you old buzzards, you.

Knowing full well what a cut engine in an unpaved lot at the end of a long car ride portends, Mamie had burst from the back of the car the second I popped open the rear window. Darting into and then immediately back out of the woods, she gave me a distrustful glance as she jogged to the other side of the lot to privately investigate the treasure she had excavated from the moldering leaves.

Following her and having a look myself, I couldn't decide if this skull and its Mamie-detached mandible were good or bad omens.

We were in Buzzards country after all.

Omens or not, dawn had broken, the sun was rising up off the eastern horizon, and all of Stony Valley invited adventuring from its roost just on the other side of Second Mountain at whose base we sat gawking from the valley of Fishing Creek.  It was time to lace up the shoes and get lost (or what felt like lost) for a few hours.

Neither Brian or I have ever run the full Buzzards Marathon course, weren't even sure we knew what trails or sequence of turns made up the course (which is to say, more truthfully, we were sure we didn't know), but we were certain that we were departing from the official, ahem, unofficial starting point of the infamous race that never was.

For those of you who are wondering what the hell I'm talking about, there isn't much I can tell you since the race really doesn't, perhaps never really did, exist.

Or did it?

Hard to say, but if you're curious (as I was and still am), here's a link that will let you draw your own conclusions:  Fact or Fiction? Lore of the Buzzards

As a quick aside, I believe I may have found the man who can tell me all there is to know (or not know), but my instincts suggest he may not give me straight answers, especially if I propose to write a definitive history of this near-mythical non-event.  Musings for another day and a different blog post.

Almost as soon as we stepped from the parking lot, our route began a steady climb of 700 some feet over about a mile and half.  The familiar yellow blazes of the Horse-Shoe Trail welcomed us early in the climb and I was reminded of coming the opposite direction on this same trail a few years ago when I had traveled the first 34+ miles of the trail on a long birthday run.  Going the opposite way and with the passing of even just a few years, I didn't recognize a thing, but that hardly mattered as we fell into a steady rhythm of movement and conversation.  We quickly reached the top of Second Mountain where the early morning sun cast long shadows and Brian and I gestured from one ridge to another, commenting on prior explorations.

Leaving the summit, we began a brisk downhill plunge that followed the straight arrow of an aging pipeline before hanging a sharp right to follow the Horse-Shoe Trail as it descended the ridge in more rolling fashion for the next 3 miles.  I did recognize this section of the trail and, as was the case on my first visit, I couldn't get over how long it seemed to take to cover that distance despite the fact that we were actually chugging along at a pretty healthy pace.

We had noticed fairly fresh bear scat near the top of Second Mountain and when Mamie crouched down into a defensive position and raised hackles I'd never seen her raise before, I was pretty sure we were about to get an up-close look at an Ursus americanus.

I don't possess any inherent fear of Pennsylvania's black bears, but, all the same, encounters remain relatively rare and the possibility of one definitely arouses a little adrenaline.

No such encounter materialized, however, and the at-attention stance of the hackles relaxed, signalling an end of our immediate concerns and allowing the adrenaline to seep away.

Down, down, down we continued before finally crossing the bridge over Stony Creek and then banking left to log a mile or so of rail trail on our way to the Water Tank Trail.

I wrote about the Water Tank Trail less than a month ago and, as it turns out, it isn't any less punishing in broad daylight than it is at night.  It was nice, though, to get on it this time without having first beaten up the legs with miles of self-correcting demanding ice, as was the case back in March, so it actually was a bit more manageable this go round.

Manageable is certainly a relative term and the rocks, downed limbs and steep grade still made for slow going and the rushing water of natural springs and winter run-off made for nice photo ops/chances to slow the pulse along the way.  Brian and Mamie began putting some time on me, but both were kind and patient enough to wait on me every now and then.

Rather than making the entire climb up Stony Mountain on the Water Tank Trail, we took a right-hand turn about a third of the way up the slope, following a trail dubbed Marcia's Madness and its orange blazes the rest of the way up the ridge.  Rumors would have us believe that this was true to the Buzzards course, but who can say?

