Appalachian Trail: Virgin Spring, Pennsylvania to Rip Van Winkle's Amphitheater in the Catskills, New York

 xxi.

In 1960, Ingmar Bergman released a beautiful film titled Virgin Spring. The story is fairy tale-like in simplicity. A beautiful virgin is murdered and the earth is so outraged by the loss that it compensates with a clear spring, sanctifying the area of the crime. Fittingly, the spring is in a beautiful glade, at the foot of a mountain—the type of place deer, birds and rabbits would be seen drinking from in a Disney movie. As it turns out, this spring actually exists and it’s not in Norway but somewhere in central Pennsylvania, about two days down the Trail from Port Clinton and just across a road.

It was about 8 am when I reached the spring, having woken up early. It was ringed with moss which was beaded with dew, early morning sunlight dappled its roiling waters. At first, I didn’t recognize the spring for what it was, but after I tasted its crystal waters, I knew. If the spring had been a religion, I would’ve been an immediate convert, that’s how beautiful and true it was. I was touched by lots of beauty on the Trail. I experienced selfless human kindness again and again. I watched baby birds chirp from tiny nests, was followed out of the woods into a clearing in Connecticut by a wobbly-kneed fawn. While these things impressed me, none of them seemed as consequential as that Pennsylvania spring. If I would’ve stayed near it a little longer or drank a little more of the water, perhaps I would be a different person today. As it was, I lingered a little, overwhelmed by a sense of peace and then, remembering I had a long day ahead of me, got up and continued walking north, a little more relaxed, but otherwise unchanged.

For days, I had been seeing very few people on the Trail, it was as if everyone had decided to skip the last 100 miles. The hikers I was seeing seemed desperate in their solitude and quickly attached themselves to me. I was never very keen on walking with people. After Tortoise and Leslie had gone, I got too accustomed to being on my own. When another hiker would step up their pace and march behind me, I walked faster, hoping they’d get the message. This wasn’t because I was antisocial, I just preferred not to talk about the usual hiker topics, when someone would sidle up to me and start pining for cheeseburgers, I’d either stop or drastically step up my pace. I hated trying to talk about food or the rain or any other obvious things—I thought about these things enough, I didn’t need to talk about them, too. By New Hampshire, most hikers still on the Trail had wearied enough of these topics to entertain more interesting conversation; I walked with lots of people in northern New England and had some great conversations, but back in Pennsylvania, we were still in the doldrums of trail talk.

Opposite this, I usually enjoyed a little conversation, no matter how dull, in the evening, after setting up camp. The evening after the Virgin Spring, I enjoyed a great conversation with two yogis and a young guy who spoke Spanish. I talked with the yogis about books and then spoke Spanish with the other hiker for a while. The four of us were up on a small plateau, just above the Palmerton Super Fund Site and the Lehigh River Valley. Through the tops of trees, the site commanded a beautiful view of the rising moon.

In the morning, I crossed the busy bridge that spans the Lehigh River. A keen wind rose from the turbid grey waters below and blew through my sweaty rags. Ahead, I saw the craggy rise of the Pocono Mountains where the Trail lifted over the Super Fund Site, which I gathered was some kind of mountain top removal-like mining operation which had fairly polluted the land.

I had been hearing bad things about this climb for days. It was a bit of a rock scramble, but nowhere near as bad as everyone had been saying. The view from the top was amazing and after the Trail moved up onto the ridge, it flattened out and wrapped itself in blackberry bushes. The berries were so plentiful, I had to stop eating them. With every step I took, I noticed more. I couldn’t believe no one had been eating them. They hardly looked picked at all, especially for being right on the shoulder of the AT. The view beyond the berries, while it did overlook a few industrial structures and smoke stacks, was beautiful.

That afternoon, I came into Wind Gap, where I had read there was a hotel just off the Trail that allowed hikers to use its water. I was thankful for this because I was low on water and it was always easier to drink potable water in lower places like Pennsylvania than to try to filter the murky stuff the usually burbled out of the ground, coated with a greyish film and dead crane flies.

I passed two hikers headed down into the gap and was disappointed to hear the hotel was closed, in addition to the water, I had heard there was a soda machine there. I had been hoping to score a Coke. The day was hot and I was sweating like crazy. The hikers told me that someone had been nice enough to leave a few gallons of water down in the gap, so, at the very least, I would be able to get some water.

