Here were the rocks again. The trail became more difficult, the ridges covered with large, rounded rocks. On one of the rocks, we found a painted line designating the state line between New Jersey and New York.
I was in my ninth state, but state eight still held my thoughts. New Jersey had been completely different than I’d imagined. I’d seen three bears in the last two days, not counting the two that had crept through the woods without their clothes.
My thoughts were interrupted by loud thunder, and Fargo and I hustled to the nearby Wildcat Shelter. We thought we’d wait out the storm and then continue, since it was only two thirty (one thirty in Scansin). But we settled in when we realized the next shelter was still fourteen miles away. We’d already done seventeen miles that day, and we decided to take some time to study our guidebooks and plan our miles for the next few days.
Several days ahead was the RPH Shelter. Fargo pounced on this name. As a former pharmacist, he knew RPH stood for “Registered Pharmacist,” and he was convinced that the shelter had something to do with the pharmaceutical industry. Perhaps a group of pharmacists had built the shelter. We started referring to it as “the pharmacy shelter,” and Fargo could hardly contain his excitement at the thought of staying at this potential monument to his retired peers.
The first morning in New York, we arrived at a road crossing where a notice posted on a tree announced the opening of a new deli. I couldn’t resist the thought of coffee and several fresh sandwiches. Fargo wanted to keep on walking, so we agreed to meet at the William Brien Memorial Shelter that evening. I went for coffee and sandwiches, and Fargo went on down the trail.
Several miles later, back on the trail, I crossed over the New York State Thruway and entered Harriman State Park. This park has over 46,000 acres, thirty-one lakes, and more than two hundred miles of trails, including 18.8 miles of the AT. It was difficult to believe that New York City with its eight million plus people was only thirty-five miles south of me while I hiked through the park, completely alone.
The trail passed between two rock walls called “The Lemon Squeezer.” The space between the two rocks narrowed as I walked through, both sides of my backpack rubbing the rocks on either side. At the end, I either had to remove my backpack or raise myself on tiptoe for the final squeeze through. I managed the squeeze, but I wondered how Fargo, who was a larger man than I, was going to maneuver this little stretch of the trail. Fortunately, there was an alternate route, a blue-blazed path around the obstacle, marked for lemons larger than myself.
Once through the squeeze, I was faced with a six-foot rock wall. Removing my backpack, I tossed it to the top of the rock formation and then found finger- and footholds to inch my way to the top.
The William Brien Memorial Shelter stood empty when I arrived in the late afternoon. Fargo was nowhere to be found. I guessed that he had moved on, since this structure was dilapidated and in need of repair. The graffiti covering the walls inside suggested visitors other than hikers. Most shelters have hiker graffiti, but most of that is carved with a knife or drawn with a marker. Not many thru-hikers carry spray paint.
Believing Fargo was ahead of me, I went on. Several miles later, I reached the top of Black Mountain. From that height, I was certain I’d see New York City in the distance, but cloud cover hid the view.
I went down the mountain, and the trail crossed the Palisades Interstate Parkway, a four-lane highway carrying traffic to and from New York City. A road sign told me I was thirty-four miles from the city. I carefully cleared the first two lanes with their busy traffic and reached the wooded median. In this buffer zone, I found a trail register. Fargo had not signed it; he was still behind me somewhere. I quickly scribbled my name, and dodged the speeding cars to cross the other two lanes.
I was back in the woods immediately. A small footbridge led over Beechy Bottom Brook. I knew the next shelter did not have a water supply, so I uncoiled my filter, dangled it into the brook, and filtered two liters of water. A difficult fifty-foot rock scramble took me to the top of West Mountain.
The West Mountain Shelter was more than half a mile off the trail and the day was fading away. I decided to stop for the night and stealth camp in a small grassy spot right next to the trail. My campsite had a grand view out over the Palisades Parkway and toward the cloud-enshrouded city of New York. Earlier in the week, I’d found two bags of tea someone had left at a shelter; I sat on the rocks, enjoying the view and sipping a cup of tea.
Throughout the night, stomping and snorting and loud crashing let me know the local animal population was upset at my intrusion. The area was covered with blueberry bushes that supplied my breakfast the next morning as I crossed West Mountain and headed to Bear Mountain.
