Odyssey 2002: From Sea to Shining Sea

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Journals for Odyssey 2002

Wednesday--April 11, 2002
Trail Day--1
Trail Mile--25
Location--Winds, Outer Banks, North Carolina, Sunset Motel

My good friend, Frank, better known as "Travelin' Man," dropped me off at Cape Hatteras Lighthouse this morning at ten.  From this far eastern point at the Atlanatic Ocean, I begin Odyssey 2002, a transcontinental thru-hike that will end, God willin' sometime later this year at the Pacific Ocean in San Diego, California.

The day is warm, the trees budding, the beautiful azaleas, their bright, multi-hued show in full swing.

What an historic spot to begin a cross-country trek, and what a fine day to depart, a day to mark tribute, for today is seven months to the day that those brave Americans died for all of us.  This journey will be my way of showing the resolve and strength of this great country, to the unwavering principles of freedom and justice for all.

I manage to bang out a 25 mile day, despite a constant 15 mile per hour headwind and showers that came and went.  Traffic was moderate, the shoulder's wide.  A great first day!


Thursday--April 12, 2002
Trail Day--2
Trail Mile--52
Location--Nags Head, Outer Banks, North Carolina, Tar Heel Motel, Bob and Mable Swain, proprietors

I'm out to a cool morning.  Traffic is already heavy, but the wide shoulders continue.  Late morning I go for my poncho, as numerous rain squalls come rushing through from the ocean.

The last two days I've been seeing vehicles with front tags, an oval plate that simply says "HI."  Most every driver has been waving and smiling to me, and I'm thinking how great the people are here.  In a gas station after some pop, a lady explains to me that the plates are displayed by folks that live on Hatteras Island!  Anyway, that doesn't take from the fact that they're all very friendly.

I don't think I've ever seen the number roadkill that I've seen along this road.  I quit counting at 100, mostly raccoon and opossum.  Lots of waterbirds all along.  Saw an osprey catch a huge fish and haul it away today.  Many Candian honkers also.

The Oregon Channel Bridge is a treacherous place, the lanes barely wide enough for two eighteen-wheelers to pass, and it runs for some three miles.  I'm in luck though.  Arriving I find that DOT has one lane shut down, so there's only one way traffic and I've got the closed down lane all to myself.  What a blessing.  I make it across just fine.

More showers today, but the wind is not as bothersome as yesterday, just the rain, which comes in waves off and on into early afternoon.  Then it clears, making a steaming frying pan of the road.  I'm going after another 25 miler today--actually 27.  My legs, back and feet are complaining, stifness and minor blisters, but I'm truckin!

By five, I'm in Nags Head.  Pizza and longneck Yuengling, yes Yuengling! is the order for supper.  There seems to be no off-season here, but I find a clean and neat little mom-n-pop motel, very reasonable, and I check in for the evening.  I will sleep tonight!


Saturday--April 13, 2002
Trail Day--3
Trail Mile--81.0
Location--Jarvisburg, North Carolina, Sea Oats Motel

It's the thirteenth, sure glad it isn't Friday the 13th!  Just being the 13th has added enough confusion.  I couldn't figure our why it was taking so long to reach certain locations.  Then I noticed the seven mile error in my mileage calculations.  Oh no!  And no, the mistake wasn't in my favor.  So I've been running seven miles behind all day, bummer!

I did stop to look in at the Wright Brother's Museum near Kill Devil Hills, but I hastened on.  I'll write more about that very neat place, along with some of the interesting history that is Cape Hatteras, in upcoming entries.

The traffic on US158 was absolutely crushing today, and the hair-raising crossing of the three-mile Albemarle Sound Bridge, from the barrier islands, across to the mainland, is a story in itself.  Sluffice to say, and perhaps you can imagine spending over an hour wedged in a two-foot wide slot, hoofing it along between the bridge railing and the grilles, wheels and boxes roaring past your elbow as both lanes of oncoming traffic go whizzing by at sixty-plus.  Yeah, see what I mean!  Well, I said two prayers: one as I set foot on the bridge, and one at the far end.  The prayer at the far-end took a little longer!

Toward evening now, just shy of a thirty mile day, and in the rain, the little tornados constantly slamming me from the oncoming barrage, my prayers are answered once again.  Comes into view up ahead the Sea Oats Motel. But the sign on the door reads "No Vacancy;" bummer number two, but I knock anyway.  Hey, the lady motions me in.  After greeting me, she says, "You're in luck, just had a cancellation."  Whoohee!  Fried chicken at the little mom-n-pop just down the road, and the day really comes around.

Now, if I can just get my hips, feet and legs from constantly complaining.  I've up my daily dosage of coated aspirin to over 4,000 mg, but it's helped very little in quieting the griping.  I'm afraid to take any more than that.  My ears are already ringing plenty, not a good sign.  Perhaps, if I'm a little easier on them tomorrow, they'll quiet down for awhile.


Sunday--April 14, 2002
Trail Day--4
Trail Mile--105
Location--NC168, Sligo, North Carolina, Pitched behind Sprint Communications sub-station

What a blessing to be away from the crushing traffic of busy US168.  This four-lane highway handles all the traffic coming and going to The Outer Banks.  It is funneled from the Richmond, Norfolk, Portsmouth and Petersburg areas via NC168, a four-lane grinder in its own right.  I'm on it now.  Today, most of the bumper-to-bumper is headed back north, two lanes to the east, but the incessant rumble and roar gets to tugging after awhile.  My voice is hoarse from the fumes and I'm wilting big time.  The tarmac is lifting and dancing before me, like a desert mirage, a literal frying pan.

I've never failed to assert my pleasure and joy in road walking.  I know that soon I'll again get in the right mindset for this lunacy, but today I'm questioning my own sanity.  Ahh, dear folks, it takes a different breed of long distance hiker to come down out of the cool, protected green tunnel of the mountains and the woods--and take to the open roads--a different breed.

Guess I better fill you in a little on Cape Hatteras and The Outer Banks before we get too far up this trail.  The Outer Banks consist of three major islands, Bodie, Hatteras and Ocracoke.  I've hiked two: Hatteras and Bodie.  They form a thin, broken strand that curves out into the Atlantic Ocean, projecting and rising defiantly seaward at the Cape of Hatteras.  Here is the tallest lighthouse in the United States, standing at 208 feet.  Just a few miles up the road there's another very impressive light on Bodie Island.  The history of The Outer Banks goes back some 300 years.  During this time, over 2,000 ships have been lost along this treacherous coastline, giving The Outer Banks the distinction of being known as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic."  Indeed, the waters here are some of the most treacherous in the world.  It was a long, hot, traffic emerging from-to a pinpoint on the horizon, but the scenery was breathtaking.  You can go flying up that road with your air and your stereo full blast--but you won't see The Outer Banks!

A little about the Wright Brothers and big Kill Devil Hill tomorrow.


Monday--April 15, 2002
Trail Day--5
Trai Mile--134
Location--US17/Cornland Road,  Virginia, Pitched by the merge of an expansive open field

The hike today takes me through rural Virginia countryside and along beautiful farm and sparsely populated residential roads.  Most are narrow and gently winding, with little traffic and much welcome shade.  What a change from the past few days!  By late evening I arrive at the little mom-n-pop country store in Cornland.  I'm served up a fine supper and much kind and welcome conversation.

Last Saturday, on Bodie Island, I passed Kill Devil Hills.  History was made here on December 17, 1903. After much tinkering--but never any doubt--the Wright Brothers, Orville and Wilbur, with Orville positioned in prone position on their flyer--man lifted into powered flight for the first time.  "They have done it!  Damned if they ain't flew!" said a witness to the first human flight.

During the years to follow, the Wright Brothers performed above awestruck crowds both in America and Europe.  Hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers cheered Wilbur's twenty-mile circuit from Governor's Island up the Hudson to Grant's Tomb and back.  The Wright Brothers Museum is a really neat place.  If you haven't been there--go!


Tuesday--April 16, 2002
Trail Day--6
Trail Mile--160
Location--VA10, Chuckatuck, Virginia, pitched in woods behind 7-11.

I didn't realize there was a dog kennel down the road where I pitched last night.  It started raining hard right after I got my little Nomad tent set up.  I heard the dogs for the first time right after I rolled in.  In moments came an old pickup.  I could see the headlights through the rain.  Sure glad I pitched well to the side of the two-track and not on it.  I never, ever go places where there are posted signs--not anymore--got a break in '98  That's a rule I keep now, no matter what, and it has served me very well.  There were steel posts with a locked cable across the two-track, which I walked around to gain entry to the little road, but there were no posted signs.  The driver stopped, gave a long look my way, probably more out of curiosity, then crossed the canal on up by the field.  He must have fed his dogs, because they settled down right away.  He then came back across the canal, right back by me, as he left without any hassling!

As I pass around the locked cable again this morning, I roll up one of my "Odyssey '98" cards with my web address on it and stick in the cable loop by the lock.   Perhaps he'll check me out on the web.  If so--thanks, kind sir, for not making me move on in that downpour last night.  I don't know, but I suspect you've been out in it like that yourself, anyway, thanks!

I'm hiking up US17 this morning, south of Norfolk, right through Great Dismal Swamp.  A canal by the road, which connects Chesapeake Bay and Albemarle Sound was chartered by Virginia in 1787 and North Carolina in 1790.  It's been in use since 1805, and is now a link in the Intercoastal Waterway.  The Great Dismal Swamp has since been designated a national wildlife refuge.

Today becomes another scorcher out here on the tarmac.  The occasional sanctuary of shade brings such welcome relief from the pressing heat as I wind and weave my way north through the rural Virginia countryside.
I guess, if you asked folks what's worse on the ol' bod, cold or heat, the opinions would probably come in pretty much split.  I know the cold really gets to me now, in my advancing years.  It isn't the numbing pain so much; I've pretty much learned to live with the pain.  If you're a vagabond like me, a wanderlust at heart, roaming about as we tend to do, no matter the weather, you've got to learn to deal with the cold.  So, I've pretty much made that adjustment.  Reminds me of the first line in my ditty, Land of the Free,  "Here's to all hearts of that cold, lonesome track..."  So, the numbing and the pain isn't so much the problem, it's the disabling effect it causes that is so unnerving.  It takes very little cold now to turn my fingers into so many sticks.  This is frightening, and at times, downright scary!  When you can't set up your tent, zip your zippers, tie your laces, reach in your pockets, then you've got yourself a real problem.  To get a feel for this: instead!

 of tossing out the next few toilet paper tubes, save them.  When you've got five saved up, stick one over each of your fingers and your thumb, on your dominant hand, then try doing much of anything that requires the least bit of dexterity, and you'll understand.

As to the heat, even the stifling, high humidity heat, that ring you inside-out kind of heat, I can still stick with fairly well.  But, oh yes, I have been wilting out here these last few days.  It's been in the high 80s on the road.  The tarmac isn't bubbling, but it sure wants to keep my trekking poles as I dig them in.

I passed a fella's house today.  He was on his riding mower, wheeling around his side yards, in the sun some, but mostly in the shade, his lower half hanging over the seat, upper half, over his belt, cool drink in the cup holder. Yet, the sweat was pouring off the poor jent, his face as red as the paint on the fire truck that should have been on its way to cool him down.  He was at least fifteen years my junior.  He definitely  needed to get off his machine and back onto his overstuffed couch in his tidy little air conditioned bungalow.