When I got down to the gap, I was annoyed to see that the gallon jugs were all emptied. “Who the hell drank all this water?” I wondered, when I’d hardly been seeing any other hikers and the couple I’d just seen (logically they’d just come up from the gap) had reported that there was plenty of water.

I got my answer a few minutes later when I saw my first oogle on the Trail. A few times in log books and in shelters, I’d seen the tell-tale squatter’s rights symbol tagged with some railroad tracks and an anarchy symbol. The AT seemed a convenient corridor for train-hopping crusties to use and I was surprised I hadn’t run into any. The Trail, through the mid-Atlantic, passed by many of the major cities and if one was already living out of a backpack, it seemed like the Trail would be a viable, even preferable, option to sleeping in the streets.

The kid I encountered just above the gap was clearly no hiker. His pack had a patina unique to urban living and he’d drawn all over it with a pen. He was also wearing a pork pie that no hiker would be able to tolerate for more than an afternoon. In front of him, was an entire gallon of water.

I tried not to get too mad but all I could think was ‘you son of a bitch; you’re supposed to share that water. It’s not all for you!’ My irritation only increased when he offered me some all magnanimously. “Isn’t this great!” He opined, pointing down the gap. “Someone left this down there!” The final straw was when the guy told me he was headed into town. I know it might sound like I’m being really uncharitable here, but the closest thing I have ever seen to communal living was exhibited by the hikers I met on the Trail. Everyone freely shared what they had if there was cause for it and when something was left on the Trail (like water) everyone took only what they needed. Many times, I saw hikers refuse soda or snacks on the grounds that they were going into town anyway (“save it for someone else,” they’d say.). This guy, although he didn’t realize it, was flagrantly violating the charity of the Trail. I didn’t bother trying to tell him this, though, I couldn’t find a way to word it without sounding like a jerk, but I was happy to say goodbye to him and continue on my way to my last night in Pennsylvania.

The next day, I woke up early to go down into the Delaware Water Gap, the last town in Pennsylvania, just over the Delaware River from New Jersey. Soon after breaking down camp, I was dismayed to find myself feeling sick. I trudged down the hill into the gap feeling the familiar nausea and deep fatigue that comes before illness. Since I’d returned to the Trail at Harper’s Ferry, I had been doing non-stop marathon days, only stopping for a few hours when passing through a town for groceries. I’d hardly stopped since I’d hit Pennsylvania and, as I exited the state, it seemed to be catching up with me.

Luckily, the local Presbyterian Church, hosted a Hiker’s Center, that any hiker could utilize. Entering this refuge, I immediately sank into the couch and helped myself to some peanut butter and trail mix left in the hiker box. Some one had even left a beautiful pair of trekking poles behind and since I’d bent mine on the rocks of Pennsylvania, I switched out for the new poles that would be with me the rest of the way.

After an afternoon of National Geographics, coffee and snacks, I felt restored, and set off to continue across the bridge into New Jersey. Crossing into the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area on the New Jersey side, I encountered the most diverse crowd of people I’d seen since I started the Trail. It was refreshing to see different skin tones and hairstyles again. There were people everywhere, probably more than I’d seen on the entire trail through Pennsylvania. The Trail rose above a river with several small waterfalls in which entire families were bathing. In situations like this, I always felt like a dirty interloper. Here were clean, wholesome families out for a Sunday afternoon in the woods and I plodded through their picnics like, well, someone who lived in the woods.

Thankfully, some people recognized me for what I was. As I passed a family coming down the hill, a woman stopped and asked me if I were a thru hiker. I told her I was, happy that at least one person was aware that I wasn’t a total bum. She grabbed her young son, not to pull him away from me, but to push him toward me. “Honey,” she said to him. “Ask this man how far he’s walked.” The kid repeated the question and I told him that I’d come from Georgia. Astonished, the six year-old began to rattle off questions of his own. How far did I walk a day; where did I sleep; what did I do when it rained; how long would it take me to get to Maine, etc. His mom eventually reminded him that they had to be going and, before he left, he told me that some day he wanted to hike the whole AT, too. I coulda’ cried. I don’t know how firemen deal with that kind of shit every day. It’s pretty incredible to be looked at with that kind of admiration. I wasn’t so sure I’d deserved it, but it still felt pretty wonderful.

