We broke our record by hiking 40 miles in less than 48 hours, celebrating our growing capabilities as hikers and my 21st birthday.
We headed out late, as usual. I was on the road by 4:30 PM, but we had hoped to be at the trailhead by 4. I called my friend, Joe, and asked for his ETA. His familiar timid but eager voice responded that they’d arrive about when I was supposed to. So, at least we could coordinate our tardiness.
I rolled into the southern trailhead with the supplies for our 40-mile trip scattered across the floor of my van. Ramen, boxed gumbo, bananas (for pre/post-hike snacking), apples, carrots, stale crackers, and a block of Vermont white cheddar cheese were among them. Please note that my savviness for what to take on hikes is improving with every trip. I, for example, will likely never again bring a bag of baby carrots after seeing how they began to resemble an orange paste after just 20 hours in my stuffed pack.
While I waited for Joe and Charlotte to arrive, I indulged in some fancy yogurt that I’d brought along for a pre-hike boost of energy. Shopping for hiking food is fun, but shopping for pre and post-hike foods is even better. I shrug off things that I would rarely justify eating when I know I’ve spent the past few days sweating, walking, and scaling rocky climbs. Things like Fast Break candy bars, San Pellegrino, and, yes, fancy yogurt.
I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Joe and Charlotte. We excitedly honked our horns at each other (something I’m not proud to say in retrospect; as with food choices, establishing best trail habits in general is a learning process). Joe and Charlotte are two friends I met through a summer camp where I used to work. My camp friends are each unique people, but a common fondness for wild, genuine, unfiltered experience unites us all. That usually is what brings us to camp, and it’s the feeling each of us remembers when we leave: as much as camp was insular and our time there was temporary, it still held a sort of magic. A spark of that electricity, the feeling of being unhindered in a way I’m not in most other settings, returns every time I reunite with a camp friend. It returned when I saw Joe and Char pull in to the spot next to me. We exchanged kiddish grins.
We spent another 20 minutes arranging our gear and loading our packs to ensure a comfortable start. Our goal was to hike 10 miles that first day, even though we had only 2 hours of daylight remaining. As we began hiking—that giddiness of just starting out powering our first few miles—we discussed the evening ahead of us. We knew we’d have to walk quickly to get in as many miles as possible before dark, but it was soon clear that we’d have to do some night hiking. As we walked, we shared life updates since the three of us hadn’t been together in months. We almost politely took turns updating each other and asking questions. For me, beginning a long hike requires breaking the ice: between the hikers in my group, between my ambitious mind and my hesitant, amateur-hiker body, and between myself and the comforting but intimidating presence of nature that surrounds me. This latter form is the least visible but the most visceral. Reacquainting oneself with nature is like becoming reacquainted with a friend. The same tentative greeting, slow acclimation, and eventual strong fondness.
We’d reached our 10-mile goal by 10:00 that night. We spent a few of the last hours hiking in the dark, using headlamps and phone flashlights to see in front of us. In my experience, hiking almost anywhere in Pennsylvania requires not just sight, but excellent sight, because at any given moment, there are thousands of rocks waiting to send even the most seasoned hiker reeling head over heels. In the dark, the challenge intensified. I found myself feeling uneasy for other reasons as we trekked in the pitch-black night. I imagined what we’d do if we encountered a loud scuffling to our left or right. Would we run? Scream? Freeze? All of the classic fearful scenarios that plague those unaccustomed to the outdoors played out in dramatic shorts in my head. Meanwhile, behind me (somehow I decided it was a good idea for me to lead), Charlotte and Joe were happily chatting. At one point, we stopped to look at a trail register, Char taking a moment to make a fresh entry. She cheerily added: “Night hiking is so fun! It’s almost as much fun as day hiking!” I added a reluctant “yeah!” while trying to convince myself that I meant it. Meanwhile, I was still peering into the darkness and keenly listening for a sound other than that of our own walking. I told myself that I was having fun. After all, I was the one who chose to bring us out for a three-day trip. Already, the mental challenge of hiking was settling in, and we were less than a quarter of the way through our trip.
Morning came gradually. I’ve always felt like mornings go in slow motion when I sleep in the outdoors. I wake up several times during the night, my body not acclimated to the way the ground feels beneath me, the way every sound seems so much louder than it is, the feeling of having nothing but a layer of nylon between me and everything else. I’d like to say that an overwhelming peace comes over me when I camp out, the sound of crickets chirping, a stream babbling somewhere nearby perhaps. But this is the stuff of movies and idyllic novels. Ninety percent of the time, those elements are replaced with silence, or the eerie sound of wind rustling the tops of the trees and leaves in the undergrowth. The mind’s thoughts, amplified.
We started the day with a lightness, folding up our tents with numbed fingers and breaking out a few granola bars for breakfast. It was cold and gray, but still so serene. I’ve grown to appreciate the beauty of any weather on the trail, even when those conditions cause physical discomfort. It’s one of the factors that gets me out when others stay in, claiming it’s “bad weather.”
