thru-hiker

Worst Case Scenario

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Winter Wonderland

Winter Wonderland

The range of winter weather in the southern Appalachian Trail and mountains ranges from pleasantly mild to bitter cold with heavy snow.

The Great Smoky Mountain National Park is both noted as the home of the highest peak east of the Mississippi (Clingman’s Dome – 6,643 ft.) but probably more so for its terrible winter weather.  Just this week a group of ill-prepared hikers required rescue from the cold and snow. http://www.weather.com/video/hikers-rescued-in-snowstorm-42994?

With facts like these in mind, I re-evaluated my winter kit over the holidays.

When I left the trail to celebrate Christmas with my family, my basic sleeping system, due to my distance runner’s stature, was based on a woman’s Sierra Designs woman’s dry down 25 degree bag supplemented by “puffy” down booties, pants and two down jackets sized to fit inside one another.

I am a warm sleeper and reasoned that the sleeping bag was good to at least 20 degrees F in my case.  With the booties, pants and jackets I figured that I could get to -10 F comfortably.  A zero degree night of borderline comfort proved me wrong.

So, I resurrected my zero degree 70’s vintage, but weighty, Holubar sleeping bag .  Holubar was bought by North Face decades ago, for the record.

Please don’t misunderstand.  I adore winter hiking and camping.  To be redundant, it’s unique and there’s nothing like it.  To be selfish, this week I spent four days on the AT and guess how many other hikers I saw?  Zero!  The AT was mine alone for that time.  Not a human track anywhere.

I enjoy company on the trail, but those who have thru hiked during the crowded traditional hiker season may appreciate what it means to have the trail and the woods, not to mention every shelter and privy all to one’s self.  It’s an amazing experience and privileged access to a treasured public accommodation not to be lightly dismissed.

When I hit the trail on Tuesday, I knew that the weather forecast for Thursday and Friday was ominous. As I ‘misunderstood’ it, the chance of rain on Thursday was 40 percent with an 80 percent chance of snow on Friday.  The bottom was supposed to drop out of the thermometer Friday night.  I was only slightly off.

Knowing it “might” rain on Thursday, January 2, I prepared appropriately.  When I bounded away from Thomas Knob Shelter, I was ‘armored up’ in rain gear including waterproof mitten shells and my new (and third) pack cover was battened down with a cat 5 hurricane in mind.

What foresight, if I do say so myself.  Ever seen a cow urinate on a flat rock?  That’s how the rain let loose about five steps after I jumped out of the shelter door!

Bam!!! I was swimming in the soup.  The volume varied, but the precipitation didn’t let up all day as my boots squished steadily southward across White Top Mountain in the direction of Damascus. The going was slow.

Here’s the good news and bad news.  First the bad.  The temperature all day hovered around 32 degrees.  The ground remained frozen. As proof, I nearly crashed and burned crossing a gravel parking lot glazed with a hidden layer of slick black ice.  On the positive side, my rain gear and base layer did their jobs.  I arrived in camp in very good shape considering.

I had hoped for a 24 mile day.  If I could do that, I’d be in Damascus by noon Friday and home Friday evening.  That was not to be.  Oh well, flexibility is a key to happy hiking.

At 4:30 p.m. I made Lost Mountain Shelter.  The temp was dropping and the rain was just beginning to mix with snow.  With my quota still six miles away, I realized that I’d be night hiking yet again.  This time with early darkness caused by the cloud cover, it would mean almost three murky hours in sleet and snow.

The decision to stop for the night was a no-brainer.  I was fatigued from the previous two tough days.  Given the day’s rain volume, who knows how heavy the snow might become.  Headlamps penetrate snow no better than car headlights see through fog.  The trail bed was icy in spots.  Check dams can form frozen skating rinks in winter.  Not safe.  Time to check my ambition at the door and brake for sanity.

Good decision.  The shelter was clean and in good repair with convenient amenities thanks to the local trail club volunteers. The spring and privy were handy.  The setting was aesthetically pleasing.  It doesn’t get better than that on the AT.

