I crossed the same bridge I had walked and comeback across twice that day. This was the third northern traverse out of town, and I decided it should be the last. There was an advisory in the guide book about falcons sometimes diving after hikers on this bridge. A warning about the spiders would have been a kinder use of that page. There were some industrious arachnids on this span of concrete and steel. I thought I had been coated in web terribly at eight this morning, but now, hiking out at 4am, they seemed to have hung twice the silk.

A friend once told me that unlearned lessons come back into your life repeatedly, a little more difficult each time, until you finally learn them. That summarized the repeated bridge crossings perfectly. It was much more difficult to walk north this time, though the air was cool, and I’ve long since been desensitized to spiderwebs during the AT.

I left the Pilot at 4am, and crossed the four lanes of roadway towards the high rocky outcrop on the north side of town. It was time to get hiking, and thus ended an epic stretch of loitering at this beloved truck stop. All total I’m sure I’d spent eleven hours there, and received trail magic three times. A trucker bought me lunch, another gave me a free shower voucher, and I was given a free drink at the Subway inside.

I stopped and looked back, thinking about the name Jayna. To my surprise she was leaning out the door and yelling something towards me. I had already forgotten my battery backup there earlier in the day, and assumed I must have left something else.

Awkwardly I jogged back across the road towards her. I thought she was telling me that I hike beautifully, so I laughed, but then I got within earshot.

“You write beautifully. I’ve only read the first one, but it was great.” Her smile warmed the whole of me. I know I responded, but I was so caught off guard I cannot remember what I said. I was beaming though, that was exactly the compliment I needed, at exactly the right moment.

She had work to do inside, and hiking my profession now; I had miles to seek. We parted ways. As I stepped onto the bridge for the third time that day, the most difficult time that day, I questioned myself within.

“Why the hell are you walking away from her Ryan?” I didn’t have a good answer then, and I don’t have a good answer now. My legs carried me forward, my mind wandered endlessly.

Halfway across the span, I sat and peered at the dark water below, then toward the clouds above. I finished writing the second post of the night, and meticulously reread the previous, hoping it to be without error. Satisfied, I hiked on.

I found a clearing near a nice rocky outcrop with a view of Duncannon below. It looked like a prime spot for day hikers, and I knew I’d be woken early. Three, maybe four hours of sleep was all the heat would allow anyway. No sooner had I pitched my tent and got settled in my bag, it was morning. My sleep was deep and dreamless.

I woke around 8am, to the familiar humidity and hum of zooming flies. I ran into a Sobo the day before, and he confirmed that several water sources to the north were dry. I poured over my guidebook, soon realizing I was looking at a fifteen mile stretch without water, during the heat of the day. I’ve been in a major mental slump for the past two weeks or so, and this was crushing.

Had it not been for the conversation with Jayna five hours previous, and her excitement about the trail, I’m pretty sure that morning would have been my last out here. I now had a new person reading my crazy ramblings, and the idea of quitting the same day didn’t seem right. I told myself to stop being a pussy, and started thinking of ways to take charge.

I realized that the heat was a factor, but much more so the loneliness of having hiked the past seven or eight days solo. I missed my friends, and since hiking out of Harpers Ferry, I had only encountered three other thru-hikers, none of whom shared my sense of humor. Firebird gave me her ETA on Port Clinton the day before, and soon I was on the phone with Gary, a local shuttle driver.

Yellow-blazing is the term for skipping a section of the AT via car or bus. Purists would surely revoke my thru-hiker title, but fuck those people, no one tells me how to hike. This was a last-ditch effort to restore my sanity, and to keep going. Otherwise, I’d inevitably quit.

The green Ford Windstar came to a stop near the bridge, the bridge I would not be crossing southbound again. Gary was a thin man in his 60’s and introduced himself with a firm handshake. The A/C was strong and soon we were up to speed, the pace of the vehicle feeling downright magical under sore legs. I felt as though there were a rubber band connecting me and Duncannon, pulling me back every time I tried to walk away. Thanks to this taught-faced hero of a van driver, the band had snapped at last.

Gary was a thru-hiker himself, and the third person I’ve met who knew Earl Shaffer on his ’98 hike.

