July 27, Port Clinton, PA. -- Had my left foot landed where I was about to plant it, someone else would have been telling this story and I probably would not be around to read it.
It was late yesterday, near the end of a 15-mile day that would get me to Eagle’s Nest Shelter, about 1200 miles along the Appalachian Trail. I moved across Pennsylvania in gorgeous weather, welcoming the cooler temperatures and the clean air that followed the rain-soaked 17 miles the day before, that hike a relief from the 18–miles the day before in the humid high 90s.
My knees and feet were feeling a long day on rocky trails when the path smoothed and the walk became easier. Had I planted my left foot where I saw it about to land, I would have been ankle deep in a fat rattlesnake coiled on the edge of the trail.
The snake would have surely struck while I struggled to free myself from the eight-foot tangle of angry snake fighting for its own life from a sudden attack from above. Had I been bitten and struggled along for help, I would have soon found still another rattler just off the trail to my right.
Happily, instincts kicked in because conscious thought was scared out of me. Years of tai chi trained me to stutter my step to get my left foot past the snake and push me ahead, to a short hop over a fallen log and onto my right foot, where I pivoted in fear to see what had almost happened.
The fat snake just stared at me and hissed. I just stared back and tried to breathe, assuming that I was safely out of range.
My breathing returned to normal as I pulled out my camera and gathered my wits while thinking through what might have just happened. As I walked on, I sorted through the memories from earlier that day, a routine one on my six-month journey from Springer Mountain, GA to Mount Katahdin, ME.
The snake will live on in my memory, but I have to go hiking now and do not have time to post the rest of this section of my amazing journey and the memories – the half-gallon of vanilla ice cream near the halfway point, the latest trail news, and many other wonderful tales and wonders. That will come soon, but this story had to come while fresh.
My anxiety about getting to New England in time to finish is fading, because something magical happens nearly every step of the way. My old buddies Chowhound and Chuck Wagon are now a couple of days behind and should be with us soon.
And I had a surprise letter at the Port Clinton post office – a wo0ndefrul letter from an old pal at DSS who, as I write, is taking her own time on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia -- walking from Springer Mountain to Neel’s Gap. Great Hike. You Go Girl!!
So on I walk, my days filled with amazing challenges and payoffs. The day before the snake, I had called the monastery looking for the Messsenger, but he was not at work and I spent some time talking with Father A.J. We caught up on news from there and here (the Messenger and wife are expecting) and he closed with a wonderful goodbye:
“God Bless You, Grasshopper.”
That conversation was fresh in my mind when I found the snake. And another message from earlier in the hike that sticks with me:
“Patience, Grasshopper. And Trust in the Lord Thy God.”
Happy Trails everyone.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Halfway Home, a Long Way to Go
Mary’s Rock, in the Shenandoah. July 3, 2011
Thunder boomed and the wind whipped across the bald rock face, threatening to roll my tent, as I lay inside pushing hard against the walls and hoping that my weight would be a solid anchor.
The lighting kept flashing and the rain blew sideways for the better part of an hour. I was nervous and prayed for God’s protection, wondering whether my decision to camp at this exposed site at 3500 feet was foolhardy. Surely, I thought, the folks who made my Hubba tent had tested its stability in high winds, and, surely, the tent poles were designed to not attract lightning.
I had started to Maine on April 3, three months earlier, and had decided that this would be a great place to camp. Mary’s Rock looks over Luray, VA to the west and the sunset was outstanding, despite the storm to the north I thought might be moving away and would not affect me. Wishful thinking. In my bravado, I ignored my conversation from earlier in the day with two southbounders who had camped here until a storm forced them off the mountain in the dead of night.
It was a nerve-wracking hour, and though the rain continued, the thunder seemed to be moving away and the lightning flashes grew faint. The wind slowly died and the tent stopped flapping. The rain stopped and my breathing returned to normal as the storm passed.
I peeped from the tent and then crawled out. The storm had moved north, the sun was settling beyond Luray and leaving luminous orange trails as the lights of the town flickered and headlights moved through the valley below.
Exhausted, I crawled back inside, leaving the tent’s rain fly open so I could watch the sky as the storm continued to fade.
