It's a Jersey Thing: Part III - Along the Appalachian Trail

(Left to right) Tomek, Eric, Ryan and Alison standing on a cairn atop the summit of the Kittatinny Ridge. 

July 2011 - Blairstown, NJ

It was summer and, again, Eric and I found ourselves on the way to visit Tomek in Blairstown. The air was warm and heavy, smelling sweetly of scattered summer storms. Between steel-colored thunder clouds, rays of sunlight would shine onto the lush forests and suburban homes of the Northeast. With the last bit of daylight, we passed over the Tappan Zee Bridge, admiring the towering Palisades of the Hudson, and spotting the glimmer of the setting sun reflecting off of buildings in Manhattan. As we traversed northern New Jersey, the fiery glow of smokestacks illuminated the night before passing out of sight, our view swallowed by the hills and forests. With the darkness came the rain. Our visibility was limited as a storm passed over us. We barely noticed that we'd come to the Columbia/Blairstown exit until it was right before us. Pulling off the highway, the rain subsided and we sped along the sleepy streets on our way to Tomek's place.

The night was still and the only sounds were the pitter-patter of water falling on leaves and the masked thud of a nearby bass drum, muted by concrete. Tomek greeted us and lead us to his basement, where a group of friends were celebrating the impending freedom of the weekend with liquid enjoyment. There was also a drum kit, two amps, a bass and a guitar. After throwing back a few well-deserved drinks (driving through New York traffic on a Friday night is not for the faint of heart), I hopped on the drums to join Tomek in playing "Slow Crostic" by Fugazi. The night started to wind down and one of Tom's friends decided to fall asleep under a table. We let him lay for a while before carrying him upstairs to rest on a couch (how courteous of us!) and headed off to sleep ourselves.

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The next morning, we woke, discussed our plans for the day, and had our usual big breakfast and French-pressed coffee. All of the previous night's guests had left, except for the one who cared to join us on our hike: Ryan. A humorous and goofy young man, Ryan  makes for good company. He's positive and maintains a good pace on the trail; he doesn't hold the group back nor does he push too hard--a good companion for the trek we were about to undertake. Our goal was to do nine miles of the Appalachian Trail, starting at the fire tower and ending before the Yards Creek Reservoir. The Appalachian Trail (AT for short) runs approximately 2,200 miles through the wilds of the East Coast, beginning on Springer Mountain in Georgia, with its terminus at Mount Katahdin in Maine (or beginning in Maine and ending in Georgia, if you want to be different). Every year, many attempt to do the whole hike in one sitting; few complete it. It is an undertaking that most should attempt at some point or another during their life--myself included I suppose--if only to understand desperation and defeat. But for now it is July. Nine miles will do just fine.

We make sure we have everything we need. Food: Check. Water: Check. Maps: Check. Other provisions (sunscreen and such): Check, check. Now we just had to pick up our last companion.

We pile into Tomek's Corolla (still runnin'!) and took a long road that follows the Kittatinny Ridge while passing though quaint farmland. With a sudden turn, Tom tears down a dirt road that eventually leads to the Appalachian Mountain Club's (AMC) Camp Mohican. Before arriving at the camp, we pulled up to a beautiful house, built of wood logs and boasting a wrap-around porch. The driveway and stairs leading up to the house were littered with empty beer cans and solo cups. A young man was milling about, smoking an e-cigarette and picking up the trash. Ryan and Tomek got out, began talking to him, and asked where his sister was.

"Upstairs," he responded. "She hasn't gotten up yet."