Oh Lord, I'm out here hammering it, pack on, the sun pounding as I continue knocking out twenty-five mile days.  What a joy, what a blessing to have the health, stamina and resolve at near age sixty-three.  It is a blessing, oh yes, it is a blessing, and I am thankful.


Wednesday--April 17, 2002
Trail Day--7
Trail Mile--188
Location--VA10, Pitched in field behind Citgo, Surry, Virginia

I managed to break camp, get some coffee and a couple egg biscuits and I was on the road again by seven-thirty.  I manage some good early miles, and by one I've banged out sixteen.

It's been unseasonably hot for this early, and today old Sol cuts loose on me.  As I enter the little berg of Rushmere, my pace slows to little more than a staggering crawl.  Passing a local watering hole, I decide to give it a break for awhile.  The place looks kinda seedy, but it's cool inside, and the barmaid welcomes me with a tall, iced down glass of water.  The couple whose Harley is parked outside are parked at the bar.  The fellow overhears my answers to the barmaid's questions and buys me a tall one.  I move over to the corner where I take my shoes and socks off to give my poor barking doggies some air.  Barefooted is okay here, I figure.  Two tattooed gals are shooting pool--barefooted.  I try working some correspondence, but mostly end up wasting time, two hours.  I don't get back out and on the road again until after four.  Not real smart, as I've still got twelve miles ahead of me today.  I finally arrive at my destination, Surry, Virginia, well after dark.
Potatoes, rolls and fried chicken closed the day out nicely.


Thursday--April 18, 2002
Trail Day--8
Trail Mile--215
Location--Intersection, VA10/VA106, east of Hopewell, Virginia, thence to Evergreen Motel, Hopewell

I pull a real smart one coming out of Surry this morning.  In less than a mile, I miss a turn.  VA10 goes right to Hopewell; I take VA31 south, to Wakefield.  I should have turned and stayed on VA10.  Perhaps I was just going too fast to pick up the signs.  A guardian angel was on my shoulder, though, in the form of Surry County Chief Deputy, Alvin W. Clayton, Jr.  In awhile, and as I continue in the wrong direction, he passes, stops, turns, then waits for me. I'm thinking he's pulled over to give me the usual hassle, so I have my driver's license ready, but I find that he's just curious about where I'm headed and what my journey's about--didn't even ask for my I.D.  After much welcome conversation, we bid each other farewell.  It's then he asks, "Where you headed for tonight?"  When I tell him I hope to make it to near Hopewell, his response is, "You'll never get to Hopewell the direction you're going."  What remarkable intervention; thank you, Lord!  Four miles later, I'm back on course.  If not for Chief Deputy Clayton, this day would have been right down the toilet!

I still manage a twenty-seven, in the right direction, not counting the wrong ones--another four.  It's dark as I near Hopewell, but no problem seeing, as the crushing heat of the day has generated a doozie of a thunderstorm.  The wind comes up and the show begins.  At first, there's sky-to-sky bangety-bang, then in awhile the jagged light daggers start zapping the ground all about.  The percussion is right on top of the light show, perfectly timed and synchronized.  Then comes the rain, first in sporadic, quarter-sized splats glancing across the road.  In the approaching headlights, they appear as random dart-like objects being hurled earthward.

I hasten to reach the VA10/106 intersection, my destination for the day.  I can see the red, yellow and green lights as they rotate over and over, seemingly just ahead of me.  The wind-driven rain is starting to fill in the splat gaps now as I hasten on, not wanting to stop my progress to don my poncho.  Finally, as I reach the intersection, a vehicle makes a u-turn and pulls to the shoulder beside me.  Down comes the window, and I hear a gentle voice--"Would you like a ride?  We saw you pass our place in Spring Grove today, so we know you've walked a great distance.  Please get in, get out of the storm."

No argument! I am greeted by Tom and Diane.  Tom turns around, once more, and they deliver me directly to the motel door in Hopewell.  That's twice today, oh Lord.
What an interesting and spiritually provoking time this has been.  Two more sterling examples of God's caring, his kindness to me.  And we are to believe that chance has all to do with the play of circumstance from time-to-time, from day-to-day.  Ahh yes, we're told it's all just coincidence...


Friday--April 19, 2002
Trail Day--9
Trail Mile--240
Lcation--VA106, pitched in the woods near Tunstall Crossing, Virginia

A fine Domino's pizza, plus a liter of Coke capped the day just fine, last.  After that, there seemed little time to work journal entries or correspondence.  I was just too sleepy and tired.

There's a Miller's Convenience at the intersection where I stopped yesterday.  A taxi ride there, then a couple egg biscuits and a quart of coffee, and I'm headed (finally north) by seven-thirty.

 The traffic is bearable and there is some shade.  The plan is to work my way north, then west, around Richmond. As I hike along, and in an expansive green field by the road, I watch perhaps 100-200 honkers as they romp and cavort about.  They're in no rush to continue on north today--but I hasten on.
By one, the sun is working me over again.  My feet and head are frying.  The shade has gone away, there is not the least breeze.  The heat is stifling as it radiates from the tarmac.  It seems as though I'm walking on coals.

In awhile, I pass this large, tree-shaded lawn.  I am drawn to it.  There I retreat to remove my shoes and socks, and to give my feet some cool-down time.  I lay back on my pack and am quickly asleep.  In what seems a short while, I am awakened by a voice, "Would you like a glass of ice and some tea?"  A black man is standing before me with a cup loaded with ice and a twenty ounce bottle of Nestle's.  What a beautiful thing!

As I continue on north, and beside the shoulder, another man hastens to overtake me, "Stop mister, stop!" he shouts.  He's brought me four tins of canned meat, a package of crackers and a full two-liter bottle of ice cold water from his refrigerator!  "Where you're going, there are no stores, no places to get water or food, Take this with you."  With that grand smile, from the perspiration-beaded brow of yet another kind black gentleman, his countenance before me now radiating that universal display of joy that invariably accompanies the act of giving--and with that, I accept his kindness, thank him, and continue on my way.

Just as I pitch and roll in, the heat provoked storm comes again, but I am dry and snug in my little Nomad tent.

I'm very thankful for the crackers and canned meat--the result of another day of coincidental happenings.


Saturday--April 20, 2002
Trail Day--10
Trail Mile--264
Location--US301 north of Hanover, Virginia, Pamunkey Inn

The day starts out cool and remains mostly overcast, an absolute blessing.  I pass a convenience store by early afternoon and partake of some fried chicken, green beans and mac-n-cheese.

I'm after another twenty-fiver today.  Certainly, by now, you're wandering about this lunacy--what's the rush, why such a hurry to hammer the miles?  Well, there is an explanation: You see, I had planned on getting cranking on this transcontinental odyssey no later then the first of March.  Turned out, I didn't get going until the eleventh of April.  "So what, there's plenty of time to get to California!" you say.  Yes, it seems to make no sense, but permit me to continue.

A number of months ago I was asked by the American Hiking Society (AHS) to be the featured speaker as the first Southeast Regional Trail's Conference to be held next weekend at Unicoi State Park, just up the road from my place at the Nimblewill.  I immediately accepted.  At the time, I figured that I'd be close by on my hike, having been on the trail for nearly two months, and a short bus ride would do.  Well, that didn't happen, and I'm very far away now from the upcoming conference.  So, what to do?  Not to back out, that's not an option.  I want to be there with bells on, to have an opportunity to talk up the two great trails of my dreams, the Eastern Continental Trail (ECT), and the Appalachian Mountains Trail (AMT).

So what I've done, is--I've reserved a round-trip flight from Reagan Airport in DC to Atlanta, where I'll have a ride to north Georgia.

What's neat about this whole idea is that the Mt. Vernon bike trail passes right by the airport, and I'll be hiking into DC on the Mt. Vernon Trail--so, why not just cruise right into Reagan, catch my flight to Atlanta, then return to Reagan and continue my hike right out the terminal to the C&O Canal Towpath, where I'm now headed!

This scheme looked great until I started crunching the numbers.  Let's see, 360 miles to hike from Cape Hatteras to DC, and fourteen days to hike it.  I ran the numbers a dozen times; every time the answer came out the same, and I didn't like it.  Twenty-five mile days for fourteen continuous days, that's what the numbers said it would take to cover the distance.

Well, better judgment certainly should have prevailed, but oh no, not with the old Nomad!  So now you know, I'm into day eleven tomorrow, an average of over twenty-six miles per day so far--looks like I just might pull this off!

By evening, I've banged out another twenty-five.  I stop for a fine dinner at a little mom-n-pop in Hanover, then head for the motel north of town.  Along the way I stop at Lee Dison's little store.  Here I also meet Tom Gray, manager of Pamunkey Inn where I'll be staying, so I drop my pack and pull up for a cold one.  Lee is 85 now and has kept the beer cold in this place for 62 years.  What an interesting, crotchety old fellow, Lee Dison.  It's amusing when you meet folks like Lee.  There's a glow in the countenance of certain people you meet.  I've commented about this before, how such innocent radiance is present in the children around us, then it disappears, generally not to be seen again until it shines forth again in the faces of the elderly.  That joy and vitality cannot be concealed, cannot be hidden, and as much as this kind old man would certainly deny it, that unmistakable glow of a man at peace, radiates from the countenance of Lee Dison.  It's painted on his face, as if a neon sigh flashing from the pitch of night.  It was a good time.

A great hiking day.  My hip's settled down, but my feet are still giving me fits.


Sunday--April 21, 2002
Trail Day--11
Trail Mile--289
Location--VA2, Pitched in woods just south of Corbin, Virginia, across from Fort AP Hill Military Reservation

Another, cool, drizzly day.  Oh, is this so much better than the pulverizing heat of the days past.  I'm out at a decent hour this morning, a little stiff, my poor feet complaining, their gripe being legitimate.  In awhile, as the coated aspirin and Osteo-Bi-Flex start kicking in, I work the kinks out and am again moving along smartly at a little over three per.

Into the hypnotics now of the rhythmic tap, tap, tap--my trekking poles striking their cadence, thoughts turn back as I recall again the interesting old fellow, Lee Dison.  Lee epitomizes the type of person I strive to be, at least as viewed through the eyes of others I meet.  During "Odyssey '98" it became my goal, the will of mind, and to the grace of God, that the constant expressions of contentment and peace radiate from my countenance, never to be withheld.  Lee, it's a joy to meet kindred.  This odyssey, "Odyssey 2002" is just getting rollin', and I know it's going to be a great adventure.  I will meet many others like you, Lee, and it will be a blessing.

US301, the federal highway I'm hiking today, passes directly through the Fort AP Hill Military Reservation.  My older son, Jay, was sent here years ago after completing US Army basic training.  The kid had great potential, so they sent him to Fort AP Hill for advanced field combat training.  I recall a particular mission, the outcome of which he related to me one day, and I would like to share it with you now.
Thrown in with others of like mind and talent, Jay was sent off on a mission through the woods.  He had been put in command of a small unit, similar to many units that went out that day.  His objective: to orienteer his way, using only compass and map, from point "A" to point "B," passing certain checkpoints in the process, attempting all the while to avoid detection and ambush by the "enemy."

