May 3rd. James Fry shelter to Boiling Springs.
The day began with my first taste of rock climbing as the trail wound through a jagged, escarpment of protruding boulders, but later took a 180 degree turn, cutting out across flat farmland. In the rural highlands of Pennsylvania the AT becomes just another rough-tilled furrow, braced left and right by daisies and dandelions and other flora common to the countryside. Imagine stepping into that classic green hill, blue sky Windows desktop background, except the air smells like manure. That’s it, you’re here. And don’t forget look up at the clouds: strands of cirri stretch end to end between horizons raked apart here and there by stratospheric wind currents.

After weeks of walking beneath a canopy of green, the curvature of blue was refreshing. Breaths come easy. I’m happy to leave the sharp rocks and tangled roots behind in favor of the flatland.
Being able to actually see the planes I previously only heard, rocketing along at 300 mph overhead was a real pain in the ass though.
After another mile or two I arrived at Boiling Springs. It was a nice place. Quiet. Green lawns. A lake with near-domesticated flocks of ducks. I’m talking the ones that will come right up to take bread crumbs from your hand. It was the kind of place you’d want to raise your kids. But also the kind they’d eventually itch to get out of.
The one tavern in town had a rustic feel, but was clearly meant to cater to a black-tie crowd. There were hikers inside despite, ragged packs piled in a corner out of the way. I sat down for a beer with two of them, Pineapple and Blaze, and stared at the antique musket held by a pair of pegs on the back wall while they talked. Depressants always hit me strong so I naturally pull away.
From what I overheard, Pineapple was taking the trail slow while the other, Blaze, was burning holes in his boots. The tortoise and the hare hashing out their differences over Yeunglings. There was some irony there. But I was drifting away and too hopped up to really care.
In the grips of detached drunken curiosity, I wondered about this place. How could a whole town be so fully secluded from the outside world? The businesses were all family owned. There were middle aged men fishing the lake during work hours on a weekday. The BMW’s didn’t zip down the street but instead moved slow. You’d see more action in a retirement home.
There was a kind of peaceful stability here that no other place I knew of could replicate. I was looking for something like that. Other people too. The last of my saison went down, and that was that. Nothing for me here. Time to move on.
Pineapple and Blaze were staring almost disbelievingly into their likewise empty glasses when I grabbed my gear, wished them well, and left. Before the door shut I glanced back and noticed they each had a finger up for one more.
Other people are looking too.
Happiness ain’t in the dregs – Nomad