PORT CLINTON HIKE
July 2002. I loaded up my new pack with 33 lbs of stuff and went hiking in Iron Hill Park, a Delaware State Park with modest hills and soft, flat trails. After an uneventful afternoon of hiking around Iron Hill, up and down, around and around, I felt good. Piece of cake, I thought and I pronounced myself ready for the big time. (It would be 3 days before I learned that I lost my mobile phone there.) I looked on the map and located the closest point to the AT, jumped in my car and took off for Port Clinton, PA. I arrived in Port Clinton after dark, and I stopped at the Port Clinton Hotel and asked directions to the pavilion, a free shelter the hotel provides for AT thru-hikers. I also wanted to know where I could leave my car. The bartender said I could park the car on the street in front of the hotel, and she gave me directions to the pavilion. I retrieved my pack from the trunk, boldly threw it over my shoulders and walked to the pavilion, which I could not find without asking two young boys who were hanging out in the street smoking cigarettes. An ominous beginning, I thought, but I dismissed it from my mind, as I humbly marched into the shelter, careful not to make noise. I saw a lump on the floor and I politely bunked down at the other end of the pavilion.
As I said earlier, one of the sacrifices I made to lighten my load was to discard my sleeping bag. My sleeping bag was large and heavy, and since I run hot anyway, and it being July, I thought I could do without it. Instead, I packed my sleeping bag liner, which is kind of like a flannel sheet—very light and tiny, only 14 ounces. Guess what? I got cold. My first night on the AT, not even out of the shelter, and I woke up cold. Some time in the middle of the night, when I could no longer stand the cold, I crawled out of my flannel sack, put on my Patagonia Capilene thermal underwear, wriggled back in the sack, and slept like a baby the rest of the night.
The next morning I heard sounds coming from the other side of the pavilion, and I looked across the room at the lump. "Good morning," she said. I looked at the woman in astonishment. For some reason, I had assumed the lump on the floor was a man. He was the other lump; the one behind her that I had not noticed in the dark. A couple, they were hiking north on the second leg of their AT thru-hike. They started in Harpers Ferry and hiked south to Springer Mountain, and then returned to Harpers Ferry to hike the northern route to Mt. Katahdin. "To avoid the crowds leaving Springer in March," the man said. I watched them eat breakfast and pack with only a minimum of conversation, their routine honed to perfection after months on the trail. Soon they were gone, and I was alone.
I made coffee, ate a Power Bar breakfast, and then packed for my first day on the trail. I had no map or guidebook. I decided to hike south, against the flow, and I was not sure where the trail left town, but the pavilion couple told me it led away from Penn Street and I walked in that direction. I spied a local resident and asked for help. His directions were vague, but enough so that I had a general idea of where to point, and I walked on looking for the first white blaze that marked the AT. I walked, and walked, and walked, and when I came to the end of the town, without spotting a marker, I turned around and retraced my path until I saw a white blaze on a telephone pole at the end of the bridge that crossed the river and led to the railroad yard. I had missed it on the first pass.
After wandering around the railroad yard for another 15 minutes, I finally located a path on the other side of the tracks that led to a tree marked with a white blaze. It was 08:30, and 30 minutes after I left the pavilion, when I took my first step on the Appalachian Trail.
I could not have picked a better or worse site to test my novice backpacking skills and stamina. The trail went straight up, or so it seemed, and the 33 pounds on my back seemed much heavier. My trail shoes, which weigh only 1 lb each, felt like lead-filled anchors. My knees wobbled and I teetered on the edge of the rocks with every step. My heart pounded and my lungs heaved in desperation; I sucked in air like a turbo charger, but it was not enough. I made, at most, a half-mile before I had to stop and rest; another half-mile and another stop. A runner passed me, on the way up. A runner! Going up! Of course, he was not carrying 33 lbs, but I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Finally, after two miles forward and 900 excruciating feet upward, I reached the crest. I stopped, removed my pack, and sat down for another break. Shortly afterward, a 20s’ something gazelle glided past me, and sarcastically said, "A little early to be taking a break isn't it?" If I could have caught him, I would have wrapped my trekking pole around his neck.
I got up and trudged on, stumbling from boulder to boulder, all of them tactically positioned with their edges pointed upward; no flat surfaces to step on, only edges. I did not know my foot could bend so far out of shape; sometimes it felt like my ankles were lower than my heels.
My brain, although operating on minimal oxygen was swiftly recalculating my objective. I remembered there was a spring located 4.3 miles from Port Clinton, and I decided that would be my new destination.
