tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35918888327576400662024-03-05T08:11:40.223-08:00At the Speed of FootMark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.comBlogger266125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-88731994202187122142021-08-02T12:06:00.002-07:002021-08-02T12:06:59.638-07:00Long Trail 1991: Starting Out<p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span data-offset-key="47pml-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yRONBniyUKMzF-EZKb-Wqp2Jgi7_eQsqnPK0fx4IrAvIjzSiUBhVu_c495XC70MrWN4mDDnTjXrHshq-GG02X4gmfFRjFhDuqo8ezN4SFnWVeQDqhuXOdRNbpSPxAXRWXRZ5UVIZcEI/s2048/LT+noerth.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yRONBniyUKMzF-EZKb-Wqp2Jgi7_eQsqnPK0fx4IrAvIjzSiUBhVu_c495XC70MrWN4mDDnTjXrHshq-GG02X4gmfFRjFhDuqo8ezN4SFnWVeQDqhuXOdRNbpSPxAXRWXRZ5UVIZcEI/w400-h225/LT+noerth.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span data-offset-key="47pml-0-0"><span data-text="true">On this date in 1991 long-time hiking partner Gary Winter and I began walking south from the Vermont-Canada border on the Long Trail. This was the first-ever truly long-distance hike for either of us although been out for up to a week and 75 miles on previous hikes in Arizona, Utah and Idaho. This time the hike was 24 days and 270 miles. We had a plan and a ridiculously heavy packs. Both changed considerably in the during the coming weeks.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span data-offset-key="47pml-0-0"><span data-text="true">From my August 2 journal:</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span data-offset-key="47pml-0-0"><span data-text="true">
</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We started walking today. Came in
almost 10 miles from Journey's End Camp. The trail is brushy and
overgrown in places. Not hard to follow but hard walking in
places. We had several steep climbs. Footing is also tricky with
lots of rocks and roots to catch us unaware. Got a few views of the
countryside but we were mostly in "the green tunnel" as
Gary calls it. The trail passes through very green and thickly
wooded forest with sight distance very limited. We got a glimpse of
Canada at the before heading south. Canada looks very much
like Vermont: leaves, bark and rock as far as we can see. The
forest seems to cling together; roots holding soil holing rock,
covered with moss. A few trees here and there are already turning color.
Birch trees are common, their bark peeling off in parchment like
sheets.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We
are camped tonight at Laura Woodward shelter after about a seven and
a half hour hike in. The shelter is an open front log structure with
a view of Jay Peak and its bunker-like ski building. But mostly the
view is trees. We had a pretty ride up from Montpelier, passing
through small towns and farm land. Our driver, Rolf Anderson gave us
a running commentary about the mountains and local history as we
headed north. We stopped for coffee in Morrisville where Rolf amazed
us by leaving the keys to his truck in the ignition--definitely not in
Phoenix anymore. After coffee, we followed the 43rd Infantry
Division Memorial Highway to North Troy. Each passing mile made me
more aware of what we were doing: heading into some of the
northeast's most remote forest for an extended trip during which will be on our own.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-offset-key="47pml-0-0"><span data-text="true"><style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; color: #000000; line-height: 120%; orphans: 2; widows: 2; background: transparent }p.western { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; so-language: en-US }p.cjk { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; so-language: zh-CN }p.ctl { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; so-language: ar-SA }</style></span></span></span></p>Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-13062011675602823392020-09-11T15:26:00.000-07:002020-09-11T15:26:09.790-07:00<p></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>From the trail journals:</i><b> <br /></b></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b>Sep</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b>tember</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b>
7-14, </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b>1985</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b>.
Applachian Trail. White Moutains, NH.</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> A midnight flight out of Phoenix brings three sleepy
Arizonans—</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Co</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">lleen
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Hilber</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">,
Greg </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Schulke</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">
and me—</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">t</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">o
Boston to tackle about 50 miles of the Appalachian Trail </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">in
New Hampshire</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bev
Wilson suggested t</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">his trip
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">during last year’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">
Sawtooth </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Wilderness hike in
Idaho </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">trip and </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">here
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">we are doing it. Bev is
waiting for us at the airport, having arrived just ahead of us. We
spill out across the baggage area and rig our packs. Dan, a friend
from Boston, takes our end of trail gear and wishes us happy trails.
We head north and meet two of Bev's friends, Joanne and Marsha, at
the NH border. The drive to the trailhead is longer than we
anticipated. Bev and I shuttle the rental car to our take out point
at Glencliff. We stop in the town to buy some fruit. The store has
a soda fountain which means: end of trail milkshake! By the time we
return to Crawford Notch, it's well past dark. The rest of the group
has set up camp and has dinner ready. It's OK with me even if we are
starting out behind schedule.</span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQe76V0o2RJebeStnWwZ6ugYqn1JPzxK3GABhpGhOBkTNAUuwIrvCxRP-zjDhy38FovjOjnj5_9i6WyUklY3YnWF5iueq9uOaNHZJqCZGf4MFJXoL9_CekY-jzeceLQbs0fnfemverg1s/s1517/1.++start+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="1517" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQe76V0o2RJebeStnWwZ6ugYqn1JPzxK3GABhpGhOBkTNAUuwIrvCxRP-zjDhy38FovjOjnj5_9i6WyUklY3YnWF5iueq9uOaNHZJqCZGf4MFJXoL9_CekY-jzeceLQbs0fnfemverg1s/s320/1.++start+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Starting Out</span><br /></div>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sunday
morning is bright and sunny. We confidently pose for group photos at
the Crawford Notch Trailhead and step out. Joanne and Marsha hike
with us for a few miles before heading back. Lunch at Ethan Pond
Shelter. Greg's hip belt is rubbing him badly so he cuts a chunk of
his sleeping pad, lacing it into his belt for extra protection.
Necessity is the mother of invention. The trail becomes steep and
rocky--hard going. The forest is pretty; some trees are beginning to
turn color. Many small intimate scenes delight the eye: moss
covered rock, highlights of leaves and <span style="font-size: small;">ferns along the tr</span>ail. As the
day wears on we slowly become aware that we may be hiking until well
after dark. We break at Zeeland Falls Hut and clamber on to the
falls to view Zeeland Notch, a huge glacial cut in the granite
mountains. Returning to the trail, we climb to Zeeland Ridge with
its grand views of a gentle valley backed by gentle green slopes.
Late afternoon light accentuates their many folds and peaks. We
watch the sunset from Mt Guyot. The sky is a deep, intense red band
sandwiched between ridgeline and low clouds. The sunset seemingly
goes on forever. We finally reach the side trail to Guyot Camp and
wearily stumble down. Today has been a long 12 mile day over
challenging trail. Welcome to New Hampshire.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Monday
morning is slow. We're in no hurry to get out of camp. We eat a
leisurely breakfast and chat with the camp caretaker. She tells us
that we may encounter orientation groups from Dartmouth College along
the trail this week. Guyot Camp is a series of wooden platforms
located adjacent to a spring. Without the platforms there would be
no place to camp on the steep rocky slope. We leave camp refreshed
and ready for the day's walk. We climb back to Guyot summit to pick
up the AT. Actually, we are walking on the Twinway Trail today which
serves as the route for the AT in this section of the White
Mountains. The trails in this area predate the AT and the locals are
obviously reluctant to subsume their heritage to some latter day
concept. The sky is cloudy. Rain is in the forecast but our spirits
are high as we head toward Garfield Campsite. We stop at Galehead
Hut and buy extra trail munchies. The hut is inviting, I am tempted
to blow off the hike and just hang out. The temptation passes and we
push on. Vegetation is sparse on the crest—stunted pines cling to
small patches of soil where they can. Many have blown over, victims
of strong winds and a tenuous foothold. We make Garfield Campsite in
time to claim the shelter. It's a spacious affair, enclosed on four
sides with an open entryway. A good port in case it rains tonight.
Greg returns from the privy to report that it has toilet paper. We
have time to clean up and eat a relaxed dinner. Colleen serves wine.
A hiker from Boston joins us. </span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span>
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5pJ2Unf0Nba-5NMjXMVF1OzPsBOXtCx3zLVdL-tZsikboiOYS97pmdkQw-vPznPG6O4gUBfCW4JfBdqjS0AaOuFDE83UfYAN09-ymjKVkeuSjkRknuzReH7f1m3kaEeV-Xv7TJo6kes/s1533/2.+twinway+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1005" data-original-width="1533" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5pJ2Unf0Nba-5NMjXMVF1OzPsBOXtCx3zLVdL-tZsikboiOYS97pmdkQw-vPznPG6O4gUBfCW4JfBdqjS0AaOuFDE83UfYAN09-ymjKVkeuSjkRknuzReH7f1m3kaEeV-Xv7TJo6kes/s320/2.+twinway+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">On South Twin Mountain</span><br /></div>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Rain
falls during the night. Soft rain tapping against the shelter. Very
pleasant and so unlike the violent rain I have come to know in
Arizona. We awake to fog. No one really wants to roll out of their
warm sleeping bags. But we do and begin the day's adventure. Today
we are on the Garfield Ridge Trail which follows what will be the
high point (literally) of our hike. We pass through an Alpine Zone
at 5000 feet--dwarf plants and lichens clinging to shallow, rocky
soil. It's a tough place to make a living. We climb the ridge,
expecting each knob to be Mt. Lafayette Peak. Heavy fog limits our
view and we are surprised over and over as we continue to climb after
leaving each knob. Finally, a massive rock cairn tells us this is
it. Out come the cameras for a series of documentary photos. We can
hear the whine of traffic in Franconia Notch 4000 feet below us. The
day is spectacular despite the absence of the grand view we would
otherwise have. We enjoy the sparkle of water on leaves and blades
of grass and see the looming silhouettes of knobs looming just ahead.
We follow the trail from Mt. Lafayette to Mt Lincoln to Little
Haystack before dropping steeply down the side of the ridge to
Liberty Tentsite. Our two identical dome tents packed together on
the platform look like some giant ladybug species about to mate. We
cook dinner under a poncho strung between the tents. We're the only
ones here tonight besides the caretaker. He says more rain is on the
way. We don't care. We're having fun. The outhouse has toilet
paper.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The
night is punctuated with heavy rain and gusting winds, a wild night
on the side of the mountain. The poncho collects water until the
growing weight causes it to spill with a loud "sploosh!".
