Day 13

October 16, 2021:

I awoke to the sound of rain dribbling off the roof of the barn, making a splattering noise as it hit small pools of water on the ground. I didn’t hear any thunder or see any lightning, but I was nevertheless grateful to be dry. I got dressed and left the tent, looking around for some of the cats Dave had mentioned I might see, hoping one would be interested in a cuddle. Instead, I saw Dave approaching from the house with the breakfast he had promised the day before. Eggs, bacon, biscuits, and milk. He and I talked while I ate, watching the remnants of the storm pass through and the rising sun illuminate the clouds with yellows and pinks. His grandfather got the farm in 1901, and, while he lost some butcher shops in the nearby towns during the Depression, gained another barn across the street from a farmer who owed him debts. Dave is 71, but doesn’t look a day over 50. He explained that he’s been in this area his whole life, and has worked here pretty much every day. Said his last break day was his wedding, some 38 years ago. He owned cattle, but that got too much for him in his old age, so he sold them and now rents the farmland to others, but still does a lot of the work himself. He actually built the farm house himself, for a mere $13k back in the ‘80s. He’s one of seven – now six – children, and his brother Joe was visiting that day, so I got to meet him too. Dave was kind enough to refill my bottles and throw away the trash from the meal I had had the night before – just some premade stuff from Sheetz. After cleaning myself up, packing my bags, and thanking Dave for his kindness and generosity from the bottom of my heart, I was off.

I peddled down the street, back past the abandoned building. Apparently Dave owns that one too, and used to store hay in it, but the local kids used to cut the string off it rendering it difficult to work with. They also were the ones who broke out all the windows, so now it pretty much remains in a state of disrepair, since he doesn’t have much use for it now. I went up the next hill and peddled into Newry, PA. There, a huge farmer’s market stood. This isn’t the kind of farmer’s market where each farmer brings a tent and lays their produce out on the street, rather, it was one big building that was reselling produce from within, kind of like a grocery store. I went in and bought apples, bananas, a cucumber, tomatoes, and three mini pies: one pecan, one apple, and one cherry pie.

I made my way deeper into the valley, up and over some small hills. In Roaring Springs, my GoPro micro SD card said it needed formatting. Typically this is just associated with a bad start up, and all I need to do is turn it off and back on again and it works as intended. Instead, the error kept popping up, insisting that I reformat the card. Doing so loses all the data I have stored on it, and I didn’t want that. Instead, I stopped at a McDonald’s, ordered a large hot chocolate, and plugged in my computer to start the data transfer from the card so I wouldn’t lose any of my footage. There, I met Lon, a rather grumpy fellow who was hunched over a journal and a newspaper on the other side of the room. He had been berating the general manager about something when I came in, and after I sat down with my computer, he asked me about my trip. I gave him a few cursory details, but mostly didn’t feel like talking and just wanted to enjoy my hot chocolate. Lon asked me if I thought there was still hope for America yet. I told him about the many nice people I had met along the way, and that yes, there was still hope. It started raining, so I was once again glad to be inside. Miraculously, as soon as my data transfer was complete, the sun came out, and I didn’t feel any need to wait around before leaving. I quickly used the restroom, then carried on my way.

I took some back roads for a while, down Cove Lane and Kensinger Road. It started raining again while I cycled. I had come prepared though, and was wearing my rain pants, my rain jacket, one under layer, and even had my ski goggles at the ready to protect my eyes. Despite the rain, I was warm and dry underneath, and carried on. Eventually, Kensinger hit 36 again, and I followed that for some miles through Woodbury, PA, a town Nell said she liked. I saw my first Amish buggy there, as well as a guy who had a Cessna in his barn and a runway on his lawn, between corn fields. Woodbury was alright, but I personally prefer towns with mom and pop shops to explore, or cozy cafes to sit in on rainy days like these. Perhaps we just look for different things in towns.

I passed through quickly, and found my way to Yellow Creek, where I again used the restroom at a gas station. I saw Lon there again, and he said he lived around there. I was instantly wary. It was a surprise to see him again so soon. I wondered if he might be one of those bad people Mama keeps insisting will come and get me one of these days. I didn’t see him again. One of the things about these sorts of trips is that you try to use the restroom every opportunity you can get. There just aren’t that many good opportunities.

From Yellow Creek, I took a winding road between two rocky hills to Hopewell. Between Hopewell and Hustontown are two of the largest hills remaining in my trip. Two crests I’ll have to pass to get on my way. I knew I had to cross the mountains somewhere, and by my calculation, this is one of the least painful spots. So I got on my way, in very low gear: 1,2 I think. I battled up the hill. There were two false peaks, and I really got my hopes up for the first one. ‘Well this really isn’t so bad’ I thought, noting that I hadn’t even stopped to take a break yet when I passed the first one. Little did I know, I had so, so far to go. I ended up stopping maybe a dozen times, often guzzling down large quantities of water.