Jay is one of those woods-savvy sort of people, the kind possessing an innate, inborn ability that cannot be otherwise taught--but that can certainly be honed.  These folks are born with what's become know as a "sixth sense."  This sense, it is believed, enhances and focuses all other senses, giving an individual the ability to hear sounds that are not audible, see objects that are not visible, and to sniff out and feel presentations or situations, where subconsciously, something says, "this is out of place, something here isn't quite right."
Well, Jay's team was the only unit to complete its mission that day.  In the process, he managed to maneuver his men--not only around the ambush, but stealthing the enemy's flank--to gain advantage, then catch them off guard and capture them!  Needless to say, the mission officer was ecstatic, the ambush officer, so it seemed, was not so happy or amused.

So, these fond, proud memories, that a father keeps for a son, are here with me today, as I pass the woods by Fort AP Hill.

Toward evening, the rain steady, the day becoming cold--and with another 25 behind me--I pull off to pitch in the piney woods, across the highway from Fort AP Hill.


Monday--April 22, 2002
Trail Day--12
Trail Mile--316
Location--US1, Garrisonville, VA, Super 8 Motel

The rain died down sometime during the night, but this morning the air remains cold and heavy with gray, mist-laden gloom all about.  Although I'm on the road well before eight, the relentless traffic's beaten me here.  This is going to be a grind-it-out day for sure, the only break coming when I pass through Fredericksburg.

I'm haulin', and past Fredericksburg now, and in the presence of an old, steady friend, US1, I'm following historic paths over which this four-lane highway's been built.

I guess we've all seen places that proudly proclaim, "George Washington slept here."  They're all along this route.  Here's one called "Peyton's Ordinary."  The old sign reads, "George Washington, going to Fredericksburg to visit his mother, dined here, March 6, 1769.  On his way to attend a House of Burgesses, he spent the night here, October 31, 1769, and stayed here again on September 14, 1772."  US1 is also the route generally followed by the armies of Washington and Rochambeau.  The signs are all along.

My legs are coming under me much better now as each day passes, and my feet, though still quite painful, are steadily improving.  I gave up long ago trying to figure why and how change gets discarded along the roadway.  As always, it is here, not in great quantities, but ever-present, nonetheless.  I stooped for the quarters right away, but 'til the past two days I'd been passing on the dimes, nickels and pennies.  Today I've got the confidence that I'll recover from bending for the dimes and nickels--and within the next day or two, I'll tackle the pennies.  Yes, I'm getting stronger and more confident each passing day.  My legs are coming back.  I think I'll do this trek just fine!

Late evening, and in Garrisonville, I stop at Buffalo Moes, one of the local watering holes.  What a great time with Bob, Mark, Rick, Moe, Brenda, Michele and Kevin.  Everybody's elated for the old Nomad--'cause the old Nomad's a happy camper!


Tuesday--April 23, 2002
Trail Day--13
Trail Mile--341
Location--Intersection, US1/Mt. Vernon Memorial Parkway, Woodlawn Plantation, Virginia, thence to home of Larry and Mary Amos, Oakton, Virginia

This is going to be a great day, one I've been looking forward to with childlike anticipation.  For today, as I complete this US1 segment of "Odyssey 2002," I'll be greeted, then taken in by my old childhood chum, Larry Amos.  He and his wife, Mary, will be coming for me at the end of the day.

Larry's retired now, after a distinguished government career in field and office-based cartography.  I suppose we've kept in touch about as well as any of us have kept up with childhood friends over the years, this friendship stretching back over fifty.  It was a joy and a pleasure being Larry's pal.  He was well liked by both teachers and students, being a happy, enthusiastic, very kind and thoughtful kid.  Larry succeeded in all the things that going to school involves--honor roll, class president, homecoming/prom king, sport's letters, all the neat school-days stuff.

Larry was a sharp kid--you know, the kind that can add up a column of numbers in their head.  How do folks do that?  Show-offs!  I've got a pocket calculator and I can't get the same answer twice.

We palled together throughout grade and high school.  Larry was one of those who could--and usually would--try anything, with total confidence.  After he got his driver's license, he took to roundy-roundy stock car racing.  He bought an old 41 Ford coupe for fifty bucks.  I've still got an old faded black and white picture of him with his race helmet cocked, straps dangling, casually leaning against his chariot--one of the neatest devil-may-care smiles on his face I've ever seen.  Reminds me of the old pictures, those of the early-on fellows who raced their coupes on Daytona Beach.  They all flashed that "I know something you don't know" sort of smile.

I helped him rip the fenders off and fabricate all the makeshift stuff required before rolling 'er out on the track.  Those were memorable times, great fun, especially the races.  Larry would hang with the pack, wheel-to-wheel, right off the checkered, engines screaming, cabs banging, metal grinding, dirt flying.   Sometimes he'd lead--for the first few laps.  I remember thinking, "Dang, he's gonna win this heat!"  Then it would happen, it was always the same.

I used to help him work on the engine, under the old shade tree in his side yard in the little berg of Russellville, Missouri.  I would plead with him repeatedly, "Larry, you need to get this radiator cleaned and rodded out, it ain't workin'.  These old flatheads never do cool real well, and this radiator is jammed clear shut."  He'd say, "Aww, it'll work okay, just take your pocket knife and straighten the fins back out (from where the fan flattened them after he slamming some guy).  If she starts overheating, I'll back off a bit."  "Yeah, sure Larry," I'd reply.

But it was always the same--third or forth lap, from the back straight high bank would erupt this enormous cloud of steam.  It was Larry.  He'd either sent another radiator cap into orbit or exploded another water hose.  Dang it, Larry, you could have won if you'd just fixed the doggone radiator!

Oh my, those were the days.  Larry and Mary now live in Oakton, Virginia, just outside the beltway, about a half hour's drive from where I'll end up today.  They'd kindly invited me to spend some time with them, which I right away accepted.  And, oh yeah, Mary's promised to make me gallons of sweet tea--and there's ice cream in the freezer.  Think they've read my book!

It's great when a plan comes together.  As I reach the intersection of US1/Mt. Vernon Parkway, I hear this honking and shouting, and from the third line of cars over, waving frantically, are Larry and Mary!


Wednesday--April 24, 2002
Trail Day--14
Trail Mile--363
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Key Bridge, Georgetown/Washington, DC, thence to home of Larry and Mary Amos, Oakton, Virginia

What a great evening last with the Amos family: Larry, Mary, their daughter Stephanie, and sons, Mitchell and Bryan.  Despite my pleading, Mitch gave up his room for me and moved to the couch in the family room.  The locals have a favorite watering hole in Vienna, the Vienna Inn.  We stopped by and had a few cold ones with all of Larry's buddies.  What a grand time.

The traffic around DC isn't nearly as bad as I would have expected this morning, and we make good time getting back to Mt. Vernon Memorial Parkway.  Larry drops me off a little after eight.  We've made plans for him to come downtown DC by the Key Bridge/C&O Canal Towpath to fetch me again this evening.

So, I'm off to Mt. Vernon on a cool, clear morning, my feet complaining yet again.  I down a couple more coated aspirin, then proceed to pound the old doggies into submission.  It's been years since I've visited Mt. Vernon, home of our first president, George Washington.  I remember it being a most majestic old place, situated on a gentle knoll overlooking the grand Potomac.  I find the old mansion (farmhouse) and the grounds still kept in impeccable condition, not an easy job, the old house being framed and sided in wood.  But it's just as fresh, clean and beautiful as I remember from years ago.

There is much activity this morning, as families with children and groups of school kids scurry about.  As I observe the youngsters and others here today, I can see deep feelings of patriotism; displayed is the apparent sense of value in our common heritage.  Places like Mt. Vernon are hallowed ground to all who love this glorious country, America.  Here at Mt. Vernon lived a man who nurtured and shared a dream, a dream of freedom and justice for all.  What a dream, what a timeless heritage.  We Americans today are the benefactors of that dream, it's part of each of us, it's in our fiber, our very being--the dream is ours now.  We must all cherish it, be ever vigilant to protect it.  Our forefathers fought and died for that dream, a dream that has turned to be the greatest experiment in all of man's history...democracy.  I take a few pictures, then turn to the Mt. Vernon Trail and the eighteen mile walk to downtown DC.

The hike today along the banks of the Potomac is pure fun.  There are many folks out enjoying the path, walking, jogging and biking.  By early afternoon I've hiked it in to Alexandria, where I stop for lunch at the old downtown market place.  Continuing, I am greeted by many.  The planes are coming and going from Reagan Airport.  I can see the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials.  There is ever-increasing activity as I near Memorial Bridge, the parkway right beside, and there are many rowing teams out on the Potomac today.  These are grand sights which bring a delightful feeling of pride to my heart.  I am so blessed to be a citizen of these United States of America.  Oh, is this path a fine way to enter this beautiful city!

Plans are for Larry to come to Key Bridge at five-thirty.  What great timing.  I arrive with a few moments to spare, so I follow the pathway down to the C&O Canal Towpath where I'll pass next week.  Returning to the bridge, I wait by the railing.  Larry pulls right up for me.  We make our way down Pennsylvania Avenue in good time, then head out for the beltway and his beautiful home near Oakton.

What an event-filled day, what an emotional time.  I'm an American.  There just can't be any better place in the whole world to live than America, and there can't be any better time to be alive than now!

Thanks Larry, Mary, Stephanie, Mitch and Bryan for your friendship, for your kindness, and for all you've done for me.


Thursday--May 2, 2002
Trail Day--15
Trail Mile--380
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, Swain's Lock Campsite

What a near-whirlwind week has just passed.  Larry, my friend from Oakton, dropped me off at Reagan National Airport last Friday afternoon for my flight to Atlanta.  I managed to get through check in and security just fine, then everything came to a screeching halt.  We weren't boarding.  The line backed out the little tunnel-runway to the plane.   There we waited for half an hour.  A bunch of teens had boarded first.  Come to find out, they no sooner got on board than one of them threw up all over the seats and the aisle.  No wonder the line stopped!  By the time that mess was cleaned up, and we got loaded and out to the runway, we'd missed our takeoff slot, so we waited again.  All that put us over an hour behind.  Add another half hour strapped in after takeoff (apparently a federal regulation now), and you can imagine the mad scramble for the toilets once the seatbelt sign went off!
The conference at Unicoi was a huge success.  I had the pleasure of speaking at the luncheon on Saturday--about my favorite subjects, the ECT and the AMT.  My dear friend, Jan Benschop, performed with me.  We were well received.

I spent a couple of days at home trying to tie the rest of the loose ends together, to get free for the rest of the year.  Got to see my friends; Frank, at Nimblewill, Greg, my webmaster, and Larry, my sponsor handling film and photos--then only to bid them all good-bye for the next long while.

Tuesday, the rental car returned, I made it back on the plane for an uneventful flight back to Reagan National in DC.  Larry Amos was right there to fetch me, and soon, we were once more at his lovely home in Oakton.

On Wednesday, Larry, Mary and I visited Arlington National Cemetery.  It's been years since I'd been to Arlington, and it was good to return again.  Changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is an incredibly formal and solemn affair.  In the afternoon, we looked and looked for the grave of Audy Leon Murphy, my longtime hero, but we had no luck.  An unfinished task for another time.

Thursday now, after more sad good-byes to the Amos family, Larry drives me to downtown DC (Georgetown) and mile marker zero, the C&O Canal Towpath.

