TRAIL DAY 121
Mon, June 20, 2016 My bunkmate was gone. He had said he’d leave early. Scientist was slow rising and did not mention any problems such as mine that night. I would see my bunkmate down the way and ask him if he found a white liner sock of mine in his sleeping bag. It had gone overboard in my urgent frenzy. He hadn’t but would look again when he got his bag out.
From Darlington Shelter there was a down followed by a few ups and downs and then a climb to a 1200′ ridge extending almost 5 miles. About a half hour into the day, I came upon a perfectly formed spider web and marveled at its symmetry and the industry of the builder.
The Appalachians through Pennsylvania are a series of ridges curving northeast from the south center of the state to the eastern border, from Warfordsburg, 40 miles west of Waynesboro to Delaware Water Gap north of center at the east end of the state. The Appalachian Trail followed the most easterly ridge over endless rocks that challenged every step. Some of these rocks were from Canada and were dumped here by glaciers ending over 22,000. For the AT hiker, the worst was yet to come.
“Pennsylvania’s rocks” was one of those elements of the trail that loomed large enough to have a life of its own. Like Fontana Dam, The Smokys, Clingman’s Dome, The Roller Coaster, The Whites, Mahoosuc Notch, the 100-mile wilderness, Katahdin. You just had to get there and do it before the mystique and lore would be absorbed by your own experience, the reality you finally encountered.
When contrails carved a gradual curve in the sky, as a pilot, I could hear the communications that preceded the maneuver that caused that smooth white line far above my head: “American 289, turn to a heading of two five zero degrees, maintain flight level 27.” The answer affirming the communication would come back, “American 289.” Thus the smooth line was drawn far overhead at a speed exceeding my own by a factor of 300-600. I was not envious. I was happy where I was.
Happy with the mysteries of nature immutably fixed in stone and delicately displayed in grass and bloom. Happy with the lush green hills in early morning sun, the woods in shade and vistas to the north leading the way to Duncannon, Pennsylvania, and The Doyle, another iconic spot on the Appalachian Trail.
The Doyle loomed large on the AT because it, too, was difficult in its own way. The Doyle was a dingy, run-down, 3-story, brick structure with no AC on the 2nd and 3rd floors where hikers slept or tried to. The bar downstairs had your favorite beer along with passable food served up by the owners, Pat and Vickey Kelly. The place runs on a shoestring, including a “Save the Doyle” campaign to pay back taxes. The campaign website reads:
Thousands of weary travelers coming off the Appalachian Trail have relied on the Doyle Hotel in Duncannon for a good night’s rest and a shower. But now, it’s the hotel that needs some relief.
It got the relief it needed, I imagine mostly from AT hikers.
I went in the front door and unloaded my gear in a room to the right as you entered. Then I went into the bar and paid for a spot for the night. I would be on the 3rd floor in the corner turret overlooking the main street – with a fan. It was hot and I would sleep on top of the sheets in the altogether with the fan at max, Theo on the floor.
But before that would happen, I would complete arrangements made earlier from the trail for my sweet daughter, Marian, to drive my original AT boots to me because my feet simply were not getting any better and I figured these original boots had worked very well for me at the start and perhaps in time my feet would readjust to them. I would know, at least, that the boots were not too small because they had served me very well for 532.4 miles. No other boots Merrell valiantly attempted to help me with had a proven track record behind them.
So, in boots, it was back to the future and I would just hang in there because there was nothing else I could do. I had to help my feet back to their original state in their original boot. The fix would by no means be instantaneous.
I had told Marian who had already traveled to Carlisle to hike with me a few days before that I would see if I could spare her another trip and perhaps get grandson, Bergen, to drive over. I had left him a message. He called back eventually and became my benefactor.
Boots in hand, he arrived at The Doyle where, of course, I bought him 2 suppers and a brew. I joined him.
Before he started his 55-mile trek back to Lancaster, Bergen walked with me several blocks north along the main drag to an ice cream spot. Theo joined us to his great delight.
I bid adieu to Bergen and Theo and I climbed the stairs to our room. We’d brought our gear up earlier. The bathroom was well used and the shampoo in the tin shower was empty. I got more downstairs, showered, cleaned up and turned in.
As I close out this day, I am remembering that during our walk through the streets of Duncannon to The Doyle a lady going by called out the window,
“His pack is lopsided!”
To which I answered,
“I know – we’re not going far.”
“Oh.”
She was satisfied.
And so were Theo and I – at The Doyle.
Day #121 Darlington Shelter > Duncannon (The Doyle) 11.3 miles