We headed upstairs to gather our final hiking buddy, Alison. She'd been up late the night before, managing a joint-party she and her brother (the fella picking up the trash) had thrown, and she was not ready to start the day--much less hike. Tomek knocked on her door, and received no response. After several fruitless attempts to rouse her in this way, Ryan walked in the room and proceeded to harass her until she got out of bed. Alison emerged from her room, groggy, and set about getting food and coffee into her system. She was immediately against the idea of a long hike, but with a bit of persuasion (if badgering can be called persuasion), she agreed to accompany us on our walk in the woods. While she got her gear together, I wandered around the house. Above the mantle were several antique rifles -- a percussion cap, a lever action and a flintlock -- and a few old cutlasses. Before I could attempt to handle one of these instruments, Alison reemerged and we made haste to the car. Walking back into the yard, I noticed a grove of Indian fern. Pulling out my trusty Leatherman (never leave home without it!)*, I cut a few branches and secured them to my backpack to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

It was a short drive from Alison's to our starting point at the fire tower. As the car meandered through Worthington State Forest, passing towering rhododendrons that darkened the forest, Eric and I stuck our heads out the window, pulling the mountain air deep in our lungs while "The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1" played on Tom's stereo. A couple of thru-hikers walked passed us as we pulled into the trail head "parking lot," which was essentially a patch of dirt on the side of the road. We grabbed our bags and made our way quickly up the Appalachian Trail, driven by our enthusiasm for finally starting the hike. It was getting close to 11, but the cool morning air still lingered under the canopy. Black flies and mosquitoes buzzed by our heads, while robins and blue jays called out, hidden in the depths of the forest. I kept my ears keen and eyes peeled for any crotalus horridus--timber rattlesnakes--but found none resting by my feet. Such a disappointment. Walking up the ridge, I spot white paint on a tree, boasting the AT symbol--we had arrived. Ryan was holding his iPod, playing Iron Maden songs through the device's built-in speakers. Tomek noticed I was becoming annoyed with this audio nuisance and politely asked Ryan to turn off the music. He kindly obliged.

Walking to the fire tower.

The trail ahead opened up, and the ground was covered in tall grass, lightly blowing in the wind. Before us stood the fire tower, an older structure about thirty feet tall, covered in generations of New Jersey's second-favorite art form: graffiti (their first is Bruce). A young couple with babes strapped to their backs was cleaning up their lunch and heading back down the trail. We took turns climbing up the fire tower, enjoying the view of the Jersey farmlands to the east, the ridge running north to south, the Delaware Water Gap and the Pennsylvanian Appalachia to our west. The mountains and hills faded from green to emerald to blue, distorted by the summer haze. Scattered white, puffy clouds hung suspended in the air, casting light shadows on the ground beneath. Turkey vultures and other raptors soared on the thermals above the land, and a low buzzing indicated a glider flying by over Blairstown below. We enjoyed the sights for a few minutes before getting back on our journey. There was ground yet to cover ahead while it was still under us!

New Jersey's Appalachia.

Now atop the first ridge, the hike became more of a stroll. The ground was level, dotted with large rocks, and short oak trees blocked the July sun from bearing down on us--not quite the intensity of other AT sections, like the unforgiving Presidential Range. It was a welcome change of pace for my skeptical feet. We were not long into our hike, and Alison was rejuvenated, back to her spunky self. She and Ryan took turns being outraged at each other, poking buttons and busting chops, the way it's supposed to be. The trail was lined with blueberry bushes, currently in season, so we all grabbed fistfuls of the juicy fruit, its aroma sweet in the air. A couple of hikers passed us, reed buckets filled with blueberries attached to their back.

With the sun high in the sky and the heat increasing, we rested for lunch on a rock face overlooking the Skylands. Ryan took off his t-shirt and sunned himself on the promontory while we cracked a few lunch beers. A loud troop of boy scouts made their noisy way through the woods, telling brutish jokes and quoting Family Guy, as boy scouts can do until kingdom come. After we could no longer hear the troop, we got back on the trail. From somewhere off in the woods, the scent of cannabis indica wafted across the trail; another hiker no doubt enjoying his/her day in the forest.

