1974 Journals

ACCOUNT OF MY HIKE ON THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL
FROM GEORGIA TO MAINE

APRIL 2, 1974-SEPTEMBER 23, 1974

BY
JONATHAN CLEMENT

On September 23, 1974, I climbed Katahdin via the Hunt Trail. It was an early Fall day and I saw my first snowflakes of the season. While it was exciting to be at the top of that beautiful peak for the first time, what made the day most memorable for me was that I was finishing my end-to-end trek of the Appalachian Trail, a hike that I had dreamed of doing for many years. During the first stormy and difficult weeks on the Trail, I wondered at times if I had made the right decision to embark on such a trip. Looking back on it now, it was one of the most extraordinary experiences that I have ever had, and one that I will never forget. There is a certain magic about a long distance trail, just as there often is with an old railroad or highway. The Appalachian Trail took me through a kaleidoscope of terrain, vistas, weather, historic sites, towns, people, flowers, wildlife, and experiences. Being on foot, brought all those things very close to me on a very physical and personal level. Remembering the trip and recounting my experiences, often stir emotions that are difficult to describe, and are probably best understood by others who have experienced a long distance walk of their own.

In preparing for my hike I did as much reading about the Trail and about hiking and backpacking as I could. I found the books The Complete Walker, by Colin Fletcher, and Appalachian Hiker; Adventure of a Lifetime, by Edward Garvey, to be extremely helpful in my choice of hiking equipment. Although I had extensive experience in day hiking in the Catskills, Adirondacks, and Taconics, I had never backpacked for more than three or four days at a time. I spent several months planning my hike, using the ten trail guides covering the length of the Trail, and the Appalachian Trail Conference Mileage Fact Sheet. Guide books, food, and supplies that I thought would not be readily available in the towns along the way, were packaged at home and readied for mailing. I set up a mail drop schedule based on an average speed of twelve miles a day. I took three weekend "shakedown cruises" in the Fall that were very helpful in getting me acquainted with my gear, although they did not particularly prepare me for hiking day after day with a 40 to 50 pound pack. With a great deal of anticipation, and some trepidation, I headed south to Georgia to begin my adventure.

It was 1:10 p.m. Tuesday, April 2, when Chris and I reached the top of Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. We had gotten a ride from Dahlonega, Georgia to Nimblewill Gap with a retired forest ranger George Biskey. From there we had hiked the last two miles of the approach trail that started at Amicalola Falls State Park. It was a clear and warm day. The trees were bare as Spring had not yet arrived in the mountains. Three other prospective Georgia to Maine hikers were examining the bronze plaque that marked the Trail's start. Two of the fellows, David Jones and a friend, were from Connecticut. The third was a heavy set photographer from Georgia. After signing the register, which included the names of many hikers who had left before us, we set out. I was scared. Even though I had carefully prepared and planned for the hike, I wondered if I could take the mental and physical strain of hiking day after day with a heavy pack. Would I be bored or lonely? Would my feet hold out? Could I maintain a pace that would get me to Katahdin before Winter? I reckoned the only way to find out was to try it.

Chris and I spent our first night on the Trail at Hickory Flats, about eight miles from Springer Mountain. The spot was the site of an old church. Nearby was an abandoned cemetery. Plain flat stones and faded plastic flowers marked the graves. A rusty Studebaker truck spoiled the otherwise peaceful scene. We broke camp the next day in the rain. Thunderstorms continued as we hiked to Gooch Gap shelter. We crowded in with 5 other hikers as the rain and wind grew heavier. In spite of some water seeping in through the dirt floor, we had a dry night. We were lucky. We were to learn a few days later that tornadoes had leveled towns in Georgia, North Carolina, Ohio and several other states. The morning showed no improvement. A thunderstorm with hail delayed our departure. I found myself questioning my sanity about trying to reach Maine. How many days would there be like this? We left the shelter and hiked for 12 miles in rain and fog, passing through an Army Ranger training area where hikers were often "ambushed" for practice. Apparently the Rangers were holed up for the day. We heard that a few days previously, a Boy Scout troop had been "captured," and then treated to a huge meal. Having safely gotten through the Army's playground, we reached the two-room stone shelter on top of Blood Mountain (4461 feet). According to legend, there had been a large battle on the mountain top between the Cherokee and Creek Indians. Among those at the shelter were Paul and Julie O'Connor from North Carolina and Gloria Rapalee from Massachusetts. Another hiker arrived who had hitchhiked into Blairsville to see a doctor. He had been burned on his face and arms by an Army "flash" device that exploded when he picked it up.

Friday dawned clear and cold; 30°. We hiked a rugged 12 miles to the new shelter at Low Gap, and again crowded in with eight other northbound hikers. A few weeks later, the shelter was to be the scene of the fatal shooting of a hiker and the kidnapping of his girlfriend. All along the Trail we "through" hikers were often asked how we protected ourselves against wild animals. However, it was the strange people we occasionally met along the Trail that concerned us more.

Saturday was another clear and freezing day. There was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground as Chris and I said good-by to our new hiking friends and headed for Unicoi Gap where Chris would leave the Trail to return home. We hitchhiked back to Dahlonega and went to Mr. Biskey's house to pick up our van. Mr. Biskey found it hard to believe that we had gotten as far as we had, and thought we would have no problem in reaching Maine if we had been able to manage in the tornado weather. We both felt encouraged. The rest of the weekend we relaxed and toured the area. We drove up near the top of Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia and had great views of the mountains we had hiked through during the previous days.

It was an overcast day when Chris and I said good-by at Unicoi Gap. We were both worried about each other; I had 1995 miles to go and Chris had a long drive alone ahead. I would not rest easy until I knew she had arrived home safely. I pulled into Addis Gap shelter shortly after being soaked in another thunderstorm. The six hikers there moved over to give me space on the dirt floor covered with clean straw. David Jones was there, but his friend had left the trail with infected blisters. The photographer-writer had left as well. I met Dave McDermott and Dave Dow from Rhode Island, and Loren Ortman from New Jersey. They were to become my good hiking friends during the next two months. The next day was cold, foggy and windy. As we reached higher elevations, rime ice covered the trees; something I had not expected to see in Georgia in April. The next day was clear and cold. We crossed into North Carolina at Bly Gap. In retrospect, the Trail in Georgia had been a fine section in spite of the weather. The Chattahoochee National Forest through which it passed, protected it from most of the encroachments of civilization. The footway was easy for the most part, following graded Forest Service trails. It was too early to see the rhododendron and other spring flowers that made the section popular in May and June. Once over the North Carolina state line, the Trail passed through the Nantahala National Forest. The terrain became more rugged as it crossed several peaks over 5000 feet in elevation. On April 12 I reached Wallace Gap and hitch hiked 15 miles into Franklin, NC. There I found an inexpensive motel, bought groceries, did my laundry, picked up mail (Chris was home safe and sound) and relaxed. Except for being a bit far off the Trail, Franklin was a good stopover place. In preparing for my trip I had worked out a mail drop schedule based on an average speed of 12 miles a day. I spent a night in a town about every eight days. I usually tried to arrive before noon so that I would have plenty of time to do errands and relax. I found these stops to be a nice break from the hiking routine. By the next morning I would be raring to go again.

The Trail from Wallace Gap to the Smokies was the most difficult I encountered on the trip; probably because I was not yet in top shape. A large blister on my right heel was also bothering me. On Easter Sunday I hiked 18 miles, my longest day so far. I had not planned to hike that distance, but the night before I had shared the Siler Bald lean-to with a hiker whom I found intolerable to hike and camp with (a rarity on the Trail). I decided to lose him. I did so, and in the process caught up with Dave McD, Dave Dow, Loren, and the O'Connors, none of whom had gone into Franklin. I learned that David Jones had temporarily left the Trail with a bad ankle. The day had been an unforgettable Easter. In descending the 3000 feet from Wesser Bald into the Wesser Creek valley, I went from late Winter to Spring. The sight of new leaves, hundreds of flowers, and numerous waterfalls was more inspiring than any Easter sermon I had ever heard.

