Country Roads Took Me Home

“You look good, kid”, my Dad said as I wearily walked towards the picnic table in Pen Mar Park on the 5th of July where he and my Mom were anxiously awaiting my descent out of Maryland’s woods with Sandie’s spinach dip, chicken salad, and potato salad…all of my mayonnaise-based favorites from home. I had made it to Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania. Walked from Georgia back to my home state. Sure took a lot longer than the ride in Uncle Roy’s conversion van on the way down.

“You think it’s time ya come home, Sar?”, he asked, with his arms crossed, as well as his fingers.

He already knew the answer to his question but thought that it was worth a shot.

Can you blame him? This man is my biggest fan as well as my bodyguard, and oftentimes these two hats are at odds. He hasn’t had a restful night’s sleep since I set out on foot. My thru hike is his lighthouse and his albatross.

My Mother.

She is stoicism.

Selfless. Creative. Nurturing. Strong. Capable. Grateful. Beautiful. There has never been a single complaint to escape this woman’s mouth. Seriously- her foot could be in flames, and you could ask her if anything is wrong, and she would reply, “Oh no, everything is fine, just a little warm (with a smile).” Living vicariously through me, she silently champions me. And if you are a friend of mine, you’ve made her “card” list. I’m talking Easter, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving. Hell- Presidents’ Day and a $5 bill, if you’re lucky.

My parents found both comfort and fear in seeing my new way of life and depth of responsibility. Dad, firmly shaking the hands of the men who are seeing his baby girl through the mountains of Appalachia, insisted on footing the bill of the hotel stay for each hiker that had been rolling alongside of me. If they remained well-rested with ample budget, then my mortality rate would decrease, he calculated.

If only it were that simple…

Hours after saying goodbye to my parents, knowing that I would next see them only after my triumph in Maine, I crossed the Mason Dixon line and then…

I fell off of a bridge.

Wallflower was ahead, when one of his trekking poles plummeted overboard a footbridge. He stood concretely leaning over the railing, preventing it from being swept downstream by the river’s current by pinning it with his pole that remained in hand. As I casually approached this scene, I instinctively leaned over the same railing. Placing the tip of one of my poles through the wrist loop of his drowning one, I was confident that I would quickly levy it up with ease. This was my chance to save his a$$.

“Diiiiiippppppssssss!!!!…”, I heard, echoing as the cry became more remote. Wallflower, Bullfrog, and Aerosmith, on land. And me, pack and all, submerged with pieces of the faulty wooden railing sprinkled on top of me. The water, shallow enough for me to stand, I handed the rescued pole to Wallflower and began to search for my pride.

That must have been swept downstream with the current.

Welcome back to Pennsylvania, Sarah.

The following morning, after an extra hour of shut-eye, my ears were filled with the melody of Nathaniel Rateliff and my shoulders with confidence. My head held high, so high that I was focusing on the ground that lay 2 feet ahead of my stride, naive to Pennsylvania’s rocks and the absolute need to now stare directly down at my feet to direct each and every step. The in between could not be trusted.

The rubber lip of my trail runner that protects its toe box caught on a spiked rock, the size of a deck of cards, and seemingly intentionally aimed to bring me to my knees. And it did. My right kneecap squared off with its peak, singly bearing the weight of me and all of the gear on my back.

I vagaled down, the pain so intense, and reflexively became nauseous and my skin clammy. Now laying on my back, my right leg extended, I began to wail, “GET THIS PACK OFF OF MY BACK!! NOW. GET IT OFF NOW !!”. Both my defeat of Georgia’s snow and my plans for New Hampshire’s Whites stared at me. My journey had come to an end, I had believed. And so did Wallflower, he later admitted. Assuming that I had shattered my knee cap, I wept. He and Bullfrog encouraged me to attempt to bear weight and helped me to my feet, each with an arm under mine. I was going to be okay, surviving the fall with only a goose egg the color of a plum.

Rain. Heat. Cramping. Hunger. Thirst. Fatigue. Swelling. Pain. Yes. Yes, I’ll take them all for one more day on this trail. One more day to walk towards my goal.

Perspective.

March 1st was my last day employed as a Nurse Anesthetist and one of my managers, Derek Reckard asked that he talk with me privately in his office. What did I do wrong??, I thought. But after all, what was he going to do?…fire me? Derek leaned over his desk and said, “Happiness is a choice, Sarah.” His farewell gift was to brand me with this mindset, one that our innate gravitation towards pessimism can rob us of.

I force myself to choose happinesses each day when my instinct can be to complain about the conditions that surround me, and Derek still sends a motivational message to me each and every Saturday. An unspoken tradition that keeps us connected and my chin up (but not too far up…rocks, remember?).

