My eyes cracked to the cold just after five in the morning. I’d been up twice to, “wizzle,” as a thru-hiker had called it the day before, but otherwise, my brutalized body had enjoyed a whiskey induced seven hours of sleep in my hammock.
The first fifteen or so minutes were spent unmoving, still fetal-ly curled against the cold I hadn’t sufficiently packed for on this June 9th weekend. Then it was time to get up. My legs needed stretching and my feet… they needed testing. Would they still work? Had they swollen in the night? Would they fit in my boots? Carry me the remaining eight miles to the car? Would I make it out of Pennsylvania?
They did work, albeit with a limp.
Sunlight was streaming off the horizon, beams somehow making it through the seemingly millions of trees in between the sun and my forested position. It was a degree above a shivering, the perfect kind of morning in the woods. Half the time it’s too hot or humid or raining or windy or toe numbingly cold. But not this morning, this was one of those rare perfect ten’s.
My hiking partner Phil was still motionless, no whoosh of material moving against the side of his tent to indicate he’d risen. In the night, another camper had arrived and strung up a hammock of his own, not more than twenty yards away. It too was motionless.
I was standing there stretching, wiggling my legs and shoulders to life when I noticed movement down the hill in front of the shelter. A pair of section hikers had called the shelter home for the night. They’d told us on the way in that they planned to leave early.
‘Section hikers like us,’ I thought. They’re clothes and equipment were to clean to be owned by thru-hikers. They were recently shaven and crisp. You can just tell on the trail.
As I limped in closer, my feet socked and enjoying the cushion of blue rubber Birkenstocks, guy number one said, “Look out rocks, here we come.” He tightened the straps on his pack and gave it a shoulder wiggle to help the weight settled in.
“Morning fellas. Where you headed?” I asked. We’d seen them the night before but had moved farther up the hill to camp and hadn’t come down for a chat.
“Delaware Water Gap,” the first one said.
“If the rocks don’t kill us first,” chided the second.
I laughed in agreement. “Eight-ish miles, right?”
“Something like that,” the first guy responded.
“It’ll feel like twenty,” the second added. He shook his head and grinned.
“No shit. You got that right,” I shot back.
“You guys section hikers?” Guy number one asked. He knew we were. I grew a quick beard, but even if the two-day growth of stubble was enough to mask the fact, the limp gave us away for sure. No thru-hikers are limping in Pennsylvania, despite the conditions. By PA, they’ve hiked a thousand miles and are built like Billy goats.
“Yeah we’re section hikers. Almost done with PA. We’re parked down in Delaware Water Gap, same as you.”
“How you’re feet feeling?” guy number one asked.
I looked down, rolling them opposite one another from heel to tow.
“Like hamburger,” I responded.
The term, ‘Hamburger Feet,’ would stick with me for good after that. I imagined a billboard as you entered the state, ‘Pennsylvania Hamburger Feet – Free along the Appalachian Trail.’ I thought the state might consider replacing their, ‘Pursue Your Happiness,’ slogan with mine.
“Sounds about right,” said guy number two, looping the straps from his walking poles over his hands. “Enjoy the day, at least we’re out in the woods.” And with that he set off, taking the lead.
“Sa la vie Pennsylvania. We’ll See you in hell.” Guy number two smiled. He gave me a nod and then turned to follow his buddy.
I watched them go, wincing with each of their steps as they made way down the access trail from the shelter.
“Happy Hamburger Feet,” one of them yelled over the shoulder before they were out of earshot.
“Same to ya!” I yelled back.
It was a fairly typical encounter for the Appalachian Trail. Unless you hung around the shelters at night, your meetings with fellow hikers were usually brief; everyone has more walking to do. You chatted for a minute or two, discussed destinations for the day, made clear if you were a thru-hiker or section hiker, and maybe exchanged trail names. Then you carried on.
What distinguished this trip from the other sections of Pennsylvania was not the feet pulverizing, soul crushing, joint wreaking rock. The entire state had that to offer. What separated it was the fact that everyone was complaining this time out.
Hike Maryland or Pennsylvania in late May through July and you are bound to meet a thru-hiker. They tend to be passing through the area that time of year. On this particular trip we’d already met Wolfman227, MJ, Candy and a few others we hadn’t talked with long enough to reach the point of trail name exchange. One of them mentioned being the two hundred and twenty fifth thru-hiker to have signed the register at the last shelter. That’s about a quarter these days, when nearly 1000 complete the journey each year.
Phil and I go often in May and June. We’ve met a lot of thru hikers over the years because they’re out there and they’re hard to miss. Plus, they’re a friendly bunch for the most part.
Here’s the thing though, imagine a northbound (NOBO) thru-hiker in northern PA in June. What’s their frame of mind? They’re far enough from the start that the novelty wore off long ago, but not close enough to the end to be getting excited. They’re just over half way (it’s right in the middle of PA) so they have a good chance of making it to the end. But… they’ve spend the last week or two foot boxing with Pennsylvania quartzite and trying to convince themselves it isn’t as bad as they were told. They’re losing on both fronts.