At Key Bridge, I meet my friends, Scotty Vandam and Ron Fry, from Wisconsin.  Scotty will be hiking with me for awhile.  After a great day on the towpath, we camped at Swain's Lock.  Just at dusk, Ed Talone arrived from Silver Spring to spend the night.  He'll hike on to Harpers Ferry with us.

The towpath is going to be a memorable hike.  Great Falls, what a remarkable sight to see this first day.  Many, many pairs of Canadian geese with their little goslings swimming and trailing along.  This is going to be a special time--with these friends.


Friday--May 3, 2002
Trail Day--16
Trail Mile--406
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, Indian Flats Campsite

Stepping onto the C&O Canal Towpath is a step back in time.  Few routes to the western frontier existed in the early 1800s.  The C&O was one of them.  But on the same day, July 4, 1828, the day the first spade of dirt was turned by President John Quincy Adams--in Baltimore, the first spade of dirt was also turned to begin construction on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.  In 1924, the railroad having won out, a flood finally closed the C&O for good.

Today, as a result of the efforts of Justice William O. Douglas, the C&O Canal Towpath is a national historic park, and for 184 miles it is possible to hike along its way on the Cheasapeake and Ohio Canal Historic Trail. Ahh, and today is a perfect day for a hike along that path.

By eight, we're up and out to a cool, clear day.  A few energetic folks are out jogging and biking, but otherwise we've got the trail to ourselves. By noon, we're at Poole's Store, to load up on hot dogs and ice cream, the good, local stuff.

Our destination for the day is Indian Flats Campsite.  We're in well before dark.  What a fine hiking day.


Saturday--May 4, 2002
Trail Day--17
Trail Mile--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, confluence of Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, thence to Hilltop House, Harpers Ferry, West Virginia

All night the trains ran nearby, but after the first two, they blended right in, detracting little from my dreaming.  It's good to be hiking and with friends again.  By seven, we're up and going.  Hopes are to make it to Harpers Ferry today.  By early afternoon, the hike in the bag, we take a detour into Brunswick, Maryland for lunch at the local mom-n-pop.

We're in the mountains now.  What an incredible black powder blasting job must it have been to get the canal around Point of Rocks.  At the point, the railroad also squeezes through, too--almost.  Part of it has to go through a tunnel.

By evening, we arrive at the white blazes marking the Appalachian National Scenic Trail.  Here the trail follows the towpath for a couple of miles.  Soon we're in Harpers Ferry and the Hilltop Hotel where I'll rest for a day or two.

In the evening I'm invited to Cootie Queen's birthday party.  In real life, she's the outfitter here in Harpers Ferry.  Her husband, Ron, drives us to her sister's place where we spend the evening celebrating with all her family.


Sunday--May 5, 2002
Trail Day--18
Trail Mile--427
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, Hilltop House, Harpers Ferry, West Virginia

Harpers Ferry is a busy place, always, so I was fortunate last evening to get a room at my favorite old hotel, Hilltop House.  When Ed and I arrived at Harpers Ferry, we hit a beeline for the outfitters right up the street, to be enthusiastically greeted by Laura, the Cootie Queen.  She called Hilltop for me and was able to work a room, what luck!

So, today is a day of rest as I get caught up on correspondence and journal entries.
Around three I took time to downloaded my email.  There was a short message from John Shaffer.  His brother, Earl Shaffer, died today.  We have all been prepared for this for some time, but it's always tough.  An era in the history of long distance hiking came to a close today.


Monday--May 6, 2002
Trail Day--19
Trail Mile--448
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, trailside, Taylors Landing

A friend came for Ed last evening.  Ed works for the American Hiking Society in Silver Spring and he had to be back today.  Two great days on the C&O with you, Ed!  Thanks for coming out and hiking with me for awhile.

Folks here at Hilltop House are pretty laid back.  Scotty and Vango parked their little Toyota motor home in the side parking lot overlooking the beautiful Potomac River the whole time they were here, and never got hassled in the least.  And, as usual, I had a comfortable stay--for two nights.  Thanks, Hilltop House, it's always great to come back again!

My bounce box is waiting for me here at Harpers Ferry, so I head for the post office first thing.  On the way, I stop by Appalachian Trail Conference headquarters in hopes of seeing my dear friend, Laurie Potteiger, but alas, she's out for the day.  My bounce box off to bounce along to Cumberland, Maryland, then a quick stop by the ATM, and a little after eight, Scotty and I are back across the Potomac and headed west once more on the C&O Canal.

The Potomac is still a wide rolling river, but here above its confluence with the Shenandoah, it takes on an entirely different character.  High bluffs have forced the canal right to the river's edge, and from this vantage many views open, both up and down this winding river.  Huge sycamores line the towpath along the bank and within the canal ditch offering seclusion and shade.  Many birders are out, looking and listening intently; for all along this morning are we passing through an absolute aviary.  On the river proper reside the ubiquitous Canadian geese.  They seem to be everywhere, and their constant bickering and squawking is becoming annoying.

It is interesting how the canal passes right over the smaller streams that come to the Potomac.  For the larger ones, like Antietam Creek, aqueducts had to be built.  Their remains, like here at Antietam, are quite remarkable, for they have all survived incredible floods, the power of which have bent them and reshaped them.  Waters no longer flow through the Antietam Aqueduct.

Scotty's friend, Ron Frey, answers to the trail name "Vango."  Indeed, he has a van (actually a little motor home), and he does, well, go!   He's helped Scotty along on many of his previous hikes, and he's out with him again.  A county road parallels the towpath today, and Vango keeps popping along ahead, then to stop to see if we need anything.

By late afternoon we've trekked out twenty-one to we pull up and call it a day by Taylors Landing.


Tuesday--May 7, 2002
Trail Day--20
Trail Mile--467
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Williamsport, Maryland, thence to Red Roof Inn, Williamsport

The sound of geese squawking and the cluck of a nearby turkey wake me at seven.  It's going to be another beautiful day, clear and cool, and Scotty and I are out and moving by eight.  Vango moves out ahead, to stop occasionally to check on us.

Above Dam #4 the river has washed out part of the towpath.  Here, we must leave the river and take to the roads above.  Along the detour now, and passing many fine farms, a man comes from his home to greet us.   When he finds that we are hiking the towpath, he tells us about a shortcut, along his driveway, behind his house and past his field, all the way to where the detour returns to the river!  What neat trail magic.  It saves us the better part of two miles, avoiding the long-way road walk up and around.

The forecast is for thunderstorms this afternoon, and right on cue, the sky darks over and the rains come.  By a little after two, we've reached Williamsport, Maryland.  Here, we call it a day and head for Tony's Pizza Time Cafe for their biggest and best. Vango then drives me to the Red Roof Inn for the evening.

We passed the midpoint of the towpath today; should be in Cumberland, the end of the towpath, by Saturday.


Wednesday--May 8, 2001
Trail Day--21
Trail Mile--492
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Hancock, Maryland, thence to pitch on the porch of the old lockmaster's dwelling.

Clothes all clean, great night's sleep--I'm ready to go this morning.  Ron and Scotty come for me at the motel and we're off to the towpath.

Here in Williamsport is the  National Park Service office, along with the store and museum for the C&O Canal Towpath.  They're open this morning, so in we go.  Neat old building, built in the 1700s, flooded out numerous time, but still on its original foundation and standing straight and proud. Also standing straight and proud is the old gent running the store and museum.  Charles Holden is his name, age 72, he's been holding the place down for the past seven years.  He remembers Sue Lockwood and Ed Talone stopping by on their transcontinental thru-hike!

Early afternoon, Scotty pulls up with blister problems.  Decision is for me to trek on while Vango and Scotty visit Fort Frederick State Park, then for Scotty to bike out later to meet me toward evening.  The plan works and we get together just before I arrive at the village of Hancock, our destination for the day.  A great prime rib dinner at the local mom-n-pop, compliments of Vango, and this day racks up as a fine one.
I pitch for the evening on the tin-roofed porch of the old lockmaster's house--in the pouring rain.  But under its protection I'm confy and dry for the night.


Thursday--May 9, 2001
Trail Day--22
Trail Mile--510
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, trailside, Little Orleans, Maryland

A cool, iffy morning, but the rain holds off. Scotty and I get going in good order to hike out together around eight.  We're in the mountains now and the Potomac is having a time of it, trying to figure out a way through.  Winding and curving back it goes, and so goes the towpath, first west, then south, then east, then south some more before turning back west.  Vango meets us at Cohill Station for lunch, then we're off again.  By early afternoon we jump up to hike the the rail-trail for awhile.  Where it plays out at the Indigo Tunnel; we stop.  Then Scotty digs out his flashlights and we venture in.  The old tunnel has been abandoned for years, yet I can see a faint light, indicating the tunnel is open to the far exit.  As we continue on, it takes only moments to realize that we're in a spooky place, very dark, dank and forbidding.  But on we stumble, through the rocks and puddles.  It seems to take forever to reach the halfway point--the spot where both entrances appear as little more than faint dots at the end of the gloom.  Nearing the other end, starts this loud, continuous noise.  Then we both realize that it's pouring down outside.  We dally, digging for our raingear before finally leaving the tunnel.

Following the overgrown railroad grade, we're soon in the village of  Little Orleans.  Right beside the old canal and rail grade is Bill's Store, Bar, Grill, Canoes for Rent--etc.  In we go for a few cold ones.  Vango has driven to the parking lot at Bill's so we're all together again.  Bill explains that the old abandoned tunnel runs for 5/8 mile, and that we're lucky we didn't bet caught in there.

Supper at Bill's in Little Orleans, oh yes, another fine day. Pitched by the trail.


Friday--May 9, 2002
Trail Day--23
Trail Mile--536
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Oldtown, Maryland, pitched trailside on the old Cresap homestead

I whiled the evening last with Bill at the bar in Little Orleans.  The locals, mostly fishermen and hunters, had all gone their separate ways, each happier and much wiser, having heard tales (surely again) about "the one that got away,"--of the better days long past.
The original store, which was over 150 years old, was moved from the river to make way for the Western Maryland Railroad.  Those were the boom days for Little Orleans, when both the canal and the railroad were cranking.  Ledgers dating back to the early 1900s showed payroll entries, "salary, $2.50 a week, colored help, $2.00."  The old store stocked most everything, "milk, 10 cents, six yards of calico, 42 cents, five pounds of nails, 15 cents."

Sadly, the old store burned to the ground in July, 2000.  But Bill's rebuilt it to another grand place now, and he reopened it in April last year.  Bill talked about, and showed me with much pride, the old weather-beaten sign over his new door.  In classic block letters etched deep in the wood, it read, simply, "Little Orleans."  "That's off the old train station.  The building's been gone for years," said Bill.  "There were two of them signs.  One on either end of the station.  I got hold of one, my boy got the other," beamed old Bill.
Well, the railroad's long gone now, just like the canal, all grown up in trees, and Little Orleans has settled to be a pretty quite place.

I just had to take a couple of pictures--with his approval, of course--of the countless fixtures that Bill's hung on the walls and from the ceiling.  Like the "Redneck wind chimes," an old Stilson wrench from which hung (and would ring if you bump them) old steel bean and beer cans.  And the sign above the kitchen.  Oh, this is a good one!  "This ain't Burger King.  You get the Son-of-a-bitch the way I fix it, or you don't get it at all!"  Had one of Bill's SOB's last night.

