Nexus Musings

Hello all.  My name is Nexus, and this is my story.

I was a preteen, wild, country soul with nearly no friends outside of those at school. At my house, there were no kids my age for miles, so I learned, at a tender, young age, how to exist out in the wilderness, nearly entirely on my own.  Oh, granted, there were many trials and tribulations, but failure, my friends, is a harsh but thorough teacher.

Now, remember this was a different time from what many may have experienced in more recent years.  Society had a very different mindset when it came to children.  You see, the concept of Helicopter Parents did not exist.  Children were expected to be mostly quiet, self-entertaining, and especially not bothersome to adults. I guess the 'not being a pest part' still exists today, though.  Most of the days, in which I was not in school, I would leave soon after breakfast and wander the surrounding forest and fields exploring, on my own.  At least that is, till my father’s whistle would summon me back home, at around 5 pm, to Mom's waiting dinner.  I had approximately ten square miles of virtually untouched nature to call my own.  For example, if I were to have taken off in one particular direction, I could walk the few miles from my house to my grandparents without seeing a building or having to cross a road. 

Hopefully, this will shine a perspective light on a bit of my childhood and help set the narrative for my story.  Now, nearly 50 years later, with over half of the Appalachian Trail under my belt and still going strong, this is how my AT story begins.

My initial exposure to the Appalachian Trail began in Pennsylvania back in the mid-1970s, while I was in Scouts.  I was seen as a skinny, asthmatic child, who, in those days, was often thought to be a bit too frail to be considering a 17-mile weekend camping adventure.  I knew better, mind you, since I was a great explorer, or at least a great explorer of my ten square mile section of the world that is. 

In early 1976, my parents, in an effort to fully prepare me to hike, bought some used ex-military gear from a new neighbor.   The gear included a green canvas, an aluminum external frame pack, along with an embedded-fiber plastic ground cloth, an aluminum nested mess kit, and an interlocking 3-piece utensil set. We paired this with an old-school, ridiculously heavy, generic sleeping bag, so I was already on my way.  Now, up to this point, our family was trailer-campers.  You know, pack up the back of the 1970 Ford Fairlane station wagon, hitch it up, and away we went. I bring this up because they had no idea what to tell me to bring in my hiking pack. Outside of making sure I had plenty of clothes and the listed foodstuffs as suggested by our Troop, I was pretty much on my own for filling the pack.  I tried to prepare for many eventualities.  The reason I mention this will soon become glaringly apparent.  You may notice there was no tent included above.  This was intentional as I stayed in another scout’s pup-tent, so I remained, for that weekend, relatively unsodden. 

Our Troop had planned a weekend hiking trip, and so off I went for my first official AT hiking extravaganza. Our Scout Troop started out on a hot August Friday morning at the PA Rt. 183 AT crossing, which was back then, an ungated, open parking field, complete with an old, broken-down, abandoned cinder-block building, just to add a bit of ambiance.  With an adult-sized backpack donned and its plethora of paraphernalia attached, I looked more overwhelmingly like a beast of burden than a seasoned explorer.  Luckily, for me and hopefully for the other scouts too, there were many rest-stops, as we trekked the three+ miles southward on the AT, to the Hertlein campsite. We set up our tents down by the old Earlville Powerdam, at the top of the Shikellamy Boy Scout Reservation.  Boy, were my legs tired. 

As we started to make camp, one of the leaders came over and asked me how I was making out. I said that I was a bit tired.  Tired already?  That was only a bit over three miles, I was informed. Tomorrow is five miles in the early morning and another five in the late afternoon coming back.  Maybe you want to consider hanging out here in camp instead.  I was crestfallen, and it must have shown.  I was asked where my pack was. I pointed to it, and he went over and picked it up.  He said, “Holy cow, what do you have in here, iron ingots?”  I reached into the lower pocket and pulled out four iron railroad spikes.

Do you remember that I mentioned 'I was pretty much on my own for filling the pack' with the things I might need, and the reason would soon become apparent? Now is that time.  He dumped everything out of my pack and proceeded with a kind of inventory of what I should NOT be carrying.  Obviously, the iron spikes were the first thing to go! 

