The best laid plans…

With a clear destination and start date in mind, we went to planning out the details by studying the AT Guide to locate shelters and campsites where we would stay, and plotting water sources and potential options to enjoy a hot meal in a town.  As in years past, Jim and I both continued to fine tune our gear, looking for the most functional and at the same time, lightweight options that we could afford and/or justify.  At one point we calculated the cost to reduce ounces in our pack and decided not to fixate on “Necessary” costs. Several conversations and trips to outdoor stores later, our backpacks were loaded with gear and 6 days of food supply. It was time to hit the trail.   We met on a Sunday afternoon at the northern end parking spot and left Jim’s car there.  We then headed south to Waynesboro, PA for one more night of hot food and a comfortable hotel night’s sleep.  Monday morning, after taking advantage of the “All you can eat continental breakfast”, we made the 4 mile drive to the trailhead we had visited two years prior, grabbed our packs and took our first steps on the AT for 2023.  As in years past, walking away from a perfectly good vehicle on foot knowing that you have 93 miles between you and the end point always kicks in a healthy dose of adrenaline, as the reality of what is to come sets in.

Off to a good start…

Our first day on trail was going to be a short one.  In 2022, we had learned that attempting a 20 mile day before getting some trail legs is a bad idea.   With only 13 miles between us and the Quarry Gap shelters, we made our way through the relatively gentle terrain of southern PA.   We did have a pretty good climb coming out of Caledonia State Park, but aside from that it was really pretty easy going.   With my new state of being a single kidney owner/loaner, hydration was going to be more of an issue for me than in years past.   Because of that, we did not pass up too many opportunities to top off our water bottles.  We did learn that in this section of trail, the trusty FarOut app was a bit more pessimistic on the water sources than what we actually experienced.   We passed several water sources that were not even mentioned in the app.   Not that we were complaining, it was just the first year we noticed this discrepancy…or maybe we were just paying closer attention…and the inaccuracy did cause us to take an unnecessary .5 mile steep downhill trek (thus a steep uphill back to trail) to fill up at a documented spring.  What’s a mile or two between friends. Detours aside, we strolled into camp just before 2PM to be greeted by the nicest shelter we had ever experienced.  It had a rocking swing, easy access spring, planted flowers and hidden gnomes around just to make it interesting.  Over the next several hours, many more hikers showed up to make this on trail resort of sorts their home for the night.   We spent a bit of time with a hiker, whose trail name we both forgot, but said folks think he looks like John Lennon, a section hiker by the name of ADK, and a father/daughter duo by the names of Hatchet and Hobbit.  It was a fun first night and set our moods high as we looked to the days ahead.

Stretch goals…

Day two was planned to be just under 14 miles.  But Jim had been doing some map studying and saw that there was a state campground only 3 miles past our planned stopping point. Adding that extra distance would take day three’s 19 planned miles down to 16.   We did not immediately commit to extending our day, but planned to reassess as we reached the 14th mile.   When mile 14 arrived, we felt pretty good and pushed on to Pine Grove Furnace. To AT Hikers this is known as the home of the half gallon challenge….where hungry thru hikers attempt to eat a half gallon of ice cream in record time, marking the midway point on the AT.  Being only section hikers, Jim and I each downed a pint of ice cream and got ourselves a site at the state campground.   Unfortunately, it was another mile walk into our tent site from the trail.   Again, what’s a mile or two between friends. Shortly after setting up camp, our camping neighbors asked if they could park a car in our site as they were exceeding the vehicle limit per site.  Turned out it was a Mom and her Son from Maryland and a section hiker from Virginia that had met on trail and teamed up to slack pack a few sections together.   Jim, being the quick thinker that he is, agreed to allow them to park at our site in exchange for a shuttle the next morning to the trailhead.    Feeling proud of our negotiation skills there was not much that could dampen our spirits, that was until a crow snagged one of my bright red packaged granola bars from the picnic table and flew off with it as a prized possession.   My spirits were clearly dampened…while Jim seemed to find the experience altogether hilarious.

The Smokies…

We were awake quite early on day three, and after a shuttle from our camping neighbors, we were back on the trail for another day of hiking.  Up to this point, we had beautiful weather.  Mostly sunny and in the 70’s.   We had a brief sprinkle the night before, but not even to the point of needing to dry out our gear.   On this day, we started to notice a haze in the air and a smoky smell.  It was later that night that we learned about the smoke from Canadian wildfires that was overtaking much of the north east.  The hiking on day three was once again pretty mellow, traversing dense forests, the occasional farm field, and the very fun Rock Maze as we made our way to the Alec Kennedy shelter.  That night, we were joined at the shelter by a real nice thru hiking married couple from Austria that went by the trail names Nutella and Bane.

The Beatles…

Day four was going to be a big one, with eighteen planned miles, and a large portion of that going through open farm land and along hedge rows.  A few miles after leaving the shelter we descended to the first field section, and the sky was noticeably hazy still.   In short time we found ourselves in the quaint little town of Boiling Springs, PA.   We spotted a diner, Caffe 101, only about a football field’s length from the trail.   It was breakfast time and we decided we had earned a hot meal.  We sat outside as to not offend the cleaner patrons with our all-natural hiking scent.  Before we had even ordered, John Lennon, the hiker we had met on night one, came strolling up in his familiar straw hat and we invited him to join us and treated him to breakfast.   It was fun to get to know him a bit more and hear his story and what had brought him out on the trail.  After breakfast we continued north covering mile after mile of farmland.  At lunch time, we walked by a Mennonite farm stand that had drinks and snacks for sale, along with fresh veggies and eggs.   We took advantage of the picnic table outside the stand and made that our lunch stop, enjoying the ice cold Gatorades and even having a chat with the boy that was responsible for stocking the stand.  With full bellies and renewed optimism, we continued on our way to the Darlington shelter.  Once again, this spot proved pretty popular with the hikers, and there were probably close to a dozen thru hikers set up in their tents.  Jim and I were surprised we had the shelter to ourselves, well, until we were introduced to the three 6’ long black snakes that were living under a stump just outside the shelter. They slithered easily up and down the trees making us and the birds a bit nervous.  Fortunately they stayed in their stump, and we stayed in our bunks, and our paths did not cross in the dark hours of night.

Eight slices of heaven…

With our longest hiking day behind us, day five looked to be a fun one, with a walk through the town of Duncannon and about 16 miles to our next shelter.  This was our first day of some really nice views, which should have been a warning…there was going to be some climbing.   The descent into Duncannon was slow and steep and by the time we got there, we had worked up quite the appetite.  Fortunately, we came across a small pizza parlor was right on ‘trail’, and we felt it our civic duty to help support the local economy.   A large supreme pizza later, we were back on trail, which happened to be sidewalks for the next couple miles, followed by the toughest climb of the week.  After the big climb and some great views, the trail leveled out for a short bit.   We were just about to reach the Clarks Ferry Shelter for the night, and that’s when we met a guy that was leaving the gift of trail magic at the shelter.   He offered us each a lollipop…we first declined, but then he proclaimed they were the world’s best lollipops, so we each took one, and indeed, based on my sample set of lollipops consumed, they were the world’s best lollipops.   Later that night we were joined by a shelter guest who supposedly had been on trail for over a year and was heading north with his wife. She was oddly not present and there were plenty of reasons to not ask questions.   Weird circumstances aside, our last night on trail was relatively uneventful, and we were now only 13 miles from Jim’s car.

Light at the end of the tunnel…

Jim and I are usually pretty motivated to get off trail in good time on our final morning of hiking each year, and this year was no exception.   We were up early and back on our way by 6AM.  The morning trail followed a forested ridgeline for much of the way and then dropped down into the valley to the parking lot.  It took us a speedy 5 hours to put the last 13 miles behind us, and we were happy to see Jim’s car still sitting there, ready to carry us back south to Waynesboro for a celebration dinner.

…and that was it, section hike number 5 behind us.  Hiking the Appalachian Trail is always an adventure.  Between the physical and mental challenges, the great people you meet, the views, the trail magic, the towns, and the pain, it’s a love-hate relationship of epic proportions. With an accumulated total of five weeks on trail and 513 total miles behind us, the 1,680 miles remaining continue to lure us back year after year.  Every section we hike we look forward to reaching the end, and every day after we reach the end of that section we can’t wait to get back out there and do it all over again. 

I’ll take packs and things that fill them for $1000…

For those that are not obsessed with hiking gear, feel free to go back to your regularly scheduled programming. I won’t be offended.    If you’re still with me, let’s talk about gear tweaks I made for my 2023 section hike.

With 51 weeks between hikes, it gives plenty of time to revisit my gear selection, and this year followed suit.  I had been pretty happy with my gear from the prior year, but there’s always room for improvement.  I planned to hike with my REI Co-op Flash 55 pack again this year.   I finally decided that that top lid was no longer a necessity.   Top lids are a convenient place to store things you want quick access to, but they always flop over the pack awkwardly when you have to get in the pack itself, and dropping it saved a few ounces.   I can say for certain that I did not miss having it one bit.

The hip belt pockets that came with the REI pack always seemed a bit too small, so I replaced them with a couple larger pockets from Zpacks.  I also added a shoulder strap pouch from WEBO Gear to carry my phone.  

All of these mods, though relatively small, made a noticeable difference in the convenience of the pack.

The rest of my gear lineup had remained the same.

After this year on the trail, I identified a couple tweaks for next year.  I think I’ll be dropping my inflatable pillow and just using my clothes sack for a pillow.  I also need to look for some different meal choices.  The Mountain House Freeze dried meals are pretty good, but I think some variety would be nice.

…time to start planning for next year!

Planning…

I’ll admit that I take great joy in planning my various adventures in life.  Whether it’s figuring out the gear I’ll need, the route I’ll take, or the food I’ll snack on throughout the day, planning an event like a section hike is fun for me.  With only a little more than 300 miles of the 2200 miles the AT has to offer under our belt and having more life in the rear view mirror than we have through the windshield, we have come to realize that if we only tackle 100 miles each year, we’re gonna be mighty old by the time we get this thing wrapped up.   Given that sobering detail, we decided to up our game this year and tack on an additional day and about 20 more miles of trail to our week-long adventure.  After studying the trail maps for shelter and water locations, we decided that straying from our traditional southbound trajectory worked better for both our starting and ending days, and the days in the middle would work out the same no matter which way the compass pointed.   There were no convenient resupply options on this 120 mile stretch of trail, so we were going to have to start our week with all the food we’d need for the entire hike.

Getting there…

Friday morning I headed south from NY and Jim headed north from GA and we met on Friday afternoon at the north end parking lot in Rockfish Gap, VA and then drove south to Roanoke, VA, where we’d get one more night of running water and a non-freeze dried meal.   Saturday morning, with a good night’s rest, we made our way to the Blackhorse Gap Parking on the Blue Ridge Parkway by 7:30AM, where we’d pick up the AT and start our northbound trek.     

I guess I should have tested that…

In year’s past, we did our car shuffling the day we started our hike, which usually meant we’d be hitting the trail late morning.  Because of this, most of our first day distances were around 10 miles or so.   With the car shuffling already complete, we got an earlier start this year. Due to the shelter locations and amenities (ie. a water source), our first day on the trail would be 18.4 miles, with some descent climbing along the way.   The morning started off cool, but an early season warm spell meant temps would be reaching the mid 80’s.   Adding to the challenge of this already challenging day, we knew we had a 10 mile stretch with no available water, so a few miles in, we stopped at a small stream to top off our water bottles.  It was at this moment I realized I had not tested all my gear for this year’s hike.  I filled up my water filter bag and as I tried to squeeze some dirty stream water through my Sawyer Squeeze filter to fill my bottles, nothing was flowing through, not even a single drop of water.  At the same time, Jim’s filter bag burst at the seams.   Fortunately he had a spare filter bag.   As I borrowed Jim’s filter, he proceeded to try all sorts of tricks to get my filter flowing again, with little success…though it was starting to let a few drops of water through.  I’ll admit that I was a little uneasy knowing we’d have to go the next 116 miles with only one water filter between us.   The other mistake I made was to attempt to conserve my water from that moment of the day on…which would turn out to be a very bad decision and caused a bit of dehydration. 