After reaching 1,100 miles, we entered the quaint town of Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania. Its lake lovely but its resources lacking. Ashlee, an operating room nurse, who I shared an O.R. with on occasion, ever so sweetly surprised me with a care package at the town’s post office filled with splendor. An acquaintance, now intimately intertwined with my walk. With nowhere to launder and the only option for a shower coming in at an unreasonable $15 fee at the community pool, we opted to hitch a short 7 miles to Carlisle where we’d complete our chores at the Flying J truck stop. I felt dirty, lesser than, sticking my thumb out in a town where Saturday afternoon brunchers were onlooking as they choose between Eggs Benedict and Quiche Lorraine in their pencil skirts, most probably judging me, dirt-covered and desperate. They had no idea of what I was capable of.

And I used to be them.

The Flying J held up to its reputation. Its showers “Out of Order” and its lounge stacked with cross continental truckers eyeing me up, more fiercely than any black bear would be capable, as I filled the washing machine with my muddy duds. And $5 in quarters and a $7 serving of Tide. Our stench making itself known, we were desperate for a bath, and I began to call area hotels in search of an affordable day rate. The cheapest available coming in at the Red Roof Inn’s $394.00 +tax. WHAT?!? It was “Carlisle Chrysler Nationals” weekend, and this town was CAPITALIZING. It must’ve been desperation stirred with my puppy dog eyes that pulled at Katrina’s heart strings. She looked at me (sullen, dirt-covered, anguished), and then looked towards the door of her manager’s Motel 6 office, conflicted….back at me (now leaning on her desk, noticeably stenched, bottom lip protruding)…and proposed, “I have a room. It hasn’t been remodeled. It’s bad. And I mean, BAD. But for $50 cash…”

“I’ll take it.”, I say.

“Why don’t you take a look first and…”. I cut her off, “I’ll TAKE it.”.

The room that wrapped its arms around me was laden with holes (Born by bullet? Fist?), cigarette stained walls, and smears of blood adjacent to the bathroom sink.

Was it The Grosvenor Hotel circa London 2018 with Dara by my side? No. But it was heavenly.

Serendipitous.

I’ve learned that things are never as good nor as bad as people say. Food. Relationships. Weather. Climbs. But not Pennsylvania’s terrain.

It was worse.

And I mean, WORSE.

The rocks, relentless, and I spent most of my time in Pennsylvania dehydrated, lost, donning a bug net, and on my a$$. Until I took the Bowlby’s up on their offer.

The parents of my dear friend, Jeremy, Judy and Dave have been following my journey, insistent upon a helping hand. I accepted the invitation to their home in Lititz, Pennsylvania for a hot shower and a warm bed, unbeknownst to me, the opportunity to pay it forward that lay ahead. My wish, Judy’s pleasure, complete with percale sheets and brisket baking in the oven upon my arrival. Dave is an eager day hiker, meeting me on the trail with chilled orange Gatorade (per request) and ice water in hand. Over fried eggs, Canadian bacon, and homemade sourdough the following morning, Dave was a bit winded, and I noticed him wheezing in between bites. This didn’t sit well with me, but I digressed. I invited him to accompany me on the trail for a few miles after my return, and it was then that he begrudgingly admitted that he wouldn’t be capable. He’d be too short of breath, he admitted.

“I’m not getting back into the car until you schedule a doctor’s appointment.”, my foot was planted, seeding from care, concern, and intuitive sense.

Hours later, I sat fully garbed in my gaiters and fanny pack, coaching Dave through his EKG lead placement and his physician in her prescription of the testing that I felt necessary. She looked at him…then to me…back at him…, “And the two of you are related, howwww?….”. Her tone elongated and pitch increasingly growing high, reflecting both her confusion and curiosity. “She’s my anesthesiologist.”, Dave proudly responded. “I’m a friend of the family.”, I attempted to temper her bewilderment. The circus of Sarah had struck again. It was discovered that Dave had a pneumonia that warranted both antibiotic and steroid treatment, and I was diagnosed with a terminal case of…serendipity. I refused treatment.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

I did. As did the Bowlby’s.

Judy and I exchanged verses after she put my laundry in the dryer- me, the ins and outs of my stove and quilt, and her, the difference between jams, jellies, and marmalades. I learned of how she and Dave met and of their family trees. Not to mention, my dissection of the purpose of slugs. What was it?!? I was convinced that there was none other than to torture Sarah Robison. Bird feed, apparently. A story for another time. The Bowlby’s, saints, and now forever part of my tribe.