The tent flexes violently in the wind, pushing down toward us and
springing back. We are warm and dry inside. That's all that
matters. Morning at Liberty is wet. The rain has stopped but mist
hangs in the trees and the platform is slick with water and last
night's mud. Breakfast is in bed as we reach out to boil water for
coffee and cereal. We pack up wet and suit up in our rain gear for
another wet day. The trail continues steeply down to Franconia
Notch. Sun is poking through the clouds but not enough to convince
us to bag the rain gear. We pick our way across the mud of the
highway construction in the notch before heading up toward Kinsman
Ridge. The day clears up so we finally emerge from our Gore-Tex
cocoons. Feels good to be walking free. The day is cool with
sunlight filtering through the trees. The rain and wind blew many
early changing leaves off the trees, they make a colorful and
sometimes slick carpet along our route. At Lonesome Lake Hut, we
pull in for a coffee break and to buy more trail candies. Between
the campsite fees and our constant resuppling at the huts, this trip
is expensive. But it's so very civilized. I savor the relaxation,
sipping my coffee while overlooking the lake. The hut is seductive
but we push ourselves on to the Fishin' Jimmy Trail for the final
climb to Kinsman Shelter.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The
climb is steep, with some knee-to-jaw scrambling. As I pick my way
up one ledge I look up and am startled to see a Black man standing on
the next step. Before I can say anything he says in a very proper
British-Caribbean accent, "I will stand aside. We in the
Appalachian Trail community give the right of way to the climbing
party." I scramble my way up and he introduces himself, "I
am The Great Appalachian Athlete. Perhaps you have heard of me."
I stammer, "Um... no. But I just got here from Arizona."
The Great Appalachian Athlete is a sight to behold. He is wearing
baggy red running shorts over long johns. His glasses are taped
together. Plastic water jugs adorn his pack and a yellow plastic bag
of fruit hangs from his sternum strap. He looks outlandish but his
gear is serious. He tells me that he just finished cleaning up
Kinsman Shelter after a night of partying by some hikers and advises
that we sleep on the left side since the roof leaks on the other
side. He warns me that the resident mice are agressive. I thank him
and continue on but not before I hear him introducing himself to Greg
who is coming up behind me. That night Bev tells us that she met him
earlier this year in southwest Virginia. She thinks he is a Jamaican
doctor.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Kinsman
Shelter is a bit dilapidated but looks fine to these weary hikers.
No toilet paper in the privy, though. We claim the left side and
hang out our tents in the vain hope that the remaining sunlight will
dry them. The shelter sits on the east side of Kinsman Pond with the
entry facing away from the water. Too bad because the view across
the pond to Kinsman Mt is impressive. The mountain looms over the
lake and seems to dare us to challenge it. Northbound hikers have
warned us about Kinsman. "Steep”, “rocky” and “rough"
are the common descriptions. Right now it's just there, looking
gorgeous with its silhouette lit by the day's last light. Tomorrow
is plenty of time to worry about climbing it. The night is cold. I
crawl into my bag wearing full winter gear, hoping it will be enough.
Our packs, with all pockets and compartments open so the mice won't
have to chew their way in, serve as our headboards. We hung our food
under the shelter's eaves. Not particularly mouse proof but at least
not readily accessible either. During the night I step outside to
relieve myself. I revel at the star filled sky, a good omen for
tomorrow. I shine my light on the food bags. A mouse tightrope
walks across the line toward them and freezes in the light.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">My
star filled night sky gives way to a foggy morning. Kinsman Mt is no
longer visible but we know it's there and start out with
determination. The climb is indeed a scramble, long slabs of slick
granite interspersed with rocky trail. Roots, trees, and cracks
offer hand and foot holds. We reach North Kisman and fight our way
through brush to the South Peak. The fog lifts during our climb so
we are treated to some great views. Franconia Ridge dominates the
eastern horizon, and I feel excited about having walked its knobby
back. The countryside to the north consists of low rolling ridges,
misty and gray on this wet day. And we can see Mt Moosilauke, our
last peak on this amazing hike. The sky is dark and North Kinsman
behind us is almost black. The trail across the ridge is brushy and
slow going. For us, at least. Three Guys from New Jersey bolt past
us like gazelles. We'd be left in their dust except that it's too
wet. Picking our way down from the peak is especially difficult, all
the more so because rain has started again, mixed with occasional
snow flurries.</span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUYu6eHtawx0qm1zaccEIqQkBMpRw3mJ7VVgTXnkom1rcZYwl1pZvZ4BYjKtX_NGUnnoZIVD8LT95Gu66BvkPuwCBH1b_pYA8ANJtSpfmQSDGw5U5MR-vQ0_knnXfn-R1im4eNxq1Izk/s1455/2.5.++scrambling+down+kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1455" data-original-width="1011" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUYu6eHtawx0qm1zaccEIqQkBMpRw3mJ7VVgTXnkom1rcZYwl1pZvZ4BYjKtX_NGUnnoZIVD8LT95Gu66BvkPuwCBH1b_pYA8ANJtSpfmQSDGw5U5MR-vQ0_knnXfn-R1im4eNxq1Izk/s320/2.5.++scrambling+down+kinsman.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Scrambling Down South Kinsman Peak</span><br /></div><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Once
off the peak, walking is a bit easier. Rain is falling hard now but
the forest canopy breaks it into a gentle downpour. We are following
Eliza Brook Trail now. It cascades down a long, steep drainage and
over many waterfalls, some more than 25 feet. The forest is lush and
green. We reach Eliza Brook Shelter but it's full so we pitch our
tents nearby. I am in reflective mood after five days on the trail.
Looking back, I marvel at the adventures and experiences that have
been this trip. Names, places, sights and sounds reel through my
head--Zeeland, Guyot, Garfield, Franconia, Kinsman, caretakers,
northbound through hikers, rushing water, camp stories. I have
reached Long Trip Nirvana. All I am is right here with me on the
trail. The rest of the world has ceased to exist. Bev, Colleen,
Greg and the trail are all that I need or want right now. And I
still have two more days to go! </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Today--Friday,
I think--is foggy and damp. We are still on Kinsman Ridge, climbing
to Mt. Wolf. The fog gives the trail an otherworldly look and feel,
cutting us off from the larger world, leaving us alone with our
thoughts. We've been hiking for days now and the routine is
comfortably familiar. Walk, eat, walk, eat, walk, camp, eat, sleep.
I no longer have to think too much about the physical effort needed
to move forward; my body just knows what to do and I am along for the
ride. Colleen's hip belt rips loose from her pack frame. I repair
it using the awl from my Swiss Army knife (for the first time) and
bootlace from my collection (a habit from days in ‘Nam) and we are
on our way. The day clears up somewhat during the afternoon. We
reach the end of Kinsman Ridge and catch a few glimpses of Mt
Moosilauke through the trees. But Moosilauke is for tomorrow. First
comes the steep drop into Kinsman Notch and camp at the Lost River
Shelter. I hesitate before starting down, not quite ready to enter
the last leg of this trip.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The
descent is quick. We cross the Lost River Road and disappear into
the woods. The shelter is not far from the road and is in marginal
condition. The Three Guys From New Jersey are in the shelter ahead
of us so we find a good tent site along Beaver Brook behind the
shelter. No toilet paper in the outhouse but it hexagonal design is
interesting. Bev washes her hair using cold water from the stream.
The rest of us settle for rinsing off obvious dirt with our bandanas.
We cook our last dinner on the trail and wander down to the shelter
to talk with the Three Guys From New Jersey. They arrived early
enough to shuttle a car to Glencliff and buy steaks and beer. We
join them for a beer and compare experiences. Only two of them live
in New Jersey now; the other moved to Maine. The oldest is near 60
and is close to finishing the entire AT, segment by segment. I hope
I am in as good shape as he is at that age. The youngest is in his
mid 30's. They hiked Mahoosic Notch in Maine and had sufficient time
to do this segment as well. Talking with them gives us the idea of
climbing Moosilauke without packs. We can stash all but one pack in
the woods and retrieve them on our way out after we reach the car.
One pack with a day's supplies will serve us all and we can trade off
carrying it. What a great idea. We crawl into the tents under a
starry sky, excited and sad about coming off the trail tomorrow.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Our
last day begins like so many others--fog. We are pretty much
indifferent to it at this point. We will enjoy ourselves whatever
the weather. I am carrying the pack for the first leg of the day's
hike. Compared to the beast that I have shouldered for the past
week, this feels like nothing. The trail climbs sharply, following
Beaver Brook up Moosilauke's eastern flank. The trail work in this
area is particularly impressive, especially the wooden timbers
anchored firmly into what would be otherwise difficult to scale slabs
of open rock. I hand off the pack about halfway up and feel like I
am floating--how wonderful to be walking unencumbered on this damp
New Hampshire morning. Once on the ridge the trail levels out,
passing through saddle before a gently ascending to the peak. The
fog lifts occasionally, sunlight streams through the break and we
catch views of the area. Now we are on the summit, an alpine zone
much like Franconia Ridge. The wind is screaming past us and is very
cold. We find shelter among the rocks. Out of the wind, the day is
quite pleasant. As we eat, the fog lifts completely--swept away by
the wind. The summit is awash in sunlight. Now we can see forever
and trace our progress for the past several days across the ridges in
view. We laugh and giggle like kids newly released from school and
pose for a series of photos at the sign marking the summit. </span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlyaERO7bXvVcjmlEfc-Yho9Wj4q-UwcytBvalzmNQjupXcScf5UfIRhMG7xvMwUegcHnnwjjm6qhYHFBHsTeSovjerFClvrDFSIJ4M-UFsg1e1IK_QW_S2BBgUpbat997H_ef41aNFw/s1527/3.+moosilake+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1011" data-original-width="1527" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlyaERO7bXvVcjmlEfc-Yho9Wj4q-UwcytBvalzmNQjupXcScf5UfIRhMG7xvMwUegcHnnwjjm6qhYHFBHsTeSovjerFClvrDFSIJ4M-UFsg1e1IK_QW_S2BBgUpbat997H_ef41aNFw/s320/3.+moosilake+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Moosilauke Summit</span><br /></div><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Other
hikers are also on the mountain but we are far removed from them by
our week long hike. Reluctantly, we begin our final descent. We
cross the saddle to South Peak where the trail begins to drop. It is
rocky and open but easy going. I turn around and look at the summit
occasionally until it disappears from view as we re-enter the forest.
