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).