Neat old town, neat old (new) store, neat old Bill!

Scotty and I head back out on the abandoned rail bed, up and over a ridge that has created a long, winding oxbow in the river--and in the canal.  At mile 143 we drop back down to the towpath, only to leave it again at mile 147, for the old choked and grown-up rail bed.  Bill had told me about another tunnel back in the rocks, through another long, high, ridge that punches another horseshoe bend in the river.  Up and over the chain link fence Scotty and I go, past streams of water cascading down the tunnel entrance, to enter another dark and dank hole in the mountain, the gloom hanging heavy with the stench of creosote from the ceiling supports.  Out comes the headlamp again as we stumble and grope our way through.  This old train tunnel (Devil's Alley), is just as eerie and forbidding as was Indigo.  Another chain link fence blocks the far entrance, but this one we wiggle under.  Following the overgrown rail bed again, we're soon back to the canal.  Here, the towpath remains elusive, close, but oh so far away!  The old rail bed is thirty feet above the towpath, to cross it on a high, rusty old trestle that continues on across the Potomac.  The canal, which is filled with water, separates us from the towpath.  We can work our way across the helter-skelter, gaping crossties and onto the trestle above the towpath, where an old steel ladder is hanging and dangling from the trestle (and which probably hasn't been used since the middle of last century), but this sure doesn't look like the way to go!

So, down we retreat, on an old woods road leading to the canal--in the wrong direction.  But alas, it does not cross to the towpath, and after following it for a quarter mile, we return to begin bushwhacking--along the far side of the canal--in hopes of finding a blow down or some other way across.


Saturday--May 19, 2002
Trail Day--24
Trail Mile--554
Location--C&O Canal Towpath terminus, Cumberland, Maryland, thence to La Vale, Maryland, Continental Motor Inn

Last evening, I was able to find a delightful, manicured spot overlooking a lush meadow on the old Cresap homestead near the Potomac River.  There I pitched.  Before dark, Scotty, Vango and I spent some time at the private toll bridge that crosses to Green Spring, West Virginia.  Here is the last remaining privately run toll bridge in the United States.  The small toll booth is made of brick and has a sliding window through which the toll master thrusts an old pork-and-beans can that's nailed to a broom handle.  A toll of fifty cents is collected.  One lady, who said she was going to church in Green Spring, put a dollar in for the round trip.

The forecast had called for cloudy and cool today, with a chance of thundershowers, but the day begins clear with just the least bite in the air.  By mid-morning, both Scotty and I must change into short sleeves.  Vango has vangone ahead into Cumberland to pick up my bounce box.  This being Saturday, the post office closes at noon, and there's no way we'll get in before three.  Thanks, Vango!

Afternoon now, Scotty and I slow our pace, savoring the last couple of miles into Cumberland.  The time and the miles, it seems, have passed so quickly.  Scott and Ron will be departing this evening for Damascus, Virginia, and Trail Days; hopefully, we'll get to spend some trail time together again.

The final bit of canal into Cumberland isn't anything like I'd envisioned. What is here, however, certainly proves ironic.  For you see, from the very first day the first spade of dirt was turned on the canal, did the number of days before the canal's total obsolescence begin clicking off.  On that same day in 1828, the first spike was also driven for the railroad to Cumberland.  Here, just outside of Cumberland, the canal has since been refilled with dirt, the railroad tracks now following right beside the old towpath, over the exact place where the canal boats once began their long, slow journey to tidewater.  Down through the years, the railroad systematically bought up stock in the C&O Canal, and in 1924, after a devastating flood, the old outdated and no longer needed canal was finally shut down (by the railroad) for good.  Thus ended a very special era, a distinctly unique period in time along this grand old Potomac.  Ahh, it is so ironic, for as I pass now, do the rails seem to be whispering oh so softly, to the old mule tenders walking below--"We buried you!"

By three, we're at the canal museum/train station in Cumberland.  It's celebration and picture-taking time.  Soon, we're off to Pizza Hut, then to La Vale, where Scotty and Vango drop me off for the weekend. Thanks, Scotty and Vango, for coming out and doing the C&O Canal Towpath with me.  It's been great fun!

Monday, I head into the Allegeny Mountains, for Frostberg, Maryland, along the old Western Maryland Scenic Railroad.  Come along, if you will.  On this sixteen mile jaunt, we'll cross bridges, look around horseshoe bends--and go through another tunnel.  It'll be a hoot!


Sunday--May 20, 2002
Trail Day--25
Trail Mile--554
Location--Cumberland/La Vale, Maryland, Continental Motor Inn

I've sure been picking 'em right for a change--the days.  What a dark, cold and rainy one this, perfect for laying back, cooling my heels, and just relaxing in my warm, dry motel room.  Ahh, and that's just the order for the day.

As I lounge here today, trying to work a halfway decent itinerary for the next couple of weeks, do Yogi Berra's prophetic words come to mind.  I recall him saying something to the effect that, "If you don't know where you're going, ya better be careful, 'cause you might not get there."  I certainly must consider, and no doubt, it's going to be very hard to figure when I'm going to get someplace if I don't know where I'll be!

I very much like the spontaneous aspects of (and my not-to-worry attitude about) this hike. 


Monday--May 13, 2002
Trail Day--26
Location--Western Maryland Scenic Railroad terminus, Frostberg, Maryland, thence to Continental Motor Inn, La Vale, Maryland

I have made a friend in Dana Patel.  She is the Innkeeper here at the Continental.  She checked on me yesterday, offered me food this morning, then called a friend to drive me to the post office in Cumberland.  In moments, Wayne Conklin comes to fetch me.  Wayne is the owner of Music Express, Disc Jockey and Karaoke Services.  Last weekend Music Express had ten gigs going at the same time!  He's busy now helping Dana get the lounge here at the inn up and running again--and he takes time this morning to drive me back to Cumberland.  Thanks, Wayne!

The weather all along the east coast has been unsettled the past two days, and things don't look too good this morning. At the post office, I set my bounce box bouncing on to Shinnston, West Virginia, then it's over to Holiday Inn for breakfast before returning the short distance to the train station.  Here is the end of the C&O Canal Towpath and the beginning of the Western Maryland Scenic Railroad.  I leave the train station and head up the tracks at ten-thirty.

In a quarter-mile there's an overpass.  Here I pull up to get out of it and don my raingear, as this day has not only started out in a nasty mood, but it seems determined to stay, the rain coming steady.

Hate to say it, but this rain is not only dampening me, but it's managing to dampen my attitude about what's been labeled as "scenic."  The old iron truss bridge turns out to be a run-of-the-mill thing over a highway, the tunnel is pretty much ho-hum, and the horseshoe bend is a cut in the rocks around the side of a hill.  Quad-tracs have ripped up and down, all along the tracks.  They've beat the golf ball size rocks down some, which helps me get along, but stumbling through them is no fun.

By four, I'm in Frostberg, not unhappy this hiking day is over, as the rain has kept me steady company the whole day long.

Past the depot, steps lead up the hill to Main Street.  Here, right across from Domino's Pizza, is Adventure Guides and Travel.  I need directions out of here tomorrow, so in I go.  I meet Keith Fulton, and we have a great chat.  Got another sponsor for Odyssey 2002!
Keith lets me use his phone to call Dana.  Dana gets hold of Wayne again, and just as my pizza is good to go, comes Wayne to fetch me back to La Vale and the Continental.

In the evening, a fierce storm plows through, knocking down a tree behind the inn.  Glad I'm not out there in a tent tonight.


Tuesday--May 14, 2002
Trail Day--27
Trail Mile--588
Location--Old Western Maryland Rail Trail, Meyersdale, Pennsylvania, Vitale's Hotel, Joe Conn, proprietor

For starters, the weatherman is dead on. The forecast is for cold squalls all day.  They're here.

The old National Highway passes the inn on its way to Frostburg and points west.  In the 1700s it was one of the major gateways to the frontier.  It's long since been paved over by US40.  As I stand with my thumb out, trying to hitch a ride back to Frostburg, the wind comes, bringing rain--then snow!  After an hour and not the least luck, and as my core temperature starts dropping, I shoulder my pack, grab my sticks and start walking toward Frostburg.  After a couple of miles of getting whipped around by the wind and snow-laced rain, three construction workers finally stop, pick me up, and haul me on into Frostburg.

It's now ten.  This day is shaping to be a short one--for hiking, that is.   My hands are nearly frozen as I enter Tombstone Cafe.  Ed Spak, the owner, greets me as I look around for the coffee.  In a few minutes, Terry, a local and Tombstone regular, stops in.  Friendly chaps, he and Ed.  We strike up a conversation.  My short, canned, description of "Odyssey 2002" really grabs their attention.  "Have some more coffee," exclaims Ed, as he motions to the cook to whip me up some breakfast--on the house!

Terry could easily be the official historian for western Maryland.  He takes on that task this morning as he talks about the grand heyday for Frostburg and the surrounding region, the era of coal mining, coke furnaces and steel mills.  Those times are past now, leaving western Maryland living pretty much in the past, the abandoned rail grades all around being testimony.  I'll be hiking one of them today, the Old Western Maryland Railroad line which runs for miles, all the way to that once-great steel town, Pittsburgh.

It's eleven now as I depart for the trail.  Down the steps from Tombstone Cafe, I stop to get a snap of the authentic tombstones gracing the sidewalk.  Ed had explained as to how he happened on them in a pile of old cast-away tombstones at the edge of town.  Ha, I know graveyards have tombstones, but I never knew tombstones had a graveyard!  Thanks for the great breakfast, Ed, and thanks for your friendship and kindness!

While riding back to the Continental Motor Inn with Wayne yesterday, he had explained how to find the old abandoned rail bed out of Frostburg, "Go down the paved road from the depot, oh, a couple hundred yards or so, look for a crumbling old overpass, that's it," Ed had explained.  So down past the old train depot I go, to the crumbling old concrete overpass.  I'm finally back hiking, in a near gale, a little after eleven.

I never knew that rail grades could actually go up and down.  They can, apparently at somewhere between a two and three per cent grade.  This one is maxed out.  The climb is steady, never letting up.  By two, I cross the state line into Pennsylvania, another state behind me now, Maryland.  Counting DC, that makes four.  I'm soon at the top of the climb, the last pop that's left to get over Big Savage Mountain.  Although this old rail line has been climbing toward the top of this mountain all morning, it doesn't quite make it.  I'm standing now at the entrance to the 4,000+ foot long Big Savage Tunnel--and a huge sign which reads, "Work area, keep out.  Authorized personnel only.  Hard hats, protective shoes and glasses required."


Wednesday--May 15, 2002
Trail Day--28
Trail Mile--607
Location--Allegheny Highlands Trail, near Markelton, Pennsylvania, pitched trailside past mile marker 35

Meyersdale is the epitome, the perfection of all that a great trail town must have.  Just 500 yards off the trail is the grand old Vitale's Hotel, complete with bar and grill downstairs (Yuengling on tap), a drugstore right across the street, cafe four doors down, library and post office within two blocks.  Great folks, great town, thanks, Joe, Beth, and Shelva Conn, I had a great stay with you!