The evening adventure was the perfect end to a nearly perfect day. Another thunderstorm had roused me in the middle of the previous night and I had banged my little toe against a rock and ripped skin away as I worked to put the rain fly on my tent before the rain. (Knock on wood, that’s my only foot injury, but it still bothers me a week later.)
Rain always makes it more difficult to break camp, but the sun warmed the forest and I had a nice walk to the Skyland Resort and Restaurant where I was delighted to find an” all you can eat” breakfast buffet and a Sunday Washington Post. Feeling like a normal biped instead of a smelly woodlands creature, I enjoyed two large plates of eggs, sausage, bacon, fruit, biscuits, gravy, and potatoes and three cups of coffee while scanning the paper and watching the valley from a comfortable spot indoors.
I slept well at the close of that adventure-filled Sunday and was up by six and on the trail a half-hour later on Monday morning. Though I was still almost a week away from Harper’s Ferry, I was a bit less than that away from one of the most unexpected, cool and emotional moments of my 90-plus days in the woods.
Just past a stretch of steep ups and downs known as the Rollercoaster and the Devil’s Playground, a simple sign was nailed to a tree.
1000
Miles from Springer Mountain, Georgia, that is. Any doubts, dismay and frustration from the journey vanished. I grinned and fished my cellphone from my pack to call my son and share the moment. I had hiked 1000 miles! And that, friends, is a long, long way.
Another sign had marked the end of 535 miles of Virginia trails and the move into West Virginia (the fifth state of the hike) but it had just a fraction of the impact of the 1000-mile sign. I strapped my camera to a tree and set the timer for a memory-saving shot of me, the tree and that marker.
The next eight miles were a blur, with a cascade of memories of the past 13 weeks in the woods. At Keys Gap, I walked a half mile down WV Highway 9 to Torlone’s Pizza, where my thru-hiker friend Torch joined me for cheeseburgers and a couple of beers to toast our milestone.
The stretch from Rockfish Gap at Waynesboro, VA to Harper’s Ferry, WV brought me to the midpoint of my woodlands adventure. As I walked, I thanked God for his many blessings, and prayed for my friends on the trail and at home. My spiritual journey had brought me closer to Him, and I also praised Jesus Christ and thanked Him for being part of my life and for helping me shed many of the burdens that I carried with me to the Appalachian Trail.
I carry these and many other memories as I continue to move north:
The first park ranger I met in the Shenandoah National Park wore a Smoky Bear hat, but it looked like a child’s cap teetering on top of his 300-pound body. His many chins jiggled and mountains of flesh rippled under his uniform as he gave me the forms that would allow me to camp in the park.
I learned the true meaning of the verb – to Yogi. Derived from the Yogi Bear cartoons, it is hiker parlance for begging for food, i.e. “Grasshopper yogied the family at the picnic table and came away with four peanut butter sandwiches and a banana.”
The quiet evening at Manassas Gap Shelter quickly shifted into party mode when Lunchbox pulled out a five-liter water bag filled with red wine. Lunchbox, one of a few guys hiking in a kilt, and his lady friend Long Trail, were a half-day behind their friends Indy and Snags; it would have been rude not to help him lighten that 10-pound burden. One cup of wine quickly turned into several.
Mr. and Mrs. Black, eccentric and charming honeymooning southbounders, lived up to the reputation that preceded them. A smallish man, he carried 110 pounds of gear and her pack weighed more than 60. A former Marine honing his survivalist skills, Mr. Black was admittedly ADHD with a smattering of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (“a slightly dangerous combination,” he said.) He transformed campsites into comfort zones, building stone fire pits and wooden benches for “the missus” and worked to decorate his hiking stick with the skins of snakes he had killed and eaten and with feathers of turkeys and hawks.
Spud and Snake Hips, a 60-ish couple also staying Bears Den Hostel, helped me work through the calendar issues that we face as we work north hoping to make it to Mount Katahdin by mid-October. They were catching a train to Massachusetts and planned a New England section before jumping back to the Middle Atlantic states.
