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

It was now the end of August 1989, and by this time, I had left my teens and graduated into my sophomoric adulthood.  Stretch and I had experienced numerous trail hiking trips in Pennsylvania.  And yes, I was becoming somewhat seasoned in my skills and abilities, but as many of you know, seasoning is just the mere spice of the Appalachian Trail feast.

Stretch and I had planned another weekend hiking trip, but as fate would have it, sadly, it was not to be.   A personal conflict had arisen, preventing Stretch from accompanying me on my next AT hiking adventure.  Crestfallen, I pondered.  Do I hike alone, I wonder?

I seriously considered making my first solo trip out into the AT’s great expanse.  I mean, I was now somewhat experienced in my hiking knowledge, mind you, and fairly sure of myself, to hike alone, but…

Enter Rainman (An origin story).

We had first met as employees back in the early ‘80s, at a Country Club, that neither of us could ever possibly afford to attend.  We worked together over my college summer break that year and became good friends.  To this day, with all the trials and tribulations in which we have endured, we remain close friends. 

Fast forward to a Friday in August ‘89.  According to the weather forecast, it was supposed to be a beautiful weekend, toasty warm, with no rain in sight.  So, I thought, why not call up someone with absolutely no hiking/camping experience to accompany me?  I called him at work, a bit before noon, and the conversation went something like, “Hey, if you are not doing anything this weekend, you feel like doing a bit of hiking on the Appalachian Trail?”  “Um, sure, why not?” was his response, and so it began.

Since I had already had the PA section of the trail picked out and all the food stuffs purchased, prep time was at a bare minimum.  I told him that I had our required supplies, and all he needed were personal items and the clothing he would wear over the weekend.  We planned to meet at my house after he was done with work, and I would outfit him with some old gear that I no longer carried.  I rummaged through my camping supply boxes in the garage.  I found an old black nylon school backpack, an aluminum canteen and belt, a sheath knife, and various other accoutrements he would possibly need.  NO, I did not include the 4 iron railroad spikes from chapter one; I thought about it… ever so briefly, with a Grinch-like grin, but no.

He showed up around dinner time, in shorts, a tee shirt, and work boots; it was currently about 93 degrees.   He had a garbage bag of additional clothing and a thin blanket to sleep under.  I gave him the spare items which I dug up, and he stuffed everything into the black backpack.  I loaded the weekend’s food and last-minute items into my pack, and we were ready to go.  

We drove to the first parking lot, dropped his car, and drove back to our starting point, loaded up, and into the hot August evening, we went.  We hiked till near dark, and as it was a beautiful night, I laid out a tarp at a nondescript spot, and we settled in for the cooling August night.  Dinner was a breeze as we had gotten Italian Subs and a few adult beverages at a local sandwich shop.  This practice of sub sandwiches and adult beverages, for the first night’s dinner, remains a standard practice to this day.

It was a beautiful night; a near full moon and not a cloud in the sky.  As I sat on my sleeping pad and bag and he on his blanket, we proceeded to play cards for a couple of hours before bed.  It was getting a bit cooler, so I pulled on a light sweatshirt, and we got ready for bed.  I crawled into my bag, and he was under his blanket.  “You going to be warm enough with just that?” I asked.  “Sure, I’ll be fine,” he replied.  So off to sleep we went.  

I woke up around midnight to the sound of teeth chattering.  I turned on my flashlight, and there sat Rainman, shivering.  The temperature had dropped into the 60’s, and the cool, humid air had taken its toll.  “You, ok?” I inquired.  “It got a bit chilly out,” he replied.  He sat there on his backpack, dressed in all the clothes he had for the weekend.  I got up and emptied a Tee-shirt, a thin fleece long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of light sweatpants from my pack and made him put them on.  I took off my sweatshirt and made that his outer layer.  That seemed to do the trick, though now he looked like a disheveled homeless man, and I told him so.  He looked at me with a quirky smile, “Thanks, I’m toasty now,” and we went back to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, he was still snoring up a storm, so I let him sleep.  I started working on breakfast, and the temperature was rising back to where one would expect for a typical August day.  He soon awoke and started shedding layers.  “Were you warm enough?” I asked.  “The second part of the night was comfortable,” he said with a smile.  “Lesson learned, I guess.”  He nodded, “Lesson learned.”  