About a mile after I talked to the kid, the Trail wrapped around Sunfish Pond, which had been reported to be crawling with snakes. For once, the reports proved to be true. I stopped at the water, where a young couple were seated. I had been on the verge of walking off when a beautiful water snake swam up to the shore at our feet. The couple were just as impressed as I was by the snake’s banded body and we all appreciated the spectacle together.

I hadn’t gone 100 feet down the Trail when I came to a group of day hikers who looked to be encircling something. As I moved closer, I saw that they were standing around an incredible Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake. I hadn’t seen one since Virginia and enjoyed being in the company of others who respected the snake and weren’t clamoring to kill it.

As the Trail continued to climb, the crowds thinned out, until I found myself walking across a beautiful ridge overlooking a river. There were very few trees on the ridge and a long yellow grass had grown up over most of the rocky soil. I passed a beautiful stealth camping spot and for up to a mile afterward, considered turning back to it. I was really kicking myself when I noticed that the Trail, just before reaching the shelter I was headed to, was about to plunge back into the forest. I had plenty of water and could’ve easily enjoyed a night up on the ridge, the sky was clear; I’d just checked the weather and the forecast had been clear for the next few days. But the spot was too far back, it would be stupid to turn around now, but just as I was thinking this, I noticed another beautiful spot and, this time, I didn’t hesitate.

The place was full of mosquitoes, but otherwise it was perfect. After I got the tent up and ate dinner, I went over to the side of the ridge overlooking the river below and watched the full moon rise over New Jersey. For the first time, I felt like I’d walked a considerable distance. Somehow the other states hadn’t sounded very far, but New Jersey, coming from Georgia, that seemed like a long way. And I would’ve continued to think this way, if I hadn’t continued the walk to Maine and learned just how much farther I still had to go.

xxii.

The next day was lousy.

A stomach ache had kept me up through the night. By morning it was gone, but I was groggy and felt over-tired, like I still hadn’t allowed myself to recuperate from my slog through Pennsylvania. I had coffee overlooking the river and felt a little better, but I hadn’t gone too far before I noticed that my water filter had quit working. It was always somewhat sad when tools of the Trail broke; being alone in the woods, constancy becomes intimacy and my inanimate possessions gradually came to feel something like friends. The loss of the water filter was, however, acutely distressing as it left me with nothing to drink other than untreated, often turbid, frothy-looking water probably teeming with giardia and other diarrhea-inducing agents.

I was still somewhat high up on the ridge line and I knew I wasn’t too far away from a populated area, so I decided to see if I could do something about the filter right away. I dropped my pack and pulled out my phone. The signal was slight, but there was something there. I dialed the familiar number and seconds later a patchy ring came through the earpiece.

“--lo?”

I said hi to Gina and told her that my water filter had broken. “Can you try to look up a contact phone number for the company? I want to see if they’ll send me another one.”

She told me she would check, but I could barely understand her through the spotty reception. While I waited for her to call back, I tried again to use my filter. It was a straw filter, so normally I only had to drink through it the way one would with a straw. Now, when I tried to draw the water up through it, nothing came, no matter how hard I tried.

The filter had cost me about 25 bucks and had lasted over 1,000 miles. For over two months, I had been drinking from the thing every day, but still, it was annoying to find that it just quit working without warning. I flung the thing away from me in irritation. The phone rang. When I answered, there was no one there, but I knew it was Gina calling me, so I called her back.

“Hey,” I started, “did you get the number?”

“--d only fi--. Th-- a num--. Wa-- it?”

“What?”

“D-- you –ant th-- supplier –ber?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” I explained, knowing she probably couldn’t hear me much better “Damn I’ve got bad reception! Did you get the number?”

At this point the call dropped. I called back and got more of the same thing and, once again, the call dropped. I could tell by the tone of her voice Gina was thinking it was too early for this shit. California was three hours behind and it was still morning in New Jersey. I decided just to text her; I had to wave the phone around like a magic wand to get it to send the text. She responded with a number and I wrote it down, turned the phone off and then returned it to its plastic bag deep in my pack.

The call had been something of a failure. I’d gotten the number, but, I hated to have conversations with my girlfriend that didn’t end with both of us happily declaring our mutual love. There was something so lousy about hanging up the phone in the middle of the woods and knowing that the person you care about was on the other side of the country was annoyed with you. On the AT, with an old flip phone, it’s hard to tell when you’re going to have reception and when you won’t. It might be a while before I got to talk to her again. I didn’t want her to be mad. I didn’t want to think about her being mad for days.