Catfish Pond

It was after noon now, and the trail began its rocky descent to Camp Mohican. Granite rocks stuck out of the trail in strange angles, making the going slow and laborious. Without twisting any ankles or scraping our knees, we made it to the outskirts of the campground. Following the trail through the camp, we came to a large lake: Catfish Pond. There was a sandy beach, covered in thru-hikers and campers, young families and a couple of beefed-up white supremacists (hey, even fascists like to have fun, I think?). Kayaks and canoes glided over the water. Across the way was a hill that ran the length of the lake, mostly covered in loose rocks. We were warned against venturing to the rocks, as they were the home to numerous rattlers, which are not known for their hospitality. We dropped our gear on the beach and jumped in the water; it was like hopping into a bathtub. Despite swimming in warm water on a hot day, our aquatic interlude was beyond enjoyable. Tom, Eric and I swam across the lake and basked on a boulder that rested in the water. While swimming back, we spotted a large snapping turtle breach the surface of the water for some air--another of the Northeast's herpetological specimens that deserves a bit of space. Near the beach, I continued to swim while others got out and dried off. Tomek began loading his gear back into his bag, and I took that as my cue to get out of the water.

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Ryan, Alison, Tomek and Eric at Camp Mohican

We passed by the AMC lodge and stopped in for a few snacks. Next to the door was a picture of a five-foot timber rattlesnake climbing up the steps to the lodge, dated only a week before (just missed it!). With candy in hand, we took off down the trail, drying off as we went. The AT began a sharp upturn, bringing us to the Kittatinny Ridge. The air was hot and the way was rocky, causing me to sweat a fair amount as we got higher on the trail. I grabbed blueberries where I could, their sweet juice refreshing me as I went. Ahead, Alison and I noticed a large animal move through the underbrush. A black bear? A mountain lion? We never got a clear view of it, but it was most likely a mundane whitetail deer. It's still fun to pretend!

Viewing Yards Creek from above.

Walking along a shaded cliff face, we looked down at ponds, farmland and the Lower Yards Creek Reservoir, some 600 feet below. Ahead, the Kittatinny Ridge jutted out to the south at a right angle, creating a steep gully that dropped sharply. Our goal was to find the trail that meandered down the ravine and opened up about a half mile from Tomek's house. We studied our topo map and spotted where the trail should leave the AT, about 300 yards after the highest point of our hike.

The high point of this section of the Kittatinny Ridge--somewhere short of 1,500 feet--is bisected by power lines, with the forest clear cut for 20 yards on each side of the lines. In the middle of the clearing was a large cairn, marking the summit (photo at top). The sun was waning in the sky, coloring the horizon crimson. We walked to the top of the cairn and looked out upon the land around us. We were only about an hour from the biggest city on the Eastern Seaboard and a few miles from one of the worst coal factories in the nation, but the land before us was like something from centuries before, appearing untainted by modern poisons.

A view of the Delaware and Pennsylvania from the top.

Leaving the summit, we took our time trying to find our trail home. It was nowhere to be seen. We tested a few deer paths that disappeared into the underbrush and had to double back several times, worried we'd missed the trail head. The forest was growing darker and it was over four miles back to the campground, so we needed another option. From where we stood, we could make out the road that goes from the Upper Yards Creek Reservoir to the lower. The issue was, however, since 9/11, the public is not allowed to venture through the property; homeland security and such. But what were our other options? There were no other outlets within miles. We couldn't follow the power lines down, as the way was far too steep. We hadn't taken flashlights, so hiking in the dark would be treacherous. Yards Creek seemed like the only viable plan. So it goes.

Leaving the cherished Appalachian Trail, we bush whacked through the woods for a time, eventually exiting the forest above the upper reservoir. It was completely drained, the water having been pumped to the lower pool to generate electricity. (They pump it back up at night, when the electricity is cheaper. Engineers, man!) The way to the road was blocked by a chain link fence. Mosquitoes were swarming in thick hordes and the "burump!" of bullfrogs and the shrill cry of gray tree frogs filled the air. We wandered around the desolate property for a while, trying to find a way around the fence. Ryan and Alison took off downhill through the trees, hoping to eventually come across the road, while Tomek, Eric and I tried to locate where the fence ended. After a long search, we had a breakthrough, called Alison and Ryan over, and began our descent (dissent?). The pavement was pale-blue and cracked by years of cold winters, hot summers and constant neglect. As the road switch-backed down the mountain, we passed giant tubes that looked like water park slides. Machines, pipes and wires transformed the pristine land into an industrial complex fit for some scifi movie or Call of Duty game--hardly the expansive forests of the AT we'd just left. The occasional buzz of some unknown machine would make us jump, but the place was barren of any staff, leaving us to travel through the facility unmolested.