After breakfast, we packed up camp and journeyed on.  Since this was his first AT hiking experience, I planned it as a light-mile weekend.  Could he handle more miles? I had guessed so, but we were not really concerned with getting miles under our belt, and more, if he actually liked hiking.  We stopped around noon for a long resting lunch.  “So, with the exception of the first part of last night, what are your thoughts?”  I knew he used to be or will always be a Marine (I’m not sure of the accepted vernacular), but that was ten years ago, give or take.  “How are you holding up on the hiking front?”  “Not too bad, but man, there are a lot of rocks on the trail.”  “Yeah,” I said, “it seems like just before you step down, a pointy one grows up under your foot.” “Exactly,” he said. “Is it always like this?”  “Well, I’ve been told by Thru hikers I’ve encountered in my past time on the trail, that Pennsylvania is the rockiest part.  It’s where hiking boots go to die.”  He smiles, “I guess I'd better look into a pair of new boots myself then; these are already almost dead.” I found that statement quite encouraging.  A flicker of hope for a new recruit.  “I get most of my gear from the Army/Navy store on 5th street,” I told him.  “Great, let’s go check it out next week”, he says. Inwardly, I smile, “Ab-so-lutely!”

We packed up our stuff and continued hiking.  All in all, it was relatively uneventful.  However, throughout the day, he asked me all kinds of questions: “Is water always available?  What about bears… oh, and snakes?  Do you get blisters?  Is there always a good place to sleep?”  And so on, and so on.  Here was a 30-year-old man, gobbling up hiking information like a kid in a candy store.  I nodded to myself; yep, I think I had found myself a new hiking buddy.  

The night was more cloudy than last, and the cloud cover kept it warmer than yesterday.  We woke up on Sunday, ate breakfast, and started to prepare to leave, and that’s when it happened.  (A relatively close rumble) “There wasn’t any rain in the forecast, was there?”  I asked him.  “Not that I know of”, he said.  (A more urgent rumble) We both started packing up faster and just as we started to leave camp… It started to rain. 

We only had about two miles to go to get to our waiting car.  However, for the near entirety of those two miles, it poured.  Though it was only about an hour of walking in the rain, I was concerned.  I hoped the downpour did not dampen his newfound enthusiasm for hiking.  Hesitantly, I looked back.  At that moment, he seemed to be hiking without a care in the world.  Looking up at the sky, with the rain pelting him on the face, strangely, he had a content smile.  I stopped, and in that moment, the concern that I previously had for a dampened enthusiasm just faded away.  I nodded and grinned…Gotcha

“Hey,” I said, “What’s with the bloody rain, man?”  He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and tilted his head in consideration, “Sorry.”… And so, a Trail Name was born!

Stay Safe All,

Nexus

Postscript: In all the years between that fated August day in 1989 and today, every time, except twice, in which he has gone hiking on the AT, it HAS precipitated in one form or another.  Everything from a light foggy mist to a torrential hurricane.  A proud quote from Rainman: “The only time it doesn’t rain… it snows.”  We do sometimes refer to him as Snowman, when applicable, in the winter months.

Day One

July in the Lehigh Valley had turned the Appalachian Trail into a furnace.  Nexus had warned me it would be hot. We had checked the forecast, filled water bottles, and I was informed that we needed to get an early start each morning. I nodded with the confidence of someone who believed bad weather, bad maps, bad decisions, and bad luck were all things that happened to other people.  By noon on the first day, both of us had stopped talking.

The heat pressed down through the trees. Sweat soaked our shirts and ran into our eyes. Every uphill climb seemed steeper than the last, and every time we rounded a bend expecting to find water, there was only another stretch of dusty trail disappearing into the woods.

Nexus shook the water bottles.  Nothing, then held one upside down and watched a single drop slide down the plastic. I did the same with mine.

“Good news,” I said. 

“What?”

“We’re almost out of water.” 

“Almost?… We ARE bloody out of water.” 

I considered this. “Then the good news is we're carrying less weight.” Nexus stared at me.  “That's not how this works.” 

We kept walking.

The afternoon stretched on. The rocks seemed to collect heat from the sun and throw it back at us. Even the shade offered little relief. Nexus began thinking about water constantly: cold water, ice water, a garden hose, a dripping faucet. I eventually stopped making jokes.

