A decade later, I thought I could go twice as far in just one day
New York Appalachian Trail, Part Two
This is the sixth installment in a series about section hiking the AT. The previous installment is here, and the fun begins here.
Day Nine: Island Pond to Bear Mountain Inn (18.4 trail miles)
The nighttime storms had blown over by dawn, leaving behind a calm stillness.
My tent, however, was drenched. I did my best to mop it up with my bandana, wringing the fabric out between passes, but it was wet inside (from condensation) and out (from rain), so I was fighting a losing battle. I packed, made coffee and breakfasted by the pond, and was back on trail before 7:30.
I immediately knew I had made the right call the night before, choosing to stop hiking before the first storm rolled in. Not far from Island Pond there is a notorious geologic feature nicknamed “Lemon Squeezer,” a narrow crack between two slabs of rock. It’s a fun little obstacle course as a day hiker, but a real challenge while wearing a full backpacking kit. I removed my backpack and held it awkwardly in front of me as I shimmied through, with difficulty.
But the “squeezer” wasn’t nearly as challenging as the rock scramble that immediately followed. I pushed my bag and poles up on top of a boulder and, after puzzling over the seemingly impossible feat ahead of me, jammed my fingers into a rock fissure and hoisted myself up after the bag. I very nearly lost my footing, and saw myself sliding back down off the rock, scraping all of the flesh off my front body and maybe also losing a few teeth in the process when my face slammed forward into the damp stone, before a surge of adrenaline helped me get a bit more purchase and I found myself at the top of the rock, in one piece. That was much harder than I remembered, and I was grateful I hadn’t attempted it in the midst of heavy buffeting and torrential rain.
The next section of trail went down into a lush, green, gorge-like valley. The air was heavy, and it was dark under the shady canopy, like a tropical rainforest.
At a marshy pond, I came upon a doe and two fawns grazing near the water, like something out of a Disney film. My sudden appearance broke the spell, because the doe and larger fawn slipped into the undergrowth almost immediately. But the other fawn—stranded on an island of grass—crouched down beside a patch of purple irises and froze, pretending not to see me, even as its dark eyes followed my every move.
A quarter of an hour after leaving that quaint scene behind, I came to the place the AT intersects with the Long Path. I’ve been here before, on the aqua-blazed trail. Good to see you, my friend. The notation in my guidebook: “New York Long Path 52.0E to Manhattan.”
Shortly before Fingerboard Shelter, the Appalachian Trail merges with the Ramapo-Dunderberg Trail (another old familiar). I took a break at the shelter—a little ways down a short side trail in an open, grassy clearing on the side of a hill—and reapplied sunscreen and bug spray. I could hear distant chatter wafting down from the ridge. Even though it felt like I was alone in the middle of nowhere, and I hadn’t seen anyone all morning, the park is crisscrossed with access roads, and after leaving Fingerboard I passed several groups of middle-aged day hikers in quick succession.
Back on trail, I let my mind drift. Having been on this section of trail before, I felt less urgency or need to take it all in. I could relax, and focus on moving. I stopped to filter water at a stream and a young woman, probably a thru-hiker, from the look of her, passed me.
We were close enough in pace that she stayed in my sight-lines for some time. I began to fantasize about stopping for lunch at the next shelter, William Brien Memorial. Surely that must be close now, I thought. I’ve stayed there twice before, but I’ve always approached it from the other direction, so I don’t know exactly what to look for from this side, other than a grassy depression. What do I have left to eat for lunch? I’m thirsty. I’m tired.
My thoughts were firmly fixed on food when I heard a sudden, menacing rattle and saw, as if in slow motion, my foot descending upon a snake curled up and almost invisible between the rocks and the knee-high grasses on either side of the narrow trail. It was inches away—centimeters, really. I shrieked and snatched my foot back and twisted out of the way, landing some ways up on the trail, not far from the snake, but far enough. The snake continued its defensive rattle from a safer distance.
The (presumed) thru-hiker, who was apparently still in screaming distance, stopped halfway up the next climb and called back, “Are you ok?”
“I think so!” I shouted back.
“Did it get you?”
“I don’t think so!” I paused and considered whether I could be bitten by a snake and not know it, but I didn’t see any marks, and anyway, of course I would know if I had been bitten by a snake. “I’m good! Just scared!” The girl walked on.
I soon reached Brien Memorial. I had only ever been there in the evening when it was peopled with other hikers, and it seemed forlorn and desolate now that I was alone, even in the full midday sun. I took my tent out to dry (it would save me from carrying extra water weight) and the lingering wetness evaporated almost instantly. I was chewing my cheese and cracker lunch when it occurred to me that I didn’t really feel like staying out in the woods another night, either alone, or with randoms. Maybe it was the run-in with the rattler that rattled me, or maybe the depressing, lonesome shelter, but I suddenly wanted to be home in my bed.