Together, those two trails took us from the valley floor at roughly 180 feet to 1266 feet on the plateaued top of Stony Mountain in about a mile and a half.  To keep even the finickiest of masochists happy, they also threw in a healthy dose of rocks and roots in case the severity of the slope wasn't enough to render actual running a near impossibility.

Making yet another right hand turn, this time on to the Rattling Run Trail, we settled into one of the few real breaks of the day, a grassy track running north and east across the ridge top for a mile to a mile-and-a-half.

Red blazes to our left announced that we'd reached the H. Knauber Trail, our shortcut down to the Appalachian Trail below on the northern side of Stony Mountain.  No more than 100 yards onto the trail, we crossed paths with a hiker just about to top out on his way up from where we were headed.  The temperatures were maybe in the mid-60's but, despite looking strong and moving solidly (maybe because of this), the guy was sweating like it was a mid-summer 90 degrees with humidity to match.  After we put a little distance between ourselves and the hiker, I made mention of this to Brian and silently felt fortunate that we were going down rather than up.

Suffice to say, every drop of sweat staining that adventurous soul's shirt was hard-earned.  The descent of the H. Knauber Trail was a full-on screamer with big, deep in-cut steps and technical terrain the entire way.  By my Suunto's account, it gave away almost exactly a 1000 feet of elevation in 8 tenths of a mile.  By the time we reached the trail marker at the junction of the A.T., we were 10.5 miles into our day and my quads were well aware of the work we'd already done (and trying to ignore what might be left).  All I could think of was what that other guy had tackled by traveling the opposite direction.

Sheesh.

We swung west (left) on the Appalachian Trail and continued to wind our way down into Clark's Valley, a section with which I was more familiar, having been on that stretch of trail several times before.  Once we reached the bottom of the valley, we peeled away from the A.T. on a blue-blazed, new-to-me trail and began slowly working our way back up the ridge we'd just descended.

The sun continued to inch higher in the sky and the temperatures climbed too, marking the first real warmth of Spring. Our gradual ascending wasn't too taxing but I was beginning to want for calories, actual food to accompany the electrolytes that I had been doing a decent job of consuming along the way.  We walked for a bit while I tried to choke down a Snickers but, finding my always cranky stomach to be rather disinterested, I put the half-eaten candy bar away, knocked back a couple of salt tabs, and returned to running.

Soon thereafter, our route, having grown impatient I guess with the slow climbing, turned sharply left and started beelining for the top of Stony.  And, just like that, we were off on another 1000-ish foot climb squished into just over a mile.  Brian machined his way up the ridge with Mamie in tow while I trudged from behind in not-so-hot pursuit.

I may have imagined it, but I believe somewhere along that ascent, a small box was handed to me inside of which I found my own pathetic, beaten, scrawny ass, a humbling gift to receive, I'll have you know.

The top of the mountain did finally arrive, as it always does.  Or, to put it another way, I did finally arrive at the top of the mountain, as I sometimes do.  Even with beaten ass in hand, I was smiling.  My friends were waiting, the surroundings were beautiful, and the weather was absolutely perfect.  None of these things made me not-tired or any more filled with energy, but, all the same, they were there waiting and I was grateful.

We were back on the Rattling Run Trail, this time heading west instead of east but I was no longer cruising along the smooth, grassy double-track.  Not hardly.

I gulped down water, downed another salt tablet, and plugged away (this is an ego-protecting alternative phrase for walking) with knowledge of the long, gravity-promising descent of Rattling Run Road just a mile or two ahead.  That promise pulled me like a tractor beam.  Yep, like a slow, but persistent tractor...sputtering...in first gear...but, still, you know, persisting.

We made far better time on the meandering 3 mile drop that is Rattling Run Road and were rewarded with a view of the two miles of right-straight-up-the-mountain-and-damn-your-switchbacks pipeline that we'd need to cover to top out one last time on Second Mountain.

But not so fast.  The pipeline would disappear from view before we got started.  There was a creek that needed crossing and it was running high, knee-high at some parts, scrotum-high at others.  

Trust me.

Brian made quick work of the crossing, squealing and screeching, perhaps involuntarily from the effects of 50 degree water on vulnerable parts of the anatomy.  Or maybe he just likes to squeal and screech.  Again, who can say?