It also was nice to have extra time to settle in.  I wouldn’t have to cook or set up my bedroll by headlamp.  As the curtain of darkness smothered the landscape, my appetite was satiated and I rolled into my sleeping bag. It was around 6 p.m.  Hiker midnight is a relative condition… set at any time you want if you’re solo.

Since the previous two nights bottomed out in the low 20s, I expected the trend to continue because my understanding was that the super cold would arrive overnight on Friday.  By then I could now anticipate being comfortably ensconced once again at Crazy Larry’s.  Accordingly I chose to wear fewer layers and not don my down pants or booties.  I did, as I habitually do, tuck into bed with me a liter of water, a butane canister and a pair of mittens.  Since it was time to change socks, I put on fresh liners and socks.

I fell asleep almost immediately.  When I winked out, rain drops were still tapping the shelter’s tin roof.  In time nature called.  Without glasses I glanced at my watch.  I thought it read 5:30 a.m.  I felt like I’d slept through the night.  That would be a record.  As I parked my glasses on my nose to confirm the time, I realized it was only 9:30 p.m.  Oops!

The weather was calm.  The rain had stopped.  Not much snow was falling.  The temperature was moderate.  I plugged in my iPod to a vintage radio playlist and drifted off to an episode of “Richard Diamond, Private Detective.”

Ever imagined what sleeping next to a thousand-car freight train at full speed sounds like?  That thought jerked me awake around 11:15 p.m. as the wind howled and trees cracked and groaned.  Thank you Benton MacKaye for imagining shelters built like military bunkers.

The snow was swirling like icy diamond dust as it sprinkled my face with surrealistic pin pricks.  I cinched down the opening to my sleeping bag to the size of  grapefruit.  My nose was colder than I could remember it being for a long time, yet my body was toasty.  Back to sleep.

The wind kept blasting away.  Falling branches and trees served as multiple alarm clocks trough the night.  My exposed nose-o-meter sensed remarkably lower temperatures.  What layers should I wear tomorrow if this continues, I worried?  That the next day’s destination, 18.5 miles away, was Damascus was the saving grace.  With that in mind, I reasoned I could gut through most anything.

A sudden silence awakened me around 5:30 a.m.  The driving wind stopped like Mother Nature flipped a switch.  Check.  The front moved on.  One problem solved.  Extreme wind chill was out of the wardrobe and safety equation.  Amen!

Knowing I had big miles to go, I was up and moving well before six.  As I stumbled to the privy in rock hard boots, the light powdery snow squeaked and crunched.  Oh oh.  It’s colder than I thought.  Snow doesn’t make that sound unless it’s 10 F or colder.

The thermometer on my pack read -15 F.  The bottom had fallen out a day earlier than I expected.  In spite of all that, I was comfortable through the night without the benefit of my full kit.  The added tonnage on my back paid its dividend.

Think about it.  At 4:30 p.m. the previous evening, the rain had soaked all my exposed equipment.  My pack straps, nylon webbing, including my trekking poles, had been thoroughly dunked.  How about my rain jacket and rain cover?  Oh boy!

I’d hung my gear up in hopes that dripping and some evaporation would occur before everything froze.  As every professional manager knows, hope is not a method.  By morning everything was crunchy to say the least.  What an understatement.

This is the worst case scenario that I have seriously worried about since contemplating a thru hike.   What happens when hikers get soaked right before the temperature crashes to a dangerous level?  At -15 F, skin freezes on contact with any material that rapidly conducts heat.  Frostbite and hypothermia are clear and present dangers.  You can be serious trouble before you even know it.

Fortunately I have profited from previous soakings.  In those cases, luckily timed town stops saved my bacon as I slopped thoroughly waterlogged beyond imagination into Erwin, Tenn. and Damascus, Va.  This time, the cargo compartment of my pack was dry inside and out.  The base layer I was wearing dried out because it was only damp with sweat.  The waterproof mitten shells worked.  For redundancy’s sake, back up gloves, mittens, socks and a base layer were in the ready rack if need be.