“Morning. How’s it going?” I ask as the long bearded, moderately unkempt campmate approached.
He gave me a sideways glace as if say, ‘you know the answer.’
“Sorry for all the coughing when I came in last night. Been fighting a cold for a few days.”
“No problem. Didn’t even notice.” A white lie meant to provide a smidge of lift.
He set down his gear and was pawing over it. It wasn’t clear if he was looking for his food bag or organizing to leave for the day, but it was enough to get me moving. My gear was spread out on the table. Phil was up now, undoubtedly woken by the coughing that had led to the apology. His tent was still up but he’d be down in a bit and we’d be hitting the trail early hoping to reach the car by midday before our sore Sunday drives home.
Ten minutes passed before anything else was said. I’m always interested in thru-hiking experiences but not enough to barrage a person in the midst of a cold in northern PA.
“You like your Hennessey?” he asked out of the blue. It was in reference to my hammock, a farily well known and respected brand.
“I do,” I replied. “Not sure that I’ve spend enough time in it to get a completely comfortable nights sleep but I think I do better than being on the ground.”
“Same here. I got mine extra-long so there’s no banana bend,” he added. “I lay sort of sideways.” He finished the thought, then came around in front of the counter and sat in one of the camp chairs. A stringed tag still hung over the edge of his collapsible cup and he hovered over the steeping tea as if to absorb the warmth rising up.
“What’s your name? I asked. He’d taken up a position ripe for conversation, sitting just a few feet away versus retreating to the shelter deck.
“Cake,” he said. “Yours?”
“Free Coffee,” I said.
“Got any?” he asked.
“Not this morning unfortunately.” The name came from a 1980’s era plastic cup that I used for camping. It advertises free coffee thru April 30, 1983. I generally hang it on the outside of my bag and on my first section hike in PA a thru-hiker noticed it and proclaimed it my trail name.
“False advertising,” Cake said, smiling for the first time.
I lifted the cup, turning it for him to see. “Thing is,” I said. “It was only free until April 30th,” I hesitated, “1983.”
The grin broadened and he shook his head. “Shit. That’s funny. I wasn’t even born yet.”
“So, you enjoying PA?” I asked, figuring I’d cut to the chase and open the relief value to see if it needed a pressure dump. Over the three day hike it had become something of an informal poll.
Cake blew air out between his lips. “I did 30 miles yesterday.” Phil walked up just as he said it.
“Really?” Phil asked. “Over the rocks?”
“It was probably a bad idea,” Cake admitted, now using his free hand to massage a foot. “Almost every thru-hiker I talked to before I started said Pennsylvania was the worst. But I’d been holding out hope. Figured it couldn’t be as bad as they said. Screw that.” With that he pulled one of his socks down over the heel and turned it to the side to display a rim of red along the perimeter where pools of blood had formed from the abuse. Not five hours later, I’d find the same on one of my feet from the final 8 miles it took us to get to the car in New Jersey.
It felt good, honestly, knowing that age hadn’t yet turned me into a sissy. I’ve done a fair share of backpacking over the years and never had blisters before this trip. The previous day I’d spent 30,000 steps and 13+ miles cursing those rocks. Granted, Cake had come twice as far, covering the full distance in one day that we had taken two to complete. Plenty of credit was given for thst fact as the conversation continued.
“You’ve got hamburger feet,” I said, watching Cake work the sore spots.
He looked up and smiled again. “I like that. Pennsylvania Hamburger Feet.”
We left Cake there to sip his tea in silence. A few hours later he passed me like a rocket on the sleep descent to Delaware Water Gap. I sensed him coming and knew it was Cake without looking, only a thru-hiker would close on you that quickly. Making way, I pulled to the side and turned to clear the path.
“Doing good?” he asked.
I nodded, unwilling to admit that I was using my poles as a sort of crutch to make it down each steep step. “Surviving. Great day,” I said. And it was that. Upper 70’s with high wispy clouds and just enough breezes to keep you cool. A perfect 10.
“Happy Hamburger Feet,” Cake called as he hustled by.
“Same to ya!”
There are plenty of stories in those 38 trail miles between Lehigh Gap and Delaware Water Gap. It’s a tough stretch and a challenging section hike filled with interesting characters, especially during thru hiker season. It’s hard not because of the notorious climb out of Lehigh Gap (that was fun and picturesque). It didn’t have any technical bouldering sections, difficult ascents or descents. It was hard because of the dizzying stream of rock that that required you to select each foot fall like a chess player in a rapid fire day long match. It’s the rocks that make PA challenging but nothing worth having comes easy. You have to get out and experience those rocks and find your story. Cherish those days on the trail in Pennsylvania, there are plenty of stories to be had, all of them worth a few days of sore feet.
