I may not be a peak bagger, but I love bagging peaks

New Jersey Appalachian Trail, Part Two

This is the second installment in a series about section hiking the AT. The first is here.

Day Three: Unnamed Campsite to Gren Anderson Shelter (14.7 trail miles)

I did not want to wake when my watch alarm went off at 5:10 in the morning, or my phone alarm 15 minutes later. Insane hours to get up on one’s vacation, I know, but I wanted to hike as far as possible before the heat of the day really set in.

So, I dragged myself out of sleep by six, and, after breakfasting, changing, carefully applying sunscreen to my exposed flesh, and breaking camp, made it onto the trail before seven.

The trail was easy to start, gently rising and falling. I saw another turkey. I passed tantalizingly close to Crater Lake, which had the notation “no camping” but not “no swimming” in my guide, but it was half a mile off trail and I reluctantly acknowledged I didn’t have a 16-mile day in me. I stopped early and often, trying to conserve my energy. And I played fast and loose with my water, carrying as little as possible (so my bag didn’t weigh so much) and stopping to top off frequently.

I am an amateur photographer who doesn’t know much about her camera and accidentally turned on this vignette effect and couldn’t figure out how to turn it off…

One of the hikers who had passed me the day before caught up again, and we hiked for a bit together. She had recently gotten on trail at Harpers Ferry and was headed north; after she summits Katahdin, she’ll return to Harpers Ferry and hike south. In thru-hiker parlance, this is called a flip-flop hike. (Apologies to my readers who are in the know for stating the obvious, but not everyone who subscribes to Pinch of Dirt is a dyed-in-the-wool backpacker!)

We bonded over the Long Trail in Vermont, which had been her first long-distance trail as well as mine, and she gave me one of several little woven bracelets that her husband had made for her to give to other hikers. (Which I’m still wearing! A nice little reminder of the trail.)

She told me she was from Connecticut and that she and her husband were recently retired and that she had wanted to thru-hike the AT her whole life. Her husband had recently suffered an injury, and while he recovered, he was supporting her—meeting her at road crossings at the end of each day and driving her to a hotel, and bringing her back each morning. Consequently, she was carrying a very light bag and I had to push myself to keep up, and was almost relieved when I apologetically said I was out of water and needed to stop at a stream to fill up.

But the stream was rather brown and slow, so I only filtered a liter.

A short time later, hiking through dense shrubs and slim trees, I heard something to my left. I looked and saw a suspiciously black boulder through the scrub. I blinked and it was gone. I clapped my walking sticks together and walked back and forth on the trail, trying to find it again. There! Three black blobs, and one had the very definite form of a bear cub! I could also see the backside of a large mama, and another cub. They were so far away and difficult to make out through the greenery I didn’t even bother trying to take a picture.

When I stopped to lunch at a rocky outcrop with a view, huddling under a very thin tree for the slimmest amount of shade, I realized I had seven miles to hike between water sources in the heat of the afternoon with less than half a liter on my person. The only place I could top off was at a shelter, half a mile down a side trail. I considered whether I could make it on the few swallows I had left, but I was already feeling thirsty and a little ill from the heat. Obviously, that was dangerous and stupid. I reluctantly accepted that I would have to hike more than 16 miles after all. I really hoped the water at the shelter was flowing freely.

But when I came to the turnoff, I found Fenix, the thru-hiker from Georgia, topping off his bottles from a water cache. The giant jugs had initials on them, and I guessed they were for some of the big groups of teens I had seen hiking over the past two days. I hesitated. I didn’t want to steal their water, but I also really didn’t want to go down to the shelter to a water source I wasn’t even sure would be flowing. So I took the bare minimum I felt I needed—a liter. When I left, Fenix was helping another hiker fill her bottles up as well.

