The Bears Den Hostel was one of the most comfortable and elegant on my entire hike. The building is a Tudor-style stone mansion, built in 1933 by local stonemasons, and formerly the home of a Washington, DC, doctor and his opera singer wife. Now the mansion-turned-hostel offers accommodations for twenty-six wayfarers. I left reluctantly in the morning.

Back on the trail, I hiked slowly, enjoying the views along Bears Den Rocks. Half a mile later, I was walking the shoulder of Virginia Rt. 7 in the deliciously named Snickers Gap. Then into the woods again, off on a twenty-mile stroll on a delightful Sunday in June.

White mountain laurel bloomed brilliantly in the morning sunshine. The blossoms of these bushes are small and cuplike, as though offering a deep drink of their beauty. A photographer had set up his tripod along the trail and was busy snapping photos. I stopped to chat and found that he photographed the wildflowers of the Appalachian Trail as a hobby and had some of his work published in several prominent magazines. My obvious interest in the wildflowers of the trail encouraged him to explain the similarities and differences of mountain laurel, azaleas, and rhododendron. “All three are poisonous,” he cautioned. I didn’t tell him about my eating habits, but I decided it might be wise to discontinue my wildflower sampling.

The blossoming everywhere distracted me; I had my nose stuck in every flower I passed. My usual attention to the trail floated away on the sweet scents of the morning, and I never saw the root that trapped the tip of my hiking pole while my body and pack continued moving forward. The pole was strapped to my wrist, and the tip was lodged firmly under the root. Something had to give, and it wasn’t the root or the pole. My body did an about-face, and before I had a chance to react, I was on the ground.

My pole now resembled the letter C. I tried straightening it over my knee and used a little more persuasion from a rock, but then it looked like a lightning bolt. Hopefully I could find an outfitter in Harpers Ferry who would supply me with a vise to further straighten the pole.

At Crescent Rock, I paused on the high rock formation and enjoyed my final view over the vast and beautiful Shenandoah Valley.

Shortly before noon, I took a break at the David Lesser Memorial Shelter. My body was demanding nourishment, and the shelter was conveniently close to the trail. I relaxed, my feet propped up, and reflected on the milestones I’d reached. I had left Virginia that morning and entered West Virginia, my fifth state. I had also just passed the thousand-mile point. Two months ago at Springer Mountain, a thousand miles seemed an impossible dream; yet by getting up each morning and stubbornly hiking north one step at a time, I had walked that dream into reality. And here I was, with over a thousand miles behind me. Yes, I will admit it—it felt good.

The day was hot and humid, and I needed more water. My guidebook showed a spring another two-tenths of a mile down a steep grade, but there was also a gas station with a deli at Keys Gap, three miles farther down the trail. I would get food and water there.

Walking up Rt. 9 in Keys Gap, I saw the dark cloud moving in from the east. The skies opened just as I reached the store, and I took shelter under the awning over the gas pumps as hail and rain pounded above and around me. Things were looking up. I had finally managed to avoid a downpour. One of the greatest pleasures on my hike was being safe and dry in a shelter during a storm. I had been unfortunate thus far; I was usually on the trail when storms hit, and I absolutely despised being drenched by the rain.

On September 10, 2002, shortly after we received the verdict on Mary’s cancer, I had visited Harpers Ferry while she spent time with our youngest daughter. Now, almost six years later, I was remembering those days as I hiked toward the little mountain town. I had chosen to come here then because it offered something to think about other than our sadness. I had visited the historic St. Peter’s Catholic Church, where I’d knelt in prayer for our family.

As I crossed the ridge at Loudoun Heights on this June Sunday, Harpers Ferry opened up before me and my dream had come to pass. I remembered that day in 2002, when I had looked up into these hills and promised myself that someday I would come hiking out of the woods, cross the bridge over the river, and walk into town on my own AT hike. I had no inkling of the enormity of my wish, nor did I have any idea what circumstances would bring me back. But I was there now, about to realize my goal of walking into Harpers Ferry knowing exactly what lay between Springer Mountain and this town.