It was some eight or nine miles to Bear Mountain Inn, and the turnoff for the next shelter, West Mountain, was well before that. I had already come eight miles that day. At the pace I was going, I would reach West Mountain ridiculously early. The only reason I was planning on camping there anyway was to extend my trip another day, but if I no longer wanted to do that…I could just keep walking. I was feeling strong and fast.
At 1pm I texted E, “honestly im considering coming home today / if my legs have 16 in them / last train out of peekskill is 930.”
I decided to keep an open mind, to just hike and decide what I would do when I got to the West Mountain side trail. But there was something appealing about pushing on to Bear Mountain Inn, and finishing my section hike on a big mileage day.
I didn’t bother checking the exact mileage because I know this park, and I know the trail between Brien Memorial and Bear Mountain Inn.
On the first day of my first-ever backpacking trip, in 2015, I hiked on the AT from Bear Mountain Inn to Brien Memorial Shelter. I was so green. I already owned a nice Marmot sleeping bag and Thermarest pad from group camping trips in high school, but had borrowed a tent from a friend, and lashed everything that didn’t fit inside my 25 liter daypack to the front and sides with straps I had purchased earlier that week at Paragon sports (along with water purification tablets—yes, those tablets—and a small knife). I was already steeped in ultralight lore, plus I was on a budget, so I hadn’t bought a stove. I figured I could subsist on cheese and tortillas and a gallon bag of trail mix for one weekend. (Yes, I brought that much trail mix, and was too shy to even offer any of it to the thru-hikers I saw, so I carried most of it back out again.) To further cut down on weight and bulk, I left the tent interior behind, and only used the rainfly and the footprint, leaving myself exposed to all manner of spiders and other creepy crawlies all night long. In retrospect, this was very brave of me.
Even with my fumbling attempts at ultralight hiking, it was still quite a load for a first-time backpacker. And it’s a long, difficult climb up and over Bear Mountain. It was exhilarating, to be out on my own in the woods, climbing mountains, but all the same, the last few miles seemed to go on and on and on. I was thoroughly beat by the time I arrived at William Brien Memorial Shelter.
And now, almost a decade later, I thought I could go twice as far in just one day. It felt ambitious, but doable. I shouldered my pack again, full of resolve to keep on hiking strong.
Back on trail, I came across a group of older men hanging around a trail reroute sign. I confidently sidled up to them and told them they could ignore it, because the New York New Jersey Trail Conference had posted on Instagram days ago that the AT was reopen throughout the park, after having been temporarily rerouted because parts of the trail had been washed out by catastrophic flooding the previous year. It was actually spectacularly good timing, on my part. Odd that this reroute sign was still up, though.
But then the old men were gently pointing out my mistake and reality shuddered into place. This wasn’t a trail reroute from flooding, but to avoid a dangerous road crossing. In November 2021, a 66-year-old day hiker on the joint AT-Ramapo-Dunderberg Trail was killed by a driver while crossing the Palisades Interstate Parkway. In May 2022, the trails were rerouted to avoid the dangerous road crossing. E and I actually hiked Ramapo-Dunderberg in April 2022, just before the reroute went into effect. And of course, I had crossed the highway on that first, fateful backpacking trip in 2015, on a busy Memorial Day weekend. I remember it well. It was, just as others have described, like playing “hiker frogger.”
I inwardly groaned. I had completely forgotten about this reroute. My 2016 guidebook was of no help either, since it predated this reroute by many years. I didn’t even want to think about how many miles this would add to my total for the day. Could I still make Bear Mountain Inn in time to get the last train out of Peekskill?
Two of the old men were heading to West Mountain Shelter for the evening, and they were going to take the old AT, across the parkway. It was a lot shorter and more convenient. The other wanted to stick to the official trail. I was torn. I wanted the shorter trail, too, but I also wanted to stick to the “official” trail. To be honest, I hadn’t been looking forward to the parkway crossing in the first place, because it is scary.
Well, fuck—best get started walking then, I thought, especially if I have to add a couple extra miles to my day. I sped off down the reroute, which followed the 1779 trail. At least it was a long gentle slope down. All the historical trails through Harriman, which date back to the Revolutionary War, are easier than the more modern hiking trails, because they were designed to move soldiers and horses and guns, I assume. The 1779 trail follows the path that the Americans used to attack the British fort at Stony Point on July 15, 1779.
I charged ahead, full of determination and frustration. I had all but decided to go home to Brooklyn that evening and now I wasn’t sure I had it in me to go what—18 miles? 20? I hadn’t done the math. And I didn’t feel like meeting up with the old men at West Mountain shelter. I just wasn’t in the mood. I wanted a shower. I wanted my bed. I wanted E.
