Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail

by Paul V. Stutzman

  Thinking about climbing Everest seventeen times, I left Pen Mar Park and soon arrived in William Penn’s territory: my seventh state, Pennsylvania.

  That night at camp, I overheard a hiker describing to several others what a terrible storm he had walked through the day before. “Were you in Washington Park during that storm?” I asked.

  “I was caught in the middle of it, and I wish I had pictures to prove what I went through,” he replied. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “I can prove it for you.” I brought out my camera and showed them pictures of the storm’s destruction. While we had endured the violent weather, hikers just a few miles north were completely unaware of the storm.

  By noon the following day, I had already hiked thirteen miles. When the trail crossed U.S. 30, a colorful page tacked to a tree caught my attention, and I was immediately led astray by the pictures. Beautiful images of Italian food, all kinds of alluring delicacies for which I had no resistance. I headed down Rt. 30 quicker than you can say spaghetti.

  Taormina’s Italian Restaurant did not disappoint, and I soon had salad, garlic bread, and a steaming bowl of spaghetti in front of me. It sure beat the peanut butter and pita bread I had planned to eat. Loaded with calories, I went back to the trail and hiked longer and stronger than ever. I knew that if I didn’t slow down, Einstein and Sir Enity would never catch up with me.

  A day later, several miles outside of Pine Grove Furnace State Park, I reached a major milestone in my trek. I officially passed the halfway point. Springer Mountain was 1,088.4 miles behind me; Katahdin was 1,087.8 miles ahead.

  That milestone called for a celebration. At noon, I walked into Pine Grove Furnace State Park and stopped at a small general store for a thru-hiker tradition, the half-gallon ice cream challenge. Anyone who finishes the challenge is awarded a little wooden spoon. For me, the word challenge is as irresistible as the word food. Just being able to accomplish anything labeled a challenge is reward enough. Entries in the journal inside the store, though, indicated that completion of this task was not always a pleasant experience.

  My choice was a half-gallon of Hershey’s chocolate ice cream. I would have liked chocolate syrup with it, but the store had none. I washed down the ice cream with sixteen ounces of Mountain Dew. All went surprisingly well. I enjoyed all but the last ten bites, and in thirty-eight minutes, the ice cream was gone. Surprisingly, I was still hungry, so I followed the ice cream and Mountain Dew with a cheeseburger.

  I did not feel much like hiking that afternoon, so I checked in at the Ironmaster’s Mansion and then joined several other hikers for a swim in nearby Fuller Lake. This area was the site of the Pine Grove Furnace years ago. Fuller Lake was a former iron ore quarry that eventually filled with groundwater.

  In the evening, the proprietor of the Ironmaster’s Mansion Hostel gave us a tour. The mansion had been a stop on the Underground Railroad moving slaves north to freedom. We dropped through a small trapdoor in a closet, and stood in subterrestrial rooms where fugitives had often gone into hiding.

  A Girl Scout troop was also staying at the hostel; the girls and their sponsors joined us on the tour and afterward prepared themselves a Mexican feast. The aromas drove us hikers crazy; we kept drifting by their table, looking as sad and undernourished as we possibly could. (Yes, I did have a cheeseburger, a soda, and a half-gallon of ice cream still rattling around my digestive system.) Finally the invitation came. “Hey, you hikers. We have lots of leftover food. Do you want any?” We were in that kitchen until every morsel had disappeared.

  That night, as I slowly lowered myself into my bunk, my stomach made strange rumbling noises. Appropriately, I was in the middle of an area with a long history of making cast-iron products, and those rumblings were just the normal noises of a cast-iron stomach.

  Skyline Drive below the trail

  Half gallon ice cream challenge

  View of Duncannon

  Ladder climb

  Lehigh Gap

  Another muggy morning dawned. I left the Ironmaster’s Mansion at six, but soon found the trail barricaded by red fencing. A construction project adjacent to Fuller Lake had temporarily rerouted the AT. I had not read or heard about this rerouting, and being a rigid purist by now, I had no choice but to scurry over the fence and pick my way through the construction area. It was Sunday, so no workers were on-site to deter me.