By this time, I was walking on a reasonably flat trail, covered with normal-sized rocks, not boulders, and I could afford to look at something other than my feet. I heard voices and seconds later, I rounded a bend in the trail and saw a middle-aged couple and a young boy approaching on the path. We all said, "Hi" and they stopped. I stopped.
The woman was hiking in a dress, and to me, it seemed so out of place that I was stunned. I could not take my eyes off her. She said, "We're looking for our other two children who are hiking ahead of us. Have you seen them?" She wore a big, natural grin permanently affixed to her face. I imagined her sleeping with a grin on. And when she opened her mouth to speak, her teeth flashed white, revealing generations of high-test DNA. They were movie star quality.
I told them no, I didn't remember seeing their children, but truthfully I couldn't remember if I had seen them or not, because my eyes were constantly fixed on the rocks and I seldom looked up at the faces of passing hikers.
Her sandy mane was long and tousled and ringlets of hair stuck out in all directions from under her baseball cap, but arranged in a pattern that looked like she had just come from the salon. Underneath the hair and the teeth was a low cut sundress, held up by two thin straps around her neck that were partially covered by the straps on her backpack. Her breasts, coated with little droplets of sweat, rose and fell in rhythm as she inhaled and exhaled to catch her breath. It was a long dress with a flowery pattern, and my eyes broke away from her sweaty glands and scanned the dress down to the hem where her backpacking boots incongruously stuck out like barges. The contrast was startling.
The dress's husband said something and I turned to look at him. He said the spring was not far ahead, but that it was a very steep and difficult descent, and he advised me to leave my pack on the trail. I thanked him and they moved on. I moved on.
The break fueled my brain with new oxygenated blood, and when I saw a blue blaze that I thought marked the trail to the spring, I carelessly ignored the man’s advice and ventured down the hill with my pack on my back. I walked down, down, down and after traversing a distance equal to five or six football fields, I remembered that I had to walk back up with my 33 lb load. I abandoned my search for the spring and turned back toward the trail.
The return trip up the hill was not as severe as the initial 2-mile climb out of Port Clinton, but I was exhausted by the time I spotted the familiar white blaze that marked the AT. I junked my plans and I turned left for the 4.3-mile hike back to Port Clinton, while seriously questioning my fitness for the sport. I had hiked only about a mile when I spotted an old campsite and decided to pitch my tent for the night, even though I had not replenished my water supply. (When I left Port Clinton, I stupidly left behind my second water bottle, because I had planned to stop at the spring.) It was not critical; I would not need water for the short hike back the next day, but it was an inconvenience; there would be no coffee in the morning.
I inflated my Luxury Therm-a-Rest mattress, sans tent and immediately dozed off, flies and ants be damned. Sometime later, I heard voices and a shout as a group of thru-hikers spied my campsite. There were five of them and one of them peeled off for the night; the others trekked on to Port Clinton, but not before I bummed some water from them. Aha, coffee tomorrow morning after all.
My new neighbor removed his gaiters and boots and put on flip-flops. Then he set up his tent, unfurled his sleeping pad, and shook out his sleeping bag. Next, he set up his cook stove and attached the fuel bottle to it. Finally, he retrieved a notepad, pen, and proceeding to write. I watched in silence. Will I ever be that together, I wondered? After a while, he closed his journal and looked up. "Hi, I'm Sly," he said.
Sly (his trail name) was an effervescent athletic type in his 30's, eager to share his considerable knowledge, and I picked his brain for tips about backpacking in general and thru-hiking in particular. We chatted for about an hour. Sly was a biker—a big time biker—who had pedaled over 45,000 miles in various parts of the world, most recently a circumnavigation of Iceland. He said hiking the AT was far harder than anything he had ever attempted on a bike. I dismissed that from my mind; it was a scary thought and I did not want to think about it.
I retreated to my tent area and prepared to cook dinner on my MSR Pocket Rocket stove. I poured ½ cup of precious water into my pot, brought it to a boil, and then emptied the contents of a Lipton Pasta entrée. I allowed the mix to simmer for a few minutes and then ate from the pot using my multi-utensil "spork". I had a Power Bar for dessert.
Later I heard Sly fire up his stove. It sounded like a loud blowtorch, but I did not bother to inquire about its heritage; I was tired of conversation and I retired to my tent before dark.
When I woke up, it was daylight. I had slept like a baby, not even waking to relieve myself, and when I poked my head out of the tent, I could see that Sly was packed, and about ready to depart. His tent and other gear had disappeared into the pack and he was sitting on a log eating breakfast.
