Penn's Woods

A few days ago I spent the night at the William Penn Shelter. My time there gave me pause to think about my last few days walking through William's (former) woods, and what a time it has been.

There are a few things that should not go unsaid. Tera was with me for many of my Pennsylvania days, and that made everything brighter. In fact, it was in PA where we were able to revisit Pole Steeple, where I proposed, almost six years earlier. In addition, after a mid-morning snack in Pen Mar Park, we crossed the railroad tracks that marked the PA-MD state line, and that meant we were treading on familiar turf. In a sentiment echoed throughout my Virginia miles, growing up in PA left me eager to reach this familiar ground. It felt good to be "home."

Pennsylvania also pulled back the curtain on a variety of edible plants that, if not abundantly available, were just on the cusp. That meant afternoon snacking on blueberries, blackberries, teaberries, mulberries, and rather tasteless wild strawberries. There were also a number of unveiled wildflowers, a selection of which included indian pipe, bird's foot trefoil, everlasting pea, moth mullein, and pasture rose.

That being said, not everything was rosy north of the Mason-Dixon. Water sources were farther apart, necessitating me to carry more on my back at any given time. It was also hot and humid, even downright muggy. The moisture and heat led to an insect population explosion and these bugs quickly made their presence known. There were the small gnats that made it their mission to float around in front of my eyes, seemingly desperate for a swim in my occular fluid. Then there were the larger blood-drawing gnats that hovered by my ears, content to let their buzzing slowly drive me insane. And of course there were the flies - horse flies in particular - who aggressively dive bombed my head and face; they were easy enough to swat, but that only amplified their aggression until things quickly escalated into a match of kill or be forever dive-bombed. Need I mention the no-see-ums and mosquitoes?

Alongside these swarming annoyances were the spiders and worms. The orb-weaver spiders love to spin their webs across the trail, often right at eye level. As such it was a common occurance for me to peel back these sticky filaments from my face, hands and arms. The worms presented a similar hazard as they dropped from tree limbs dangling from their woven spindles, hanging in the direct path of oncoming hikers. Yes, each suspended worm meant another sticky face-full.

Aside from the insect life, there were the rocks. Not only were there were lots of them, but they were packaged in a variety of arrangements. Most commonly there were the rocks casually strewn about the trail. While these weren't particularly troubling, they would still catch hikers unaware. If they found someone walking while paying more attention to the gnats, mosquitoes, webs, and flowers than to watching where he or she was stepping, the rocks would quickly conspire to trip up the distracted walker. Even a mildly rocky trail demands a hiker's focused attention.

From there you graduate to the "riverbed rocks." Here, the trail resembles a dried up riverbed, with various sized rocks scattered about, and the walking is both painful and precarious. Painful because these rocks love to dig deeply into the ball of your foot as you step; precarious because these rocks are prone to shift and roll underneath a foot placement, putting an ankle through its paces. Once a hiker stumbles, the recovery may not be very pretty.

From there the rocks grow dramatically in size and scale. Whether scree fields or massive boulders sunk deep into the heart of a mountain, new challenges are presented. For example, there were two "rock mazes" that sent hikers scrambling up, down, over and around ridge-line rock formations. Or, coming up from the Lehigh river out of Palmerton, a hiker has to navigate a steep scree field that requires two fourth-class climbs. That means both one's feet and hands are needed, making the risk of a fall increase dramatically.

So, Pennsylvania has been rocky and buggy, but it has also been enjoyable. As I sit here in the Delaware Water Gap I will be saying farewell to this state tomorrow, and will press on. But I will press on knowing this: I have LESS than 900 miles to go, and triple digits sound pretty good. In fact, I first reached triple digits during my stay at the William Penn Shelter, which let me sleep on 999.8 miles to Katahdin.

A Journey of a Thousand Miles

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step," says an ancient Chinese proverb. My journey of two thousand miles started in just the same way. And now, a long way north of where I began, I have stumbled across a corollary to that proverb: A journey of a thousand miles must cross its halfway point. For me, that was a thousand-mile journey in and of itself.

Not many people can say they have walked one thousand miles in a single hike. That in itself is an impressive feat. Even so, it remains a bit daunting to think that if I turned around now, I would be hiking just as far back to Springer Mountain as if I continued north to Katahdin. All the excitement of reaching mile marker 1090.5 is tempered by the knowledge that I have to do what I just did all over again, only in hotter weather with more mosquitoes.

That being said, there is one important difference between my first thousand miles and my second. When I started this hike, I didn't know how far I could go. I left Springer with the hope of reaching Katahdin, but also knowing that I may not. Now, I look ahead to Katahdin knowing that I still have a long way to go, but I am also well aware of exactly what it will take. More to the point, I know that because I did it once, I can do it again -- and I have confidence that I will.

In time, I hope to discover a second corollary to that proverb: A journey of a thousand miles ends with a single step. And what a step it will be.

Here's to getting halfway there!

Making History in Harpers

It was six days ago that I crossed the Shenandoah river into Harpers Ferry, a date that will be penned into the history books as the sixth day of the sixth month of the Year of Our Lord 2011. A student of history would also know that the arrival took place after sixty-six days of life on the trail. A student of trivia would impress you with the fact that had I hiked six more miles I would have found myself in my sixth state since starting this walk. And a student of Dent family history would tell you that I arrived on my grandfather's birthday, and it is largely because of him that I am able to do this hike at all.

History aside, I will have you know that I have chosen to disregard the obvious numerological implications of a legion of sixes coincident with my arrival. You may have expected me to say I saw possessed swine thundering away en masse as I neared town. I didn't. I also didn't see a seven-headed, ten-horned, blasphemous-named beast emerge from the river waters as I passed. What is notable is that on the sixth day I arrived in Harpers Ferry, and on the seventh day I rested.

On one hand, getting to Harpers Ferry fell into the usual rhythm of hiking: waking up, walking, and wandering into town as one is found along the way. On the other hand, entering this historic town was a significant accomplishment. First, Harpers Ferry is the first town a northbound hiker walks through after reaching the one thousand mile mark. That's right, my weary legs have carried me over a thousand miles since I began, and they have earned a sabbath; my sore feet are are eagerly looking past a sabbath to the "year of jubilee" when I'll break from hiking for a longer time after reaching Mount Katahdin.

Second, Harpers Ferry is the "mental" halfway point of the trail. Hikers who don't reach town by the Fourth of July must seriously consider hitching a ride to Maine, climbing Mount Katahdin, and finishing the trail by hiking south back to Harpers Ferry. If they don't, they run the risk of difficult winter weather and/or Baxster State Park (where Katahdin is found) being closed. It would be quite anti-climactic to reach Maine only to be able to look at Katahdin from a distance, wishing for what could have been, longing to stand on the summit. I'm thankful to have reached Harpers with time to spare ... and rest.

So reaching Harpers Ferry is, in the spirit of the place, historic. Maybe not for you, but for me. And it feels good, not only because I can look back on a sizable collection of white blazes passed, but because I have the confidence that I will see a sizable amount more.

But first, I will take my seventh-day rest and enjoy a day off the trail with family. As I rolled into Harpers Ferry my wife, Tera, and my dad were waiting for me near Jefferson Rock. My mom was lingering nearby, too, listening for the sounding trains as they lumbered down the tracks. Upon arrival I registered as the 328th northbound thru-hiker at the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters, and then it was off to dinner, a shower, cotton clothes, and a real bed.

The next day all I did was kick up my feet and relax. After all, it was the seventh day (of June).