The first mile and a half out of Meyersdale is still pretty rough, the old railbed full of potholes, the usual graffiti sprayed everywhere.  But that will change, as the extension of the Allegheny Highlands Trail will soon come to Meyersdale.

As I hike toward the viaduct, where the improved trail begins, I hear train horns behind me.  Walking an old, abandoned rail bed, and hearing train horns, provokes a very unsettled feeling.  Actually, what I'm hearing are the trains passing on the live CSX line a hundred yards below, but just to be safe, I move to the side just in case--don't want some phantom, ghost train running me down!

The day is shaping up perfect: bright, warm sun, just the least breeze; quite enough breeze, in fact to crank the seven, huge air-driven electric windmills on the mountain just up the trail.  Oh what memories, of Cap Chat, Quebec, where the constant winds from the St. Lawrence Sea drive nearly a hundred wind turbines much like these before me this morning.  There was a lot of hubbub recently about a similar project that would have appeared in the view shed along the Appalachian Trail Corridor.  Soon began the finger pointing, and the wailing and crying, not uncharacteristic of the loonies that would take us back to the stone age.  These are the same fanatics that rant about the mining, the oil wells, the timbering, etc., then get in their steel-built cars, fill them with petro, then drive them to wooden, stick-built homes where they routinely run up a $500.00 per month electric bill. The windmills are not a problem, to look at or otherwise.  They provide the cleanest of all forms of energy.  Who could be opposed to that--oh yes the hipocrites are out there, in droves.  Pick the best place and put 'em up folks--more power to ya!

I've got to start keeping track of the tunnels I've hiked through.  Counting the one today, I think there's six so far.  The first three were along the C&O Canal.  They were: Indigo, Devil's Alley and Paw Paw.  The forth one was the short tunnel on the Western Maryland Scenic Railroad.  The fifth one was the Borden Tunnel north of Frostburg.  The sixth one should have been the Big Savage Tunnel, but it was closed due to construction work and hazardous conditions, so the sixth one turns out to be a really neat one today, called the Pilkerton Tunnel.  The rail bed actually crosses the Casselman River, at the narrow point of a very long oxbow, first on the Pilkerton Low Bridge, then through the tunnel on the narrow spit of land, thence to immediately cross the river again at Pilkerton High Bridge.  What a remarkably rugged and picturesque place.  The tunnel was blocked off at both ends--but I got through just fine!

I've made the miles today, even passed my planned destination.  So with dusk arriving, I find a neat blow down hole on the side of the hill, up from Casselman River, and pitch for the night.


Thursday--May 16, 2002
Trail Day--29
Trail Mile--628
Location--Allegheny Highlands Trail, Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania, American Youth Hostel

It must be around eight when I finally break camp and get going this morning, don't know for sure, I lost my watch yesterday.   Forecast was for nasty, but the day begins sunshiny bright, not a cloud in the sky.

The old Western Maryland Railroad grade has been going down, down, down, from the eastern Continental Divide at Big Savage Mountain, to snake its way through the near gorge-like canyon cut by the Casselman River.  The river seemed quite small to begin with, but now, as it continues to be fed constantly by many tributaries, some crashing down in waterfalls, it is becoming quite the white-water river, the scenery all along, spectacular.

By early afternoon, I arrive at the village of Confluence, named for the merging of three rivers, the two main ones being, the Casselman and the Youghiogheny.  From here, through Ohiopile State Park, I am told, is the most scenic section of the river.  Hiking it, I certainly believe it to be true.  I am in a gorge now, the mountains looming on both sides, the Yough (rhymes with jock), nearly 200 yards wide, crashing its tumult of whitewater in continuing cascades of roaring thunder--the old rail bed passing right beside.  My senses of sight and hearing are definitely in overload.  This is an amazing hike, and the day holds sunny and warm.

In Ohiopyle, I head for the cafe for supper and a few cold ones.  At five, I meet Steve at the fine old American Youth Hostel, right on the edge of town. I check in and call it a day.


Friday--May 17, 2002
Trail Day--30
Trail Mile--651
Location--Mount Braddock, Pennsylvnia, beside Baltimore and Ohio Railroad

The Allegheny Highlands Trail crossed the river at Ohiopyle on a high trestle to cap a sensational day yesterday.  First thing this morning, it crosses again on another sky-high trestle.  More photo ops.  The rain finally catches up today but the damp of the day doesn't dampen the spectacle of the hike into Connellsville.  By one, I've completed the final seventeen miles that I'll be hiking on the Allegheny Highlands Trail.

At the bike shop in Connellsville, I find that I've missed the turn onto the rail grade leading southwest toward Point Marion, so after a stop at the local luncheonette, I head southwest on US119, to pick up the trail at Dunbar.

The rail bed I'll be hiking for the next two days is called the Sheepskin Rail Trail, however, the data I have on it is very sketchy.  In Dunbar, the folks I talk to have never heard of it.  One of the two active B&O side-by-side tracks has been partially closed, being used now as a sidetrack to park tank and other container cars, that's it.  I decide to hike out along the active tracks for a few miles while I come up with an alternate plan.

The rain comes hard toward evening and it's turning very cold.  By a sawmill, with wood drying sheds south of Pechin, I pull off and get out of it in the shelter of one of the metal sheds.


Saturday--May 18, 2002
Trail Day--31
Trail Mile--676
Location--Point Marion, Pennsylvania,----Motel

This is wild!  Seven-thirty this morning, still rainy and cold, I hear this train coming through, at least I think it's a train.  But as I stare into the gloom, I see a huge forklift, enclosed cab, lights on, wipers running, headed for a stack of lumber, right here in this shed, right next to where I'm bed rolled!  There must be a half-dozen sheds,  hundreds of 9-12 foot-high stacks of lumber in and out of the sheds, and the guy comes to this shed, to the stack right next to me--at seven-thirty on Saturday morning, in the rain.  The stack I'm on is about nine feet high.  The operator moves one bundle from the twelve foot stack right next, then gets another bundle and takes it away.  He wasn't ten feet from me, but intent on his work, he never turned to look.  Well, tell you what, as I try shaking the cobwebs, I've never been so confused or bewildered!  Collecting myself, finally, I try collecting my stuff--shoving it into my pack, pronto--not fast enough.  The guy's right back again.  He moves another bundle, then takes the last one.  He moves away again.  He still hasn't seen me.  I laid back and didn't wiggle or he'd have caught me out of the corner of his eye, for sure.  He'll be back again in just a minute, this time for the stack right in front of me.  Everything hastily jammed in my pack, I'm off the pile, pack and poncho on, sticks in hand, I'm back into it as I return to the tracks.   As I head south, I hear him returning to the shed.  On down the railroad now, I look back at the lumber yard, at all the sheds and stacks of lumber everywhere, and I'm thinking, "What were the odds?  What a crazy experience!"

Along the tracks this morning, as I hike the live B&O grade on south, there remain the partially closed tracks, now sidetracks, with countless tank cars parked along; and now I see an old, old abandoned grade to the side.  But there's no way of hiking it, as it's entirely grown up in trees and brush.  After three hours of stumbling along the crossties and rocks, I see the tall spires of a church looming in the distance.  There are large buildings and warehouses both sides now, along with old tires, junk and trash everywhere.  My feet are mush.  Somehow, I've avoided turning my ankles in the loose rocks.  I've had enough of this.  At a crossing, I see traffic moving a couple of blocks away; I go there.  A lady on the corner informs me that I'm in Uniontown.  Dang, not Uniontown!  But I'm in Uniontown, five miles away from where I should be.

Oh well, it's time for lunch, so I seek out a cafe, which I finally find after passing two defunct bakeries, four pizza places (all closed) and a bunch of boarded-up gas stations.  This old town has seen its better days.

In the cafe, a fellow that deer hunts the area all around explains that there's no way to hike the old grade anymore.  "The rails and ties have been gone for years, and now they've torn out the old bridges and trestles too.  Forget it," says the old gent.  Well, looks like, if the Sheepskin Trail ever did exist, it was mostly a product of somebody's imagination.  I should have suspected as much when the webpage I found had listed a disconnected phone number and a "fatal error" email address.  So, it's back on US119 it seems, on down to Point Marion.

I had planned on staying in Smithfield, but the crabby old hag that ran the rundown bar/grill/rooms wouldn't rent to me.  She glanced over, out of the corner of her eye as I entered the bar, then continued talking to the only other customer in the place.  When I sat down right next to the fellow, she turned and went into the back storage room.  I said hi to him.  He kept sipping his beer and staring at the wall.  In awhile, sweetie returned to continue the conversation, while she popped the cap on another beer for the guy.  Amused, I watched and listened for the longest time.  The old hag paid me not the least heed.  Finally, I broke in--"Can I get a beer, or is this a private club," I asked, somewhat sarcastically.  She turned, and with a "you've sure got your nerve" expression," I got "Whadda ya want?"   I ordered a Yuengling Lager.  Continuing her conversation with the local, she reached in the cooler and slammed the bottle down in front of me.  I had to remove the cap.  !

Cap off, the beer foamed up and all over the bar.  I  interrupted again.  More as a question, I said, "I'd like to rent a room,"  "Got no rooms today," she growled.  That was it.  With the foam still running down the side of the bottle, I shouldered my pack, and leaving, quietly closed the door behind.  I did pay for the beer.  Aren't you proud of me!  But sweetie didn't get a tip.

In Point Marion now, I'm just a very short distance from West Virginia.  I'll be out of Pennsylvania soon.  Good riddance.  I've never seen such an inhospitable bunch.  All along the road today were "Keep out" and  "No Trespassing" signs--and countless "Beware of Dog" signs, each brought to my attention by barking, growling dogs.  One place had three dog houses out by the road right in front, three snarling chained-up pit bulls, three "Bad Dog" signs. Oh, and I just about got run down once.  Yup, be glad to get out of Pennsylvania.

Neat trail town, Point Marion, Brass Rail Bar--Sarah, the cutest, friendliest and most congenial barmaid, generic (no name) motel in back--and a Subway right next door.  Okay, Pennsylvania--I take it all back.


Sunday--May 19, 2002
Trail Day--32
Trail Mile--691
Location--Mon River Trail, Morgantown, West Virginia, Morgantown Motel

Lots of neat trail towns on this odyssey, and Point Marion was one of them.  Neat town, good folks.

This morning, I hike out on Railroad Street.  Seems like a good bet, since I'm still looking for the Sheepskin Rail Trail.  Oh yes, none of the folks in Point Marion had heard of it either.  At the end of Railroad Street, leads out a faint gravel path south.  I jump on it.  Sure enough, I'm finally on the Sheepskin Trail!  The quad-trac folks are beating the rocks down and have kept the brush knocked back.

As I continue on, there's no lack of excitement this morning.  The wind has come up and it's turning downright cold.  To say: "it's a-darkin' over," is putting it mildly.  Momentarily, as a view opens across the Monongahela River, I see a gray wall coming toward me.  I drop my pack and immediately don my jacket and poncho--just in time as the wind-driven sleet come driving through.  Yes, it's sleeting!  I crouch; in awhile the pelts turn to steady rain, and I turn and hike into it.  The cold rain continues as I cross into West Virginia.  Another state behind me now, Pennsylvania.  That's five.  Don't know how many that leaves.  Guess that depends on where I'm going and when I end this trek, but I've a hunch there'll be lots more; I think we're just getting started!