Mamie had a good long look at the situation and even without the same anatomical concerns as her companions, she still wanted no parts of our fording.  She doesn't mind water actually or mud or any type of questionable footing, but she is resolute in her wanting to be able to touch bottom and Stony Creek wasn't offering that luxury at the moment.

There's nothing quite like hucking a nervous 50-pound dog across a swollen creek on fatigued legs and a queasy stomach while your nuts shrivel up so tight they feel like they might burst.

Trust me.

We made it to the other side and I'm happy to report that Mamie couldn't have been any more dry.  Whew.

And then it was time for that pipeline.  I mean, then it was time for trudging through some of the thickest muck this side of the Everglades and THEN it was time for that pipeline.

Brian cheerfully said something about running up it and off he went.

What?

I watched him and Mamie go.  Watched them for a good 10 seconds.

Then I got down on all fours and vomited.

For real.

Once the spasms passed and I got back on two legs, I looked back the direction they'd gone and they were...um...gone.  Somehow I could see the whole way to the top of the mountain but couldn't see them.  I'd been man-downed for a few minutes, but they weren't that fast, not by that point in the day anyway.  A hundred yards away or half a mile, the point is they were long gone and I needed to start moving that way too.

Surprisingly, my legs weren't completely shot and I was still able to power hike which, while not as effective as running, is a whole lot faster in getting up a climb than walking, sitting or lying prone beside a puddle of your own puke.

Again, trust me.

It took a bit longer than I might have liked, but eventually I reached the intersection where earlier in the day the Horse-Shoe Trail had chosen a different compass setting.

I still had a good bit of ascending left to do, but I was getting there.  I vividly recalled the last time I'd come this direction and how brutal the climb had been from that point to the very top of the ridge.  I also, fortunately, remembered that there is one distinct false summit about 100-150 yards from the true top of Second Mountain.

Moments after mentally patting myself on the back for remembering that fact and avoiding the psychological letdown I might have experienced if I hadn't remembered, I found myself throwing up again.  True to my ridiculous form, it wasn't the kind of puking that produces any output, since my stomach had already been wrung dry.  Instead it was just a bout of spasms, a painful going-through-the-motions until my body accepted the fact that there wasn't anything else to evacuate.

Whether as a defense mechanism or some other character flaw, I always seem to find myself laughing after these episodes.  Perhaps it falls into the "might as well laugh about it" category and as stupid as that sounds as I type this, yes, you might as well.

So, topping out and discovering Brian and Mamie basking in the sun like two trail running pin-ups, I found myself laughing and happy, like always, to be out in the woods, among friends and still in possession of my flawed body and tenacious spirit.

"It's all downhill from here" is a dreaded cliche in ultrarunning, almost never true, but in this case it really was.  Less than 2 miles later, we were back in the parking lot, reflecting on the preceding hours.

Mamie humored me, as she always generously does, posing for an archival photo of the day's journey.

While I don't always bother to summon all the powers of my GPS, I decided to see what its charts had to report on our wandering and learned that we'd put in nearly 4400 feet of climbing and almost 21 miles.  My legs, like their owner, aren't very good at math, but they definitely concurred that work had been done.

Seems a full-blown Buzzards might have added my sun-bleached bones to those that Mamie had scrounged up earlier in the day.

Only one way to find out.

I can't wait.

whew.

I'd kept my plans to myself all week long, as though not saying them aloud would keep my ailing arches from knowing what I planned to ask of them and, surprised, they would rise to the occasion.  They were going to be up to it or they weren't and that was that.  Besides, you can't keep secrets from your body.  No matter how remotely any given point lies from your brain, it gets the word.

Every word.

So come Saturday morning every inch of me was well aware that I was gonna try and get in a 20+ mile run.  Big deal, right?  I know, but my confidence had grown a bit shaky and I really couldn't afford to start and not finish a moderately long run.

I needed this one.

A mile-and-a-half into the run, I was feeling good.  The sun had crept into the sky and the initially rock-riddled section of the Appalachian Trail between Swatara Gap at Route 72 and Route 443 in northern Lebanon County was beginning to change over to grass and hardpack.  A break in the woods led to a marshy stretch spanned by a cleverly crafted dual-track section of planks. 

