By Sara Haxby, KTA Program Administrator
“Is that it?” I asked when the dirt lot appeared on the side of Pennsylvania Route 87 around a bend. My boyfriend, Derrick, assured me it was, pointing to the telltale brown sign perched above the lot. I U-turned and parked my Civic on the northern edge. There were no other cars. After some quick repairs (read: duct tape) on hiking poles that refused to lock, we posed next to the sign.
The KTA logo made me smile. Here I was—starting the vacation we planned months ago, to hike a trail Derrick had wanted to do for years, and just 2 months after my move to Pennsylvania—and now I was looking at my employer’s logo on the Loyalsock Trail sign beside me.
The joy and fortune faded somewhat when the grade of the first mile came into focus. I tightened the straps on my backpack and looked up at the climb, squinting through bright sunshine. What a perfect day to sweat for a few miles.
My thighs seemed to be full of rocket fuel—powering an impressive climb while burning, burning, burning through my muscles. Who says Pennsylvania doesn’t have tough hiking? They should try this one.
The Loyalsock Trail Guide fit nicely in the palm of my hand while I huffed at Sock Rock. Miles go by slowly at 1 per hour.We must have gone at least that far by now, right? The guide is bound in red leather, like a notebook, and details with stunning specificity how the trail roams the beautiful northern woods. My pack weighed a good 35 pounds with the 2-person tent, 6 days of food, and 3 liters of water. As I flipped the pages, a necessary detail glared in omission—water. The reference to water was clear at the campsites mentioned: “Do not camp within 100 feet of a water source.” I had already sucked down at least a liter since we started. And no, we hadn’t gone a mile yet.
Looking down the steep traverse recalled the Liberty Springs Trail in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, a might-as-well-be-vertical climb up to rocky, above-treeline Franconia Ridge. The payoff varied here on the Loyalsock. Once we reached the ridge, the trees locked in around us and the trail favored an old logging road. It was green from floor to ceiling. A little stream trickled nearby, a preview of why water sources aren’t labeled in the guide.
“There should be a campsite coming up soon,” I said. “It says, ‘potential campsite’ at 1.67 miles.” We didn’t have to look hard. A clearing on our left looked like it had just been swept and readied for us. A fire pit was stocked with dry pieces of wood. The stream bubbling out of the leafy ground was over 100 feet from the flat areas perfect for tents. We dropped our packs, relieved that our late start didn’t require hiking into the night. There was enough daylight for some reading, some card games, a salty dinner, and another read-through of the guide.
What we didn’t expect, but were happy to encounter every single day on the Loyalsock Trail, was the selection of camping spots with plentiful, clean water. The trail, even miles from a road, remained clear of blowdowns and encroaching flora. Many times we were able to walk side by side and share our observations—the quality of this year’s trail mix, how our shoulders ached, the birdsong we searched our brains to name. What words you can use to describe smells. What does midsummer smell like, when the spicy notes of ferns mingle with round bouquets of wildflower pollen? And then the trail would turn and narrow, climbing at an environmentally protective angle up some slope. The views seemed predetermined to look out over wilderness instead of human sprawl.
Our first 2 days passed in that happy rhythm. Happy, besides the initial break-in of our bodies and boots. I was confident in my muscles to remember how to carry a giant pack, so I brought along a few luxuries that longer trips prevent: Dutch Blitz, Monopoly Deal, Crazy Creek chairs, the first half of my book, multiple pairs of socks. Oh! Is there any better feeling than clean socks after a day spent squishing through mud?
Hiking as a pair (I’m talking about people now) recommends spending more time in camp. We managed about 40 miles in 4 days, with some late starts and early finishes. And every day we joked about wondering where the water sources were. “They’re not in the guide!” I would say. “How will we ever get water?” Derrick would ask. Then I would giggle. All the while the trail paralleled a brook or river or the sounds of a waterfall rushing in the distance, supplying us with our punch line.
We didn’t see many people; it was the middle of the week and hot. The trail registers, however, were softened from use. Couples and groups and solo hikers scribbled lines about the lucky weather or their hopes for their journey. Our minds were occupied with taking in the beautiful woods and waterfalls and valley views, while also looking down at our feet from time to time. So when a mystery presented itself, our brains had plenty of free time for embroidery.
On Monday, along the Laurel Ridge and just before remarking on the majestic view at Smiths Knob, I noticed a shiny new first-aid kit in the grass at my feet, without a speck of dirt or a smudge from evaporated dew. We hadn’t seen anyone else on the trail yet. No one hiked by us while we stirred in our tent at dawn. Whoever dropped this must have dropped it in the last few hours, so they must have gotten on the trail at the Ranger Station. But the last register entry before my “KTA Rules!” update was 2 days prior. So they got on the trail but didn’t sign in. I slipped the kit into a side pocket of Derrick’s pack.
After a quick lunch break for tortillas with peanut butter, jelly, and trail mix all rolled up, we began a long descent. As the plant life changed from fluffy meadow grass and deciduous trees to hemlocks and mossy rocks, the trail followed a crease between slopes—a natural feature where it’s common to see an emergence of water. A stream followed us down and across another meadow, and finally down, down to a piney hollow with a creek deep enough to soak our tired feet. What a perfect spot for a break! I could get more water here! Oh, my! Was I joyful.
Then I saw them. People! Two guys, sprawled out on a blanket on a sloped dirt rise along the bank, hands clasped behind their heads.
One muttered something as I walked by 10 minutes later, my belly and pack full of freshly filtered water. He was young, with a ponytail and well-worn boots.
Derrick had the presence of mind to murmur an agreement. I laughed like I normally do when I don’t hear properly and wished them well. The trail crested after a short hill. I pieced the guy’s words together as I walked, realizing he had said, “How was that first mile?” He must have meant the first mile of the trail, that steep climb. But if he knows it, does that mean he and his buddy started there, too? Then they must have passed us while we were in the tent!
When we were out of earshot, I checked my reconnaissance with Derrick. He had been thinking about their logistics, too. They could have started very early in the morning and passed us while we dozed to the mourning doves singing.
“So that must be their first aid kit,” he concluded.
Oh, no. He was right.
“Shoot. Well, we’ll leave it at the next register. If it’s theirs, we know which direction they’re going.”
We trudged on in silence for a while. The sun above the trees shone hot with no clouds in the sky. A luscious canopy protected us.
“I’ve been thinking,” Derrick shouted up to me. I turned.
“About those guys. You had a lot of spider webs in your face this morning, didn’t you?”
I agreed. Days’ worth of spider webs plastered my face along the first miles. I took to using a hiking pole as a web collector.
“Well, that means they weren’t ahead of us on the trail,” Derrick said.
“Clever you!” I said, smiling at him. Mystery solved. Or was it?
To be continued next month.