The first day seemed like a longer day than it probably was, the result of the temps, the climbs, and a pretty big distance for not having built up any trail legs yet.  Before your trail legs kick in you climb a hill and mental and physical weakness coaxes you to stop where only your will keeps you going. Most hikers get their trail legs somewhere near week 2, but we have found the hike getting easier by day 3 or 4, either from reduced food weight in our packs or from warming up to the daily abuse. We ended up arriving at the Bryant Ridge Shelter just before 4PM, where we met a woman that was only two sections away from completing the entire AT.  …and then the miracle happened.  Jim and I were talking about my water filter issue, which still had not been resolved, when this woman said she had an extra filter that I could have…for free.   I was so relieved, this free filter was well worth paying for and I quickly grabbed a twenty dollar bill and did a ‘Buy It Now’ right there in the woods.  With that issue solved, I breathed a sigh of relief and started to enjoy our evening at camp. A girl from Michigan, who was thru hiking, showed up just before dinner time, and we all enjoyed some high quality freeze dried meals and random chit chat around the picnic table before the sun went down. Despite a less than perfect start, it was still great to be back on the trail.

Big miles and big climbs…

Day two is where we started to realize that this stretch of Appalachian Trail was not like the others we had tackled to date.   We had made the decision to cover about 23 miles on our second day.  This would be the longest single day for the week, and I think the idea of getting it done this early in the trip sounded appealing.  Well, where we went wrong was not looking carefully at the elevation profiles.   Not only was this a big mile day, coming right off a long first day on the trail, but we’d be starting our day with a 3,000’ climb and adding several other climbs to it throughout the day.  There’s not a lot of good I can say about this day of hiking.  It was hot, I was still paying for my bad decision to conserve water the day before, and we were on trail for about 11 hours by the time we arrived at Matt’s Creek Shelter, our stop for the night.  There we were greeted by a Dad, his daughter and her husband, and their two four legged hiking companions who were all out for a week long section on the trail as well.   We enjoyed the rest of the evening getting to know them a bit, while we attempted to recover from a very tough day on trail.

Short and Steep, and not so Sweet…

We started the next day with an ounce of optimism because we were only planning to cover about 13 miles to our next shelter and we already had 41 miles under our belt.   Once again, we failed to pay attention to the terrain, and shortly after crossing the James River, we were greeted with about 3500’ of climbing before we’d make our descent to the Punchbowl shelter.  It was high 80’s that day, but we were treated to several great views along the way and we arrived at camp with plenty of time to relax a bit.  The water source was great, so we took advantage of that to do some laundry at the campsite.  An Air Force retiree set up camp there for the night as well.  We chatted with him a bit about the next day’s wet weather forecast, where he assured us the storm would be brief, if it even hit us at all.

The odds of a trail tragedy…

The first few shelters we stayed at did not have bear poles or bear boxes for our food bags.  The night before, the other hikers hung their bags on the assortment of hooks and cords already in the shelter.  I admittedly was not completely sure of this technique and the next night Jim and I debated our options…well, I debated them, where Jim was convinced that hanging the food bags on the shelter hooks was more than safe and a visit from a curious black bear was very unlikely.  Jim seemed more concerned with hiking through a lightning storm the next day on trail.  Given the complete lack of suitable trees to hang a bear line on, I gave in to Jim’s way of thinking, though I wasn’t nearly as worried about hiking through a little lightning.

Jim was right…

Day four was going to be a 15.5 mile day.   We would start with some rolling climbs, followed by a 1500’ drop into a valley, and then we’d have a 3000’ climb before we’d reach our destination.   The day started out quite warm and sunny.  We stopped at about mile 9 at the Brown Mountain Creek Shelter for lunch.  This was the last stop before our big climb.  While we were eating a hiker came through, we exchanged a hello, but we didn’t really engage in much conversation.  He continued on his way as we finished up lunch. 

With full bellies, full water bottles, and a little over 6 miles to go til camp, we started making the steep climb up Bald Knob mountain.   2 miles into our climb, the skies started to get dark and the winds started to pick up.  We stopped quickly to throw our pack covers on in case it rained, but did not throw rain gear on, cuz it usually just makes us overheat.  It started to sprinkle a bit, then rain a bit…  As we gained elevation, the winds got stronger, the rain picked up, lightning strikes got closer, and it started to hail.  I chuckled to myself as I remembered Jim’s concern with carrying metal trekking poles through a lightning storm.   The 80 degree temps we had experienced earlier in the day had been replaced by temps in the low 30’s at best.  At this point we were completely soaked, and it was getting tough to stay warm.   There was very little shelter on the mountain, but we finally found a large rock we could hide behind long enough to get our rain jackets on.  We were both starting to get very cold and with a mile and a half to go wondered if we should set up a shelter or push on.  We decided to keep going.   Even with my rain jacket on, I could not get warm.  My teeth were chattering and it was the first time in all my years hiking that I actually realized just how quickly conditions can go from good to bad.   Jim knew we had to warm up, so once we crossed the peak, he started to run.  We are both trail runners, though not typically with a 30lb pack strapped to our backs.  Jim asked if I was OK running, and I was quick to say yes.  The faster pace was helping to warm things up.  We probably got down off that mountain in less than 15 minutes and soon found ourselves at the Cow Camp Gap shelter.  

Austin, the hiker we had seen at lunch, was already there and hunkered down under his quilt in an attempt to warm up.   The rain had brought with it a cold front, and we would not see temps get out of the 60’s for the rest of the week.  A girl, an accountant from northern VA who went by the trail name Star Gazer, was also section hiking and would show up shortly after us…equally soaked from the storm. The harrowing experience bonded us quickly and we knew that the climb and weather change was somewhat of a shared victory. On a nice sunny day I’m not sure any of us would be too chatty, but that gave us some laughs.  The four of us did our best to get dried out and warmed up as the already dark skies slowly faded to black for the night.

Hiking with Austin…

When you awaken to the sight of your breath rising in the morning air in front of you, it does not motivate one to crawl out from under a cozy quilt and hit the trail.  However, after a serious dose of procrastination, it was finally time to gather up my soggy clothes from the day before and start to tackle the 17 miles that were between us and our next night’s destination.   Though the clouds had receded, and the sun was shining bright, it was still pretty cold and very windy as we started our hike.   The day’s hike was going to take us up and over a half dozen 500’ climbs, but far easier than the last few days.  Despite the cooler temps, our pace warmed us up pretty quickly, and we took a quick break to drop some layers of clothes. 

At about that time, Austin caught up with us.  He was a thru hiker from PA and had been on the trail since early March.  We thought he’d hike right past us, but he decided to hike with us for the day.  As we chatted with our new hiking buddy, the day and the miles went by very quickly and we reached The Priest Shelter by mid afternoon.  It was a fun day on the trail, with temps never really getting much out of the 50’s.  The only downer to the day was seeing a big sign at our shelter declaring that the privy was CLOSED because it was…um…full!   I’m not saying that I’m ever really excited to have to visit the privy while on trail, but it sure beats the other options available.  A couple hikers showed up after us and took tent spots, and a hiker from the UK also joined us in the shelter for the night.   At an elevation of 3900’, it was probably the coldest night we had on trail.

Three Ridges…

Day six was going to be another short one, with only 14 miles planned, but they were not easy miles.  Austin was going to hike with us again, but was going to continue on beyond our planned stopping point.   The day started out with a couple hundred foot climb, followed by a steep 3000’ descent.  As soon as we reached the ‘bottom’, we immediately started to climb back up another 3000’ over a mountain called Three Ridges.  This was a tough and rocky climb with several ‘false peaks’ on the way to the summit.  We were rewarded by great views, and temperatures in the 60’s made it a pretty nice day. 

We arrived at the Maupin Field Shelter mid afternoon, and Austin decided to also call it a day.  This was a neat camping spot with several tent sites, a nice 6 person shelter, and a fully functioning privy.   A section hiker who went by the trail name of Nog already had a shelter spot claimed and a couple thru hikers, K Greenie and Lightning showed up a little later and took the last 2 spots.  Jim and I were sharing with them that we were classmates from a small town in the Catskills, and we were surprised to learn that both Nog and Lightning had lived not too far from there at points in their lives and were very familiar with our hometown and even hiked some of our local peaks.  It was a fun connection and reminder that in a big old world, we’re not as far apart from each other as we sometimes think we are.  It was a warmer night and we really enjoyed getting acquainted with our fellow hikers.

Making Tracks…

At this point we were only about 21 miles from the end of our hike, but we had planned to stop at mile 16 for the night and finish out with a short morning hike the next day.  Austin once again decided to hike with us, but he was going to cover the whole 21 miles and get a shuttle into a hostel and a resupply.  Jim always leads on trail and he must have been trying to get Austin to his destination quickly because we covered the 16 miles to the Paul C. Wolfe shelter in about 6 hours of moving time, arriving early in the afternoon.   We said goodbye to Austin as he continued north and we made our way to what was probably the coolest shelter site we had seen all week…a multi level shelter with a covered porch, overlooking a nice stream.  It was a great setting to just hang out after our last full day of hiking.   We were later joined by three ladies that were section hikers from Cape Cod, and the loft was taken by a bunch of thru hikers that arrived after sundown.

Ninety minutes to pancakes…

We have learned that a short hike on the last day on trail leaves a lot of time to celebrate before we both head back to our homes.   Our morning plan was to get on trail early and make quick work of the last 5 miles and find a place to get some pancakes and real brewed coffee.   We knocked out that last 5 miles in about 90 minutes and by 9AM we were sitting in a Cracker Barrel eating blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup.  With bellies full, we drove the hour and a half drive back to the trailhead where I had parked my truck and headed to our hotel for the final night.  We rounded out the day with a delicious meal at the Wasena City Tap Room, a cool pub in downtown Roanoke, where we reflected on the highs and lows of our week on the trail.  We had done it…one more section of the Appalachian Trail, 120 miles in one week, about 30,000 feet of elevation gain and loss, and nearly 20% of the AT now complete.   There was a lot to celebrate!

How soon we forget…

When it comes to section hiking and backpacking in general, forgetfulness may be a good thing.   Trail struggles are real…aches, pains, blisters, fatigue, stinkiness, all of it…it’s real and it’s not easy.  Every hike, there are moments where the idea of becoming a retired hiker crosses my mind…perhaps this year more frequently than other years.   But, usually during my car ride home, it seems the only trail memories I have are the highlights, the great views, the good laughs, the fun conversations, the people we’ve met…and I’m soon ready to sign up for the next one.   With only 420 out of the total 2,193 miles of the AT completed, there will have to be a lot more next ones.   As Charles Dickens wrote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”  So far, the bests far outweigh the worsts and I’m just excited to get to the next of times.

Shifting gears…

This is the part of the article where those interested in the story but not the hiking hobby will probably want to tune out.  Every step of every backpacking trip, we are keenly aware of the weight on our backs, and the gear we’re wearing.   In fact, talking gear consumes quite a bit of trail time and a lot of the time between trail times.  It’s the never ending process of looking for that next lighter, better, more comfortable gear item.   This year was no different and I started the trail with a couple new pieces of gear.

