Date: 2013-06-13
From: Hertline Campsite, mi 1,194.9

To: Port Clinton, PA- Pavillion
Miles today: 18.3
Weather: overcast clouds

I had woken to the familiar sound of heavy drops tapping on the walls of my tent, in total blackness, at the Hertline Campsite . Ordinarily, the sound of rain would've lulled me back to sleep, especially at this dark hour in the morning. My mind had been preoccupied from the previous evening with fear that a forecasted tropical type storm would arrive faster than expected. When a storm is categorized alphabetically, one typically envisions Katrina, or more recently Irene on the east coast. Having been on the trail for two months now, I was conditioned to expect the worst weather and to think on my feet of how to strategically endure such conditions safely. The anticipated arrival of this tropical storm lead to almost running, while navigating very rugged terrain in the fading light of dusk, knowing I had to push for Hertline, which was the closest campsite from the 501 shelter. Forecasters had predicted that the storm would arrive by afternoon the next day, however, I had learned that predictions were highly inaccurate in the Appalachians due to the local orographic effect. Naturally, the sound of drops on my tent under the pretense of the previous days knowledge, instilled a bit of panic. The small foot print of my Lunar Solo tent was still oversized for the raised tent pad on the slopes of the Hertline Campsite. I knew, that If I didn't tear down camp in a few minutes, that I'd be dealing with sheet flow off the steep slopes behind me, inundating my tent. I fumbled in darkness for my headlamp to check the time. It was about 3am. Crap! The storm forecasters had predicted had arrived much earlier than anticipated. I managed to get the food down, and my gear packed in darkness before the rain began to fall more steadily. It was 3:30am, and I was heading up the slopes with my headlamp out of the small notch that the campsite was in. within 20 minutes of hiking, the ground before me lit up in a flash, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. I could feel the electricity in the air. I hiked even faster, thinking I could dodge lightning. This of course is a fallacy. Not even superman can travel the speed of light! I must of hiked a good three miles along the ridge, beneath the relentless flickering of lightning and heavy rain, weaving back and forth across what appeared to be a jeep road. The AT was difficult to follow, not just because it was pitch black, but because it criss-crossed this road and was poorly marked. I could not simply assume that the road would follow the trail or visa-versa. This sort of assumption, I knew would lead to trouble. I found a log to rest on about an hour after departing from camp, and yanked out my tyvec ground tarp, unfolding it entirely to form a shelter. The lightning continued directly overhead, diffusing the flicker through the tarp like a lamp shade. I imagined my charred remains, encapsulated by a tarp that might behave like shrink wrap when subjected to high voltage. After hovering low beneath it for a good ten minutes and realizing that conditions weren't getting better, I packed it up and began a fast clip down the saturated trail. Darkness was just beginning to lift around 5am. I turned off my headlamp to see if I could navigate the trail without it, but the shadows made it difficult. I kept it on. It was around 6am when I reached the Eagles Nest Shelter, about 9 miles north of Hertline Campsite. The shelter was located about 0.3 miles west of the AT. In the rain, this side trail seemed infinitely long, perhaps because I was drenched, and cold already. I met a young hiker named Doodle at the shelter. We spoke briefly, while I grabbed a bite to eat for breakfast. The terrain north of this shelter continued to be brutally rocky, and now slippery, with lots of deep puddles to step through. Along the way, in the vicinity of the Phillips Canyon Spring trail junction, a somewhat portly hiker stood in the middle of the trail, looking confused. He was uncertain apparently about which way to go. I forgot this guy's name, but in speaking with him, realized who he was, indirectly. A few weeks earlier, while hiking through the Shenandoah National Park with Pool Cats (now Lucky Strike), we had come across a young man attempting to follow us. As he spoke to us out of breath, he mentioned that he had joined a friend that was starting his through hike northbound from the SNP. As a group, they had probably not hiked more than half way through the park (50 miles) and were already 5 days in. In speaking