This is a view that differs considerably from what I've seen on the AT in Pennsylvania and I found myself growing more a more stoked.

After crossing over a road or two, there was a long sliver of singletrack that snaked through some open meadows.

After reentering the woods on the far side, I began working my way up to the top of Second Mountain on a meandering technical track that was steep but totally runnable.  I couldn't have been much more thrilled.

Running across the ridge line of Second I could see the steep drop into Rausch Gap and a wicked gas line climbing straight up from the gap to the top of Stony Mountain across the valley.  I'm pretty sure this is the backside of the power line that resides in the middle of the Buzzards Marathon course.

Looks like a beast.  A beautiful beast with whom I hope to one day do battle.

After several hundred yards, the AT starts to tumble downward, no switchbacks on this stretch, into St. Anthony's Wilderness and the ruins of the once-upon-a-time mining/railroad town of Rausch Gap.  I was only 5 miles into my wandering but I made special note of the fact that I'd have to trudge back up this section sooner or later if I was ever going to return to the car.

It was lovely down in the Gap with the Rausch Creek tumbling through an old stone arch bridge and the April trees beginning to push new blooms.  I still hadn't seen a soul and decided not to force the issue by taking the spur trail to the Raush Gap Shelter though curiosity sat bedevilingly on my shoulder.

Onward.

From the Gap, the Appalachian Trail begins a gentle sustained climb toward the summit of Stony Mountain.  I'd come in the other direction with Jefferson back in July but this side was strikingly different in that it was in no hurry to get where it was going and didn't offer nearly as much damage underfoot.

In other words, it was just what I needed, as the miles began to pile up.  During the week, I'd considered getting the whole way to the junction with the Horseshoe Trail as that's where I'd departed the AT the year prior.  That was going to require a run totally something close to or slightly longer than 30 miles, however, and I'd given myself a hard 9:00 AM turnaround time to ensure that I could get back to the family for a day of play.

I did make it to a second set of ruins at Yellow Springs.  There's a cool trail registry here and, still not having seen anyone, I decided to check out the most recent entries.

As beautiful as the weather had been, there were only a few entries. Bummer.  I scratched in a sentence or two of my own and slid the journal back in the box and settled into breakfast.

Refueled I jumped back onto the trail, continuing to head west.  At this point I was creeping towards that 9:00 end of the road but decided to get in as much mileage as I could.

I would've made it further than I eventually did except, as happens to me, I found myself having to heed nature's call.  And not for relief of the bladder, if you know what I mean.

I hopped off the trail and found a spot to hunker down behind a rock and a tree.  And, yes, of course, the first human sounds of the morning began approaching from the trail.  Wouldn't you know it, I'd managed to not account for a turn in the trail and the very first hiker of the day had a pretty decent view of me, well, defecating.  Looked me right in the eye, he did, though, based on his squinting, I've got a feeling he didn't see much detail.  But he sure was pointed in the right direction and I soon recognized that I would soon be running him down from behind as I made the return trip eastward.  There isn't much glamour in trail running to begin with, but this scenario is definitely not what I envision when I imagine a great day in the woods.  All part of it, though, I suppose.

You're welcome for their being no pictures to accompany the last paragraph.

Onward.

On the way back I began seeing a few more hikers and passed as quickly as possible by the solo hiker who'd witnessed my bathroom break.  For the most part, though, I continued to have the trail to myself and had myself a blast, moving steadily if not swiftly.

I took one more stop at the bridge over Rausch Gap and dangled my feet in the air while knocking down a Honey Stinger waffle and some Gatorade. 

The day was beginning to get away from me and it was time to get back at it, crawl back up to the top of Second Mountain and cruise back into Swatara Gap.  A sign tacked to the tree gave me pause but I figured my being on two legs was sufficient to allow me passage.

I intentionally hiked most of the next mile as I really did hope to run hard the last several miles and didn't want to lay waste to that plan by trying to hammer out the uphill.  Near the top I couldn't resist and sunk my teeth into a little bit of brisk climbing.  It was a short enough stretch that I was able to keep moving the legs once I reached the top out.