Not long after my botched attempt to call, it started to storm. At first I tried to wait out the rain under a densely needled pine, but as the rain increased in severity and I started to shiver, I decided it was best to keep moving to stay warm. Of course, with the lightening crashing all around me, it was only natural that the trail was headed up again, to a rocky bald that was higher than anything in the surrounding area, the perfect place to draw a lightening bolt, but it was either that or stay where I was, shivering violently under a tree.

The benefit of walking is that it keeps you warm. I started out and immediately fell into the fast-walk/jog that hikers do in a storm. It’s ridiculous really. You know there’s not going to be any shelter for miles and, yet, you can’t help but to try to run, as if you’re going to find something, just ahead, to hide under. I was also totally soaked by this point and still gingerly stepping over puddles as if it made any difference.

I continually climbed into the storm. Each time it sounded like it was moving off, another lightening bolt would explode no more than 100 yards away. My one consolation was that it if one did pick me, it would be over quick.

Even in the storm, the viewpoint from Kittatinny Mountain was beautiful. The storm was mostly just overhead, so the view to the east over the lake was clear and only a little hazy with the already evaporating rain. Soon after I came down from the exposed ridge line, the rain stopped. Back in the woods, listening to the patter of the accumulated rain falling through the leaves, I stopped to wring all my clothes out. One by one, I took off my various articles of clothes and wrung them out. I knew from experience, that they would dry better this way and since being wet is the most miserable state one can be in the woods, I hastened to undo the effects of the storm.

While I was sitting on the log, wringing my socks out, I decided to take out my guidebook and see what the Trail had in store for the rest of the afternoon. I was thrilled to see that the gap I was already coming down into had a cafe and a general store. Envisioning myself sitting at an outdoor table with a warm cup of coffee while the already emerging sun dried my wet boots, I tugged my soaking socks back on and broke out into a trot down into the gap.

I was still damp when I got down in the gap where the Trail goes over highway 206, outside Branchville, NJ. I felt even better when I saw a sign for a gas station, thinking I might be able to get some snacks to go with my coffee at the cafe. The first thing I noticed was that the cafe was closed. So I wouldn’t be able to sit down with my coffee, but I’d still be able to get one at the gas station. I walked a few more yards and found myself looking at a concrete island of gas pumps and a small auto repair garage that looked closed. The gas station had no attached mini mart. Oh well, there was still Gyp’s Tavern up the street, a place that looked like a package liquor store you could drink in. “Maybe,” I thought. “I’ll just get a beer and sit down a while.” Gyp’s looked like a nice place to sit down for a minute. It was on the lake and there were seats outside. The problem was it was closed. There was a sign taped up in the window declaring that from today on, the tavern would be closed on Mondays. The only other building in the area was a bait and tackle shop next door. Desperation forced me up to the doorway. I actually felt angry to see that this was the only place open. If it’d been closed, it’s like it would’ve made more sense. I hesitated then went in. The door dinged as I entered. There was nothing but fishing rods, nets, hats, boots and all kinds of other fishing crap.

“Help you?” The guy shifting around the back of the store wanted to know.

“Yeah, hi.” I started, unsure what it was I wanted. “Do you guys have any place I could fill up my water?” I managed to ask, holding up my grimy water bottle. He thought for a moment, then shook his head no. It was the first time anyone had refused to let me fill up my water bottle. I thought maybe he’d misunderstood. All I wanted was some water from the bathroom sink. He seemed aware of my confusion.

“That water there,” he said pointing to a fish tank which looked to be continually refreshed with more water, like a fountain “That water comes from the lake.” For all I could surmise, all the water in the place came out of the lake. By this time I’d noticed a sad cooler in the back of the store with a few Pepsis. I reached for one before realizing I didn’t even want a cold Pepsi when I was already all damp and cold; I only wanted to buy something to distract myself and it was either this or a fishing pole. I put the Pepsi back, thanked the guy and left the bait shop.

I stopped before leaving town to snoop around the abandoned cafe to see if there was a spigot that still worked. Nothing. Not even water. At least I had reception. I called the water filter company number Gina had texted me and talked to someone who promised to send a replacement to the next town I’d be going through in New York. I thought about trying to call Gina now that I had better reception, but I knew she’d probably be at work by now. I was also worried that somehow another phone call would only make things worse, that somehow I’d only annoy her again. I stared at my phone for a minute before turning it off and putting it back in my bag.