They both caught up to me as I took another long break at the top of a ridge, huddled under a pine tree for shade. Fenix asked if I was going to go to the diner at the upcoming road crossing for a burger and beer, but I just wanted to get to the shelter. The other hiker, Lady Slipper, said she had lost her water filter, and needed to go into town for water purification tablets at the sporting goods store. I had some in my emergency kit but they were quite old, and I didn’t know what the expiration date was.¹

But when I finally got to the road crossing, a nearby gas station signed beckoned with the promise of refrigerators filled with cool drinks. Gatorade! I walked over, and was devastated to find it was just a gas pump. The attendant apologetically said they didn’t sell drinks, but if I just walked a bit further, “just beyond those trees” (actual distance unknown), there was a place I could get one. When I said that was too far out of my way, he tried to go inside to get me a bottle of his own personal water! I insisted I was fine, thanked him profusely, and turned back around. Then I peeked into the window of a BBQ joint, thinking I’d settle for a cold soda if they had them, but it was closed. A truck pulled into the parking lot, also interested in BBQ, and this man ended up forcing a bottle of coconut sparkling water on me (“Take it! I don’t like coconut”) which I accepted with a smile.

It was nice being back on a trail that everyone knows, even non-hikers, and where people are eager to offer assistance. But I felt discomfited by the possibility of being mistaken as a thru-hiker, and jumped to tell people I was “just” a section hiker whenever possible.

The bottle was hot to the touch. I stashed it, unopened, and set out on the last three miles. At the stream just before the shelter, I dropped the bottle in the cool water to chill while I filtered. The water was shallow—barely covered my feet—but I took a full body bandana bath, rinsed my clothes, and changed into my camp clothes. Nobody disturbed me, and I was the first person at the shelter, where I cracked the now-cool sparkling water. It tasted like fizzy heaven, and I quietly thanked the nice man who didn’t like coconut.

I set up my sleeping bag in the shelter. The forecast for the following day was for rain and I didn’t want to pack up a wet tent. Some time later, as I sorted my food and cooked dinner, Fenix arrived. He asked why I had set up my sleeping bag on the far left of the shelter, and observed generally women will choose the right side of the tent because then the zipper will be on the inside of the shelter and not the wall side, and therefore easier to get into. He went on to explain that boy sleeping bags are different than girl sleeping bags (the zips are on opposite sides) so that couples can join them together. This was all said very matter-of-factly and I chose to ignore any possible over- or undertones, and Fenix ultimately set his own sleeping bag up on the far right side of the shelter, giving me as much space as possible, so perhaps there were no over/undertones! (Lady Slipper set up her tent behind the shelter, which is the surest way to ensure privacy and space on trail.)

As Fenix puttered around, he told me about some of his romantic woes (a girlfriend broke up with him because he wouldn’t section hike) and said a “Chinese woman” was texting him, trying to pick him up. “Probably a scammer,” he added, as he texted her back. A few minutes later, she called, and I heard her ask probing questions about where he was and what he was doing. He said if she checked out his TikTok she could learn all about it, which seemed as good a way to discourage scammers as any other—although I’m not sure that was his intent. Later, after she hung up, I ventured to say that she really did sound like a scammer—just in case he wasn’t sure.

And then I very intently began journaling, giving only the curtest of responses to his chatter. It felt rude, but a woman has got to write, right?

I slept surprisingly well and hardly worried about bears at all.

Day Four: Gren Anderson Shelter to High Point Shelter (13 trail miles)

It was raining when I woke, and the thunder in the distance kept getting closer. I made breakfast slowly, in no hurry to leave the dry refuge. I was also set on going to the bathroom properly, which is something I had yet to do on this trip, if you know what I mean. It was getting uncomfortable.

When I came back from a less-than-successful trip to the privy, there was a forlorn man in the shelter holding a roll of toilet paper. He said he was there to do trail magic, and in particular, to give hikers a ride somewhere, if they wanted it, and seemed disappointed that we didn’t.

Fenix left before me, saying something about not making it to Katahdin if you don’t hike in the rain.

I lingered, slowly organizing my food and belongings for the day so I would have easy access to what I need without getting everything else all wet. Another hiker walked up named Caboose, who was on his third thru-hike of the AT. He spread out his wet gear and began setting up his stove to make a hot breakfast. He said he recognized me from two days ago, and that I had very nearly come upon him as he was unknowingly doing his business closer to the trail than he realized. (His long hair had been down before, but was up in a bun that morning, rendering him almost unrecognizable.) I assured him I hadn’t seen anything, although I had noticed his flustered demeanor.

He also asked how old I was, because apparently my braided pigtails made me look quite youthful, but the way I was talking about hiking (as E will tell anyone, I can be quite the chatterbox on trail) made me sound like an old. I was highly flattered.

Before I left, Caboose gave me an extra can of fuel he had picked up along the way, since he already had two. It was really generous, and this way E and I could have hot coffee without worrying about running out of fuel later.