From the ridge, a steep descent on switchbacks brought me ever closer to the bridge over the Shenandoah. The path went through a ravine filled with wild, purple periwinkle, and I emerged from the woods.

I stopped before crossing the bridge. In my mind, I saw a man standing on the other side, looking wistfully up into the hills. He resembled me, except that his hair was combed and he had no beard. He was forty pounds heavier, although with my backpack included, we weighed about the same.

I crossed the Shenandoah River and felt like I was coming home. Part of that feeling was because I knew I’d fulfilled a dream. But for weeks now, my mind had linked Harpers Ferry with home for several reasons. In this town, I was just a little over five hours from my home in Ohio, and it was as close to home as I would ever be during my trek to Maine. Ina, my trail boss, planned to meet me here in Harpers Ferry for a day, and it would be the last time I would see anyone from home until I finished my journey two months from now.

Every step beyond Harpers Ferry would take me farther away from home. Thinking about leaving the town and continuing northward, I felt a sadness. I was ready to go home. Even if I quit here, one part of my brain argued, it will still be an accomplishment. Not many people hike a thousand miles. I toyed with the idea of going home for just one week, to rest and visit my children and grandchildren. You won’t come back, said another part of my brain.

This trail had opened my world. I had hoped for new experiences, new people, new ideas, and a new conversation with God. The first thousand miles had already exceeded my expectations. And as I debated going onward, I wondered, What more is there? What else could there possibly be that God wants to show me?

The stubborn part of my brain echoed my dad’s voice, repeating words he had often quoted to his children: whatever you do, do with your might. Things done by half are never done right.

The journey was only half done. I must continue. No matter how much home tugged, I knew I had to finish this hike.

———

Crossing the river, I nodded a perfunctory howdy to my imaginary past self at the end of the bridge. Then I headed up the trail toward Jefferson Rock and St. Peter’s Church. For a long time, I had pictured myself going back into that church. On the spot where I had begged God’s help, I planned to thank Him for allowing Mary to be with us four more years after her diagnosis.

I went up the steps, through the stone arches, and, ignoring the “CLOSED” sign standing guard, I pulled at the carved wooden door. It was locked. Dropping my pack, I knelt right there by the front door and prayed.

The Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters is just a short walk up High Street. At the headquarters, thru-hikers take their photographs for publication in a book documenting that year’s class of hikers, much like a school yearbook. I posed for the picture and filled out brief personal information. I was hiker number 191. Back at Springer Mountain, I had been hiker number 391 heading north. Somewhere along those thousand miles I had passed two hundred of my fellow sojourners.

On High Street, I passed an outfitting store. I asked inside if they could help with my crippled hiking pole, but found that my Leki hiking poles were under warranty for life. A helpful clerk replaced the bent sections with two new sections at no cost. I congratulated myself on paying a little extra for quality hiking gear.

Later, in my room, I went through every article in my backpack. I would send home all my winter gear. Anything that I did not need every day would go home with Ina, including my hat, gloves, fleece, and my five-degree sleeping bag. I had purchased a much lighter forty-five-degree sleeping bag at the outfitter. I even briefly considered sending home my rain gear. But I decided to keep it and stuffed it into the bottom of my pack. When all was said and done, I had relieved my pack of six pounds and would head north feeling much lighter.

Einstein left me a phone message that Sir Enity was sick and would take several days off the trail, and that he himself would not be in town for another day. We three had planned to meet in Harpers Ferry, but I decided not to wait for my friends. I had already taken one zero day here, and they could catch up with me later.

As I maneuvered my way through Harpers Ferry, back again on the trail northward, I was assaulted with mixed feelings. As much as I wanted to go home for a break, I had decided to finish the hike and not take the chance of never returning. I also knew there was no more debating. One thousand miles before, Mt. Katahdin had seemed almost impossible. But now there was no going back.

