Date: 2010-05-11
From: Duncannon, PA

To: Peters Mountain Shelter
Miles today: 11.3
Weather: overcast clouds

This morning my ankle feels good, so Tom will drive me back to Duncannon to continue my hike; Tom will fly home in the evening.At about 1 pm on a cloudy and cool day we embrace and make vague plans to hike together next year in Spain. I will miss Tom, we have developed a quite functional hiking relationship, but now I am on my own again.I walk gingerly through Duncannon and across the bridge over the Susquehanna River. At the other end of the bridge across some railroad tracks the trail heads north up a steep ridge -- but the way is blocked by an idling freight train. I walk a ways to go around the front of the train -- no one is in the engine -- and walk 100 yards in a narrow passage between the train and the retaining wall, hoping the train will not start moving. All goes well, and soon I am on my way up the ridge.I plan only to hike about 5 miles to the nearest shelter so as to not stress out my newly-healed (?) ankle. I take baby steps, not putting full weight on it. I reach the shelter feeling pretty good.In the shelter is a single person, a skinny disheveled middle-aged man with minimal tattered camping equipment. He seems on edge, and ends every sentence with a nervous hee-hee. He says he has been living in the shelter for a week while he waits for a relief box containing $2000 and food to arrive at the Duncannon Post Office; it apparently has been sent to the wrong post office. He talks about places he has visited on the trail, but his geography is all jumbled and he makes no sense. He has no food, and says he has been living for a week on hiker hand-outs, so I give him 4 candy bars/granola bars. He asks if I am hiking alone, and if anyone else will be coming along soon.At this point I decide I don't want to spend an evening with this guy. The next shelter is 7 miles away. I start walking. No one else is on the trail. A cold rain begins to fall and soon I am drenched and my fingers are numb. Night is coming on, so I begin to hike fast. My ankle starts hurting. I have my raincoat hood on, so my peripheral vision is minimal, and my head is down, watching for loose rocks. Suddenly *bonk* I hit my head on an unseen low tree that is tilted across the trail; my jaw snaps shut, I see stars, and I step hard on my hurt ankle which responds with a jab of pain.I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I just keep on hiking. At long last the Peter's Mountain Shelter appears through the approaching dusk. I walk around to the front and discover a spacious new shelter with large protected porch complete with picnic table; in the far corner of the shelter, barely visible, is a single guy. He begins talking in a thick Brooklyn accent.Turns out his name is Argo and he is an experienced hiker with many amusing trail stories. He is a city guy that puts spice in his life by venturing out into this complete polar-opposite wilderness world. He has his comforts: a choice of things to smoke, a small radio for listening to Mets games, and his cell phone, which is constantly ringing.He shares his smoking materials with me, and I offer some Yukon Gold whiskey to him, but he has been on the wagon for many years. We exchange stories for an hour or two, each happy to find solace on this cold rainy night in a warm comforting place.