Backpacks:  The last two years I have hiked with the Osprey Atmos AG 50L pack.  I’m a big fan of the Osprey packs and their anti gravity design features and the Atmos has been a solid and very comfortable pack.  But, the Atmos is no ultralight pack and I had been looking to shave a little weight.  After trying the Osprey Exos 58, the Gregory Focal 58, and the Sierra Designs Flex Capacitor, I finally landed on the REI Flash 55 and it was a phenomenal choice.   It comes in about 1.7 lbs lighter than my Osprey, has more accessible water bottle pockets, a very convenient roll top design, and a pretty lightweight brain for additional organization.  I added some shock cord to the front panel for carrying wet gear and I was very happy with this pack.  I was a little worried because some reviews talked about the hip belt either being too big or coming loose, but neither of those problems became a reality for me.  For a pack that you can often pick up for under $160 during the REI sales, it’s a pretty tough pack to beat.

Tents:  This year I left my Big Agnes Copper Spur UL1 at home and carried my new Durston X-Mid 1P tent.  The X-Mid 1P is a trekking pole tent that dropped my tent weight ½ lb and added a ton of vestibule room for my gear.  All that said, I did not use my tent once on this section hike, and I was pretty happy about that.   I’ll always carry a tent, because you can’t rely on finding a spot in a shelter, but if I never once have to set up a tent on trail again, I’m completely good with that.

For the next section hike, aside from buying a new Sawyer Squeeze filter, I don’t anticipate making many gear changes.  I might fine tune my clothing options, but that will vary each year depending on the weather we anticipate.  I do plan to change up my food options.  Fewer Clif Bars and more salty snacks will be on next year’s hiking menu.

We both enjoyed the 100 mile’ish distance, so we looked for a section of the trail that would accommodate that distance and was located somewhere centrally between my home in upstate New York and Jim’s home in Georgia. After some fancy Googling, we ended up picking the Shenandoah National Park in Virginia.   

The cost of an ounce…

After starting out my first backpacking trip with a loaded pack weight of nearly 40lbs, I had made it my winter goal to reduce weight, at nearly all costs…  A new tent, different headlamp, smaller pocket knife, lighter water filter, fewer clothing items, cutting straps off my pack and a handful of other changes and I had reduced my base weight from 22lbs to just under 19lbs and brought my total pack weight to just under 34lbs.

With my pack, and wallet, significantly lighter, we had settled in on a mid May hike.   Well, until COVID hit and the world shut down, including Shenandoah National Park.   After a few other hurdles, we finally locked in on a week in October for our next hiking adventure.

Oh Shenandoah…

Shenandoah National Park straddles the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia.   The Appalachian trail through the park runs from Front Royal on the northern end to Rockfish Gap on the southern end.   Sticking strictly to the main trail, the distance between these two points is 107.7 miles… but side excursions to huts, water, and waysides will quickly get you up over 110 miles of total hiking.

We started at the Front Royal end, hitting the trail mid morning on a Saturday.  Greeted by a cool morning, we made our way along the predominantly uphill trail from Rt. 522 to our first campsite, about 14 miles from our starting point.  A few things we quickly learned about hiking this section of the trail.   Lean-tos or shelters are called huts in this neck of the woods.   There are also limited places to pitch a tent at the designated campsites.   Our experience the prior year was that the campsites had lots of wide open space around the shelter for tenters.   Given COVID concerns, we had planned to use our tents on nights where we couldn’t have the huts to ourselves.  This meant getting to camp early enough to claim a spot for the night was a necessity.

The Daily Routine…

Backpacking has a routine.   Every morning starts with the clean up, pack up, eat up routine.  Typically done simultaneously to get on the trail.  Hiking in mid October meant limited daylight hours.   We had done a better job this year laying out our nightly destinations to even out daily distances, but with a few days pushing the 20 mile mark, the 11 hours of daylight, didn’t leave a ton of room for hanging around camp in the morning.   No matter how much we attempted to speed up the morning operations, we were usually on trail right at 8AM.   We would typically hike a pretty good clip, and even with stops for snacks, lunch, and filtering water, we’d cover our 18+ miles in about 8 hours, arriving to camp around 4PM each day.

Remote, with conveniences…

The Appalachian Trail through Shenandoah parallels the Skyline Drive, and crosses it from time to time.   Though you never hike through any towns, there are some wayside stores, campgrounds, and lodges that can usually be reached by a short detour off trail.    The Skyland Lodge was one of those stops for us.   We both snagged a pre-packaged sandwich, some chips, and some high calorie candy snacks.  I can’t say that I’ve ever had a pre-packaged sandwich I’ve enjoyed more.   An equal amount of joy was experienced at the Loft Mountain Campstore where they had a ‘mix up your own milkshake’ machine.   Under a covered breezeway, we shared caloric euphoria with several other hikers in varying states of fatigue, achiness, and dirtiness. 

Two of our six nights on the trail, we also took advantage of staying at one of the campgrounds along the trail.   This helped us keep our daily distances a bit more even.   We stayed at Big Meadows Campground on Monday night and Loft Mountain Campground on Wednesday night.   Though, not quite as peaceful or serene as the hut sites, it was nice to have access to running water a couple times through our week.   At Loft Mountain Campground, a fella from New York City who was our campground neighbor took pity upon us and gave us some firewood for a campfire. Later that evening, he joined us around the campfire to solve the problems of the world for a couple hours.

True Colors…

One of the perks of hiking in October is seeing the fall colors.  It wasn’t quite peak yet in Virginia, but many of the trees were exchanging their greenery for hues of red, orange, and brown.   And, though the 24,000 feet of elevation gain through Shenandoah National Park was a challenge, many of the summits provided never ending views of the autumnal display.

Chasing Seth and Amy…

I’ve read that thru-hikers on the Appalachian trail end up seeing the same hikers or groups of hikers along their journey on the trail.  As section hikers, we had never experienced that.  Our first night on the trail this year, the prime tent spots had been taken, so Jim and I set up our tents practically right on the trail.  A while after we made camp, a couple came in, and faced with a similar shortage of great tent sites, ended setting up camp right near us.  Other than a casual hello, there was nothing significant about our interaction.   They were pretty efficient at their morning routine and hit the trail before us the next day.  Jim and I, despite no longer being able to check the 25-30 year old age box on any customer surveys, hike at a pretty good clip.  We ended up catching this couple mid morning after a grueling climb that seemed to go on forever.   We didn’t see them again while on the trail that day, but once we got to the next hut site, there they were, getting ready to set up for the night.  We didn’t know where they passed us, but likely during one of our water filtering stops.   That night we finally learned that their names were Seth and Amy and they were from Maryland.  We also learned that they were hiking the same section of the trail that we were hiking.   For the next four days, we’d leapfrog each other, oftentimes staying at the same campsite at night.   It became the common theme for the week, we’d be wondering where Seth and Amy were, and they’d be wondering when Craig and Jim would pass them.   The last night on trail, we hung out by the hut getting to know each other a bit more and sharing some hiking stories and laughs from the trail.   The next morning, they got the jump on us and were well ahead of us for our last 8 mile leg.   Somewhere around mile 6 we caught up with them one last time.   We saw them again as we were loading up our car and they were just getting off the trail…we exchanged energetic waves as we each ended our week in the woods and prepared to return to everyday life.   We will likely never see them again, but I finished that week knowing we had made some new friends.

Changing Gears…

For the gear junkies that are following along, the two biggest gear changes for this year were my pack and my tent.  Last year I had hiked with the Osprey Atmos AG 65.   I loved the pack, but it was a bit bigger than I needed for a week long summer hike.   This year I used the Osprey Atmos AG 50.  Dropping 15 liters of capacity only dropped my weight by 5.5oz, but the more compact pack made for a better carry.   I also left my Big Agnes Copper Spur one person tent at home in favor of the Six Moon Designs Lunar Solo.   This single wall, trekking pole tent added more interior room and shaved about 12 oz. off my prior year weight.   The downside was that a single wall tent has a lot more condensation.  As much as I enjoyed the extra room and weight savings, the condensation was a hassle.   Some of our nights dropped into the low to mid thirties, so maybe that added to the challenge, but for next year, I’ll probably be going back to my old tent or looking for a new option.

We the people…

Aside from the challenges and the beauty of the trail, I think one of the things I most enjoy is meeting the people on the trail.   We were not sure what to expect, hiking in the midst of a pandemic and all, but if hiking isn’t considered socially distant, I’m not sure what is.  However, we did meet a lot of hikers along the way.   Not much conversation took place during the daily hiking, except at the occasional scenic overlook or water stop, but once we got to camp, things were a little different.  It’s always fun to hear what brings a hiker to the trail, because they all have a story, something that makes them leave the comfort of home to get out and spend some time in nature.  We met a trio of women that became friends through some Meet-Up hiking groups in Florida and they were out doing the same section of trail that we were doing, just northbound.  We met some first time hikers on their first night on the trail, a couple brothers that just realized they were brothers six decades into life and were getting to know each other, some seasoned section hikers, and a couple father and son duos out for a weekend in nature.   We also ran into a few thru-hikers that were trying to beat the cold weather to Georgia, and at the pace they were going, I’m sure they will do fine.   Some hikers keep to themselves, others want to talk gear, some want you to be sure to know they are in the know about all things hiking.  Most would ask how Jim and I got into hiking together, and it was always fun to tell them that we’ve known each other since Kindergarten and a moment of weakness at a class reunion started this new found obsession.   

Speaking of people, someone find me a stump to stand on…

Since there are no soap boxes in the forest, I figure a stump will do.   My week without connectivity to the outside media world was a gift.   …and there’s one thing I learned from it.   On the trail, there are people from all religions, races, genders, ages, economic statuses, educational statuses and political affiliation.   But, you would not know it.  Because, on the trail, we are all hikers, and that one common bond alone is enough to make any other difference not matter.   On the trail, everyone is willing to lend a hand, give a trail tip, warn other hikers about a long stretch with no water, share some food, give up some of their precious filtered water so that a hiker short on water can have a cup of coffee, make room at the picnic table, and lift up and encourage each other.   It does not matter if a person is a day hiker, over nighter, week long section hiker, or a thru-hiker on a 6 month journey.  On the trail, we are all just hikers.   We commiserate together about the tough climbs, and we celebrate together the small victories.  It’s sad to me that as a nation, we’ve lost sight of that common bond of being ‘Americans’, and instead of working together for a greater good, we tear each other down at the earliest chance we get.   Perhaps we all need to spend some time on the trail and learn to embrace what we have in common and learn to appreciate what we don’t.

Happy Trails…

The Appalachian Trail through Shenandoah National Park proved to be a real treat. As we made our way south, the trail would continually change personalities…occasionally flat and fast, other times rocky and steep, with a mix of less technical but seemingly never ending climbs thrown in just to make things interesting. Water was abundant and campsites were close enough together as to not make for unbearably long days. Add to that spectacular views and abundant sunshine, and the end result was a great week of hiking.

Shepherd’s Pie…

This year, we were pretty confident in our ability to get off the trail in 6 days, so we already had a place to stay booked for that last night.   We tried to find something conveniently located to an establishment that would serve some delicious hoppe goodness and pretty much any food that wasn’t prepared by adding boiling water and letting it sit for 10 minutes.   Somewhere along the way, Jim got it in his head that he wanted Shepherd’s pie that last night.  I don’t know why, but it became his weeklong obsession.  Despite my warnings of likely disappointment and as bad luck would have it, the only Irish Pub in Front Royal, VA had gone out of business earlier this year.  Jim handled the news quite well, and finding a micro brewery that served some corned beef, albeit wrapped in rye bread in the form of a reuben, seemed to provide some contentment.   Despite the disappointment, our first real meal in a week was beyond delicious, and gave us some time to reflect on a nearly perfect week of hiking and start planning next year’s adventure.