———

I walked down Shenandoah Street, made a right at the edge of town, and passed under a trestle to a path that led to the Potomac River. A footbridge crossed the river, and then the trail turned onto the Chesapeake & Ohio Towpath. For several miles, I walked along the old towpath, the Potomac on my right and the abandoned canal on my left. Dozens of turtles sunned themselves on logs jutting out of the murky canal waters.

I felt like a new hiker. I carried a noticeably lighter pack, my pole was straight, and I had new tires. A second pair of New Balance shoes were on my feet, and I dodged last night’s puddles, attempting to keep my new shoes dry. I was hiking with a new state of mind and in a new state of the union.

The Potomac River marks the border between Maryland and West Virginia. I had spent one month crossing Virginia, but only one day hiking West Virginia. Maryland has the second shortest section of trail, only forty miles, which meant I would cross Maryland and enter Pennsylvania in only a few days. Entering a new state was always my most encouraging measure of progress. Even though measurement by mileage was much more realistic, I felt a sense of accomplishment when I left one state and moved on to the next. Now, in less than a week, I would progress from state number four to state number seven.

The morning was heavy and humid as I left the C&O Towpath and started my climb toward Weverton Cliffs. Many switchbacks later, I enjoyed a view of the Potomac River flowing through a gorge far in the distance.

Just before noon, the trail led into Gathland State Park. I stopped at a fifty-foot stone memorial dedicated to Civil War journalists, sat on a nearby park bench, and kicked off my shoes. Back in Harpers Ferry, I had bought a huge sandwich, and this seemed a good spot for a leisurely lunch break. I admit I was influenced somewhat by the nearby Coke machine. A cold Coke and a turkey sandwich on a park bench. You call this hiking?

I inserted my money and pressed the button and a fruit drink dropped out. Disgusted, I tried again, and another cherry drink clunked down. Two disappointing fruit drinks and a turkey sandwich later, I lazily gathered my stuff and started back down the trail.

I had no warning that I was about to be swallowed up by the worst storm I have ever seen.

Nearing Fox Gap, I heard distant rumbling. I had walked through so many showers that I’d often forgo rain gear and let the rain soak me, hoping to dry out later in sunshine. But for some odd reason, this day’s rumbling compelled me to dig out my gear as well as put the protective cover over my backpack.

In a small clearing in Fox Gap, a monument honors Major General Jesse Reno, killed nearby in the Battle of South Mountain during the Civil War. I stopped to read the plaque on the memorial, and without warning a blast of wind nearly knocked me off my feet.

I ran across the clearing to the trail leading into the woods, thinking that under the tree canopy I might find some cover from a downpour. But in seconds, shrieking winds drove rain and hail through the woods so violently that there was no shelter anywhere. I could barely see the trail through the whiteout of rain and ice. Trees bent and twisted in the wind, and I knew I must get away from the trail and those writhing trees.

I ran to a small incline off to the right, topped by a fencerow along an open field. Fighting my way up the bank, I looked for protection, some shield to break the ferocity of the storm. A cluster of prickly bushes seemed thick enough to shelter me, and I crouched in them, covering my head. But the winds blasted through the bushes, and a white sheet of rain and hail pummeled my body. I heard trees crashing to the ground; a branch hurtled through the air, striking my head. There was no refuge, and I knew I was in deep trouble.

The woods were not safe, but where to go? In the open field, branches and leaves and other debris swirled in crazy hysteria, as the wind snatched up and flung away anything it could grab. A lone maple stood in the center of the field. Its branches were twisting and tossing, but the tree seemed young and supple enough to withstand the violence of the wind. I remembered the giant trees uprooted by a storm in the Smoky Mountains. They had looked so large and indestructible, yet they were too rigid and could not bend enough to withstand a huge wind. Their roots had been set in rocks, not reaching deep enough to hold firm. This maple in the middle of the field should have a good root system, I reasoned.

I bent low and ran through ankle deep water to the tree. The wind was almost a physical being, charging against me, pushing me back. When I reached the tree, I grabbed the trunk and held on, wrapping both arms tightly around it. The monster storm howled around me; the wind whipped through the field and both lightning and thunder crashed simultaneously and constantly.

