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

by Paul V. Stutzman

  My family’s area of Ohio has over four million tourists visiting every year, seeking what they perceive we have, what makes our community unique and attractive. The most precious thing we have, we keep hidden away so we don’t risk embarrassing ourselves. We’ll gladly take visitors’ money in exchange for all else our community offers, but we seldom offer up the best thing we could possibly give them: the path to hope and peace with God.

  So just between you and me, has God spoken to you? If He did, would you recognize and listen to Him? Do you have the courage to follow His wishes, even if what He asks seems totally irrational? I know this: He does speak, He will speak, He is speaking. If you want a life of real freedom, then listen to what God is telling you.

  Back at the Doyle, I gathered my gear and prepared to leave, stopping down the hallway at the laundry/shower/restroom cubicle to fill my water bottle. There I met Pilgrim again as he arrived to use the laundry.

  “Apostle, I’m going to pray for you,” he said. When Anheuser-Busch built that hotel over one hundred years ago, I’m sure they never envisioned a prayer meeting taking place in that dingy little room. Pilgrim’s loud prayer reverberated throughout the building. He prayed blessings, safety, and wisdom on my journey.

  With those supplications still ringing in my ears, I left the Doyle. I’ve stayed at some beautiful resorts with upscale amenities; but never have I had accommodations so minimal, sleep so impossible, and yet enjoyment so great as my stay at that old hotel.

  I walked up Cumberland Street and turned onto High, following it out of town. High Street was filled with churches and residential buildings. One man was spraying weeds along his driveway, and he greeted me. “I was worried about your town for a while,” I said. “All I could see from my hotel were bars and only one church. But now I see all the churches are on High Street.”

  He grinned. “We have seven bars and seven churches,” he said. “We’re a well-balanced town.”

  The trail leaves Duncannon over the Susquehanna River via a sidewalk on the four-lane Clarks Ferry Bridge. I was crossing the river when an oncoming plumbing supply truck stopped in the middle of the bridge.

  “Hey, are you hiking to Maine?” the driver shouted, across two lanes of traffic and the concrete barrier. I assured him I was headed to Katahdin. “God bless you, brother,” he yelled. With his long ponytail bouncing about and our conversation shouted over traffic, he declared his longing to hike the trail. Cars and trucks lined up behind him and zipped between us as he reminded me how fortunate I was to be doing this hike. I invited him to come with me and for a moment thought he might actually leave his truck right there in the middle of the bridge and start walking north.

  “Don’t let the dream die,” I yelled before he finally drove off. “Do it someday. It’ll change your life.”

  ———

  The heat and humidity of the day made a difficult thousand-foot climb even more draining. Eleven miles from Duncannon, I stopped at the Peters Mountain Shelter. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but I was hot, tired, and sleepy, and the next shelter was still a long distance away. Distant thunder made the decision for me.

  The shelter was mine alone until later in the evening when Franklin arrived. I’d been reading his journal entries, but our paths had not crossed until this night. I slept well, and when I was ready for the trail at five the next morning, Franklin was also packed to leave. For the next week, we hiked together. Our styles were similar: get up early and hike late.

  We were finally in the dreaded Pennsylvania rocks. The trail was strewn with a rubble of large stones; at times, the path completely disappeared as the white blazes went up over huge rock piles and forced us to follow. We could not establish a hiking pace, since every step required caution. Our perspiring bodies became quite an attraction for the local black fly population. They swarmed around, greeting us as honored guests to their rocky domain.

  Just across Pennsylvania Rt. 501 is the aptly named 501 Shelter. Franklin and I took refuge from the heat and discovered a solar shower. It was a breathtaking affair for us and a temporary setback for the flies.

  Inside the shelter, we found a notice announcing a hiker feed at the pavilion in Port Clinton, two days ahead of us. A group of Mennonite boys from the area had done a thru-hike several years before and now did a yearly hiker feed in appreciation of the trail magic they had received on the AT. The group even offered to pick up hikers at road crossings and transport them to the feed. Our timing was perfect; if the rocks allowed it, we expected to arrive in Port Clinton the night before the event.