Monday and Tuesday were two very rough days through the Cheoah Mountains. Whoever had routed the trail did not like to use switch backs. It ascended and descended steeply over peak after peak and knob after knob. Erosion was minimal however, because use of the section was light. On Monday I needed an ace bandage on my left leg and on Tuesday I moved it to my right Achilles tendon. I wondered if I was succumbing to foot and leg problems that had been methodically knocking "through" hikers off the trail. On Wednesday I hobbled into Fontana Village, a town built in the '40s to house workers building the Fontana Dam; a Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) project. The village had become a recreation center complete with a store, laundromat, post office, lodge and theater. I had considered staying in Fontana for two nights to rest my legs, but I was quickly cured by the high prices at the village and crossed Fontana Dam early the next morning with several fellow "through" hikers. We entered the Smoky Mountain National Park and climbed steadily to the crest of the Smokies where the Trail turned northward following the North Carolina-Tennessee border.

The Smokies were notorious for being rainy. The six days I spent in the Park were practically dry, and for the most part, the views were excellent. The terrain and the plant and animal life reminded me of the Adirondacks. Near the midpoint of the Park stood Clingmans Dome (6643 feet), the highest point on the Trail. Unlike many peaks I had crossed to the south and would traverse farther north, the summit was totally wooded. A visitors' tower provided good views, however. On April 21 I took a side trip on the Boulevard Trail to spend a night at the LeConte Lodge on Mt. LeConte (6593 feet). The lodge, built in the '20s, reminded me of John's Brook Lodge in the Adirondacks, but was more primitive. Supplies were brought up on horseback. The hospitality and meals made the extra 10 mile of hiking quite worthwhile. The Boulevard Trail was also outstanding, providing great views to the north. Two bears raided the garbage pit that evening. Bears were common in the Park and a hurricane fence and gate provided protection at each shelter. On returning to the Trail from the lodge, I continued north toward Davenport Gap. The Trail was well graded and seemed to be in better shape than in the southern Smokies where it had eroded as much as four feet below grade in some places. The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) had built this Trail section during the Depression and had done an outstanding job. Their trail and shelter construction work was to be seen all along the Trail. On April 24 I left the Park, and after a short side trip to a little country store to get some groceries, entered the Pisgah National Forest.

On April 25 I set a mileage record for myself; 20 miles. I had time to stop and take some pictures of some small wild iris and Trout Lilies. After ten hours of hiking I pulled into Deer Creek shelter close behind Mike Martin, and collapsed. We were three miles from Hot Springs, NC. Hot Springs was one of several towns through which the Trail passed. A former mineral springs resort, the town reminded me of the film "American Graffiti." At the one and only motel, I met Bert and Jill Gilbert. Bert, a retired Navy career person in his fifties, had already hiked the entire Trail twice. He and Jill could outwalk most other "through" hikers and averaged 18-20 miles a day. Except for the first night out of town, I never saw them on the Trail again.

From Hot Springs, the Trail continued through the Pisgah National Forest. A few miles north of town, three trail bikes whizzed by me from behind. A few hours later I was happy to meet two Forest Rangers who had nabbed the fiends. Motorized vehicles were prohibited on the trail, but were a big problem in some areas. Much damage and erosion occurred when they climbed steep sections of trail or went around obstacles such as logs.

April 29 and 30 were two of the rare days when I saw no other hikers and spent the nights alone. I entered the Cherokee National Forest and crossed a rugged section of 5000 foot balds; peaks that were covered with grass. Loren, Alan, and the O'Connors were behind me. Dave McD, Dave Dow, Mike and the Gilberts were somewhere ahead. The "through" hikers were beginning to spread out along the Trail. Foot problems forced many Georgia-to-Maine hopefuls off the Trail. Others had become homesick. At least one I had met had decided to go home and get married. The trail "grapevine" flourished as the faster hikers over took the slower ones and the south bound hikers passed those heading north. The south bound hikers were particularly helpful in giving information regarding Trail re-routes, the water situation, where to eat and sleep in town and where a nasty dog might be lurking. Trail registers varied in quality, but where they existed, they often provided good Trail information as well as interesting and sometimes humorous reading.

On May 1, I stopped for the night at Erwin, Tennessee. I was 317 miles from Springer Mountain and was beginning to feel that I would make it to Maine, barring a major illness or injury. My feet that usually ached at the end of the day were toughening up, and blisters were no longer a problem. My confidence was set back a bit however when I overtook Alan, Mike, and Dave McD the next day. They told me that Dave Dow had been hospitalized briefly in Erwin because of diarrhea, dehydration and a throat infection. He had gone home to recover fully. The doctor who treated him tracked down Dave McD with the help of a forest ranger, and figuring that he might have the same bug as his buddy, gave him a double shot of penicillin at the lean-to. Considering that most doctors no longer make house calls, it was amazing that one would make a lean-to call. It was one example of the friendliness and helpfulness which "through" hikers often found along the way. Dave Dow returned to the Trail in Virginia, but foot problems caused him to leave again. Dave McD continued and was to eventually finish at Katahdin.

For the next week, Damascus, Virginia, just north of the Tennessee-Virginia border, was my goal. I hiked with my three friends over the steep and beautiful Roan Mountain, well known for its natural rhododendron gardens. We made an unscheduled stop at Elk Park, NC after hearing that a Mr. and Mrs. Trivett provided hikers with a bed, bath and huge breakfast for only $5.00. From Elk Park, the Trail headed northwest to the Iron Mountain ridge overlooking Watauga Lake, another TVA project. We then crossed over to Holston Mountain, a parallel ridge that we followed to the Virginia state line. Shortly before reaching Damascus we passed the grave of Uncle Nick Grindstaff, a hermit who according to the inscription, had "lived alone, suffer alone and died alone" on the mountain. A passing hiker had placed a Vienna sausage can of violets on the cement slab.

Damascus was another town through which the Trail passed. The townspeople were particularly friendly. There were at least ten "through" hikers in town as several had stayed for several days to take a long break from the Trail routine. After getting my mail, re-supplying, having a good sleep in a tourist home and a couple square meals, I was ready to hit the Trail again. I had 1622 miles to go.

On May 10 I left Damascus with Dave McD after a big breakfast at the local beer joint. My pack weighed in at 50 pounds on a penny scale. The next large town was Pearisburg, 120 miles away. We hiked in a light rain on the new Trail re-route which, rather than following the Iron Mountain ridge, headed northeast through the Mt. Rogers Recreation Area. We were disappointed to find that an old log cabin, a popular shelter for hikers coming out of Damascus, had been closed off by the land owner. We hiked a few more miles and joined Mike Martin to camp along Green Cove Creek near a wooden railroad trestle. Here I met Jim Stolz from Michigan for the first time. He had left Springer Mt. in late March. We were occasionally wakened during the night by the shouts of fishermen and their families who were setting up their campers on a dirt road on the opposite bank. They were preparing for the opening of the trout season, and we caught glimpses of them the next morning as we hiked toward Mt. Rogers on an old railroad bed that paralleled the stream. Around 2:00 p.m., we reached the top of Mt. Rogers, the highest point in Virginia (5729 feet). The summit, being wooded, afforded limited views. The next few miles however, passed through high pasture land that was interspersed with large boulders and clumps of rhododendron. Although it was longer and more difficult than the old Trail route, this new section was well worth the additional time and effort. Late that afternoon, Mike, Jim and I arrived at Old Orchard lean-to, a new shelter overlooking an abandoned orchard. We barely escaped being drenched by a heavy rain that continued all night.