You probably wouldn’t understand…

Life on the Appalachian trail is pretty special.  It’s fun, but not all fun.  It’s hard, but not too hard to handle.  It’s exhausting and rejuvenating at the same time.   It’s work and play all wrapped up in one package.  It’s three quarters of a marathon up and down mountains with thirty pounds on your back, repeated daily, for six days in a row.  It’s taking that next step when you don’t really think you have another step left in you.   It’s really an experience quite like no other.   I wasn’t home a week and I was already looking forward to the next time I could get back out on the trail.   I’ve tried to explain the experience to my friends and my family, but most of them only hear the words one hundred miles, no showers, bear boxes, freeze dried meals, and they look at me like I’ve lost my mind.   …and perhaps I have, I don’t know.   But, maybe, just maybe, losing one’s mind every once in a while is the perfect way to find one’s soul.

I was born into a family of car lovers.  My dad’s dad, was a huge car buff, and though his preacher’s income didn’t give him the opportunity to own the latest and greatest vehicles, he’d still make the annual pilgrimage to the local Ford, Lincoln, and Mercury dealers to check out the newest models and come home with the new brochures.  Yes, there were other car brands, but they might just as well have been manufactured by the devil himself.   Though, he did once tell me he married my Grandma because she came with a Pontiac.  

My dad inherited this same love of vehicles, along with his siblings.  The recent Facebook trend of posting car pictures brought a smile to my face, because my dad actually had a photo album of all the cars he had owned over the years.   As a kid, our Sunday afternoons were often filled with taking drives, oftentimes those drives were down off the mountaintop to the big city of Catskill, NY to drive around the car lots, so we could browse without the pressure of a commission driven salesman.  

It’s really no surprise that my brother and I are both car fans.   Even my uncle on my mom’s side was a car nut.  We were doomed.  Starting out with our collections of Matchbox cars as kids, we both could not wait to get our first set of wheels.   The freedom of owning a car of my own, even if that car wasn’t much to look at, was a freedom worth working for.   Summer nights with the windows down, music blaring, and the twisty mountain roads are still some of my fondest memories.

Now, there’s something I have learned over the years.   Not everybody loves cars the way I do and the way my family has.  Rumor has it, that for some folks, cars are simply transportation.  As hard as that may be to believe, I have witnessed it with my very own eyes.  People buying cars based on things like practicality, fuel mileage, and even reliability.  Three variables that have never once influenced one of my car buying decisions.

Being the curious type, I decided to do some research into this phenomenon.   According to our friends over at Merriam-Webster, Transportation means an act, process, or instance of transporting…which then led me to research the word transport….and here’s where it all became very clear.  

There are two very different definitions for the word transport…

1  : to transfer or convey from one place to another
2  : to carry away with strong and often intensely pleasant emotion

It appears that my family completely skipped over definition 1 and went directly to definition number 2.   …and much to my surprise, there’s an entire population stuck on definition number 1.   Can they be saved?

You see, for me, it’s both the joy of owning a vehicle that strikes an emotional chord deep within my being, and the act of driving that vehicle down a country road or any road for that matter, that carry me away with a strong and often intensely pleasant emotion.

When I was in Kindergarten, I’d ride to school with my dad.   He was a high school English teacher in our one building K-12 school of 500 kids.   My dad drove a Plymouth Roadrunner back in those days.  A muscle car with a 383 cubic inch engine and a cartoon character on the side of it, what could be better.  It was a different time back then, and on more than one occasion, we’d experience a spirited ride home in reaction to one of my dad’s hot rod driving students referring to his pride and joy as a Road Chicken.   On those days, these particular students were schooled in far more than the subject of English.  

I’ve owned quite a few vehicles since my first car purchase.   Some of those purchases were purely emotional, an uncontrollable urge to own a particular vehicle, often influenced by the horsepower rating of the vehicle in question.   Other purchases were made for financial reasons or the necessity of affordable insurance, often a problem brought on by actions taken in a previous vehicle purchased primarily on horsepower ratings.   I can say that never once have I made a purchase based on a consumer reports article.

There are really very few things that are more enjoyable than taking a drive solely for the purpose of taking a drive.  Pulling out of the driveway, with no planned destination, no planned route other than seeking out only backroads, and letting the drive take you where it wants you to go.   Any vehicle, when used in such a manner, can provide great amounts of joy and satisfaction.   Now, I will say that having the right vehicle for the particular ride will certainly increase the grin factor.

But, let’s not forget the pure joy of vehicular ownership.   Purchasing a vehicle is no small feat.  Not only does it require a significant outlay of cash, but even the negotiation and buying process can be overwhelming for some.  For those reasons alone, you should always buy a car that makes you smile in some way…whether that be for the color, the shape, the emblem, or the powerplant hidden beneath the hood.   The best kind of car is one that causes you to turn around and take a second glance as you are walking away from it in the parking lot.

My dad bought a lot of cars.   There was always a clever dose of justification given to my mother before each purchase, but the underlying reason was always the fact that he just wanted to buy a new car. It was one of the things that gave him the most joy in life.  When my brother and I followed in his footsteps, this was one area where my dad did not have a parental leg to stand on.   What a glorious thing… youthful foolishness completely immune to parental criticism.

Well, that was until the year Two Thousand and Eleven.   

Ever since my Matchbox car days, I had a dream car. When I was 9 years old, I spent my hard earned allowance money, which was fifty cents a week, on a Porsche 911 Carrera Matchbox car, painted in what may have been the ugliest shade of metallic brown ever to leave an aerosol can.   …but despite the paint color, that’s when it happened.   From that moment on, my vehicular compass pointed directly towards Stuttgart Germany.   Even my second vehicle, a 1978 Volkswagen Scirocco with a mere 68 horsepower, displayed enough of that fine european handling that it only solidified my position that I wanted to own the ultimate German sports car.

My first job out of college was at Eastman Kodak Company.   Though I thoroughly enjoyed my years there, it was at a time where the world no longer needed film and paper to capture a photo.  Given this interesting time, the guarantee of lifetime employment no longer existed, and it only seemed prudent to set aside some money in the event that my relationship with my employer was cut short due to corporate cost cutting efforts.  Fortunately this never occurred, however, I did decide to part ways with Kodak and move to a company with a brighter future.  Shortly after changing jobs, my buddy told me about a very reasonably priced seven year old Porsche Boxster that he had seen on a car lot.  No longer in fear of losing my source of income, I traded my layoff fund for that Porsche Boxster.   Though it still wasn’t the 911 Carrera that I had set my sights on in the mid seventies, it scratched nearly all of the itches, and was an extremely fun vehicle to drive.   If you’ve never driven a Porsche with a flat 6 engine, and experienced the spectacular howl it lets out as the tachometer approaches the redline, you probably would not understand the sheer joy it brings.

I drove that car for the next 5 years, making some modifications to personalize it to my liking, and then a miracle occurred (at least that is how I interpreted it).  Through a series of conversations, I learned of a friend of my brother that was looking for a sports car…and boy, did I have a deal for him.  With a guaranteed sale in hand, I started to scour the classifieds for an affordable used 911.   It did not take too long until I located a very reasonably priced 5 year old 911 Carrera sitting on the showroom floor of a Nissan dealer in Wichita Kansas.  When I shared the news with my dad, something terrible happened, that disapproving tone that I had experienced many times before, was there.  “Why do you need to buy a different car?” he asked.   “Your Boxster is perfect and plenty fast”.   My dad’s hesitation was likely warranted, due to the damage I had once before caused to a high powered sports car in a moment of poor judgement and zealous acceleration.  But, as I had many times before, I filed his caution in the undue parental worrying bucket, and in March 2011, I jumped onto an airplane with my 16 year old son, flew to Kansas, and drove my new-to-me sports car home.   Before I even got to my house, I stopped at my dad’s to show him my dream car.   He looked it over carefully and showed some cautious enthusiasm, but I could tell, he still had not warmed up to the idea.

A couple weeks later, my son and I drove over to visit my dad.  As we were talking, my son said “Grandpa, you should drive Dad’s new car”.  My dad’s health was not the best, but he agreed, and we made our way out to the 911.  My dad took the driver’s seat, I jumped in the passenger seat, and my dad handed me his oxygen tank to hang on to…yes, you just read that correctly   We made our way out of the village, and turned on to a 55 MPH stretch of road that passed through miles and miles of farmland.   As he rowed through the gears, he gave it a heavy dose of throttle, and soon we were approaching twice the posted speed limit as we made our way through the countryside.   I can only assume that if observing the speed limit is lawful, observing it a second time is twice as lawful.    We got to a good turn around point and he broke the rear end of the car free as he once again put the car through its paces.   He looked at me with a great big smile and said “man, this power is addicting”.   It was at that very moment I knew, my dad approved of my latest car purchase. 

You see, a car is far more than mere transportation.  This is something my Grandpa was keenly aware of, my dad was aware of, and I am aware of.   A car is the gateway to adventure, a source of freedom to explore, a generator of smiles, and a moving memory maker.  Some of my best memories are of times riding in a car with friends and family experiencing life on the open road.   

During these days of quarantine, a lot of our normal activities and hobbies are off limits  But, you can still take a ride.   So consider packing up the kids, throw some snacks in a backpack, jump in your transportation vehicle of choice, head out onto the road and turn, in any direction, and just drive and see where it takes you.  You may just realize that your transportation vehicle wants to be far more than transportation, and just wants to “carry you away with a strong and intensely pleasant emotion”.

I love to hike.  I guess when you boil it down, a hike is really just a walk with a little more purpose.  There’s something pure about stepping foot onto a trail with an intended destination. Oftentimes, that destination rises above a valley floor reaching towards the heavens in such a way that you can actually see it from where you stand.  Other times, your only indication of your destination is a point listed on a wooden sign with a number indicating how many miles you have to go to reach it. What I also love about a hike is that it is an experience relatively unchanged and undestroyed by technology.  Sure, we may now carry a GPS instead of a compass, and a cell phone instead of an old Kodak Instamatic camera, and our clothes may have fancier properties that the marketing types use to convince us of their worth, but it’s still a hike and the experience is still the same.  I often hike the same trails my grandfather hiked 50 years ago, and I picture him on those trails, and realize that the emotions I am feeling at that exact moment are likely very similar to those he felt decades earlier. If I were forced to give up all my hobbies, I think hiking and music would be the last two I’d hang on to…and if it really came to a final choice, I’d likely choose hiking, cuz I could always sing while out on the trail.

There are a lot of great hikes in the Catskill Mountains.   Many offer challenging climbs, or great distances, or nice views, or cool things to check out along the way.  The Overlook Mountain and Echo Lake hike is one that checks off every box and should definitely be on your “hikes I need to do in the Catskills” list.

Before I go much further, you will see that there are a lot of hike articles out there on the interwebs with detailed mile markers, special instructions, GPS tracks, tips and tricks to guarantee your hiking success, and much much more.   This will clearly not be one of them. Think of this more like story time with Mr. Rogers, minus the cardigan, stuffed animals, and trolley.

The trailhead for Overlook Mountain is on Meads Mountain Road, about 3 miles outside of the village of Woodstock, NY (the actual town…not to be confused with the site of the epic musical festival that took place in 1969).   The great thing about this particular hike, is that depending on your energy level, you can either make the full trek over Overlook Mountain to Echo Lake and make it a 9+ mile hike, or just climb Overlook Mountain, making it about a 5 mile hike. 