A group of Dartmouth students rests along the trail as we pass,
their faces showing the weariness of unacclimated hikers. Most look
like they would rather be anywhere else. I, on the other hand,
cannot think of any better place. </span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span>
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aO6l1hRSiphdBoNGmS8Cv60l1HUSSkv7DEWcV__QuwJdzpsw6QXc2oLOycAvRuVCoUgKEgzFMQTf34Dc5SxMeKGWfPnMhcmiZ_i7kMiJnG2baNzO-k_KYaQFLRF4rHZKRFZQEA__I9Q/s1446/4.+final+descent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1446" data-original-width="1014" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aO6l1hRSiphdBoNGmS8Cv60l1HUSSkv7DEWcV__QuwJdzpsw6QXc2oLOycAvRuVCoUgKEgzFMQTf34Dc5SxMeKGWfPnMhcmiZ_i7kMiJnG2baNzO-k_KYaQFLRF4rHZKRFZQEA__I9Q/s320/4.+final+descent.jpg" /></a></div><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Descending From Moosilauke</span><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">After
a sharp drop from the peaks, the descent becomes more gradual. I
notice how much fall has advanced during our week on the trail. Full
fall spendor is still a week or two away but the occasional colorful
trees have multiplied. The trail follows what appears to be an old
road, wide, clear and canopied. The trail is the most gentle of the
trip and sunlight streams through the trees, reminders that New
Hampshire hiking can be other than rock, rain and fog. I have never
felt stronger than I do at this moment--I could continue walking
forever along this lushly wooded lane, watching yellow and red
leaves drift by in the wind. The forest smells fresh and clean (even
if I don't). I don't want this to end. A gate allows us to enter
the pasture adjacent to the Sanitorium Road where we left the car. I
see the car and the cemetery beyond. A moose wanders nonchalantly
among the gravestones. He turns his head toward us as we approach and
disappears into the woodline in a few short bounds.</span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhK26D1PpjXnBgyPQl0LYNrG0XUmHixt_GOBKCmFr0Igejkxw1YJOhlZ7i6i4wdZDisfoyB9QgaB_h8rUIAcjK1eHtILVrBq2kzgp6I7Wgopzdb1tqo7qEwYOkfCxzjZm_lNHyd-orAg/s1530/5.++final+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhK26D1PpjXnBgyPQl0LYNrG0XUmHixt_GOBKCmFr0Igejkxw1YJOhlZ7i6i4wdZDisfoyB9QgaB_h8rUIAcjK1eHtILVrBq2kzgp6I7Wgopzdb1tqo7qEwYOkfCxzjZm_lNHyd-orAg/s320/5.++final+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Trail's End (for Us)</span></span><br /></div><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We
find the store in Glencliff with the soda fountain. Greg orders a
chocolate shake. The proprieter asks in a flinty Hampshire accent,
"You want ice cream in that?" Greg, surprised, answers yes
and the man replies, "Then what you want is a frappe." So
we all order frappes. They are okay. Not high on my life list of
perfect shakes but right tasty after a week of gorp, pasta, and
freeze dry. We retrieve our packs at Lost River and shower at
Franconia Notch State Park. </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Next
comes pizza, lots of it. Greg returns from the rest room to report
that it has toilet paper. The drive back to Boston is long and we
lurch through urban freeway construction in the dark, making our way
to Dan's late in the evening. We are still high from the hike and
probably will be for a long time to come. Greg returns from the
bathroom and notes the presence of toilet paper. Dan and his wife
exchange puzzled looks.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p><style type="text/css">
p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 115% }</style></p>Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-86418172472116417092020-08-19T09:37:00.001-07:002020-08-19T09:37:08.764-07:00Trail Journal: 08.19.02<p> <i>On the Appalachian Trail in Vermont.</i> </p><p>Walked. 16.3 miles to White River today. Only planned to go 14 miles but circumstances combined to make the longer distance a good idea. We ended the day with cheeseburgers, milkshakes and a swim in the river. Now we are camped in Randy and Linda Hart's side yard--first time I've actually camped in someone's yard, although a few previous camps felt like it. Walking was good today. We passed through beautiful forests in exquisite light. This morning as we climbed a steep ridge the sunlight angled through the leaves with a soft glow. Late afternoon rays of light sparkled against a lush green background. The day was not easy--we did a fair amount of climbing--but not as bad as yesterday. Weather was cooler and dryer. For once I could walk across an open meadow without cringing at he heat. We are definitely moving slower--1.55 miles per hour--but we are still making our way north. <br /></p>Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-59115617560022366762020-06-26T21:00:00.000-07:002020-06-27T10:10:42.607-07:00The Zion Death March<br />
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjtq2AAOl-otL90J-xmyFRko6TbPoHUvCzwqVwwYciPwHGGnZ4OX5dKqx51Y_5rZ3kttwKeyJLcTNbLEKpiOG6OMPjUX7W12bXD68z5qo-YF1oLEH3O4FAfN-KlgoGoyhD4nnnnpu64w/s1600/zion+narrows.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjtq2AAOl-otL90J-xmyFRko6TbPoHUvCzwqVwwYciPwHGGnZ4OX5dKqx51Y_5rZ3kttwKeyJLcTNbLEKpiOG6OMPjUX7W12bXD68z5qo-YF1oLEH3O4FAfN-KlgoGoyhD4nnnnpu64w/s320/zion+narrows.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>June
27-30/85. Zion National Park, Utah.</b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
</span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">A
challenging four-day loop in Zion National Park, that’s what we
planned. A challenging loop with a near fatal fall for me,
borderline hypothermia and sheer exhaustion for us all is what we
got. We ended alive and thankful, all too aware of what a close call
it was. The years since have not diminished that memory.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Setting
out on a pretty summer Thursday in late June 1985, Randy, Greg, Gary
and I are prepared to scramble and even swim part of our route down a
Kolob Canyon, a narrow side canyon that feeds into the South Fork of
the Virgin River. Then follow the river through </span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="https://www.nps.gov/zion/planyourvisit/thenarrows.htm"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The
Narrows</span></a></u></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
to the main park road. About 25 miles total, all sheer-walled narrow
canyon. No place to be during thunderstorms or high water. That’s
why we’re here in June; water is lowest and chance of thunderstorms
is low. Most people hike the Zion Narrows via a more accessible
route from the east. We are taking the route less traveled. We’ve
been hiking Arizona and the southwest together for the past few years
as members of the Central Arizona Backpackers Association and know
each other’s capability well. We’re pretty confident that we’re
ready for this trip. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The
first day’s walk is nothing surprising for anyone who’s hiked in
canyon country. We follow the West Rim trail straight up a thousand
feet from the Virgin River. The climb is steep, offering ever more
grand views into the dark and deep narrow gorge we will exit three
days from now. A side trail takes us out to </span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jy6K0KoMrco"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Angel's
Landing</span></a></u></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">,
an isolated knob high above the river. The trail is a knife edge
with a chain railing that provides welcome support for me. The drop
off on either side is precipitous and long. At the landing I can
peer straight down at the river far below. Back on the West Rim
Trail, we are actually on pavement for the first two miles--the
ultimate tourist trail. A ranger passes by on a three wheeler.
Vistas from the rim are grand: intriguing and unusually shaped rock
stretches off to the horizon. We camp early after a 12 mile day.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Friday
begins in the wonderful coolness of early morning but turns tricky
early on. We can’t find the route into Kolob Canyon. The ranger
at the station above the canyon isn’t much help. That’s typical
of the Park Service response to our inquiries on this trip. The
rangers at the Backcountry Office were </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">also
unhelpful</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. They told us only
that hiking in Kolob Canyon is not recommended </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">and</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
take 75 feet of rope if you go. We have the rope. The rangers had
no information about water levels but we know from the route
description that water is lowest in late June. We think know the
score. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Using
dead reckoning, map, compass and, we drop into one drainage and
thrash our way through brush to a 100 foot sheer drop. It looks
climbable but we rope up to be safe. One by one we climb down to a
ledge on belay. Off belay, Gary finds a route to a flat area without
rope. I follow but pick a slightly different route that looks a bit
easier. I edge my way cautiously down. My toehold breaks. I slide
down the rock wall, digging with my hands trying to slow my fall. I
don't slow. The canyon edge looms ahead. I drop over the edge with
a panicked, “Oh shit!” And just when I know that I am about to
die, I land on brush and timber wedged into a narrow defile a few
feet below the rim. Rock and debris continue to fall into the canyon
as I scramble off the brush to a rock a ledge. I am terrified.
Fuck. I should be dead or maimed now. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Gary
is first to the rim to see what became of me. I tell him that I’m
okay but don’t want to move unless I am roped up. That takes a
while as Randy and Greg are still making their way down the first
wall. Once they are down and I am secured to a rope, I easily
scramble out, shaken and scared. I lay back to regain my composure.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">For
all of the drama and sphincter-puckering fear, it turns out that this
is not the correct route. We climb back up the wall and find a rest
spot. I debate whether to continue. My fall left me banged up and
shaken but not seriously injured. My partners offer to walk back the
way we came. I regain my composure and decide to continue. I don't
really want to walk back on the West Rim. We try another route. The
right one this time. We chimney down a rock chute. My back and hips
are sore from the fall but I make the descent with little trouble.