“It’s your hike, no one else’s. The beauty of this journey is that it is exactly what you make it to be. Friends? People. That’s the most important part!” He said; comforting me after I explained why I needed his services.

He told me he wished everyone could spend two weeks on trail, and learn a lesson or two on kindness.

“We spend so much time competing with each other, trying to screw each other over, and subconsciously threatening each other. On the trail you put that aside, you grow out of it, and you help each other instead.”

This has been my experience as well. I remember sizing up other hikers during the first few days in Georgia, deciding in my mind who would stay and who would quit. The first question each of us had was what the other did for a living. Judgement and pride are so ingrained within us, we don’t even examine them anymore. Thankfully, those tendencies began to fade in the coming weeks, and more often than not, initial assumptions were proved false.

I felt extremely grateful to be riding in Gary’s van then. There was a lesson here, and as often, we’re lead to them unexpectedly. Near the doors of the only open hotel in town, I attempted to settle up with him, knowing the shuttle to be worth at least $80 by my math.

“Don’t worry about it. No, really! I had to run some gear up here for someone anyway, and they paid for my gas. I picked you up so I’d have someone to talk to.”

Suddenly his trail name “Gabby” made perfect sense. I shook his hand again and thanked him for his incredible kindness. As he rounded the lot and departed, I repeated the mantra known to every hiker by this mile mark:

“The trail provides.” I said, aloud and with reverie.

It was little time before I met up with Yoshi and Hannah again, a couple I canoed with in the Shenandoah’s, and have known for 800 miles. High-five was here as well, and assured me I didn’t miss much. He was considering jumping ahead, but stuck it out. The heat, and PA itself was driving us all mad, and it was nice to compare war stories with friends.

Only five more days of this state, so loved for its people, but so hated for its terrain.

I heard the road noise in the distance.  The blessing and curse of the trail in PA is its proximity to roads and towns.  The trail is rarely void of the distant hum of traffic.

I was making my way down a no bullshit arrangement of steps, to the left of which was a sloping field of rocks, which descended sharply some hundred feet.  I had already taken a near tumble at the start of this section of trail, and found myself much more focused now.

My mission today was to grace the halls of the most famous and beloved eyesore the AT, the famous Doyle hotel.  When I made my decision to quit drinking for the rest of the trail, I had already put this one exception in mind. Stopping for a drink at the Doyle is tradition.

I first heard about this place in Hampton, VA. Fellow hiker Nine-Lives and Alex, the caretaker of Braemar Castle Hostel, were arguing about it.

“Have a beer there, but DO NOT stay there.”  Alex cautioned.

“Oh it’s not that bad!  It’s a charming little place, just a bit run down.” Nine-Lives interjected.

Alex shook his head and the argument continued.  The three of us were pretty drunk, the only guests at the Castle that night.

Alex went to bed and I discussed Japanese history with Nine-Lives; particularly the similarities between the Tokugawa Shogunate and France when Louis XIV was in power.  This led to a conversation about the French Foreign Legion.

The next morning Nine-Lives lamented that I had missed my calling.

“You should have a PH.D. in History, and be teaching in a college somewhere. Instead, I’m afraid, you pissed your twenties away working retail!”

Nine-Lives is wonderfully caustic like that.  I took the compliment and held my tongue.  It wasn’t worth an argument.  This retired patent lawyer had handed me his card the night before, and the Fifth Avenue, NYC address did not go unnoticed.

That he owned three Lotus sports cars, yet never spoke of a wife or any significant other did not go unnoticed either.

Sitting at the bar in the Doyle now, I cheered my absent friend with a 22oz Yuengling.  Two Nobo’s and a Sobo sectioner sat at the table behind me.  I probed the Sobo for the water situation to the north.  The bartender offered to fill my water bottles, as I had intended to leave town that evening.

She looked at the bottles, then back at me.  One was a Smartwater bottle I’ve carried since Springer, the other a random V8 bottle with 500 miles on it.

“Sweety, these are fuzzy!”

I smiled back, too many miles on my legs to be embarrassed, as she washed them out thoroughly and filled them.

I continued my amble through town, and stopped at the corner of a building.  There was a sign and a cooler of Gatorade.  The sign warned hikers to stay hydrated.