Our goal for the second day was to reach 20 miles before dark. It was ambitious, but our second car was waiting for us 40 miles down the trail from the first, so, one way or another, we’d have to cover that ground. And even though it was long, our hike would take us past some beautiful overlooks—the Pinnacle and Pulpit Rock—and through Hawk Mountain and the trail town of Port Clinton. It was enough to keep the day interesting and to occupy our minds—again, morale and psychological factors can make or break a trip. At the Pinnacle, our first major vista, we stopped for lunch. We unloaded our packs, letting the straps slide heavily down our arms rather than expending the energy to lift them gently from each shoulder. They dropped with a thud; I watched as mine slowly listed onto its side, and I imagined it letting out a tired groan. It seems to me that packs start to become their wearers, both with their worn out exteriors and stiff inner frames. I looked out, the broad panoramic view stretched more than 180 degrees and allowed us to see much of Berks County and some counties beyond. Summer was almost over; the trees were still verdant but some of their leaves showed a tinge of color. I would have looked longer, but my body demanded fuel. My hands shook as I unzipped my pack. Char and Joe laid out all of their food, too; it had become customary, by our second or third hike together, for us to take out all of our snacks and dry foods for communal lunches. We never quite intended to, but somehow the snacks each person brought, which were mediocre on their own, became true feasts when combined. Beef sticks with Vermont sharp cheddar and peanut butter smeared onto tortillas with trail mix have become favorites. The latter, which Joe calls “hobo tacos,” have been a part of every hike.
As we gorged ourselves, Char stuck a candle in my “taco.” My 21st birthday had been a few days before then, and she’d apparently snuck a box of candles into her pack for the occasion. She struck a match, but the strong summit winds quickly extinguished it. The ceremony was what mattered.
Several hours later, a few miles from Port Clinton, we were hiking toward a rainstorm. The air felt dewy. Knee-high grasses beaded with moisture brushed against our legs. A low-lying cloud met the gray sky above in a hazy, purple-blue confluence, set behind the sharp outline of the next mountain. Other than for the occasional sound of cars passing on a highway somewhere up ahead, all was still and silent. Joe, Char, and I had long since fallen into a quiet, contemplative state. My mind was focused mostly on getting to town, our next resting point, but it wandered. We began descending into the next valley, but there was no sign of a town. Just a state road stretching off into the distance, rigid and undeviating. Our spirits lifted when a row of houses came into view. Gradually, we saw the town emerge at the end of our gray-green tunnel of a path. When accustomed to seeing nothing but woods, even for a few days, coming into “civilization” feels strange. Its sharp angles, muted asphalt, and stoic rows of utility poles elicit both wonder and distaste. As we were fifteen miles in, we hunched and staggered a bit. Our main aim was to find a place to grab a coffee and sit down, maybe even buy a dessert to enjoy later that night. Somehow, though, in the entire town of Port Clinton, we couldn’t find a single restaurant, cafe, or even a gas station within a mile of the Trail. I looked for nearby places on my phone. Nothing was open other than the Port Clinton Hotel, whose description read “homey restaurant and bar.” Unsure whether they’d let three dirty, tired hikers (very much outside of thru-hiker season) come into their facility, we decided to turn to the locals. We passed the fire hall, and Joe knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman answered, pointing us to the hotel. She said they’d have coffee there.
As we walked toward the hotel, a pick-up truck pulled up beside us. His was one of several trucks with a Trump bumper sticker (or three) emblazoned on it (this wasn’t rare: Trump flags waved from people’s porches, Trump Pence campaign signs were, in 2018, still staked in lawns and propped against railings). The driver rolled down his window, and I braced myself, waiting for him to accost us for some reason. As a woman, I find myself assuming I’ll have to take a defensive position when strangers confront me. We greeted him warmly but with some degree of wariness.
“You all hikers?”
We answered yes, and asked him where we might find the Port Clinton Hotel. “Go down this way, take a right, then it’s on your left. Yeah, you won’t miss it. It’s right there, you’ll see it. You all be safe.”
We thanked him and walked on.
The Port Clinton Hotel lived up to its description, insofar as it was “homey.” A sign requested that hikers leave their packs outside, and not to enter with dirty boots. I inspected mine dubiously, trying to convince myself that “dirty” is a relative term. We left our packs, but otherwise entered as we were. The main entrance took us right into the bar, where we immediately fell under the scrutiny of the bartender and two lone customers. Humbly, we took a seat at the bar, trying to be nonchalant. The bartender asked if we wanted anything, but I got the feeling that it was less a question than a habit as natural as breathing. I timidly asked if we could order three coffees. She flatly answered: “Sure.” So there we were, among locals that liked to stare and an unamused bartender, laughing to ourselves to fend off the awkwardness.