We can hear Kolob Creek below us but encounter another drop. We're
hungry and tired; the day is late so we make camp. It's been a long,
long day. Tomorrow will be better, walking a slot canyon with swims
around a couple waterfalls. Maybe even fun. For better or worse,
the only way out for us now is down the canyon and out through The
Narrows.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Saturday
we reach Kolob Creek and find lots of water, far more than we
expected. I</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">t</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
looks like we'll be in water far more than we planned. We pick our
way along the banks and encounter lots of brush that makes for slow
going. I wish I had an internal frame pack--my external frame snags
on everything. Now we're in the creek. The water is cold and the
creekbed is rocky. Damn, this is fucked. We come to our first
waterfall. We toss our packs (with gear thoroughly encased in
plastic) over and jump behind them. I plunge into the water but
cannot float with my heavy boots and parka filling with water. I
call to Gary for help and he pushes my pack over to me. I grab on
for life and make the shore, wet and cold. Little sun filters into
this narrow canyon to warm us. We keep our warmth by eating and
burning energy as we pick our way down </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">the
c</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">anyon. We've got to make it
to the Virgin River by nightfall; camping in a narrow canyon like
this is very risky, even in good weather. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">At
the second waterfall we are looking at 50 or more feet of
sheer-walled canyon with water sluicing through it after we negotiate
the fall’s 20 foot plunge. Greg comments dryly, “Shouldn’t we
be hearing 'Dueling Banjos' about now?" </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Uneasy
l</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">aughter breaks the tension and
we set about negotiating the waterfall. We lower Greg </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">using
the rope</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. He lunges out </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">from
under the waterfall </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">on his
backpack, paddling and kicking furiously as he tries to break free of
the roiling water at the base. Then he's gone. He reappears in a
second attempt as futile as the first. Undertow! We hoist him back
up and rethink our approach. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Some
previous hiker anchored a D ring to the rock at the top of the
waterfall. Someone in our group--not me--knows how to rig the rope
on the D ring so we can retrieve it. We tie other end of the rope to
Gary's pack and heave it over the </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">fall
and beyond the </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">undertow. The
pack floats down the narrows where it snags on rocks at the narrows'
end </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">in calmer water</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">.
We tug on the rope and find it snug. Gary lowers himself through
the waterfall and begins pulling himself down the narrows. Randy,
Greg ad I pull the rope taut so he can keep his head above the
churning water. He reaches his pack, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">ties</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
the rope around his waist,</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">anchors
himself against the rocks and </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">stretches
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">the rope taut</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
over the narrows. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I
follow. Wearing gloves, I put my weight on the rope, expecting to
drop into the water like Gary. Instead, I find myself suspended
above the maelstrom and quickly haul myself hand over hand through
the narrows to shallow water. What a ride! I would never have
thought myself up to it. Amazing what necessity will do. Greg and
Randy send the rest of our packs down the rope using carabiners. I
retrieve the packs and then the others follow. We retrieve the rope,
having rigged it so cleverly. We're wet and cold. We fire up the
stoves and drink hot water.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">That
was the last of the two expected jump and swims but we're still in
water from here on, picking our way around rocks and debris. The
water is ankle to waist deep. And cold. The day is getting late and
we have no idea how far till we reach the Virgin River. Only hope is
to keep pushing on. But we can't. We're hungry and light is fading.
No choice but to camp and hope. We find a spit of sand large enough
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">for us all</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
and fall into place. Despite the all the water today, our gear is
dry. We eat and crawl into our bags uneasily. I'm close enough to
the stream that a drop of water occasionally splashes into my face,
making me think rain. I can't see the sky so I don't know what the
weather will be like. I sleep fitfully despite physical and mental
exhaustion. During the night Greg drills a hole in his big toenail
to relieve the pressure of a blood blister from a banged up toe.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Sunday
morning we are battered, tired and almost out of food. Yesterday's
effort consumed much of what we had. I begin the day with a freeze
dried omelet, a granola bar and a Slim Jim. Not much for what will
be a long day's walk. Gary has a bagel and some gorp as we leave
camp so he seems well supplied by comparison. We reach the North
Fork of the Virgin River after a short hike. Thank god! Now just 8
more miles to the entrance to the narrows and the end of our route.
No waterfalls on this leg but water is high in places, much higher
than in Kolob, with chest deep wades and a few swims. Bottom rocks
are much slicker here so footing is tough. I fall a lot; each time
getting up is more difficult. I eat the last of my food around mid
morning. Greg drinks the last of his maple syrup. The day is long,
hard </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">and endless</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">.
The narrows are starkly beautiful: dark, sheer walls rising a
thousand feet or more overhead. Little sunlight reaches us as we
pass through. I can appreciate the beauty of this place but what I
really want </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">is o</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">ut
of here. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">After
a few hours wading, swimming and falling, I see two guys sunbathing
on a large rock in the middle of the river. Day-trippers! The end
can't be far! But the day-trippers were ambitious and the remaining
distance is farther than we think. Time drags. Energy is low. My
body is battered, beaten and banged. My legs have been flayed by a
million thorns, brambles and branches. I look thoroughly flogged.
Moving is an effort but I have no choice. I manage somehow. We are
all hungry and tired. We use our remaining strength to plod on and
encourage each other. More people! A ranger followed by a camera
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">crew </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">asks
if we saw a Girl Scout troop upstream. I think of all the places
where this group of six-footers had to wade and swim and hope those
Girl Scouts are holed up somewhere or went out the way they came in.
</span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Finally
we are nearing the end. The canyon opens up and is becomes
increasingly crowded with people enjoying the water on this bright,
sunny day. We pass by like specters from another dimension. We
shiver in our parkas and strain to walk. I am far removed from these
happy frolickers in their </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">swimwear</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
with air mattresses, children and video cameras. All I can think
about is pain and the difficulty of taking each step. I am beginning
to warm up in the sun but feel like I will never be really warm
again. We reach the end of the trail and collapse. Randy hitchhikes
back to the truck. We are out! I am alive. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">After
the hike, I am laid up for about a week, moving with great
difficulty. That’s when the enormity of it all hits me. By all
rights I should be dead. Surviving that fall was sheer luck. And
the desperate scramble down Kolob Canyon could have easily killed any
of us from hypothermia. The fact that I am alive to ponder all of
this is no relief from the shock and fear. The following weeks are
very sobering. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Sometime
later I hear from Greg. Looking at map during the hike we all
noticed that upstream from the point where we dropped into Kolob
Canyon was Kolob Reservoir. Greg managed to track down the dam
operator to inquire about water releases around the time we were in
the canyon. We had expected about 5 to 7 cubic feet per. Greg
learned from the operator that releases had been increased to around
35 cfs just prior to our hike, which explains why we encountered so
much water. Had we known about that—the backcountry office never
said anything about water releases—our plans would likely have
changed; our pre-hike information warned about the danger of hiking
in the canyon during periods of high water. I like to think we were
sufficiently smart to act on that information had we known. As it
was, we were very lucky. Sure, we brought a certain amount of skill
to the whole affair but luck was surely with us.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.climb-utah.com/Zion/kolob1.htm">Later hikers were not so lucky.</a> Once again Greg found the story, this time in the </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><i>Salt
Lake Tribune. </i></span>In July 1993 a group of 13 teenagers and
three adults rappelled into Kolob Canyon and encountered high water.
The two most experienced leaders died shortly after entering the
canyon as they tried to get past a plunge pool. That would be the
first waterfall we encountered not long after we reached the creek on
Day Three. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The surviving adult
did not attempt to go forward and huddled with the hungry, cold teens
in a small alcove beneath a cliff to await rescue, which came five
days later.T he </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><i>Salt
Lake Tribune</i></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> story reported that
the water flow was 28 cfs. Once again I was reminded my good fortune
eight years earlier.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I never fail to marvel at my good fortune. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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a:link { so-language: zxx }</style>Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-15892484931841367232020-06-04T09:14:00.000-07:002020-06-04T09:14:26.519-07:00Trail Journal 06.04.02Long, hard, <b>hot</b> day today. It's 9:00 pm now and I'm just getting around to writing. Didn't get into camp till after 7:00--another 12 hour day. today provided some of the worst and best experiences the trail has to offer. On the worst side: we had a long climb in the sun at noon with high humidity--almost did me in. Even after the climb the walk across the ridge was hot and dry. I was very low on water and desperately wanted something <b>cold</b>. One of the best: Just when I was thinking we should bail into a store at the next road crossing, we found a cooler of sodas. The ice was melted but the sodas were cool and wet. At the road crossing a day hiker gave me a half liter of water. True magic. Earlier in the day we found a cooler with sodas and other goodies just before heading to a nearby store to resupply. The sodas were wonderfully cold. We weren't as desperate then as we would be later in the day but we'd had a warm walk across Dragons Tooth and down the steep ridge so the sodas were much appreciated. I also had a cheese danish.<br />
<br />
For the record: We walked 16.1 trail miles plus 0.3 out of camp and another 0.8 to the store for a total of 17.2 miles. We sat out a thunderstorm and ate dinner at Catawba Shelter before climbing over McAfee Knob on our way to Pig Farm Campsite. Great view. Dark clouds in the distance. Clouds in the valley. Now it's time for sleep. <br />
<br />
<br />Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-267183507614570302020-05-21T21:25:00.000-07:002020-05-21T21:25:44.332-07:00Around This Time in 1980<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7zgg8AjpdzvviK8MFxX2uOOG7CZhcQqXDFGtS3AREQqBoTrof9EBTOVCARg_Xtah4PF9ZuOsO8m5v96qDgXvvl4hHlJlNJmik0t5pztLUnTd_dZ1vJxZGWDUxuAVjuax3CXOkYJBj8w/s1600/270px-Ramseys_Draft.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7zgg8AjpdzvviK8MFxX2uOOG7CZhcQqXDFGtS3AREQqBoTrof9EBTOVCARg_Xtah4PF9ZuOsO8m5v96qDgXvvl4hHlJlNJmik0t5pztLUnTd_dZ1vJxZGWDUxuAVjuax3CXOkYJBj8w/s1600/270px-Ramseys_Draft.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Ramsey's Draft, Virginia. May 20-24, 1980</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">First extended solo trip. Well, my dog Toby is with me but he and I are
the only domestic species in the woods. We just hiked into Sexton
shelter via the Shenandoah Mountain Trail off Route 250. Got in late
on a Tuesday evening. I had to brief a legislative committee on a
report and didn’t get out of
Richmond until after noon.
Then I had to return home to get my wallet. You know, city things.
Once on the road, though, the trip west
was pleasant. Ran into some showers driving up along the way but
mostly the rain held. The hike in was was nice but my pack, loaded
with gear for an extended base camp, was a real bitch. The sky was
partly cloudy but I got a few glimpses of the late afternoon sun.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Morning
One dawns cool, cloudy and damp. Weather reports called
for rain throughout
today
and evening. Clearing tomorrow. Sexton Shelter provides wonderful
solitude, accompanied by the sounds of birds and a babbling brook,
Jerry's Run. Saw a hummingbird
a while ago. Trees are almost leafed in, but not yet fully. A few
dogwood trees still show blossoms. Mountain laurel has yet to bloom.