  Two days later, two weary hikers did reach Port Clinton, their bruised feet aching from the rocky trail. We desperately needed a break, and what luck that folks here wanted to feed us! Escorted by our swarm of flies, we crossed the Schuylkill River and entered the town.

  Our destination was the Port Clinton Hotel, an 1800s stagecoach stop. Over the years, the stagecoach road had been broadened and paved, and now cars and trucks rushed past on Rt. 61, only five feet from the front porch. The temperature was at 100 degrees when we walked into the bar, where air-conditioning and a large bowl of spaghetti brought me back to life. We booked two rooms upstairs in the old building, and small air-conditioning units in each room promised a restful stay.

  The hiker feed began with breakfast on Saturday morning and continued through lunch and into the afternoon. As we approached the pavilion in the morning, I could tell that the group responsible for this good deed was from the Conservative Mennonite tradition of my own upbringing. I greeted them in Pennsylvania Dutch, and they looked as if an alien had just landed among them. Once their initial surprise passed, we quickly found common ground and common acquaintances. And just as quickly, I belonged. I even had an invitation to stay that night at the Brubakers’ farm.

  That day turned into a zero day for Franklin and me. We ate and socialized through breakfast and lunch. Sailor arrived. Padre the priest was there. Rhino, a German hiker, and his dog joined the group. Many other hikers that I’d met briefly on the trail stopped for the event. It was a trail family gathering.

  Toward evening, three hikers loaded up their packs and headed into the countryside to the Brubakers’ dairy farm. Franklin, Padre, and I would be staying in a Mennonite home that night. Padre had grown up on a farm and was curious about farming here in Pennsylvania, and we simply could not turn down the offer of an air-conditioned, fully furnished basement with a shower.

  That evening, while visiting with Mr. Brubaker, I remarked that this beautiful farm country reminded me of home. As we talked, I realized that I was, indeed, home.

  ———

  We were in Berks County, site of the first Amish settlement in America. My own history was tied to this place. I recalled a story my grandfather and other relatives had often told, the saga of the Hochstetler Massacre. My family’s story intertwined with that of the Hochstetlers in Berks County.

  William Penn had generously granted land first to the Quakers and then also to the Amish and Mennonites, and folks were immigrating to Berks County from Switzerland and Germany. The first immigrant in our family, Johan Jacob Stutzman, arrived in America in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on October 2, 1727. He had traveled on the ship The Adventurer, but his personal adventure did not end happily. His wife and most of his family died on the long voyage; only he and two sons survived. Once in Pennsylvania, he was homesick and wanted only to return to his homeland. So to raise the fare for his trip home, he farmed out his two boys to Amish farmers in Berks County. His sons eventually raised families of their own in America.

  One of Johan Stutzman’s grandsons, Christian, married Barbara, daughter of the Hochstetler family living just east of Northkill Creek. In September 1757, Christian Stutzman and Barbara Hochstetler were already married and living near her parents when Indians attacked her parents’ home during the night. The Hochstetler family took refuge in the basement, and the Indians set fire to the house. As fire threatened the basement door, the family d
oused flames with cider and beat back the fire throughout the night. In the morning hours, thinking the Indians had finally gone, the family emerged from the basement through a small window. But one young warrior had lingered behind—some accounts say he had stopped to eat a peach from a tree—and catching sight of the family, he alerted his cohorts. A renewed attack ended with the killing of Mrs. Hochstetler and two of the children; two other sons and Mr. Hochstetler were taken captive by the Indians.

  The massacre is a well-known story of the Amish settlement in Berks County. I’d heard it many times, not only because it was part of the history of the first Amish in America, but also because my family descended from Christian and Barbara Hochstetler Stutzman.

  I explained my lineage to my host. “The site of the massacre is only a few miles from the trail you’re hiking,” he told me. “Tomorrow, when I take you back to the trail, I’ll show you where it happened. And in all likelihood, you’ve been hiking through land your ancestors lived on centuries ago.”