Trail Angel Mary was on the balcony watering her plants.  She asked my trail name, and I asked where to find the best food in town.

She smiled down at me and replied:

“In my kitchen.”

She offered to let me sleep on her living room floor, and I gratefully accepted, the thought of AC putting a smile on my face.  A shrimp boil was on the brew, with sausage, potatoes, ramps, and corn.  Two hikers were already seated for dinner and I awkwardly began to make myself at home.

The three others from the Doyle arrived with Yuengling in tow.  We said grace and ate as hikers eat, quietly and with much enthusiasm.  I did the dishes and Chinaman handed me a beer. His fellow Nobo friend was Goose, and the Sobo was a Brit named Red-Jack.

It happened to be Mary’s birthday, and Red-Jack bought her a card while out for errands.  The five of  us signed it, wished her a happy birthday, and thanked her for a wonderful meal.

I hadn’t heard of Trail Angel Mary before reaching Duncannon, but she is quite the trail legend.  The walls of her home are covered in pictures of hikers from past years, going back at least a decade.  She had a copy of AWOL’s novel on shelf.  Upon further inspection I noticed it was signed by David Miller, with a personal message to her.  Very cool to say the least!

I woke up this morning miraculasly less hung over than my mates.  We almost got into a bar fight with some locals after dinner, but that is a story for another time.

 

 

The last few days have been the most difficult for me mentally and physically.  The heat is kicking the crap out me, plain and simple.  It’s so dry that during the heat of the day, gnats fight for a place on your eyelids.  They attempt to land briefly between your eye lashes and your eyes, hell bent on siphoning the tiny bit of moisture to be had there.

When I stop to rest, which has been more often than ever, every insect within ten yards seems to take note.  Ants, Yellowjackets and flies, all cling to your legs desperate to consume the salt-rich droplets of sweat to be had there.  There is no escape from the suffocating humidity.

I walked into Boiling Springs on the 21st, arriving at 8:30pm.  I was greeted by the largest Sycamore I’ve ever seen in my life, some of its branches well over three feet thick.  It stood on the edge of a beautiful pond full of ducks, the bricked shoreline brimming with people.

Trail towns are very easy to navigate, and soon I realized the only place open was the Boiling Springs Tavern.

“Proper Dress Required.”

I read the sign apprehensively, and turned around. The manager was in the parking lot, saw this, and assured me hikers were welcome.

By the time I took a seat at the bar, a cold glass of water was handed to me, along with a pitcher to refill it.

“The kitchen closes in ten, but we’re happy to feed you!”

I ordered a medium burger, and to my great surprise, it was actually delivered medium.  I engulfed it mercilessly.

“Earl Shaffer sat in the chair next to you during his last thru-hike.  I had the honor of serving him.”  The bartender smiled with pride.

He was a clean cut gentleman in his early 50’s, clothed smartly in classic bar tender dress.  His manner commanded respect, and he was truly a master of his profession.  It was a pleasure to watch him in his arena, working fast, but never appearing rushed.  Dignified.

I thanked him and his manager for their welcome, and then walked towards the edge of town and the free camping there.  Free camping in town is always sketchy.  In Harper’s Ferry, the ATC campsite was next to the graveyard.  In Boiling Springs, it was between a corn field and the train tracks.

The trains passed close enough that their lights fully illuminated the inside of my tent.  The ground shook, and their frequency aligned perfectly with my first stages of REM.  Around 12am a new noise woke me.

Two town locals were erecting their two-room monstrosity of a Coleman tent.  The field itself was some hundred yards wide, but they felt a need to pitch fifteen feet away from me.  They argued over the arrangement of this pole and that pole, and made more noise than fifty thru-hikers would have to accomplish the same task.

I have a few petpeeves on the trail, and trust me, there will be an expansive post on them some day.  One of them is having my tent repeatedly shined at by headlamps, which they seemed to enjoy doing.

Nearing beautiful REM sleep again, I woke to yet another new sound.

“Oh yes Chris, harder!”  She murmured, though murmured isn’t really the correct term for that sound.  It took every ounce of self control I could muster not to shout out into the darkness:

“Yes.  Fuck her harder Chris, fuck her, and then shut the fuck up!”