We downed a Reese’s peanut butter pie and loaded our packs. We were determined to finish the last five miles as quickly as possible. It sounded like so little with fifteen miles completed. But, unbeknownst to us, the hardest part of the trip was yet to come. Where the Trail veered back into the woods at the edge of town a sign read: “Appalachian Trail: Enjoy the scenery.” I thought that was so lovely, and I resolved to enjoy the rest of my hike, in spite of how tired I was. We had coffee and peanut butter pie in our systems, and we were persistent. That should have been enough to do anything; “plus,” I thought to myself, “I’ve hiked twenty miles before. In the pouring rain. I can do this.”
As we passed the sign, the trail abruptly became steep. It was made to seem like a switchback, but even the sections between curves continued at sharp inclines. Rocks became stairs, and we were traveling up more than forward. I was leading, and I looked ahead for a break in the rise. I saw only more steps, and fewer switchbacks. “This is fine,” I thought, “I’m resilient. I’m strong. If I go slowly, I can climb as long as I have to.” Soon, though, my heart was racing. I wasn’t out of breath, but felt I had to carefully measure each inhalation and exhalation to keep my pulse from quickening. I worried that Joe and Charlotte were waiting for me to speed up, but when I looked back, they were as focused on plodding on as I was. I put my hand on my chest and tried to focus. It was unusual for this to happen to me, even on the toughest climbs. I alternated pressing a hand on each thigh to push myself upward. I began to feel nauseous. I breathed through my nose to ease it, but whatever was in my stomach wanted not to be. Then it hit me. My body was processing the caffeine I’d downed at the bar, causing my hands to shake, my heart to race, and my thoughts to turn panicky. Brilliant.
I made every effort to keep my mind on each step, but I seriously considered bolting off into the woods to purge my body and just get it over with. Mostly I kept my head down, but I glanced up occasionally, only to see that the trail continued steadily upward. I told Joe and Char that I wasn’t feeling well so they wouldn’t be alarmed if I had to make a run for it. We laughed (or tried to, between breaths) and trekked on.
Finally, we reached another flat ridgeline after about half an hour of climbing. I’d managed to exhaust my body physically, but my mind was wide awake (due to the coffee). And it was awake with a vengeance. I was exhausted, but anxious. I flexed and clenched my fingers, trying to soothe myself. I continued taking active breaths. It started to rain, and the sky was darkening with the evening. My anxiety intensified. I thought to myself, “If I can’t handle this—a two-night trip in my home state—how do I expect to thru-hike one day?” I’ve questioned my ability to thru-hike countless times, finding that the down-side of ambition is inevitable self-doubt. I told myself not to worry about that and to stay present. All I had to do was keep walking.
Joe, Char, and I began to discuss where to camp that night, and agreed to stop at the next site we saw. By around 8:30, we found a nice spot at the edge of a clearing. Tall pines loomed above to protect us from the rain, which was growing heavier by the minute. Relieved to finally be done for the day at only half a mile short of our goal, we happily went about setting up camp. In a matter of minutes, we’d put up the tents and arranged to start a fire. The rain was falling steadily, but we didn’t care. We snapped the smallest and driest twigs we could find, and then lined some finger-width twigs in log-cabin style on logs that the last group had left behind. I cozied the kindling around a wad of newspaper and lit them from the bottom, letting the flames engulf the bundle. I placed it under more kindling, and arranged larger twigs near the blaze to evaporate the moisture which saturated most of the wood we’d gathered. I blew into the center of the fire, watching as the tiny embers flared to a bright orange.
We stood around the fire, waiting for it to burn on its own. Strewn on nearby rocks and logs were the chicken gumbo, ramen, beef sticks, crackers, chocolate, and a small block of cheese which would make up our dinner. We heated the soup on rocks placed near the fire (this method has worked surprisingly well for us), and Charlotte skewered a beef stick on a twig to roast it over the flames. Grinning, she asked Joe and I if we wanted one. We obviously did—I lost count of how many I ate that night. At one point, hunched over my bowl of soup, I had one of those out-of-body experiences where I saw myself in my current position. I realized I looked like the human embodiment of a less than sign. I laughed when I looked up to see Joe and Char doing the same.
Joe sheepishly took an apple out of his pack. “Do you guys want some hot apple cider? I’m not sure I know exactly how to make it or if it’ll be any good, but I thought I’d give it a try.”
Half an hour later, Char and I were in our tent with a cup of steaming cider. Char still wore her headlamp so we could see in the tent. We took turns sipping from a small plastic cup I keep in my mess kit. I snapped a picture.
That night as I tried to get comfortable in my sleeping bag, I thought about all we’d seen that day: the Pinnacle, Pulpit Rock, the Port Clinton Hotel. I thought about the sheer amount of ground we’d covered. I thought back to my panicky climb up the mountain outside of Port Clinton. How was I feeling so differently now? Had my own fear of one day failing to thru-hike been responsible for it? Then, I thought about what helped me to feel relief: the fire. As the three of us stood around that fire, we were transported. In the cold, formidable darkness, there was a yellow glow, something vital. It sustained me physically and mentally. It meant more than light and warmth.
We said goodnight. Tomorrow was another day.
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