Duncannon, PA (The Longest Day of Summer, for me)

This story took place on June 17, 1987. The first photo was taken either in Maryland or southern Pennyslvanna. The second, which is a bit hazy due to the humidity in the air, is of the town of Duncannon. The photo of the remodelled Doyle Hotel was taken from their website.

That evening I sat on a stool in a smoky bar, wearing a pair of nylon running shorts, shoes with no socks, and a rain jacket. All the clothes in my possession were a washing machine in the Laundromat next door. My head was already spinning and I wasn’t sure why I was nursing another beer while catching up on my journal for the day. Exhausted, I was ready for bed. Although there were half a dozen or so other patrons, plus the bartender, no one paid me any attention. I assumed they’d seen plenty of hikers passing through and my unique outfit didn’t faze them.
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I sat my pen down, took another sip from the bottle and began to think about the day. It began in the wee hours of morning, at Campbell Springs Shelter. I was the only one at the shelter that night, and hadn’t seen too many people on the trail for the past few days. Knowing the day ahead was going to include the infamous 20 mile road walk across a valley, known for being hot and without shade, I decided to get an early start. By three in the morning, I was on the trail. The first few hundred yards were tricky, as I followed the narrow trail and found myself relying on a flashlight to stay on the trail and to spot the blazes. But soon, the trail turned along a dirt road and I could turn off the light. A half mile later, the trail broke out of the woods and into open farm land. The road headed north, across the valley and over a set of railroad tracks. The air was still, damp and cool. Off the road a ways were farmhouses. At one intersection, there was a church and a few houses. Occasionally a rooster or a dog could be heard and once, I startled some cows sleeping next to the fence. At 4:30 A.M., I took my first break, sitting up my back along the bank of a ditch. The sweet smell of fresh manure scented the air. Looking above, I noticed Cygnus, the swan, and Lyra, the harp, with its bright star Vega, that seemed so close I can touch. The sky was clear and it would be a hot day. I was glad that I would be done with the road walk before noon.
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And hour later, I missed a turn and hiked off a mile or two in the wrong direction. I backtracked, taking a railroad track that left me a couple hundred yards down the trail from where I’d left it. Continuing on, I passed the Pennsylvania Turnpike and then I-81, an interstate that follows the great valley on down through Maryland and Virginia. There’s history here. Settlers used the valley to move south in the 18th century. A century later, General Lee moved his force through the valley on his ill-fated northern invasion. Today, the valley has been carved into farms and mobile home parks. At 6:45 AM stopped at a diner for breakfast in Middlesex, near the intersection of the turnpike and I-81. I’d covered ten miles of trail, plus an additional few miles of backtracking. Half the roadwalk was behind me. Stashing my pack in a corner, I sat on a stool by the counter and ordered pouched eggs, corn beef hash, along with coffee and toast. Sipping coffee, I made a few notes in my journal.
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Afterward eating, I continued drinking coffee as I read some in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and wrote in my journal. I waited till nearly eight to call Jim, a friend from school who lived in Harrisburg. He agreed to pick me up the next morning in Duncannon, a town along the Susquehanna River. That was about 19 miles away. I knew there was a good chance that I could make the town that day, but since Duncannon is one of the hiker’s havens and everyone always raved about the Doyle Hotel, I thought I'd spend the night there. Besides, I’d been following two hikers known as “The Brits” for two weeks now. According to what they’d written in the last trail journal, I knew they were also planning on being in Duncannon and I’d have a chance to meet them. I also knew that even if I didn’t make Duncannon that day, I could easily be there by the following morning.
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Leaving the diner, I continued my northward trek, across Conodogunet Creek and up the side of Blue Mountain. I crested Blue Mountain and arrive at Darlington Shelter a little before eleven. I had beaten my goal of finishing the road walk before noon. The day was becoming hot, which when added to the humidity was a killer. I drop my pack against the wall of the shelter, lean back against it and sleep for nearly an hour. Then I fixed some lunch: crackers, peanut butter, and cheese, all washed down a quart water bottle mix of cherry Kool-Aid. I read a bit more of Kerouac. His story is captivating, as he seems to be only happy when he’s traveling. Getting the hint, I load up and shoulder my pack and head on, determined to have dinner in Duncannon. I have 12 ½ miles to go.