I also noticed my front wheel becoming a little flat again. Each peddle stroke forward would compress the front wheel a little more than usual, wasting energy instead of converting it into forward momentum. It’s a psychological thing, but I hated the idea of wasting even a small amount of energy, so I stopped to pump it back up. I leaned the bike against the rail, adjusted the front tire position so it would be easy for me to access with the pump, and sat awkwardly to fill it. RIIIPPP! My rain pants tore at the seam, right along my crotch. This instantly conjured memories of my ill-fated ride from Hollister to Gilroy, CA, on a previous trip, when my jeans had ripped during the rain. I cursed under my breath. But what could I do? I’d have to try to patch it later. Now just wasn’t a good time.

When at last I reached the peak, it was raining again, the cold dark clouds passing rapidly overhead. I was so eager to get down the other side that I forgot to put on my ski goggles again. I was hammered by artificially hard rain, pounding against me with the speed my bike took down the hill. ‘Such an idiot’ I thought to myself, since this is pretty much THE reason I brought my ski goggles in the first place. I won’t make the same mistake again. The downhill took me through Wells Tannery and across a short valley.

The second climb began soon after. The grade started off relatively shallow, so I found it was easy going at first. I entered Buchanan State Forest, and the storm winds thrashed the trees, causing hundreds of leaves to fall all around me. It was beautiful, and I took a brief break to record the scene with my gopro. Looking down, I saw that my tire was getting a little flat again, and that my rain pants had ripped a bit farther. I continued, more slowly than before, reaching a trailhead by a parking lot. I earnestly considered stopping there for the night, even though it was only 4 pm. I would need time to patch my rain pants with the sewing kit I had brought with me, and I wasn’t sure I had the energy to summit the second peak.

I did, however, ultimately decide to keep going. I was motivated by a few things: every foot I climb is a foot I don’t have to climb tomorrow morning; I’d need to stand around while the rainwater got absorbed by the ground, and continuing might be a better use of my time; and the closer I got to an actual town, the more likely I’d be able to find snacks to go along with dinner. I walked the rest of the way to the summit, filled my tire up again, remembered to put my ski goggles on, and rode slowly down the other side. I was more cautious this time, since the roads were wet and I didn’t want to wipe out or have my flattish front tire give out on me.

Ahead, I saw a food court and service station that had a Starbucks in it. Going down hill had made my fingers a little cold despite my gloves, and I was eager for another hot chocolate. But it turns out that the food court is only accessible from the interstate itself. There’s no way for me to legally – or safely – get to it. I considered going down a private road, and then crossing overland to it, but realized I’d need to hike back uphill afterwards, and that it just wasn’t worth it. I crossed under the interstate, then went down Hess Rd. towards Hustontown. I stopped at a Dollar General, picking up chips, canned soup, a small bottle of orange juice, a heath bar, and Swiss Miss packets with which I could make my own hot chocolate.

By now my tire was fully flat. It didn’t help that I’d accidentally gone over a few large buckeyes on my way down Hess, but that was that. The food from Dollar General didn’t quite fit in my bike panniers either, and was precariously balanced while I navigated down some hills out of town to the east. I knew, with darkness closing in fast, that I wouldn’t make it far. I scanned the undergrowth next to the road, looking for literally just any spot that would do. I found an ATV route cut into the shrubbery leading away from the road, and followed it. Eventually, I cut off to one side and found a relatively flat, concealed spot. I checked the sight-lines to a few nearby buildings, deciding that while it was a bit dicey, it was good enough. One of the things I dislike most about my tent is its neon-yellow rain cover, which makes it really obvious to even a casual observer just looking in your general direction that you’re there. In some sense, that makes me choose more conservative stealth camping spots, where no one even has a chance to see you, let alone identify what they’re looking at. In this case, there’s a chance someone could see me if they looked directly at me through the undergrowth. With so much greenery still around me despite all the leaves starting to fall, I hoped the tent would still be well concealed. It will be more difficult when all the leaves are gone and the undergrowth recedes with winter.

I built the tent quickly, throwing all the things I would need inside. I also got out my camp stove and took the chicken noodle soup, swiss miss packets, and a bottle of water over to another area. You can’t use the stove inside the tent: not only is the material flammable, but you have to be at least a little concerned about carbon monoxide poisoning. I just found a flat spot where I could place the burner on the grass, plucking aside any weeds that came to close. I screwed the burner onto the fuel cannister and used the sparker to ignite the flame. I fumbled once, my cold fingers accidentally shutting off the fuel supply, so I had to do this twice. Fire going, I placed the pot of chicken noodle soup on top and waited until steam was rising from the surface and small bubbles were forming in the soup. I knew it would be hot, but not too hot. I stirred it with a spoon and ate. It would have been a cold night without the burner, but I instantly felt better after eating the hot food. I then made the hot chocolate, thankful that the screwed-up interstate only Starbucks had not prevented me from getting what I wanted. I sipped it quickly, then put the equipment away and entered the tent. I changed out of my wet clothing and put dry clothes on. I zipped my sleeping bag all the way up, turned off the flashlight, and went to bed. It was warm and snuggly, and I dozed off quickly.