Without sharing an entire list of the items in question, the discussion went something like this: “Uh, nope, no, definitely not, forget it, no way...”  That continued until he had piled each of the offending items together.  “None of these items is going tomorrow,” he explained. “Now refill your pack, pick it up, and put it on.” I did so.  I would guess it weighed less than half as much as before.  I smiled.  He told me I would now be fine on the hike tomorrow, and… he was right!

I would have to say, from a new-scout perspective, that what was about to come next was initially terrifying, yet it turned out to be the best part of the trip.  There was a tree at the dam's reservoir bank.  It was easily four times my girth and steadfastly strong, leaning majestically, out over the water.  Hanging from one of its thick branches, far over the pool, a proper one-inch, rope swing was tied.  In its static state, it was not really ominous; however, at its apex, you would be deposited nearly in the middle of the spring-fed pond.  As the newest member of the troop, I was, let us say, “encouraged” to be the first one to make the swing-out.  The impact on that water was no less than life-changing.  The 30-foot deep, spring-fed pond was cold!  Let me emphasize, the cold hits you like a stone wall and instantly chills you to the bone.  I have never been able to swim that fast before, or more accurately, barely skimming the water's surface.  We're talking cold!  Along with the rest of the troop, I spent most of the day jumping off that rope swing.  I re-swung into the icy pond, surely 15 times over that afternoon, and it was awesome.  The evening was filled with scout-related activities, hot dogs, and s'mores. 

The next morning, after reveille and a good breakfast, we were off to hike the five+ miles to the Rt. 501's shelter (just recently closed by the National Park Service).  Some of the leaders and older scouts stayed at the campsite for other instruction, so we did not have to break camp before leaving. We arrived at the shelter a few hours later and had lunch, relaxation, and some scouting instruction.  It was then back to the Powerdam camp for more scout-related activities.  Various outdoor merit badges and skill awards were worked on, depending on each scout's needs.  I was on my way to getting the Camping Merit Badge, but taking one look at the pile of items removed from my pack, nope, not today.  After dinner was cleaned up and the cooking fire re-stoked, the campfire kumbaya began.  We all crashed fairly early due to the day’s ten-mile hike.

 The final morning, we broke camp and returned to Rt. 183 and our waiting families.  That was a walk in the park compared to yesterday, with a significantly lighter pack.  My parents later told me, as this was my first real adventure away from home, they were a bit guarded on how I would fare.  But by the look on my face and the ear-to-ear Kool-Aid smile, they could see that this event was a success.  The entire weekend was, from a dramatic storytelling perspective, somewhat less than grandiose but I had survived, without incident, and lived to tell the tale.  This was my first sojourn into the world of AT hiking.  It was an experience that changed my life and sparked my future adventures on the Appalachian Trail.

As you may recall, from chapter one, I had my first encounter with the Appalachian Trail in the mid-1970s.  The next five years were mostly filled with camping adventures.  Some consisted of short Scout camping trips, but more were camping trips with friends.  The keyword here is “camping” and not “hiking” trips.  However, I gradually learned, through trial and error, a lot about what to take and perhaps more importantly, what not to take.  Never since my previously noted trip did those iron railroad spikes find a place in my backpack again. 

As my pack weight slowly whittled its way down, the quality of my gear went up.  I was in my mid-late teens at this point, so one of the key caveats of equipment replacement was cost!  My best friend in addressing this challenge became the Army/Navy store in Reading, Pennsylvania.  My aluminum frame green canvas backpack was soon replaced with a black nylon, steel external frame.  Mess kit, utensils, ground cover, 20-degree sleeping bag, first aid kit, and many other items soon became new staples for my trips, compliments of the good old US military.  

These camping trips soon became a frequent thing and quite popular in our ever-expanding group of camping friends.  Though most adventures consisted of just a few people, both girls and guys, some grew to full-fledged camping fests of 10 to 20 people.  One of our trips had so many people we had to spread out over the mountain to multiple sites, with the main one having 14 people sleeping together under one huge tarp for the entire weekend.  

Most of these adventures took place at the Earlville Powerdam/Hertlein campsite[DW2.1].  These were fun, and all mind you, but they did get somewhat stale over time.  We would go to the same place with many of the same people and do mostly the same things. Now granted on our numerous camping trips we would meet and invite many actual distance hikers to hang out with us.  Many of whom were happy to do so since we always had so much spare food and beverages to share. They would have so many stories to tell us about hiking on this amazing trail, which, up to this point, was just a camping spot for us. That was until…

In the summer of my 19th year, six of us planned a weekend camping trip, much like all the other planned trips, during which we would walk in from PA Rt. 183 south to the Powerdam on Friday and walk back to our cars on Sunday.  But then, on one fateful day, the week prior to leaving, a phone call from my friend Stretch changed my life.  