Boy, was this detour long. And, idiot that I was, I was low on water, and rationing sips again. I crossed the parkway on the Anthony Way Overpass and began the long slog up the ridge. Some of these trails—not the AT, but the ones that cross it—were still closed due to flood damage.
A tiny sliver of my consciousness recognized that this was a really nice trail, up here on the ridge. That it was fun to see a new-to-me part of the park. It was a clear day, and I could see the city skyline, which is always fun. And I was getting incrementally closer to redlining Harriman. (Redlining is where you walk all of the marked trails within a certain area or map region. Redlining Harriman is not a goal of mine, per se, but it’s not not a goal either.)
I pushed and pushed and pushed and hardly stopped at all until I came to the turnoff for West Mountain. The shelter was 1.3 miles down this side trail. It was 3pm. I was hot, tired—exhausted really—and low on water. I could see Bear Mountain from the turnoff, and I had forgotten that there was a long descent into the valley before the trail turned back up. It looked impossibly far. It would have been simple and easy to just call it a day and stay another night in the woods.
I called E at the office and sobbed out my predicament. I must’ve had dangerously low blood sugar, because I was nearly nonsensical. I could hardly make myself understood. Just as I was choking out my words, a pair of hikers came from the other direction, from the direction of the shelter. I wiped my eyes but they must have seen either my distress, or the phone in my hands, because they averted their eyes. Belatedly, I realized one of them was the woman who had gifted me a bracelet a week ago. I could hear them discussing the reroute; apparently she had chosen to do the shortcut across the parkway. Perhaps the man was her husband, the bracelet maker. She gave no sign that she recognized me, maybe out of politeness.
I told E I would call him back and calculated the mileage to Bear Mountain Inn, as best I could. It was more than five miles. It was 3pm. Even if I slowed to a mile per hour, I could make it before the last train. Barely. I called E back. I was going to try for it. I suppressed my sniffles and started picking my way down the mountain.
In the back of my mind I wondered if I could get a ride to the train station from the thru-hiker if I caught up to her and her husband at the inn…
Nearing the end of the descent, I pulled to the side to let what looked like a day hiker have the right-of-way up the mountain, but she waved me on. “I’m not really hiking, just waiting for my husband,” she said. And she turned out to be a trail angel! “There’s a few cold drinks left in a cooler up ahead,” she added. Her husband must be the other hiker taking the “long” way, somewhere behind me.
“Oh, thank God,” I said, or something similar, with lots of feeling. I greedily slurped down a small red Gatorade as I walked. At Seven Lakes Drive, I saw the thru-hiker with the bracelets drive away in a van. Guess I wouldn’t be catching a ride from the inn after all.
I came across a tiny trickle of water and knelt down to refill my bottles. It was, to my surprise, very cold, likely spring-fed. I did not let up the pace all the way up the backside of Bear Mountain. I was grateful that most of the trail followed evenly spaced stairs, so I didn’t have to think so hard about where I placed my feet. I even jogged a bit along a flatter part of the trail, where I crossed paths with a wild turkey.
At the top, the trail wraps around the top of Bear Mountain in a big semi circle. The surface is pockmarked like the moon (I imagine). It was hot and exposed and I could feel my flesh burning.
I stopped in a bit of shade near Perkins Tower to inhale an entire bag of Trader Joe’s gummy lobsters. It was the sugar infusion I needed to get down to the inn. The top of Bear Mountain is accessible by car so it was crawling with people. I felt feral in comparison.
I flew down the mountain, passing a handful of day hikers still on their way up, and a few on their way down. My chest swelled with pride, as I considered that I had crossed almost the entire width of Bear Mountain-Harriman State Parks…25-year-old Jessica could never have done that.
I stumbled into the inn a little after 6pm and got a beer at the front desk. I love the Bear Mountain Inn lobby. They post signs discouraging non-customers from coming in to use the bathroom but they’ve never given me a hard time, as long as I buy a drink. They also gave me the wifi password so I could call a Lyft. I foolishly held off requesting one so I would have time to finish my beer, and then it took forever to get a car, and I started to worry I wouldn’t be able to get one. At one point my request was completely denied, and then the price shot up to $80, but it went back to a sane amount (less than $30) a few minutes later. The car ended up pulling into the train station with five minutes to spare before the second-to-last train departed at 7:30.
I was heading back to NYC, another successful section hike complete.
Glad you were able to avoid stepping on the rattler! I had a similar experience once and was basically airborne before even being conscious of what was happening. And I had my dog on a leash which is unusual and somehow dragged her past the rattling snake with me. Yikes!
Lovely photos. Congrats on improving with age, instead of deteriorating as expected.