Woodland Wanderings Eric Knopsnyder A sense of accomplishment after overcoming obstacles

Sep. 5—OHIOPYLE, Pa. — I never expected to find myself locked in a battle of wits with a field mouse — and losing, I might add — but there I was. What a sight I must have been if anyone had been around to see it.

Desperately in need of sleep, I lay on my air mattress in Ohiopyle Shelter No. 1 on the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, a flashlight beam centered on my backpack in hopes of scaring away the troublesome critter, a sleep mask hanging unused from my forehead, and my hand clutching a Timberland hiking boot — the only ammo available for my territorial battle.

Just as I'd begin to doze off, the mouse would rustle the leaves at the edge of my lean-to or, more worrisome, scurry across my backpack and startle me awake.

At one point, I shone the light directly on the pack, which held everything I needed to survive on the 70-mile trail, and saw the mouse perched atop it.

He was staring at me.

I'm pretty sure I saw a look of triumph in his eyes.

The grand plan

The mouse encounter was one of the most surprising moments in an excursion full of them. My plan had been to hike the entire trail in segments with The Tribune-Democrat journalists over three weekends, sharing our exploits with readers.

John Rucosky, Joshua Byers, Russ O'Reilly and I enthusiastically embraced the challenge. We just didn't realize how many challenges there would be.

I expected physical fatigue, as we'd be hiking up to 14 miles per day, carrying packs weighing 30 pounds or more, while making steep climbs and descents. We were all up to that challenge, but I didn't expect to be waylaid by weather, injury and nearly — but not quite — a troublesome mouse.

John, Josh and I started in Seward, and our first day was exceptional. We saw great views of the Conemaugh Gorge, reveled in the nature around us — including a trio of rattlesnakes — and enjoyed each other's company.

Day 2 was also great. At least until the rain came. Just before reaching the state Route 271 shelter area, a heavy downpour hit, soaking us and some of our supplies. It continued throughout the afternoon and evening.

By morning, much of our enthusiasm had evaporated, even if none of the water had. Facing a forecast that included the potential for hail and damaging winds, we aborted the mission. We got drenched again heading to the parking area, which seemed to confirm our decision.

By the time we made it home, the skies had cleared, and it turned out to be a beautiful day.

It was frustrating to be sitting at home on a sun-splashed afternoon, but John and I had backpacked from Route 271 to U.S. Route 30 — the section of our trip that got rained out — earlier on a tune-up trip, so we didn't feel completely defeated.

A painful twist

A feeling of defeat, for me, came a month later, on our second outing. The three-day affair included the longest hike on our itinerary, more than 14 miles on Day 2.

The first day was supposed to be a relatively easy eight-mile hike. Four miles into it, my boot slid on a downhill-sloping rock.

With the heavy pack on my back, I had no chance of keeping my balance, and my left foot jammed into another rock, resulting in sharp and immediate pain in my ankle.

My initial reaction was that my hike was over, and I might need to reset the meter on my days-without-surgery clock.

After resting for a few minutes, I felt a little better and stood up. I convinced myself that the ankle might be OK and that I could hike another four miles on it.

The early signs were encouraging — I even added a short side hike to show Russ the incredible view from atop Beam Rocks — but the final two miles were agonizing. I had to measure every step to make sure the ankle wouldn't give out if I stepped on a rock, a root or slightly uneven ground. Ascents and descents were mind-numbingly slow, and I used two trekking poles as makeshift crutches.

John and Russ patiently waited for me to catch up, but I knew that I couldn't cover 22 miles in the following two days.

By the time we reached the Turnpike Shelter Area, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was done. When I took off my boot, there was a lump on my ankle the size of a baseball, and for the second time in as many trips, I was forced to ask my wife for an early ride home, making me feel like a homesick kid at summer camp.

John and Russ soldiered on, with Russ overcoming painful blisters and John lugging his enormous backpack on a hike that was difficult but extremely rewarding.

After a few weeks of recovery time, we headed out for our final weekend trip, which included just one overnight stay, but featured challenging terrain.

Our first day brought a 12.2-mile slog with a 1,200-foot descent on our way to the shelter area. Already jelly-legged from the day's hike, inching down a steep hillside was brutal. Fortunately, we all made it safely to the shelter area, although John had a nasty blister threatening the nail on his small toe.

Despite our collective exhaustion, John, Russ and I spent hours talking before and after dinner as well as enjoying the sounds of camp, from the cool rushing waters of the nearby stream to the crackling of the fire in the Adirondack shelter.

The topographical map of the final 6.2-mile section shows two large humps — hikers call the section Dolly Parton — that quickly sap the energy from all but the fittest backpackers.

Eager to finish his quest, John nearly sprinted ahead on the final day. Russ and I moved at a slower pace, and as we posed for photos at an overlook with a gorgeous view of the Youghiogheny River below, a smiling face emerged from behind a thatch of trees. Josh, who had come out that morning in hopes of finishing the trail with us, was excited to catch up to us.

We found John enjoying some trail mix near the final milepost and, together, we finished the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, then posed for a photo.

John is the only one who completed every section this summer, but there was still a sense of accomplishment after overcoming so many obstacles.

In the coming weeks, I'm hoping to finish the two sections that I missed.

A series of patches available online features each section of the trail, and backpackers wear them as a literal badge of honor, showing each leg they've completed.

That patch, to me, symbolizes the ability to weather the storms — literal or figurative — that the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail can throw at you over its 70 miles.

It shows that you've traversed the diverse landscapes, from fern-covered forest floors to giant boulders to ridge tops with outstanding overlooks. You've carried your world — or at least what you need for a few days — on your back and completed your quest. There's a lot to be said for that.

I'd love to have that patch on my pack next year, when our group tackles the entire trail on a through hike.

If nothing else, it would give that mouse a nice place to perch.