Maybe I'll see that happen on this trip. I wander back up to the
ridge to explore. Don't want to be too far out if rain hits. Early
going is nice. And if I read my position correctly, I'm a good ways
toward Hardscrabble Knob. Bet I can do the entire loop. Even if I
get wet, it won't be for long. But later on the trail deteriorates,
brush and fallen timber make for slow going. Raining now, steady and
hard. Where is that knob? It can't be too far. I camped there a
couple or so years ago, came up Ramsey's Draft. It didn't seem that
far then. <b>[</b>Note:
This is my first recorded instance of Hiker's Amnesia, a cerebral
impairment that transforms a previous hiking experience or memory
into a less difficult physical task than it actually was. See also:
Gila Wilderness 1984 for an example of memory loss in a three day
period.<b>]</b>
I make Hardscrabble Knob. Finally.
It's socked in with rain and
cloud. I hunker in the remains of a shelter with Toby. We eat and
head down the Ramsey's Draft Trail. Thank fucking god. </span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Almost
home now. A known distance, if I am still willing to trust my
distance judgment after faking myself into a long, wet hike. The
trails are pretty well marked although I always wonder if signs
leaning against the bottom of the post point in the right direction.
At least on this trail I know. Work my way down Ramsey's Draft (see
Sep 26/77 for previous hike). Emphasis on work. Trail is steep and
slippery. The grand experience of the gorge is overshadowed by my
focus on getting back to the cabin. Numerous stream crossings. Not
too bad. Toby and I are both soaked, we couldn't get any wetter. At
last!! The cabin. I change clothes, towel off myself and Toby. Time
to eat. Fire up the wood stove. I remember to build a small fire in
the vent pipe to start the draw from the firebox. Arrange clothes
and gear ritually around the stove. Now I sit on the porch
listening to the rain fall. How nice it sounds now that I am warm
and dry. I can hear the stream flowing beside the cabin. Bet it
will be running high for the next few days. A bird sings in the
distance. Despite the hardships of the day's hike, I enjoyed myself.
Not that I wasn't anxious at times. The area is truly gorgeous:
sheer ravines carved by strong running streams which at times take
over the trail. I like it here. I can think of no place else I
would rather be.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Day
Two is easy. Legs and butt are a bit stiff after yesterday's long
walk but they don't hurt. Slept late and ate a big breakfast. No
rain this morning. Wrote a letter and cut firewood. Everything is
dry now, even my boots which felt like sponges yesterday. Just
thinking about the rain reminds me that I thought I would never be
dry again. But the evening was nice. The stove worked well. I sat
on the porch listening to the forest in the rain, enjoying the
solitude. Sexton Shelter has a logbook that provides an entertaining
look at those who came before. Two newlyweds spent their honeymoon
at the cabin not long ago; they met on a club hike to this place the
previous year. Many entries discuss the resident mice. One
describes a major engagement between humans and mice complete with
charges, feints, counter charges, retreats and body counts. Another
writer describes the large wood stove as a very particular woman,
liking her logs hard, dry and fast. Green wood need not apply.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Day
Three is lazy. I head down the Jerry's Run Trail with the idea of
hiking to Hardscrabble Knob via Ramsey's Draft. Jerry's Run is high
and crossings are tricky. Ramsey's Draft is even higher. I'm not
willing to make the crossings so I return to the cabin and bathe in
one of the nearby pools. Get bitten in a most uncomfortable place.
Cut wood to replace what I've used. The trip has been great one.
I'm completely at leisure and the world is very far away and means
little to me at this place. Late afternoon sun filters patches
across the clearing. Jerry's Run is rushing strongly and birds are
singing. The beauty of this place is entrancing. All around I see
the inevitability of nature at work. Mighty trees felled by
onrushing waters. Generations of fallen timber gather moss in steep
ravines. Mosses, lichens, ferns and fungi grow everywhere, swaddling
the ground in a carpet of green. A shattered tree, about three and a
half feet in diameter, lies across the Jerry's Run Trail broke upon
impact, its splintered pieces still intertwined. This place feels
eternal.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Day
Four is departure day. I pack reluctantly. Who wants to leave a
paradise like this? The morning begins with drizzle which ends
before I set out. Only takes an hour and a half to reach the car.
My pack is considerably lighter than coming in but I am carrying out
a lot of excess food. Drive into Monterey, a small town nestled in
the ridges of the Alleghenies. The town has a genuine air of
antiquity--well preserved with its old buildings still in use. A
statue of a Confederate soldier stands in the town square, the first
one I've ever seen outfitted with a bolt action rifle.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 115% }</style>Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-76580295722562997232019-12-01T10:42:00.000-08:002019-12-21T10:43:25.373-08:00Reids Gap SelfieWhen I was in Virginia in late October I made a point of visiting
Reids Gap on the Blue Ridge Parkway and took this selfie. My phone is
pretty limited--it lacks a reverse camera that lets me see what I'm
photographing so I never know what the results will be. As it turned
out, I rather like the result so it's a keeper.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOH62rpGucWFysZ9TOz4YQzaWStaa1HOTCvZspMvwOrULUwTeHVl3PPeOagZR18CxI1FLZvTMdO13-ZjYyF4FwykykE-mGABxh6AOI2uuh6Z8RdGC6dD6EsJ2A4Kdub7vv1w68EGF4rm4/s1600/IMG_20191025_144601.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOH62rpGucWFysZ9TOz4YQzaWStaa1HOTCvZspMvwOrULUwTeHVl3PPeOagZR18CxI1FLZvTMdO13-ZjYyF4FwykykE-mGABxh6AOI2uuh6Z8RdGC6dD6EsJ2A4Kdub7vv1w68EGF4rm4/s320/IMG_20191025_144601.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Reids
Gap is a significant location in the geography of my life. I
discovered it in 1972 after returning from my year in Vietnam. I I had
already begun to spend time hiking as a way of decompressing from that
experience and was preparing to begin graduate school at the University
of Virginia. I met a woman whose father had a cabin about a mile below
the gap. Few if any other family members were using the cabin in those
days so we took whatever opportunity we could to spend time there while
we were dating and after we married. Since the Blue Ridge Parkway and
the Appalachian Trail passed through Reids Gap, it became a focal point
for many of the trips there.<br />
<br />
Even after we moved to
Richmond, the cabin and the gap were still only a couple of hours away.
I recall watching many sunsets and a few sunrises from that spot. It
was also my first real introduction to the Appalachian Trail. I saw the
white blazes and wondered what hiking the entire trail would be like.
At the time that seemed like a preposterously unlikely prospect.<br />
<br />
The
marriage didn't last--no more trips to the cabin-- but my fondness for
Reids Gap never diminished. I continued to visit and hike in the area
for the next few years before moving to Arizona. I typically made a
point of visiting the gap during periodic visits to Virginia. When my
dog, Toby, who shared my years in and around Reids Gap, died in 1988 my
partner Maggie buried a small portion of his ashes along the AT south of
the gap when she drove to a national abortion rights march in
Washington DC. Thirty years later we buried some of Prince the
Dalmatian's ashes in the same area. Prince never visited Reids Gap but
he was, like Toby, a special dog so it seemed right to leave a bit of
him in that special place. <br />
<br />
Reids Gap in 2019 looks
much the same as it did when I first saw it in 47 years ago. Meadow
Mountain and other large landforms still dominate the view to the
south. Devils Knob rises to the north. Open meadows flank County Road
664 as it crosses from Nelson County to Augusta County over the crest of
the Blue Ridge. If I look no farther I could think nothing has
changed, which is hardly the case. When I first drove to the cabin from
Waynesboro the pavement on Route 664 ended well before reaching the
cabin. I remember the route down the east side of the ridge being even
more primitive. Now all of the roads are paved. On the east side 664
is the gateway to a major ski resort. The western side has many more
houses than I remember from the past.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the biggest change is that Reids Gap is no longer <i>Reeds Gap</i>,
the name by which I had always known it. It was Reeds Gap when I first
encountered it and was still Reeds Gap when I hiked the AT in 2002 and
2005. I discovered the change during a 2016 visit when I saw the new
sign. The Nelson County Historical Society informed me when I inquired
that the gap was named for a early settlers in the Rockfish Valley named
Reid and a descendant of the family moved to the Rockfish
Valley and put a great deal of effort in
documenting the correct spelling and effecting the change. I never
followed up on how the incorrect spelling came about but the lack of
standard spelling prior to the mid-19th century probably had something
to do with it.<br />
<br />
The name change is a bit jarring because
it's not what I am used to seeing. Still, the landscape is timeless
and my memories and permanent. In the end, changing one letter is of
little real consequence.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-26931962890798945672016-02-28T19:30:00.002-08:002016-02-28T19:30:36.200-08:00Finding My Way on the Big Island<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A week on the Big Island of Hawai’i sounds like a lot of time but it
hardly scratches the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you
thoroughly research the possibilities and schedule your time carefully, you
might leave with the satisfaction of having done all that you planned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those who, like me, show up on the island
with only vague ideas about what to do the week goes by quickly with many
options quickly considered but not fulfilled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My trip to the Big Island was more of a windfall than a plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friends rented a house in Kona and invited
others to join them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dates were
about one month into my retirement so Maggie and I quickly accepted the
invitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was interested in
snorkeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had my sights set on
visiting the Mauna Kea Observatory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anything else was left to chance, interest and the dynamics of the group
with whom we were sharing the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In the end our activities were a combination of group and individual
efforts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the house we talked, laughed
and enjoyed the leisure of comfortable and pleasant accommodations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ate at the <a href="http://www.kona123.com/bale.html">Ba Le Vietnamese Sandwich Shop and
Bakery</a> in the strip mall next to the grocery store that we frequented and
also lunched at the <a href="http://konabrewingco.com/blog/pubs/kona-pub-brewery/">Kona Brewery</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first attempt at snorkeling was part of a
group excursion to Kalalu’u Bay, probably the most accessible public beach in
the Kona-Kailua area. It did not go well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had a mask and snorkel from the rental house but it did not seal well over
to my mustache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The equipment rental
place on the beach gave me some petroleum jelly but that was only limited
help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surf was rough and the area
crowded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a small glimpse of
snorkeling’s attractions—I saw tropical fish and coral—but I was mostly
concerned with keeping water out of my mask and not sucking it in through my
snorkel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not last long in the