During the next few days the Trail crossed over valleys of farmland and along wooded ridges as it headed for Pearisburg and the New River. I decided to step up my pace in order to get ahead of schedule so that I could leave the Trail for a few days to attend a wedding. The first day was shortened by heavy rain that continued until noon. Wanting to get in a few miles, I hiked a wet 11 miles to the Raccoon Branch shelter and squeezed in with some southbound hikers sitting out the weather. They warned me about a bull I'd be encountering in a field a few miles up the Trail. The next morning I headed across the valley between the Iron Mountain and Glade Mountain ridges. The bull that I had been dreading, was cavorting with the cows on the opposite side of the stream and didn't even notice me. That afternoon I spent 45 minutes looking for a shelter that turned out to be a mile further up the Trail than the guide book indicated. My frustration was diminished somewhat by the find of an Indian projectile point. The next day, Mike and I hiked across the beautiful rolling farmland of the Holston River valley. I had always admired this area while driving through on Interstate 81. We crossed I-81, and after following a gravel road for a few miles, climbed steeply up to the crest of Walker Mountain, a long level ridge that the Trail followed for 25 miles. We reached the Monster Rock shelter at 7:10 p.m., after a long tiring 21½ mile day, my longest so far. We had passed the 500 mile mark. At all the shelters on the dry Walker Mountain ridge, there were cisterns that were supplied by rainwater from the shelter roofs. This particular cistern overflowed into a concrete pool. Some local frogs loved it and they sang all night. I recalled being warned by Bert and Jill Gilbert in Hot Springs, NC about those Monster Rock frogs.

The next day we hiked a hot 19 miles along the level Walker Mountain ridge. I stopped on several occasions to take pictures of carpets of Trillium and Yellow Lady-slippers. We also had an interesting view of I-77 as it tunneled through the mountain under our feet. We spent the night at High Rock lean-to. Dave McD arrived after hiking the entire 25 mile ridge in one day. The following day, Mike, Dave and I left the ridge and crossed through fields and hiked along gravel and hard top roads. It was a scorching day and we stopped at two country stores for ice cream or soda. We finally reached the woods again and ascended to the crest of Pearis Mountain, arriving at Doc's Knob shelter at 7:00. We had covered 25 miles, and being almost too tired to cook, I vowed to never hike that far again unless I had a good reason to. The following morning we reached Pearisburg after descending 1600 feet from Angels Rest, a beautiful look-out above the town. We found the home of Miss Mary Finely, an elderly woman who had been taking in hikers for the past 25 years. After we had done our usual chores, Miss Finley gave us a tour of the town in her 1947 Plymouth. We heard some interesting stories about past hikers including one about a fellow who was arrested in the laundromat for indecent exposure. He was not carrying an extra set of clothes and decided to wear only his poncho while doing the wash. Another customer complained to the police after he allegedly propped his feet up on a washer. Being from a family of some prominence, he did not want to call home, so Miss Finley and some other hikers managed to scrape up the bail money.

On Saturday, May 18, Dave McD, Mike and I continued northward, crossing the New River and climbing to the ridge of Peters Mountain. Dave and I spent a half hour looking for the Trail after missing a turn and following the old Trail route that was still marked. We spent the next five days following ridge crest for the most part, occasionally descending into narrow valleys to cross over to the next ridge. There were particularly beautiful views from a spectacular pinnacle named Dragon's Tooth, and from Tinker Mountain. On Wednesday night Jim Stoltz and I camped under Hay Rock, a huge boulder with a ten foot overhang. The next morning I woke to find water dripping on my head as rain ran along the rock ceiling. I hurriedly packed, had breakfast, and headed into Cloverdale for mail, laundry, supplies and rest.

On May 24 I hiked alone on a paved, dog infested road into the Jefferson National Forest and up onto the Blue Ridge. Here the Trail began to compete with the Blue Ridge Parkway, staying out of sight of the road, but occasionally crossing it as the routes converged. At the first shelter I found a note and a can of beer from Dave McD. He owed me a few dollars and was paying back as best he could. I was surprised the can was still there. Being close to the Parkway, the Trail was heavily used, and shelters were often crowded. One afternoon I pulled into Cove Creek shelter to find it occupied by a family camping luxuriously with ice chest, deck chairs, cots and a chain saw. The stares and comments from us backpackers evidently made them quite uncomfortable, for they soon began to pack up. Another hiker and I cheerfully helped them carry their gear to their car, and then moved ourselves into the shelter.

On May 27, I descended through rain drenched Mountain Laurel to the James River near Snowden, VA. From there I hitchhiked to Lynchburg and went home by bus to attend a June 1st wedding in Maine, and have my shoes re-soled. The trip home was memorable, especially the five hour early morning layover in the Port Authority Bus Station. A police officer there warned me, "Don't fall asleep or you'll wake up with nothin'." I stayed awake, but nonetheless almost lost my trusty walking stick. I retrieved it by following the thief to the men's room and grabbing it back while he was stealing someone else's beer. The whole experience reinforced my feeling that the Trail was a relatively safe place to be.

After a pleasant but restless week at home, I returned to the Trail with Chris on June 4th. Leaving her car with her relatives in Waynesboro, VA, we hitched to Snowden and continued northward on the Blue Ridge, entering the George Washington National Forest. By this time, all my hiking friends were ahead of me. The following day, near the top of Bluff Mountain, we found a marker with the sad story of a little five year old girl who had strayed from school on April 5, 1891. The spot was seven miles from the school house and at a considerably higher elevation. On June 6, the Trail left the Blue Ridge and ascended a parallel ridge to the east. There the terrain became quite rugged as it made steep 3000 foot ascents and descents over The Priest (4063 feet) and Three Ridges Mt. (3920 feet). Chris' knees began giving her trouble, but with an ace bandage in place, she pushed on, covering more ground than I had anticipated. Just before crossing the Tye River we met a southbound hiker with a rattlesnake skin hanging from his pack. He informed us that he had killed and eaten it at the shelter we were heading for. We began to watch more closely for snakes that day. After crossing Three Ridges, the Trail re-joined the Blue Ridge. We began passing through land that had once been cleared and farmed by mountain people. The high fields had returned to their natural state, but the stone walls remained as a reminder of those hard working folk. The forest had been cleared for farming by "deadnin'" or girdling of the trees to kill them. We occasionally passed old chestnut snags with the girdle marks at their bases. Just before reaching Rockfish Gap, we took a short side trip to visit a restored mountain home in the Koiners Deadening area. At Rockfish Gap we left the Trail and hitched to Waynesboro to take a break from the hiking routine and the hot humid weather.

On June 11, we returned to the Trail and entered the Shenandoah National Park. The Park was established in 1935. At that time, mountain people were still living on and farming the land. Their property was slowly acquired, and the people relocated. The land slowly returned to its natural state. Construction of the Trail through the Park took place in the late '20s and early '30s. With the building of the Skyline Drive, much of it had to be re-located. This was done by the CCC from 1933 to 1937. The Trail in this area afforded some of the easiest and most pleasant hiking since leaving Springer Mountain. Traffic on the trail was very heavy however, and because of overuse and misuse of the shelters, they were closed except at times of severe weather. Carrying a tent or tarp was a necessity. Fires were prohibited everywhere except in shelter fireplaces, so the use of a stove was advisable. I carried a stove at all times during the trip and found it more convenient and ecological than the use of a cooking fire. It eliminated the need to forage for firewood in heavily used areas that would cause further wear and tear to the trees and undergrowth. For the most part I burned unleaded gasoline available at most towns for the newer cars. The station attendants often gave me the 10 or 15 cents worth of gas I needed, refusing my standard offer of a quarter.

On June 12, Chris and I camped at the Loft Mountain Campground operated by the Park Service and conveniently located along the Trail. Noting warning signs about bears in the area, I hung our food from a locust tree. About 4 o'clock the next morning the snapping and crashing of branches awakened me and I immediately suspected that we were about to lose our food. I jumped from the tent in my underwear and aiming the flashlight at the tree, noted that the food was gone and that two large eyes were shining back at me from the darkness. The eyes seemed to retreat somewhat so I waded into the bushes, hauled in the rope, hurriedly untied the sacks and took off to the men's room. I hung the food from a rafter, noting that a somewhat more intelligent hiker had done the same thing before he or she had retired the evening before. About an hour later at dawn, I watched a large black bear making his rounds of the trash cans, unhappy I'm sure about missing out on our gorp and Lipton dinners. In spite of our early morning adventure, we hiked 17½ miles that day, reaching Swift Run Gap in time to catch a bus back to Waynesboro.

