Mid State Trail Days 17-19: State College to Crocodile Spring

Watch the vlog here. 

Someone turned on summer while I was sitting around feeling queasy. 

“How hot do you think it is?” said Jello. I watched Hanna’s car disappear in a cloud of dust and shifted sluggishly under the weight of a full resupply. 

“I don’t wanna think about it,” I said, and we waddled back down to the trail crossing to continue walking north. 

This next stretch would be to the small burg of McElhattan. We would be increasing our daily mileage and shouldering our longest food carry of the trip – a full five days’ worth. Objectively, I said to myself, things could be quite a bit worse. 

My stomach gurgled morosely. 

Back in familiar territory, I smiled up at Little Flat Fire Tower and the long, thin ridge top. We passed the Tom Thwaites Monument, which pays homage, of course, to Tom Thwaites and the first official clearing of the Mid State Trail on that very spot. 

Tip-toeing on the spine of the ridge, we wound broadly around Bear Meadows Natural Area, a superb view of which could be seen from the expansive boulder field of the Indian Wells Vista. 

“The trail’s gotten a lot easier to follow,” Jello noted as we descended towards Detweiler Run. The temperature was suffocating, the sun was scorching the mountain tops, and I was cranky and low on water. 

He was right, however. My mind drifted to the remote, overgrown, knife-edge ridge tops of the Everett region farther south, and I found my mood lifted just a little bit. The addition of a visible footpath made this section much more easygoing. 

After crunching a wide berth around a curmudgeonly rattlesnake, we flopped down in the laurel thickets by the gurgling Detweiler Run for lunch. My knee throbbed from the steep descent, but I was happy to see the sign for the junction with the Standing Stone Trail again. 

Much like the Mid State Trail in miniature, the Standing Stone Trail packs some of the best of central Pennsylvania into 84 miles. I had the chance to hike it southbound in 2019. The sign felt like an old friend. 

It was still hot. 

We followed the stream upwards for the next several miles. First, I dunked my hat in the water, and then my buff. A half an hour later, I chugged a liter of water and dunked my shirt in the stream. For good measure, I plunged my head in the water, too. 

After butting into the Shingle Path, the Mid State Trail follows it up Thickhead Mountain and back down into Penn-Roosevelt State Park, which was a CCC camp in its day. Today it’s a numbingly silent and beautiful remote campground. 

If it was a nice day, I was having trouble appreciating it. The knee pain persisted up the mountain as well as down it, and I duck-waddled sideways into the park with a permanent wince.

The park was lovely, however. An old stone chimney sat in a patch of grass, and the gravel road wound off into tall, stately pines. We moseyed over to the dam outlet, which sat next to an old, disused 1930’s-era dam structure that CCC workers had built. 

I soaked my knee in the water and ate some remedial goldfish, hoping I would be magically healed by the time we left. 

I was not magically healed by the time we left, and I grumbled about it all the way up Broad Mountain. Once on the scrubby, dry ridge, I pushed down my sleeves to keep the sun off my forearms and marched in painful silence. 

Several miles of ridge dragged by, and we finished the day by hopping rocks down to US 322. We set up camp tired, sweaty, and coated in dust. The highway howled us to sleep. 

Day 18: Tunnels and Railroad Beds

We woke to the sound of semi-trucks rumbling down the mountain. I packed, flicked a couple ticks off my ankles, and we stumbled north. 

Legend has it that in this section, trail builders’ largest obstacle was US 322. Routing hikers over it was unspeakably dangerous, and routing hikers around it was nearly impossible. 

The solution was found in a small drainage tunnel clear underneath the highway. 

Stomping through mucky grass and hopping over a small stream, Jello and I crouched into the tunnel to the thrum of car tires overhead. A minute later, we popped back into the daylight, greeted by a large Mid State Trail sign and a fresh, steaming hot mountain. 

“This Guthook comment says that the next 2.5 miles are, like, the worst,” I said, scanning the app. “It can’t be that bad, though. Nothing we haven’t seen in the last 130 miles.” 

The next 2.5 miles sucked. The Laurel Run Vista was lovely and much worth the short detour, but after the trail register at the top of the climb, the trail became a snag of boulders, spider webs, and blowdowns. 

By no means was it unendurable, but I needed a few more fistfuls of goldfish to placate my inner toddler. After many spastic hand motions and slow progress, the inner toddler sat down and refused to go. Jello took the hint and switched to the spiderweb-eating position. 

After winding slowly down off of Long Mountain, we meandered gradually back up beside Greens Valley Stream. First on an old forest road, then onto easygoing singletrack trail, we enjoyed the reprieve from rocks and steep climbs while listening to Woodthrush echoing in the pines. 

“Hi there.”

I jumped out of my reverie to see a tall, broad man in camo pants. He was smiling at the sunshine and taking his gun for a walk.  