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once out of the water, I wanted
out of the mid-day sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We retreated to
the Vietnamese restaurant for lunch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Later that day, four of us took off for Mauna Kea Observatory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we were north of Kailua, we had the Mamaloha
Highway largely to ourselves on a clear afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The white observatory domes were visible
along Mauna Kea’s ridge not long after leaving town. The Saddle Road leading
across the island was equally uncrowded and nicely paved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The saddle between the island’s two great
volcanos, Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, was covered by a cloud bank that turned the
clear day into overcast and occasional drizzle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We turned off the Saddle Road on John A. Burns
Way, a narrow, curvy two lane and climbed out of the cloud bank up to the <a href="http://www.ifa.hawaii.edu/info/vis/visiting-mauna-kea/visitor-information-station.html">Mauna
Kea Visitor Information Center</a> which sits at 9,200 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We did not attempt the far more primitive
road to the peak at 14,000 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
arrived around 5:30 which gave us a time to hike to a nearby saddle to view the
sunset before the stargazing party began around 7:00 pm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The evening was clear but with a waxing gibbous moon much of the visible
star field was washed out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, plenty
of stars were visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Volunteers set up
a variety of telescopes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The party began
with volunteers describing the night sky above—what we could see and what we
could not see and other items of astronomical interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had pointer lights that beamed into the
sky to point out stars and constellations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After their talk, we could look through the telescopes where a volunteer
would explain the image and make any needed adjustment to the instrument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most
of the scopes were barrel-like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cassegrain_reflector">Cassegrain</a>
reflecting scopes but one was a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Refracting_telescope">refractor</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a nice view of a binary star (a larger
yellow star paired with a smaller but much hotter blue star), saw the
star-forming nebula in Orion, viewed Jupiter and three of its moons, and had a
dramatic close-up view of the moon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
binoculars also gave me some nice views, especially of the Pleiades which were
otherwise small to my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The night was
cold and brought back memories of many winter nights looking through my cheap
refractor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ride back to Kailua was
very dark. </span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One of my favorite things to do when I visit someplace new is to learn its
history. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guidebooks at the hous provided
some history but I learned even more when Maggie and I drove south to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/puho/index.htm">Pu’uhone O Hoananu National Historic Park</a>,
the Place of Refuge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a site reserved
for royals but part of it also served as a place where one could obtain absolution
for violating a taboo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Old Hawai’i, laws
or kapu (taboos) governed every aspect of society. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The penalty for breaking these laws was certain
death. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only option was to elude your
pursuers and reach the nearest puuhonua, or place of refuge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The site has preserved or restored the great
walls of dark volcanic stone, the same stone that lines this entire portion of
Hawaiian coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The park map provides an
informative self-guided tour of restored structures and cultural artifacts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along the way we watched a sea turtle feeding
in the shallows. Away from the historic area is a very nice picnic area that
faces a rocky shore where waves crash over lava formations that turn into
immense waterfalls as the waves recede.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tidepools provided a nice foreground for a dramatic sunset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the ride back to Kailua, we spotted a
narrow, primitive looking road with a hand painted sign for the Old Hawaiian
Coffee Company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We did not take that
road, opting instead to look for food which we found farther along on a side
street in Kealakekua. </span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While we were at the Place of Refuge we saw people snorkeling in the
adjacent Honaunau Bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was less
crowded than Kahalu’u Bay in town so we decided to try snorkeling there on the
following day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rented a mask with less
lip and would fit tighter, I hoped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not get a good
seal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might have been able to manage
that if my snorkel didn’t draw water when I breathed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
traded snorkels with Maggie which took care of my problem but now she was stuck
with it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This time I was in the water longer and had a chance to look around
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fish were everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bottom was coral, sand and lava rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also felt uneasy in that environment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was my uncertain gear combined with my
lack of experience in ocean water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
cold, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled out, gave Maggie the
good snorkel and watched from the shore as she floated out some distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while I watched a sea turtle feeding on
algae in a tidal pool, bobbing about as waves surged back and forth over it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maggie was out for almost an hour and was the
last snorkeler to come out of the water that afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and reported seeing a wide variety of
fish (and vice-versa), much coral and the drop-off into the ocean depths
beyond.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We were back on the highway early enough to follow the road into the <a href="http://www.oldhawaiiancoffee.com/">Old Hawaiian Coffee Company</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road is paved but has been repaired so
often that it looks like a patchwork of potholes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About 100 meters from the highway we came
upon a house and were met by a young man who gave us a quick tour of the
place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He showed us coffee trees that
had just flowered and were now producing beans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Inside we saw the processing and roasting equipment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The belt-driven wooden wheels and equipment are
original from 1909 when the farm was established.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only modification is the electric motor
that replaced the gasoline engine that powered the drive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">History was also on our last day’s itinerary. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We visited a heritage site on Kahalu’u Bay
where a former hotel/resort complex is being removed to restore a historically
significant <a href="http://www.aloha-hawaii.com/hawaii/heiau/">heiau</a>
complex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students from the Kamehameha
Schools, which owns the land and previously leased it for hotels, are restoring
some of the sites as part of a long term project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The security guard at the entrance gave us
some background on the site and its history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most notably, a defeated chief was captured and sacrificed here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The day ended at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hulihee_Palace">Hulihe’e Palace</a> which
was a summer residence of the island governors under successive Kamehamehas
during the 19<sup>th</sup> century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
palaces go, it’s a modest affair—only six rooms—but it is well-preserved and
staffed by very informative docents, members of the <a href="http://daughtersofhawaii.org/">Daughters of Hawai’i</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The photographs and artifacts illustrate
Hawaiians’ growing fascination with British manners, customs and dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much so that I am surprised that Hawai’i
ended up as an American territory rather than a British colony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Brits did manage to get their flag
incorporated into the <a href="http://www.netstate.com/states/symb/flags/hi_flag.htm">Hawaiian flag</a>,
though.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then our week was done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
much to see and do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So little time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-4665664474389125862015-05-22T08:33:00.000-07:002015-05-22T08:33:00.441-07:00Late Spring Velo News<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
This spring, my eighth in Olympia, is the earliest spring I've experienced
since moving here in late 2007. We've had sunny, warm days--perfect
cycling weather--since April. For that matter, winter was pretty
mild. No snow whatsoever, less rain and even the occasional warm sunny
day. Combine that with a three-day work week since January and I've had
plenty of opportunity to ride my bike. The four day weekends give me a
much better shot at taking advantage of the sunny, dry days which have a habit
of occurring on weekdays rather than weekends.<br />
<br />
Since I'm often riding twice a week my rides are shorter but the total
mileage those usually totals around 35 miles, although last week I broke 40
miles. Heading toward the end of May and I'm already more than
halfway toward my annual goal of 1040 miles. I'm still figuring out new,
shorter variations of my established routes and have explored a few new routes
along the way.<br />
<br />
Today's ride was near perfect. The temperature was in the high 70s
with mixed cloud cover. The early part of the ride was sunny, later on
partly cloudy. I started out in a light polypropylene shirt--didn't need
a jacket at all--but changed to a t-shirt before an hour was up. That
makes the first time I've cycled in a t-shirt this year. I cannot
remember doing that in any previous year.<br />
<br />
None of this is any assurance that warm, dry weather is here to stay.
After riding in my polypro shirt and just shorts for a couple of weeks in early
May, I went out in wearing a jacket and tights. I warmed up enough to
remove the tights but it was a cooler ride than I had been used to. As a
rule I don't count on reliably warm weather until July. Hell, in 2011 spring
didn't arrive until July. But this is not a normal year. The
governor has already declared a statewide drought emergency due to the
extremely low snowpack--only 16 percent of normal--and we're seeing unusually
warm temperatures. The 10 day forecast has minimal chance of rain.