The Overlook Mountain summit is at 3,140’ and is home to one of the Catskill Mountain Fire towers.   The climb to the summit is steady, gaining about 700’ per mile, but since it follows a service road the whole way, it is not a very technical hike.  One of the real treats of this hike comes at about the 2 mile mark, the site of the Overlook Mountain House. The mountain house went through several iterations of being built, burning down, and being rebuilt from the early 1800’s through the early 1900’s.  The current ruins were never actually completed (per advanced research on wikipedia) and became the property of New York State in the 1940’s, suffering one final fire in the 1960’s. However, due to its concrete construction, there’s a lot of structure still standing providing some great photo ops.  If you’re interested in more details of questionable accuracy, do a google search on the Overlook Mountain House…there’s a lot to read out there.

Getting back to the hiking, rumor has it, that the next 3 miles or so are home to literally hundreds of Timber Rattlesnakes.  We were hiking on a crisp fall day, and did not have the privilege of seeing any along or on the trail, but the posted warning signs would indicate that the rumors hold some truth.  So, if snakes cause you any stress in life, especially poisonous snakes, this may not be the hike for you. The climb after leaving the mountain house site remains steady to the point where you can continue on to the summit and the fire tower, or head towards Echo Lake.  The day we hiked it, we chose to go to Echo Lake first and leave the fire tower for the way back.

As you head to Echo Lake, the trail descends at a pretty good clip and you lose most of the elevation you gained.  At this point, the trail is a typical Catskill Mountain single track. After a couple miles, you arrive at Echo Lake.   There is a lean-to and a few primitive campsites, and a trail around the lake. As you walk around the trail, there are several downed trees, the handiwork of beavers…and a dam at the outlet end of the lake, also the handiwork of beavers.  Oh, and in case you were wondering, if you let out a yell or even a yodel, you will hear an echo that usually resembles the thing you originally yelled or yodeled. I can’t tell you that Echo Lake received its name based on the reverberating effect at the lake, but if it did, I can honestly say it would not be a lie.

At this point, you have to back track the trail you just came down, and head back up to the junction of the Overlook Mountain trail.  The final ascent to the Overlook Mountain summit is steady, but a little more gradual at this point. As you reach the top, you’ll see the fire tower.   We were hiking later in the season, so the observation deck was not open, but you could still climb just shy of that point….and despite the rickety steps, and the strong wind, the views from the tower were well worth the climb.   One thing about this particular hike, perhaps due to the proximity to Woodstock, or the non technical nature of the climb, is there are quite a few people. So, don’t be surprised if the summit is a bit crowded.

The hike back to the trailhead parking is once again a non technical stroll down the access road, but with 7 miles on your legs by this point, an easier descent to end your hike may be a good thing.

If you do the whole hike, you will have ended up logging 9.4 miles and climbing just a tick under 2,400’.   Though a relatively good workout for an afternoon hike, the great sights along the way really make this one of the more enjoyable hikes in the Catskill mountains.  No, this one won’t count towards the Catskill Mountain 3500’ peak list, but sometimes, it’s just fun to take a hike for the sake of taking a hike.  

A quick trip into the village of Woodstock to check out some of the local shops and grab a coffee is a great way to end a day on the trails and complete the Catskill Mountain experience.

If you’re in the Catskills and looking for an approachable hike that provides all the best a hike can provide, I would highly recommend the Overlook Mountain and Echo Lake hike.   Great climbs, spectacular views, and really neat points of interest make it a tough one to beat.

Yeah, I really like hiking… and if you try this one, you may just find that you might like hiking too!

Today we all need a break from the endless news cycle so I thought it may be a great idea to write this temporary distraction piece to spur a laugh or two. So, here it goes. 

If I want to head back in time a bit it only takes a second or two for me. You only need to mention the “CB” Radio. That is the Citizen’s Band (CB) Radio for those who may not have been a user or even around in the 1970’s and 1980’s. The CB preceded most all other mobile communication and it was a method our “Big Rig Drivers”, local Pick up owners, volunteer firemen and just about anyone (who was cool) would use to talk to others from their vehicle. They would mount it under their dash and it would open up their world of public conversation at a distance. It was not secure communication by any means and everything you said to a friend through your microphone could be listened to by anyone on that channel. 

Those connected had large “Whip” antennas on their cars or trucks and replicated the same with bigger antennas on their homes. The mobile whip antenna was a thing of beauty symbolizing the muscle under the hood (or dash in this case). You were a connected member of society who likely could respond faster than anyone else to any chaos known to man or beast. This could be a car accident, a fire or simply an overlooked get together that you had only stumbled upon by hearing it on the CB. A “Home base station” was recognizable by the huge triangular shaped frame antenna that seemed like it could reach out to another planet. I’m not sure, but this could be a variant theory of where the phrase “Bigger is better” came from. It seemed like the big and bad CB operators had antenna’s on poles that extended hundreds of feet into the sky and dwarfed their homes. Sadly, I do not think the antenna range was ever tested so it’s likely that bigger might have only represented a more obnoxious disruption to the horizon. 

There was a wave of television shows that spurred the popularity of CBs including Movin’ On, BJ and the Bear or the big screen movies entitled, Smokey and the Bandit, Breaker – Breaker and Convoy to name a few. A new language was born where Smokies were the police, Billy Goat meant Old Timer and 10-4 was a resounding understanding and agreement of the facts you just stated. These influences were deep for a young kid looking for an adventurous life where the good guys always won and everyone was just “Cool.” To participate, you must understand that every CB user needed a handle. That handle was his or her name to be known by when speaking into the handheld microphone for the airwaves. I recall the day I was listening to hear some “Big Rig” talk and I picked up a skipping signal from the stratosphere echoing a southern drawl voice all the way from Louisiana. It was not what the trucker said, it was the fact that I could hear it. I lived in upstate New York so you might be able to imagine the glee of a 10-year-old equal to discovering a precious gem in the backyard or contacting aliens. The man on the other end of the CB was “Snake Eyes.” I thought that was the best handle I had ever heard and thought it clearly represented a serpent able to strike with a potent venom at any moment. Little did I know at my age it likely represented rolling two die with a single mark on each. At that moment I created my name and took on my handle, “Puny Eyes.” 

Puny Eyes sounded almost as cool as Snake Eyes. After all, it included “Eyes” and that in itself would catch random listeners attention. I am not sure where I got the “Puny” part of the handle, but the definitions I retrieved in later years betrayed “Cool.” Puny is small or sickly. Wow, small, sickly eyes! That description does not represent someone who you would want to talk to on the CB radio or how I wanted to be described. I didn’t have a deep voice at that age and community trust was better, but that name should have likely been adjusted. Besides, my eyes were normal sized and I was not unusually small or sickly. Parents who let their kids use the CB might have restricted its use these days with the thought of “Puny Eyes” being at the other side of the conversation. Today, most kids would be restricted from going to “that internet site” if they had a desire to chat. 

During my CB-years I had a childhood friend whose handle was Red Fox. He had chosen his name modifying his dad’s handle, Gray Fox. I appreciated that, but his handle was not unique or interesting enough and did not come close to my Snake Eyes inspiration. My handle rolled off the tongue. Not considering my thoughtful reflections of today I stuck with Puny Eyes! Red Fox and I chatted about “stuff” probably twice per week for a year or two. It was a great outlet and likely entertained the open airwaves with our innocent topics. It is interesting to compare then and now. What if the phone of today was open communication? I’m pretty sure that the privacy police would be on us pretty quick, but what an interesting conscience keeper. Although the CB radio created only a false sense of anonymity, users kept a sense of honesty and cleanliness in their conversation. Obviously, I listened with my untarnished youthful ears and may have saw the world rosier than it was, but that is the memory that stuck in my head. The reach of my CB radio seemed continental and maybe limitless, but no fear was ever produced by its use. It was just pure joy. 

Breaker, breaker, this is Puny Eyes signing off with some lessons of fearlessness, decency, courtesy and respect taught to me through my CB radio in the good ol’ days! Thanks for listening in and hope this “Break” took you away from the stress of today for a bit! 

“Reflect and Laugh to Refresh your Spirit” 

and then …

“Do Your Job” the best way you can 

Jim Laterza

Of an evening, the two of us could be found sitting side by side at an old chrome and Formica kitchen table that had been discarded by its owners but given new life and purpose in the basement of our parsonage home.   Before us were yellow tablets with their blue-lined surfaces crammed with prose, or poetry, or just story ideas with arrows pointing here and there, and stars and underlines decipherable only to their authors.  And authors was what we considered ourselves to be.  No matter that no publisher had ever accepted any of our material.  No matter that the two blocks of wood with the nails sticking straight up from them groaned under the weight of the colorful rejection slips that were skewered on them.  We knew what we were.

Between us sat an old electric Smith Corona typewriter.  The keys were gummy with use, something we tried with limited success to remedy before we did our final prints for submission, and the “e” key stuck frequently enough to be a constant source of aggravation, and an adverse influence on whatever muse might be present.  By spells we would take turns pounding away at the often-unresponsive keys as the motor hummed but did not fully engage.  Its ribbon was nearly threadbare,  and we would manually wind it to the least used sections so that the print could be as crisp as possible.  A writer’s budget is often sparse, and ours did not even rise to that level.

There were piles of neatly stacked, white, eight and a half by eleven, twenty-pound paper containing the hopes and dreams of two aspiring writers, played out in neat double-spaced pica.  There were paperclips binding each of these offerings into its own bundle, and as the stacks grew, somehow validating our efforts, so too did our determination.  We had read all of the magazines and books the library had to offer on the subject, and we knew with certainty that the likelihood of success was in direct proportion to the height of the stack of rejection slips, and we had much reason to be optimistic.  And besides, we knew how good we were.  We told each other frequently.  My brother was undoubtedly more proficient at that than I, as he always had a knack for making the people he interacted with feel somehow better than they actually were.  That would remain true till the day he died.

We did not know it then, but we were not really authors.  We were two still young lads playing dress-up.  Perhaps he more than I, because he dressed in almost professorial garb with a burl maple bentwood pipe perched jauntily in the corner of his mouth, unlit, and Barry Goldwater glasses astride the bridge of his nose.  His shirtsleeves were rolled up, two folds,  pressed flat.  There was no cowboy hat on his head in those days, and no L.L. Bean jacket.  And, consequently, no Doug Deats in his writing.  He was not drawing on his love of the woods and streams and open spaces that was the hallmark of his youth or the joy of his later life.  He was trying to channel Hemingway and Faulkner.  His writing was forced.  Purposeful and intentional just like the books recommended.  Good writing is purposeful and intentional.  Great writing seldom is. In any case, there was not the natural folksy flow that gave his later writings their irresistible charm.  And there was not the genuineness of spirit that came to shine through the pages of his one published book or his numerous published articles.  Ironically, it was not until he stopped trying to be an author and learned to be a writer that he was ultimately able to become an author.

But our mutual lack of commercial success notwithstanding, I mark these times together, two brothers pursuing a common dream, as among my most cherished memories.  We spent many late evenings and a number of predawn mornings walking the golf course across from our house, discussing our intended craft, bouncing ideas off one another, or just musing about life in general.  Out of these encounters we wrote many poems separately or together, none of which has survived.  It was not until after his death that I captured what those nights meant to me in a form neither of us ever proved to have much facility with.  It is as follows:

A Night For Poets

It was a night for poets
The late evening mist lay heavy on the night air
As two brothers walked slowly, silently through the grassy dark
Bound together by thought
Leaving visible footprints in the damp grass… and on each other’s souls
But now, no longer do they walk together, but walk they must
For one the fog has lifted, and he walks, unbound,
Forever in the eternal light of a perpetual morn
The other remains, walking silently, more slowly,
Bound by the darkness of grief and the dampness of tears
Their souls, no longer together, but never far apart

On this, the fifth anniversary of his passing, I can honestly say that the impact of those nights has not been diminished by time, nor has the sense of loss.  The author, and yes he finally got to achieve that dream, has written his final words.  But as those who have ever had the pleasure of engaging my brother in spirited discourse know, the final word was a concept with which Doug Deats was intimately familiar.