After a day off the Trail to visit friends in West Virginia, we drove back to Swift Run Gap. I continued on alone, looking forward to seeing Chris a week or so later at Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. Traffic on the Trail continued to be heavy, and I met several Park Rangers who were strictly enforcing the Park regulations. One night I woke up hearing a snuffling noise by the mosquito netting. I found myself face to face with a skunk. He took off when I shined my flashlight in his eyes. The Park animals were the tamest I had seen along the Trail. On June 19 I left the Park with about 40 miles left of hiking in Virginia. Much of this was on roads because private landowners had closed the Trail in places. The state of Virginia had not yet acquired a right of way for the Trail as prescribed by the National Scenic Trails Act passed by Congress in 1968. Several shelters had been torn down along a 22 mile stretch and water was only available at private homes. Having obtained the latest trail information from other hikers, I decided to have a short hiking day and stopped at the Mosby Gap shelter to rest up for the two hard days ahead. I shared the shelter with a small group of 14-16 year old Boy Scouts who were hiking south with the hopes of getting their 50 mile merit badges. They were friendly, but noisy, and their 50 year old leader had bought each of them a bottle of Ripple wine that they had stashed in the spring. They had also brought along some fireworks and proceeded to set them off after dark. Tenting near the shelter were two young women from Baltimore; Barbara Matthei and Marge Smith. They had hiked the Trail from Springer Mountain to Snowden and Harpers Ferry to Duncannon, PA the previous summer and were trying to complete the remaining sections. I joined them for the next 40 miles and was glad to have their company along the long boring section of road walking. They were pleased to have someone along with an up-to-date map and guide book, as their 1959 vintage guide was rather inadequate.

Shortly after leaving the Mosby Gap shelter, we began to follow gravel fire roads. After a break at noon to get some water at a private home, we crossed Signal Knob, a prominent peak used by both sides in the Civil War as a signal spot. At Ashby Gap the Trail began following Rt. 601 that twisted along the ridge crest overlooking the Shenandoah River valley. It was along that road that a Boeing 727 was to crash 6 months later as it was approaching Dulles Airport near Washington, DC. We passed the high fences surrounding the US Government Mt. Weather Installation. This underground communication center had been built for the President and other top government officials in the event of a nuclear war. Just after passing this complex, the Trail returned to the woods for a few miles and led to the Three Springs shelter that had kindly been left accessible by the land owner. It was an old one, built by the CCC in 1940. A note on the bulletin board said that a copperhead snake was reputed to be living in one of the two stone fireplaces. We didn't pay much attention until the snake emerged while someone was burning some litter. We let the snake be, but added another note to the board, confirming its existence.

The following day the Trail returned to Rt. 601. After five miles it entered the woods again, and began to follow the West Virginia state line. I said good-by to Marge and Barbara at the Keys Gap shelter and hiked on for another six miles to spend the night near Harpers Ferry. I entered the Harpers Ferry National Historic Park on Loudon Heights and passed several rock forts said to have been built during the Civil War siege on Harpers Ferry. Just before the steep descent off the Blue Ridge to the Potomac River I stopped for the scenic view of Harpers Ferry. This historic town clings to the point of land formed by the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers. The supports of the old bridge crossed by John Brown and his men during the raid on the town and its munitions factory were still visible. That night I stayed at the Sandy Hook youth hostel, and the next morning crossed a railroad bridge over to Harpers Ferry. I met Chris at the Appalachian Trail Conference headquarters and we spent the next three days visiting the Harpers Ferry area and the Gettysburg Battlefield in nearby Pennsylvania. After hiking together the 14½ miles between the Potomac River and Turners Gap in Maryland, we said good-by again and I went on alone.

At the Potomac River the Trail left the Blue Ridge, followed the river along the C & O Canal, and climbed to the crest of South Mountain, a ridge it would follow as far as the Cumberland Valley in Pennsylvania. The Trail crossed over several gaps in Maryland that had been significant during the Civil War. On Monument Knob, just north of Turners Gap stood a milk bottle shaped tower that had been built by the citizens of Boonsboro, Maryland in 1827. This was the first monument to be completed in honor of George Washington. The CCC had restored it in 1935.

On June 26 I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line at the town of Pen Mar. This small village had been a summer resort during the late 1800's and early 1900's, and was known as the Coney Island of the Blue Ridge. The hiking through southern Pennsylvania was fairly easy going. I had not reached the notorious Pennsylvania rocks. I saw many ant hills as large as six feet in diameter and two feet high. The iron industry had been important throughout the area and the Trail passed right by the Pine Grove Furnace that had been used from the Revolutionary War days through the late 1800's. Many flat circular hearths where wood was charred for use in the furnaces could be seen in the woods along the Trail. The shelters in this region were constructed of logs and had been built by the CCC. As most were near roads, they were heavily used. Vandalism and theft were a problem and packs had to be watched closely. On June 28, after spending a rainy night in my tent, I crossed the Cumberland Valley and passed the halfway point of my journey. The Trail followed paved roads for about 15 miles through beautiful Pennsylvania Dutch farmland. Although the roads were hard and the sun hot, the scenery made the walking interesting and lightened the load. I reached the other side of the valley in the early afternoon and ascended to the crest of Cove Mountain, the first of many level, but very rocky ridges that the Trail would be following to Delaware Water Gap. The following morning I descended steeply to Duncannon, Pennsylvania, a small town on the banks of the Susquehanna River. The Trail passed right through town, making it an ideal supply and rest stop. There I met Sue Murcott from New York. She had left Springer on March 10 and was hiking along at a leisurely pace thoroughly absorbing everything the Trail had to offer. I was surprised to see that her hiking footwear consisted of leather Indian moccasins. At Duncannon I went about my usual town activities and the next day was ready to hit the Trail once more. I was 1042 miles from Springer Mountain and had 1000 miles to go.

I remember Duncannon as the town in which I nearly ate and drank myself off the Trail. After hitchhiking back to town from a motel down the road, I went to the post office that had been closed the day before. I took care of my supply package and then began following the Trail along the streets toward the Susquehanna River. It was a very hot day, and I stopped at two of the several bars along the way. At the first, I had one of those questionable frozen ham sandwiches. To top it all off, I bought a large butterscotch sundae at a conveniently located ice cream store. Hiking the eight miles to the next shelter was rather difficult, and in my diary that night I wrote, "I'm very tired, feel slightly feverish. Hope it's not a bug." The next morning I felt worse, with abdominal cramps and vomiting. After "staying in bed" for several hours, and getting an alkaseltzer from another hiker, I decided to blame it on the sandwich and walk the problem off. Some say that ice cream and beer don't mix. I'm still not sure what happened to me, but I became a bit more careful about my town stops for the rest of the trip.

Around noon that memorable day I overtook Mike Martin, the through hiker I'd met in North Carolina and last seen in Cloverdale, Virginia, 430 miles to the south. We eagerly exchanged our adventures and the news about other "through" hikers we both knew. We hiked on together, following an old stage road through the ruins of Yellow Springs Village, and the area of St. Anthony's Wilderness. The region had once boomed as a coal mining area over 100 years ago, and the woods still seemed to stir with the life of that time. In spite of my ailment, I managed to hike 17 miles, stopping with Mike at the new Rausch Gap shelter located near another abandoned mining village. The shelter was one of the fanciest along the Trail with skylights in the roof and a stone patio. A piped spring flowed from the wall near the fireplace. The outhouse was unique as well. Recovered from an 1800 farm house, it featured a mini-hole for the kids. The next day, Mike and I hiked 18 miles, following ridge crest for the most part except for a major descent and ascent through Swatara Gap. We camped near Pilger Ruh (Pilgrims Rest) spring, a stop-over place for Indian missionaries during the 1700's. The spring had just been condemned by the local health department and we noticed that a trailer home had been placed just a few hundred feet away. Water was scarce along the Pennsylvania ridges, and the Pilger Ruh spring had been one of the most dependable sources.