It was just a matter of time until the tree blew over or I could no longer hold on and was blown away. I slid slowly to my knees, hugging the trunk, and begged God to save my life. I knew there was a very good chance I would die right there in that field. I was terrified of the storm, but I was not terrified of dying. I actually felt at peace with the possibility. I clung to the tree, on my knees in streaming water, wind tearing at my body, rain and hail pounding me. I hung on. I knew God was there. And I knew that even if this storm killed me, all would be well.

———

The winds slowly quieted. I was not going to die or be blown away. When I thought it was safe to return to the trail, I splashed back into the woods and was stunned by the damage. Splintered trees lay across the trail, sometimes hiding it completely. Branches littered the path, and at times I could find no guiding white blazes. More than once, I crawled through the branches of downed trees or walked the bridge of a downed tree trunk to find my way along the trail.

If I had stayed in the woods, I would not have escaped being hit or even crushed by flying and falling timber. Even the low spring undergrowth looked beaten and weary.

Less than a mile later, I stumbled into the Dahlgren Backpack Campground, a small campground that had a block building with showers and restrooms. I had been that close to shelter!

Two hikers had taken refuge from the storm inside the block building. When I walked in, I could see incredulity on their faces. “You were out in that?” they exclaimed.

“Yes. And it was the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had.” I sat down, thankful for human company and a place to rest, trying to regain my calm before I continued my hike.

For the next several miles, I walked through a path of destruction. From Turner’s Gap to Washington Monument State Park, the trail was often buried under fallen branches and trees. As I picked my way over, under, and around, I wondered if there were other hikers who had been without refuge in the storm.

In Washington Monument State Park, I climbed a thirty-foot stone tower and had a view over Boonsboro, Maryland. I heard sirens in the distance, emergency vehicles dealing with the storm’s aftermath.

Climbing over one final fallen tree, I was suddenly past the storm’s devastation. White mountain laurel blossoms graced the path, and the trail was clear.

I will forever question every choice I made that morning. What if I had waited for my friends in Harpers Ferry? What if I had left town one hour earlier? What if I had not stopped for a lunch break at the war memorial? I might have avoided being caught in the middle of that storm.

But perhaps I was exactly where God wanted me to be.

I saw the enclosed footbridge and heard the traffic. The caged path led over I-70, where no one in the ceaseless flow of cars had an inkling of the destruction in the forest.

One and a half miles later, my day ended at Pine Knob Shelter. I had hiked twenty-four miles, even with the storm trying to stop me. And for some reason, that new pair of shoes I had so carefully protected from puddles only that morning were now soaked.

Two other hikers were staying at the shelter. They had heard the storm in the distance but were fortunate enough to be ahead of it. I described what they had missed. Hanging my rain gear on a wooden peg at the front of the shelter, I discovered a hole torn in the pants by the prickly bushes where I’d tried to take refuge.

A good spring flowed near the shelter, and I filtered my water and cooked a meal. It was already dark when I finally unrolled my new sleeping bag for the first time. It wasn’t much more than a blanket, and I was happy for the pair of Patagonia long johns I had decided to keep. I was warm and safe. What more could a person want?

The following day, a hiker told me of news reports of 70 mph winds and tornado sightings, and I told him, yes, I was aware that there had been a storm.

This day too was hot and humid, and by the middle of the afternoon when I arrived at Pen Mar Park, a pleasant tree-filled area with picnic tables and a pavilion, I was happy to stop for a rest. The park straddles the Maryland-Pennsylvania border, and views from the pavilion look out over a plain of farmland, stretching for miles. I met an old caretaker who was roaming the grounds on a golf cart, and he offered to get me two soft drinks.

With drinks in hand, I spotted a swing and sat down, kicked off my shoes, and swung away some time. The sound of thunder interrupted my rest, and I headed for the pavilion. From there, I watched the lightning flash over the vast plain; rain poured down, and I thought about the vagaries of our choices and the sometimes disproportionate consequences. My lazy swing ride here had delayed my journey long enough that I was now under a roof safe and dry, avoiding this latest storm.