The night grew darker as we neared the end of the road. Ahead, we spotted the gatehouse. The flood lights were on, blacking out the surrounding woods, illuminating the guard sitting in a chair at the side door, feeding feral cats. He was a larger man, older with white hair coming out from under his Department of Homeland Security hat. He hadn't spotted us yet, so we took a knee to discuss the best way to exit the property. Should we sneak out through the woods? Should we walk right by him and not say anything? All of the options seemed either too rude or too sketchy, so we opted to just walk out the front gate and let him make the move. As we approached the gatehouse, the cats walked off into the woods and the old man looked up at us. He sat in his chair,  hands folded on his lap, staring at us as we walked down. When we got close, he said "hello" and asked how we were doing. We said hello back and returned the pleasantry, prepared to tell him that we'd become lost on the Appalachian Trail, a story he must have heard before. The reflective retinas of the hiding cats glowed in the dark.

"Well," he said. "I don't think I saw anything tonight if you didn't see anything."
"I don't recall seeing anything." I replied.
"Very good," the old man said. "Have a good night."

He turned away from us and rubbed his index finger and thumb together while making a ticking noise with his tongue, calling for his cat friends to come out of the woods. We took the short walk back to Tom's.

On our way home, we discussed the feast we would undertake: Burgers! Onions and peppers! Corn on the cob! Baked beans! Beer! It would be extravagant. We got the grill going, meat and veggies sizzling, and livers failing while we talked about the hike. We took out our topo map and determined that our detour had driven the hike closer to 12 miles than the nine we'd intended. Oh well, math is for accountants anyway. Tom and Eric placed the food on the table and we scarfed it down like starved dogs. Preparing for a long night of celebrating ahead (as we were delighted to not be on our way to a federal detention center), Tomek and I put more beer in the downstairs fridge to cool off. Coming back upstairs, we joined the others on the couch, where--one by one--we all fell into a deep, restful sleep; none would wake until the next morning.

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Tomek picking raspberries.

Ryan and Alison made their way home in the morning. Tom, Eric and I joined Mr. C in the garden and picked fresh raspberries and blueberries for breakfast smoothies. The day was young, but it was already hot by the time we hopped into Eric's jeep to pick up Tomek's car by the fire tower. Eric tossed me the keys and told me that I needed to learn to drive (I did not have a license at this time). I took the helm and we made our way up the winding roads. Tomek's car was just where we'd left it (surprising in New Jersey!) and we decided that we should enjoy a swim before heading back to Boston.

A wonderful day at Blue Mountain Lake.

We took the road deep into Worthington State Forest and pulled off at Blue Mountain Lake. The beach was packed with people, but we found a spot of nice grass near the lake's dam. Tomek knew some of the folks nearby, so we chatted them up while applying sunscreen. Jumping into the water, we took our time swimming out to the island, where young folks were jumping off a tall rock into the deep water below. I took a few turns jumping in, not as bashful as I was last time. We swam for another few hours, but I was reluctant to leave when Tomek said it was time. Back home, we found Tomek's parents pulling fresh cooked ribs and other plates out of the stove. Ever the gracious hosts, they demanded we stay and enjoy this feast with them. We ate our fill and--against my better judgement--left for Boston, where the summer was still young and waiting for our next adventure.

Driving past the Yards Creek gatehouse, we saw the old guard standing in front of the building, calling to the cats. "Don't be shy little ones," he said. "Come on out of the woods."



*Hey Leatherman! I could use a good corporate sponsor...

Camping Tricks!

I'm finishing up a story right now, but Steph sent me this and found it too good to not pass along.

Also I wanted to keep it somewhere where I could easily reference it when I need to.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/peggy/camping-hacks-that-are-borderline-genius


Enjoy!

Rory Thomas