I woke up hungry, cold, and immune to the beauty around me. During the night the cloud base had dropped and now masked all but the lowest slopes of the nearby hills, so low in fact that it felt like I would hit my head as I unrolled myself into an upright position from inside the tent. Traces of fog hung in the air, dampening even the uneven snarl of superannuated RV generators.
I keep forgetting how much even a slight gain in altitude can make to the temperature; Confluence sits at 1300 feet which may not seem like much but coupled with an overnight temperature that had dropped into the un-Summer 50s had meant that despite wearing every single item of clothing I had brought with me, I spent a restless night. At least there were donuts for breakfast, because really, what can go wrong with donuts?
A lot as it turns out.
Of course, even a halfway decent cup of coffee can rescue even the most mediocre of donuts.
And there was no coffee.
The first order of business was to change the tire. Nothing miraculous in the way of the sudden appearance of pixies sporting self-sealing compound had happened during the night and it had completely deflated. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion and I didn’t get away until nearly ten, by which point the cloud had lifted and the sun was shining.
The first part of the ride felt like a grind, probably due mostly to my grumpy mental state but also because it was 36 miles of gentle but insistent uphill all the way to the Eastern Continental Divide. I stopped at Myersdale, another nice looking town with a spectacular train station/welcome center now mostly closed. Lunch was at a small diner and I sat outside in the baking sun, because mask compliance of patrons going in and out seemed to be 50/50 at best. The food was an indifferent breakfast assemblage albeit with some very tasty local sausage, but the bottomless coffee was restorative of both my health and heartiness.
The latter lasted until I got on my bike and began to pedal back up the not inconsiderable hill out of town and discovered my rear tire had once again gone soft. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding, Me. Every time I change a tire I do check for anything poking through the tread, but clearly I was missing something. Banking on the fact that it was a slow leak, I leaned the bike against the wall of a nearby church and was pumping it back up when a cyclist stopped and asked if I was doing ok or did I want a full-size pump. He was shirtless, heavily bearded with long hair falling down his deeply tanned back, and riding a laden cargo bike. He may well have had a full air compressor on board. Since I was almost done, I thanked him, no, and he pedaled on his way. I passed him a little further up the trail; he was pedaling in a slow easy cadence, taking in the scenery, the very picture of what relaxed touring should be about.
I, however, was a little less than relaxed, conscious that the tire was slowly deflating, I tried to maximize my miles between pit stops. I do regret having to do that, since there was a lot of amazing stuff to see. However, I did build in a few stops.
The western part of the trail features some of the most amazing trestle bridges I have ever ridden across. Even the short ones cross some amazing territory and the views are spectacular.
One of the things I had noticed about the bridges along this stretch was that they all had a lot of ironwork jutting out to the side.
It turns that the Western Maryland Railway that built most of the line through this part of the country had ambitious plans to add a second parallel line. These plans foundered, like those of most other railroads, in the wake of the construction of the highway system.
Trestle bridges are one of my favorite parts of rail trails. Construction of a bridge represents a major infrastructural undertaking, measured in hours, cost, and occasionally in loss of life. There’s a part of me that is now happy that such a massive capital project is now dedicated to the passage of people and vehicles so different and so much less environmentally costly than those it was designed for. I’m equally glad that these structures have been preserved at all, rather than being discarded and destroyed in the usual American way.
While there are many fetching smaller trestles, the highlight is definitely the 1900 foot long Salisbury viaduct just before Myersdale. I tried to take a photo but my skills were just not adequate to capturing the massive sweep of scenery. As I was contemplating the sweep of highway, valley and hill, I watched at one end as two trains passed one another in opposite directions, each of them at least a mile long.
As I neared the Divide (at an altitude of almost 2400 feet) I was constantly treated to views of wind turbines dotting the ridges. Some people see these as blots on the landscape but to me they are always majestic, whirling away in the distant, and a promise that we as humans just might be able to work toward a future where we can mitigate the worst of what we have set in motion.
