“I told you not to wear heels,” said he.
“But you didn’t tell me about the rocks and roots,” said she.
“Just go to sleep.”
“I can’t. The floor’s too hard.”
I slept soundly, assured we were well-protected from any marauding bears as her high heels lay within easy reach, at the foot of her sleeping bag.
We walked the six miles to Delaware Water Gap before breakfast. As usual, the first order of business was food, so we crossed town to the Water Gap Diner, one of those small-town eateries where the food is excellent and the atmosphere friendly.
While Franklin and I ate breakfast in a booth by the window, a familiar figure strode by. The homemade flute sticking out from the backpack and the floppy straw hat told us Padre the priest was in town. I rapped on the window and motioned for him to join us. Our conversation that morning confirmed to me that God answers prayer, in His own way and His own time.
I spoke about what had brought me to the trail, the heartache of losing my wife, and the grief of my children. I’d found healing on this trail, and God was revealing much to me. “What mountaintop experiences I’ve had out here!”
“This hike reminds me of the paschal mystery,” Padre replied.
“What’s the paschal mystery?” both Franklin and I wanted to know.
Padre explained. “It refers to the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ and the promise of life that gives us. I walk through the low valleys on this trail and see dead trees and decaying matter, and I’m reminded of the death of Jesus. But I continue on to higher elevations and see new growth and new life that reminds me of His resurrection.
“That’s the rhythm of our spiritual lives too. We walk through valleys, we lose loved ones, we suffer, we struggle, we experience many kinds of deaths. We travel on and we reach a higher plane, where we pause to enjoy the views, look back to remember where we came from, and look forward to mysteries still ahead of us.
“But we do not stay on the exhilarating mountaintop. If we sat there and never moved on, the views would no longer be enjoyable. And so we go on, just as we do on the trail.
“After valleys and struggles and even deaths, we always have the hope of new life. Someday we’ll pass through the last valley and finally reach the last mountaintop, and we’ll never be bored by the glorious view that awaits us there.”
Padre was putting words to what I had been discovering as I walked this path. This trail mirrored my spiritual journey. I was finding that gift of hope and new life. I knew I was on a mountaintop at that table in the Water Gap Diner. Even Franklin, who had admittedly soured on Christianity, felt the sacredness of the moment.
We spoke of salvation, the blood of Christ, and the cross. I was both amazed and delighted. Padre and I agreed on fundamental issues of salvation—a Mennonite and a Catholic priest! Perhaps I wouldn’t have to get Padre “saved” after all. Heaven had expanded its borders, and I wouldn’t be spending eternity talking only with other Mennonites!
“But what about all those rituals you have?” I asked Padre. “In the Mennonite church, we don’t have or believe in rituals.”
When Padre finished laughing, he reminded me that he had just been in a Mennonite service the previous Sunday, and yes, the service was filled with ritual. I wondered if God had a reason for putting me on the trail with a Catholic priest.
The Presbyterian Church of the Mountains faces Main Street, not far from the Appalachian Trail. A hostel located in the basement is available only to long-distance hikers. Franklin and I stayed there, along with Padre and Rhino—and Rhino’s dog, Ronja. Dogs sometimes became nuisances on the trail, but this dog was the smartest and best-behaved dog I’ve ever met. I picked out a bunk next to Rhino and Ronja, hoping Ronja would protect me from any church mice that might attack during the night.
Rhino and I both stopped at the post office to pick up scheduled mail drops, but neither of our packages were there. Rhino decided to stay in town another day, waiting for his mail, but I didn’t want to waste time, so I asked the post office to return mine to sender once it arrived. Missing that food box wasn’t a crucial issue, since I was moving into New Jersey and New York, where delis and roadside groceries are plentiful.