It was a time and place that shaped a culture. The country was suffering through the recession that followed the Great Depression.  The tiny community was isolated deep in the mountains. The residents were simple folks who lived life on their own terms. They wanted only to be left alone, to survive together. Survival meant living on vegetables from their own gardens, fruit from their own trees, and meat from their own forest. And it meant relying on one another, for support, friendship, and entertainment. These were mountain people, and Finch and Jones were mountain men.

The stories, Dad told, gave me a picture of two men who were as different as they were alike. Finch was tall and thin. Jones was short and portly. Jones was appropriately jolly. Finch was a man of few words. Finch was a prankster. Jones was a ready-made victim. But they were both avid outdoors men, and inseparable friends. And they behaved as mountain men did, in the thirties.

If you have ever been coon hunting, as I have been on a few occasions, you will know that it provides an experience like no other. It’s done in the dark, in the deep woods, to the inimitable sound of baying hounds. There is the hurried stumbling over logs and through dense cover, to keep up with the dogs. It’s easier to do, if you’re tall and thin. So Finch arrived at the foot of the hollow tree ahead of Jones. He discovered the hole at the bottom of the tree. He decided Jones didn’t need to know that the hole went all the way through the tree. “The coon is up inside the tree. I’ll get a stick and whack the tree, to scare him out. You can put your hands in this hole and grab him when he comes down”. After an appropriate amount of whacking, “He’s coming down!!”. Finch reached into the hole from the other side and scratched Jones unmercifully, before dashing off to a safe distance.

Deer hunting provided the most reliable source of meat in those days. There is nothing like the taste of a venison steak, to the hungry hunter. Some folks have a taste for bear meat, when nothing else is available. Finch and Jones were not particular in that regard. But, this particular day, they were high on the mountain, hunting deer. (Our family has a picture of my dad hunting on top of that very mountain.) At midday they stopped to eat their lunch. They sat on a rocky ledge, enjoying their lunch and their friendship.

Suddenly they heard the sound of some activity, under the ledge. They discovered they had been sitting on top of a cave. Finch constructed a torch out of pine tar, on the end of a stick. He got on his hands and knees and approached the cave. “I’ll crawl part way in. You grab my legs and push me a little farther. When I kick, you pull me out”. Extending the torch ahead of him, he saw himself staring into three pairs of eyes. He kicked, and out he came. They had been sitting on the home of the three bears. What happened next is a story for another day.

One day Finch and Jones were hunting on the mountain on the other side of the valley. They were approaching the area near a bear trap. Rumor had it that a huge black bear had been seen near the trap. They were hoping that they would find the bear in the wooden trap. He wasn’t in the trap, but they could smell him. Suddenly they saw him! He was bigger than the rumor they had heard. Bigger, in fact, than any rumor they had ever heard! They were standing on a narrow trail, and they had been seen. The bear started toward them.

Finch was closest to the bear, so he took the shot. The bear charged, and they ran. Jones was in the lead. Finch couldn’t get past him. The bear was gaining. Then he slowed. He stepped off the trail, and grabbed a sapling in his jaws. He ripped the sapling from its roots. Finch shot again. The bear charged again. Finch and Jones ran again.

Later that night they returned with a horse, to drag the 500 pound bear to their home. He became quite a curiosity. People came from miles around to see the bear, and to hear Jones tell the story. He told of the first terrible charge, the fear, and the race down the steep and narrow mountain path. He told of how skittish the horse was, dragging that bear down that narrow path in the dark. Finch said nothing. “Were you afraid?”, they asked Finch. “Jones kept gettin’ in my way”.

Number 7 is a chapter from “The Last of the Bungalow Warriors” by Maurice Deats available for purchase at The Book Patch.

They smelled the bubblegum the moment they burst into the small shop on the corner, the wheels on their bikes still spinning where they came to rest after the two young boys leapt from them at full speed, and the shop door not yet having had time to slam shut behind them.  No wonder. The shop owner, knowing his customer base, had stacked the new shipment of Topps baseball card packages on a small table just to the right of the door where the afternoon sun beating through the window would heat up the packages, releasing the irresistible aroma.

It was spring, and the season was just about to get started.  The boys had saved their snow-shoveling money all winter in preparation for this moment.  They were the first in the shop, easily out-distancing the other town boys who would be arriving on foot.  That meant that they would be able to select first from the neat stacks of cards, five to a package plus the gum, for a nickel a pack.  The gum was not very good, or at least not for very long. And it was usually hard and became less and less pliable as the season wore on, as enough stock to supply a shop of this size for the entire season could easily be ordered all at once.  But today it would be at its freshest.

But it was not the bubblegum that was the object of the boys’ eagerness.  It was the cards.  Each package contained the hope of a Yankee card, or even more than one.  There were other cards that held some mild interest, and the rest were valuable currency for trades or fodder for games of closest to the wall or flipping. But it was the Yankee cards that were the real prize.  Each of those cards contained a picture of some Yankee, starter, reserve or prospect, while the back of the card contained his pedigree.  These were the player’s stats, figures that would be memorized, discussed and argued over endlessly, and went a long way towards determining which player a person would “call” before pickup games commenced.  There was an art to calling your player, at just the exact moment, so you could pretend to be him during the game.  You could not call too early, as that was unsportsmanlike, but if you waited until someone started the bidding you ran the risk of losing out on your first choice.  The timing was tricky, but everyone knew when bidding opened instinctively.  You just had to not jump the gun.

Any Yankee card was a win, and if you bought five packs and got even a single Yankee you had had yourself a good day.  But the ultimate prize was number seven.  No matter what position you played, your favorite player was number seven, and you wanted to be him, and so you tried to time your “call” so that you could take on his persona, if only for a game.  If that happened, you had had a very good day indeed.

Today, the young warrior and The Great Chief were not warriors.  It was the start of the season and they were now baseball players.  It was as such that they were sitting on the curb outside the shop, too-large Yankee caps on their heads, opening their card packs when the rest of the boys arrived, panting from having run all the way from the school.  The other boys looked enviously at the two brothers, some standing over them half resentful, half curious, anxious to see what players they had gotten.  Others pushed eagerly on into the store, still hoping that getting to select early would bring them luck.

As it turned out, there was luck to be had that day.  Each of the brothers had scored two Yankees apiece.  Neither of them, however, had been lucky enough to get a number seven.  Bobby Richardson, Moose Skowron, Ralph Terry, and Hector Lopez.  No Whitey Ford.  No Mickey Mantle.  The younger brother was happy because he had Bobby Richardson, his second favorite player, and a fellow second-baseman.  He would later come to embrace Moose Skowron, as his future coach, making light of his slender build and diminutive stature would saddle him with the nickname “Moose”.  But for now, it was Bobby Richardson.  The older brother was not overly thrilled with his take, but he was philosophical.  It was the first of many packs to be opened.  If not by him, then by one of the other boys for whom money was not so much of an issue and who did not possess his skill at flipping cards.  He was particularly adept at this and knew how to shame other boys into anteing up some of their more valuable cards.  He wasn’t worried.

And then it happened.  One of the other boys opened a pack and there at the top, a slight smudge of bubblegum coating covering the place where his bat met his shoulder, was the serious, purposeful likeness of number seven.  Mickey Mantle.

The gathering of boys fell briefly silent, as if in reverence, and then erupted.  Inside the shopkeeper grinned to himself.  He had them now. Outside the boys, took turns pounding the lucky lad on his back and congratulated him, called him every kind of name they could think of with “lucky” in the title, and then one by one slunk off to nurse their disappointment.  It should have been them.

The pecking order was now established.  The boy with the Mickey Mantle card would get to choose first when picking sides for games on the little league field behind the school.  His opinion on matters of player superiority would suddenly have more weight, and he would be deferred to in various other matters where validity was a matter of preference.  At least until someone else was able to land a number seven.  In the mean-time a period of reverence would be observed before bidding would begin in earnest to try to wrest the card away from him by offering any number of lesser players, some later to be Hall of Famers in their own right, as well as other treasures like old baseballs whose covers were not yet starting to come off, or a bat that only needed to be glued and wrapped but not screwed in order to continue functioning. Usually a week was sufficient.  But being as this was the beginning of the season, it would be surprising if that level of patience could be maintained.

As it happened, the week was not yet up when the younger brother was to face his greatest struggle.  It was to be a galvanizing moment in his life.  He would face other challenges.  He would be tested again and again over the course of his life, but none would compare to this.  Time would be marked from this moment onward.

It happened at recess.  The boy, now commonly referred to as Number Seven, was showing off his baseball card collection to a circle of rapt fellow graders.  His father was someone of note in the town and the family had money.  That meant that Number Seven was able to procure numerous packs of baseball cards.  More than anyone else.  He had managed to acquire several other Yankee cards, including the team card so he had not one but two cards with Mickey Mantle on them.  He had spread the cards out on the grass for inspection and was happily absorbing the envy of his classmates when the bell rang, signaling the end of recess.  The other boys sprinted away, leaving him to collect up his cards alone.  This he did hastily and started half walking half running towards the school.  The youngest brother, who had lagged behind for a last yearning look at the Mantle card, followed close behind at a jog.  When it happened it was unexpected.  A card dropped from the pile Number Seven was clutching awkwardly and drifted lazily to the ground in his wake.  The younger brother stopped, scooped up the card and started jogging after the boy.  He glanced casually at the card and stopped in mid stride.  It was the Mantle card.  He took a couple tentative steps towards the boy, stopped and started again.  They were now perilously close to the school door where Miss Helga stood like St Peter, guarding the gate.  The younger brother was awash with conflicting emotions.  There was no time to resolve them, so he did the only thing he could possibly do under the circumstances.  He slipped the card into his front pants pocket and walked gingerly into the school, trying hard not to bend his leg too much and damage the card.  Miss Helga looked suspiciously at him as he passed by her, but then she always seemed to.

The ride home from school was even slower than usual.  The older brother did not complain, as his breathing was becoming more and more forced these days.  If he thought it odd, he did not show it. The younger brother rode behind and pedaled primarily with his left leg, letting his right leg dangle as much as possible.  He was afraid to take the card out of his pocket for any reason and would not trust it to leave his person in any event.  You do not trust the Crown Jewels out of your sight, or at least out of your pocket. 

The younger brother was torn.  He wanted desperately to share his dilemma with his older, wiser brother, but he was afraid that he would not like the advice he would receive, nor the disapproval that would inevitably accompany it, because he knew in his heart of hearts that he was not capable of following it.  Knowing the right thing to do is seldom the comfort that one hopes.

There was a tiny nook in the attic behind the chimney that you had to reach your hand in and around to get to that he was sure even his older brother was unaware of.  He had used this in the past on a couple of occasions, like once when Betsy whose last name he could never remember had given him a valentine that said things he didn’t want anyone to see.  He somehow didn’t want to throw it out either, so there was nothing else to do but hide it.  It was a printed valentine from the same box everyone’s parents bought them to hand out at school, but she had added “hope you have a happy valentine’s day” on the back in block letters and had signed it in cursive.  Perhaps he read more sentiment into it than the sender had intended, but it was still too embarrassing to be seen by others, so he hid it.  His brother was busy in the bathroom for a moment, so he took advantage of the brief moment of separation and hid the Mantle card there and returned quickly before anyone noticed his absence.  He would find several opportunities to return here again, with a flashlight, so as to assure himself the poisoned fruit was still there.