“Good morning,” I said. It was May, which meant turkey season. “Get anything today?” I added, trying to sound knowledgeable about hunting. 

“No,” he said. He was soft spoken and still smiling genially. “I heard a few calling,” he said, “but either way, it’s just a beautiful day to be out. Enjoy.” 

Despite myself, I forgot some of my grumpiness as he meandered away. What a privilege it was to live outside for a month. 

Panther Run was a sluggish, swampy trickle when I unrolled my Tyvek ground sheet to eat lunch. Water was water, however, and we were both consuming too much of it to be picky about where it came from. 

The subsequent walk through Little Poe Valley meandered on old forest roads and then climbed sharply to Little Poe Mountain. We stayed sandwiched between the taller Spruce and Big Poe mountains until dropping into Poe Paddy State Park. 

“You think we can yogi some hot dogs off of these campers?” I said, dipping my feet in Penn’s Creek. I sighed as my feet throbbed in the cold water. After coasting into Poe Paddy State Park, we had planted ourselves on a ledge underneath a bridge over the stream.  

The park was swarming with people lounging in RV’s, pedaling down the gravel road on bicycles, and lying in hammocks. The last time I had been here, I was with my dad on my very first winter backpacking trip. I couldn’t have been more than 14. It was entirely deserted.

“Maybe you could,” said Jello. We both watched a man pee right on the edge of the stream. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. 

“You’re a girl,” he continued. “Nobody would give me food — I’m just some creepy guy.” 

I grinned. 

“People give food to nice, clean-shaven, pretty girls,” I corrected. “I’m a yeti without an instagram account.” 

I slipped off the stone ledge and dunked my bottom half in the water. 

A long road walk led to the Poe Paddy Tunnel, which was part of an old railroad grade. 

“I think this is the only time we’ll ever go under a mountain, rather than up it” I joked, craning my neck up at a summit we wouldn’t reach. The gravel path was swallowed by the tunnel, and soon, so were we.

 

On the other side, the rail trail hummed along beside a stream for a few miles until it butted into a parking lot for fly fishing. We sat down to eat where the trail turned back onto dirt. 

A mile or two north, we were hoping to throw down our tents for the night. Our longest day on the Mid State Trail was starting to feel long indeed. 

Had we checked Guthook, we might have known that a mile or two north was a road walk lined with privately owned hunting camps. But we didn’t check Guthook.  

A mile or two later, we strolled down the road, looking for any flat stealth spot where we wouldn’t be seen. We were greeted only by solitary houses tucked in the trees and signs that said “POSTED”. 

Resigned, I kicked up a small cloud of dust with every footstep. 

“I guess we’re going to the Libby Run Campsite,” I said, despite protesting feet. There was a silver lining in this. It was perfectly legal and there was water and it was up a mountain, away from a road. It would be quiet. It would be nice. 

I just didn’t want to walk there. 

The road made a hairpin turn and we followed it up, up, up until a small sign and a telltale orange blaze snuck off into the woods. 

20.2 miles after setting off for the day, Jello and I fell asleep next to Libby Run. The last of the Woodthrush song threaded through the silhouettes of the trees. 

Day 19: Halfway

I rolled over with a grunt on my sleeping pad. 

“How’d you sleep?” I called, hearing Jello stir in his tent. I can never tell whether he’s truly awake, though. He does things in his sleep. We once had an entire phone conversation before I realized he’d been sleep talking. He has no recollection of the matter. 

“Shitty,” he groaned. “And I found another tick.” 

“Another?” I said. “I should just let you carry my tweezers.” Jello had been the tick magnet between the two of us for the entire trip so far. The night before, I had dug three out of his skin before going to bed. 

“Yeah, I’ll give them back at lunch,” he said. “Oh, by the way, we should be passing halfway today.” 

I perked up. The MST is no 2,000-mile behemoth, but halfway is halfway. 

“It’s towards the end of the day, though,” he said, “and we’ve got a miniature rollercoaster to get there.” 

He was right. A glance at the elevation profile revealed a four-humped camel of steep climbs and descents one after the other. The morning, however, was relatively mild. Except for the mosquitos. 

“Ow, ow, ow. Little bastards,” I swore, smacking the flying bloodsuckers. They always like to go for the backs of my arms. We signed our names quickly at the register and scurried down the trail. Swarms of mosquitoes had already taken advantage of our brief stop.

The trail slid gradually down off the mountain, and subsequently dropped us the rest of the way in a steep descent. As we were irreversibly damaging our knees, a booming voice sounded in the distance. I stopped. 

“What is that?” I said, straining to make out words. It sounded like someone speaking at breakneck speed through a megaphone down in the valley.  

“Jello,” I said, “I think we’re listening to an auction.” He stopped and listened, too. Sure enough, the rhythm of the voice and speed of the words could not be mistaken. 

“Weird,” he said, scrunching his face up into a puzzled look. 