The fourth of July was one of the hottest days for hiking I had experienced. One six mile stretch followed a gravel State Game Lands road. Shade was non-existent, and we wondered why the Trail had not been located in the woods. At 5:00 p.m., after a difficult and hot 20 miles, we descended to Port Clinton. Being a holiday, everything was closed, so we caught a ride into Hamburg just a few miles away. We checked into the American Hotel, an establishment bordering on a flop-house. We made good use of the shower, and later joined the throngs of people at the town park to listen to country music and watch the fire works. The following morning we shopped and did our laundry before returning to Port Clinton to pick up mail. Our next stop, after ascending back to the ridge, was the New Windsor Furnace shelter. We shared the lean-to with several local people, and it was there that I learned to dread the hiker with a loud snore. One fellow told us about his friend, saying that he'd had to sleep in his car one night during a visit to his home. When I still found myself awake at 2:30 a.m., I understood why. His friend had one of the most raucous snores I'd ever heard. In addition, he had a bad cold that increased the noise. In desperation I moved out of the shelter and set up my tent on the grass nearby. There, the "no-see-ums" came through the mosquito netting and finished me off. I got about two hour's sleep.

For the next five days, Mike and I hiked along the rocky ridge crest, with occasional steep descents and ascents through deep gaps where rivers penetrated the ridge. Lehigh Gap was particularly spectacular, with the Trail winding steeply up a bare slope of large boulders. Although fairly level, the footway along the Pennsylvania ridge was very rocky, and it was one section where heavier shoes would have been useful. Water was also scarce and we often had to hike off the Trail a half mile or more to find a spring. On July 10, Mike and I descended into the last gap, the well known Delaware Water Gap. The high humidity and haze of the day prevented us from seeing the view of the Delaware River as it cut through the ridge. In the small village of Delaware Water Gap, Mike and I parted company and I hiked alone over the I-88 bridge to New Jersey where I met a cousin. He drove me to my aunt and uncle's home where I spent a three day "vacation." I went to New York City to pick up a new pair of hiking boots which would be ready for use in case my trusty L.L. Bean shoes gave out.

On July 14, after gaining back six of the thirty-one pounds I had lost on the Trail, my uncle drove me back to the Delaware River. From the Gap, the Trail climbed to the crest of the Kittatinny Ridge of western New Jersey. I was surprised about the small amount of road walking, and the relative isolation of the Trail. In one section I passed through an area destined to become part of the Delaware River Recreation Area. I noted many cellar holes of former summer homes which had been demolished. I was glad to see the land returning to its natural state, but couldn't help feeling sorry for those who'd had to give up living on such a beautiful mountain. The New Jersey section attracted many hikers to the Trail and the shelters were usually full. However, the mosquitoes were at their worst, and I didn't mind using my tent which afforded better protection. One day I overtook two groups of 40 hikers. Fortunately they were being met by a bus at various road crossings and were not descending on any shelter areas.

On July 16, before leaving the ridge, I took a side trip to the High Point tower, a war memorial resembling the Washington Monument. Being the highest point in New Jersey, and affording good views of at least three states, it was a popular tourist spot. The next day, after spending a night alone at a shelter, I entered my home state of New York. I got my first taste of the well known New York road walking and went through the small village of Unionville, one of my minor mail stops. I continued on paved roads, passing large fields of onions and sod which thrived on the rich black soil of the Walkill River valley. I remembered the days of my early boyhood in the late '50s when I pulled bullheads from the river downstream between New Paltz and Kingston. At 8:00 that evening I pitched my tent under some pine trees after 21 ½ miles of alternately walking on roads through heavily populated areas and in the woods over steep ridges. From those high points I'd had good views of the Shawangunks and Catskills. I had found myself back in New Jersey that evening, as the had Trail looped southward to cross the narrowest part of the Vernon Valley.

The following day was cloudy, hot and gloomy. The springs along the Trail were either dry or questionable in quality. After 11 miles of hiking I reached Rt. 17A and hoped to get water at a nearby restaurant. When I discovered that the restaurant was closed, I decided to call it a day, and hitched into Greenwood Lakes, NJ to make an unscheduled rest and morale booster stop. I was glad about my decision as there was a severe thunderstorm during the night. The next day I was ready to hit the trail again. The thunderstorm had brought clear and cool weather with it. For the next two days the Trail remained in the woods for the most part and crossed some surprisingly rugged terrain. After crossing the New York State Thruway I entered the Harriman State Park. A litter problem immediately became noticeable and shelters had been removed in several places because of misuse. On Saturday July 20 I reached Bear Mt. and was amazed to be able to see the NYC skyline. At the top I met my first southbound "through" hikers. They reported that the water and bugs in Maine had been almost unbearable. Two had skipped part of Maine and New Hampshire and planned to return to complete that section in the Fall. I was glad I had started my hike in Georgia, for the bugs would almost be gone by the time I'd reach Vermont. The mosquitoes and deer flies had been little bother compared to the blackflies encountered by the southbound hikers.

After enjoying the view at Bear Mt. I descended steeply to the Bear Mt. Inn. Being a Saturday, there were thousands of people using the Park, many having come up from NYC in charter buses. I met Chris at the Inn, and after packing the food she had brought and having a picnic lunch with her mother and grandmother, we set off together. We followed the Trail through the Park, maneuvering with difficulty along the crowded side walks. On our way through the zoo area we passed the Bear Den, the lowest point along the Trail; 115 feet. We finally reached the Bear Mountain Bridge and crossed the Hudson River after paying our 10¢ tolls. The next three days were spent hiking on paved roads with an occasional respite where the Trail returned to the woods. Reliable water was scarce, with private homes being the chief source. All in all I was disappointed with the New York section of the Trail.

On July 24 we reached Connecticut. We were finally in New England. The hiking improved markedly, and although the weather was hazy, and the views limited, the forest land through which the Trail passed was some of the most beautiful I had seen. Particularly enjoyable were the sections along the Housatonic River and the spectacular gorges of Dean, Dark Entry and Sages Ravines. The towns through which the Trail passed were those of old New England, a marked contrast to the ticky-tacky housing developments of New York. We enjoyed an overnight stop in Kent, and mail and ice cream stops in Cornwall Bridge and Falls Village. Just north of Salisbury we reached territory familiar to us from the many day hikes we had taken over the years. We ascended Bear Mt. on the old charcoal road. The stone monument at the summit which had been leaning precariously the previous winter had started to fall, one corner having collapsed completely. Just beyond Bear Mt., in Sages Ravine, we reached Massachusetts, the eleventh state along the Trail. We crossed Mt. Everett and the scenic ledges of Race Mt. and then left the Trail descending to Rt. 41 on the steep, but beautiful Race Brook Falls trail. Chris' mother was waiting for us and drove us home for two days of relaxation and re supplying. At this point I decided to replace my L.L. Bean work-shoe style hiking boots as I had noticed that one of the uppers had started to split. With 1400 miles under their soles I thought it was time to break in the Herman hiking shoes I had bought in NYC. My sleeping bag was also due for a cleaning, as it resembled a large sweaty sock.

On August 1, Chris and I returned to the Trail, huffing and puffing back up the ridge on the Race Brook Falls trail. Chris hoped to reach Hanover, NH. My goal was 650 miles away. I was about five days behind schedule and would need to pick up my pace if I was to outrun Old Man Winter to Katahdin. We spent our first night in Massachusetts near the Jug End spring, one of the most reliable water sources along the Trail. A Maine-to-Georgia hiker joined us, and his stories about the insects and wet conditions in Maine convinced me that I had made the right decision about starting in Georgia. The next day we crossed the Housatonic River valley following gravel roads for the most part. (We have been glad to hear recently that the Trail is being re-routed into the woods with state government support.) Short sections through the forest were combined with steep climbs over ridges and good views back toward Jug End. Shortly after passing Benedict Pond we began climbing steeply toward Mt. Wilcox. Above us on an overlook, we heard some loud whooping and hollering, and intuition told me that we were about to meet the "Sunshine Boys," two (originally three) Georgia-to-Maine hikers who were from Florida. I had seen their names in the trail registers ever since signing in at Springer Mt. They were among the more eccentric set of "through" hikers who rarely signed their real names; "The Florida Hilltoppers," "Rocket Man," and "The Happy Hiker." Rumor had it that their mail drops contained more than just food and essentials. Upon reaching the noise, we found that my guess had been correct. We also met Dave Rigg, a "through" hiker from Pennsylvania who had left Springer Mt. a few days ahead of me. We all stayed at the Mt. Wilcox shelter where we saw our first sign of porcupine. We had reached "hang up everything" territory.