That was about when we reached the shelter.  It appeared through the trees like something from another century: a simple three-sided wooden structure, darkened by age and weather, sitting beside a small clearing. Nexus dropped the backpack with a groan.  “Home sweet home,” I said.  Nexus was too tired to answer.  And then we saw the sign.

A short distance from the shelter, tucked into the woods, water bubbled from the ground into an oasis-like pool. Someone had posted a warning beside it. “DO NOT DRINK UNTREATED OR UNFILTERED WATER.”  Nexus read it aloud. 

I leaned toward the spring.  “It sure looks clean,” I said.

“So does a rattlesnake.” was the response.  I ignored it. 

The water emerged from beneath a patch of moss and ran clear over some stones before disappearing downhill. It was the most beautiful thing either of us had seen all day.  Nexus was getting ready to start searching for a filter, as I dropped to my knees.

“Nexus.”

“What?” 

“I can't wait.” 

“You can wait a few minutes, till we pump it out at least.”

I looked at the water, then back at Nexus.  And with the determination of a man who had reached the absolute end of his patience, I bent down and stuck my entire head into the spring.

Nexus shouted, “Rainman!” 

I came back up sputtering, water running from my hair and beard.  “Oh,” I said. “That's cold.” 

“You just drank untreated water!” 

I wiped my face.  “I know.”  Nexus stared at me.  Then looked at the spring.  I imagined Nexus’s throat felt like it had been lined with sandpaper, standing directly next to that warning sign: DO NOT DRINK UNTREATED OR UNFILTERED WATER. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Nexus said. 

I grinned. “Your turn.” 

Nexus lasted approximately four more seconds.

The cold was probably shocking, but the gulping sounds continued.  A brief gasp of air and more gulps.  For several long seconds, the heat, the trail, the empty bottles, and the warning sign ceased to matter.  Nexus sat back, head dripping and breathing hard; I was laughing.

“What?” Nexus demanded. 

“You looked exactly like me.” 

“I can’t stand you.” 

“No, that’s not true.” 

Nexus grudgingly responded, “No…I guess not. I think it’s more that I can’t stand that you're right.”

For the next fifteen minutes, we both lay there, face down in the water, drinking. 

I looked up at Nexus. “I wonder how much we should drink?” 

Nexus pondered a bit. “Hmmm, do you have to pee yet?” 

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” 

“Me either, so it looks like we have a new rule, ‘Drink till you pee!’” This rule remains stringently in effect to this day.

We spent the evening at the shelter filtering more water this time, cooking dinner, and wondering whether our earlier decision would come back to haunt us in the middle of the night. Every unfamiliar stomach noise caused both of us to look accusingly at each other.

By dark, we had convinced ourselves that we were either completely fine or about to become a cautionary tale told around Appalachian Trail shelters for years.  Neither of us slept particularly well that night.

Day Two

The rain began before sunrise.  At first, it was a gentle tapping on the shelter roof. By the time Nexus and I packed our gear, it had become a steady downpour. 

“Still better than yesterday,” I said.  We both tightened our rain jacket hoods.

“Well, yesterday we were thirsty,” Nexus said. 

“Exactly, and today, we're surrounded by water.”  I smiled. “Progress.”

We left the shelter and followed the wet trail downhill.  The woods had changed overnight. Everything glistened. Leaves hung heavily with rain. Water ran across the trail in small streamlets, collecting in footprints and between rocks. Our boots were soaked even before we had walked an hour.  Eventually, the descent brought us to the Lehigh River.  We heard it before we saw it.

The river roared through the valley, swollen and brown beneath the gray sky.  Rain hammered the surface, and mist eerily hung above the water.  Ahead stood the bridge.

The bridge trembled slightly from the cars zooming by. Nexus kept both eyes ahead. I naturally leaned toward the railing and looked down at the river.

On the far side, we crossed the road and found the trail again.  The rain continued.  Then the mountain began.  At the time, I wasn’t sure what the mountain's name was, but later we decided the official name was far too innocuous, and the climb should be referred to as the Slatington Slag Heap.  Nexus looked upward.  The mountain seemed to disappear into fog.

“That is not a hiking trail.” 

I followed Nexus’s gaze.  “No, that’s a big pile of wet rocks.” 

It was less of a walk and more of a scramble. Loose slate shifted beneath our boots. Rainwater ran between the rocks. Every few yards, one of us would slip, curse, regain our balance, and continue. 