The climb out of the gap wasn’t too bad. I didn’t have any water weighing me down and the sun had come out a little. I wasn’t too far from the shelter and things were looking better.

I stopped for a while at the shelter, but it was still pretty early, I figured I could make the next four miles to a camping spot that was marked in my guide. I had taken off my damp socks while I’d eaten at the shelter and I winced when I put the clammy bastards back on; it was like slipping your foot into a pile of damp kitchen rags to put the wet socks and then the wet boots back on.

Almost as soon as I left the shelter, the sky darkened. The Civilian Conservation Corps had built some kind of crazy pavilion on Sunrise Mountain. There were a few people milling around, watching the storm come back as I entered the pavilion. It was beautifully quiet, even with the people. The storm seemed to be sucking the sound out from the mouths of the hikers and blowing it away. The pavilion had the dusty peace of an attic in the rain. I would’ve liked to stay and camp in that dusty peace; that way when it started raining again, I’d be under a roof, but a nearby sign announced that camping was forbidden and it would’ve seemed weird to start setting up a tent in such a high-traffic area. I left the pavilion and plunged back into the darkening forest.

The last hour of the day was one of those moments that seems to draw out interminably. Every time I glanced at my watch, I found that the last six minutes had taken a half an hour to pass. I stumbled down a dim and nondescript section of Trail keeping a sharp eye out for the camping area, but nothing was presenting itself. The camping area was supposed to be near a pond, so every time the Trail dropped down, I expected to see water or a campsite but there was nothing but more trees and a further twisting path.

It was nearly dark when I saw a hammock suspended just off the Trail above a small clearing. The spot I had been waiting for was tiny and was already occupied. There was just enough room for me to pitch my tent next to the hammock that turned out to contain both a woman and her dog. We talked a little while I set up my tent, but before I’d even gotten half the stakes in the ground, it started to pour again. I hastily bade my fellow hiker goodnight, got the remaining stakes down and dove into the tent. Inside, I listened to the rain pound the ground around me and for the first time that day, I felt fortunate. Even if I was still somewhat damp, I had just missed getting soaked again.

xxii.

I decided to make a stop the next day in Unionville, NY, it was only about 16 miles away so it promised to be a short day. The sun was back out and I wanted to wash my clothes and have enough afternoon left to dry them in the sun before it got dark.

The woman with her dog was still asleep even after I broke down my tent and made coffee. More than a month later, I had a really hard time placing her face when I ran into her again in the 100-mile wilderness in Maine. Our brief encounter in NJ seemed like it had happened years before.

The Trail into New York was incredibly easy and I was feeling buoyed with thoughts of going into town and finding something that was actually open. In New Jersey and New York, the forest didn’t seem as densely covered as it did elsewhere and the result was that the Trail often got a little more sun. Normally my clothes would’ve stayed wet for days, but by the time I’d reached Unionville, even my boots had started to dry out a little.

Unionville didn’t have much more than a general store and a post office, but it did have a nice little park that welcomed hikers and their tents. I stopped at the post office and picked up two great resupply packages, set up my tent and then set to washing all my damp and muddy clothes using a garbage bag, a bar of soap and a water spigot in the park. As I kneaded my sodden laundry in the grass next to the swings, I realized that anywhere else in the country, the locals would probably be chasing me out of town with pitchforks. Here I was with more than two months of beard growth, wearing rags, grimy beyond all recognition and washing my clothes in a garbage bag next to where children played. It seemed amazing that anyone would even talk to me, let alone allow me to camp in their park. As kids ran around me and adults talked quietly on park benches, I felt lucky to be in the little park, sharing this moment with others, rather than walking through the woods alone. Even if no one was talking to me, the fact that these people even tolerated me around their kids seemed to speak volumes about their kindness and I was thankful.

That evening, I walked around Unionville a little, trying and not quite succeeding in finding a phone signal. I had a scratchy conversation with my mom for her birthday, but failed to get Gina on the phone. I left her a voicemail, telling her things had worked out with the water filter and thanking her for giving me the phone number. After I hung up, I stayed riveted in the spot where I was, hoping she might call back, knowing that I’d lose my reception as soon as I moved. After a while, I began to feel out of place just standing in the middle of a residential street in a small town. I switched my phone off and hurried back to the park and to my tent.