The following day we crossed Mt. Wilcox and descended into the beautiful Tyringham Valley. After an hour's break in the old New England village of Tyringham, we hiked on, passing Goose Pond and crossing the Massachusetts Turnpike. Chris took a dip at Greenwater Pond and I joined Dave and the "Sunshine Boys" for a cold mug of beer at a nearby tavern. Chris and I then moved on to camp near Finerty Pond in the October Mountain State Forest. It rained hard that night but was sunny and warm the next morning as we continued through the State Forest, heading for a spring just north of Dalton. During the afternoon we crossed over Warner Hill and Tully Mt., stopping to join dozens of local people who were making their annual trek to pick the high bush blueberries. Later, as we followed the Trail through the town of Dalton, I noticed ominous black clouds in the west. They were heading in our direction. A man ran from his house to tell us that there was a severe storm warning. We accepted his invitation to come in, and the rain and high wind hit just as we reached his door. We appreciated the shelter and hospitality and enjoyed talking with the man and his family about our trip. Both parents worked for the Crane Paper Company and were proud of its reputation for producing high quality products including the paper used for currency and for many a White House invitation. An hour or so later we left the comforts of their home and hit the Trail again, camping that night in a hemlock grove near the spring.

The next day was clear and cool, the heat and humidity having been driven out by the storm. We approached Mt. Greylock, stopping in Cheshire for mail and groceries. This little town had gained fame in 1801 when it delivered a 1235 pound wheel of cheese to President Jefferson. The cheese represented one day's production by the town's dairies, and the event was commemorated by a monument located across from the post office. Before leaving town we joined Dave and the "Sunshine Boys" for lunch on the side walk. As we were eating, another "through" hiker, Karl Hartzell, reached town. Having left Springer Mt. on May 15, he was averaging about 20 miles a day. Later that afternoon, Chris and I had supper at the Kitchen Brook lean-to and then moved on to camp on top of Jones Nose, a shoulder of Saddle Ball Mt. that had fine views of the Berkshires. The following day we hiked over the familiar territory of Mts. Greylock, Fitch and Williams. We descended steeply into the Hoosic River valley and decided to go into Williamstown for a shower and a real bed. We saw the movie "The Great Gatsby" for a dollar and had soufflé at the "British Maid," an English style pub.

On August 7 we reached Vermont and the Long Trail, a 260 mile footpath leading to Canada. The next 100 miles of our hike on the Long Trail-Appalachian Trail provided beautiful scenery and conveniently located shelters that were nicely maintained by the Green Mountain Club. The blackflies were almost gone except for a few persistent hordes that tortured hikers on the open sunny mountain peaks. We stayed at Congdon Camp the first night and at Glastonbury shelter the next. That evening I pulled a small transistor radio from my pack, something I had once vowed I would never carry on the Trail. I had begun to miss the news, particularly the events surrounding Watergate that were breaking daily. My one vice on the Trail was trying to keep up with news in the outside world. A few hikers gathered around to listen to President Nixon's resignation speech. I had mixed feelings of anger, pity, relief and optimism. As we hiked through the woods the next day, I was hopeful that the country, in Mr. Gerald Ford, might at last have an honest down-to-earth leader. I wondered if a 2000 mile hike might have been good for Mr. Nixon.

August 9 was one of our wettest days on the Trail. We slogged through mud past Stratton Pond and reached Swezey shelter, finding it packed with Boy Scouts. They helped us find a tenting spot and allowed us to hang our packs in the shelter out of reach of the porcupines. The 19 miles we had hiked that day was a record for Chris and we both slept well that night. We were up early the next morning and hiked the 6½ miles to Rt. 11. There we hitch hiked into the town of Manchester to pick up a supply package. We met a hiker who told us about an inexpensive and friendly tourist home, so we decided to make an unscheduled civilization stop. It was the day of the annual sidewalk sale, and the town was buzzing. We were off again the next morning and made the steep climb to the summit of Bromely Mt. Through the clouds of blackflies we had fine views of Stratton Mt. and the Manchester valley. We spent the night at Griffith Pond shelter, surrounded by Boy Scout tents. The friendly but noisy group had difficulty deciding which freeze dried dinners were whose and which scout was going to boil the water to rehydrate the meals. They finally got things straightened out and we had a peaceful night.

August 12 was cool and clear; a perfect day. We hiked 18½ miles, stopping during the morning to enjoy the views from Baker Peak. We had lunch at the jewel-like Little Rock Pond where we had camped the previous Fall during a "shakedown" trip. We passed some members of the Youth Conservation Corp who were doing a good job of constructing waterbars and bridges. We stopped for the night at Sunnyside Camp and swapped stories and information with a Maine-to-Georgia hiker. The following day we headed for Killington Mt., crossing the Mill River at the Clarendon Gorge on a new suspension bridge. The old bridge had washed out in a flash flood in the summer of 1973, and the replacement memorialized a "through" hiker who had been swept away at the spot when he was attempting to cross the gorge on a log. He, and his brother who was heading north from Georgia, never met as planned. At 7:00 we reached Pico Camp after taking the short but very steep side trail to the summit of Killington. Dave Rigg was at the shelter as well as Steve and Marge Skinner, a "through" hiking couple from Schenectady. They had skipped parts of Pennsylvania and New York and were planning to hike those sections in the Fall. We were surprised to meet some fellow Capital District hikers. We were all up early the next morning to have breakfast at the Long Trail Lodge in Sherburne Pass. Each of the pancake breakfasts was named after a trail or mountain. Pancakes were one of my big cravings during the trip. After breakfast we struggled up the steep side of Sherburne Pass and said good-by to the Long Trail as the AT took us eastward toward the White Mountains. Just past the Gifford Woods State Park we noted a small sign pointing to a lodge just a few hundred feet off the Trail. It read, "Bed, Bath and Breakfast-$4.00." We overcame our temptation and hiked on to rough it at the Stony Brook lean-to.

During the next three days the Trail took us over the beautiful rugged inter mountain region between the Green and White Mountains. The going was strenuous as we passed over steep wooded ridges and through high abandoned farm land. A mile or so beyond the Gulf shelter, we reached Dartmouth Outing Club (DOC) territory. Their trails, including their section of the AT, were marked with a black band between two orange bands. I nicknamed them the "Halloween Blazes." They were sometimes difficult to see, but fortunately the standard white AT blaze was used as well. We stayed at the new Cloudland lean-to on August 15. The shelter was identical to those that I had stayed in while hiking through the Jefferson State Forest in Virginia. I learned later that the Dartmouth Outing Club had obtained the standard Forest Service plans and were building other shelters of the same type to complete the lean-to chain.

On August 17, after staying at the DOC Happy Hill cabin, we reached New Hampshire, crossing the Connecticut River at Hanover. The town was packed with Shriners from all over the northeast who were attending the annual Shriners football game. We found a place to stay at one of the Dartmouth College's fraternity houses that was known to put up hikers. Accommodations weren't particularly luxurious, but they were inexpensive; free. My mail package at Hanover was important as it contained clothing I had worn during the initial stages of my hike in the Spring; heavier work pants and shirt, wool hat and gloves, and a down sweater. I'd soon be coming to terrain that was above timberline and hypothermia was a danger at all times. We had our meals in Hanover at the Dartmouth Hanover Hall, a cafeteria that was hailed by "through" hikers from Springer to Katahdin. Once one got in, one could stay for two hours or more, going back in line time after time with no questions asked. That evening we discovered that we had picked a "jock" type fraternity at which to stay. At 2:00 a.m., when the local bars closed, the brothers moved on to their own supply of beer in the frat house. When we emerged from our basement room the next morning, we found the first floor in total disarray. Our stay at Hanover was unique.

The next morning it was time for Chris to leave the Trail. Being alone after hiking with her for the past 300 miles would take some readjusting. I looked forward to being independent again, but would miss her company. I prolonged the time before parting by riding back with her to Albany with Steve Skinner's mother who had come with a supply package from Schenectady. After a day in Albany, Chris and her mother drove me back to Hanover on their way to Maine. I hit the Trail and spent a lonely night at the Velvet Rocks shelter just outside of town. I was 415 miles from Katahdin. I wanted to be there by the end of September before the snow closed the summit for the year.