Eventually I had no other tasks with which to occupy myself, and the thunder and lightning had let up, so I heaved my bag on and set out in the steady drizzle. Walking through the cool rain was quite pleasant. I had to watch my feet—both so I didn’t slip, and because the wet weather had brought out dozens of red-spotted newts (or eastern newts) and I didn’t want to step on them.

The trail climbed to a pavilion on Sunrise Mountain. When I popped out at the top, the summit was shrouded in clouds. I joined three other hikers sheltering out of the rain to snack and drink water and sit somewhere dry. One was a section hiker heading south, on her last day on trail. The other couple was section hiking roughly half the trail. “Ah, so you’re long-ass section hikers,” I said. The woman seemed to take offense at that, and said they might as well be thru-hikers.

No offense was meant! I know as well as anyone that section hikers aren’t necessarily doing it because they can’t or don’t want to do a “real” thru-hike. But I dropped it without saying as much. Also, there was an implicit dismissal of section hiking, which is what I was doing, that I didn’t like either! Hikers can be so touchy.

The clouds blew over, revealing the valley below and the hazy outline of distant mountains. When I started walking again, I wished I had started earlier and hiked in the rain more. At least it had been cooler then! Now the sun was burning off the cloud cover, and it was hot and buggy.

Another hiker passed me while talking on the phone. Technology and gadgets seemed ever-present on the trail this year, more so than they had eight years ago, when I hiked part of the AT in Vermont.

I was guilty of this some myself and texting E frequently, preoccupied with travel anxiety on his behalf. I was worried about whether he’d be able to get a taxi ride from the bus station in Port Jervis to a trailhead near the shelter that night, or if he’d be stuck hiking in the dark.

I made decent time, because there weren’t many places to stop and rest that weren’t wet, but not fast enough to get to the park headquarters (and, I had hoped, a Gatorade) before they closed at four. (I arrived at 4:05, and saw the woman close and lock the door from across the lawn.) The hiker who had been on the phone was at a picnic table. He was getting off trail the next day, and offered his extra food (lentils and tinned fish—I declined) and very nicely offered to take my bag of trash, since there wasn’t a bin outside the building. I felt bad about judging him for the phone call, especially when I learned he had just been arranging a rental car for the next morning.

The next section of trail went straight up, towards High Point. I was tired but pleased at how strong I felt on the climb, and generally had felt all trip, with only minor aches, pains, or stiffness each morning. What a delight, what a joy!

High Point

Even so, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to take the side trail to get to the top of High Point, which, in case it needs to be said, is the highest point in New Jersey. I’m not a high pointer, per se (those people who go to the highest point in every state), but that doesn’t mean I don’t like keeping track of the states where I have, in fact, high pointed. I may not be a peak bagger, but I love bagging peaks, you know what I mean?

But it would add more than a half mile to my total for the day—straight up, and then straight back down. And I was tired! Plus, E wouldn’t be there to do it with me, and he would probably want to at some point. We’ll come back, I decided. (I’m kicking myself as I write this. I fully misremembered it being more than a mile to High Point, and now that I see it was just 0.3 miles to the top...a wasted opportunity.)

So I turned and walked down, down, down a steep, rocky slope to the shelter, and I started thinking I made the right call because now my knees were feeling a bit twinge-y after all. I snagged a large, flat tent spot, and inhaled fistfuls of chocolate-covered pretzels and buffalo almonds, because I wanted to wait for E to make dinner and I didn’t know when he would arrive. There was no service.

I took another bandana bath in a stream—less thorough than my previous one, because there were other hikers around. I lent the fuel can Caboose gave me to a young woman who had brought her much younger sister out on her first overnight trip, but whose Walmart fuel can wasn’t working with their stove, so they could have a hot dinner. The trail really does provide!

The sun was setting and I had just started filtering water at the picnic table in front of the shelter when I saw a man poking around my tent. It was E! He had gotten there so much faster than I expected. I ran back over the bridge to say hi.

Once we were reunited, I could finally relax. (I was able to use the privy as intended.)

1. Some say indefinitely, unopened, but the official shelf life is apparently four years unopened, one year opened, and I have dutifully thrown my almost decade-old bottle away. I am mortified to report it was rusted shut and could only be pried open with a pair of pliers, so would have done me less than no good in an emergency.