When it is seriously cold, everything takes at least twice as long.  After unzipping my sleeping bag, I slipped on my glove liners; then my mittens.  You never want bare skin to touch anything.  When I needed dexterity to stuff cargo sacks or manipulate zippers and the like, I took off the mittens.  When the task was complete I jammed my hands back into the mittens until they warmed up again.  Only then did I attempt the next task.

The valve on my NeoAir was frozen shut.  Why not?  Breath is full of water vapor.  Only bare hands could wrench it open.  That smarted.

Once the pack was set, the real adventure unfolded.  Everything that had been exposed to rain was stiff and solid.  Think of a pack harness forged of wrought iron.  Board-like straps didn’t slide in buckles.  The frozen-solid rain jacket stood up by itself.  The straps on my trekking poles which had been hung on a peg resembled rabbit ears…

Fortunately, I always loosen the laces on my boots before bed.  If I had known just how cold it would get, I would have put them inside my sleeping bag.  Thanks to the thick dry socks, my feet never got cold in spite of wearing icy boots.  Walking saved the day.  Gaiters kept the snow off my socks and out of my boots.

The snap, crackle and pop sounds of Rice Crispies echoed off the walls as I struggled into my gear. Had you been there, you would have had to pardon my occasional “french” expletives.

The shelter faded behind me around 8:30 a.m.  Not bad considering.  As the day unfolded, body heat thawed the equipment, the straps loosened, and everything ultimately began to fit properly.

The day’s high hovered around 5 above.  My water bottle even got slushy inside my jacket.  That NEVER happened at -20 in northern Minnesota!  I had different and a heavier outer layer then which may account for the difference.

The day and trail itself were awesome.  Brilliant sun reflected off a snow frosted landscape.  The tracks on the pristine path read like a story book with Br’er Rabbit and his pals eluding foxes and bobcats.  Wild boar and deer made their separate grocery shopping trips.  Guess what?  No bear tracks.  That was a surprise.

I’m home now in preparation to fly with my daughter to Colorado on family matters.  I can’t wait to get back on the trail.  As for future weather? We’ll see.

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SOBO is the loneliest number

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I met a lot of SOBO (Southbound AT hikers) during my recent two week hike on the Appalachian Trail.  But with the exception of the large Millennial flash mob at Pinefield Hut, they were few and far between.

As I met southbounders along the trail, they were eager to talk and enjoy a little company.  We always exchanged the usual trail intel – water sources, was Shenandoah allowing thru hikers to pass through, trail conditions, etc.  Yet beyond that, they all said theirs was a lonely hike.  They just didn’t see that many people.

It was always best to meet up with SOBOs at shelters.  Then we had the time to enjoy each other’s company.  Usually they were by themselves.  On two occasions, other than the flash mob, there were two or three.  At Gravel Springs I ran into a thoughtful young man on a post high school gap year.  Joining us was a PhD student in cultural geography and his Spanish girlfriend from Madrid. 

On that evening and again at breakfast, we had stimulating discussions about books we’d read in common, what America was like in comparison to expectations, and we exchanged a few quips in Spanish.  BTW, the American standout was the abundance and types of wildlife.  Think real black bears in the wild – no bars, no barriers, no zoo.  Very cool to a European.

Mostly I encountered about one SOBO per day, usually a day apart from one another.  I’d always tell them who was ahead of them and how far.  A couple of them said they were trying to catch up with people.  The encounters with hikers whose blogs I’ve followed was especially sweet. 

Southbounders have a certain advantage.  Weather tends to be better, especially once they’re out of New England.  They get to avoid most of the heat, insects and the worst of the cold weather. The shelters and hostels aren’t crowed either.

There’s one thing nobody figured on.  Everybody said the trail magic ended as soon as the last NOBO bubble past them by.  It was like nobody cared anymore.  They were alone.  SOBO and solo.  I was saddened.  They were missing the best parts of the AT experience. 

Sisu – Making tracks.