Again, not normal for late May.<br />
<br />
All that said, the biking in Olympia has been great so far in 2015. <br />
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<br /></div>
Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-79496331537418920372015-05-21T01:30:00.000-07:002015-05-21T01:30:00.550-07:00Trail Journal 05.21.05At 5:18 pm on Saturday, May 21, 2005 I walked into the bar of the Doyle Hotel in Duncannon, Pennsylvania, completing the last unfinished mile of my Appalachian Trail Hike. I am done. It's over after three--no, thirty-five years. Instead of Red and Gary, Bev Carver, Norma Job and Pat Doyle walked were with me. We shared a beer and repaired to the Purdy Motel to clean up before returning to the Doyle for more beer, cheeseburgers and fries. <br />
<br />
My final day on the AT was a mellow one, walking with Bev, Norma and Pat. We returned to the trailhead at PA 225 and headed south on a cool, sunny day. The forest was lush with spring growth and Norma, who is well-versed in plant identification, pointed out jack-in-the-pulpit plants, columbine and mayflowers. The trail stayed on the ridge, offering occasional views of the Susquehanna and surrounding countryside which, like so much of Pennsylvania is well-populated with farms, fields and small houses. <br />
<br />
Met two thru-hikers, College Boy (who had an impressive amount of thick brown hair and a bushy brown beard) and Sleeping Beauty. Together they call themselves The Bs. A troop of Boy Scouts was camped at Clark's Ferry Shelter when we stopped there for lunch. They seemed much more together than the troop I saw straggling out of Hertlein Campsite last Sunday.<br />
<br />
The final miles took us down the face of Peters Mountain with views of Duncannon nestled on the Susquehanna's west bank. We crossed the river on the Clark's Ferry Bridge and walked down Market Street to the Doyle Hotel. The final mile was a quiet one for me. None of the adrenaline rush of Katahdin, just the simple recognition that I was completing a life ambition in the company of friends.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-44084951092559342622015-05-20T04:50:00.000-07:002015-05-20T04:50:00.022-07:00Trail Journal 05.20.05Rained last night. A gentle steady rain. I was warm and dry in my tent and did, indeed, sleep in. Finally bailed out of my tent and into the shelter around 7:30. Plodder was gone but Bed and Breakfast were still in their bags. Made breakfast and began a running conversation with B&B about hiking and many other subjects. They shared their coffee and cinnamon rolls with me. In return, I offered to take out their trash. Managed to get my tent reasonably dry in the shelter. B&B were in no hurry to walk out in the rain which continued off and on throughout the morning. They were still at the shelter when I left around 1:00, although the rain had abated. The woods were a wet green as the trail clambers over some rocky outcrops. The low light muted the forest color.<br />
<br />
Met thru-hiker Snow Dog heading north from the Doyle. Reached PA 225 around 2:30. No sign of Bev and Norma in the parking area so I walked on to the pedestrian bridge that carries the AT over the highway only to see them drive under me. They quickly returned and we had a joyous reunion.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-15506978338045637982015-05-19T01:24:00.000-07:002015-05-19T01:24:00.163-07:00Trail Journal 05.19.05Last night camping with unfinished AT miles. Tomorrow I walk three miles, meet Bev and Norma and sleep in a motel. On Saturday we slackpack into Duncannon. Hard to believe it's almost over. The missing miles from my 2002 thru-hike will be accounted for and I will qualify as an "official 2000 miler". And for what? Bragging rights? No, it's just something that always appealed to me and now I've done it. This year's miles are especially satisfying because I did them on my own. So many of my trips--including 2002--relied heavily on my hiking partner Gary. 2005 shows me that I am fully self-reliant (insofar as any long distance hiker who has friends and family providing support can be). As for today my leisurely 11 mile walk to Clark's Valley became 17.5 miles to Peters Mountain Shelter. I did not like the campsites at Clark's Valley--way too close to the road and the spring farther south was a muddy seep so I just walked on. Made decent enough time: 9.5 hours. But I am way tired tonight. Tomorrow I only have 3 miles to go so I can leave after noon and still make the road in time to meet Bev and Norma. <br />
<br />
Met more thru-hikers today: Diesel, Mountan Dew and JR. Also met section hikers Naked Ghandi (who took my photograph using a 4x5 camera), Plodder (VA-42 to Pawling, New York) and a couple named Bed and Breakfast (Harpers Ferry-Maine). I'm even more tired tonight than last night. Looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow. Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-43708922308140817572015-05-18T02:06:00.000-07:002015-05-18T02:06:00.194-07:00Trail Journal 05.18.05Lots of hikers today on the trail. Met thru-hikers Chino, Jay, Chestnut, Mississippi Allen, Running Moon, Jukebox, PJ and Pacer. Also met lopsided, Free Spirit, Strider, Phoenix, and Graham, all of whom are doing the northern half of the trail. After so many days alone, it's nice to see people again. Trail today was very pretty. Passed through a sea of ferns lit by early morning sunlight. Saw a deer bounding through the forest at top speed. Walked across a beautiful 1880 iron truss bridge over Swatara Creek. Just before the shelter at Rausch Gap I passed through an old townsite with a graceful triple arch stone bridge over a creek. Not a bad day--13 miles. I'm tired. Bugs are coming out big time, especially biting gnats. Found another tick. Glad I have my tent.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-59206157745912150932015-05-17T02:58:00.000-07:002015-05-17T02:58:00.116-07:00Trail Journal 05.17.05Back on the trail after a less than indolent zero day in Pine Grove. Zeroes are never as restful as I want. I usually end up packing an organizing gear, making arrangements down the line and somehow just not laying about the way I'd hoped. Pine Grovels indolence was further reduced by having to walk the two miles out to the Econo Lodge and back. No one stopped for my outstretched thumb. Even had trouble getting out of town and back up the mountain. After a fruitless half hur in the mid-day sun I was putting on my pack to start walking when a car stopped. The driver was an old friend of Lazee, the Eckville caretaker, and maybe one of the few people in in Pine Grove willing to stop for a hiker. All that notwithstanding, the zero was good.I got two hot showers, three town meals and clean clothes. I vegged out in front of the tube, watching hours of Roman history, slept well in a comfortable bed. In all, it was worth the effort. <br />
<br />
Trail today was easy--only 4.1 miles, mostly along an old roadbed. Saw a turkey pop out of the brush and disappear down the trail. Man, can they ever move fast! Met two NOBO's: Easy and Orphan. Also, a section hiker walking from Duncannon to Delaware Water Gap. Sky was partly cloudy much of the day so walking was comfortable.<br />
<br />
Later: Looks like another solo camp tonight. Seems so lonely. At times like this I cannot wait for this trip to end. Even as I write those words, thought, I know I will miss these days and nights. This is beginning to sound much like the 2002 thru-hike. <br />
<br />
Also, today I flushed three turkey buzzards from Fisher Lookout. Got close enough to see their red markings before they took off.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-9093579953832265172015-05-16T02:26:00.000-07:002015-05-16T02:26:00.390-07:00Trail Journal 05.16.05Watching my clothes tumble dry at the Action Laundry in Pine Grove,
Pennsylvania. Today is a genuine zero day which will be spent mostly
lounging in the Econo Lodge after a long, HOT shower. Got in pretty
easily-- a Pine Grove police officer commuting in to work picked me up
within five minutes after I hit the road. Nothing was open for
breakfast so I resupplied at the market, phoned motels, got my food drop
at the PO and found the laundromat. It has Maytag Neptune washers with
dryers stacked on top. A funeral procession for a deceased firefighter
was queued up on the street outside: five fire trucks, including two
from neighboring towns, waited during the service at the funeral home
next door. Not big by urban standards but still an impressive send-off.<br />
<br />
Morning
at the 501 Shelter was wonderfully leisurely. Was awake at 5:30 but
took my time getting out of my bag. The porta-john service truck
lumbered in while I was still horizontal--a noisy, industrial racket
that ended soon enough. The shelter was wonderfully bright--the
skylight is a great touch. I sat at a table for breakfast and leafed
through an old National Geographic. Today is a day of indolence. I
love it.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-56593173859615032272015-05-15T09:48:00.000-07:002015-05-15T09:48:00.035-07:00Trail Journal 05.15.05Pulled in at 50 1 Shelter after a 15.1 mile day. Not bade walking, especially in the morning. Covered the first 10 miles in just over four hours. Afternoon was a bit longer and rockier, so it went slower. Met day hikers from the Blue Mountain Eagle Climbing Club, this section's maintainers, along the way and again a the shelter whee they were having a post-hike cookout to which I was invited. Hot dogs, baked beans, cole slaw, potato salad and s'mores. Yum! Last week was lonely in camp so it was nice to have someone to talk to. Shelter is great: and enclosed building with bunks, table and chairs. No electricity but it does have a huge skylight so the place is very bright. Also has a solar shower which is not at all hot but felt good anyway. I am at least a bit cleaner. Met three NOBO's today: T-Rex, Odissa and Boomerang, who is one of the hikers I met in Waynesboro when I was there. Day started out overcast and humid but turned sunny by afternoon.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-62361098202254315232015-05-14T02:20:00.000-07:002015-05-14T02:20:00.427-07:00Trail Journal 05.14.05At Eagle's Nest Shelter with 61.3 miles to go. If this were Maine I'd be in the middle of that wonderful cakewalk to Antlers Campsite. But this is Pennsylvania and I'm in the midst of ever present rocks, awaiting the onset of a thunderstorm which may or may not pass me by. Warm day walking tut the breeze feels nice now. Trail was pretty decent today--some rocks mut mostly easy going. No boulder fields. Which is good since I was feeling puny after too many beers last night. Woods were pretty. The understory has really greened up ahead of the canopy. Some parts are a sea of green ferns. Wild azaleas are beginning to bloom and I saw seven pink ladyslippers along the trail--two solitary ones and a group of five. the most I've ever seen in one day. Will try for 501 shelter tomorrow. It's a 15 mile day but I think my feet are up to it. <br />
<br />
Despite the repercussions from too much food and beer, yesterday in Port Clinton was all right. It's a reminder that things work out and I don't need to worry so much about the details.<br />
<br />
7:00 pm: All is done. Sky is spitting rain as thunder rumbles in the (not too) distance. Rain is scattered but the air is decidedly humid. I guess this means I haven't totally dodged the heat and humidity in Pennsylvania but it's still better than July, I am sure. Starting to get bugs now, too. They buzz me when I stop during the day and I have a few bites. Found my second tick this evening. Rain is coming down heavier now but I am snug and dry.<br />
<br />
Also in Port Clinton the 3-Cs restaurant had a hiker register that goes back to 2002. Not as many hikers stopped there as at Eckville but I saw familiar names: Sloopy, Hoss, Uncle Jesse, Little Bo Peep and June Bug.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-6276740589031770902015-05-13T01:24:00.000-07:002015-05-13T01:24:00.427-07:00Trail Journal 05.13.05Port Clinton turned out just fine despite yesterday's uncertainty. Met Pokey, a woman section hiker northbound from Pine Grove Furnace to Vermont. She filled me in on the options available in town. Found a piece of Tyvek in a construction dumpster to replace my ground sheet. Got breakfast at 3-Cs Restaurant. Tried to catch the bus to Cabela's to replace my leaking water bottle but just missed it. Hitchhiked with no success until Ray and Ralph, the two brothers I've seen off and on the past few days, picked me up. No replacement Platypus bottles but I did find a pay phone and called Maggie. The brothers dropped me off at the Port Clinton Hotel where I had a couple of beers and met Big Daddy D who told me about the bar at the firehouse where we drank more beer before a light dinner at Union House. Now we are camped at the town pavillion. I have all that I need to get me to my next resupply in Pine Grove. Magic happens.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-68891190772686225782015-05-12T01:13:00.000-07:002015-05-12T01:13:00.306-07:00Trail Journal 05.12.05In early at Pocohantas Campsite after a 12 mile day. Only 3.7 to Port Clinton but I decided to do those miles in the morning. Walking today was <u>nice</u>. Day started out cool and overcast so climbing out of Eckville Shelter was pleasant. The first five miles was an easy, easy road walk--almost no rocks. The section between the Pinnacle and Pulpit Rock was rocky in places but only had two stretches of boulders and neither was especially bad. Dropping into Windsor Furnace was nice. So was climbing back out. I'm now exactly halfway between Delaware Water Gap and Duncannon after seven days of hiking, I could probably finish in another seven days if I don't take a planned zero day. That might complicate linking up with Bev and the others. I could just walk shorter days but I am getting into my stride now and can easily go 10-12 miles even on Pennsylvania rocks. I'll just have to figure it out.<br />