I went first.  “Watch that rock,” I called. Nexus stepped on it.  The rock teetered.  “So much for watching it!”  I laughed. 

“You said watch it. You didn't say it was going to attack me!”  We climbed higher.

The valley slowly disappeared behind us. Our legs burned. And our packs felt twice as heavy as they had the day before.  At one point, I stopped, bent over, and put my hands on my knees.  Nexus pulled up alongside me.  “You, okay?”  I raised a finger.  Nexus waited.  I took a haggard breath.  “I think,” Nexus said, looking upward, “We may have underestimated the Slatington Slag Heap.” 

“Ya think?” I said with dripping sarcasm.  We rested for a few minutes and continued our climb.  By the time we finally reached the ridge, the worst of the rain had begun to move away.

Clouds drifted through the trees and ahead of us lay the Knife's Edge.  The name suited it to a tee.  It felt like walking a tightrope.  The ridge was dangerously narrow, rocky and exposed, with the land falling away into the mist on either side. The wet stone made every step deliberate.  Nexus tread carefully, and I walked with a slow diligence for almost three minutes.

Out of nowhere, Nexus said, “Hey, you know what this needs?”

I paused.  “No, what? 

Nexus considered, “A guardrail or even better, how about a damn handrail, with a safety harness and…” 

I interrupted Nexus’s tirade.  “Nope, a gift shop. Think about it. Snacks. Cold drinks. T-shirts.”

“There’s no place to put bloody gift shop here.”   

“Well, darn it, there should be!” 

I spread my arms toward the ridge.  “Welcome to the Knife’s Edge! Try not to die! Souvenirs to the left!” 

Nexus started walking again, laughing all the while.  And despite the exhaustion, the rain, and the dangerous footing, Nexus’s laughing continued.

The ridge seemed to go on forever, and then we came upon the burned forest.  At first, Nexus noticed the smell.  It was not arid smoke exactly, something older; more like wet, charred wood.  The trees around us stood black and scarred. Some had survived, sending new green branches from trunks that still carried the marks of fire. Others were dead, their limbs broken and gray against the sky.

I became somber.  The trail passed through the remains of the fire-scorched woods.  For a long time, neither of us spoke.  The destruction had its own strange beauty. New growth pushed through blackened soil. Ferns and weeds grew around fallen trunks. Life had returned, but the fire had left its signature everywhere.  “Nature doesn't waste much.” Nexus finally said.  I nodded.  “No, I guess not.” 

We walked on.  Near the end of the day, the trail brought us to an overlook.  The rain had stopped.  Clouds were breaking apart, and shafts of late afternoon sunlight moved across the valley.

Nexus stepped to the edge.  “Look at that.”  I joined him. 

Far below, we could see the landscape spread out in layers of green and gray. There was a dark opening in the distance. “A tunnel?” I asked.  “Possibly.” 

“Ya know, that's the least certain answer you've ever given.” 

“I did say, possibly.” 

Beyond it, cutting through the valley, we could see part of what appeared to be the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. 

Cars moved along like tiny insects.  For several minutes, we simply stood there.  Two exhausted hikers looking down at civilization.  At traffic.  At dry seats inside air-conditioned vehicles.  At people who could probably stop at a convenience store whenever they wanted a drink. 

I sighed.  “Just imagine.”

“What?”

“Imagine being down there.”  Nexus looked at the highway. 

“No.”

“No?” 

“No. We've come too far.” 

I nodded toward the turnpike.  “They probably have cold drinks.” 

Nexus looked at me with a raised eyebrow.  “That is the strongest argument you've made all day.”

We found a suitable spot and made camp that evening after leaving the overlook, tired beyond measure.  Our clothes were damp, and our boots were worse. But this evening we had filtered water, warm food, and a small patch of flat ground beneath the trees, nice.

As darkness fell, I looked over.  “Do you think we're going to get sick from that spring?” 

Nexus was silent for a bit.  “You mean the spring from yesterday?” 

“Yes, that spring, silly.” 

“I've decided not to think about it.” Nexus responded. 

“That's your medical strategy?”  I quipped. 

“Well, it's working so far.” 

I considered that and nodded.  “Fair enough.”

Day Three

The morning began quietly.  No blazing heat.  No torrential rain.  Just a pale sunrise filtering through the trees and the sound of two hikers groaning as they tried to stand.  Nexus stretched and yawned as I perched on a log. 