The Benefit of Fitness

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Thirty-seven lbs. in a 40 liter pack – ugh!

 

Visions of history’s great force marches gnawed at my mind as I set out on my last training hike. This hike was deliberately designed to test my limits. 

I constantly reminded myself that my efforts and challenges were a cakewalk in comparison to the distances both armies frequently marched during the Civil War on some of the very ground upon which I was walking. 

The suffering and horror of Bataan or Napoleon’s retreat from Russia were beyond imagination or reasonable comparison.

In this context, my hike was easy.  Why, I pondered, do so many people physically succumb and drop out of their thru hike attempts?  I learned some about why that happens and would like to share it with you.

The test I created was a simple worse case scenario.  I would hike 160 miles in two weeks carrying my full winter kit and 14 days worth of food.  While knowing resupply was easy, I chose to be self-contained and heavy on purpose, just to learn how my body would handle the stress of the extra weight.

In the beginning by total pack weight was 37 lbs.  That wasn’t a monkey on my back, it was a full grown gorilla!  Jane Goodall would have been proud.  As I ate the weight down I expected some relief, but Mother Nature had other malevolent ideas. 

I ate weight, but Momma Nature countered by turning up the heat.  As I basted in my own sweat, my mind played games with my head.  I obsessed about and deeply resented the useless weight imposed by my winter base layer, the 20 degree  sleeping bag and the now useless puffy down jacket.  My clothing bag came to weigh as much as a black smith’s anvil.  Thank heaven there were no hiker boxes around tempting me to off-load a little superfluous mass.

As it was, I pushed to finish one day early in order to beat a tropical storm.  Doing that involved three consecutive 15s and one 20-mile day in 88 – 90 degree temps. Good training for summer weather I thought – fortunately minus most of the blood sucking insects.

The good news is that the time spent pushing myself to near nausea in the weight room with my trainers at Fitness Together paid off in spades. 

This hike was harder than imagined, but thanks to my weight training and running, strength and endurance were never issues.  In fact, I was able to keep pushing hard at the end of several painful and frustrating days.

Age-imposed limitations are the bad news.  After it was over, three full days elapsed before I could even contemplate resuming hiking.  The message there is that I essentially gained nothing by force marching for 13 days.  Zero mileage days actually gain time in the future. 

Today, one week after finishing, my knees are still sore.  The extra weight in my pack conspired with rocky downhill slopes to impose maximum stress on them.  Trekking poles helped some, but not enough.  I vowed that my total pack weight will never exceed 25 lbs. again, no matter what, when or why.

As the hike wore on, small aches and pains asserted themselves.  My calves wanted to cramp no matter how much I drank.  A muscle in the middle of my back decided to go on strike.  My triceps got sore from pushing and lifting myself up with my poles.  My glutes staged 60s-style protests.  I developed a stiff neck from sleeping the wrong way.  Joy was everywhere.

The object lesson is that a zero (rest day) about every fifth day would be optimal.  Zeroing at least once every seven days is mandatory for me.  Otherwise, my body will start rapidly breaking down.  Good to know now while there is still time to plan before the main event begins.

Without the extra fitness level, I would have been screwed. It is good to know, however, that I am able to push as hard, far and fast as necessary if need be.  It’s not too late for anyone hiking in 2014 to get in better shape.  Training hikes help, but weight training, boot camp fitness or cross fit under the supervision of a coach/personal trainer can impressively improve your odds of success.  Think of it as insurance.

The reason I suggest coaching, if you can afford the investment, is that most folks profit from the expertise they offer and their ability to maximize the benefit of your workouts.  For months mine have been specifically designed for hiking and they paid off.  For example, box jumps with weights are perfect training for high-stepping up stone steps and over ledges or big boulders.

And now some breaking news.  Plans have changed for my next training hike.  Roadrunners often train on the same course upon which they will race to gain familiarity.  I’m hoping this rule of thumb applies to hiking.

