Only the most hardy species can survive
New Jersey Appalachian Trail, Part One
As longtime readers know, I’ve been section hiking New York’s Long Path with my boyfriend since 2021. We had been looking forward to finishing the trail this spring, but a new job prevented him from taking more than a week to go walking through the woods with me. So, I set out to hike a section of the Appalachian Trail instead—because it’s there! So—I guess this is the first installment of a series about section hiking the AT? It’s almost 2,200 miles long so I don’t know if this particular series will ever be “done,” but who knows what the future will bring!
Day One: Stroudsburg, PA to Backpacker Campsite #2 (5.3 trail miles)
I took a packed mid-afternoon bus out of Port Authority to Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, in the Delaware Water Gap. The plan was to hike north on the Appalachian Trail for several days, meet E near Port Jervis, and hike with him to Rt. 17, where he would catch a bus back to the city. I would continue hiking until I either didn’t want to anymore, or I had run out of vacation days.
As soon as I stepped off the bus and began walking towards town and the trail, I was enveloped in a heady cloud of summer scent: trees, cut grass, and pungent flowers. I sucked it in greedily. It was sunny and hot, but there was a light breeze. I could have floated away on the feeling of lighthearted freedom.
I walked on the slim shoulder of the road, which eventually turned into a narrow sidewalk. There were flags on the light poles that said “An Appalachian Trail community,” and a sign on a coffee shop chalkboard proclaimed “Hiker Trash Welcome.” Not too long after, I spotted my first white blaze—the iconic marker of the Appalachian Trail—and followed it onto the bridge over the Delaware River.
The narrow pedestrian path was separated from the interstate traffic by only a waist-high barrier. My neck felt extremely vulnerable—if a loose bit of something or other fell off any of these vehicles, I could be maimed or decapitated. I scooted along, not wanting to take my chances any longer than I had to, although I paused to see if I could spy what had made a big splash in the river, and to take a photo of the New Jersey state line. Some of the cars and trucks honked as they passed, but I had a feeling it was meant to be friendly: they thought I was an AT thru-hiker.
Coming off the bridge, the trail passes the Kittatinny Visitor Center. I had actually been in this exact place weeks ago on a conference field trip. It’s located on a former farmstead, whose owners were forced out by eminent domain so that the government could build the Tocks Island Dam. The dam was never built, at least in part due to local opposition, but more than 4,000 people had already been forced off their land. I walked down the stairs to the river. Earlier in the spring, after days of heavy rain, the water had lapped at the steps, but it had since receded, exposing a muddy beach. Tree-covered mountains rose on all sides, and the gap echoed with the sounds of I80 traffic.
I didn’t linger long. My bag was heavy with five days of food and I was unsure of the terrain ahead, so I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to camp before dark. I crossed under the highway and walked up to the trailhead parking lot. I must’ve looked like I knew what I was doing, because a day hiker asked me if I knew where the red dot trail was. Having just gone by, looking for the AT, I pointed it out with ease.
Predictably, the trail began going straight up, following a tumbling stream in a deep chasm. I was already sweating, and looked down at the swirling pools longingly. Too soon, I told myself. Also, too steep. Another hiker passed me at a fork where I was examining a sign that said “camping at Backpacker Site #2 for through hikers only.” He asked if the AT was on the left and I said yes, and he disappeared ahead. Oh dear. How many other hikers were ahead of me? Would there be space at this campsite? As a section hiker, was I even allowed to camp there?
The trail moved away from the water and leveled out a bit, following a mostly gentle slope through the woods. Gnats crowded around my face and I eventually had to stop and pull on my head net.
I made good time to the campsite and felt a wave of relief when it was virtually empty, except for that one guy setting up his tent. I headed to a clearing far away, to give him space. After setting up my tent, and changing into my camp clothes and sandals, I pulled out two single serving packets of mini mozzarella balls and slurped them down, salty cheese water and all. They were still cool. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
Suddenly I realized that the buzzing I could hear was not a bee, but a drone. What the fuck, I thought. This is both creepy—because I know how much those things can see—and annoying. I looked up at the sky where I could just make out the little robot and glared. Go away.
