TRAIL DAY 118
Fri, June 17, 2016 The misty night turned to misty day. Tenters squatted in the woods near the shelter and one just off the trail. Here comes that neat, tidy part of me again. I thought it was so cool to see someone’s home – a totally portable home with essentially all the amenities – erected wherever – even just off the trail. Home is where your pack is – where you are – wherever you can pitch your tent. Under a bush, under a tree, near a stream, on a hillside, on a mountaintop, in a field – in a parking lot if need be. Awesome! Thrilling!
As we crossed the dark earth through bright green vegetation, the mist lifted and beams of sunlight penetrated the canopy. I took pictures – naturally – and one of them was of a very early, inexplicable harbinger of things to come – colorful leaves.
Someone recognized Mother Nature’s natural altar and marked it with a black cross to be followed a little later with a white fish.
My shelter companion with the Mohawk showed up along the way and I believe he is Moon Boots whom I met at Uncle Johnny’s in April. I have a distinct memory of his full head of hair hundreds of miles back. He was one of those who gladly use the long months in the woods to escape the norms to which we pay homage in society.
Large boulders began cropping up as the sun continued to shine through dense stands of very young trees where even the least fit were still able to survive. The race to the sunlight was on and the fastest would soon spread their branches wide over the slower trees, stunting their growth.
There were several saw-toothed climbs before coming out into Pennsylvania’s south-central farmlands. Day hikers greeted us at the last of these climbs and thrilled vicariously to the adventures of this old hiker and his dog as had so many before. They assured me the fields ahead were their own kind of spectacular.
I grew up in the suburbs around New York City where I was born and where my dad worked for 20 years. In 1972, after a couple of years of law practice with my wife and two boys in northeast Pennsylvania, I moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, “The Garden Spot of America.” I’ve been in this farmland for so long now that it has become my home. “Become” is the keyword. It’s not naturally “home” because I’m from up north. While the Big Apple welcomed me into this world, my wife and all our children were born in Lancaster.
There will ever be a landscape deep down in the archeology of my soul were rocks, mountains and lakes are the visible features. However, they are covered by a veneer of rich topsoil and rolling farmlands husbanded by the primitive Amish who have long preserved the ways of life known to early American settlers. The AT had now spit me out like Jonah onto these rich farmlands.
At the far end of the exposed trail a brief stint in the woods brought us to the town of Boiling Springs. Judging by the calm waters of the lake, it seems they should have named the town, Placid Pond.
A paved walk around the manmade lake led to the ATC where they did, indeed, have my battery. I called for a shuttle to the Buck-Off Hostel where the owners were into horses. Soon a pretty, well-endowed blond, who I would soon learn was the owner, in a late model SUV picked me up with a couple of others and off we went.
We got the tour, chose our bunk and settled in for the evening. Shower at the back of the house. Honor system for sodas but many items were there for the taking. Fridge, sink and hotplate were at the far end of the bunkhouse. Well bunk-eve? Bunk-shed? Bunk-roof? A curtain closed the area off from the outside for a sense of privacy. As you walked in, the “kitchen” was to the left, a table straight ahead, a couch occupied with many things to the right and a 3-tiered stack of bunks was back right. I was on the bottom where one would have to resist claustrophobia and remember not to sit up. You couldn’t even sit on the edge of the bunk to put on your boots.
Once settled, we gathered in a gravel sitting area with comfortable chairs between the “bunkhouse” and the main house. Horses and chickens were in the back. Tents were set up in the side and front yards. The owner’s dog wandered freely.
Lisa was the pretty blond. She had trained her little dog to do all kinds of leaps and flips and entertained us with a performance.
Soon Odie, the creator and editor of The Hiker Yearbook showed up. He traveled the trail every summer interviewing and getting photos of thru-hikers for the annual publication. He took several of me and Theo but I would provide others farther north in time for the cutoff before printing.
After supper, I showered and turned in.
Day #118 James Fry Shelter > Boiling Springs 12 miles