A Limp in the Woods (Day 85)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 85: Monday, June 17th, 2013
Port Clinton to Allentown Shelter area = 22 miles
Miles to date: 1,236

The Stone Age: Trouble on the Rubble

Word of the week:
rupicolous [roo-pik·uh-luh-s] (adj): living among or growing on rocks. Also, rupestrine, saxicoline.

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Walking on unsettled rocks is unsettling. Even after a hundred miles of tryouts we’re forced to exercise caution. As if we weren’t getting enough exercise. “One misstep, one break in stride,” we joke (to a degree), “would break all else.” But breaking a humerus, or any other bone, would not be so humorous.

There’s double trouble. Cold-blooded serpents, some cold-blooded killers, bask upon the rocks. Lying in wait, waiting to pounce. To boot, the rocks were cheese-grating our chariots of choice. As a result, stops had (to) become more frequent. Anything to break up the punishment. In Pennsylvania rocks isn’t just a word; it’s a sentence. Are a sentence. We boneheads knew all this by now. What we forgot was that even when the beating remains the same, its effect grows. A battleground state, this Key-STONE state.

“The AT is never so bad that it can’t get worse,” Mountain Goat said.

“When you fall, I’ll be there to catch you.”
~With love, Pennsylvania’s rocks

The thing is, the path’s environs in Pennsylvania are lovely. Like the lumps, this was unexpected. There are flowers and streams and wildlife and views. All of it makes backpacking desirable. It seems where soles die, souls fly. I suspect if I were to call Pennsylvania home, I’d return, dare I say, to these hills often. But I’m glad I don’t call this state home. Those of us from the Sierra know prettier places, with smoother trails, where heaven and Earth--the mystical and the tangible--are hard to differentiate. Sierran spoiled sports. Why I ever felt the need to strike camp, I can’t say.

But we’re here now, locked in the Penn, with the rocky red* carpet rolled out before us. So we plan to make the most of it. By hurrying elsewhere! (* Red with the blood of hands and knees and elbows, etc.)

Using each rock as a stepping stone, we rocktopusses would cover twenty-two miles. Today. That’s one percent of the trail’s total length, damn near ten percent of PA’s portion! With more than half the trail behind us, we in fact did two percent of the remaining AT. The math should scare me into slowing down, as it assuredly will as I draw closer to trail’s terminus. (Many hikers speed up as their journeys near their end; others, like me, apply the brakes, since even the worst trail beats re-entering syphilization.) But for now this is the right way to travel. Is there a wrong way? Besides on hands and knees and elbows? I know not.

Midway through this sun-drenched day we reached a mound of rocks the size of Goat’s backpack, roughly fifteen feet high. It was near a rock outcropping called The Pinnacle. It began years ago, presumably during the Stone Age, when some astute hikers decided to remove rocks from the route. Or from their teeth. They started the pile in hopes others would follow in their footsteps, eventually clearing Pennsylvania of rocks. It was a solid theory. But ultimately no one cared to carry rocks along the trail. The thirty feet before and after the mound was spotless. Everything on either side of that, not so much.

We joked, as I’m sure scores of prior ATers had, that this was where trail maintainers stockpile rocks before sharpening them and placing ‘em back on the trail. A factory for the infliction of fury-upon-feet. Anyway, tradition told us we were to twirl or make a wish before adding a stone to the pile, much like you would at La Cruz de Ferro on the Camino De Santiago. Despite being stoned to death from the ground up, I had nothing to wish for. I was right where I wished I was.

An underpass near Port Clinton

The views beyond the heap were impressive. We’d broken out of the asphyxiating forest and were met with a splendiferous setting in all directions but for the one whence we came. It was the perfect place to unwind for a stint. We removed our packs, our footwear, and our worries. (TK bought a new pack yesterday; it fits her much better.) Below us a multihued mélange of farmland and forest drifted endlessly toward the horizon, where an ashen haze swallowed it whole. Some of the two dozen hikers we’d slept near last night came and went, paying the vista only a cursory glance. Weird behavior that, but all too common along the AT. Fatigue? Sensory overload?

After an hour of idling, I decided to get a jump on the others and hike on my own. I did this as a courtesy since I’m the weakest link in our chain gang, the runt of the litter, and the most bothersome. (Can’t help it; it’s in my nature.) They’d catch and pass; they always did. This only prompted the others into leaving. Sure enough, I was soon on my own. TK was now much stronger than me--the pocket rocket always was, but the weight of her previous pack had been a grievous handicap--and so I spent much of the day flying solo in this hard rock café, a one-man band enveloped by the loveliest symphony around. Whoa, oh listen to the music, said the Doobie’s.

A side story on solo. “I’m so low,” a mountain biker once said when he pedaled past me on the TRT. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. He gave me a strange look. It took a while when I realized he meant solo as in alone, not so low as in depressed or short. He was being courteous, letting me know there were no other cyclists to watch for. I’m dumb. Back to our regularly scheduled programming…

It’s been said that on the AT no one walks alone. But of all the hours of daily locomotion, I reckon two-thirds are spent alone. A solitary man, lost inside my head but listening to the polyphonic song of the Earth--ear porn. Sound is always easier to tune into when alone. Normally I can’t stand musicals, but I love these live diapasons! If the world was ending in ten minutes I’d spend seven minutes tuning in to just this. The other three I’d be listening to this.

This uncompromising trail is a social experience for most, what I term rugged collectivism. But much of what a hiker does is think and walk*, a club of one. (* And eat--Dessert Solitaire!) No one else is around--no non-hikers, day hikers, section hikers or thru-hikers. No gods, no spirits, no apparitions. Just you and a few animals and all the time in the world.

If it weren’t for regrouping there’d be no groups. Even lovebirds like Goat and TK, or Paisley and Mr. Gigglesfit, or M-80 and Trooper each drift apart and seek solitude. Thru-hiker hopefuls hearken: it is of benefit to find comfort in your own company. You might already have the AT wishbone, but what you really need is a backbone and a funnybone. As long as you can laugh at yourself, or at least with yourself, you’ll never cease to be amused. Laughter softens the path.

By the time the band got back together, at the Eckville Shelter crossroads, a thousand feet lower than The Pinnacle, we’d pondered where we’d end the day. “Here?” I pleaded, pointing to the ground with fingers crossed. Nobody spake. I held hope. Call it a Keystone cop-out, but my feet were beat. I’m tired of this rock-fight. And it’s hard to fight without feet.

“If not here…down at the shelter?”

We half-expected the hut to have a rock floor. But no, we were told it was alluring. It even provided hot water, electricity, and the chance to re-experience the wonders of flush toilets. A far cry from the typical lean-to. But at a quarter-mile off the AT, it was off the radar, since a quarter-mile means a half-mile round-trip. (If my mileage tabulations are accurate.) Just as I don’t count well, side-trip miles don’t count. We kept on. I did my own far cry. Not every side-trip can be taken during a thru-hike, or the thru will soon be through. The devil is in the detours.

In an unusual turn of events we were all endowed with an overabundance of vigor after the junction. We’d make it all the way to the Allentown Shelter, despite the increasing temperature and the relentlessness of the rocks. Most the rocks were shakey and seesawed. Some even had teeth. But we gritted ours and fought back (like Rocky would), one carefully-placed step after the other. Even if Pennsylvania were the moon and lacked its usual gravity, the walking would remain tough. Thus must the musty hiker.