  The next morning, Mrs. Brubaker prepared us a delicious breakfast and then her husband took Franklin and me back to Port Clinton. Padre stayed behind; it was Sunday morning, and he wanted to attend Mennonite services with the family.

  Beside old Rt. 22 and behind the tourist attraction housing Roadside America (an extensive miniature village and railway), a historical marker tells of the Northkill Amish, the first Amish Mennonite settlement in America, and the Hochstetler massacre. The Northkill settlement dissolved after this attack; my ancestors moved first to Somerset County and then on to Holmes County, Ohio, where they were joined by other Amish families. Holmes County is now the largest Amish settlement in the world, visited by crowds of tourists drawn to the area by the peace and tranquility they believe this community has found.

  Into this mix of history and religion, the hiker Apostle was born and raised, left his home in search of peace and tranquility, and trekked unknowingly back to his own roots. Whether from Europe to America, from Berks County to Holmes County, or on a trail from Georgia to Maine, every generation has its own reasons for pilgrimage.

  Franklin and I followed the Schuylkill River for a short distance, then headed into the woods and started climbing.

  Eight miles later and one thousand feet higher, we stood on Pulpit Rock and looked over the farms and villages of Berks County. The perimeter of our cathedral that Sunday morning was the distant horizon, and the ceiling reached to the sky, where scattered puffs of white drifted against a blue background. An artist greater than Michelangelo had painted the ceiling of this chapel. The birds chorused in worship, and I stood amazed at the scene before me. The homily that morning was brief and heartfelt: “Oh great God, how marvelous is Your creation. Amen!”

  The trail was littered with rocks of all sizes, and we picked our way carefully over them, always watching for the white blazes. Wildflowers found little space to grow here, but we discovered an even more edible plant. Wild blueberries were just starting to ripen, and they were much sweeter than the blossoms I had sampled.

  Conventional hiker wisdom predicts that hikers make fewer miles in this rocky stretch of Pennsylvania, but Franklin and I developed the agility of mountain goats as we bounded from rock to rock and clambered over twenty-two stony miles that day.

  We stopped for the night at the Allentown Hiking Club Shelter, arriving in time to see Rhino coming out of the woods carrying a dead tree—not just a portion of the tree, but the entire trunk and branches. Rhino loved fires, and he wasn’t satisfied with a small campfire; he wanted an inferno.

  This was Rhino’s second thru-hike. A German television crew was documenting his journey and met him at designated points along the trail to do updates for the program. We had all assumed he took the name Rhino because of his size and strength, but his trail name was simply a shortened version of his last name, Reinhold.

  Rhino built a huge pile of dead trees and lit his bonfire. The colossal blaze kept every mosquito at bay that night. Franklin and I set up camp several hundred feet from the heat and smoke of the conflagration; even so, the glow lit our tents all night. When we left at five the next morning, a huge pile of embers still burned brightly. For the next few nights, hikers would have fire waiting for them when they arrived.

  Six miles into another rock-strewn day, I lamented that I needed a coffee break. Franklin surprised me with an offer; he had little bags of coffee, but no stove. He’d sent his stove home to save weight. For the only time on my entire trek, I stopped and brewed coffee. We were high on Blue Mountain on a ridge trail called The Cliffs, and we sipped our coffee as we sat on an outcropping of rocks overlooking fantastic views. I’ve had better coffee, but the blend of nature and good conversation made this a special brew.

  Franklin and I both enjoyed bicycling, and we reminisced about our favorite rides. He recalled a bike ride originating in Asheville, North Carolina, near his hometown. It was a naked bike ride protesting energy consumption and all other kinds of overconsumption. (In my mind, folks wanting to bicycle naked had issues far greater than anything they might be protesting.) The local law officials’ only participation in the ride was to arrest those who were actually overexposed to the sun.

  The story of the naked bike ride reminded me that the first day of summer was five days away. On the trail, that day is traditionally naked hiker day. Hikers do actually hike without clothes. (I assumed, though, that they surely must wear shoes.)