While waiting out the storm, I consulted my guidebook, wondering where I could camp that night. Five miles ahead were two shelters, side by side, named Deer Lick Shelters; that would be my goal.

My eye caught an interesting fact in the guidebook. A thru-hiker will climb and descend a total of ninety-one miles on his hike from Georgia to Maine. That’s an elevation gain and loss the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest almost seventeen times. No wonder I huffed and puffed and my legs ached.

Thinking about climbing Everest seventeen times, I left Pen Mar Park and soon arrived in William Penn’s territory: my seventh state, Pennsylvania.

That night at camp, I overheard a hiker describing to several others what a terrible storm he had walked through the day before. “Were you in Washington Park during that storm?” I asked.

“I was caught in the middle of it, and I wish I had pictures to prove what I went through,” he replied. “I thought I was going to die.”

“I can prove it for you.” I brought out my camera and showed them pictures of the storm’s destruction. While we had endured the violent weather, hikers just a few miles north were completely unaware of the storm.

By noon the following day, I had already hiked thirteen miles. When the trail crossed U.S. 30, a colorful page tacked to a tree caught my attention, and I was immediately led astray by the pictures. Beautiful images of Italian food, all kinds of alluring delicacies for which I had no resistance. I headed down Rt. 30 quicker than you can say spaghetti.

Taormina’s Italian Restaurant did not disappoint, and I soon had salad, garlic bread, and a steaming bowl of spaghetti in front of me. It sure beat the peanut butter and pita bread I had planned to eat. Loaded with calories, I went back to the trail and hiked longer and stronger than ever. I knew that if I didn’t slow down, Einstein and Sir Enity would never catch up with me.

A day later, several miles outside of Pine Grove Furnace State Park, I reached a major milestone in my trek. I officially passed the halfway point. Springer Mountain was 1,088.4 miles behind me; Katahdin was 1,087.8 miles ahead.

That milestone called for a celebration. At noon, I walked into Pine Grove Furnace State Park and stopped at a small general store for a thru-hiker tradition, the half-gallon ice cream challenge. Anyone who finishes the challenge is awarded a little wooden spoon. For me, the word challenge is as irresistible as the word food. Just being able to accomplish anything labeled a challenge is reward enough. Entries in the journal inside the store, though, indicated that completion of this task was not always a pleasant experience.

My choice was a half-gallon of Hershey’s chocolate ice cream. I would have liked chocolate syrup with it, but the store had none. I washed down the ice cream with sixteen ounces of Mountain Dew. All went surprisingly well. I enjoyed all but the last ten bites, and in thirty-eight minutes, the ice cream was gone. Surprisingly, I was still hungry, so I followed the ice cream and Mountain Dew with a cheeseburger.

I did not feel much like hiking that afternoon, so I checked in at the Ironmaster’s Mansion and then joined several other hikers for a swim in nearby Fuller Lake. This area was the site of the Pine Grove Furnace years ago. Fuller Lake was a former iron ore quarry that eventually filled with groundwater.

In the evening, the proprietor of the Ironmaster’s Mansion Hostel gave us a tour. The mansion had been a stop on the Underground Railroad moving slaves north to freedom. We dropped through a small trapdoor in a closet, and stood in subterrestrial rooms where fugitives had often gone into hiding.

A Girl Scout troop was also staying at the hostel; the girls and their sponsors joined us on the tour and afterward prepared themselves a Mexican feast. The aromas drove us hikers crazy; we kept drifting by their table, looking as sad and undernourished as we possibly could. (Yes, I did have a cheeseburger, a soda, and a half-gallon of ice cream still rattling around my digestive system.) Finally the invitation came. “Hey, you hikers. We have lots of leftover food. Do you want any?” We were in that kitchen until every morsel had disappeared.

That night, as I slowly lowered myself into my bunk, my stomach made strange rumbling noises. Appropriately, I was in the middle of an area with a long history of making cast-iron products, and those rumblings were just the normal noises of a cast-iron stomach.