It was not until two days later that the loss of the Mantle card was discovered.  Number Seven, who technically no longer warranted the title, had made additional purchases and was eager to show the boys his new Elston Howard card.  The tiny community was somehow unaware that there was a race issue in the country, so that card was cherished as well as any other.  More so now that he was the regular catcher.  It was in the spreading out of his cards on the grass as per usual that the loss of the Mantle card was discovered.  Frantically the pile of cards was searched and searched again to no avail.  The card was gone.  There was an uncomfortable hush over the multitude not witnessed since the funeral of the alternate town drunk.  The boys had not wanted to be at that funeral and they did not want to be here now.  It was that kind of moment.  The younger brother began to sweat.  He never sweat. Some of the others looked like they were fighting back tears.  It was a community loss.  It was the only Mantle card known to exist in their whole world.  The older brother looked puzzled as he glanced at his sibling, but he did not say anything.  As usual, he took this in stride, much as he took everything else.  “It will turn up”, someone said, and then the floodgates were open, and everyone chimed in with suggestions of where it might have been left and how it would be no time until he found it.  This was followed with another search of all Number Seven’s books and jacket pockets etc.  Suddenly someone noticed what looked like tiny traces of shredded cardboard on the freshly mown grass.  There was a unified audible gasp.  All but one gasped in horror.  One gasped in relief.  It was clear what had happened.  Each shard of cardboard was examined, and some felt they saw what looked like traces of the Mick’s face.  Others thought they saw writing that could have been the stats.  It was very hard to do accurate forensics.  There was too much damage.  There was no consoling Number Seven who was understandably still in denial.  No amount of sympathy would help, and empathy was impossible.  No one had ever experienced a loss of that magnitude.  Even reassurances that Number Seven could retain his title did little to console him.  At last the bell rang and as a group they slouched back into the school, past a waiting Miss Helga, who almost looked happy.

For the days that followed, the younger brother at first seemed to become less somber, but then became more and more self-absorbed. He did not eat well and seemed less interested in things.  His older brother noticed but did not comment. His parents were dealing with issues of their own and it didn’t register with them, or perhaps they were just enjoying the reduction in barometric pressure and didn’t want to do anything to disturb the less frenetic atmosphere.

It was two weeks later that Number Seven once again found the courage to display his cards.  He had purchased several packs one day and had gotten three more Yankees, only one a duplicate.  These he displayed proudly on the grass.  The bidding for the duplicate was hot and heavy but ultimately no agreement could be reached.  When the bell rang, the younger brother stayed behind to help him pick up and walked with him back to class, his step lighter than it had been in weeks. 

Buoyed up by his recent luck, Number Seven again made purchases at the corner shop, and again he scored a new Yankee card.  As usual the group was convened at recess the next day to show off the new Johnny Blanchard card.  When he spread out the cards, there were a couple of Baltimore Oriol cards mixed in with the Yankee cards.  When he moved them out of the way, his hand stopped suddenly in midair.  There beneath the Brooks Robinson card was the Mantle Card.  “Well I’ll Be” was all he said.  There was much back pounding and excited chatter and I told you so’s. 

When the bell sounded, the group brushing past Miss Helga was completely impervious to her usual demands for proper decorum when entering the school.  The world was back on its axis.

On the trip home the younger brother rode ahead of his older sibling, circling and coming back only to ride ahead again, over and over.  He did wheelies and slides and generally acted like a colt kicking up its heels.  As they neared the house, his older brother, clearly winded, looked him in the eye and simply asked, “When did you decide to give it back?”

Four years later the two boys would be sitting in the front row of the right field bleachers in Yankee Stadium with their oldest brother, looking down at a man wearing the number 7 on his pinstriped uniform.  It would be the first and only time they would ever see him play.  It is customary when asked to divulge the happiest moment of your life to respond by mentioning your wedding day or the birth of your child…and perhaps that is so.

I’m no stranger to hiking, but I am not, or should I say, was not a backpacker…nor did the idea of becoming one really appeal to me. A year ago that changed. At a high school reunion last October, my buddy Jim was telling us about hiking the Georgia section of the Appalachian trail with his wife.  They had covered the 76 miles of trail over a few multi day hikes. As he was talking about it, I was immediately reminded of the stories my buddy Tom had told me about his time covering 800 miles of the A.T.  …the people he met, places he stopped, and the memories that he would share all with a fondness that I never really understood. Back to my reunion… at some point during the weekend Jim said he wanted to do a larger section of the trail and asked if I’d be interested in doing part of it with him.   Despite my lack of backpacking experience, my thirst for adventure took over reason, and I was all in.

For the next nine months, I started collecting the gear necessary to make such a trek, and Jim and I emailed back and forth trying to figure out the best section of the trail to tackle.   Given my vacation availability, we knew we had seven days to complete our mission. Our first thought was to cover the 100 Mile Wilderness in Maine, but logistics and work schedules quickly let us know that even if we could cover the distance in our allotted time, getting there and back was going to push us over our limit.   After more research, we finally decided on Massachusetts. The distance from the Vermont border to the Connecticut border was just over 90 miles, with a few more miles tacked on to get to trail heads put us right around 96 miles. The way the calendar worked out, it looked like the best week to do this was the last week of June.  The plan was to meet in upstate NY on Sunday the 23rd. We’d get up early on Monday and drop a car at the Connecticut end, drive to northern Massachusetts to drop the other car, and plan to be off the trail by Sunday the 30th.

Oh yeah, forgot to mention, we decided we wanted to hike Southbound, because it only makes sense that heading south should be the downhill direction.   Turns out, that logic was flawed, seriously flawed.

So there’s the backstory to how this event unfolded, let’s start hiking.

False expectations…   

Just around lunchtime on Monday, we started our hike at the Pine Cobble Trail head in Williamstown Mass.  With both of our packs weighing in around 38 lbs with everything we’d need for a week, we started the short, but steep climb up Pine Cobble Trail to reach the A.T. …and backtracked a little over a mile to get to the Vermont border to make the hike an official border to border hike.  The first couple miles were all pretty much uphill, with little or no relief. Jim and I are both pretty active. Jim being a career long military man, physical fitness was part of his regular regime, and being a self proclaimed endurance racer, I wasn’t particularly worried about my physical conditioning. But, this first stretch had us working. We’re also both somewhat obsessed with getting to our destination in short time.   The night before we had planned a couple potential spots to make camp for the first night, one was at mile marker 11, the other was at mile marker 17. At this point in our journey, expectations were running high, and despite the noon time departure, we thought we could make it the longer distance to the Mark Noepel Shelter.    We started out at a pretty aggressive clip, but we soon learned that the A.T. through Mass was no walk in the park. The trails were steep and rugged, and when we reached the Wilbur Clearing Shelter at dinner time, we decided that 11 miles was enough for day one and we were surprised to find the Lean-To empty and quickly claimed our spots on the floor.

Interesting People…

Being our first night on the trail, this was our first chance to interact with other hikers.   The campsite was buzzing with activity. There was what seemed to be, a guided hike group that was taking up several of the tent sites.   Closer to the Lean-To, there was a young couple with a pre-school aged kid and what I assumed to be one of their moms. The Dad was kind enough to let us know that it was a bad idea to pee near the water source.   I took that advice and filed it along with the “don’t eat yellow snow” tip I got in grade school and figured I was better for knowing this. Before too long, an older guy arrived and claimed the far side of the Lean-To floor, and proceeded to tell us his story.   Seems he was in poor health, and his doctor told him he had to change his ways. He decided that hiking the Appalachian Trail was the change he needed, and despite the doctor’s warning that he would not survive such a journey, here he was in our lean-to heading northbound with only a few states to go.  Jim and I were pretty relieved when he was still breathing the next morning. It was that night that we learned that bears actually understand the English language. While I was enjoying a bag of rehydrated beef stroganoff, we heard a clapping routine reminiscent of a birthday celebration at an Applebees followed by chants of “bear, go away bear, bear, go away bear”.   Out of curiosity, I left the safety of my three sided structure and made my way up to where all the commotion was taking place, only to realize that the bear actually did know English, and had run off into the forest.

Then came the rain…

We were looking forward to the next day’s hike.   We were going to summit Mt. Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts and famous for spectacular views.   Our lean-to companion, said there was a restaurant on the mountain, as there is also a road that reaches the summit.  A real breakfast in a mountain top restaurant sounded like a great idea, so we ate a lite snack at camp, and quickly got on the trail.   There had been some rain in the forecast, but we had no idea how much. We had some light rain as we approached the peak, and as we got there, we realized that we were completely immersed in the clouds and there were no views.  In fact, it was hard to see the huge lodge on the mountain top. At that point the rain was pretty heavy. We got to the restaurant and decided to wait out the rain before heading back out. According to the radar, it looked like we would be getting a good break.   After some pancakes and real maple syrup and an hour of killing time, we took advantage of the break in the weather and headed back out on the trail. No sooner did we hit the trail, and the skies opened up…and it rained, and rained, and rained some more. It rained for the next seven miles of hiking, and everything that could be soaked was soaked.   The sun came out as we reached Chesire, MA. All the way down the mountain in the cold rain, I was jonesin’ a grilled cheese sandwich. As luck would have it, we found a neat little ice cream/sandwich shop called Diane’s Twist…and right there on the menu was Grilled Cheese…and at that time, on that day, in those conditions, it may have been the best grilled cheese I had ever eaten.  We changed out our wet socks, thanked the lady at the sandwich shop for her kindness, and started hiking again. We were only about six miles from our campsite, but a missed turn added some excitement as we went off trail for about a mile before connecting back to the A.T. We spent the second night at Crystal Mountain Campsite, which is a tent only site. But, after 16 miles of trail, it was nice to not be hiking and a tent would be just fine.   However, to add insult to injury, just as we were about to enjoy some more rehydrated dinners, the rain came through again and sent everybody to their tents.

Muddy water…

The next day looked to be a nice sunny day, but everything that was wet the day before was still wet as we got ready to hit the trail.   So, after some instant oatmeal and a Starbucks Instant coffee, we put on our soggy socks and shoes and headed out to make the 16 plus mile trek to the October Mountain Shelter.  After a few muddy miles, we ended up in the town of Dalton. After asking some ladies that obviously never passed a math test in their lives, where the nearest convenience mart was, they proceeded to tell us it was a mere five houses down the road we were about to cross.   Five houses turned into about fifty and a half mile later we reached a small grocery store where we grabbed some snacks and quickly downed a couple Gatorades. The next 13 miles were nothing but mud. Some catwalks, but even those were practically under water. Every step was calculated as we tried not to submerge our already wet shoes into deep mud holes, often times failing.   We arrived at the October Mountain Shelter around 4:30PM and took advantage of the sun and put our wet clothes out to dry. The day ended up being just over 17 miles and it was a tough one. The continually wet shoes were taking a toll on my feet, and though I’ve never been one to get blisters, the soggy shoes were just too much. Being the first to the lean-to, we had our pick of spots, and we each grabbed a lower bunk.   The campsite was packed that night, and dinner was fun meeting people from many walks of life. We met a lady in her sixties who was a retired engineer and retired teacher who lives with her husband in an off-the-grid house in the Adirondacks, met a young guy that seemed to be trying to ‘find himself’ and 4 months into his trek, he seemed to be no closer, and we also met our first section hikers.