Dawn swept the field with glorious morning sunshine.  Romeo and Juliet had given it a rest for the night, and I resisted the urge to collapse their tent on them.  Once again, I walked into town.

I stopped at Cafe 101 and perused the menu.  Suddenly an older woman asked if I was hiking the trail.  Before I knew it, I was sharing the table with her family.  Her husband graciously bought my breakfast in exchange for trail stories, and I had many to tell.  They had two daughters, both in their 20’s, both gorgeous.

I sat with them for nearly two hours, only then realizing how starved for conversation I really was. They were wonderful people, quick-witted, with my same sense of humor.  It made me miss home.  We said our goodbyes, and I realized the day was getting away from me.

I stopped at the outfitter in town and picked up more Aquamira, then I set off toward the Cumberland Valley at noon.

The heat kicked the crap out of me almost immedately, and the gnats in my face were so timely I could probably set my watch by them now. I made it fifteen miles and decided to stop for dinner.

Ignoring my typical habit to remove my cookpot from the stove immediately, I let my noodles sit and simmer on it when the flame went out.  Deliriously tired, I accidentally bumped it somehow,  sending the scalding water and my dinner all over my legs.

I wasn’t sure whether to curse or cry, and I did a little of both.  My quads were beet red and throbbing with pain.  I briefly considered hiking on, but then decided against it.  Calmer now, I made my trusty standby, a tuna and cheese burrito.

Sleep did not come easily, the mercury was above eighty until ten that night.  I was thankful to be on a windy ridgeline, for what it was worth.

I woke at 8am the next morning, the hot air in my tent was stifling.  Firebird shot me a text, her and Gandalf were twenty-three miles away.  They hiked out of Duncannon at 1am that morning.

I have been trying to catch them since Harper’s Ferry, and I figured it would take an additional five days to reach them.  I sat in my tent with the guidebook in my lap, again coming to that five day estimate.  I missed my friends dearly.

Firebird and Gandalf have wonderful chemistry.  They shared a canoe during the aqua blaze, and it was fun to watch what I had hoped to be a budding romance grow between them.  It’s the happiest I’ve seen her on trail, and Gandalf is a great guy.

Lonliness creeping in, I had to set my mind to a new task.  Quickly I packed and left, Duncannon was only thirteen miles away.  With Zepplin in the buds, it was time to Ramble On.

 

 

For those interested, here is a nice comparison between my Altra Superior 2’s.  The blue pair has roughly 600 miles, the silver/yellow pair are brand new.

Other hikers I’ve met seem to be using the Altra Lone Peaks instead.  Honestly, I bought these on a whim in Damascus, and I have been more than happy with them.  They offer more terrain feedback than the thicker-soled Lone Peaks, and I’ve been very pleased with how they grip the trail.

They fit me so well that, even with the five inch gash on the side, I was rock hopping down switchbacks today at 3-4mph with complete confidence.

Hauling ass down switchbacks, especially when my pack is light and low on food, is my favorite thing to do on the AT. I typically have my earbuds in, blasting some kind of fast, loud music.

“Trail Legs” are discussed often early into a thru-hike.  Many people think they happen 400-500 miles in.  I’ve learned that having trail legs is about far more than strength, but also balance and coordination.  Currently, all three of these elements are the most refined they’ve ever been in my life.

Often I enter this strange flow-state where I’m mentally checked out, but completely focused on every step.  Mushin?  This is where I reach the edge of my ability as a hiker, and I’m moving so fast a single miss-step would be serious enough to end my thru-hike.  It’s important to get on that edge once in a while though, and I love it.

My father was an accomplished skier, and I often muse that this downhill dance is in my blood somehow.

 

July 20th, Mile 1101.8

I’m sitting in a lobby area within the Iron Master’s Mansion at Pine Grove Furnace State Park.  As I type, a computer fan is whirring on full blast, doing everything it can to cool the Pentium 4 within.  While I’m quite certain that my Iphone is much, much faster, a real keyboard is a rare and wonderful luxury!

Yesterday my hitch back from Walmart was flawless.  I put out my thumb at the parking lot exit, and a tradesman in his pickup, former USMC, ran me back to the trail.