I quick-stepped downhill and pushed hard across the open sections of singletrack.  Once I reached the jumbly stretch just before Swatara Gap, I did slow my pace to pick my spots and make sure that tired legs didn't cause a misstep that I'd regret this close to the end of a good long run.

My new TrekSta Edicts (more on these in a subsequent post) were proving to be the bee's knees and my arches and legs had held up just fine.  I hadn't stopped the clock for any rests, breakfast or that traumatic (not really) pit stop, so I was pretty pleased with the final time.

When I ran, I ran strong and without any pain.  I felt happy.  Maybe not as happy as the kids would the next day after hunting eggs and digging into their Easter baskets, but pretty darn happy.

horseshoes and....

Been running the Horseshoe Trail now pretty religiously for going on two years and have been itching to venture out onto more of its 120+ miles.  I've also been anxious to go beyond the 50K distance in anticipation of taking a shot at 50 miles later in the year. 

With my 37th birthday arriving on July 25th, I set my sights on running the last or first (take your pick) of the Horseshoe Trail the day before said birthday.

Lindsay had to work a shift at Lancaster General, but my mother and stepfather agreed to watch the kids until I could get to them.  Jefferson selflessly agreed to shuttle me from a car drop in Campbelltown to the Clarks Valley of the Appalachian Trail, the nearest access point to the yellow blazes of the Horseshoe.  The week prior brought one wicked heat wave and I considered calling off the run, but Sunday's weather report was a little less ominous with temperatures dipping back down below triple digits.  The humidity was still going to be an issue, but the plan was a go.

Things got off to an inauspicious start when I couldn't find the Locust Street the Horseshoe Trail guidebook told me I needed to travel in Campbelltown to drop the car.  I ended up flagging a police officer who was as sure as he could be that there wasn't a Locust Street in town, but, thankfully, he did guide me to where I wanted to be in spite of the missing road.

With the van parked, I jumped in with Jefferson and we headed north.  Clarks Valley is situated in a natural gap between Peters and Stony Mountains and the trailhead put us 3.2 miles from the summit of Stony and the junction with the Horseshoe Trail.

We snapped a quick photo in front of the AT sign at the Route 325 crossing but my fat head managed to block out all but the arrows.  Notice the haze hanging in the distance.  It was right around 7:30 AM.

There's a solid 1,000 feet of climb up to the top of Stony Mountain and I enjoyed the heck out of every step.  Jefferson and I chatted as we climbed the rocky track, making good progress but managing pace to hopefully keep me from bonking later in the day. I wasn't planning to "race", not by a long shot, but I still intended to be running (shuffling, at least) late in the day.

I was having such a good time, I couldn't believe how quickly we seemed to cover those initial miles.  Jefferson snapped another photo of me standing in front of the initial blazes of the Horseshoe and the Cyrus Sturgis Monument.

The run down from Stony was super quick and I wrestled over whether to open the throttle and blast down the ridge or put on the brakes to save the legs.  I compromised somewhere in between and had soon covered two miles of downhill and started down the unpaved Ellendale Stagecoach Road which seemed to go on forever (somewhere around 3 miles, per the guidebook) since I wanted badly to be back on singletrack.

That was going to have to wait.  Much of the 4 mile climb up from Stony Creek to the top of Second Mountain followed a wide abandoned logging road.  Tantalizing narrow trails shot off in all directions and I made a note to come back here to backpack and camp.  The sun was still behind the clouds but the day was beginning to warm up.  Though the inclined grade wasn't too severe, it didn't offer many breaks either.  I was caught from behind by one fiercely fit mountain biker and passed a single trail runner headed the opposite direction who looked spirit-crushingly fit.  I was somewhere around 10 miles into the trip and fighting the first wave of doubt.

Within a mile of the summit, the trail switchbacked against the logging road and transferred to extremely steep singletrack.  I couldn't make out the top and, like it has too many times before, my stomach began to raise protests.  Thankfully, those rumblings never turned into anything, but for a moment they did add to my concern.  Shaking them off, I power-hiked to the summit and sat for a moment to catch my breath, down a gel and consult the book.