Leaving town, I walked along I-80 and crossed the bridge over the Delaware River as cars and trucks whizzed by at dizzying speeds. Crossing the river meant I was entering New Jersey, my eighth state. I happily left the busy interstate and climbed. Five miles later, I had my first surprising views out over this new state. I’d expected towns and industrial sites and congested highways, but all I saw now were trees, hills, and a few houses dotting the countryside.
I might have moved to a new state, but I had not left the rocks behind. It would be several days until the rocks finally became fewer and I could concentrate on anything other than where to place my next step. When most of the rocks disappeared from the path, New Jersey became a delight.
I could hear and almost feel a mysterious sound throbbing through the forest, starting staccato and building into a loud vibration, like a chest of drawers being pushed across a floor. I’d read about the territorial drumming of a Ruffed Grouse, but as I walked through the woods of New Jersey and listened to the amazing sound, it was hard to imagine it was only a bird beating his wings.
———
Once the rocks had almost disappeared, the trail improved, and my hiking became more aggressive. Two days and fifty miles later, I found a “secret” shelter. Jim Murray had thru-hiked himself, and he then built a shelter on his private property available only to fellow thru-hikers. Earlier that afternoon, I’d sought shelter from a rainstorm by squeezing under a low rock overhang. I shared the tight space with a hundred Gypsy moth caterpillars also attempting to stay dry. Jim Murray’s small and rustic cabin was a welcome refuge for the night.
The cabin sat under scattered trees at the edge of a mowed, green field. It was late when I walked up to the door. The cabin could sleep four people, and two had already settled in. One of the hikers lay in the loft above; on the main floor, another hiker stood in the small cooking area, brewing a pot of tea.
“You look like you could use some hot tea,” he offered, as I took in the long brown beard and hair that reached halfway down his back. I gladly accepted his offer and inquired if they had room for one more.
“Yes, we do. And there’s a solar shower outside, if you want to use it.” That sounded good to me, since some of those caterpillars had crawled on me while I was counting them, and I wished to wash away that memory.
I started the introductions. “Where are you from?”
“We just met here tonight. I’m Dave. I suppose you might say I’m from Colorado.” I suspected there must be a story, since he wasn’t sure exactly where home was, but I didn’t question further.
A large hand extended down from the loft, and a man’s voice welcomed me. I couldn’t understand his name, but he said he was from Scansin.
“Where?” I asked. And I got the same reply, Scansin.
“Never heard of it.”
“Oh, it’s up nort dere, where da Packers play in Green Bay. Scansin.”
Dave, from possibly Colorado, interrupted to translate for me. Scansin was actually Wisconsin.
“Let me guess. You’re Fargo, aren’t you?” I directed to the loft.
“Yah, sure, you betcha,” came back down.
“Franklin sends his regards.”
“Dat’s my buddy! Youse been hikin’ wit him too?”
Dave had gone outside, and while I sipped my tea, Fargo informed me that Dave was known on the trail as Drifter Dave and his home was actually the trail itself. He had no money, and lived from hiker box to hiker box. The tea I was drinking had come from the last box he had raided. He ate what he could yogi or find in nature, and he was just recovering from being violently sick from poisonous mushrooms he had eaten.
While we talked, several mice ran through the room. The door to the cabin stood op
en, and watching the mice, I strategically placed a hiking pole over the threshold of the door. In one moment of perfect timing and sheer good luck, I flipped the pole just as one mouse ran over it. The little fella made a high, arcing flight through the open door and landed right at Dave’s feet. I cringed inwardly as I waited for Dave to put his literal stamp of approval on my work with his boot.
Instead, he reached down and picked up the mouse, cupping it in his hands. “What should I do with it? It’ll die if I leave it out here,” he said. He walked around the back of the cabin to find sanctuary for his new friend. I suspect he may have even brought it back into the cabin later. Fargo told me there were hikers who were uncomfortable with Drifter Dave, but watching his gentleness with the mouse and thinking of his sharing the little tea he had, I was convinced I had nothing to fear from the man.