“Do we have to hike today?”  I asked with a grimace. 

“Yes.”

“But why?” 

“Because we're still in the woods.” 

I looked around. *Pfff* “Details.”  We packed slowly.

Everything had become familiar over the previous two days: the straps, the weight of the packs, the routine of checking bottles, tightening boots, and making sure nothing important had been left behind.  We started down the trail.  The morning passed beneath a canopy of green.  The heat returned as the sun rose higher, but it was no longer the crushing heat of the first day. We had water now. We had learned our lesson—or at least we claimed we had.

At one point, I spotted a small stream and stopped.  Nexus came up beside me.  I looked at the water. Nexus looked at me.  I slowly reached toward my filter. 

Nexus smiled.  “Look at you.” 

“What?” 

“Personal growth,” Nexus said with a smirk. 

I filled my bottle.  “Don't get used to it.”

We spent the third day talking about everything and nothing.  We talked about the climb up the slag heap.  I insisted it had not been as difficult as Nexus remembered.  Nexus pointed to the bruises and scratches on our legs.  “Evidence… says otherwise.”

We talked about The Knife’s Edge and whether the name was meant as a warning or an advertisement.  We talked about the burned forest, the overlook, and the mysterious tunnel. We went back and forth about whether it had actually been a tunnel in an almost Monty Python-like fashion.

“It was definitely a tunnel,” I said. 

“You don't know that.” 

“It was a hole in a mountain,” I insisted. 

“It was a dark opening.” 

“That's what a tunnel is.” 

“Not every dark opening is a tunnel.” 

I stopped walking.  Nexus stopped too.  I pointed my finger directly at Nexus.  “I'm writing that down.” 

“Why?” 

“Because that sounds important.”  I quickly responded.  We laughed until we had to start walking again.

By afternoon, our feet hurt and arms and shoulders and legs and so on.  Heck, come to think of it, everything hurt, but somewhere along the way, the discomfort became part of the memory.  The first day's thirst.  The ridiculous warning sign beside the spring.  Two intelligent adults, who knew perfectly well that they shouldn't drink untreated water—and then did exactly that anyway.  The bridge over the rain-swollen Lehigh River.  The road.  The brutal climb up the Slatington Slag Heap.  The wet scramble.  The narrow ridge of the Knife's Edge.  The silent passage through the burned forest.  The overlook.  The disputed possible tunnel and the distant traffic on the Northeast Extension.

By late afternoon on the third day, we finally reached the end of our planned hike.  Nexus unshouldered the pack to the ground. I did the same.  For a moment, neither of us moved.  Then I lay down flat on my back. 

Nexus looked down at me.  “Are you dead?” Nexus muttered. 

I raised one hand in denial.  “No.” 

“Well, that’s good news.” 

“But I don’t think I can use my feet.” 

“That sounds less good.”

I stared up at the sky.  “But we did it.” 

Nexus sat down beside our packs.  “Yeah, three full days”

We had crossed through heat and rain, thirst and exhaustion. We climbed rocks, followed ridges, passed through a forest marred by fire, and stood high above a valley watching the world continue far below.

I sat up.  “You know what the best part was?” 

Nexus thought about it. “The overlook?”

“No.” 

“The Knife's Edge?” 

“No.” 

“The spring?”  Nexus said with a cringing look. 

I smiled. “Absolutely not.”  Nexus laughed. 

I pointed toward the parking area.  “The best part is that there is a place with cold drinks somewhere between here and home.” 

Nexus stood, slung the pack over one shoulder, and nodded.  “For once, I completely agree with you.”

We started walking.  Behind us, the Appalachian Trail continued through the Pennsylvania woods—over rocks, along ridges, past shelters and springs and places where rain could turn a simple crossing into an adventure.  Ahead of us was our car, and, more importantly, civilization.

Nexus looked back one last time.  “Same time next month?” 

I stared back, mouth agape.  “Uhhh, No.” 

Nexus smiled as I took a few more steps, then I added, “Maybe.”

And together, we disappeared down toward the trailhead, carrying everything we needed except, perhaps, good judgment.  After three full days in the sweltering Lehigh Valley wilderness, neither of us would have traded the story for anything.

Stay safe, all,

Rainman (oh ok, fine, and Nexus too)