It was cool to be doing this solo, but without aid stations waiting down the line, the only water I could count on was what I had in my pack.  The early sections of the route were proving really remote and I wondered where I was going to fill the emptying four bottles (two handhelds and another two in the side mesh pockets on my pack) that I had with me.  A peek ahead at the trail directions didn't look terribly promising.  I decided to start rationing and concentrate on just getting further along the route.

The next six miles were pretty sweet, weaving through mature woods on a slow clamber down from the summit of Second Mountain.  When things leveled off, the path fluctuated between singletrack and logging roads.  There was still little sign of civilization and the few structures that did appear were either in states of disrepair or spartan in their design.  Heavy tree cover coupled with the continued cloud cover to keep heat manageable.

In Manada Gap, the trail vanished into road but showed no sign of a place to replenish fluids.  The guidebook suggested that a mere 3 mile detour (one way) would get me to a convenience store but that mileage tack-on seemed really foolish and the whole idea of leaving the Horseshoe felt really unappealing.  I ignored the offer and stuck to my yellow blazes.

Less than a mile later, the trail reappeared and followed what the guidebook had referred to as a "beautiful trout stream on a splendid woods trail under old beeches and hemlocks".  The trees were still there (though I suspect in fewer numbers) but there wasn't enough water to support trout and the trail itself appeared to be woefully untraveled.  Bummer.

Another bummer was being completely out of water, especially when the trail vanished again and the blazes migrated from trees to telephone poles.  I was back on the road again and less than thrilled by the exposure to the sun.  The New Balance MT101's that I was wearing were spot on for the trail, but not ideal for extended road work.  Wah-wah.

I decided I would offer cash to the next human being I saw in exchange for cold water in my water bottles.  Over the next 3 miles, however, I saw plenty of homes but not a soul outside.  The whirring of air conditioners and the periodic appearance of undrinkable backyard swimming pools mocked me and my bone dry bottles.  Help would eventually come in the form of James who was outside braving the heat to deliver water to his landscaping.

James wouldn't hear of my offer, turning down the cash while kindly taking my bottles to fill me up with water on the house.  Perhaps because I mentioned that I'd come the whole way from Clarks Valley, he even filled me up on ice.  I couldn't have been more grateful, though I'm not sure I properly conveyed this, as stopping at last made me acutely aware of how parched and hot I'd become.  Looking back towards the distant aridgelines from his front yard, I got my first sense of how far I'd come.

I said my thanks and offered goodbyes before chugging back down the road.  My spirits soared for a few minutes until I started to get the feeling that I may not find dirt under foot for a good long while.  I was 21.5 miles into my run but feared it might be road the rest of the way.  The sun was now unimpeded with the clouds having melted away and I was taking a pounding. I realized I'd only had James fill up two of my bottles despite his offer to top off anything I had.  Dumb.  Those two bottles were only going to go so far.

As I reached Route 22, I hung a left in hopes of soon finding somewhere to get more water.  My confidence was wavering, my left foot was hating the road surface and I was really starting to dread the idea that the trail running portion of my day was over.  Stumbling upon a closed-for-the-day garage that had a stunningly beautiful soda machine parked right outside, I sat down to drink an ice cold Pepsi and ponder the possibilities.

I fished my cellphone out of my pack and attempted a call to my cousin, Chad.  He didn't answer the phone.  I replied to a text message from Jefferson asking how I was holding up and asked him yet another favor, this time hoping he could Google Route 22 East and tell me where it ended up.  While waiting for his response, Lindsay called and gave me an earful about a minor calamity at home.  I raised my voice back at her before we both calmed down, offered deserved apologies and traded "I love yous".  From there I placed a call to Mom who confirmed for me that 22 wasn't going to take me where I wanted to go.

I collected my thoughts, scoured the various maps in the Horseshoe Trail guidebook and decided it was time to quit mucking around and get back to what I'd set out to do in the first place.  Yes, I was hot and was looking at a lot of roadwork, but my legs felt pretty good and my stomach was fine.

I finished the last of that oh-my-god-good Pepsi and bought a number of waters from the machine to refill all four of my bottles.