The next two days out of Hanover I covered 40 miles, anxious to reach the White Mountains. The first night was spent in the fire warden's cabin on top of Smarts Mt. The tower had just been abandoned, and the cabin, complete with bed, wood stove and cooking pots, had been left open to hikers. It was the most comfortable night I spent on the Trail. The following day I crossed Mt. Cube and then hit about ten miles of road walking in unseasonable heat and humidity. Late that afternoon I cooled off in Wachipauka Pond and camped on an old railroad bed next to an ice cold spring. The following morning, after a brief stop at the Glencliff post office, I entered the White Mountain National Forest and ascended Mt. Moosilauke, the first of the 4000 footers. It was rainy and windy as I reached the emergency shelter at the summit. There I met the Skinners and the "Sunshine Boys" who had left me behind at Hanover. With them was Jean Preckel, a young Georgia to Maine hiker from West Virginia. After a short break I moved on, descending on the treacherous Beaver Brook Trail into Kinsman Notch. That night I stayed at the Eliza Brook shelter, sharing it with a father and son who had just begun a ten day trip. It was their first long trip and they had forgotten toilet paper. Since I was going into town the next day, I gave them mine.

I was up the next morning at 5:00 and on the Trail by 6:15. It was rough going over South and North Kinsman and a long descent past the Lonesome Lake Hut into Franconia Notch. From there I hitchhiked into North Woodstock for a mail and supply stop. I was happy to meet Dave Rigg again. We booked rooms at the Cascade Lodge, did laundry, shopped and had a big dinner. We were up early the next morning, bracing ourselves for the steep climb up Franconia Ridge with our full packs. The ridge impressed me as one of the most beautiful sections of the Trail and I spent much time taking in the views from Mts. Lafayette and Lincoln. (Chris and I returned two months later and battled ice and snow and 50 mile an hour winds as we headed for Greenleaf Hut. Chris broke her arm that day, slipping on the icy side trail coming off Mt. Lafayette.) Dave and I stayed at the Garfield Pond shelter that night. The shelter and tent platforms were jammed with 50 hikers. As well as being one of the most beautiful areas, The Whites were also the most crowded.

On August 27, after crossing over several more 4000 footers, Dave and I reached Crawford Notch. Following a very steep climb up the Webster Cliffs we stopped at the Mizpah Spring Hut. I was pleasantly surprised to meet Jim Stoltz there, a "through" hiker I had last seen near Snowden, VA on May 27. We had a lot of gossip to exchange. I left Jim in the dust the next day after feasting with him in the snack bar on the summit of Mt. Washington, and didn't see him again. The views from Mt. Washington were spectacular, marred only by the black smoke of the cog railway engine. That night I stayed at the Madison Hut, taking the reservation space of another hiker who hadn't quite made it. I was privileged to see the garbage-sewage disposal system in action when a helicopter arrived to carry the barrels to Pinkham Notch. One of the Hut staff's hated jobs was to search for and sanitize the occasional barrel that broke loose at 1000+ feet.

The next morning I made my way over the steep cone of Mt. Madison through heavy rain and wind. It was perfect hypothermia weather and I didn't stop for a rest until I was safe below timberline. It continued to pour as I made the long rocky descent into Pinkham Notch, where I rescheduled my reservation for Carter Notch Hut. I decided to sit out the rain in Gorham, and after a fast hitch into town, found Mrs. Stinson's Tourist Home. Her $3.00 a night charge was the most inexpensive to date. It was cloudy but dry the next day as I made my way back to the Trail and climbed the steep Wildcat Ridge. I caught fleeting glimpses of Mt. Washington through the ragged dissipating storm clouds, and by evening it was clear and cold. I watched the moon rise above Carter Notch that night as I cooked supper on the bunk house porch.

The next day was the last day of August. I hiked only seven miles and stopped at the Imp shelter, a cabin perched high on the Carter Range overlooking Gorham. I chatted with other hikers, most of whom were out for the Labor Day weekend. A Maine to Georgia hiker stopped by and gave some useful hints about the trail ahead. Included in his advice was the usual suggestion to take the old AT routes and avoid the relocations which were usually harder and longer. This was advice I routinely ignored and never regretted. The next day I made another stop at Mrs. Stinson's before beginning my fifth month on the Trail.

On September 2, I crossed the New Hampshire line and entered Maine, the 14th and last state through which the Trail passed. The terrain reminded me of that in the North Carolina Nantahala-Cheoh Range, and many "through" hikers thought it was the most difficult section of the entire AT. I personally found the Mahoosucs of western Maine less strenuous, but I'm sure that my improved physical condition by the time I reached Maine influenced my thinking. South bound hikers likely had opposite opinions regarding the two sections. I must say that the footway in the Mahoosucs was more difficult. On September 3, the hiking was miserable as I left Carlo Col shelter in a cold rain. I reached the Full Goose shelter three hours later and found it packed with Labor Day hikers, holed up like a bunch of wet muskrats. I continued on, passing through an exceedingly rough section of the Trail. I was not exhausted by the steepness of the ascents and descents as much as I was physically and emotionally drained by the nerve-wracking chore of navigating over the wet slippery terrain. Particularly hair-raising was the 1½ hour trek through the Mahoosuc Notch, a mile long V-shaped valley filled with large boulders. I wended my way over, under and around the slippery rocks, taking my pack off several times to lower it ahead of me. Ice from the previous winter could still be seen in some of the deeper crevasses. I only covered 13 miles that day after ten hours of steady hiking. The Grafton Notch shelter was a most welcome sight that evening.

The rain continued steadily all night and had not let up by the time I was ready to leave the shelter the next morning. I decided to push on, and crossed Baldpate Mt., slipping and sliding on the bare rock slabs. I stopped only after escaping the driving rain in the shelter of balsams below the summit. I reached Squirrel Rock shelter after 17 wet miles, and spent the night with three hikers who had been waiting for drier weather. I woke up during the night to see the welcome sight of the moon and stars. The next days, clear and cool, were perfect for hiking.

At the Sabbath Day Pond shelter I stayed with two older fellows who were completing the Maine section of the Trail. Carleton Gooden owned a small country store in Maryland. Ray Hackey was an oil furnace repairman from Maine. I spent most of my remaining nights on the Trail with them as they were moving along at about the same pace. About an hour after I met them, Carleton warned me about Ray's terrible snoring. The next morning I seriously considered altering my shelter itinerary. However, I found that they were great company and I enjoyed getting to know them. They nicknamed me the "Clement Express" because I usually got a later start than they in the morning, passed them an hour or so later, and arrived at the next shelter an hour or two ahead of them.

The next day I had an overnight supply and rest stop in Rangely before heading into another relatively rugged section of the Trail. I crossed Saddleback Mt. and stopped at the abandoned fire tower to enjoy the panoramic views and take a good look at the rough section ahead. Just before reaching the Poplar Ridge shelter I saw bear tracks in the mud, superimposed on Carleton's and Ray's. I spent a slightly nervous night alone at the shelter. The next day was a rough 21 miler as I ascended close to the summit of Sugarloaf Mt. and crossed over the Crockers on a new trail relocation. Sugarloaf had been defaced by an increasing number of ski trails and the springs on its slopes were polluted. The Crockers had once been two very rough bushwhacks as any New England 4000 Footer can testify. I camped near Stratton Brook that night and was surprised by the hordes of no-see-ums that I thought had left for the season.

On September 9 I crossed the rough and scenic Bigelow Range. The weather was warm and humid and the usual spectacular views were obscured by the haze. I could barely see the shores of the gigantic Flagstaff Lake in the valley below. That evening I joined Carleton and Ray at the Jerome Brook shelter. The following day we hiked through wet undergrowth on old tote roads and stopped for the night at Pierce Pond shelter, one of the most beautifully situated lean-tos in Maine. I was up at 5:00 the next morning, and after a quick breakfast, hiked to the bank of the Kennebec River. Many "through" hikers were apprehensive about fording this broad stream, and some took the advice of the trail guide and phoned ahead to hire a canoe. I decided to wade. I put everything in plastic bags I had bought at the laundromat in Rangely, tied my sleeping bag to the top of my pack and took off my boots. The water reached just slightly over my knees, but the swift current made the going a bit tricky. I was safely across in ten minutes, passing a south bound hiker in midstream. Had I waited a few more hours I could have enjoyed the adventure of dodging pulpwood logs racing along at waist level. Many short logs lay on the shore waiting for the dams to be released upstream. Carleton and Ray were boated across, and when they met me at Joes Hole lean-to that evening decided they might have preferred the wetter, but less expensive route.