Anyway, I'm headed the right direction now--southwest.  Turned the corner two days ago at Connellsville.  I could have done a roadwalk straignt across from Cumberland, Maryland to Morgantown, West Virginia, and saved three days and many miles in the process, but I would have missed the GAP (Grand Allegheny Passage) and the Allegheny Highlands Trail that winds its way thorough.  The miles and the days were well spent.  It was a glorious hike!

I'm headed now for the North Bend Trail through western West Virginia.  It's a rail trail with many more tunnels.  I'm told it's a great hike, so I'm looking to it with much anticipation.

The Sheepskin Trail, what little there was of it, ended north of Morgantown, where the Caperton section of the Mon River Trail began.  I've followed it for about eight miles through Morgantown.  At the old train station-turned-info center, I turned from the trail and headed uptown.  Folks have told me about the grand old Morgan Hotel, so I give it a look.  Neat place, but a look is all I can afford--$125.00 per night, single occupancy, senior.  A little rich for my blood.  So, I head for the south side of town and the Morgantown Motel.  This'll work!

In the evening I give Scotty and Vango a call.  They've just finished up the week at Trail Days in Damascus, Virginia.  I get Scotty on his cell phone.  They've had a great time and are headed back my way.  They'll meet me tomorrow in Fairmont, and Tuesday, Scotty and I will hike out together again--Whoohee!


Monday--May 20, 2002
Trail Day--33
Trail Mile--709
Location--MC Trail, Fairmont, West Virginia, Avenue Motel, Lin Fowler, manager

Plans are to meet Scotty and Vango in Fairmont today.  I don't know the mileage to Fairmont, so I'm out and hiking by seven-thirty, just to make sure I get there in good order.
I've decided to do a road walk today, instead of following the Mon River and MC Trails along the Monongahela River.  What I saw yesterday was a river running hard and high, pretty much a mixture of mud.  My first view was the Monongahela Nuclear Power Plant.  Then followed miles of coal loading docks accompanied by countless barges loaded to the gunwales with coal.  I suspect there'll be more of the same today, so I opt out in favor of a road walk through the rolling, rural West Virginia countryside.

Freeze warnings were issued for the entire region last night.  This morning, even with both my shirts, and my jacket and poncho on, it seems to take forever to get the old jitney up to normal operating temperature--it's cold, darn cold!  The day starts out dark, and it's staying dark.  Within the hour, the wind whips it on me again, this time in the form of snow.  Yes, now I'm hiking in wind-driven snow!  Thirty days ago, I was getting my head and feet fried as I hiked the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  Now, with summer supposedly approaching, I'm hiking in snow!

The distance to Fairmont isn't as far as I had reckoned it would be, and by early afternoon, I'm in the post office in Fairmont.  I mail a few souvenirs home, then head for the library where I'm able to spend some time on the internet.

In the evening, I meet up again with Scotty and Vango, then check into the Avenue Motel on the south side of town.  Freeze warnings are out again.  What is going on?

Scotty and I (all bundled up, no doubt) will hike out together tomorrow on the West Branch Trail, an old abandoned rail grade that leads to Shinnston.  No lazy summer days just yet!


Tuesday--May 21, 2002
Trail Day--34
Trail Mile--727
Location--Harrison County Rail Trail, Shinnston, West Virginia, Gillum House Bed and Breakfast, John and Kathleen Panek, hosts

This is the day to get lost.  Oh yes, the daddy of all get lost days!  Not a clue for the better part--where we were or where we were actually going.  The whole whacky, glorious wandering started the instant Scotty and I set out this morning.  We started on the wrong rail grade.  We weren't even following the right river!  An hour into the hike, and for some reason, I casually pull out my compass.  "We're supposed to be trending generally north of west.  So, why are we going south?" I question Scotty.  After nearly four miles of this, we're as many miles from where we should be--and there's no quick fix, save turning around and retreating.  Oh no, not that; we're not going back!  So now what?

Well, in another mile or so, we can cross the river we're following (the wrong one) on the I-79 bridge.  Then we can hike back roads to the west.  And finally, after another eight to ten miles of road walking, we can get to where we should have been hiking all day.

Walking an interstate highway is an absolute no-no; foot travel is prohibited, especially across an interstate bridge--but we do it anyway.  I can't remember ever, ever, hiking along an interstate highway, but up and onto the bridge we go, the whizzing autos and  grinding eighteen-wheelers literally hurtling past us.  We successfully run the gauntlet, without getting pulverized or arrested--clear to the next exit.  We're now on the right side (of the wrong river).

The copy of the DeLorme map that Ed provided me shows a network of little spiderweb-like back roads leading in the direction we want to go--so we go.

The very first intersection isn't on the map.  Which way?  We manage the attention of a chap edging his yard.  His response to our inquiry--"Well yes, I suppose you could get to Killarm this way.  Part of the road's been closed for years.  You'll have to climb over a fence at the top of the mountain, then hike through the fields--you'll be able to see Killarm from the top, though, just go that way."  Yup, you guessed it, up the mountain and through the fields we go!

We had made plans to meet Vango for lunch at Monongah, but we never make it within six miles of the place.  After awhile, he'll perhaps figure out that we're not coming through, and drive on to Shinnston.

Having climbed the mountain, after going the wrong way yet again, we head down through the fields toward Killarm.  Rounding a fence and passing a shed, we hear, "What are you doing in here?"  Neither Scotty nor I had seen the farmer, but he sure sees us!  Oh no, time to face the music.   We're on private land.  We have no business in here.  Sheepishly, we greet to the old gent, with the most pathetic and apologetic salutations.  He's amused more than angry.  Thank God, we're not going to get shot or arrested!  In just moments, comes the farmer's son tracking through the field behind us.  We hadn't seen him either!  He is also of kind and friendly disposition.

The old abandoned road we were seeking is right next the fence, by the farmer's shed--we were just on the wrong side of it.  The kind fellow, and his son, Dusty (I did get the boy's name), both kindly walk us to the final road intersection we need to take.  On the way, both ask many questions and express much curiosity about my adventure.  Thank you Lord--for saving my sorry butt--again!

At three, we're finally on the rail trail in Enterprise.  It's a delightful path along the West Branch, Monongahela River.  Within the hour, we're in Shinnston, our destination for the day.  Here, Vango is waiting.  He greets us with much restraint, but can't help exclaiming (quite understandably): "Where to hell you guys been!"


Wednesday--May 22, 2002
Trail Day--35
Trail Mile--742
Location--North Bend Rail Trail, Wilsonburg, West Virginia, Towne House Motor Lodge West

What a great stay last with John and Kathy at the Gillum House B&B in Shinnston.  Beautiful old two-story house, meticulously renovated and modernized, the entire place radiating such a warm, peaceful feeling.  And the end result--not a wiggle out of me as soon as my head hits the pillow.

At eight this morning, the luring aroma of freshly brewed coffee working its magic, I'm drawn down to the dining room, where Kathy has prepared a grand breakfast, not only for me, but also for Scotty and Vango.  She and John join us and we share the most stimulating conversation.

We manage to tarry, and are not out and going until after ten, then to make another trip to the post office.   By eleven, Scotty and I are finally headed south for Clarksburg.  First, it's a road walk down busy US19, then at Spelter, we pick up the Harrison County Trail, another old rail trail, which also follows along and up the west branch of the Monongahela River.  To access the trail, we must pass a barricade and "No Trespassing" sign, as the surrounding area has been declared a "Superfund site."  Here, the soil has been contaminated by the remains from zinc smelting operations carried on over many past decades.  The entire place is shut down now, secure behind twelve-foot high chain link.  To look upon the dilapidated, rusting hulks of old abandoned buildings surrounded by dismal, black mounds and heaps of earth is most depressing; Scotty and I hasten to pass.

Most cities the size of Charksburg have greenways that are tied in with other surrounding paths and trails.  So, as we near Clarksburg, I'm expecting the rail trail we've been hiking to just get better and wider--finally to connect to a paved greenway.  But here, as we near the city limits, the trail simply ends at a fence blocking the old rail bed.  Scotty and I look at each other, then at the fence.  A faded sign reads, "State Property."  We're both bewildered--wondering the same thing: "What's going on here?"  Oh yes, over the fence we go, to enter a tangle of vines, blow downs and brush.  As we continue along the old rail bed and into town, there's another fence, higher than the first, then yet another.  Up and over we go, to continue on--through paths plopped full with cow manure, yes cow manure!  The old rail bed is now the upper reaches of a pasture.  Some greenway, eh?  Well, it is green!  This scramble along the old grade continues for the better part of half a mile, to finally lead us out and onto an old railroad overpass at US50.  Here we give up the "Clarksburg Greenway" to opt for the live rail grade leading around and back out of town.
 Vango is waiting for us at the intersection of US50 and US19.  After a cold one, we're back out for the remaining short road walk to Wilsonburg.  Tomorrow we begin the North Bend Trail, which runs for the next seventy miles to Parkersburg, there, to cross the Ohio River.  We'll surely have more adventures to share; why not come along!


Thursday--May 23, 2002
Trail Day--36
Trail Mile--765
Location--North Bend Trail, West Union, West Virginia, High Street B&B, Ellen Froehlig, hostess

The day dawns cool and clear; the weather is finally breaking.  It's going to be perfect for hiking.  Scotty and I get out around nine-thirty, with Vango hop-skipping the little motor home ahead.  Within the hour, we're at Wolf Summit, the eastern terminus of the North Bend Rail Trail.  Looks like the next seventy-one miles will be most enjoyable, for the old rail bed is settled in with finely crushed limestone, the shoulders freshly mowed--this thing's a scenic parkway!

By one, we make it to Salem and the trailside IGA.  I've got to get more film, dang it!  My camera's done it again--it's rewound after exposing only half the roll.  This is the fourth time it's pulled this trick.  The camera people say it's a problem with the film--oh sure, blame it on Fuji and Kodak!  Well, I'm tired of excuses; I'm getting rid of the thing.  It's an Olympus Stylus Epic Zoom 80, no cheapie, for sure.  I tried, unsuccessfully, to get Olympus to sponsor me this odyssey.  I'm glad now they refused, because I'm fed up with them and their product--this camera's out of here.  I think I'll look at Nikon, Minolta or Canon.

Vango's been having some problems with the motor home, so Scotty hangs back to make some repairs.  I head out again, due west.  Yes, would you believe I'll actually be hiking west this whole day.  If I keep this up, I might actually make it to California!

The American Discovery Trail has come over to piggyback along the North Bend route.  Actually, I picked it up yesterday at the Superfund site, but there were no ADT blazes anywhere along the poorly maintained Harrison County Trail into Clarksburg.  Here today, though, where the trail is manicured and well maintained, seems the ADT likes the recognition and association, as I see numerous ADT blazes all along.  Early in the planning stages for this transcontinental thru-hike I had considered hiking the entire ADT route exclusively, from coast to coast, but after I found that the organization's main emphasis was on bicycling, with hiking being a very distant, secondary consideration, I decided to hike my own route.

The North Bend Trail passes through many tunnels, most constructed before the Civil War.  Each has a beauty and character all its own--I pass through two today, #2 and Long Run, that makes seven total so far.