The Shenandoah National Forest was everything I had hoped it would be when I continued north after a Zero Day in Waynesboro, Virginia. The trail crosses Skyline Drive many times as it wanders toward West Virginia, and the forest is more open and welcoming to tourists who drive along the ridge, enjoy its beautiful vistas and perhaps take to the woods for a day hike.
This section of my hike was a bit lonely as many of my fellow thru-hikers had decided to “aqua blaze” and paddle the Shenandoah River down to Harper’s Ferry instead of hiking the 160 miles from Rockfish Gap. At times, I felt like a park bear, just another tourist attraction.
“Are you a thru-hiker,” a woman asked as she and her two pre-teen children crossed my path.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You guys are like rock stars out here,” she said as her son, wide-eyed in wonder, stared up at me and clutched his trail maps. I laughed out loud and I answered the usual “what is it like” questions before we went our separate ways.
This part of the trail was a delightful break for hikers as we could now carry fewer supplies, resupply and have hot meals at the Wayside restaurants, and wash ourselves and our clothes at any of several campgrounds through the park. The hiking also was a tad easier with milder ups and downs and fewer rocks and obstacles.
I had planned a short stop at Big Meadows Wayside, but that turned into a two-hour stay as the lush green lawn was a wonderful place for a break. I bought a cheeseburger, fries and a soda and watched tourists come and go while I devoured the hot lunch at a picnic table. The burger, actually a double burger, was one of the best I had found on my hike, so I had a second one (I needed the fuel) and then two scoops of blueberry ice cream before dozing in the shade.
I had hoped to resupply at the Elkwallow Wayside on the Fourth of July and snag enough food (and maybe a burger or two and a blueberry milkshake) to get me to Harpers Ferry, but the storm that rocked me at Mary’s Rock the night before had knocked out the power at the Wayside and forced a change in plans.
Low on food, I was pondering my options when a Trail Angel came from nowhere and saved the day. He was a former thru-hiker just out looking for hikers to share the goodies that he had packed into the back of his car. He gave me bananas, Gatorade, granola bars, a bag of cashews, some cheese and a few Snickers bar; a family picnicking nearby made me four peanut butter sandwiches before wishing me well and sending me on my way.
I continue to marvel at the generosity of others and their willingness to help hikers.
Nature also has a very special way of taking care of things, and food is little more than an arm’s length away as berry-laden bushes often line the trail. Blackberries and raspberries were bursting forth and sweet juices stained my hands as I stopped to devour a luscious natural treat.
My mood and outlook about my hike to Maine improved as I walked, but I missed many of my fellow travelers who had decided to paddle instead of walk. It helps to share the journey and sort through issues and make sense of things; we support each other as we all wrestle with doubts and frustration and fatigue while plowing ahead on the long walk to Maine.
Happily, I again had pep in my step and pride in my stride (a campaign slogan from a Statehouse candidate a few decades ago.)
Gandhi and I (not that one, he’s dead) shared our worry about getting to Katahdin before Baxter State Park closes on October 15, and we discussed our options before deciding we would hike on and get as far North as we can and not worry about the deadline that looms a few months ahead. Our best would simply be good enough.
I am determined to not let the Monkey of Expectations crawl once again onto my back and to stop worrying about the calendar and not obsess over how many miles I need to cover before reaching my goal. Each of us came into the woods for different reasons and we brought our own expectations along; we all watched as our plans continue to evolve and our hikes play out in ways we did not expect.
Trail normalcy returned when Penguin walked into camp late one night. “Hey, Penguin, is that you? It’s Grasshopper!” “What’s happening, Grasshopper! Good to see you.”
We had met in the Great Smoky Mountains more than 750 miles south and our paths continued to cross as we moved ahead at different speeds. Torch also came into camp that night and we discovered that he had started a day after me, and I learned that some of the hikers I had met in Georgia were still on the trail.
Crossing the Shenandoah River and reaching Harper’s Ferry was a magical moment, though I was getting here six days later than I had once hoped. I arrived a stronger, though far lighter, man than the one who left Georgia so many weeks ago carrying 55 pounds of gear and the excess baggage that comes with a 60-year journey.