  As I hiked, my thoughts drifted home. Back in that life, for all of that life, I had attended church on Sunday morning. It was more of a habit and way of life than a spiritual event; sadly and unfortunately, I’d been bored many times in church services. My boredom was not the fault of the church or pastors; I’d had some of the best pastoral care.

  My disinterest wasn’t God’s fault, either. It was my own doing—or rather, my lack of doing. I had never taken much time to communicate with God, never really wondered or tried to find out who He truly was. I had grown up with a long list of dos and don’ts as my religion, and in my mind, if heaven was going to be an extension of the religion I knew here on earth, then I was going to be bored for eternity.

  In the last five years, though, I had been asking God, Who are You? What connection does my life have to You? I wanted to know God, and I wanted answers from Him.

  ———

  As I hiked that Sunday morning, I had my own church. It was not a religious experience at all. As a matter of fact, I was losing my religion out here. And what I lost in religion, I gained in spirituality.

  Just the two of us walked together that Sunday—the Creator of the universe and me, worshiping in His grand cathedral. I didn’t enjoy God’s choice of music that morning; all around me, cicadas were screaming.

  But in spite of the cicadas’ noise, I hiked with the clarity of thought that was a gift of the trail. Alone and without distractions, I knew without a doubt that I had done the right thing in leaving my job. I knew I was where I was supposed to be. I knew my life was in God’s hands and I could trust Him completely. And I knew He was walking with me.

  One of the things God was showing me more clearly was how available He is to every man and woman alive, and I also saw how many obstacles we put between ourselves and Him. Some of you, my readers, may never have considered God approachable, and you may be convinced I’ve taken leave of my senses when I tell you of conversations with Him. I assure you, I’m not crazy. (I know, I know. I quit my job and decided to walk 2,200 miles; perhaps you do have a right to question my sanity.)

  When I started my AT hike and planned to write a book about the experience, that was all I intended to write: the walk, the adventure, a few observations about life. I never had any intention of writing a “spiritual” book; but then, I also had no idea that I would lose my religion and become spiritual. I tell you this—dialogue with God is available to you, to anyone. And furthermore, God actually desires conversation with us.

  On the trek north from Springer, I settled the question of whether or not God was in control of events in my life. Although I still often asked why He took Mary from our lives, I no longer doubted that there was a reason. God sees the big picture, and perhaps I will not have my “why” answered until my next life.

  The day when God so vividly revealed to me that He had adopted me as a son and therefore I was heir to everything I walked through, I had boldly (and perhaps foolishly) asked, “God, I have another question. Why do You allow young and innocent children to be harmed? If You are in control, why does that happen?”

  His reply was, Son, if you knew the answer to that, then you would be God. So many things in life are a mystery; so many things I cannot possibly understand. I decided to just let God be God, and accept whatever He chose to reveal to me. What I could not comprehend, I did not need to know.

  ———

  The day was uncomfortably hot and humid. I left the cicada choir behind and a new sound filled the woods, the soft sound of raindrops hitting leaves and falling to the ground. It was the most unusual rain I had ever heard. An
d I wasn’t getting wet. I had walked into a Gypsy moth rain.

  Sometime around 1868, a French scientist brought Gypsy moth eggs to America, hoping to produce a silk-spinning caterpillar that was immune to disease. Some moth escapees in the Boston area found the trees and foliage of Massachusetts much to their liking, and they thrived and reproduced unhindered. Attempts to eradicate the moths have been largely unsuccessful, and now each year this little pest defoliates one million acres as it chews its way across America.

  A colony had settled here and was munching its way northward. The sound of rain in the woods this morning came from the caterpillars’ excrement falling through the few leaves on the trees. Bits of leaves floated down and covered the forest floor with a layer of chopped green, and small poop pellets bounced off my head as I hiked. In many areas, posted signs warned that pesticides had been applied, but I hiked through without incurring any noticeable harm. The Gypsy moth colony didn’t seem to be suffering much harm either.