As it turned out, we both had a few days off from work the following week and decided to try a few days of hiking that Appalachian Trail, which we had heard so much about.  On Sunday, instead of going home with the others, we would return to my car to resupply for our little hike.  We had calculated how many miles we wanted to hike on the days we had available and got all the items we needed for the post-camping trip resupply.  We had left Stretch’s car in a parking lot, at our proposed destination, at the trail intersection with Rt. 309.  We ended up getting a late start that Sunday, only arriving at Rt. 183 around noon.  We bid adieu to our other four campmates and a hiking we did go.  

Now, of course, we understood that this was both of our virginal actual distance hiking attempts and that there might be a few things we would forget or mess up.  But hey, we were experienced campers by now, right?  Little did we know, my friends, sadly, little did we know. 

Let’s start with our route.  The hikers we encountered on our past camping trips did say that you just follow the white blazes, but we wanted to be prepared, so we also brought a map.  No, we did not have a guidebook, but we did have a map.  We used the said map to calculate our overall distance and made notes of the road crossings and other notable features along our route for reference.  (This map will be of key importance later.)

Several years ago, I had bought one of those 1970’s 3-man red nylon pup tents, so we weren’t too concerned about where we would stay that first night.  We figured we would just walk a few miles past Rt.183 that Sunday afternoon, find a good spot to camp, and we’d be good to go.  I had set up that tent numerous times before, so no problem there; I knew what to expect.  We planned on stopping no later than an hour before dusk, giving us plenty of time to set up the tent, cook on our white gas Whisperlite stove, roll out our sleeping bags on the mattresses, and hit the sack.

Around two hours before sunset, we started keeping an eye out for a suitable campsite.  We told each other it was because we wanted to find a good one.  I think it was more likely due to the fact that our feet were starting to hurt.  The old, cheap leather boots with the thin, worn rubber soles didn’t seem to offer quite the comfort we had hoped for, and I asked Stretch, “Is it me, or does there seem to be a lot of rocks on this trail?”  Stretch grudgingly agreed, and after another hour of walking without seeing a good place to camp, we started to get a bit concerned.  Luckily, a bit before dusk, we crossed a clear utility line.  We found a somewhat suitable spot right beside the tree line and started to set up camp.

As we started to set up, we heard a rumble in the distance to the west, so we picked up the pace.  It seemed that no matter where we tried to bang in a tent peg, it hit a buried rock.  “Geesh, there seems to be a lot of rocks here,” I said.  We moved to a spot further away from the trail, along the tree line, and tried to set up again.  

We ended up bending four tent stakes in the process.  We heard another rumble, much closer this time.  We proceeded to put heavy rocks over the half-buried tent pegs and started to ready our mattresses.  Well, maybe mattress is not quite accurate.  They were actually blue and white striped pool rafts with a built-in pillow.  We blew them up in post haste and got our sleeping bags rolled out on top, just as it started to rain.  

“Ha,” I said, “we beat the rain.”  We discovered that trying to prime those old Coleman fuel stoves was somewhat problematic at best, even more so in the rain just outside a tent flap.  About half an hour later, we were finally cooking with gas.  “Ha?” Stretch said, with a sideways glance.  

Now I know I said this was a three-person tent, but the three people they tested to arrive at that number must have all been Lilliputians. However, at this point, we were full, tired, and ready for bed.  We both slept fairly well that night.  The torrent continued intensely, and I swore I woke during the night to the shadow of an Ark floating by the tent.  The storm subsided around predawn, when we both woke up wet.  

During the night, the rain formed a little river, which coincidentally chose to flow directly under our tent.  This might not have been too bad, except that both of our rafts had ceased to perform their primary function, deflated, and subsequently left us with drenched sleeping bags.  Fortunately, the rain had stopped, and we were able to drip-dry our bags before leaving, late again, from camp.  

Monday morning’s relatively flat walk was not too bad, though our packs were somewhat heavier due to the sleeping bags’ spongelike status.  When we arrived at the top of the mountain, just southwest of Port Clinton, the trail started its 1000 ft drop.  Unfortunately, what may have previously been a boulder-hopping trail had become a white-water rafting event, and us with less than reliable blue and white striped rafts.  After a slow, arduous, and not-so-fun time, we entered Port Clinton.  