I ate dinner as the sun set, and then stored all my food, my stove, and my toiletries in the nearby bear box. There were two deer grazing nearby, bravely unconcerned. Then I climbed into my tent to journal and read and settle in for what turned out to be a very, very long night.
I often have trouble sleeping my first night or two on trail, before I’ve become either accustomed to the sounds of the woods at night, or too exhausted to stay awake in fear. My ears strained to pick up the sounds of approaching bears, which I could see so clearly in my minds eye. Then I really did hear something outside, and looked out (I had left the doors open to catch the breeze) to see a small form humping its way up a tree just 10 feet away. I felt around frantically for my headlamp but by the time I found it, the creature had disappeared into the leafy cover.
An hour or two later, I heard it again, and I pulled my headlamp out and turned on the beam. A small porcupine! Extremely uncanny to see it climb like that, like a little woods demon. I must’ve scared it because it scooted up the tree again. I was still awake when it finally began to climb down again, now after midnight. I waited until it was halfway down the trunk and turned on my light to snap a picture quickly, before it could reach the ground and waddle away.
The moon was almost full, and in the clearing it bore down on me like a spotlight. The night was full of the aggressive cries of the Eastern whip-poor-will. When I finally slept, it was fitfully, sitting up in a panic every hour or two, when a crack or rustle broke into my consciousness.
Day Two: Backpacker Campsite #2 to Unnamed Campsite (11.4 trail miles)
When I woke the next morning, there was a deer grazing outside the tent. I watched through the open door until it wandered off. When I went to get my food bag, there was a turkey.
I broke camp, mixed myself a bottle of Carnation Breakfast Essentials and instant coffee, and started walking. The next campsite wasn’t for 11.5 miles, and I wanted to get going.
I soon came upon Sunfish Pond. This place had also come up during the tour of the Delaware Water Gap that spring. Hydroelectric companies had wanted to use the 44-acre glacial lake as a pumped storage site, sending water from the river up at night and then forcing it down again and harnessing the energy as electricity during the day. But a group of environmentalists and conservationists, including United States Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, opposed this commercial development. Douglas even joined a protest hike to the pond with a thousand other dissenters. Now it’s protected.
No swimming allowed, unfortunately.
It was still early morning, but already hot and humid, and I clambered over the glacial detritus around the pond with difficulty, stopping several times to apply sunscreen, bug spray, and to eat a package of PopTarts while gazing out across the water. A sign proclaimed that the pond was acidic, so only the most hardy species can survive in it. This certainly dampened my desire for an illicit swim (exactly how acidic were we talking here?), but what really cinched it was seeing a large black snake launch itself off a rock and into the water upon my approach. Nope! No, thank you.
The trail climbed up Kittatinny Mountain, which was surrounded by rivers of cloud that had just begun to break up, and then back down to a stream and a road crossing. I leaned my bag against the bridge and pulled out a bandana to give myself a sponge bath. It was so hot, in the mid-80s, and humid. The stream water was cool, but not cold. I saw more hikers on the trail, but not many. It was pleasantly calm and quiet.
The trail climbed up to a lookout tower and I pulled out my sleeping pad to lie down for a moment in the shade, exhausted, but the sun moved quickly and so did the shade. I climbed up the stairs to the top, gripping the handrails and trying not to think about accidentally slipping off the metal platforms between the gaps of the flimsy protective screens. Falling to my death seemed like it would be all too easy. The mountains were splayed out below like a rumpled green blanket, but the wind whipped viciously, and I was too alarmed to relax, so I snapped a few pictures and returned back to the safety of the ground as quickly as possible.
I had just about had it with hiking as I neared the promised campsite. But the last few miles took me through the most lovely clearings filled with wildflowers, so I mustered the energy to take just a few more photos.
In the end I made good time, arriving around 5:30, hours before sunset. Shortly after I set up my tent, I heard two backpackers go by, saying complementary things about the site but observing that it was too soon to stop hiking. Good for you, I thought, I can’t go another step. I crawled in my tent and instantly fell asleep on my mat.