On October 25th class of ’14 member Mary “Hey Man!” Manley and I will begin hiking the 165 miles from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Fontana Village, North Carolina.  She’s a recently retired nurse.  We’ll travel at her pace and on her schedule.  After reviewing “Baltimore Jack’s” notes, I think about five days worth of grub is the most I’ll ever need on this stretch. 

Not sure how it will go, but we’ll let you know how two retired folks do and will share what we learn from our individual age, gender and hiker perspectives.  You can follow Mary’s blog on WordPress and Trail Journals.

Sisu – Making tracks.

Stink Bugs + Notebook Odds and Ends

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 Avoiding stink bugs at Dick’s Dome Shelter

 

Some days you get the bears, and some days the bears get you. 

Day nine of my hike was the most difficult.  Hard rocks (Aren’t they all?) punctuated most of the day and I had a lot of miles to log.  A little bit of serendipity want a long way, and on balance, I got is good as I gave.

If you read my blog post on music, you know that I’ve given it a lot of attention.  Three times on day nine, music lifted my spirits and lightened my load. 

The first musical magic was Willy Nelson singing  “A Little Bit of Karma” just as the trail leveled out after a long steep climb.  I muttered a weary thanks to Karma, my 2013 thru hiker friend, for her kindly intervention.  This woman has certain super powers.  Could she be a saint, I wondered?  Then, just as soon as the song finished, the trail turned upward again. 

Not much later, John Denver crooned “Country Roads” just as the blue hills of West Virginia hung on the horizon.  I sang along. After all, West Virginia was destination and it would be “almost heaven” when I got there.

Better yet, a couple of hours later, as I worked my way up Pass Mountain with twilight close behind, Hanna Montana uplifted my stride with “The Climb.”  Music saved the day.

Needless to say, after day nine, my feet ached, but not as much as they might have.  My podiatrist made me special orthotics to protect against plantar fasciitis.  They are worth the investment.  They did need an adjustment to widen the heel cup on the left one.  Once it’s back from the lab, I’ll be back agitating AT gravel. 

The first thing I heard a southbounder complained about was stink bugs.  This surprised me because I didn’t recall anyone complaining about them on Trail Journals.  The further north I got, the more prevalent these nosy pests became. 

When I reached the Tom Floyd shelter at mid day, hundreds of them had taken up residence.  A day later I set my tent up inside Dick’s Dome so I could get a peaceful night’s sleep.  Precautions aside, a couple of dead ones fell out of my pack as I emptied it back home.  I’ve got a bad feeling about these guys fellow fourteeners.

Electronics and storage batteries became a challenge.  My 10.5 amp hour storage battery failed for the second time.  I had to heavily ration my phone and iPod batteries.  I did get to charge them at waysides and Bear’s Den.  However, I wasn’t able to blog or take many photos with my phone, or listen to my iPod except for an hour or two at night. I’m working on the fix.

Phone battery hell.  Temps around 40 on the first few mornings played hell with my phone battery, cutting the charge from 50 percent to zero.  I was surprised at this level of sensitivity to cold.  All I had to do was warm it back up, but figuring out how to keep it next to my body in the much colder temps next spring is a must.  Batteries like to be comfortable.

Last, my wife and I developed a system for staying in touch, not knowing how reliable phone service or email might be.  At each opportunity I texted her the AWOL guide NOBO mileage number as I passed landmarks and had phone service.  A simple 968.3 was easier to get through on one bar than something more complicated.  While I couldn’t always text my final daily location, we never went more that 12 hours being out of touch.

Stolen Sign Epiphany

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I lunched today with two fantastic southbound thru hikers, a couple of folks from the great state of Tennessee.  Their blog on www.trailjournals.com is so creative, I just had to meet them.

Since Maine, they’ve been living for the day when they’d slide south of the Mason-Dixon line and return to the land of sweet tea, mac and cheese, biscuits and gravy, and almighty grits. 

We met at my usual spot in Harpers Ferry.  The Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters is like a temple where thru hikers memorialize their hike with an official photo that is filed in the official data base forever.  They can bring their kids back decades later, open the book, and there they are in full glory.  There’s even a copy to be found on line, so you don’t actually have to visit.