———
Atop Bear Mountain, a forty-foot stone tower honored George W. Perkins, a business partner of financier J. P. Morgan. George Perkins had been chairman of the Palisades Interstate Park Commission and was instrumental in saving the west bank of the Hudson River (known as the Palisades) from quarry operators. He was also involved in the Appalachian Trail Conference and helped establish many trails in the area. The first miles of the AT opened here on October 7, 1923, and went from Bear Mountain through Harriman State Park.
I paused to rest at the base of Bear Mountain and, shielded by a tree, watched an amazing scene. Twenty feet from me, a newborn fawn wobbled toward its mother. I stood in awe and watched as it suckled, its white spots clearly visible.
After several minutes, I quietly slipped away, headed toward more wildlife encounters. The AT dipped to the lowest elevation of the entire trail, 124 feet. And there, I came face-to-face with two black bears. No cause for alarm, though, as the bears were part of a zoo. The trail passes through the Trailside Museum and Zoo, and thru-hikers are granted free passage.
On the other side of the zoo, I came out to the Hudson River and Bear Mountain Bridge. Here again, thru-hikers are given a free pass over the toll bridge. But before I crossed the Hudson, food again called. I walked to the nearby town of Fort Montgomery in search of lunch and found a wonderful deli. The lunch break cost me several hours, but it did reconnect me with Fargo. Coming back to the bridge, I caught sight of him strolling out of the zoo.
“Fargo!” I yelled, glad to see him again. “Get away from that zoo quick, before they realize you’re missing!”
On the other side of the highway, I spied a Pepsi machine beside the toll house. A three-foot concrete barrier separated the sidewalk from the roadway. I couldn’t resist a cold drink, so I dropped my backpack, dodged the traffic, and claimed my Pepsi. Returning, I intended to impress Fargo with my athletic skills by leaping gracefully over that barrier. I was feeling light on my feet without my backpack, and with Pepsi in hand, I dodged two lanes of traffic and launched over the concrete barrier. That is, my mind and half of my body launched. The other half somehow didn’t get the message. I landed, quite ungracefully, straddling the barrier, half of me on the bridge, and half on the sidewalk.
“Dat’s gotta hurt bad,” sympathized Fargo.
“Where have you been? Where did I miss you?” I asked in a high-pitched voice. Might as well change the subject.
Fargo was drawn to water like black flies are drawn to thru-hikers. He’d gone swimming. Two miles before the shelter where we’d planned to meet, he had discovered Lake Tiorati and stopped for an hour to swim and cool off, while I walked by unknowingly. For the rest of our time together, Fargo was in whatever water we met, whether a puddle or a lake. Crossing the Hudson, I made certain he didn’t jump off the bridge.
The Graymoor Spiritual Life Center is home to a group of Catholic men called the Franciscan Friars of the Atonement. Located on four hundred acres overlooking the Hudson River valley, the Center’s mission is to discover what lies inside each individual and to foster unity between God and man and unity between all people. In times past, hikers were welcome to eat with the Friars, but that was no longer a policy. I was deeply disappointed, since I had hoped to interact with these men.
We were, however, permitted to sleep in a pavilion on the grounds. Fargo and I spread out our gear and were soon joined by a newcomer. Garmin had started his hike on February 17, almost six weeks before I arrived at Springer Mountain. By the time he finished, Garmin probably had walked more miles than any other 2008 thru-hiker. He covered many AT miles three times—his sense of direction was horrible, and other hikers often met him hiking the wrong way. We welcomed him into our merry little band and promised to keep him headed north if he stayed with us.
Saint Gertrude and Stretch, two hikers I had not met, set up their tents outside the pavilion. I would hike with Gerty later in my journey, but Stretch would soon be off the trail. Fargo told everyone about the Pharmacy Shelter just one day ahead of us. Tomorrow night, he would be staying at the shrine he was certain was dedicated to fellow hardworking pharmacists.
———
From a friary tower on the hill above us, a bell announced the arrival of every new hour throughout the night. I woke at every toll, so we got an early start toward the RPH Shelter. I didn’t need to worry about Fargo disappearing again; I knew exactly where he’d be that night.