The weather on Sunday, July 18th kept my miles to a minimum, leading to the idea to do a “marathon day” the following day to alleviate the anxieties that were surfacing for the miles missed. 26.2 miles (26.3 to the tent site, to be exact) over a stretch of Pennsylvania that would medal in rock strewning. Rule #1- consider your terrain before calculating your goal for the day’s miles. Fail. I had set myself up for failure before I had even left camp that morning. At mile 19, I was just about to crest The Pinnacle when my foot became wedged in between 2 boulders, cementing me from the waist down and leaving my torso captive to the momentum of the 35 pounds that lives on my back. I whaled. I whaled because my right ankle was throbbing but more so in frustration. Depletion. Hopelessness. In between tears, I barked to Wallflower, “I need to STOP WALKING, NOW. NOW!”. “Sarah’s” pride would have kept her on trail that evening, hiking the 7.2 more miles in the dark, and ultimately setting herself up for a debilitating fall. “Sarah” wouldn’t have stopped. But “Dips” has learned that humility is strength.

I called it.

We set up camp at the next clearing, unideal with its bed of rocks and lack of water source. I knew that I needed a break from the trail, a very temporary one, a very brief one, but one at that.

I hadn’t seen Angela in 16 years. A year my senior in nursing school and a colleague through my days in the ICU, Ang latched onto my quest as soon as she caught wind of it back in February. After 5 short miles the following morning, I could hear her laughing from the window of her Jeep Grand Cherokee as she sped up to the gap that crosses Hawk Mountain Road, “Ohhhh myyyy Godddd! Eeeeekkkk!”.

I stayed with her and her family for the good bit of 24 hours, soaking in their whirlpool tub for 3 of those. Sitting on her kitchen island when I arrived was a bag of hiking essentials, courtesy of Misana (a dear friend and mentor who I haven’t been in touch with since 2008) and a resupply of Mountain House meals that Doug (an O.R. pharmacist and friend) had forwarded along for the second time. Ang took me to the grocery store and gave me carte blanche. I was a kid in a candy store, “They have Forager yogurt?!?”. Then to L.L. Bean for a new fuel canister where I point blank ran into a display, nearly spraining my wrist. It had been 4 months since I was in a store of that genre, and I was both awestruck and overwhelmed. We picked her daughter, Zoey, up from dance class, and I got to see the studio and meet a handful of her friends. She took me to Lost Tavern Brewing and treated me to Korean BBQ from Randevoo food truck. Brandon, her husband, and I ate Nutter Butters and milk before bed. I felt human. I felt at home.

My dear friend prepared 2 eggs for me, made to order, checked my scalp for ticks, took part in my meal-prep, and then it was back into the wild. My reconnection with Angela, one of many that have been born again as I walk. It seems that those farthest from me have become the closest. Jen Smoller. Diane Novosel. Jon Barefoot. Ranna Sharaf. Misana Vantosky. Patricia George. Terrie Fowler. Jaime Naughton. Jen Kundick. Uncle Jimmy & Aunt Sue. Kenny & Roz. Malissa Young. Wendy Veith. Jimmy Stitt. I FEEL you. Friends, family, and mentors alike. Wendy, the student coordinator of my second anesthesia rotation at UPMC Presbyterian back in 2005, has been championing me from home with words of encouragement and gracious donation after not seeing one another since her retirement in 2017. I’ve never felt so nurtured and supported in my life.

My trail squad continues to thin. The deaths of the dreams of friends that have become family, that I may never see again. Flowers, Sunshine, and Big Agnes chose to pack their strength and leave the trail when it felt unhealthy for them to stay any longer while Crush and Piss Bag had a forced exit. Crush with a fractured wrist and emergency surgery to follow, and Piss Bag with Lyme’s disease after a tick bite in the Cumberland Valley. My own forced exit an ever potential week or day away, and at best I have only 8-10 more weeks in the woods. Only 8 more weeks. Only 8 more weeks of waking up to the birds. Only 8 more weeks of eating Cheetos mixed with tuna, mayonnaise and hot sauce for lunch over a view of the valley. Only 8 more weeks of walking in the rain, making that bunk at the next hostel all of the sweeter. Only 8 more weeks of being hosted by new faces, of experiencing primal human generosity at its finest. Only 8 more weeks of looking up at a climb and thinking, “There’s no freakin’ way”, only to be shortly staring out from the top, triumphant as all get out. Only 8 more weeks until my reintegration with society as I knew it. Knew it.

How beautiful it is to be saying “only” and not “I still have 8 more weeks out here.” The difference between the two, vast.