While it’s possible to leave many worries behind, it is also easy to bring them along and the solitude and grind of a wilderness adventure can also bring issues and worries into sharper focus. They can also weigh on your psyche more heavily because there are fewer demands and distractions that offer cover in the “real world.” The woods also offer a separate set of demands and issues and worries.
I will think about all of that some other time.
I am off to the Post Office and the outfitter, where I will buy a new pair of shoes because my Vasque Breeze boots are worn out after barely 750 miles. I am going to move into lighter “trail runners” that many hikers favor, and head north along somewhat flatter but still demanding trails.
Katahdin is still my goal, but I may decide to jump north to New Hampshire and hike the northernmost 500 miles of the trail before jumping back south to cover the middle section and finish my 2180 mile journey. My goal is still to hike the entire Appalachian Trail in one calendar year, and it really matters little whether it’s straight through or includes some skipping around.
We all hike our own hikes. And, like with the rest of our journeys, what truly matters is what’s in our own hearts, and minds and souls.
My journey still depends on God’s will and mine, and there are miles and miles to go before I sleep and my travels end.
There is an ice cream shop in Harper’s Ferry that is calling my name and sitting at this computer brings me no closer to Maine. It is time to eat more fuel because, God knows, I will burn it up as I move along through the summer’s heat and humidity.
On through West Virginia and Maryland and Pennsylvania – and perhaps sooner rather than later to the Presidential Range in New Hampshire and the grueling test of Maine.
Happy Trails. On I go!
-30-
Thunder boomed and the wind whipped across the bald rock face, threatening to roll my tent, as I lay inside pushing hard against the walls and hoping that my weight would be a solid anchor.
The lighting kept flashing and the rain blew sideways for the better part of an hour. I was nervous and prayed for God’s protection, wondering whether my decision to camp at this exposed site at 3500 feet was foolhardy. Surely, I thought, the folks who made my Hubba tent had tested its stability in high winds, and, surely, the tent poles were designed to not attract lightning.
I had started to Maine on April 3, three months earlier, and had decided that this would be a great place to camp. Mary’s Rock looks over Luray, VA to the west and the sunset was outstanding, despite the storm to the north I thought might be moving away and would not affect me. Wishful thinking. In my bravado, I ignored my conversation from earlier in the day with two southbounders who had camped here until a storm forced them off the mountain in the dead of night.
It was a nerve-wracking hour, and though the rain continued, the thunder seemed to be moving away and the lightning flashes grew faint. The wind slowly died and the tent stopped flapping. The rain stopped and my breathing returned to normal as the storm passed.
I peeped from the tent and then crawled out. The storm had moved north, the sun was settling beyond Luray and leaving luminous orange trails as the lights of the town flickered and headlights moved through the valley below.
Exhausted, I crawled back inside, leaving the tent’s rain fly open so I could watch the sky as the storm continued to fade.
The evening adventure was the perfect end to a nearly perfect day. Another thunderstorm had roused me in the middle of the previous night and I had banged my little toe against a rock and ripped skin away as I worked to put the rain fly on my tent before the rain. (Knock on wood, that’s my only foot injury, but it still bothers me a week later.)
Rain always makes it more difficult to break camp, but the sun warmed the forest and I had a nice walk to the Skyland Resort and Restaurant where I was delighted to find an” all you can eat” breakfast buffet and a Sunday Washington Post. Feeling like a normal biped instead of a smelly woodlands creature, I enjoyed two large plates of eggs, sausage, bacon, fruit, biscuits, gravy, and potatoes and three cups of coffee while scanning the paper and watching the valley from a comfortable spot indoors.
I slept well at the close of that adventure-filled Sunday and was up by six and on the trail a half-hour later on Monday morning. Though I was still almost a week away from Harper’s Ferry, I was a bit less than that away from one of the most unexpected, cool and emotional moments of my 90-plus days in the woods.
Just past a stretch of steep ups and downs known as the Rollercoaster and the Devil’s Playground, a simple sign was nailed to a tree.
1000
Miles from Springer Mountain, Georgia, that is. Any doubts, dismay and frustration from the journey vanished. I grinned and fished my cellphone from my pack to call my son and share the moment. I had hiked 1000 miles! And that, friends, is a long, long way.