I texted Jefferson to call of the Googling and confirm that I'd gotten my head straight.  Sending that text was the final push I needed and I was back on my feet, heading west to reconnect with the Horseshoe.  It wasn't long before I'd managed to do just that.

I covered another 6 miles before the blazes again got me off of the road, dumping me into a farmer's field somewhere around 27 miles into my day.  There was a confusing twist shortly thereafter when the trail seemed barred by a tall cornfield.  That proved a good thing because it forced me to again consult the guidebook which encouraged me to look back across Swatara Creek toward the Blue Mountains for "one of the most remarkable views along the trail".  I haven't seen enough of the trail to properly validate that claim but it sure was lovely.  The camera failed to capture a proper image through the afternoon haze, so I did my best to save the view to memory.

Turning back to the task at hand, I plowed through the cornfield and came out running on the other side.  A bright yellow blaze was waiting for me and waved me down the trail.  Sadly, that lovely bit of trail lasted little more than a mile before depositing me back onto roads just north of Hershey.  Before it did, however, I was offered one last look back at the mountains and this time the camera cooperated with a fairly nice representation.

I passed by Hershey Cemetary (the venerable Milton Hershey is buried here) and endured a rather frustrating bit of "where now?" in an old inactive quarry that added a few hundred unnecessary yards to my journey. Emerging finally on the other side of that stretch, I had less than 10K to go.

That was good news because I was tiring.  I threw a pose at the sun to see if I could spook it back into hiding but my bluff was called.

There was one last bit of confusion to muddle through before I got where I was going.  It could've proven disastrous.

Per the guidebook, I'd soon arrive in Palmdale, cross 422 and then make my way to Campbelltown.  I'd never heard of Palmdale but hadn't given it too much thought.  At this point, though, I had a pretty good idea where I was and where I was was Hershey not Palmdale.  A bit more searching in the book uncovered a reference to Palmdale being a "western suburb of Palmyra".  Palmyra I knew and Hershey I knew.  I couldn't tell you where one ends and one begins but I do know there isn't a Palmdale in between.

Not anymore.

Upon reaching 422, I flipped a mental coin and hung a right.  A mile later, I began to doubt my decision AND discovered that I was again out of water.  I backtracked a bit and ducked into a restaurant/bar.  Evidence of my running out of gas is the fact that I never even took any notice of the name of the establishment.  Poking my head inside, I pleaded with anyone available to clue me in on Palmdale and the seemingly fictitious McKinley Avenue.  No one knew what I was talking about and, frankly, I soon realized how insane I must have looked, sporting a cavemanish beard, wearing a sweat-drenched backpack, clutching empty water bottles and babbling on about a town that didn't exist.

A young guy named Dustin came to my rescue, throwing my beard a compliment and fetching me a Coke.  He also filled up one of my other water bottles which was huge and even retopped off my Coke after I downed it in about 3 seconds.  I bounced the Palmdale/McKinley question off of him but he too did not find either of those references familiar.  When I mentioned that I was heading to Campbelltown, he felt pretty certain that I needed to head east and hang a right.  In terms of getting me to Campbelltown, he was correct but I actually needed to push a little farther in the initial direction I'd headed to pick up the Horseshoe Trail.  Honestly, it mattered little at this point because I was looking mostly at roads regardless of which way I went.

Long story short, Dustin gets props from me for getting me exactly where I asked him to get me and for just being down to earth and cool at a moment when I benefited from that at least as much as getting the "right" directions.  No props for me in failing to snap a proper documentary photo.

And so I made it at last to Campbelltown, though I was approaching the van from the wrong direction and from off the "trail".  I'd been pretty sloppy with the GPS throughout the day, often turning it off when I took breaks but not always and sometimes forgetting to rehit "start" when setting off again.  I'm certain that I'd gone at least 37 miles by the time I opened the door, but the Garmin said 36.55.  I put my pack and bottles on the passenger seat and kept on running, heading out along the Horseshoe Trail along the route I should have just been on.  After about a quarter mile, I spun on my heels and returned to the van.  My day was done and my MT 101's could wait for dirt.

Happy Birthday to me.