Date: 2004-07-05
From: Tagg Run (James Frye Shelter)

To: Footbridge at PA Rt.11
Miles today: 20.2

Up early with the promise of a lovely summer¢s day in the air! By 7:15 a.m. I had downed a couple of breakfast burritos, a cup of hot ¢Joe¢ (coffee) and shouldered my pack for a day of serious hiking.The morning was spent in typical AT terrain¢woods, ups and downs, more woods, an occasional stream, and more woods (Followed by still more woods).Along the top of the aptly named Rocky Ridge, the Trail-blazers displayed a rare sense of humor lacing the Appalachian Trail back and forth through a labyrinth of boulders that could have just as easily been circumnavigated in one tenth of the time. But, then, this is not a timed event and the variety of clamoring through the rocks was rather enjoyable. It reminded me of the numerous times that I cut school as a teenager, to spend the day climbing among the rock formations known as Kilkenny Rock in the Reservoir in my hometown of West Hartford, CT.It was late morning when, with absolutely no prior warning, the woods stopped, the mountains ceased and the cool shade of the forest abruptly ended. Suddenly in the course of only 4 or 5 steps, the trail flattened, and farmland began. Without anticipating it I emerged from the AT that I have come to know during these past weeks of hiking into an entirely different type of AT-that of the AT of Cumberland Valley. Here the trail was a brightly lit expanse of corn and wheat and heat. The previously ever-present canopy of green was replaced by one of blue. There was now a horizon¢something that had previously existed only at the rare ¢vistas¢ and ¢overlooks¢ and even then was usually ragged and choppy. This horizon was long, flat, and straight. The familiar brown path tromped into the soil was still there, but now it skirted fields of corn 9¢ high, and made long straight traverses punctuated by 90 degree turns instead of the usual erratic, irregular and unpredictable north-easterly twist, to which I was now so accustomed.Having been hurled from my now familiar, predictable and expected world of the woods into a solid wall of brightly lit corn was similar to the experience I had many years ago, rounding the corner of an Amsterdam museum gallery to be confronted just as boldly and unexpectedly by Vincent Van Gogh¢s last canvas of crows in the cornfield. Just as when I saw the painting, after I recovered from today¢s shock of such a familiar, yet surreal image, I heard my self-murmuring ¢Oh my goodness, Oh my goodness,¢-at a loss of words having been struck by the awesome beauty of that which, without any warning, lay in beauty before me.Although I heard later that the temperature this afternoon was in the upper 90¢s, I frankly enjoyed the heat and the sunshine. It wasn¢t long before I was crossing the Yellow Breeches Creek on the edge of the town of Boiling Springs, staring down at a half dozen yellow ¢Palomino Trout¢ lying in the water under the bridge apparently waiting for their turn to participate in the days ¢Catch and Release¢ program. Obviously it was their willing participation this program that had attracted the numerous fly fishermen lining in the water¢s edge on either side of the bridge as far as I could see. The Trail is routed right through Boiling Springs and part of its course goes around the pond in the middle of the town park. On this Independence Day weekend, the park was full of what appeared to be all the towns¢ people who weren¢t out fly fishing. They came in all shapes, sizes, and ages and with a variety of T-shirts each with some type of cute slogan emblazoned on it. Everyone had turned out on this holiday to cook hotdogs, talk with their neighbors and watch the annual homemade raft races underway in the pond in center of the park. Talk about being treated to a wonderful slice of Americana!! It was great! The local DJ-wannabe was narrating the event from the back of a flatbed truck ¢Generously provided by the owner of the local Trustworthy Hardware Store¢ (as the announcer made sure everyone within earshot knew). Flags were conspicuous wherever you turned and, from where I sat eating my lunch on the porch of the regional office of the ATC (Appalachian Trail Conservatory) with fellow hikers ¢Up¢ and ¢Down¢ (who remembered having dinner with me and Fern at the Calf Mountain Shelter a couple of weeks ago), was able to see representatives of every imaginable civic, social, governmental and church group pass by¢each doing their part to make this July 4th celebration a big success. Whether it was directing traffic, selling brownies, or passing out aspirins from the EMS van, everybody was in the act. For me the best part, though, was when the National Anthem began to play and to see how everyone of all ages immediately stopped whatever they were doing, stood up, put their hand over their heart and either sang along or stood there in silence. It was a lovely, patriotic moment that made me feel very proud to be connected with these good Pennsylvania people even though I was just passing through. And passing through, I did, just as the Trail required me. After Three more hours of hiking and eight miles of crossing cow pastures, skirting soy bean fields, climbing styles and passing untold millions of perfectly ripe wild raspberries, I enjoyed a private shower at a truck stop on Route 11 at the I-81 exchange as I prepared to be picked up by Barb and her mom to go bowling with them and her two youngest children, Maggie and Sam. En route we stopped at Caledonia State Park to pick up the car I left there just 51 hours ago, now 47 miles away, from where they met me. Today was my first ¢20 miler¢ (20.6 to be exact when you add in the four tenths of a mile hiked on the blistering asphalt of Route 11 to the truck stop). It was a memorable day, not just because of what I did, and not because of the distance I covered, but because of what I saw and experienced, while doing what I am doing¢hiking The Great American Trail: The Appalachian Trail.