Another sign had marked the end of 535 miles of Virginia trails and the move into West Virginia (the fifth state of the hike) but it had just a fraction of the impact of the 1000-mile sign. I strapped my camera to a tree and set the timer for a memory-saving shot of me, the tree and that marker.
The next eight miles were a blur, with a cascade of memories of the past 13 weeks in the woods. At Keys Gap, I walked a half mile down WV Highway 9 to Torlone’s Pizza, where my thru-hiker friend Torch joined me for cheeseburgers and a couple of beers to toast our milestone.
The stretch from Rockfish Gap at Waynesboro, VA to Harper’s Ferry, WV brought me to the midpoint of my woodlands adventure. As I walked, I thanked God for his many blessings, and prayed for my friends on the trail and at home. My spiritual journey had brought me closer to Him, and I also praised Jesus Christ and thanked Him for being part of my life and for helping me shed many of the burdens that I carried with me to the Appalachian Trail.
I carry these and many other memories as I continue to move north:
The first park ranger I met in the Shenandoah National Park wore a Smoky Bear hat, but it looked like a child’s cap teetering on top of his 300-pound body. His many chins jiggled and mountains of flesh rippled under his uniform as he gave me the forms that would allow me to camp in the park.
I learned the true meaning of the verb – to Yogi. Derived from the Yogi Bear cartoons, it is hiker parlance for begging for food, i.e. “Grasshopper yogied the family at the picnic table and came away with four peanut butter sandwiches and a banana.”
The quiet evening at Manassas Gap Shelter quickly shifted into party mode when Lunchbox pulled out a five-liter water bag filled with red wine. Lunchbox, one of a few guys hiking in a kilt, and his lady friend Long Trail, were a half-day behind their friends Indy and Snags; it would have been rude not to help him lighten that 10-pound burden. One cup of wine quickly turned into several.
Mr. and Mrs. Black, eccentric and charming honeymooning southbounders, lived up to the reputation that preceded them. A smallish man, he carried 110 pounds of gear and her pack weighed more than 60. A former Marine honing his survivalist skills, Mr. Black was admittedly ADHD with a smattering of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (“a slightly dangerous combination,” he said.) He transformed campsites into comfort zones, building stone fire pits and wooden benches for “the missus” and worked to decorate his hiking stick with the skins of snakes he had killed and eaten and with feathers of turkeys and hawks.
Spud and Snake Hips, a 60-ish couple also staying Bears Den Hostel, helped me work through the calendar issues that we face as we work north hoping to make it to Mount Katahdin by mid-October. They were catching a train to Massachusetts and planned a New England section before jumping back to the Middle Atlantic states.
The Shenandoah National Forest was everything I had hoped it would be when I continued north after a Zero Day in Waynesboro, Virginia. The trail crosses Skyline Drive many times as it wanders toward West Virginia, and the forest is more open and welcoming to tourists who drive along the ridge, enjoy its beautiful vistas and perhaps take to the woods for a day hike.
This section of my hike was a bit lonely as many of my fellow thru-hikers had decided to “aqua blaze” and paddle the Shenandoah River down to Harper’s Ferry instead of hiking the 160 miles from Rockfish Gap. At times, I felt like a park bear, just another tourist attraction.
“Are you a thru-hiker,” a woman asked as she and her two pre-teen children crossed my path.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You guys are like rock stars out here,” she said as her son, wide-eyed in wonder, stared up at me and clutched his trail maps. I laughed out loud and I answered the usual “what is it like” questions before we went our separate ways.
This part of the trail was a delightful break for hikers as we could now carry fewer supplies, resupply and have hot meals at the Wayside restaurants, and wash ourselves and our clothes at any of several campgrounds through the park. The hiking also was a tad easier with milder ups and downs and fewer rocks and obstacles.
I had planned a short stop at Big Meadows Wayside, but that turned into a two-hour stay as the lush green lawn was a wonderful place for a break. I bought a cheeseburger, fries and a soda and watched tourists come and go while I devoured the hot lunch at a picnic table. The burger, actually a double burger, was one of the best I had found on my hike, so I had a second one (I needed the fuel) and then two scoops of blueberry ice cream before dozing in the shade.