  The Appalachian Trail winds through Pennsylvania for about 230 miles, and I’d heard many horror stories about the rocks of the Pennsylvania AT. I had imagined fighting rocks all across the state, but I was enjoying the landscape very much. The miles of continuous rocks would come in the upper portion of the state’s AT. Now I was passing through woods and farmland that reminded me of home.

  Resting on a rock by a spring, I ate my lunch and watched families driving by, going home from church. Many of them were Mennonites, recognizable by their dress. They paid scant attention to the unkempt hiker sitting just a few feet from their passing vehicles. Had they known I was a fellow member of their sect, many would likely have stopped and chatted, and within minutes we would have discovered mutual friends and relatives and experiences. I had interesting stories to tell, and I would have welcomed the comfort of a good conversation. But since I didn’t pass the sight test, no one stopped or even acknowledged me.

  The miles through this landscape were some of my most memorable. I crossed fields where aromatic fresh-cut hay lay waiting to be raked and baled. In cornfields, tender stalks were just beginning to grow; I disturbed several deer munching the succulent sprouts. Large houses and barns and silos anchored neat farms. I glimpsed clusters of buildings from a distance as I walked alone through the quiet fields. It was Sunday afternoon, and I imagined all those families happily enjoying Sunday together. I knew that my sisters and parents were planning a family gathering for that evening, and I longed to be there with them.

  In midafternoon I walked into Boiling Springs, where the trail followed a spring-fed lake and several B&Bs invited me to stay. Despite the extreme heat, I still felt good enough to continue hiking. My guidebook told me that Harrisburg Pike, U.S. 11, was eight miles ahead, and there I’d find a motel and a diner just half a mile west of the trail. If I continued, my day would cover twenty-seven miles and I would also be positioned to make Duncannon the following day. I was trying to plot a course that would give me a soft bed three nights in a row.

  I bought and ate a sandwich at a store in Boiling Springs, then attacked my eight-mile challenge. Those miles led through more farm fields and crossed many roads. At U.S. 11, a pedestrian bridge took me over the traffic; I skidded down the embankment and headed up the highway toward the motel.

  The room at the Super 8 was inexpensive, but the shower was hot and the bed was soft. At the Middlesex Diner across the road, good food and friendly service lifted my spirits. Back in my room, I finished the day with a call home and talked with my parents and sisters for the first time since leaving for my hike. After typing an entry into my phone for the Trail Journals site, I collapsed onto the soft bed.

  The next morning, a trip across U.S. 11 to the diner started my day off right with a delicious breakfast, good conversation, and plenty of coffee. I wanted to make eighteen miles that day.

  My goal was Duncannon and the Doyle Hotel, a must-stop for most hikers. In the early 1900s, Anheuser-Busch built a number of upscale hotels, all featuring bars where the company sold their products. Then Prohibition came along, and the hotels were sold. The Doyle was one of those hotels, named after a family who owned it for many years. In the early days of the Appalachian Trail, most of the pioneer hikers stayed at the Doyle, and quite a bit of folklore grew up around the old hotel. I looked forward to experiencing the storied building for myself.

  I was not alone in the fields this morning. Farmers were out on their tractors, raking hay in preparation for baling. Few aromas in nature surpass the sweetness of freshly cut hay.

  Occasionally a post bearing the familiar white blaze reminded me I was still on the trail, even though I was in the middle of hay fields. But as it always does, the trail eventually led me back into the woods, where a raised wooden walkway crossed a marshy area.

  At Hawk Rock on Cove Mountain, I stopped to rest and take in the terrific view of Duncannon and the beautiful Susquehanna River far below. From my vantage point, I studied the layout of the town. I needed this introduction to Duncannon, since I’d heard the entrance into town was not well-marked.

  I eventually found North Market Street and then the large, red brick building that is the Doyle Hotel. Both Duncannon and the Doyle had seen better days, and reminded me of a beauty queen whose glamour has faded with age. But as in many other towns, I would find that my lasting memories of Duncannon did not center on buildings but on people.

