The journey from Connellsville to Rockwood proved to be quite an adventure. We traversed several massive bridges, supported by hefty concrete pillars and steel trusses, once built for trains but now serve as a bike path as the lines became unprofitable. Each bridge was accompanied by a long tunnel, leading us through dense forests toward a charming town that capitalizes on its water resources through white-water rafting and bike rentals. The local bike economy was thriving, and we pressed on to avoid any delays. Much of our ride took place among the Pennsylvania mountains, with glimpses of beautiful rivers carving their way through the Appalachian landscape.
As we approached the town of Confluence, we were greeted by the town crier—a high school student handing out coupons for a free postcard or patch kit at the local bike shop. This was the town where three rivers converge, and we crossed the loudest bridge into Confluence. The boards beneath us creaked and bounced, each step producing a symphony of squeaks and slaps as we rode our two-wheelers across. With 50 to 60 boards to navigate, it was a chaotic cacophony of sounds.
We searched for the meeting point of the three rivers, but it seemed like two of them were taking a break that day; the view was underwhelming. Next, we crossed the second loudest bridge, which was just as noisy. Afterward, we stopped by the bike shop to collect our loot, only to find a tempting bike shirt featuring the GAP and C&O trails at an irresistible price—one I conveniently forgot. But I left with some serious street cred.
Eventually, we made our way to the gingerbread house in Rockwood, albeit with some confusion over the straightforward instructions from our hostess. At our bed and breakfast, we were warmly welcomed by a local named Tracy, who showed us to our room. After a quick shower, we set out for dinner.
We first tried the local VFW, but the smoke drove us away. Our next stop, a Family Dollar, didn’t offer much either. Finally, we discovered a food truck near a brewery. While the beer tasted a bit off, the musician Kelly West was a highlight, serenading us with our favorite songs. It was a fantastic evening, filled with music and laughter. On our way back, we encountered a hiker named Gene—probably the only record of his existence.
Gene had no phone, no address, and likely no email. His only form of ID was an expired driver’s license from Maine. He’d been walking with a limp since Denver and was originally from Maine. Having journeyed across the country for nearly a year and a half, Gene was a wanderer in every sense. As we retired for the night, I found myself chatting quietly with Boo, a stream of playful banter that kept Stephen awake.
Stephen here: He was not, in fact, quiet. The night was filled with a continuous stream of “Boo, blah blah, no Boo, no,” and more “blah blah blah”!
Day 4
The next morning, I donned my newly acquired bike shirt, which conveniently featured a detailed map on the back—now our navigational tool.
Downstairs, Tracy greeted us with blueberry French toast drizzled with mulberry syrup. It was delicious—so good, in fact, that I snuck back for a secret taste after breakfast. I took just a sliver, convinced I wouldn’t be noticed. But as I made my escape, Tracy appeared right before we left, handing me the rest of the blueberry toast. Clearly, I didn’t get away with it! She rewarded my appreciation with the extra slice, and off we went.
Just then, I spotted Gene lingering by the side of the trail. “Hey, Stephen, we just passed Gene!” I shouted.
Hearing this, Stephen immediately turned around. We found Gene, and Stephen greeted him warmly, tossing him a candy bar to fatten him up. As they chatted, we learned that Gene had been criss-crossing the country in search of himself. He lives on just $30 a week, mainly relying on dollar stores. His diet consists mostly of tuna jerky and trail mix. For the full story, you’ll have to ask him—he’s somewhere out there, walking the C&O.
Rockwood to Cumberland
The trip had the normal views then the forest started to open up then some more and eventually to the Salisbury viaduct which puts us over a hundred feet in the air over some of the most beautiful Pennsylvania landscape, with trains and highways and rivers. And we saw a guy on ye old bike (a penny farthing). We continued on eventually hitting Meyersdale and many other bridges like the keystone viaduct and eventually an Amish shopping stand where we resupplied on cherries with the pits, cucumbers and I bought Boo a gift. We kept pretty entertained spitting the cherries pits at trail signs and other landmarks while moving. Eventually we make it the longest down hill on the trek marked by the Eastern continental divide. You see if a drop of water landed on the western half of this tunnel it will flow to the gulf of Mexico.