As I drove in, I couldn’t miss them.  There they were marching up the hill distinguished by their bright orange pack covers.  The international orange pack jackets are supposed to protect hikers from deer hunters figuring no one would ever confuse a deer with a traffic cone – would they?

After the obligatory introductions and photo ceremony, we headed out for lunch in the historic district where John Brown’s raid on the arsenal and some anecdotal civil war history happened.

We found a eclectic eatery nestled in a house erected in the early 1800s.  We settled into a cozy patio carved from the rocky cliff behind the house.  Shaded on a hot day, it was nice.

The conversation superseded pouring over the menu, so we ordered on the fly. 

I need to digress a bit.  I have lived enough in the south to be an honorary southerner with certain southern culinary habits.  I like all of the aforementioned southern delicacies, and often substitute them for haute cuisine. 

Back to the story.  It wasn’t until I ordered sweet tea that my guests fully realized they were back on Confederate territory.  You see, someone has stolen the sign demarking the Mason – Dixon Line.  Without that reminder, who knew!

A quick check of the menu revealed mac and cheese and most of the other great southern dishes.  So, there they were.  Hike only half way done, but almost all the way home.

Trooper and Number 2, thanks for letting me have a tiny share of your most excellent adventure.  Godspeed.

The Value of Zero

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Some people know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.  That’s the rap on more than a few of the bean counters out there in the business world.

It’s a fact: 1 x 0 = 0.  That equals nothing, nada, zilch, zip, empty, nil, naught, nix, nicht, and without value.   It follows that 2 x 0 = 0 and so on.  So, zero’s worthless?  Don’t kid yourself.  On the AT a zero can be priceless.  A zero can save your hike.

Recently a hiker I’ve been following wrote a blog post embroidered with frustration and punctuated by despair.  It wasn’t unlike dozens we’ve seen in all seasons this year when hikers have reached their wits end.  Cold, heat, sow, rain, mud, bugs, discomfort and falls all add up.  My hiker friend, who has anonymity, was ready to cash it in and go home. 

Enough was enough.  The rain, mud, bugs and all finally added up.  But no, that wasn’t enough.  Then came the fall. It wasn’t the first, but this one was serious – a faceplant into a rock.  There was blood, and it hurt – a lot.  I was heartbroken for my friend.

Every hiker has an inner reservoir of mental resilience much like a checkbook balance. The balance ebbs and flows as a hike unfolds. 

Debits are obviously related to cumulative experiences with rain, cold, heat, snow, rain, plague, mud, fatigue, hunger, aches and pains, etc. 

Deposits come in many forms – trail magic, hot showers, town food, trail angels, new friends, and cool experiences, etc.  Everyone tries to keep the balance in positive territory.

My friend was in a mental overdraft situation – out of gas and without the will to even take another step.  Worse yet, there were no zeros on the schedule and the nearest exit was literally in the middle of nowhere, and probably the most austere “trail town” there is with a hostel.  Its only claim to fame is jewelry literally made out of dung and we’re not talkin’ buffalo chips!  Think of it as the only fly-over burg on the whole AT.

Then a miracle happened (Enter deus ex machina.)  in the form of two unplanned zero days (2×0) notable for the hostel owner’s generous hospitality and remarkably spiked with the company of a gaggle of friendly hikers who showed up to duck some nasty storms. 

Gently stir (not shake) it up over a couple of days and guess what?  Total rejuvenation.  Mental over haul complete!  Back on the trail and ready for the next challenge. 

 Cue the bugles.  Charge!  Never quit on a bad day, right?

 Who says zero has no value?  Sometimes a zero or two can be the difference between success and failure.  What’s that worth?

 

Cool Rocks. Bad Trail. Hoodlums’ Mission: Fix it.

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Hiking trails are like smart phone aps. Sometimes they need to be up-graded. Unlike phone aps, you can’t just punch up the ap store and push a button.