with this hiker standing in the rain, with saturated leather hiking boots that were giving him blisters, I realized that he was that hiker back in the SNP based on the time that he said he'd been on the trail up to this point. At his pace, he would be lucky if he made it to Katahdin before the Baxter State Park closed for the season, let alone, flip flop southbound from SNP and make it to Springer before 2014. Surprisingly, he managed to follow not far behind me, down the steep rocky slopes into Port Clinton. I had arrived by about 10:30 am, hiking a distance of 18.3 miles from Hertline. If I hadn't been so exhausted from little sleep the night before, I could've easily hammered out another 25 miles since the day was only beginning. I gazed across the rails, looking for signs of the AT. A few moments later the hiker that I had passed back at Phillips Canyon Spring had caught up. He asked if it was ok to tag along. I said "not a problem". A few backpacks were sitting out front of the hotel on the porch. One of the packs belonged to a guy named Tempo, who had hiked north on Penn St with the group he was hiking with, to CCC's Restaurant. CCC's Restaurant was located on the busy 61 highway on the edge of Port Clinton. I called a shuttle from Cabela's in the nearby town of Hamburg, PA to pick me up. While I was waiting, I made the forbidden faux pas of sitting at the bar along with the hiker who followed me, still wet and smelling badly. The both of us ordered a beer with a large basket of french fries. My plan was to use the free Cabelas shuttle to get to Hamburg, pretend to be interested in buying something from their enormous outlet, then head to Red Robins for lunch. Cabela's was nothing but shocking in size for being an indoor plaza. The irony was that there was essentially nothing ideal for the back packer. It was very clearly slanted towards supplying hunters. A large section was devoted to "game trophies", remarkably well preserved mammals, which included the exotic polar bears, mountain lions, and grizzlies. In front of each animal, was a plaque with the name of the person who had gunned the animal down. I thought, if Cabelas had a store like this in East Los Angeles, CA, they would have preserved gang members of such gangs like the Crips, with the type of semi-automatic or knife used, and the name of the opposing gang member who killed him/her. It was really a sick display! One that conveyed ego and disrespect to wildlife. Cabelas also had a full assortment of quad runners inside the store next to clothing. All of this was utterly shocking having come off the trail only hours earlier. After finishing lunch at Red Robins across the enormous parking area, I charged my phone back at Cabelas while waiting for a shuttle to return me to Port Clinton. By 2pm, I was back at the Port Clinton Hotel, sitting out front next to a young through hiker by the name of BP (Broken Pack). Tempo and his hiking group had also arrived back to the hotel to claim their packs and phones that were charging unattended out front. They were planning to hike about another 15 miles that afternoon to the Allentown Hiking Club Shelter under the familiar black clouds that closed in over the earlier late-morning sun enjoyed in Hamburg. I introduced myself to Tempo and wished him luck. BP had just spent a small fortune at the adjacent "Peanut Shop", which was loaded with bins of exotic flavored jelly beans, peanut toffy, licorice, trail mixes, and chocolates. I ended up walking out with about 40.00 worth of junk food for the trail, and traded some of it with BP, while we chatted. I left BP sitting out front of the hotel around 4:30 pm and ambled my way down Penn Street, behind the hotel and parallel to Hwy 61, towards a large gazebo, which served as a popular shelter for through hikers passing through town. Although a hand pump on a well existed at the gazebo, the water was said to be contaminated, and a sign directed hikers to a residence back in town, about 0.75 miles back the direction I came from. I found the white house with the garden faucet out front that I had passed by 30 minutes earlier, and filled up my 64 oz Squeeze bag and two 1-L Smart water bottles for cooking and drinking water. Darkness had seemed to settle in earlier today, perhaps because the dark clouds had once again obscured the late afternoon sun and because the gazebo roof was so expansive, it cast a dark shadow across the raised wooden floors. I set out my sleeping bag in a corner, on the opposite side of the shelter from several other hikers, two which had dogs. I cooked, cleaned, and crawled into my warm bag by 8pm.