The eastern half the Atlantic so I peed on the west, Steven the east to ensure we had the whole Atlantic covered. Now for the longest downhill of our lives 22 miles at…..a scary 1.75% grade. It felt like we were being pushed slowly. Like having and electric bike set to the lowest setting. We still had to pedal but we got some interest back.
Eventually we cruised to Frostbrook, a lovely, beautiful. Actually, I have no idea what the town looks like. The only thing I know about the town is that the entrance has these beautiful switchbacks littered with local bicycle related artwork. I studied them well, while Stephen completely ignores the well laid out switchbacks and proceeds to push his bike up the steep hills like a neanderthal. We both made it to the top where there was a historic train and train station waiting for us there. I was looking a the train side turntable, while Stephen was hatching a plan
As Stephen zigzagged around the station, interviewing all kinds of train employees, I found myself puzzled.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The train and the tunnel,” Stephen replied, excitement in his voice. “We’ve got to get a picture of the train going through the tunnel!”
Suddenly, it hit me: this was our chance to ride alongside a real train. The tracks we were on were mostly abandoned, with this 20-mile stretch used only once a week for tourist rides. The train was set to depart in just 20 minutes, leaving us with a choice: visit the town of Frostbrook or capture photos with a moving train.
As I descended the switchbacks I had just climbed, Stephen and I concocted a plan for the perfect selfie with the train emerging from the tunnel. But then, something shifted in the air—the train had already left the station, and we hadn’t reached the tunnel yet.
Stephen pressed his ear to the rails. “I don’t think the train is that close.”
“Uh, I think it’s pretty close, i mean look at it,” I replied, glancing at the train.
In that moment, we realized we had miscalculated. We quickly staged a selfie, but then noticed the train was moving quite slowly. We took turns snapping pictures while riding our bikes, a balancing act of holding the phone in one hand while steering with the other. I’d never fallen doing this, though I had dropped my phone… more than once.
With the hill on our side, we gained speed, pulling ahead to take as many photos as we wanted. As we approached the tunnel, we set up for the perfect ambush shot. And there it was—the ideal picture of the train continuing on its journey, framed against the backdrop of the tunnel.
We pull ahead and found other possible picture locations. There were a few but we simply followed the train into the Town of Cumberland. After some milling around and some arguing, we settled on the fountain as being the official end of the gap and the start of the C&O. The GAP was done
After the photos, we stumbled upon Charis Winery. We parked the bikes and ventured inside, eager for a well-deserved treat. We ordered a flight of spirits and a birch beer to wash it down, settling at an outdoor table to soak in the ambiance. As the sun began to set, a few gentlemen who seemed to be musicians joined us, engaging in lively discussions about “old people’s music.” Stephen, never one to miss an opportunity, chimed in, and just like that, we were drawn into the conversation.
One of the gentlemen, William Bonilla, introduced himself as a contract lawyer from Washington, DC. Our discussion quickly shifted to the topic of which artist deserves the title of the greatest of all time and the exciting night ahead.
After biking through the charming streets of downtown Cumberland, we found our hotel—an old Holiday Inn now rebranded. We freshened up, changed into our city clothes, and set out in search of dinner. Navigating the construction that had taken over downtown, we discovered a cozy Italian spot before heading back to the bar where live music awaited.
To our delight, we spotted William Bonilla and his friends, clearly in high spirits. I can’t recall every detail of the night—thanks to a few too many birch beers—but a few moments stuck with me:
William: “Vincent is a solid name.”
Me: “Hey, Stephen, did you hear that? Vincent is a solid name. Are you jealous? You’re so jealous!”
William: “Stephen is also a solid name.”
Stephen: “Yeah, Vincent, you hear that?”
Me: “I don’t know, man. Vincent is mentioned in the Bible; Stephen is not.”
William: “He got you there!”
Stephen: “But let’s be clear—a Vinny, a Stephen, and a Nick would beat up a Tom, a Luke, and an Adam any day of the week.”
Me: “That’s a fair point, but I’d never take on a Muhammad or a Malcolm. No way. But a Zachary? I bet I could take on a Zachary or an Alex, especially an Alex.”
William: “Yeah, if you gather a group of Muhammads, it’s game over. They’re unstoppable!”
We spent the next few hours debating which names sounded tougher and sharing stories about our trip, all while playfully affirming that Vincent and Stephen are indeed solid names
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