Upgrading a hiking trail is hard work. Normal maintenance such as weeding, clearing blowdowns, and repairing check dams and water bars only maintains the status quo. Adding features takes it to a whole new level. This is the story behind a trail upgrade that changed everything.

The Appalachian range is chock full of remarkable rock formations. Many of these iconic nature works are on the Appalachian Trail (AT) itself which has been purposefully routed so hikers can appreciate them. Others are nearby on side trails marked by blue blazes.

One blue blaze you hardly notice passing by crosses the AT on Compton’s Peak in Shenandoah National Park (SNP). It leads to a delightful, and one of the more geologically interesting columnar basalt formations in the eastern U.S. It’s well worth a look.

Compton Peak columnar basalt formation.

Compton Peak columnar basalt formation.

Better yet, the trail intersection is about a mile south of the Compton Gap parking lot on Skyline Drive. It’s an easy approach hike to the top of Compton Peak. With the side trail, it’s a snappy 2.5 mile round trip. Wow! Let’s go.

Not so fast. – literally. The blue blaze was not only steep, but was treacherous featuring spring-saturated mud-covered boulders and unstable talus on the final half. Not fun to hike and an easy way to turn an ankle or worse.

That’s a problem. The solution: Send in the Hoodlums.

By way of full disclosure, the Hoodlums aren’t criminals. This grubby group of trail maintainers just looks that way. In real life they’re educated professionals who love the AT, Shenandoah National Park. They volunteer their time, sweat and energy to protect and maintain them for everyone to enjoy.

The moniker came by way of an unknown tourist in SNP. When she saw a gang of filthy, tired folks staggering out of the woods, she was overheard observing that they looked like a bunch of “hoodlums” to her, and a brand was born.

Over three hard days last week, a Hoodlum crew of seven led by three National Park Service pros proved that rolling rock isn’t always a brand of beer as we pried, pushed, rolled, dragged, levered, and pounded chunks of basalt, some weighing hundreds of pounds, into 64 stone steps and hundreds of feet of rip rap.

When we were done, the new trail was like a stone escalator down and back up. Thanks to National Park Service folks – Don, Eric and Lyndon, plus PATC Hoodlums – Wayne, Noel, Scott, Steve, Jim, Amy and Cindi – we got ‘er done in three days. We used the last day of our volunteer week to build stone erosion control structures further south on the AT.

At the end we were an exhausted and bruised, but happy lot. As a bonus, I was able to meet some of the thru-hikers I’ve been following this year. Hike on folks, and have fun ya’ll. Meanwhile, we’ll keep improving the AT for those yet to come.

Hiker Superhighway

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Hiker Superhighway

Sometimes dark clouds do have a silver lining.

Yesterday fog smothered Shenandoah National Park. Mist and light rain took our trail maintenance project of moving ginormous rocks off the docket. That might have meant a long climb for a short slide given the wasted driving time.

But instead, Eureka! It turned into a gift of time to hike. Knowing a number of thru-hikers I’ve been following were in the park, I took a three-and-a-half hour southbound stroll on the hiker superhighway in hopes I might make a connection. No luck, but it was a great 14-mile hike. It also reinforced the need to keep upping my level of fitness.

I did stumble upon a ghost hiker though. You couldn’t have made this guy up – except Coleridge already did. His gaunt, frightening looks actually startled me as he materialized silently out of the fog. When I finally realized he was there, my first thought was that he was a lost crew member from the Flying Dutchman.

He looked more than spooky, featuring beady, burned-out eyes that peered out from the dark depths of his edgy anorexic cheek bones.

He was definitely a thru-hiker sporting the traditional grubby, sun-faded uniform. His standout fashion item was a badly distressed Nantucket red pair of hiking pants that were richly accented by crusty salt stains. Drying socks and shirts decorated his pack.

This tall and thin, cleanly shaven, gray-haired apparition really did look like death warmed over.

As a purely defensive move, I said, “Hi! How’s it going? Silence. “You okay?” In return he frowned, “Yes, thank you.” End of conversation.

We each kept walking in opposite directions. I didn’t see him on the return leg.