The next day, Dave planned to go into Unionville, New York, to visit the mayor and see if he could “score some tobacco.” We were in New Jersey, but the trail followed the state line, so the New York town of Unionville was just half a mile off the New Jersey AT. The mayor welcomed hikers to his home, inviting them to stay, feeding them, and providing transportation around town. Fargo and I went to Unionville for breakfast, but it was far too early to stop and see the mayor.
Dave stayed behind at the shelter that morning. The hiker box was locked in another small building, and he intended to wait in hopes that someone would show up and give him access to the box. He would visit the mayor later.
Weeks later, I had a conversation with a hiker who’d been at the mayor’s house when Dave arrived. “Did he score any tobacco?” I asked. Turns out Dave got his tobacco and several good meals, and was being driven around town in the mayor’s Cadillac.
Fargo was a retired pharmacist and had come to the trail several weeks before I did. While I knew a little about a lot, Fargo knew a lot about a lot and was always willing to share his knowledge. He loved hunting, fishing, and the Green Bay Packers. He was a good family man, and his wife missed him. Well, I’m not sure if she missed him or just wanted him to come home. Their house in Green Bay was for sale, and if it sold, Fargo would leave the trail to go home and move. The real estate agent had things under control, but Fargo’s wife still wanted him to come home, just in case they found a buyer.
“Why are you out here, then?” I wondered.
He had retired at fifty-six, and he had dreamed of the trail for a long time. “Da missus dropped me off down souse, never figgering I’d last. I luf it out here, but every time I call da house she wonders when I’m comin’ home.”
“Have you thought about not calling home?” I offered.
“Da missus wud skin me alive, you betcha.”
———
As we hiked along after breakfast, I realized it was the first day of summer. That meant it was also naked hiker day. So what was I going to do?
It’s tradition.
No, I couldn’t. A Christian could never do anything like that.
Why can’t a Christian do that?
Isn’t immodesty a sin? Back home, I would be embarrassed to be seen without a shirt, and now I was considering hiking without any clothes at all. But I wanted the satisfaction of knowing that I had done something that scared me. It would certainly be a foolish thing, but would it be sin? I believe that thoughts can be just as sinful as actions, so if anyone caught sight of me and went down wicked thought paths, that would be sin. And I’d be guilty of causing sin.
Okay, be realistic, Apostle. The only reaction there’s going to be is laughter. Furthermore, aren’t Christians free from legalistic dos and don’ts?
There was the dilemma I’d faced all my life. “I can’t do it because I’m a Christian,” or “Because I’m a Christian, I have the freedom to do this.” Which one applied? Which one was the truth?
I heard myself say, “Hey, Fargo, how about some naked hiking today?”
“I’d forgotten about dat. Believe you me, no one wants to see dis here figger. I’ll be in deep doggy doo if da missus finds out.”
Fargo didn’t debate as long as I had, though. “But, hey den, let’s do it anyhow. You go down da trail dere, tree or four hunnert feet, and I’ll stay back ’ere, den I’ll catch up wit ya layder.” Sounded like a good plan to me.
With my heart threatening to pound its way out of my chest, I rounded the next bend and cautiously surveyed the area for any other human presence. I wanted to do this, but desperately did not want to get caught. Many hikers will say that if no one sees you hiking in the bare essentials, it “doesn’t count,” but in my case, I would be the only one who knew and I was the only one who mattered. I remembered Franklin’s naked bike ride protest. I needed a protest.
I know! I’ll protest sin! That’s what forced us into wearing clothes in the first place.
“Sin, I doth protest thee,” I mumbled while slipping out of my hiking gear.
I’d lost so much weight that my birthday suit hung from my ribs in waves of wrinkles. I left my backpack unbuckled and slung my clothes over the top. Feeling like a naughty boy, I cautiously moved along. Two senses were on high alert; my ears strained to hear any sound of humans, and my eyes darted everywhere to watch for poison ivy.
My naked hiker day was only naked hiker minutes. It was over in several hundred feet. It was exciting and exhilarating. It was foolish, and I was relieved when it was finished.