I woke up around dawn. The other hikers were all still asleep. I waited a few minutes for the general store to open and went in for a watery cup of coffee. I charged my phone on the porch and drank my coffee. As the morning wore on, other hikers came and went, most of them very reluctant to get back on the Trail; they hung around the store slowly eating their Little Debbie cakes.

Around 9, I finally left town. The Trail stretched across miles of entirely flat nature preserves, some of which were paved with some incredible boardwalks that seemed to run through marshy grasslands to the horizon. I listened to the plonk sound of my boots traipsing across these walkways for hours and it was hard not to imagine myself at a home, shuffling around on a back deck, coffee in hand, wistfully looking out into the tall grass and wondering what lay beyond it.

It soon became clear that a substantial mountain lay beyond it. A place called Stairway to Heaven loomed heavily in front of me, like the dark castle at the end of a fantasy plot; it was inscrutable and, while relatively it wasn’t very high, it towered over the flat surrounding country. Both the peak and the slopes were wrapped in forest. The fields surrounding the mountain had all been bright with the early sun but entering the foot of this mountain, the light was abruptly buried, once again, by the soaring tops of trees.

It felt good to be back in the shade; I hadn’t realized how overheated I had been all morning. One factor that had nicely belied the heat of the lowlands was the impressive quality of trail magic. New Jersey had more trail magic than any other state and that day (July 20^th) was to be the most impressive day for trail magic the entire trail. By the time I set up camp, I had counted 11 instances of trail magic. Some of them were just water, but many of them were soda and/or granola bars or other non-perishable snacks.

Stairway to Heaven was a popular area. At the foot of the mountain, there had recently been what I could only guess had been some kind of music festival. Workers were pulling down a stage that stood in pieces among the matted field grass. Trash cans, placed every few hundred feet, were overflowing their greasy contents onto the grass. Cups and paper plates were everywhere. The perfume/naphthalene smell of porta-potties was heavy in the air. There were more people on the Trail than I’d seen since the Delaware Water Gap Park. I was regularly passing people who weren’t carrying anything. Climbing up the mountain, the trail was steep, but everyone out that day, seemed to be going slower than necessary. Just before the climb, I saw a volunteer painting the familiar rectangular AT blazes on the trees. I stopped and talked with her. She told me that she liked to keep the paint fresh because she liked to hike at night. Stairway to Heaven, rocky and steep didn’t seem like the ideal place to hike at night, but I supposed the woman had her reasons. I thanked her for her work on the Trail and kept going.

I hadn’t gotten too far in my climb when I looked over and nearly jumped out of my skin to see a bear sow with three cubs right next to me, just off the Trail. I’d been so lost in thought, I hadn’t even noticed her. Calmly, I continued walking. I hadn’t seen a bear since Virginia, but I’d seen a sow with her cubs before and knew the best course of action was just to keep walking like it was the most uninteresting sight in the world. I had only got a few hundred feet away when I almost ran right into a man standing right on the Trail. He looked shaken.

“Is it still down there?” He asked.

“Huh?”

“The bear, the one with her cubs, is she still down there?”

I told him that I’d just passed her, but that she hadn’t given me any trouble. The guy acted really nervous. I could see why; his wife and their two young sons were with him.

“Last year, someone was killed up here by a bear,” he told me in a voice just above a whisper like the bear would hear him and get ideas.

“You’ll be ok,” I assured him. “Just walk right on by, maybe carry your kids. It’ll make you look bigger anyway.” I went on to tell him that I’d walked by quite a few bears in Virginia and while they might not be afraid of people, they also didn’t seemed too interested in them either. I told him that I’d seen a sow with her cubs once before, too. As I talked, I realized that I’d amassed all this woodland experience and after a summer of living in the woods, I almost knew what I was talking about. The man even seemed to be listening to me. After a while, I could see him adding up all the clues: the big dirty backpack, the unkempt beard, the dirt smeared all over my face and the wild, hungry look in my eyes.

“Are you thru-hiking?” He asked. He didn’t even wait for an answer but turned and walked a few feet up the Trail to get his son. “Hey, Jimmy,” he said, bringing his son down. “This guy’s thru-hiking!” It was like the scene in the Delaware Water Gap all over. The kid started asking me all kinds of questions about my stats: how far did I walk in an average day; what was my average speed; how much did my pack weigh; etc. I wasn’t too surprised when the dad told me that little Jimmy wanted to hike the AT himself some day. I told him I was glad to hear it and that I’d look for him on the Trail some day—kind of a stupid thing to say as I only planned on being on the Trail a little more than another month, but that was how much I came to identify with the footpath I was standing on, I practically expected to be on it forever, even when little Jimmy grew up and hiked it himself. It was hard to imagine myself anywhere else.