The trail drops off Blue Mountain, crosses another small valley and then up Cove Mountain. So far, hiking had been easy in Pennsylvania, but on Cove Mountain, which appears to be one big rock pile, I get the first taste of why so many hikers complain about the state. Although there are no high mountains, there are plenty of rocks, most of which is upturned limestone that is jagged and can turn one’s feet to hamburger. By the time I crest Cove Mountain, I’ve already put 20 some miles on my feet. “Them dogs are getting tired,” I think as I feel each rock. But I continue to make decent time. I take another cat-nap at mid-afternoon, waiting for the heat to dissipate, but it doesn’t. Pushing on, I arrive at the outskirts of Duncannon late in the afternoon. I’m dirty and drenched with sweat. I stop by a small store and buy a Pepsi and hot dog, which I quickly gulp down. Then I hike on into town, passing houses tucked close together. Many have open windows and I overhear conversations around the dining room tables. Further on, I come into the business section: small stores, shops, restaurants, a hardware store and the Doyle Hotel. This was once a nice hotel, with impressive brick, iron and wood work. It was built by Anheuser Busch back early in the 20th century and had seen its better days. I head into the hotel and make a beeline to the bar.
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It’s not hard to pick out fellow hikers and sure enough, the Brits are sitting on barstools at the Doyle Hotel. I drop my pack in the corner and join them. Having read their journal entries for some time, I felt that I knew them fairly well. But since I’d been behind them, they hadn’t heard of me. I order a beer and ask for a glass of water and we begin to get acquainted. Dave and Paul, with their English accents, have charmed the crowd and the patrons continually buy drinks for them. The next thing I know, I’m included in the rounds and another beer is placed in front of me. Dehydrated from the long hot hike, I drink more than I should and after downing a couple beers, my head is spinning and I excuse myself and check into the hotel.
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You get what you pay for and for $7.42 a night, I got a lumpy iron-framed bed and a shared bath that had no shower, only a footed steel tub, the kind that might bring a small fortune in an antique store. After a bath, I put on my pair of nylon running shorts. I stuff all the rest of my clothes into a bag and head out to find a laundry mat. Running downstairs, I stick my head in the bar and see that Dave and Paul have left. They weren’t interested in spending the night in the hotel and had hiked on. I head down the street to the laundry mat. I have a puny load to wash: three t-shirts, a long sleeve shirt for cooler nights, a couple pair of boxer shorts, a pair of hiking shorts, two heavy pair of wool socks, two pair of liners, an extra pair of polypropylene socks, three bandanas and one half of a towel. As the washing starts, I walk over to the bar next door.
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Across the bar from where I’d been sitting, a woman and a man began arguing. She’s attractive, tall and slender with wavy brown hair hanging down her back. I would guess she was in her late 20s, maybe early 30s. I’d seen her and the man next to her when I came in, but had paid them no attention. Then she changes her tone and the bar becomes very quiet. The bartender stopped drying glasses and stand still, holding his towel. The other patrons also turned to look at the woman and the man. Even the jukebox in the corner, that had been blaring song after song as patrons drop in quarters, seems to have shut down. Or maybe I just no longer noticed. With a soft sexy voice, the woman goes into great detail as she describes how she’d perform a particular sexual act with her mouth. I feel like we’re all listening in on a conversation that should be private, but there’s little helping it when she’s sitting across the bar from me, maybe ten feet away. When she finishes her description, she gave the guy a “go to hell look,” and pointed her finger in his face and said, “But you’ll never know.” She then walks out. Some of the guys laughed. The noise in the bar returns. As an interloper, I felt there was something incredibly sad about the whole situation.
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I finished my beer and head back to the laundry to move my clothes to the dryer. Fifteen minutes later, my laundry done, I head to my room at the Doyle Hotel, my clean clothes stuffed into a small ditty bag. I’d worried about sleeping on the lumpy mattress, and had even thought about sleeping on my pad on the floor, but I was so tired that I fell asleep right away and didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky.

Epilogue: After breakfast the next morning, I was out on the street waiting for Jim to pick me up when I ran across the woman from the bar. She was pushing a stroller with two small kids. I nodded and she came over and asked if I wasn’t the hiker in the bar the evening before. Although we said nothing else about the evening, she apologized for her behavior. I told her it wasn't necessary and asked about her kids. She introduced them and continued talking, telling me some of her story, of a divorce and how she’d get out of town if she could, but is stuck there with her two children. I listened, making faces at the kids and feeling sorry for her. We were still talking when Jim pulled up. I wished her well, tossed my pack into the backseat and jumped into the passenger seat and waved goodbye.
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As for the Brits, even after taking two days off, I was able to catch up with them a week later. They were pretty snookered when they left Duncannon and didn’t make it far out of town and weren’t up for putting in the long miles for several days (which is why I was able to catch them so soon). They spent the night I’d meet them in Duncannon in the open, sleeping down below the railroad grade of one of the busiest rail lines in the country. The fact that they could sleep next to the near continuous sound of freight is a testament to their condition. They woke up with an awful headache. I kept bumping into the two of them all the way to Mount Katadhin (they finished the trail a day before me). The three of us exchanged Christmas Cards for several years. A couple years after completing the trail, Dave came back to the States and married a woman whom we’d both meet later on the trail in Pennsylvania.
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This week, I googled the Doyle Hotel and was pleasantly surprised to find that it open and still serving hikers. However, the hotel has been remodeled and the room rate has gone up considerably. A night at the Doyle now costs 25 bucks!

Other stories from my hikes on the Appalachian Trail
Getting to the trail in Georgia
Folks along the trail in North Georgia
Folks along the trail in North Georgia and Southern North Carolina
Hiking the Berkshires, Massachusetts
Sugarloaf Mt, Maine
My Hiking Stick