The next day we hiked a short 12 miles to the Breakneck Ridge shelter. During the morning we crossed Moxie Bald from where "through" hikers could often get their first look at Katahdin. The day was very hazy however, and we spent an hour chatting with the fire tower warden and his wife, and watching the antics of the Canada Jays that they had befriended during their summer on the mountain. At 10:00 the next day I reached Monson, the last town on the Trail. The next 115 miles would be among the most isolated on the Trail and hikers needed to carry enough food to sustain them until they reached the small store at Abol Bridge. At Monson I picked up my old pair of Sears work shoes that I had written for from Rangely. The left sole on the pair I had been wearing since Massachusetts had become loose and I knew there would not be enough time to let them dry out for repair. I didn't want to risk wearing them over that last remote section of Trail. I picked up enough food in Monson from my mail drop and the store to last me about ten days. The following morning, after a good night's rest in a tourist home, I left Monson close behind Ray and Carleton. That night I noted in the register at the Long Pond Stream shelter that Alan Gross, whom I had last seen in Pearisburg, Virginia, was only a day or two ahead of me. I hoped I would be seeing him before I reached Katahdin.

The remainder of the Trail in Maine was relatively easy hiking. There were occasional climbs over mountain tops; the Barren Range, White Cap and Chair Back. From White Cap I had my first good view of Katahdin. Legend had it that there was a "through" hiker who hiked the entire distance non-stop to Katahdin Stream Campground after seeing that view. As there were still 75 miles to cover, it is doubtful if this was true. Between the mountains, the Trail twisted through lowlands, skirting beautiful lakes and small streams. There were plenty of busy beavers in the area that seemed to enjoy flooding the Trail and making the hikers bushwhack through the thick undergrowth. In the Fall the Trail was relatively dry and there were no blackflies or mosquitoes. Many hikers starting from Katahdin regretted it and usually had no choice but to keep walking until they reached Monson. The September weather was perfect for hiking. The nights were cold and the trees were beginning to show some signs of Fall color. Southbound hikers told of Kahtadin being closed, sometimes several days at a time. Baxter Park took no chances with losing hikers in the snow squalls that were becoming more frequent at the summit. I hoped that I would be able to hike that last five miles without a long wait.

On September 16 I caught up with Alan Gross at the White Cap Mountain shelter. We had a grand time swapping news and Trail gossip. Alan was having a hard time accepting the fact that the trip was almost over and was savoring every last mile. Other "through" hikers accelerated their pace as they got closer to Katahdin. I was among those who slowed down to about a ten mile-a-day pace. I was almost forced to because for the last few days I had little energy and a poor appetite. I surmised that I had drunk some bad water along the way, but could not remember where it might have been. Other hikers I met were having a similar problem.

Although Maine was one of the wildest states through which the Trail passed, I met at least two south bound hikers every day; once, eight. One afternoon as the Trail skirted Joe Mary Lake and passed a clearing by a sandy beach, I stumbled upon a couple making love six feet away. I mumbled an embarrassed "Sorry!" and kept on walking, noting a pontoon equipped airplane bobbing nearby on the lake. The man hollered, "Are you alone!?" I yelled back, " Yes!" About two minutes later I heard the plane take off.

On September 21 I reached Katahdin Stream campground in the Baxter State Park. Earlier that morning I had stopped at the grocery store in Abol Bridge to add my name to the list of "through" hikers who left their names and addresses on the wall to tell those behind them that they had made it. Chris arrived later in the afternoon and we camped in our van. Carleton and Ray stayed in a shelter nearby. We all looked forward to hiking the final 5½ miles the next day.

The weather was not on our side the following morning. We found that the Trail had been closed due to high winds and clouds at the top of Katahdin. Carleton and Ray had been on the summit several times, and as they had no time to spare, decided to leave the Park and head home. Chris and I hiked to Daicey Pond to visit Alan Gross who was staying at a shelter there, waiting for the weather to clear. On our way back to Katahdin Stream later, I saw my first moose of the trip.

On September 23 we woke up at 6:00. The weather was overcast and we went to the ranger station expecting to hear that the Trail was closed again. We were surprised and happy to learn that the weather was acceptable and before the rangers had a chance to change their minds, we signed the register and took off. The last few miles of the AT were memorable as the route ascended the spectacular Hunt Spur. In several places iron spikes had been placed to provide hand and footholds. Once over the Spur we crossed the wide barren Tableland, passing Thoreau Spring as we made our way toward the cairn at the summit of Katahdin. The cairn had been built high enough to make the mountain a mile high. We reached the summit at 11:25. It was very windy and I saw my first snowflakes of the coming winter. My journey was over.

Post Script:

Alan Gross reached the end of the Trail shortly after I did. He ran the last ¼ mile, pack and all, whooping and hollering. We shared his can of beer, Chris having forgotten the bottle of champagne in the van. Just as we were about to retrace our steps down the mountain, Norman and Marilyn Fancher, fellow Adirondack Mountain Club members from Schenectady appeared. They were parked at Roaring Brook Camp Ground and offered to drive us back to our van if we wished to descend on the other side of the mountain. Chris went with them on their route via Chimney Pond. Alan and I crossed the spectacular Knife Edge and said good-by on Pamola Peak, ending our trip on a treacherous, but scenic note.

Upon my return home, I found a bad economic situation, with job hunting a challenging task. It was difficult breaking back into my profession and some prospective employers seemed concerned that I might take off for another hike come Spring. Inevitably they would ask what I had been doing for the previous six months. I finally found work after a five month search. Meanwhile, news about "through" hikers I had met on the Trail began to come in. Jim Stoltz, Mike Martin, Karl Hartzell, Marge Smith and Barbara Matthei had finished ahead of me. Sue Murcott, Dave Rigg and the "Sunshine Boys" made it a week or so later. Numerous other "through" hikers whom I had not met also finished. Some of my friends were not so fortunate however. Loren Ortman left the Trail after several problems, including the misfortune of not getting a major supply package at Hanover. Dave McDermott left the Trail in Monson because of illness. He returned a month later and reached Katahdin Stream in late October. Winter had set in on Katahdin by that time, and after waiting out a week of bad weather during which time the Trail was closed, he returned home, leaving the last few miles uncompleted. Gloria Rapalee and the Skinners experienced the same problem. All four returned the following Spring to hike those last 5½ miles.

In June 1975 I travelled to Boone, NC to attend the five day Appalachian Trail Conference. It was the 50th anniversery of the Trail. Many interesting and inspiring talks were given, and a wide choice of workshops offered. I met several "through" hikers whom I had met on the Trail the previous Spring. At one of the workshops I learned that the ailment I had experienced in Maine may have been caused by drinking water discharged from beaver ponds. It was said that Flagyl, a medication used to treat one type of venereal disease, was often an effective remedy.

When I have a chance, I enjoy returning to nearby sections of the Trail. Sometimes I have the urge to hike the AT again or spend time hiking some of the other major trails in the US. Alan Gross did not kick the habit. He went back to Sherburne Pass in Vermont and completed the Long Trail. In May 1975, after a few months back at his job as a clerk at a supermarket, he headed for Mexico to hike the Pacific Crest Trail to Canada. Early winter snows prevented him from finishing the last 500 miles. Jim Stoltz also found it difficult to stop walking. In April 1975, he left the coast of Maine and headed for California, following back roads, trails and railroads. He is presently sitting out the winter at his home in Michigan, having gotten as far as Minnesota.

I have not been cured of the long distance hiking bug myself. I suspect that in about 35 years, if I am still in good running condition and the Trail has withstood the ravages of civilization, I may possibly be found on the top of Springer Mt., setting my sights on Katahdin once again.

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