“Dirty Girl?”  He questioned.  “Sounds like you got a hold of one!”

“Or a few!”  I rebutted with a smile.  His laughter roared.  He shook my hand and bid me farewell.  I must have smelled awful, because the short conversation we had before that, centered around every place I could get a shower within ten miles.

I stayed at Quarry Gap Shelter last night, which is one of the nicest structures on the AT.  The Potomac Appalachian Trail Club has done an incredible job of building, hosting, and maintaining this section of trail.  Last week I stopped in at their Blackburn AT Center, a home owned by the club, before reaching Harpers Ferry.

 

“Trail Boss,” the designer of the infamous “Roller Coaster” section, invited me to dinner there.  He and his wife put on a fantastic spaghetti dinner for eight hikers, and several of us camped on their property that night.  A couple there had completed their thru-hike in ’06, and were back for a ten year reunion of sorts.  They met on trail, got married, and now live in India as teachers.  Conversations among hikers, like the one had that evening, are the real marrow of this adventure.

Tonight I stopped in at the general store nearby and met a few other hikers there.  Pine Grove Furnace is the site of the famous “Half-gallon Challenge.”  Hikers attempt to eat a half-gallon of ice cream as fast as they can.  The prize?  A tiny wooden sundae spoon.

There is a trail register there, and I sat and read the entries.  Turtle Goat rolled through on the 14th and noted:

“Challenge completed, now to go off and die…”

On the 18th Firebird made it as well, leaving only a drawing of a bird on fire as she often does.  I did not see anything from Ladybug, though we’ve been in contact via text, and he should be two days ahead as well.  Many hikers decided to forgo the gastrointestinal horror, which has no doubt left its mark on several privies to the North.

I opted against the challenge and got a quesadilla instead.  In the register I noted:

“Opted out of the challenge due to my reputation for deadly flatulence.  The result could potentially rival Hiroshima.  You’re welcome AT.”

Tomorrow I am going to head out as early as possible and make some miles.  Thanks to Amazon’s incredibly fast shipping, I already have a new pair of size 10 Altra Superiors ready for battle with the PA rocks.  I also hit the official halfway point on the AT.  Below are the 2016 and previous markers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I made it into PA around 5:30pm yesterday, after being dumped on by a sudden afternoon thunderstorm.  I found cover under a pavillion at Pen Mar County Park at mile 1063.  Like a hobo, I set about the task of making dinner, cooking mashed potatoes on a nearby steel trash can.

The picnic tables were painted, and generally, alcohol stoves lit on top of painted surfaces will catch said surface on fire.  There is a reason all of the picnic tables on the AT are bare wood, and many now have small steel plates for cooking.

As I thought might happen, my activities attracted the attention of two nearby grounds keepers.  They seemed more entertained than upset, so I asked for the nearest electrical outlet.  Not only did they tell me, they provided a full weather report as well.  Their main concern was that I might be planning to camp there, and they seemed relieved when I told them I had five miles to go.

After dinner I called home, and talked briefly with both of my sisters and my mom.  The trail has been extremely lonely since my return, and it was nice to have someone to talk to.  The main bubble of Nobo’s is two or three days ahead of me, and it’s been strange rolling into empty shelters at night.

Just before I reached the Mason-Dixon a passing section hiker remarked:

“With that beard you look like you’ve been out here for months!”

Proudly, I replied that I had, and answered the usual battery of questions.  I finished the day just shy of 21 miles.

I’m currently in Fayetteville, PA for resupply and possibly new shoes.  My beloved Altras began to split yesterday evening, only a few miles into the state.  They’ve been flawless for five hundred miles, so I cannot complain.  I guess it’s true what they say about this land of rocks.

I just got a great hitch into town from an older dude with a ponytail.  Old hippies with vans and long hair, as well as old vets with pickups, have comprised nearly every ride I’ve gotten on the trail.  I’ve pondered that for many a mile.

I’m sitting in the cathedral of consumption itself, Walmart, and feeling the carb crash from too much Subway.  Time to resupply and get back on trail.

 

24.5 mile day leaving Harpers Ferry.  A lady named “The Real Deal” gave me epic trail magic.  Headed for Ironmasters Hostel for a mail drop, will update when I find a place to charge my phone.