We had heard from many that the Port Clinton Hotel was a great hiker stop for burgers and beverages, so we were very much looking forward to just that, as our lunch supplies were down to dried apricots and some kind of nut mix.  We were out of water and looking to fill our canteens.  Here’s the thing.  It was Monday, and the bloody place was closed.  

We had also heard of a 3 C’s Restaurant, north on Rt. 61 a way, but as we were walking up the sidewalk in that direction, we were told that it was closed too.  So, as it seemed that the entire town of Port Clinton was closed today, we pushed on.  We stopped under the Rt. 61 bridge, and I ate my dried apricots.  With no water, I thought the anticipated refreshing fruit snack tasted more like a dry, chewy glob of fruit, and Stretch concurred.  I have never eaten a dried apricot since.  

The trip up the mountain north of town was less than pleasant, but was not the turbulent gorge we had previously traversed south of town.  We soon came across a water source, drank like two souls lost in the desert, and filled the canteens.  The rest of the day was not too bad, and we made it to Winsor Furnace shelter way before dark.  We started a fire quite quickly thanks to someone leaving tinder, kindling and a nice little pile of dry sticks.  We hung out our bags near the fire and settled into camp.  Dinner consisted of Spaghetti and fried Spam cubes and yes, we did bring an entire jar of Spaghetti sauce, Parmesan cheese and Garlic bread too.  

On the shelter wall, there was an up-to-date AT trail map, compliments of the Blue Mountain Eagle Climbing Club, with lots of details for our further excursion.  That’s when we quickly realized there was a problem.  Remember earlier when I said, “This map will be of key importance later”?  Well, now is that time.  

According to our gas station road map, we were expecting about eight miles to get to our staged car at Rt. 309 sometime tomorrow afternoon, which we felt would be certainly doable within our deadline.  But according to the actual AT map, graciously provided on the shelter wall, it was more like 20+ miles.  We both looked at each other, mouths agape.  There is no way we can do that many miles by tomorrow, early-midafternoon.  Well, it looked like we were going to fail in our overall goal.  Saddened, yes, but proud that we had actually “hiked” the AT somewhat successfully.  So, there was that.  Now it was time to recalculate and reevaluate our plan.

If we left early tomorrow morning, we would have the worst uphill part of the trip right from the start.  Once we got to Pulpit Rock, it was mostly flat, followed by a speedy downhill to Hawk Mountain Rd by Eckville.  So that was the plan to get to Eckville and figure out how to get to our car at Rt. 309 from there.  We had a good night’s sleep, got up early, and away we went.  We were correct in our expectations; the hike up to Pulpit Rock was steep but less than two miles, and we were fresh.  Happily, the rest of the trip to Hawk Mountain Rd. went quickly and without incident.  

Once on the road, we turned towards the Eckville Shelter, thinking maybe we could ask someone for some advice once we got there.  Yet, before we even got to the shelter, we heard a car coming up behind us.  It seems that the proverb “Fortune favors the bold” applied to us that day.  I turned back towards the oncoming car and stuck out my thumb.  A middle-aged lady in a somewhat weathered station wagon got closer, checked us out and you guessed it, actually stopped.  “Where are you two going?”, she said with a smile.  We told her we needed to get to the top of the mountain on Rt. 309.  “Well, hop on in, I am going to New Tripoli, which will get you most of the way there.”  

We loaded our packs in the back, and away we went.  The ride was pleasant, and she wanted to hear all about our adventures.  She actually looked sad when we told her how we had to cut our trip short of our destination.  She raised an eyebrow at that, and we continued on in polite conversation.  

We got to where she decided to drop us off.  Then she pulled into the parking lot, and we saw Stretch’s car.  Stretch and I looked at each other somewhat confused.  Then we realized that she had taken us all the way to our waiting car.  She just smiled and said, “I just couldn’t leave you so short of your goal when I could easily get you all the way to your destination.”  We thanked her and offered her money, but she would have none of it.  “Best of luck in your future hikes, Godspeed,” she said, as she drove away.  

And that, dear reader, is where my first of many Appalachian Trail hikes began.  

Stay Safe All,

Nexus