I can’t unsee or unfeel my encounters, escapades, and trials over the recent months. Experiences had and wisdom gained that those at home have not seen or felt with no memoir of mine, nor photograph, articulate enough to depict. As Carrot Quinn titled her book, “Thru hiking will break your heart”.

This brings us almost up to speed. For now, an appetizer… One of my best friends flew from Seattle into Newark and slid out of a rental car in Wind Gap, Pennsylvania, tracking me by beacon. I was evicted from a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise in Delaware Water Gap in a battle of Dips vs. Denise. Katie’s return, surprising me on trail. I wore men’s underwear and a beach towel to a Chinese restaurant while my mildewed clothes were busy being spun at a laundromat in Warwick, NY. My miles longer and my days off trail, nil.

But for now, I must leave you and bid farewell to New Jersey, my friends. 8 states down, and 6 states to go.

David “AWOL” Miller said it best in his memoir, AWOL on the Appalachian Trail, “Hiking the AT is “pointless”? What life is not “pointless”? Is it not pointless to work paycheck to paycheck just to conform? Hiking the AT before joining the workforce was an opportunity not taken. Doing it in retirement would be sensible; doing it at this time in my life is abnormal, and therein lay the appeal. I want to make my life less ordinary.”

And therein lay the appeal. Less ordinary.

7/5: Mom & Dad, Pen Mar Park

I got them on the trail! What a dichotomy… See that blaze at 3 o’clock?

6/30: Northern Virginia’s “Rollercoaster” is a 13.5 stretch of trail with stacked ups and downs and without switchbacks. I had previously completed this challenge on a Southbound section hike, and I will say with certainty that it’s much more grueling going Northbound…in the rain.

7/7

7/7: The exact sign that I gazed upon, 10 yards into my first section hike with Katie in September of 2019 as I called out to her, “I’m going to walk every inch of this thing one day!”

7/5: Meet “Trail Boss”, a very active member of the PATC (Potomac Application Trail Club). He’s responsible for maintaining the integrity of blazes throughout the state of Maryland. As per the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, the A.T. is marked for travel in both directions using a system of white “blazes,” or a rectangle of white paint 2 inches wide and 6 inches high. Blazes are found most often on trees, occasionally on posts and rocks and are used as our guide in addition to mapping.

7/5: The picnic table at Rock Raven Hollow where I met my very first thru hikers, Sunshine and Seeker, while section hiking in 2019. Where Katie earned her trail name, “Fuel”. To be sitting here in the midst of my own thru hike is mind blowing.

7/5: Mom & Dad with Sunshine, Mortis, Crush, Wallflower, and BZ. 2 of which are now off-trail 😔

7/6: Mom resupplying with Wallflower at Walmart in Waynesboro, PA.

7/7: Escaped this by mere hours.

7/7: The scene of my fall and the impaired railing to prove it.

Welcome home, Sarah!

7/9: Wallflower, early AM.

7/9: Trail Magic and cheeseburgers, courtesy of Dennis and Marie.

7/9: 1️⃣1️⃣0️⃣0️⃣

7/9: The official half-way point of the AT (with outdated mileage inscribed) in Pine Grove Furnace, PA. Should read, “⬅️ N 1096.5/1096.5 S ➡️.”

7/9: The Pine Grove Furnace General Store- home of the “Half Gallon Challenge”, a challenge to eat an entire half-gallon of ice cream, at the halfway point, in one half hour.

Is your money on Dips??

Note: I learned on this day that a proper half-gallon of ice cream is the rectangular tub which I had previously thought to be an entire half-gallon PLUS a pint.

Also of note: I do not prefer Cookies & Cream varieties of ice cream, but this is the only flavor that came in both sizes, and I couldn’t mix types between the 2 containers. Who is shocked? Suellen? Anyone? 😂 Some things will never change.

Boom. 27 minutes and 15.4 seconds. That’s your girl! And the only female present to get the gold, also beating Wallflower, who finished in over 30 minutes. Unsure if I should be proud or ashamed…

“Gold”, meaning a disposable wooden spoon stamped with “MEMBER OF THE HALF GALLON CLUB.”

7/9

7/10: descent into Boiling Springs.

7/10

7/10

7/10: Boiling Springs, Children’s Lake.

7/10: Blogging at the Flying J in Carlisle on my new Bluetooth keyboard coming in at an ultralight 5.6 ounces.

7/11: The “murder” room at the Motel 6, Carlisle.

7/11: Goodbye Sunshine ☀️

Artwork, courtesy of Charlotte Novosel. What she thought Auntie Lionel had taken along ♥️ I love you, sweet Charlotte!