<br />
Met no thru-hikers today, at least not yet. Early Bird, whom I sa yesterday is a NOBO. That's what she wrote in the Windsor Furnace Shelter register. I've camped most nights this week alone. Combined with some early days--I'm often in camp around 3:30--I have a lot of time without much to do. That more than anything may push me on toward Duncannon. Feet are holding out. My heel blister is no worse despite my lack of success in bandaging it. Only 73.2 miles to go.<br />
<br />
After dinner: In my tent ready for bed at 7:15. Not much else to do. Am set for Port Clinton Tomorrow. Still excited about seeing the thru-hiker entries from 2002 at Eckville Shelter. I've been walking with those names and their words: the Noodleheads' "Top 10 Trail Names You Don't Want", Beatnick's calligraphy, Kali-Frodo's Whitman quote, and all of the art work. Because of that part of this hike is still in 2002. Actually, there's always been a bit of '02 in this year's walk. I think of Red and Gary coming through these places, walking on this trail and wonder what it was like for theme and all the other in 2002. In that regard wa are all still together on the trail.<br />
<br />
Saw three deer crossing the road this morning as I walked back to the trail. from Eckville. Also found my first tick.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-55565477858200091712015-05-11T02:02:00.000-07:002015-05-11T20:04:34.486-07:00Trail Journal 05.11.05Took my first (and I hope last) fall today not long before lunch. I flushed something from the brush and when I turned to see what it was, I went down on the rocks. I was in the midst of one of those rock piles that are between the rocky trail and larger outcroppings. Scraped my knee and skinned my hand but nothing major. Morning walk to Allentown Shelter was <u>very</u> nice--level, wide and very few rocks. Stepped those miles off quite easily. Then came the rock pile and my fall. I think I flushed a turkey; it had wings and sounded largebut I didn't get a good look. I was too busy falling.<br />
<br />
Day was humid from the start. Began walking in a mist that burned off by the time I reached Kennedy Shelter. By lunch clouds were forming and I caught a shower just as I was coming into Eckville Shelter where I'm staying tonight. Took my morning break at Kennedy--a new, well designed shelter. The privy even has a mirror. But for comfort nothing can beat Eckville. It's a cabin actually. Has a solar shower, flush toilet and a fridge stocked with soda and ice cream. Shower water wasn't at all warm but felt good after today's stickiness. Drank a soda and orange juice and am just waiting for dinner to settle before I grab an ice cream for dessert.<br />
<br />
<u>Lots </u>of bumble bees are buzzing around me as I write. They are hovering everywhere, it seems. Looking for mates, I think. Every now and then I see two joined together or fighting off competitors. It's that time of year.<br />
<br />
The register here is great--it goes back to 2001 so naturally I checked 2002. Most everyone I know from that year stopped in here during June and July. Red and Gary were here on July 10. It's such fun to see all those names again. Kind of makes me feel like I am right there with them. It's especially nice since I don't know most of the names I am seeing in this year's registers. It reminds me that I am part of a larger community.<br />
<br />
<br />
Met a trail maintainer, a seciton hiker and on thru-hiker (Lily Red or Red Lily). Saw a black woman hiker heading back to the trail as I was coming off for the shelter. I see from the register that she is Early Bird. Also saw the same two day hikers I saw yesterday at Bake Oven Knob. They are brothers who hike two weeks each year.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-55353411539175272882015-05-10T02:16:00.000-07:002015-05-10T02:16:00.212-07:00Trail Journal 05.10.05I'm a two-digit midget--98.4 miles left to go until I hike the entire AT. Walked 10.9 miles today. Not too bad. Crossed boulder fields at Lehigh Furnace Gap, Bake Oven Knob, Bear Rocks and the Knife Edge. But I also followed some relatively rock-free stretches of trail at times. Oh how my feet delight in stepping upon soil. Day was warm but I had plenty of water. Also got most of my mile done before 12:30. Took a nap at lunch and did Bear Rocks and the Knife Edge Afterward. The nap sure helped. Those rocks would have been even more difficult without rest. Met section hikers Just Walking (PA to VT) and Old Gray Mare (Port Clinton to DWG) plus a coup of day hikers walking from Route 309 to Lehigh Furnace. Also met a couple of college women (said they were juniors) who were curious about the trail and the thru-hiking experience. Pulled into New Tripoli Campsite around 3:30. Not a particularly good campsite--well worn, few good flat spots--but it has good water and I don't feel like humping water back up the side trail to look for a site farther south. I'm enjoying the leisure. Saw two deer today: a whitetail doe and a deer butt (probably a doe). Pennsylvania rocks are blistering my feet, especially my Achilles tendon. Nothing I use for bandage or protection stays in place. With almost 100 miles to go, the blisters could become a real problem. I managed to walk all day today and the blister on my right foot seems no worse but now one is coming up on my left foot.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-49106983453199143312015-05-09T03:50:00.000-07:002015-05-09T03:50:00.168-07:00Trail Journal 05.09.05Morning in the basement of the borough hall. Post office doesn't open till 8:30. Got breakfast, did laundry and now killing time to see what I mailed to myself here. This may be the last shower/laundry till I reach Duncannon in 11 days or so. I'll be pretty gamey by then I am sure. <br />
<br />
Had the basement to myself last night. Feels like I have the whole town to myself. That sense of hiker isolation is very strong, probably just in my head. Seems like even when I am among non-hikers I am apart from them, that I have nothing to do with or concern about their lives. The former is probably true and is no different from my relation to most people I meet when not hiking. I do have concern about the people I meet and see: I wonder what their lives are like and wish them well. Especially since so many are so kind to me. But even this is a remote relationship since I know nothing about them. So I just hike on. My strongest relationships are with other hikers. We share tha same experience and desire to be out walking. So far I've had company at shelters and met people on the trail. <br />
<br />
Met a Pennsylvania section hiker yesterday and saw some weekenders south of Smith Gap (had to be weekenders from the size of their tent). Climbing down into Lehigh Gap was an experience--First time I've had to pick my whay across boulder fields on this trip. Seemed excruciatingly slow, probably because it was late in the day, but like all trail miles, the descent ended after I'd taken enough steps. They always do. <br />
<br />
Early PM: Back at Bert's Steakhouse for a final town meal before heading south. Sinc I wrote about feeling isolated from non-hikers, I had a couple of experiences to give those observations a different perspective. The borough clerk gave me a Welcome to Palmerton hiker goody bag. The grocery stor gave me a free apple and the librarian said she saw me walkining into town yesterday. Guess I'm not as isolated as I thought.<br />
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Evening: At George Outerbridge Shelter just south of Palmerton. Actually sleeping in the shelter---no flat space to camp. Sharing the shelter with Robin, a thru-hiker who left Springer on March 5. Enjoyed my time in Palmerton. Walked out around 3:30 in the heat--bank sight said 87. Climb up to the shelter was hot but mercifully short.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-41971669823972416662015-05-08T03:24:00.000-07:002015-05-08T03:24:00.856-07:00Trail Journal 05.08.05Came in to Palmerton a day early. Got to my planned campsite for tonight around 2:30 and didn't like it enough to settle in for the afternoon. The site was exposed to the wind, which was blowing hard today, and was in an area devastated by zinc smelting with killed off all of the trees. Not the kind of place where I wanted to hang out so I kept walking which meant that I descended into Lehigh Gap late in the day when I least felt like a steep descent. Made it down OK. several NOBO's opined that descending would by difficult. It was but no worse than any number of Grand Canyon trails I've followed. <br />
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I'm staying in the basement of the Palmerton Borough Hall which is open to hikers. I have it to myself unless someone else comes in, which at 8:00 pm is pretty unlikely. Tomorrow is a town day and then on to a shelter just south of town. Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-71461033146634329302015-05-07T02:55:00.000-07:002015-05-07T02:55:00.845-07:00Trail Journal 05.07.05Very tired at the end of a13.8 mile day in the sun with only 2.5 liters of water. Managed to stretch the two liters I had leaving Kirkridge plus a half liter that I cared from day hiker at Wind Gap (I ate lunch there in hope that some would would show up there.) Was pretty dehydrated b the time I got here to Leroy Smith Shelter. Found and drank much water. I'm pretty well rehydrated now. My sinuses are even running again. Made good time--eight hours and kept a steady pace, not an easy thing to do on Pennsylvania Rocks. I picked my way over rocky trail for hours. Managed not to fall. Stumbled a number of times but always caught myself. Walking the rocks is painstaking. I look desperately for a patch of soil to place my foot, a way between the rocks or at least an easy, stable passage. Not much scenery today. Occasional views of the countryside north and south. Forest is small growth. Some larger trees but mostly new growth. I can see why hikers call Pennsylvania heartbreaking. <br />
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Met for NOBO's today: Mark (from Mesa), Restless, E (whom I met the other day at Cove Mountain) and Juicy, whom E was looking for that day. E has hiked 130 miles of Pennsylvania rocks in four days!Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591888832757640066.post-27025726865850880622015-05-06T02:15:00.000-07:002015-05-06T02:15:00.477-07:00Trail Journal 05.06.05Made it to Delaware Water Gap exactly as planned (and remembered). Hiker hostel at Church of the Mountain is still open. Another pack was in the bunk room but no hiker. Used church internet to to a quick email update and check finances. Was heading to dinner when the hiker returned and offered me his leftover stromboli which I accepted. He is Gaffer, a 68 year old section hiker walking from Harpers Ferry to Katahdin. Says he might come back to H.F. and head south to Springer. Had breakfast and later donuts and coffee with him this morning. Talked to Maggie from the streetside phone booth.<br />
<br />Walked out of DWG at 12:30. Made good time, even with the 1,000 foot climb out of the gap. The trail south parallels the trail on the north side of the Delaware. I saw the bridge into New Jersey that I crossed so happily after reuniting with Red and Gary here in 2002. Also saw the route that the AT follows before disappearing into the woods. My route today offered sweeping views of the water gap and the Delaware s it flows south into woodlands and fields. Trail up was rocky but up top I followed an old road that was infrequently blazed. Made me paranoid that I missed a turn but found enough blazes to keep me on track. Met Freeman, a thru-hiker who started from Franklin, North Carolina.<br />
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Reached Kirkridge Shelter at 3:30. Met RonNTN and Gigi. Ron is a thru-hiker who left Springer February 14. Gigi walked here from Harpers Ferry. They directed me to the spigot at the nearby retreat center where they got water. I found it not working. Ron said he told a caretaker about a leak and he must have turned it off. Sure left me in the lurch. Ron and Gigi gave me some of their water. I can probably make it to the next shelter. Tomorrow is Saturday so I might be able to cage water from day hikers.<br />
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Saw bluets along the trail today. I saw these pretty four-petal flowers south of the Smokies in April 2002 and north of Hot Springs just last month. And now in MayIn a manner of speaking, I am traveling forward with time but keeping even with spring as it moves up the Appalachians.Mark Fleminghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04732563778391225789noreply@blogger.com0