It was a nineteen-mile hike to RPH, and since the bell had tolled for me all night, I was tired and happy to see the nondescript block building, resembling a one-car garage. Since it had become Fargo’s shrine, Garmin and I allowed him to enter first. Several bunks lined the walls, and the only contents were a desk and a chair. A concrete patio with a picnic table graced the back of the shelter. We saw no pharmacy paraphernalia anywhere, except for a half-empty bottle of Tylenol on the small desk.
“Your museum is kind of empty,” said Garmin, as we surveyed the room. Although Garmin was directionally challenged, he was never at a loss for words. “If this is the tribute shelter for pharmacists, I can’t wait to see the lawyer shelter.”
We found a pizza shop menu on the desk, so we ordered delivery of three large pizzas. Gerty and Stretch arrived, but it was still early, so after stopping in to tour the RPH, they headed for the next shelter.
While we waited for our pizza, the call of nature took me to the privy, newer than the shelter and also built of blocks. Seated inside, I noticed a small plaque on the wall dedicating this block outhouse to Ralph’s Peak Hikers, a local hiking club. The shelter was also named for the club; “RPH” was “Ralph’s Peak Hikers.” As best as I could, considering I was laughing so much, I finished my task and went in search of Garmin and Fargo. “Hey, Garmin, you need to go to the privy, don’t you? Okay, what I meant was—you really must go to the privy. Be sure to read the dedication on the wall before Fargo sees it.”
Soon, another round of hearty laughter came from the block throne room. “Hey dere, you gots to tell me what youse guys are laughing at out dere.”
“Just wait . . . Garmin is reading the history of the Pharmacy Shelter.”
Fargo’s subsequent dejection was soothed somewhat by the delivery of our pizza, and while the three of us sat at the table concentrating only on food, a figure approached from the nearby road. A man who looked to be in his mid-sixties sat down at our table, greeted us, and asked if we needed anything. Steve lived in a neighboring town, and although he was not a hiker himself, he enjoyed stopping by the shelter occasionally and talking with those passing through. He offered to take us into town if we needed supplies, and we decided to make a quick trip to Wal-Mart. A new Lincoln SUV waited by the roadside, and Steve seemed to have no objections to three dirty thru-hikers riding in his spotless vehicle. Boxes were piled high in the back of the SUV, and I asked Steve what he did for a living. “I’m a pharmacist,” he said. “I own seven pharmacies in the surrounding villages.”
Fargo was astounded. I looked at Garmin, and we both shook our heads in disbelief.
“Believe you me, I told youse guys dat was a pharmacy shelter.”
———
The coincidence was almost too bizarre to be true. But anything can happen on the trail. That’s another gift of the trail: incidents so unexpected and inexplicable and whimsical that I could only shake my head in amazement. The morning before had held just such surprises.
Very early in the morning, we spotted a circle of plastic pink flamingoes in the woods. Garmin and I stood in their midst and took our picture. Who would have taken the time to carry pink flamingoes out here? (Later, we talked with a hiker who claimed the circle marked the home of a rattlesnake family. I doubted the story, but I admit it did send shivers down my spine.)
A little farther down the trail, we stood under the Dover Oak, proudly claiming to be the largest tree on the AT. Back in Virginia, the Keffer Oak makes the same claim.
Soon after, we walked through a field where round bales of hay lay in the morning mist, then crossed a marshy area on bog bridges, and suddenly arrived at a train stop. The railroad tracks were empty as we crossed, but next to them, here in almost-the-middle of nowhere, a blue bench perched on a raised platform. Apparently, trains did stop here several times a day, for anyone wishing to hop a ride to New York City.
We crossed Rt. 22. A short walk down the road brought us to a nursery and landscaping center that was just opening for the day. I spotted an employee on the porch, called good morning to him, and jokingly asked if there was coffee available. We were invited in and the owner himself brewed us a pot of coffee while he and Fargo talked hunting and fishing. We sat on the front porch, drinking coffee and distracting his workers from their morning routines.
On the trail again, we walked through a field where someone had painstakingly built a shell around an old water tower, transforming it into a rocket ship poised for takeoff.
It was barely seven in the morning and we’d only walked three miles.
One of the biggest surprises the trail held for me was just that—the surprises.