I awoke to the sound of raindrops erratically hitting my tent and took inventory. Everything seemed dry, I felt reasonably well-rested, and it was a bit after 7am. After my mental “systems check” I determined that the “rain” I was hearing was residual water dripping from the trees, what my friends and I as teenagers dubbed “tree drool,” and it was as good as a time as any to emerge from my nylon and down cocoon.

I began my morning routine, making coffee, packing up camp, and getting dressed, my camp gradually “exploding” as gear was unpacked and repacked, and then contracting back into my panniers.

This being my first morning, my camp mechanics were still a bit rusty, and the color coding of my stuff sacks that seemed so meaningful back at home was largely lost, although I am still quite proud of my “Blue bag for rain gear” (blue like water, get it? Yeah, I thought so) approach.

I took the all-important morning poop in the camp toilets, which were marvelously clean, relatively new flush toilets, packed my sopping wet tent, and walked my bike out of the campsite area and back to the “hike a bike” trail. Feeling cavalier I hopped aboard and rode down the trail, in what would be the most liberal application of braking of the entire trip, my discs squealing in protest as they attempted to slow the mass of human, bicycle, and gear that gravity wanted to send careening down the hill.

All were present and accounted for at the bottom of the hill, and I turned south and continued on my journey on an overcast, cool morning, once again in the quiet and seemingly-remote woods of the Ohiopyle State Park.

The trees here were clearly young, and I wondered if the area had been logged, and what it looked like when the railroad regularly roared along these tracks. Was it still wild and ruggedly beautiful, or was the land stripped of anything that could be harvested and sold, creating a thick and decimated vein of commerce through coal country? I would imagine it was more the latter, as I’d occasionally glimpse remnants of the industrial past through the trees, ranging from piles of what looked like coal to my uneducated eyes, to hulking cement structures that were gradually being overtaken by the forest.

I also came upon old telegraph poles, many with wire still hanging from their sagging structures. As someone who travels (pre-COVID anyway) frequently for work, it’s a trivial matter to book flights and logistics for a cross-country trip at a moment’s notice. I often wonder about times past. What would the travel booking process look like? For me, trips are confirmed with a text message or two and then 10 minutes on a website. When these poles stood proudly would one send a telegraph or letter to plan their trip, receiving a response in several days? How would one mentally and physically prepare for a multi-day journey aboard a train? Did the effort required make these trips more valuable and engaging, or simply more of a hassle?

While my legs felt decent, the cold, grey weather was wearing on me a bit, and as I considered my options over a delicious pizza lunch at the Little Dog Café in the town of  Confluence, it seemed spending the night in Meyersdale and returning to my original plan made the most sense, despite a somewhat poor showing of only 40 miles.

Back on the trail, I later came across a gentleman I recognized from lunch and we rode together for a while, swapping stories and sharing a few laughs while pacing each other up the slow incline to Meyersdale. I could feel the cold and damp sapping my energy, when a few miles from town the sun began to emerge and we crossed the Salisbury Trestle to a spectacular view, and opening sky where I could physically feel the sun recharging my flagging spirits and injecting warmth into my bones.

Were it not for the presence of my newfound friend there’s a very real chance I might have burst into song, the light and warmth were so delightful.

We arrived in Meyersdale at a train station-turned information center, and it looked like the best camping option was the “Maple Festival Grounds,” and I called the number printed on a flyer hanging at the information center. A delightful woman answered and provided directions, including instructions to drop off cash for payment at a nearby diner. I rode down the hill from the trail and ultimately located the festival grounds while the sun was still shining and warming my spirits.

The festival grounds were unoccupied, but looked like they had quite the setup for the annual Maple festival as there were all manner of stalls, what seemed like a couple historic houses, and a large covered stage. For my purposes, it seemed they’d also put significant thought into catering to travelling cyclists. There were clothes lines with clothes pins, covered picnic tables, a bucket of bicycle cleaning supplies, firewood and portable metal fireplaces, and what would later become the best thing in the universe: a heated bath house.

I met up with my new friend, who was leaving the trail in Meyersdale, for dinner. The wonders of the festival campground were somewhat offset by the lack of food options, and we met at a pizza joint that was passable but otherwise unexciting (and unfortunately devoid of the malted beverages I had been looking forward to).

I walked back to camp, and had my first shower of the trip in the bath house. While the place was the standard concrete affair complete with random spiders and whatnot, the water was hot, and there was a small gas heater that took off the emerging chill in the air. The sun was setting as I dried off, and crawled into my tent.