This has been a good mileage and good progress day.  Late evening I am greeted by Vango and Scotty in the little village of West Union.   On a high hill, on High Street stands High Street B&B, managed by Grandma Ellen.  It's another beautiful and painstakingly restored old two-story home.  Kathy, from Gillum B&B in Shinnston, had alerted Ellen that I'd be coming through, so she was expecting me.  For supper, Scotty fixes spaghetti, lots of it!  Then Grandma Ellen has us in for cake and coffee.  This has been a great day.


Friday--May 24, 2002
Trail Day--37
Trail Mile--782
Location--North Bend Trail, Ellenboro, West Virginia, thence to Lewis "Camo" and Becky "Never Again" Moyers' cabin, North Bend State Park, West Virginia

West Union is a very fine trail town.  The only thing keeping it from being five-star is the lack of computer/internet access at the library, otherwise, neat town.  High Street B&B is definitely five-star.  The old two-story Queen Ann Victorian house has been completely restored by Paul and Liz Jerrett.  Liz's mother, Grandma Ellen, is now the hostess.

Paul is here this morning; I can smell the coffee brewing and as he greets me, I find he's prepared a grand breakfast.  Paul has been involved with caring for the North Bend Trail, and he speaks with much enthusiasm about his work.  At nine, Grandma Ellen sees me off.  Scotty and Vango have departed over an hour ago, to drive back to Clarksburg where they'll get Scotty's bike repaired.  Then he'll catch up with me as I head toward Ellenboro.  Three more tunnels today, that's ten so far.  By three-fifteen I'm in Ellenboro--no Scotty.  Vango is waiting at the DQ, as Lew Moyers will be here to take us to his cabin this evening.  At four-thirty, Lew comes riding in on his bicycle.  Still no Scotty.  Lew's been out on the trail and has found Scotty--another flat tire--he's waiting in Pennsboro for Lew to drive back and fetch him.

In awhile, they're back, and we're finally ready to make our way to Lew's cabin.  A stop at the grocery and we're off.

Hamburgers, hot dogs, a few cold ones and I'm gone, no luck trying to work my journal entry this today...


Saturday--May 25, 2002
Trail Day--38
Trail Mile--804
Location--North Bend Trail, Walker, West Virginia, thence to home of Lewis and Becky Moyers, (AT, Georgia-to-Maine, '00) Parkersburg, West Virginia

I used to have an old cabin in the mountains north of Dahlonega, Georgia.  It was a special place.  What memories of those times came rushing back as we crossed the creek up to Camo's cabin, his, definitely a homemade place, just like mine, tucked back up the "holler."  The rain started just as we unloaded, the day turning immediately into that kind of day, when a warm, snug place, equipped with just the essential comforts--to be shared with friends, brings times so memorable.

Strange to find the place warm and dry as we entered, none of that musty odor so common to places prone to dampness, that have been closed up for weeks.  As Lew goes 'round lighting all the gas mantels, he explains that he keeps the heat on all the time.  I remark, "Don't see a wood burning stove; why don't you have a stove?"  "Don't need one," he said, "Not when you got free gas!"  Seems most everybody up and down the "hollers" here in West Virginia's got free gas.  "The well's up on the ridge; I'm tapped into the line that comes right by the cabin--got all the gas I could ever use," said Lew, with a big grin.  Oh yes, gas heater, gas cook range, gas lights, and gas refrigerator.  We really had to rough it last night!

I thought we'd be out of the mountains by now, but we're not out of the mountains.  The road weaves back and forth and up and around for the longest time it seems, Vango following, as Lew leads us back to Ellenboro.  We're in good shape for the twenty-two miles planned for today as Lew gets us out and going by a little after nine.  More tunnels today, five in all, bringing the count to fifteen.  The first one is the most remarkable so far, not a long one, being less than 400 feet in length, but the most impressive for sure, being carved from solid rock, having no lining, the raw, rugged granite jutting from the walls and ceiling in the most precarious manner, making passage uneasy and scary.  I hasten my pace and manage to get through without the thing caving in on me (no pun intended).

We've been blessed with perfect weather, ideal for hiking, clear and cool with a gentle breeze.  Climbing and climbing (on a railroad grade, that's an incline of two and one-half per cent), by three, we reach the final tunnel on this grand North Bend Trail.  Half way through, Scotty and I hear what sounds like an old train whistle--kinda!  We both laugh, and Camo laughs, as he comes riding up with his headlight on.  We continue together to Walker, enjoying each other's company and talking trail, jabbering all the while.  Then off we go again, Vango following, to Camo's home near Parkersburg.  Here I'm greeted by the other hiker in the family, Lew's wife, Becky.  For the evening meal, she's prepared wild hog, corn on the cob, all the trimmings--followed by strawberry shortcake for dessert.  It was scrumptious.

One more day on the North Bend Trail and we'll be in Ohio.  I am not lonely these days; it's so good to be with friends.


Sunday--May 26, 2002
Trail Day--39
Trail Mile--821
Location--US50, Belpre, Ohio, thence to home of Lewis and Becky Moyers, Parkersburg, West Virginia

Becky drives all of us to Walker.  Camo will be hiking the day with Scotty and me, and Vango has come along for the ride.  We're out in good order by a little after nine.  The day starts iffy but soon turns perfect again, cool and clear.  The goal today is to complete the North Bend Trail, with our final destination being Belpre, Ohio, across the Ohio river from Parkersburg.

We're making remarkably good time, and by noon we've reached the end of the beautifully groomed rail trail just east of Parkersburg.  I comment to Camo how it would be nice to celebrate our successful completion of the North Bend Trail.  He replies that there's a convenience store just ahead, but problem is--there's no beer in Parkersburg before one on Sunday.  Bummer!

As we contine through the goose-egg-size rocks along the abandoned and unfinished rail trail, and reaching the last section, where rails and ties are still intact, I see a shopping bag, lumped up with a can protruding, laying right between the rails.  I give it a poke with my trusty LEKI trekking pole.  Instead of the usual "dink," it goes "thunk," and doesn't move.  I look at Camo, Camo looks at me.  "Hey, it's a full can of beer!" I exclaim.  Reaching down, and retrieving it from the bag, follows another, and dangling, a third, three cans still looped together--half a six-pack, all full!  Well, how about this folks!  By golly now if I don't believe I'll challenge you to top this for utterly spontaneous and perfectly timed trail magic!  Together, Scotty, Camo and I hoot as we clank the three cans of Natural Light, in celebration, a little after noon, on Sunday, this the 26th day of May, 2002!

Continuing on, the abandoned rail grade soon turns to an active rail grade.  Here, we're in the Parkersburg switching yard, an old diesel engine lugging and banging the continer cars around.  Hesitantly, we approach a switchman as he lifts and drops another switch lever, then to release a single railcar, setting it free to rattle and roll its way, shortly to slam into the line of other railcars in its row.  Funny, I never realized that railyards tipped a little downhill!  The switchman greets us with a friendly smile and a cheerful "Hello" as we pass (we are trespassing on private property).

Folks in West Virginia take pride in their hometowns.  Camo beams with pride as he walks us through his.  He was born and raised here.  His family's all here--he's lived near Parkersburg all his life.  He frustrates that the old train depot's been torn down, but points with joy to the beautifully restored old courthouse.  It is, indeed, a work of art.

On US50 now, we cross the Ohio River on the old iron-trussed bridge.  Another state behind me, West Viginia.  Lew's brother, Tim, soon comes for us at Belpre, and we're back to the Moyers' home on the bluff above the grand old Ohio.  Thanks for coming out with us today, Camo, it's been a grand time!

Tonight it's cookout!  Lewis cranks up his gas-fired cooker to deep fry the mounds of fish caught by Jim, his son-in-law.  The whole Moyers family stops by, from Grandma Doris to young grandsons, Mark and Stephen.  What happy people.  All linger.  We have a grand time together--much, too much food!


Monday--May 27, 2002
Trail Day--40
Trail Mile--838
Location--SR141, Frost, Ohio, thence to the home of Lewis and Becky Moyers, Parkersburg, West Virginia

In the evening last, not such good news.  There's been a death in the Frey family and Vango and Scotty must return to Wisconsin. So, after a fine breakfast this morning, they drive Camo and me out to Frost, which is on their way home.  Greeting old friends is always such joy, but bidding them farewell is always so sad.  So long, Scotty; goodbye, Vango.  May God keep you safe till we meet again.

To me, it really doesn't matter which direction I'm hiking on any given day, as long as I cover the ground.   So today, we're hiking west to east.  It's just a lot easier this way, especially for Becky to come for us--yes, I've been invited to stay another day with the Moyers!

 From Frost to Belpre is a road walk, a delightful one.  Camo and I enjoy each other's company as we meander the back roads up and down and over and around.  We're by the river most of the day, vacationers everywhere--this being Memorial Day.  The weather is again perfect, the day grand.

We're back to the Ohio River Bridge a little after three, and Becky soon comes to retrieve us.  In the evening, Lewis gets his old '48 Chevy out and we cruise the streets of Parkersburg.  A couple of cool dudes, oh yeah!


Tuesday--May 28, 2002
Trail Day--41
Trail Mile--856
Location--Athens to Nelsonville Rail Trail, Athens, Ohio, Highlander Motel, Randy Bhakta, manager

Right at seven, Lewis taps on my door with a steaming cup of fresh-brewed coffee.  He knows how much I love my morning coffee.  Man, am I getting spoiled!  Becky has prepared another tank-stoking breakfast, then sends me off with a hug.  Dang, Becky, I sure hate to leave you folks.  Lewis drives me back to Frost, then hikes out a ways with me.  We talk about the upcoming hike he'll be taking along the SIA/IAT with our mutual dear friend, Jolene "Jojosmiley" Koby, as she completes her northbound ECT thru-hike.  Otherwise, not a whole lot's been said as we walk the last couple of miles together.

By a guardrail we linger and chat nervously for a few minutes, before facing the inevitable--time to bid farewell.  So long, Camo, and thanks, thanks for your kindness.  This has been such a very special time.

I'm hiking alone now, alone for the first time in many days, but I will not be lonely, as I have such grand memories of these recent times.

By early evening I'm in Athens, Ohio, home of Ohio University.  All along Union Avenue it's a pub crawl.  I hit 'em all, and by the time I reach the rail trail leading to Nelsonville, the sadness of leaving friends has all but left me.


Wednesday--May 29, 2002
Trail Day--42
Trail Mile--872
Location--US33, Nelsonville, Ohio, Olde Townhouse Inn, Debby Whalen, proprietor

A quiet night, the much needed rest from both physical and emotional fatigue, a blessing.
The bike/rail trail from Athens to Nelsonville is called the Hockhocking Adena Trail.  It's a dandy, paved all the way through.  Many rollerbladers, runners, and folks out on bikes today. They all pass me--guess I just need to keep in mind the story about the tortoise and the hare!

The rail trail is a breeze and I'm in Nelsonville by three.  The Rocky Boot Factory is here.  It's a big place with a grand showroom, but Rocky makes no boots in the USA anymore.  I'm hoping they've got a compass for sale.  Somehow I managed to lose mine.  I'm in luck, they've got just what I need, a little Silva.  It'll work just fine.

Enquiring of the kind lady that's waited on me, as to accommodations in Nelsonville, she says she knows of no place other than the Ramada on the south side of town--but she does refer me to Jim Wilbourn, Mc Fadden Insurance, on the square, with the Nelson