I started coffee by dropping ground beans into boiling water (the same pot); sort of a poor man's French press, but without the press.
We exchanged "good mornings", and Sly said, "I smell your coffee. Nobody on the trail makes coffee." That made me feel just swell. A few minutes later, he was gone.
I drank the coffee, savoring every drop. It was a beautiful morning, with a light breeze stirring the treetops, and eerily quiet except for a glee club of songbirds singing in chorus as they merrily greeted the new day. I was glad Sly left; it was peaceful to have the wilderness to myself.
I took my time packing. I had not yet learned where to put things in my pack, or how to group them to minimize space and still allow easy access to the most used items (another reminder of living on a boat, where everything has a place). I have two stuff sacks, both dark blue, waterproof, with clothes in one and everything else, except my tent, and sleeping pad in the other. I think I need one or two more sacks, color-coded to make it easier to locate things.
Packed, I lifted the 33 lbs onto my shoulders and started the routine of cinching and tightening waist belts, shoulder harnesses, and other things I cannot identify by name. My muscles were surprisingly limber after yesterday's torturous climb and the only discomfort I felt came from the shoulder harnesses pinching into my tender shoulders and armpits. I felt so good that I briefly rethought my plan and considered continuing on south instead of returning to Port Clinton, but I remembered my pet sitting assignment starting the next day in Philadelphia, and I meekly turned north for the trek back down the mountain.
The return trip was a piece of cake, but after retracing my steps over the boulders, I am reconsidering my choice of footwear. In my zeal to go-light, I was determined to hike the AT in trail shoes (2 lbs/pair), similar to the Nikes I jogged in for years, but two days on the famous Pennsylvania rocks caused me to rethink that decision. I do not think low cut trail shoes with limber shanks will provide the kind of ankle support I need.
I reached Port Clinton in record time, but not without noting the difficulty in descending the same hill that stopped my heart yesterday. Coming down, it was very dicey to maintain my balance, and I wondered what the rocks would be like when wet. More ammunition for better footwear, and with proper traction, I thought.
I sauntered into town like I had been on the trail for months and the first person I met was Sly, sitting on the Post Office porch with his mail spread out before him. There are 100+ points on the AT where the trail passes through or close-by towns with a Post Office and thru-hikers utilize the postal service to forward food and other supplies to themselves along the way. Mail drops help to keep their load lighter and their expenses down, because they can buy food in bulk before they leave and parcel it out into smaller packages for individual shipments. Sly had sent too much stuff to Port Clinton and he was repackaging part of it to mail to the next stop.
I went inside and the Post Mistress weighed my pack--33 lbs. I had guessed 35. I went back out, said goodbye to Sly again, and went on down the street to find the Appalachian Outfitter. The store was two blocks away and one flight up. I then remembered that the Outfitter in Harpers Ferry was upstairs too. This is the Appalachian Trail; everything is up.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I was looking straight at the cold drink cooler. Smart. I chugged down a PowerAde; and then another PowerAde. $2.66 flew out of my hands before I got past the drink cooler to look at the merchandise. It was a nice, clean store and they stocked the same basic inventory of equipment and supplies I had seen in other stores with one exception; they stocked my Equinox Pound Plus backpack, the only place I had seen it outside of Harpers Ferry. I moseyed over to the proprietor and slyly asked him what he thought should be the maximum weight for the Pound Plus. "Twenty-five pounds," he said. He instantly became credible and we chatted about packs and weight and go-light trends like a couple of veterans. He volunteered that the average weight for thru hikers on the AT that year (2002) was 27 pounds. "How do you know that?" I asked.
"Because I weigh them all," he said as he pointed to the scale hanging in the rear of the store. I told him the few people I had met the last couple of days were carrying more than that, much more.
"Yea, but you were meeting the stragglers and the late starters; the fast go-light hikers have already passed through."
I thought about that. Since I would surely be a slow hiker, I envisioned being labeled a go-light straggler. Straggler, not a bad trail name.
It has been over a week since my Port Clinton experience. The knee remained swollen for 3-4 days, but the swelling eventually subsided; however, my right knee still hurts. Putting weight on the knee does not bother it, but twisting and turning causes sharp pain, some of the worst pain coming while I am in bed. The pain moves from the inside of the knee to the outside, and then back again. I am taking it easy now; just walking without a pack. I think my knee will be OK, but I have to get my muscles and shock absorbers in shape, and that means a lot of walking and then a lot of walking on hills, and then a lot of walking on hills with weight, and then…gosh, that does not sound like fun.
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