I shepherded the family past the bear and continued on myself. I stopped for a minute at the summit, but it was too crowded with people to really be of much interest after seeing so many other spectacular views seen alone save the wind and the trees.

I hiked until evening when I came to a bald overlooking a lake. There was a flag and flagpole up there and quite a few day hikers who had found their way up via a side trail. Just down from the bald, I found a great mossy flat, just large enough to pitch my tent. After I got everything set up and with the sun coming down, I climbed back up on the bald and called Gina. For the first time since the water filter fiasco, we had a nice conversation. I watched the sun set over New York while I talked to her and after we hung up, I made my way back to the tent in the dark.

The next day was my first full day in New York and, bizarrely, the forest was littered with dying moths. All day, as I walked, moths fell around me like dusty white snow flakes. They stopped where they landed, not dead, buy clearly dying. I picked a few of them up to move them off the trail. They’d flutter their wings a little or take a few steps along my finger, but, they wouldn’t make it far before they dropped back to the ground, offering gravity no resistance on their way down.

In the afternoon, I came down into a gap to find the religious group I’d met last in Maryland doing trail magic who’d told me they were headed north. I had nearly forgotten about them. I didn’t remember any of their names, but I was glad to see them again. They didn’t seem to remember my name either so I didn’t feel too bad. Down in the gap where they were offering fruit, cookies, sodas, instant coffee and hot dogs, there were about 15 thru-hikers sprawled out in various states of exhaustion, rapture and repose.

I hung out for a while, longer than I’d intended and when I got back on the Trail, I was faced with an incredibly rough section that I later heard had been nicknamed ‘Agony Grind.’ Back in Virginia, there’d been a section called ‘the Roller Coaster’ so named because it had a few, somewhat steep, inclines and declines, one right after another. I had gotten myself a little psyched out for the Roller Coaster and it turned out to be incredibly underwhelming. After the mountains further south, the Roller Coaster was hardly a challenge, but this section about a day into New York, was as tough as some of the harder parts of Maine. The elevation change wasn’t very significant, but what made the section hard was the steepness of the ascents and descents. The trail went nearly straight up for about 200 feet and then dropped back down. Again and again, I took my trekking poles in one hand and climbed with the other only to reach a small plateau and then start down again. By the time I’d done this five or six times, I was exhausted and my knees ached more than they had at any other point on the Trail. I began to feel like the moths, barely fluttering, lying there, utterly wasted.

Luckily, someone knew how hard this section was and the three or four gaps that I had to climb down into were well-stocked with cached water. This was great because I still had yet to pick up my new water filter. Even if I had a filter, there was very little water in New York and it’s really only thanks to the efforts of the kind locals that anyone is able to hike that section of trail in the summer when it’s so dry.

After I’d cleared Agony Grind, I had to climb through some foolishness called the ‘Lemon Squeezer.’ I was beginning to feel like a contestant on a reality show. All these obstacles were starting to seem somewhat stupid. The rock formations of ‘Agony’ and ‘Lemon Squeezer’ were interesting, but, really, did the Trail have to go right over the tops of them? After I dragged myself through a narrow rock crevice, I came to a sheer ledge a full six feet up which, at the end of a long day, was pretty difficult to get up with my pack. There was an alternative route, but I wanted to keep to the Trail as it was planned, even if it meant climbing up rock walls, I figured there might be some reason why the Trail went up there, perhaps there was a nice view. In the end, nothing presented itself. The Trail had gone over the rocks only for the sake of going over the rocks.

I stopped a little earlier than I had intended, an empty shelter stood at the cusp of a beautiful hollow, which was mostly constructed out of rock and moss and, that day, was carpeted with they dying white moths I’d been seeing since I’d woken up. The few trees in the area, looked intentionally placed, like ornamental trees on a model railroad set. In the late evening, one other hiker came in and camped at the other end of the hollow. It felt like we were miles apart. When the darkness fell and I crept into my tent to fall asleep, I understood how the moss and quiet rivulets of New York State could put a man to sleep for decades. Like Rip Van Winkle, “at length his senses were over powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.”