  With temperatures in the upper 90s and oppressive humidity, all I wanted was to check into a room and cool off. My room on the fourth floor was twenty-five dollars and had the same air-conditioning system it had had over one hundred years ago—windows. A small sign gave instructions: “Open at your own risk.” Someone had taken the risk, because the window in my room was wide open, framing views of dilapidated roofs.

  Each floor had one small room offering a washer, a dryer, a shower, and a commode to be shared by the entire floor. I jumped into the shower with my clothes still on. During the day, I had stopped often to wring the sweat from my shirt, and I hoped a good shower now might precondition my clothes for the washer.

  The stifling heat drove everyone to congregate in the bar, where it was cool in more ways than temperature. The food was excellent and a serene ambiance filled the place. But more than anything, I enjoyed the people I met there.

  Somehow Sailor had passed me on the trail and arrived at the Doyle hours before me. In a few days, his second son would be meeting him in Port Clinton. Sitting at a table in the cool bar, Sailor and I reminisced about our earlier hiking days, and my friend introduced me to Pilgrim, a minister of the gospel, who had been hiking with him. Pilgrim did not appear to be a thru-hiker; he was clean-shaven and his white hair was closely cropped. Both men were taking a zero on the following day; Sailor was still fighting blisters and Pilgrim’s feet were just plain tired.

  I’d have gladly paid double to sleep on the floor in the coolness of the bar, but that was not permitted, so I walked up three flights of stairs to my hot room. It was a long night. I put a fan on a chair in front of the window and tucked back the curtains so they wouldn’t obstruct the air flow. That didn’t help much, since I was just moving 90-degree air. My window overlooked railroad tracks, and several trains blasted through town during the night. I’d drift off to sleep, only to be jerked fully awake by a passing iron horse.

  In the early morning, I heard voices across the street and remembered that I’d seen a restaurant that was open for breakfast. I needed no persuading and I certainly needed coffee. Perched on a barstool at the end of the counter at Goodies, I downed several cups of brew. I debated taking a zero here in Duncannon to avoid the heat, but finally decided against it.

  A familiar figure walked in and headed toward me. I greeted Pilgrim; he ordered coffee to go, and we chatted. I was explaining my reasons for being on the trail, and I could see that he was getting more excited by the minute.

  I soon finished my story, saying, “Pilgrim, I cannot describe the things God has been revealing to me on this tra
il. I never knew God to be this real before.” By now, Pilgrim could no longer contain his excitement.

  “You know, Apostle, I’m taking the day off today, and I’ve got no reason to be awake this early except that I felt God telling me to get myself up and go across the street and see someone. And now, I’ve no doubt that you are the person He wanted me to see. Let me tell you a true story.

  “I was a minister for many years in several prominent churches. I also had a ministry trying to reach young teenagers, wanting to teach them the gospel and trying to get them off drugs, but I was discouraged because I wasn’t seeing any results for my efforts.

  “Then one day God told me to grow my hair long. ‘You want me to do what?’ I asked. ‘Grow your hair long,’ was the reply. Well, then I had to make a choice. Either continue ministering with my hair short and appear normal, or risk embarrassment and ostracism from my community. I decided to listen to God and grow my hair. And not only did I let it grow—almost all the way down my back—but I also braided it into dreadlocks.

  “A most amazing thing happened. The longer my hair grew, the more connection I had with the kids. I preached the gospel boldly and was never ashamed of it. Kids were being saved and delivered from sin and drugs.”

  I sat dumbfounded, listening in a mix of awe and contrition. In awe, because God knew I needed encouragement that day and had sent Pilgrim across the street to meet me. But I also felt nudges of shame, admitting that just three months ago, back in Religiousville, Ohio, I would have emphatically pronounced this man crazy. For most of my life, I would never have responded to such a request from God because I was too worried about what other people would say. I have no doubt now that God has spoken to and perhaps made unusual requests of many people in our big pile of Christianity, but because we are so concerned with our image, we’re afraid to break free. We care more about what other people think than about what God wants.