The Continental Divide is a popular stopping point, and there were several groups of cyclists there already. There’s not much of a view, but the murals painted on either side of the Divide are intriguing. I pumped up my tire yet again, and set off.
The other amazing feature of this part of the gap is tunnels. You encounter the Pinkerton tunnel a short time after Confluence, and is typical of the trail in general in that it demonstrates the significant infrastructure investment that trail developers have mustered. For years the trail was routed around the headland due to the decrepit state of the tunnel. Millions of dollars later and the 850 foot tunnel was open to trail travelers. On the eastern side of the Divide, the Borden and Brush tunnels are each over 900 feet long, beautifully surfaced, and helluva fun, especially since you are riding downhill at this point!
But the standout is definitely the tunnel through Big Savage mountain. 3300 feet long, lighted, and paved. This was also a massive infrastructure project to rehabilitate a crumbling ruin, and the tunnel is closed from November through April to help stabilize the temperature during the winter and preserve the internal walls. Riding through the tunnel felt like a moment of sweet revenge, given how many times I have suffered on the slopes of Big Savage in the Garrett Country Gran Fondo. But the lighting and the surface made the ride feel luxurious and it was at that moment that I felt grateful and humbled by the vision, money, and hard work that had been put into making this trail a beautiful riding adventure.
The other beautiful feature of the eastern side of the trail: simply the gradient. You climb up to 2400 feet from Pittsburgh over 120 miles; you drop from the Divide down to Cumberland at 600 feet in a little over 20. The surface is great, the sight lines are open and with barely any effort I was blasting along at a solid 22 miles and hour. I have a couple of regrets about not stopping: first at what is a stunning overlook on the eastern side of the Big Savage tunnel (although it was pretty crowded) and second at what I realized only after I had blasted by it seemed to be a rather innovative monument to the Mason-Dixon line. But I was conscious that I was doing all this on a softening tire so wanted to make hay while the sun shone and the hissing was minimal.
Even so I stopped at a shelter near Corriganville to pump up one more time out of an abundance of caution, and had a distanced convo with another cyclist, an older local rider who talked about how much he enjoyed living in the area and how much he used this portion of the trail for short recreational rides. Trails like the GAP and the C&O are discussed most often as destination trails for through riders; what is often overlooked is how these trails become “backbone” resources for people from local communities. The trail features numerous parking access points and I could always tell when I was coming up to one because the population of walkers, people with strollers, etc. would increase.
The last few miles into Cumberland were paved, so I pedaled easily, admiring the views of the towering cliffs on either side. Before long I was eagerly looking for the marker that indicated the end/beginning of the trail. And looking. And looking. I finally had to ask someone, and it turned out that I had ridden over it twice while searching. . .and no, it isn’t just age, because I watched another cyclist do exactly the same thing a couple of minutes later. In contrast to the ginormous emblem at the Pittsburgh end, the Cumberland trailhead is a tiny, almost embarrassed star in the ground.
In one stroke of luck the guy I had asked for directions ran the bike shop along the trail. That was, however, my only stroke of luck. One of their delivery drivers had tested positive for Covid so out of an abundance of caution–this is how I knew I wasn’t in Pennsylvania anymore–he had closed the shop for two weeks. They weren’t doing any repairs or rentals (and for a trail adjacent store the latter must really have hurt) but he volunteered to sell me some replacement tubes. They were slightly too small, but they were all he had, and would do in a pinch.
Turns out the only major adventure store in the downtown area was closed because of a Covid outbreak, so my backup plan to pick up a new stove was as dead as the hunk of metal I was now carrying.
I rode to the nearby Airbnb I had booked as a treat for the halfway point. It was a nice place, in a neighbourhood that looked a little rundown, but that describes much of Cumberland to tell the truth. The town itself seemed virtually deserted and it made me wonder how much the pandemic had impacted the local tourism trade. I showered, did laundry, and then turned my attention to my inflation problems. With the aid of plentiful illumination and diligent searching I finally discovered a tiny piece of wire (imagine unraveling and electrical wire; it was no bigger in width than one of the individual wires) that was barely poking through into the interior. I extracted it with tweezers and prayed that was the cause of all my woes.