I had hoped to resupply at the Elkwallow Wayside on the Fourth of July and snag enough food (and maybe a burger or two and a blueberry milkshake) to get me to Harpers Ferry, but the storm that rocked me at Mary’s Rock the night before had knocked out the power at the Wayside and forced a change in plans.
Low on food, I was pondering my options when a Trail Angel came from nowhere and saved the day. He was a former thru-hiker just out looking for hikers to share the goodies that he had packed into the back of his car. He gave me bananas, Gatorade, granola bars, a bag of cashews, some cheese and a few Snickers bar; a family picnicking nearby made me four peanut butter sandwiches before wishing me well and sending me on my way.
I continue to marvel at the generosity of others and their willingness to help hikers.
Nature also has a very special way of taking care of things, and food is little more than an arm’s length away as berry-laden bushes often line the trail. Blackberries and raspberries were bursting forth and sweet juices stained my hands as I stopped to devour a luscious natural treat.
My mood and outlook about my hike to Maine improved as I walked, but I missed many of my fellow travelers who had decided to paddle instead of walk. It helps to share the journey and sort through issues and make sense of things; we support each other as we all wrestle with doubts and frustration and fatigue while plowing ahead on the long walk to Maine.
Happily, I again had pep in my step and pride in my stride (a campaign slogan from a Statehouse candidate a few decades ago.)
Gandhi and I (not that one, he’s dead) shared our worry about getting to Katahdin before Baxter State Park closes on October 15, and we discussed our options before deciding we would hike on and get as far North as we can and not worry about the deadline that looms a few months ahead. Our best would simply be good enough.
I am determined to not let the Monkey of Expectations crawl once again onto my back and to stop worrying about the calendar and not obsess over how many miles I need to cover before reaching my goal. Each of us came into the woods for different reasons and we brought our own expectations along; we all watched as our plans continue to evolve and our hikes play out in ways we did not expect.
Trail normalcy returned when Penguin walked into camp late one night. “Hey, Penguin, is that you? It’s Grasshopper!” “What’s happening, Grasshopper! Good to see you.”
We had met in the Great Smoky Mountains more than 750 miles south and our paths continued to cross as we moved ahead at different speeds. Torch also came into camp that night and we discovered that he had started a day after me, and I learned that some of the hikers I had met in Georgia were still on the trail.
Crossing the Shenandoah River and reaching Harper’s Ferry was a magical moment, though I was getting here six days later than I had once hoped. I arrived a stronger, though far lighter, man than the one who left Georgia so many weeks ago carrying 55 pounds of gear and the excess baggage that comes with a 60-year journey.
While it’s possible to leave many worries behind, it is also easy to bring them along and the solitude and grind of a wilderness adventure can also bring issues and worries into sharper focus. They can also weigh on your psyche more heavily because there are fewer demands and distractions that offer cover in the “real world.” The woods also offer a separate set of demands and issues and worries.
I will think about all of that some other time.
I am off to the Post Office and the outfitter, where I will buy a new pair of shoes because my Vasque Breeze boots are worn out after barely 750 miles. I am going to move into lighter “trail runners” that many hikers favor, and head north along somewhat flatter but still demanding trails.
Katahdin is still my goal, but I may decide to jump north to New Hampshire and hike the northernmost 500 miles of the trail before jumping back south to cover the middle section and finish my 2180 mile journey. My goal is still to hike the entire Appalachian Trail in one calendar year, and it really matters little whether it’s straight through or includes some skipping around.
We all hike our own hikes. And, like with the rest of our journeys, what truly matters is what’s in our own hearts, and minds and souls.
My journey still depends on God’s will and mine, and there are miles and miles to go before I sleep and my travels end.
There is an ice cream shop in Harper’s Ferry that is calling my name and sitting at this computer brings me no closer to Maine. It is time to eat more fuel because, God knows, I will burn it up as I move along through the summer’s heat and humidity.
On through West Virginia and Maryland and Pennsylvania – and perhaps sooner rather than later to the Presidential Range in New Hampshire and the grueling test of Maine.
Happy Trails. On I go!
-30-
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