7/12: The notorious “Doyle” in Duncannon, PA.

7/12: Glitter playing strings on the Doyle’s front porch.

7/12: Martino Salvatore Nave, owner of Sorrento’s pizza in Duncannon.

7/13: Reunited with my Deja child wonder outside of Kind of Outdoorsy outfitter, Duncannon.

7/13: Deja, President, and Wallflower waiting in the breakfast line at Goodies Diner.

7/13: Trail town vending machine complete with Leukotape, fuel canisters, Snickers and iPhone chargers!

7/13: The mixed media of the departure from Duncannon- trail woven with neighborhood charm.

7/13: Wallflower helping a local boy remove his sweatshirt drawstring from his rear wheel 🚲

7/13: Water cache at Peter’s Mountain Road. A kind act of locals throughout Pennsylvania! The water sources are SCARCE here, and they support us with leaving cold beverages at road access points 🙏🏼 If you live in the area, you should consider it!

7/14: Bug netting essential to moving forward. Otherwise, I was perpetually plucking gnats out of my eyes.

7/14: Rumored to be haunted.

7/14: Camping at Rausch Creek.

7/15: Beaver Dam at Stony Creek. One of my least favorite experiences on trail, thus far. If I would’ve fallen in, my skin would have curdled.

7/15: Happy birthday, Mom 🎉!! Thanks to my childhood friend, Tabby’s (ref: “Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes” post), ingenuity. I was able to surprise my Mom with a cake and balloons! Difficult for me to ask for help, there were lessons layered throughout. My gratitude, Bun and Jack Rabbit, for your stealth-ops!!

7/15: Judy & Dave Bowlby. Or as Jeremy refers to them- “Judge Judy” and “DH”.

Dinner at the Bowlby’s.

Judy’s hand-picked farm fresh eggs 🥚

Coffee and news with “DH” in the “time-out” chair.

Breakfast potatoes made to order! “Would you like them shredded, sliced, cubed? Skin, on or off? Onions, mushrooms, peppers?”, Judy asked.

Entryway at the Bowlby’s. Judy took the time to explain the history behind each painting, decorum, and heirloom. Her decorating style and sentimentality reminded me of my own, leaving me longing for home, but also finding it within their walls.

7/17: An intro to Rocksylvania.

7/17: 1️⃣2️⃣0️⃣0️⃣

7/17: Judy’s packed lunch of ham & cheese with avocado at Hertline Creek 🥪

That shower lasted all of 4 hours…

7/18: Dinner of Suellen’s refried Costa Rican beans, tuna packet with rice, and packed-out avocado on tortilla!

7/19: Descent into Port Clinton, PA.

7/19: Peanut Shop candy emporium, Port Clinton 🍭

7/19: My very 1st birch beer! A mix of cream soda and root beer, IMO.

Rocks.

And more rocks…

7/20: A warm welcome into the Kazan’s farmhouse!

Sweet, sweet Zoey. This young lady is grace, kindness, wonder and beauty. And has the COOLEST newly decorated retro bedroom!!

Angela’s husband, Brandon, took it upon himself to remedy my pack frame and call Osprey while I was soaking in the tub after he heard me complain of my back pain. You’re an ace, Brandon! 🙏🏼

7/20: Ang and I at Lost Tavern Brewing.

Handmade tie dyed satchel that Zoey made for me ♥️! They’ll ship it to me upon my finish!

For all of you hikers, bikers, and runners out there- I highly recommend this alternative to Body Glide for your anti-chafe balm! Much more emollient and long-lasting.

14 days in to my 3rd pair of trail runners. The beginning of my Pennsylvania-induced shoe demise.

7/21: My banana hot dog lunch.

7/21: MUCH needed water cache at Fort Franklin Road!

7/21: Solo stealth camping in my new tent. Thank you, Nicky Webber-Plank!! 🤣

Size comparison of tent to shoe. Compact AF!

You are now entering the pinnacle of Rocksylvania… Cost of admission: your soul. Keep your hands inside of the ride at all times. Buckle up!

Help.

Please.

Someone.

Anyone.

7/23: Ellen, a dayhiker, helped me up and over Blue Mountain Ridge in the Lehigh Valley. The climb too steep to manage my trekking poles and keep my balance, I would pass them off to her in increments as I ascended.

7/25: Dara, Dave, and “flat Sarah” had dinner at my parents’ ♥️. Thank you for continuing to love up on them while I’m away, Dru! XOXO

Handmade card from my GI Lab boo, Ray Elmore 💌 Completely precious. Y’all have no idea how your small gestures keep me strong and equipped ♥️