I dressed quickly and waited for Fargo. He was grinning. “Dat felt grayt. I went at leest five hunnert feet, don’tcha know.”
As we exited our Garden of Eden and walked down Oil City Road toward the Wallkill River, we laughed and giggled like little kids. We had only known each other a few hours and had already hiked naked; go figure.
———
We were nearing Vernon, New Jersey, when the trail cut through a swampy area. A raised wooden walk wove through the cattails and swamp grasses. I met a young lady on the walkway who was snapping photographs. Something stopped me, and instead of just saying hello, I took time to chat with her.
During our conversation, I sensed that God wanted me to tell her about my journey. As I told her about losing my wife, she started to cry. She’d lost her best friend to a drunk driver, and as she struggled with her loss and grief, something had drawn her to this spot. God had placed her in my path that day, and I shared with her the only thing I knew that could match the pain of such a loss: God knew how she felt, and even though it might be hard to believe, God loved her and would comfort her.
I wondered how often God had placed people in my daily path with needs that I never sensed . . . because I was always too busy.
Here were the rocks again. The trail became more difficult, the ridges covered with large, rounded rocks. On one of the rocks, we found a painted line designating the state line between New Jersey and New York.
I was in my ninth state, but state eight still held my thoughts. New Jersey had been completely different than I’d imagined. I’d seen three bears in the last two days, not counting the two that had crept through the woods without their clothes.
My thoughts were interrupted by loud thunder, and Fargo and I hustled to the nearby Wildcat Shelter. We thought we’d wait out the storm and then continue, since it was only two thirty (one thirty in Scansin). But we settled in when we realized the next shelter was still fourteen miles away. We’d already done seventeen miles that day, and we decided to take some time to study our guidebooks and plan our miles for the next few days.
Several days ahead was the RPH Shelter. Fargo pounced on this name. As a former pharmacist, he knew RPH stood for “Registered Pharmacist,” and he was convinced that the shelter had something to do with the pharmaceutical industry. Perhaps a group of pharmacists had built the shelter. We started referring to it as “the pharmacy shelter,” and Fargo could hardly contain his excitement at the thought of staying at this potential monument to his retired peers.
The first morning in New York, we arrived at a road crossing where a notice posted
on a tree announced the opening of a new deli. I couldn’t resist the thought of coffee and several fresh sandwiches. Fargo wanted to keep on walking, so we agreed to meet at the William Brien Memorial Shelter that evening. I went for coffee and sandwiches, and Fargo went on down the trail.
Several miles later, back on the trail, I crossed over the New York State Thruway and entered Harriman State Park. This park has over 46,000 acres, thirty-one lakes, and more than two hundred miles of trails, including 18.8 miles of the AT. It was difficult to believe that New York City with its eight million plus people was only thirty-five miles south of me while I hiked through the park, completely alone.
The trail passed between two rock walls called “The Lemon Squeezer.” The space between the two rocks narrowed as I walked through, both sides of my backpack rubbing the rocks on either side. At the end, I either had to remove my backpack or raise myself on tiptoe for the final squeeze through. I managed the squeeze, but I wondered how Fargo, who was a larger man than I, was going to maneuver this little stretch of the trail. Fortunately, there was an alternate route, a blue-blazed path around the obstacle, marked for lemons larger than myself.
Once through the squeeze, I was faced with a six-foot rock wall. Removing my backpack, I tossed it to the top of the rock formation and then found finger- and footholds to inch my way to the top.
The William Brien Memorial Shelter stood empty when I arrived in the late afternoon. Fargo was nowhere to be found. I guessed that he had moved on, since this structure was dilapidated and in need of repair. The graffiti covering the walls inside suggested visitors other than hikers. Most shelters have hiker graffiti, but most of that is carved with a knife or drawn with a marker. Not many thru-hikers carry spray paint.
Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail Page 18