The longest day…

When we originally planned our week of hiking, we did not realize that there were no camping options except the designated campsites.  Given that, we were not able to do similar miles each day. The longest day we were going to face was day 4, which was nearly a 19 mile hike to get to the Shaker Campsite.  After an early breakfast, we hit the trails. We were happy to see that the further south we were going, the mud we dealt with the day before was nearly non existent. With the sun shining, the shoes still soggy, and a lot of miles to cover, Jim and I pushed a pretty good clip,  It seemed that after a few days on the trail, we had figured out that the trick to covering miles was to take the climbs slow and steady and make up ground where it was more ‘level’ … using that term very loosely. This was the stretch of trail that would cross the Mass Turnpike, a well known landmark for anybody that has driven it.   Somewhere along the way, we talked to some hikers that told us about a trail side stand that had snacks and drinks you could buy. Shortly after a section of trail that crossed through the middle of a cow pasture that was occupied by some mighty fine bovines, we came to a small road. It was there that we saw the little trail side stand, a small shack near a big farm.  We were greeted by packs of oreos, chips, candy bars, sodas, and other snacks…all purchased on the honor system. Great prices and a picnic table in the shade, made this the highlight of the day. A northbound hiker joined us, but the conversation was pretty light as we all devoured our pre-packaged and overly processed treats. We got to the Shaker Campsite around dinner time, where a large group of boys from the YMCA were learning what outdoor life was all about.   As the evening progressed, more and more hikers arrived, and soon it was wall to wall tents. Despite the crowd, things quieted down relatively early, and it was easy to get a good night’s sleep after a long day on the trail.

Carpenter Ants…

The next day was the shortest stretch we would cover between shelters.  We either had to do an 11 mile stretch or a 26 mile stretch, and we chose the shorter.  Though a shorter stretch, there was quite a bit of climbing. Once again we were on the trail very early and managed to get through the 11 miles by lunch time.  Though we entertained the idea of pushing on, the decision to stop for the day was perfect, and this ended up being one of the most enjoyable days on the trail.   Seems the Tom Leonard shelter is the first water stop after an extremely long stretch when heading northbound. So, there were people stopping in all day long. Now, it should be noted, that the water at this stop was nothing to brag about.  The stream was running pretty slow and full of tannins, so despite filtering, it looked like iced tea…and tasted a bit earthy. But it was cold’ish and wet. Throughout the day we met a lot of interesting people. A hiker from Germany with the best trail meal I saw all week, a few thru hikers, a small group of kids from a nearby college, and many more.   At one point a lady showed up with a cooler full of submarine sandwiches and homemade treats. She had hiked up from a nearby trailhead to meet some family members that were thru hiking. Despite my best attempt to look sad, hungry, and pathetic, I was never offered a homemade cookie. We met a young guy that was suffering from PTSD from his time in the service. He was hiking with a companion dog that an outfit in Chicago had provided to him as a therapy dog.    Then there was a guy that stumbled into camp, grunting and groaning, because he was suffering from the ill effects of a Shingles Shot he received the day before in addition to the biopsy he had on his neck that morning. Despite only being a section hiker, Jim and I questioned his logic in choosing this particular day to go hiking. Much to our surprise, he too survived the night. Even with meeting all these great people, the most memorable part of that day was when I realized that the bunk I had chosen was infested with carpenter ants.   I had wondered what the sawdust was from on my bunk when we arrived. But after I swept it off, it continued to fall all over my gear. As I climbed into my sleeping bag for the night, it was then that I then saw that there were literally thousands of carpenter ants crawling around on the frame of the bunk above me. At that point, all the other bunks were taken, so I made peace with the fact that I was going to be killed by ants and fell asleep. I lived!

Playing Santa…

The next day would be our last ‘full day’ of hiking.   It was 15 miles to the Hemlocks Shelter. We knew, from those that we met the day before, that we had a long stretch til the next water stop, so we drank up, and filled up, and headed south.  As we got to the point where water should be found, we could not find it. Fortunately we ran into a group of guys doing trail maintenance and they pointed us down a seasonal use road to a small stream.  After a refill and a quick Snickers Bar snack, we kept heading south. The next leg would be one of the steepest climbs we would encounter during the week. Switchback after switchback, we made our way out of the valley floor, and though the grade lessened towards the top, it was a continual climb all the way to our final stop on the trail, Hemlocks Shelter.  Once again, this ended up being a great day for meeting people. We met a Mom and daughter duo that collectively had hiked the A.T. about one and a half times, just out for a weekend in the woods. We met a retired biologist that went to Alaska to work on the Exxon Valdez spill and ended up staying there, and a younger guy that was between careers and decided to take a 2200 mile hike while he had the time. Knowing that we only had a short 7 mile stretch back to our car the next day, we were pretty relaxed as we had our last trail dinner.   As I was packing up for the next morning, I realized I had far more food than I needed. I decided to lighten my pack and started handing out meals, snacks, and Starbucks coffee to our new found friends. I’ve never seen anybody so excited to get a packet of Maple Almond butter or bag of instant oatmeal. With a bunk void of ants or any other known living creatures, I slept well as I dreamt of a hot meal and a hot shower that was only one day away.

Point of View…

The last seven miles would be the best views of the week.   We made our way over Mt. Everett and then up to Mt. Race where the bald top mountain offered unbelievable views both east and west.  We walked along the spine of the mountain for a ways, where the trail led us next to some pretty big drop offs down to the valley floor.   The trail then meandered down to Sages Ravine where the trail walked along fast running streams with sections of waterfalls and deep mountain pools. Before starting the ascent up Bear Mountain, an unmarked trail took us back towards our car.   To make sure we remembered that Mother Nature was clearly in control, it started to rain about one mile from the car. But, being that close to done, we just picked up the pace and quickly made our way back to the trail head.

Reflections…

As we made the drive back north, neither Jim or I could stop grinning.  We had set out to do a section of the Appalachian Trail and we had done it.  In 6 full days of hiking, we covered 96 miles, took over 229,000 steps, smelled really bad, drank some funky colored water, met some really interesting people, caught up on the three decades of life that had taken place since we had last spent that much time together, and thoroughly enjoyed nature.  We were sore and tired, couldn’t quite walk right, but it was so worth it. As we enjoyed a hearty meal and a well deserved barley pop that evening, the only thing yet to figure out was what section we wanted to cover next and how soon could we do it. I can pretty much say I don’t want to be a thru hiker, but can clearly see how it gets in the blood.   There’s something special about the simplicity of taking a hike, contrasted with the complexity of actually completing that hike. When you are on the trail, everything you have to make it through is in the pack on your back, and there’s something very exciting about that. You don’t have any idea what may come your way, and you have to be prepared to deal with whatever it is.  I only got to taste that for one week, but that’s all I need to know that I loved it and want more of it. 

Things to take, things to eat, and things to know…

Though I’m no backpacking veteran, I will share some info on the Gear, Food, and Resources I used both before and during my hike.

Top Gear…

I’m no gear expert, but this is the gear I used.  I was pretty happy with most of my choices. My MSR TrailShot water filter slowed to a crawl on day 4, so that will be replaced.   I didn’t really need a 65L pack but loved the Osprey Atmos, so I downsized to the Osprey Atmos 50L which will save me some bulk and about 6 ounces.  I also dropped the Cold Steel Finn Wolf for a lighter Spyderco Dragonfly which is a couple ounces lighter and less bulky. My total base weight (all non consumables) was right around 22lbs, which isn’t even considered light weight, let alone UltraLight, but was not horrible and with the changes I’ve already made and more in store, I’m working on ways to reduce that weight by a few pounds.

• Pack:   Osprey Atmos AG 65 with Osprey Rain Cover
• Tent:  Big Agnes Copper Spur UL1 Tent with Big Agnes Ground Cloth
• Sleeping Bag:  Kelty Cosmic Down 40
• Sleeping Pad:  Sea to Summit Ultralite Mat
• Pillow:   Sea to Summit Aeros Pillow Ultralight
• Butt Pad:  Therm-a-Rest Z-Seat Pad
• Stove:  Snowpeak LiteMax Stove
• Cookware:  GSI Outdoors Pinnacle Soloist Cookset
• Spoon:  Toaks Titanium Long Handle Spoon
• Food Bag:  Seat to Summit evac Dry Sack 13L
• Coffee Mug:  GSI Outdoors Infinity Backpacker Mug
• Water Filter:  MSR TrailShot Pocket-Sized Water Filter
• Water Bottles:  Smart Water Bottles
• Battery Charger:  Anker PowerCore 10000 Portable Charger
• HeadLamp:  Black Diamond Spot325 Headlamp
• FirstAid:  Adventure Medical Kits Ultralight/Watertight .5 Medical Kit
• Shovel:  Deuce of Spades
• Hiking Poles:  L.L. Bean Ridge Hiker Compact  [Komperdell]
• Knives:  Swiss Army Classic & Cold Steel Finn Wolf
• Other:  Compass, Zip Lock Baggies, Lighter, Matches, Paracord, Compactor Bag, Carabiner, Bug Spray, Compact Towel, Sun Screen, Cables, Extra Batteries, Toiletries

Food Facts…

My food choices worked out pretty well.   I was a little heavy on ‘meal’ type food and a little lite on ‘snack’ type foods.   I also learned that Tortilla’s are the bomb. Cover them with some PB&J or pre-made Tuna and you have a great meal.   The guy we met from Germany covered a tortilla with sliced cheese and pepperoni and rolled it into the best Pizza Log on the A.T.  That will be in my pack next time. For my next hike, I will bring more smaller items. I’m a big fan of coffee, and the Starbucks Via instant coffee was perfect.   I’d drink it hot in the morning and night, and would often mix it with cold water for an ‘iced coffee’ experience as a midday pick-me-up.

• Tortillas
• Peanut Butter / Almond Butter Packets
• Jelly Packets
• Tuna Packets
• Ramen Noodles
• Mountain House Dinners and Breakfasts
• PopTarts
• Clif Bars (and other assorted energy bars)
• Candy Bars
• Oatmeal
• Dehydrated fruits
• Beef Jerky
• Nuts
• M&M’s
• GNU Tablets
• Starbucks Via Instant Coffee

Resources…

A book that you will see on the trail is the A.T. Guide by David AWOLMiller. It documents the whole trail including landmarks, campsites, water sources, and other useful info.  Just remember to buy the guide that matches the direction you plan to hike (Northbound/Southbound).

Before my hike, I did a bunch of YouTube watching to get ideas from other hikers.  My three favorites were Darwin On The Trail, Homemade Wanderlust, and Dan Becker. They each brought a unique perspective on hiking, food, gear, clothes, and what they learned on their trips. 

Here are the links to their Youtube Channels:  

The Guthook App is a great phone app that uses your phone’s GPS to track where you are on the trail and also has key info like water stops and campsites.   It requires no cell coverage. You do have to purchase the maps for the sections you plan to hike, but it’s not very expensive, and it’s a great app. It was this app that helped us navigate back to the trail when we got off track.

Other Trail Notes…

The campsites throughout Massachusetts are really nice.   The tent sites were nice and flat, or they had pressure treated platforms where it wasn’t.  The Lean-Tos seemed to be in good order. Each site was equipped with a bear box and a privy, keeping both eaten and uneaten food in a safe and contained spot.

What’s in a Trail Name…

I had heard that most hikers on the A.T. have a trail name. Seems a lot of times that is a name given to a hiker from those they hike with, others are self chosen. Being a section hiker, I wasn’t really sure if I was worthy of such a thing, and pretty much went by the name on my birth certificate for the duration of the hike. A mishap that occurred at the first trail head, before we took even one step, where the button blew off my hiking shorts and was replaced by a safety pin for the week almost earned me the name “Safety Pin”…but it seemed to need too much explaining, and I just stuck with Craig.