  “Franklin, what are your plans for naked hiker day?”

  “If I rode a bike naked—and I certainly did—then I’ll have no problem hiking naked. What about you, Apostle? You going to hike naked?”

  “No . . . probably not.” Every admonition about modesty and decency taught by my parents and preached from the pulpit was shouting reminders of sin and evil. “There’s no way I could ever hike naked, even in the woods.”

  But what about tradition? That first night, back in my tent in Horse Gap, I had promised myself that I’d live the life of the Appalachian Trail and that I’d meet new ideas openly. Oh, well. I still have five days to consider the possibilities, I told myself.

  We finished our coffee and continued across Blue Mountain, while eight hundred feet below us, traffic burrowed through the mountain in a tunnel on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

  ———

  At Lehigh Gap, we crossed the Lehigh River and the white blazes went up over the face of rocky cliffs. This was not a stroll down a pleasant woodland path, but a precarious climb that required careful placement of feet and hands as we pulled ourselves upward slowly and cautiously.

  At the top, we walked through the landscape of another world. All vegetation had died; dead trees lay everywhere. A zinc plant had mined the area for over eighty years, and sulfur dioxide emissions resulted in the deforestation of the mountain. We found tiny bits of life; blueberries were making a comeback among the rubble. Franklin and I assumed they were toxic, but we ate them anyway.

  The absence of trees gave us a great view, but a large black cloud hung ominously over that view. The wind picked up, and Franklin suggested setting up our tents and taking refuge from the storm. During all those weeks of walking in the rain—why had I never thought of that simple plan? We pitched our tents beside the trail in record time and waited inside while the storm raged several miles away. But it never arrived, missing us completely.

  Water was limited in this area, but our guidebooks showed a spring called “Metallica.” We were unable to locate it, but we did find a sign posted by a trail angel, telling us that he had stashed bottled water for hikers at the Little Gap road crossing. We were too late; by the time we arrived at the crossing, all the water was gone.

  Our only choice seemed to be a quick dash into town. Danielsville, Pennsylvania, was down the road 1.5 miles, but hitchhiking failed us again and we started walking. Thunder rumbled in the distance. We’d gone half a mile when I stopped; I thought I heard running water. Franklin was ahead of me, and I called him back. Searching the roadside we
eds, we found a strong spring. Feeling like explorers making an important discovery, we promptly dubbed it the Franklin Apostle Spring.

  We filtered a supply of water and hustled back to Little Gap as the storm moved closer. Our tents went up on stealth campsites, and we finished just as the rain hit.

  In a few days, Franklin would meet his wife at Delaware Water Gap and would take two days off the trail. I would again lose a hiking partner. But less than a day ahead of me was Fargo, and I was hoping to meet him. He was a cheesehead from Green Bay, Wisconsin, with a Norwegian dialect that sounded as if he had just walked off the Fargo movie set. I’d seen Fargo’s journal entries for several months and knew I was slowly gaining on him. My register entries were usually brief, but Fargo’s were the shortest I’ve ever seen. He entered only his name. Franklin had hiked with Fargo previously and thought I would enjoy this character. He asked me to give his regards to Fargo if I did catch up with him.

  Shortly after crossing Fox Gap, we arrived at Kirkridge Shelter. Franklin and I had the shelter to ourselves, so I set up my tent inside, hoping to isolate myself from all bugs. A large, yellow moon rose and lit up the shelter. I unzipped my tent and stepped outside, watching the moon’s soft glow illuminate the entire mountainside.

  We were no longer alone; a couple had walked up the trail earlier. She was limping painfully and he tried to encourage her onward. The limp was undoubtedly caused by the high heels she wore. Those heels and her clean dress and overnight bag told us she was not a serious hiker. We watched them in amusement. The male had some hiking skills and apparently wanted his girlfriend to share the experience of the trail. From the snippets of conversation that drifted into my tent that night, I didn’t think this hiking-togetherness would last much longer.