Stretched out on a truly luxurious couch I began to formulate a backup plan. I was going to be without a heat source on the C&O portion of the trail, so would have to make do with cold food. Some of the campsites have fire pits but I was hardly going to be in a position to haul in large quantities of wood, and even if scavenging were possible most of the wood would be wet. But this is where we are super fortunate to be living in the US of A. Because much of the food you can buy is so loaded with preservatives that it will last quite well without refrigeration.
I walked down to a nearby supermarket, only to find that it was a bulk buy place so the selection was kind of limited. But I picked up bread rolls, cheese, preserved meat, pickles, and a few small snack packs (the Bumble Bee Tuna Salad and cracker kits turned out to be a life-saver). This would be a good start that I could supplement with stuff along the way once I got further down the trail.
The young guy checking me out was one of the most enthusiastic people I have ever come across. It is possible this was the result of some chemical enhancement or maybe he was just loving life. He picked up on the accent, asked me where I was from originally and when I said New Zealand, he became even more enthusiastic. “I’ve always wanted to go there. . .”–I was expecting the usual remark about the scenery, Lord of the Rings, etc.–“You have some amazing cars.”
“We certainly d. . .wait, what?”
“Yeah, Holdens. You have a lot of Holdens there, right? Did you ever drive a Commodore?”
Now it is possible he was experiencing the usual crossing of the wires between NZ and our antipodean neighbour, but it is certainly true that because of that proximity we did have our share of Holdens. However, I was gobsmacked that anyone would find it a noteworthy automobile. Sure, people raced them (professionally as well as on the deadly backroads) and the Commodore was during my childhood what passed for luxury. But in the pantheon of great automotive brands, I am fairly confident that Holden is still fumbling for change at the entry turnstile. However, I was tickled to think that here, in a tiny landlocked town in the US, there was a kid with a major passion for something so relatively obscure. Be fan of a cool band that no one has heard of. Or paper your room with Holden posters.
Once back at the apartment I repackaged everything into ziplocs for easier packing into panniers. With future gastronomic delight thus assured I contemplated the prospect of dinner. The guy I had met on the trail earlier had given me a great Italian restaurant recommendation and it was only just around the corner. But by that point I was just tired with having to problem solve and deal with the Covid fallout. I didn’t fancy ordering ahead, standing in a line, doing whatever. And suddenly I remembered how much I had looked forward the previous evening to trying the freeze dried lasagne and how bummed I had been.
Which is how I came to be seated on a plush couch in a well-appointed rental apartment, eating reconstituted lasagne out of a bag. And you know what? It was delicious.
The GAP: In Conclusion. . .
I would not hesitate to ride this trail again. Even in a period where so much was closed, the trail is well resourced and supplies are never far away. If I did it again I would certainly take a minimum of four days, and maybe even five to give me a chance to explore some of the towns and a few of the scenic and historical byways. Cyclists and locals gave me a few cafe recommendations (the River’s Edge Cafe in Confluence was mentioned several times, but it was unfortunately closed when I needed it most). The trail is well signed, filled with thoughtful touches (bike repair stations with pumps etc at regular intervals) and a lot of camping options of various types. In regular times some of these might get busy so some advance reservations might be required. In terms of timing, the closure of the Big Savage tunnel from November through April puts an effective limitation on things. I’m told there is no easy way around, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a way. 🙂
As for which direction to ride the trail, I don’t have a strong sense of one being the other. It would be a pretty substantial grind from Cumberland up to the Divide; that is definitely the steepest portion of the trail. On the other hand, it is railroad grade so we aren’t talking Alpe d’Huez. And you then have more than 120 miles of gentle trending downhill toward Pittsburgh. Regardless of the direction, this is a mature trail in terms of infrastructure that runs through a beautiful part of the country and, as a bonus, offers numerous thoughtful access points to the history of the region.
Alchemy 