One of them, a young tatted woman, stumbled in, apparently for the third time in the last four days (one night stay only - those pesky rules), stating that she just needed to come for one more night to clear her head. I couldn't help but think that if she hadn't been hanging out with a bunch of people in tie-dyed ponchos she wouldn't be having to clear her head in the first place.

I'll be out of New Jersey for good sometime late tomorrow. It's then on to the Hudson River.

Well, I 'm posting more often, but I still have to work on conciseness I think.

Warm Weather, Rocks and Trail Angels

It's been nine days and 170 miles since I last posted a blog entry and I'm now almost out of Pennsylvania. I took a "zero" day today in Delaware Water Gap, PA (in addition to being a terrain feature it's also the name of a small town directly adjacent to Stroudsburg) to find some new shoes. My old ones that I had purchased in Virginia about 500 miles ago were starting to fall apart. The degradation accelerated when I put them through a washer and dryer in Wind Gap, PA yesterday. I could not order a new pair and have them shipped ahead because trail debris was coming through rather large holes in the mesh. The heel of the left shoe was also coming apart, requiring me to bandage the back of my heel each day to alleviate painful rubbing.

I made some phone calls to try and find a pair of Brooks Cascadia 11 trail runners. They were what I wore for the first 800 miles or so and I didn't want to take a chance on something I had not worn before. The Appalachian Trail is no place to experiment with footwear. I contacted a store that sold shoes and clothes for runners in East Stroudsburg and the clerk said that she had a pair in my size. It was only a mile away from the Super 8 I'm staying at. When I arrived at the store the clerk showed me a photo on the wall; it was a picture of the store's owner on top of Mount Katahdin. She (the owner) had completed a thru hike of the AT a few years ago.

The clerk asked me how I found the time to hike the entire trail. I told her that it had been a pipe dream for 45 years before I really had the time and resources to undertake it. She wants to follow in her boss's footsteps and said that she asks all of the thru hikers who periodically come into the store how they made the dream a reality. She isn't the first person to query me on how I made it to the trail.

When I left Carlisle last Monday after two straight days of rain it was supposed to be clear. It was for most of the day, but the trail was still extremely muddy. I made it to Duncannon, PA, 17 miles away, by early evening, but not until after being thoroughly drenched by a late afternoon thunderstorm that lasted for quite a while. I was passed by several young guys who were hiking in just shorts during the rain, but it was quite cool, so I had my rain jacket on. They were moving fast, so I suppose their body heat kept then warm.

My guide book warned me that the seven mile stretch before Duncannon was extremely rocky, and it was. The infamous Pennsylvania rocks were starting to bare their teeth.

Some sections have large boulders and others are like a minefield, strewn with innumerable sharp, angular rocks. The rocks slow you down considerably and one misstep can end your hike. I kept thinking about a German hiker who was in sight of Mount Katahdin a few years ago when he made a misstep on one of Maine's rocks and broke his leg just above the ankle, thus ending his hike.

Duncannon is a rather economically depressed town located right beside the Susquehanna River. The trail goes right through town and passes right by the Doyle Hotel, a well-known stop for AT hikers. A restaurant and bar are on the first floor and rooms that haven't been updated in more than half a century on the upper floors go for $25 a night. I ate there, and the food was acceptable, but I had no intention of staying there because I had just stayed at a motel in Carlisle and because I'd heard about those infamous rooms with cobwebs, no screens, no AC in summer, buckets strewn about to catch dripping water from leaking plumbing above, no TV, moldy bathrooms, etc. People who stayed there said it should be shut down by health inspectors.

I socialized with the mostly hiker crowd in the restaurant and bar for an hour or two and then hit the trail again, but not before chatting with a guy from Cleveland who was calling it quits. He had only been on the trail for a few weeks, starting in Virginia just south of Harper's Ferry. He had never backpacked before and didn't do much research beforehand. He relayed his tales of woe to me, from accidentally burning his backpack in a campfire, somehow losing half of his tent, having to replace expensive boots that were too small, suffering from hypothermia, etc. He was an optimist though, despite his acceptance of defeat. He vowed to return to the trail when he was better prepared. His trail name was Grass Man, the nickname given to a Sasquatch type creature that he believes inhabits parts of rural Ohio that he once spent time searching for. I didn't press him for details.

I made my way out of Duncannon and crossed the mighty Susquehanna river on a long, tall bridge. By this time it was dark and the trail went up an extremely steep, rocky mountainside on the far side of the river. After I reached the plateau I found a campsite and bedded down for the night.

Pennsylvania continued to be quite rocky, but the weather was improving. Over the next few days I hiked into the evening. There are numerous road crossings and gaps in Pennsylvania that are near towns, so when I arrived at Swatara Gap, about 50 miles north of Carlyle I decided to walk into Lickdale, PA. There was a converted rail-trail that led into town and my guidebook said that there was a truck stop there with a 24 hour McDonald's. By this time on the trail I am becoming so sick of trail food that the idea of a McDonald's breakfast was worth the extra miles. Unfortunately, my usually correct guidebook was wrong. I arrived to the truck stop after midnight and the McDonald's was closed. I had a cup of coffee and a blueberry Tastycake pie and headed back on the rail-trail.