“That’ll be a good story,” I said, amused. “The invisible auctioneer of the Mid State Trail.” 

The trail smoothed out and we sailed through a lovely green tunnel. By late morning, we coasted into Hairy John’s Picnic Area. 

I was feeling good. I had stretched out my hip muscles that morning as a last-ditch resort, and my knee pain had miraculously vanished. Steep downhills were no longer a problem. I kept stretching. 

As we sat down on a picnic table and pulled out our starving food bags, I couldn’t help but notice that it was a lovely area. 

The legend of Hairy John states that in the early 19th century, John Voneida of Centre County was accused of killing his wife. Voneida maintained that he was innocent and vowed to live as a hermit in the Pennsylvania woods until his name was cleared. It never was. 

The name “Hairy John” came from his refusal to cut his hair or his beard after deciding to live in solitude. Today, the picnic area bearing his name is the last living memory of the short-statured man. 

It was back into solitude after lunch. After watching RV’s and SUV’s and clean people wearing jeans come and go for an hour, we packed up and headed towards the park’s spring, which was gushing merrily out of a white pipe. 

The picnic area became a popular place to see concerts and spend the day in the early-to-mid 20th century. Thus, the spring flowed into what were clearly the remnants of a very old swimming pool. It was filled with algae and small fish. 

The roller coaster began with a steep climb out of the park. Subsequent climbs and descents took us up a precarious boulder field, down knee-popping descents, and, in all, up four separate mountains. As we picked our way carefully downwards for the 5,276th time, I saw the sign appear out of the woods. 

“There we go,” I said, sweaty and exhausted, but smiling. “Only 263.5 kilometers to go.” The 2018 midpoint sign for the trail offered no celebration or party favors or half-gallon ice cream eating challenges, but I marveled at what a journey this footpath had been already. 

More importantly, I thought about my food bag and the shelter just a quarter mile ahead. I burned the image of the sign into my mind, and then we waddled off to the Pine Creek Shelter — an Eagle Scout project on a lovely piece of forest covered in pine needles.

A small creek flowed just south of it, and while Jello soaked his feet I flopped down on the shelter floor to eat some goldfish. I flipped through the logbook, put my feet up against the wall, and felt the blood drain out of my feet. 

A half hour passed before Jello moseyed over to the shelter. 

“Feel better?” I said. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Whoa, check out this shelter.” It was the first shelter we had seen on the trail. It wouldn’t be the last, but the trail isn’t dotted with conveniently spaced shelters like other east-coast trails. In the name of a more primitive long walk, I didn’t mind.  

Jello sat down to eat a snack, and we took in the characteristic silence of the Mid State Trail. 

As we began to waddle up the hill towards Pine Creek Road, the usual numbing quiet was disrupted with the murmur of voices. 

I’d fallen for this trick before — when there are ravens making strange noises in the distance, and you, having seen no one for several days, believe it to be human voices. 

Only they were getting closer, and they sounded like real words this time. I dared to look up from the holes in my shoes to see a large man melt out of the woods. He was carrying an equally large blue trunk, and behind him, his daughter was carrying one too. They looked packed to stay for a week. 

“Spending the night?” I said, happy to see that it was not ravens. 

“Yep, how about you all?” The man and his daughter looked relieved to have an excuse to put down their large trunks. We shook our heads. 

“Moving on tonight,” said Jello. “We have a few miles to go yet.” They nodded with the blank sort of stare that hinted they didn’t quite comprehend how anyone could go a few more miles with a bunch of stuff on their back. They wiped the sweat off their faces and smiled just the same. 

We bid them goodnight and trudged up the final steep climb. I grumbled and panted and made it known that the fussy toddler was back. I don’t know about you, but my age tends to increase or decrease with my blood sugar. I was hungry. 

We crested the top of Buck Ridge and stumbled down onto the gravel Stover Gap Road. Just three more miles. Every foot step was punctuated with a stomach growl. 

A massive pickup truck rolled by. I waved without really acknowledging that I was waving and glanced back at the driver’s side window with unseeing eyes. Then I looked back just to make sure. 

Then I looked back again, because the third time, it couldn’t have been a mirage. Just like when you see two people with trunks, it most certainly cannot be ravens playing tricks on your brain. 

In the driver’s seat of the truck was a small boy. He could not have been older than 12, and I had no idea how he managed to see over the dash. He waved genially at us and turned the sharp switchback down the mountain.  

Despite it being lonely, there was a lovely tentsite just south of Crocodile Spring, and we didn’t bother to put the rainflies on our tents as we settled in. The pitiful state of our food bags was becoming alarming, and for the first time in years, fantasies of McDonald’s floated across my brain. 

Suddenly my lentils weren’t as appetizing, but I shoveled them into my throat and hung my Ursack. If the stars were lovely, I didn’t know it. I rolled over and fell asleep. 

Two more days to McElhattan.