When I woke, another hiker had just arrived, and had set his bag down and pulled out a tent. I walked up to say hi. He introduced himself as Phoenix with an ‘F’ (later I saw in a shelter register it was spelled Fenix), like the “Japanese bird, not the Egyptian one.” He was baffled that I did not have a trail name. He asked me what mile marker we were at and I said “1300-something” and he said, “Well, I know that.” I explained I was using a paper copy of AWOL’s AT guide from 2016 and it wouldn’t be very helpful for exact mileage.
Fenix was from Georgia.1 I soon learned how many miles a day he had walked recently (about 15), how many he had to average to make it to Katahdin to meet his sister (13), how many days worth of food he was carrying (about 12), how much his bag weighed (64 pounds), how many times he had set up his tent since starting in Georgia (just nine), how many battery banks he carried (four), and how many zero days he had taken (none). I also learned he had been in the military, was father to two sons, and that he had paid off his house in just a couple years by renting rooms to nurses during Covid, which allowed him to “retire,” although he also described himself as an entrepreneur and was renting out his car with the assistance of his father from the trail. When an interest payment came through later that week, he would have met his goal of saving [exact amount redacted] to buy a camper van. Oh, and he had a TikTok account he wanted me to follow. I said I wasn’t getting on TikTok while on trail but I’d look him up later.
He learned that I lived in the city, was originally from Kansas, and worked as a journalist. He suggested I write a story about either the nutritional challenges faced by thru-hikers (and shared how much weight he had lost since the start of his hike), or about post-trail depression, which he knew he would suffer from. He also told me about a guy who had recently been fined $1,000 for slashing water caches for AT hikers because he didn’t think they should be supported. (I believed him, but was unable to confirm this story after the fact.)
Fenix also observed that everyone complains about the rocks in Pennsylvania (hence the nickname, “Rocksylvania”) but that New Jersey is just as rocky and difficult, and nobody complains about that. “The power of branding,” I observed.
I made dinner nearby while he set up his tent, and then politely moved away when one of his sons called. After cleaning my pot, I went to tie my Ursack bag to a tree, then felt unsure of my selection and of my knot, and went back to switch trees.
I had just settled into my sleeping bag after journaling and reading a chapter of my book when I heard a loud rustling outside in the bush right by my tent. I shot up and turned my headlamp on and shook my tent pole to make noise. The demonic creature, which had been heading straight towards me, shot off in the other direction. I climbed out of the tent. Just another, fatter porcupine, now climbing into a nearby tree.
I didn’t sleep well that night either, my head full of imaginary bears chewing and clawing my food bag off the tree trunk. Around 2:30, I crawled out of the tent to check on it. It was fine. After that, I was finally able to sleep.
Reading list
56,089 coyotes. 26,371 beavers. 2,432 foxes. 515 bobcats. 450 black bears. 219 gray wolves. 205 mountain lions. Seven federally protected grizzly bears. That’s how many wild animals were killed by Wildlife Services in 2022 on behalf of ranchers, according to Lizzy Pennock with WildEarth Guardians, a conservation group. This is a must-read profile of a former government trapper. [Todd Wilkinson for The Yellowstonian]
A flamingo in Cape Cod?! [Meredith Deliso for ABC News]
New at the Bulletin: After years of development and neglect, Sri Lanka’s once-maligned wetlands are having a moment. Officials have finally recognized their beneficial role as the “lungs and kidneys” of Colombo, and an essential bulwark against climate disasters. But it may not be wetlands’ usefulness as a climate defense that wins the heart of Sri Lankans, but the opportunities for outdoor recreation that new parks provide. [Tristan Bove for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists]
New Yorkers, you probably know that our governor wants to delay congestion pricing indefinitely, threatening the city’s climate and environmental goals, transit funding, and street safety. Do you know where your representatives stand? Find out here. If this makes you angry, there’s an easy way to contact the people in power en masse here. (I’ve already received a response from Senate Deputy Majority Leader Michael Gianaris.)
I remember reading once that many, maybe even most, AT hikers are from one of the 14 states it passes through, but I can’t find a link!
So glad Sunfish Pond avoided that destructive scheme. Yay for activism! And I hope activism succeeds in reinstating congestion pricing!!! What a farce. The War on Cars podcast did a fantastic job
”emergency” episode on it.
Thanks for linking the congestion pricing contact form - so infuriating!