I don't know what the rail-trail builders were thinking, maybe they wanted to stress the rail theme, but instead of using fine gravel which is suitable for walkers, runners and bikers they used larger rocks, almost as large as the type you find railroad ties bedded on. It made for very uncomfortable walking and I was glad when I returned to the AT. So much for Lickdale. BTW, Lickdale was originally named Union Forge, but was renamed in the early 19th century after a patron of the town, James Lick. I'd change it back to Union Forge. Much classier.

I was hoping to get to Wind Gap, PA by Saturday morning, the 28th of May. Jackie had mailed me a few items I requested to general delivery at the Post Office there. I still had a long way to go though and would have had to average 30 miles a day to get there in time. With the trail becoming so rocky and my shoes beginning to fail me, I knew I wouldn't be able get there in time. Since the Post Office wouldn't be open again until the following Tuesday because of the Memorial Day long weekend I decided to take a break in Pine Grove, PA to kill some time and rest my feet.

Pine Grove was almost five miles from the trail, but I walked there as the road was lightly traveled and had a good shoulder. It is a small town, but it had a decent motel and a few stores. There was a Dollar General store right next to the motel, and I had discovered earlier that these stores carried quite a variety of food items and are ideal for resupplying a hiker. The road into town was all downhill, so when I returned to the trail it was a strenuous two-hour walk. No rocks though.

The next 90 miles to Wind Gap were relatively uneventful. Pennsylvania was becoming a little monotonous, with thick forests, lots of rocks and very few views. I did see plenty of snakes though, since the weather has finally changed to sunny and warm. I did veer off trail for a mile and a half with a fellow hiker from NJ to Palmerton, PA for dinner at a local pub on Monday. The food tasted great but I think it gave me some mild food poisoning as my digestive system was not happy for the next 18 hours, starting shortly after I left Palmerton.

Palmerton has several beautiful onion-domed churches that you see in some of the old Pennsylvania mining towns. Eastern Europeans worked in the mines in large numbers beginning in the late 19th century and they brought their Orthodox church architecture with them. Palmerton was a zinc mining and smelting hub for almost 100 years.

I would be remiss if I did not mention trail angels. They are people who provide "trail magic" along the trail and help hikers out by giving them rides to/from towns, etc. Sometimes they are former AT thru hikers and sometimes not. Just in the last week I have been the recipient of the kindness of trail angels a few times. One left a cooler filled with ice cold cans of soda and iced tea near a road crossing (just far enough away not to be seen from the road). Another left several gallon jugs of water in the middle of a long stretch of trail with no water supply. I appreciated both of those gestures. When I was getting ready to leave the pub in Palmerton a young guy and his wife who had been eating there offered us (me and the guy from NJ, trail name Digger) a ride back to the trail. I accepted, but Digger was going to pitch his tent on the lawn behind the pub, courtesy of the owner, since there was no place to stay in Palmerton and he wasn't a night-hiking kind of hiker.

The guy who gave me a ride (I didn't get his name) told me that he and some others like to help hikers out whenever they can. They appreciate hikers coming town, but there is a rift between those who appreciate hikers in Palmerton and those who don't. Apparently Palmerton used to permit hikers to camp in a large park in the center of town, shower at the fire station, etc. However, a few years ago a few stupid hikers caused some vandalism and a few others were arrested for public drunkenness, so the welcome mat was taken away. It's too bad that a small minority of bad eggs can cause that to happen. Trail towns vary widely. Some, like Hot Springs, NC, Damascas, VA and others have developed a symbiotic relationship with hikers. Others have not.

When I arrived at Wind Gap on the morning of May 31st the Post Office wasn't open yet, so I walked another mile to a laundromat. I washed my clothes and put my down sleeping bag in a front loader. It was the first time I had washed the bag since I started the trail. I had the bright idea of washing my trail runners also, since they had accumulated plenty of fine dirt. I also wanted to put them in the dryer with my down bag since it would accelerate drying of the bag. The acceleration part worked, but as I mentioned above, the dryer caused quite a bit of damage to the shoes.

I was going to spend the night in Wind Gap since I hadn't showered in over four days, but the lodging prospects were quite dodgy. I pushed on to Delaware Water Gap, 16 miles away, arriving just before midnight. I had made a reservation at the Super 8 which was only a few miles away, but since it was so late I called a cab. It was only $10, which I thought was quite reasonable.

I am very much looking forward to crossing the I-80 bridge to NJ tomorrow while marveling over that massive, slanted chunk of mountain on the NJ side. I'll then hike up to Sunfish Pond, which I haven't seen since I camped there in a canvas tent as an 11 or 12 year old Boy Scout. A couple I ran into yesterday on the trail told me that it was spring fed from underneath and that the water was clean enough to drink (I'll still filter it).

Goodbye Pennsylvania.

Mason-Dixon

I left the Harper's Ferry area on Tuesday morning, May 17th. Maryland is a restrictive state for Appalachian Trail hikers. It is prohibited to camp anywhere except in state designated campsites. The theory is that concentrating campers in designated areas reduces the impact to wilderness overall. There may be some truth to that, but having spent the last 14 years hiking and camping in wide open Wyoming it seemed severely restrictive.

To my great surprise, Maryland got it right with the Annapolis Rocks backpacker campsite. After passing the Dahlgren backpacker campsite earlier in the day I expected a bunch of tents on a small patch of ground near a busy road. Annapolis Rocks (cliffs overlooking the Cumberland Valley) had more than 60 sites, but they were broadly spread out in a large, densely wooded area. It was hard to tell that other backpackers were nearby. It was several miles from the nearest road and featured a caretaker who lived in a large tent for the duration of the camping season. Well done Maryland.

One highlight of the Maryland section of the trail was Gathland State Park, which hosts the War Correspondents Memorial. Built in 1896, it is dedicated to journalists who have died in combat. It's a stunning stone memorial.

Unchanged for over a century, the arch had four names added in 2003 (according to Wikipedia):
David Bloom, Michael Kelly, Elizabeth Neuffer, and Daniel Pearl.

Another highlight, for me, was the Edward Garvey shelter, about 10 miles north of Harper's Ferry. It's a very nice shelter, named after the man who wrote the book that originally inspired me back in the 1970's to want to hike the entire trail.

I met a 19 year old guy from Virginia at the Edward Garvey shelter who had just started hiking to Mt. Katahdin from Harper's Ferry. He weighed about 300 pounds and he was hiking the trail so he could meet Army or Marine Corps weight standards for entrance. His father was giving him a little tough love, telling him that if he didn't succeed he was out of the house. No pressure.  He was a nice, determined kid who really wanted to join the military. I walked with him for a while and I hope he succeeds. If he stays on the trail he will.

Maryland hosts only 41 miles of the Appalachian Trail, so by the next evening I was at the Mason-Dixon line, which marked the Pennsylvania border.

I passed through Pen-Mar Park just before the border. It is a beautiful park overlooking Waynesboro, Pennsylvania in the valley below. From 1877 to 1943 it was an amusement park, served by a trolly line from Waynesboro. 

I remembered Pen-Mar Park from when I was stationed at Fort Ritchie from 1983-1986. Fort Ritchie was only a mile away and I was tempted to camp at the border and hike over to it the next day to see what had become of it since it had been deactivated in 1998. It had been a beautiful little post, a gem. It was more like an Army country club than a military base. It had several lakes, a 9 hole golf course, a bowling alley, tennis courts, nice officer and NCO clubs, etc. We worked at an "undisclosed location" and after being bused back to the barracks each day we would grab our golf clubs (in the warmer months) and go play 9 holes. The 5th tee was about 30 feet from our barracks.

While I was tempted to see what had become of Fort Ritchie, I read that it had been having a very problematic transition to civilian life. Buildings were abandoned and falling apart, weeds were taking over, the golf course was closed, etc. I preferred to keep the country club memories, so I did not pay it a visit.

I'm 65 miles into Pennsylvania now. After five days on the trail and being soaked by rain on day five I bailed out to a motel in Carlisle, PA to take a "zero" day. It rained all day today again, but it should clear up a little before I hit the trail again tomorrow.

My feet needed the rest. I've had a nagging blister ever since I replaced my shoes a few hundred miles ago. The shoes felt fine at first, but over time they have found my weaknesses. Most blisters are short-term and eventually turn into protective calluses. I have one on the outside of my right heel that keeps getting bigger and more painful though. Piercing it with a sterile needle does nothing; very little liquid leaks out and the piercing quickly seals. It's a blister that refuses to become a callus. I recalled something from a book written by an Appalachian Trail thru hiker on how to deal with these stubborn blister-calluses. I put some thread on a needle and poked it through. I then left the thread in place. The thread supposedly wicks away the liquid being stored inside the blister/callus. It's been 24 hours now and it appears to be working. A few days on the trail will tell; hopefully it will become fully callused and I will then be fully inoculated against whatever pain these shoes can cause.

Feet take a beating on the trail. I thought about not including the details of how much of a beating they take, but felt that full disclosure was in order.

I expected Pennsylvania to be nothing but rocks. Trail lore says that PA has the rockiest footpath of any section of the trail, but it hasn't been much rocker than elsewhere yet. I'm not even a third of the way through though, so I'm sure the rocks are coming.

Oh, besides having very interesting old iron forges dating back to the 18th century at Pine Grove Furnace State Park and Boiling Springs, PA, southern PA has at least three AT halfway point markers. That's because the trail keeps getting longer due to land use agreements and rerouting. It's currently about 2,189 miles long and a "2016" halfway marker is the arbiter, for now.