Hell or high water

I actually thought I had trench foot… the ol’ jungle rot, like back in ‘Nam. We had just climbed Stratton Mountain on a beautiful, sunny Vermont afternoon, and were waiting to get up into the fire tower for big views.


I pulled my shoes, gaiters and socks off to air them out (they’ve not been dry since Connecticut, two states ago). And yipes. My toes looked white and brown and weird. I freaked out, and J. had to talk me back into calm as we descended the mountain, my feet ticking time bombs, just waiting, in my imaginings, to explode with gangrene. (After consulting the Mayo Clinic website, I am hopeful that it’s just ghoulish-looking waterlogged callouses. As a gift to you, I will not post any photographs.) It’s a result of the deluge of the past week that made the trail a cold, deep, sandy river, just another of the extremes we’ve encountered out here.

One thing I have learned out here is that I am not a fan of extremes. I knew beforehand that the AT is a trail prone to extremes, but 2013 has been an extremely extreme year so far. If it weren’t 2013, would I so frequently find myself wondering how many more years folks will be able to hike these long trails before global warming and global weirding make them impossible, impassible? I also have been wondering why I wrote 2013 on the note to J. three years ago when I proposed that we hike the AT. I picked a year that sounded good, not too close, not too far. I was one year off: 2012 was one of the best weather years ever for the trail. But this year, I hear, boasted the trail’s worst winter in fifty years. And Massachusetts has had eight inches of rain this month, compared with an average of two inches–and the month’s only half over.

Statistics aside, I didn’t expect so much suffering on this journey. Maybe that sounds naive. Even compared only with other citizens of the first world, have suffered very little in life. So this, I realize, is the hardest thing I have ever done. And it’s too late to quit. Just a few more than 500 miles left, plus my brother is joining us for a week soon, which will be excellent. (John: ignore everything I write about things sucking. It’s going to be grand.) I will finish this, I will triumph over this trail, come hell or high water… or black flies, which I hear is the next plague to expect.

Maybe the silver lining is that on this trip, as during no other period in my life, I have been able to see the divine spark in other people. Usually it is difficult for me, as I am unfortunately a bit judgmental, skeptical, impatient. But on the trail, it hits every hiker over the head repeatedly: kindness. Loads and loads of unearned kindness, like the deluges of rain. Kindness from people of all sorts. Truckers and moms and strange people and familiar-feeling ones, rich ones and poor ones, lefties and righties and everyone in between and beyond.

A bachelor with a house decorated like a little old granny’s, who asks us to not drip on the sink and to leave our muddy boots outside, but to come in for doughnuts and coffee in the quiet of the morning.

A gang of bikers who stopped for a break at a road crossing on their way to some races in Concord, New Hampshire. They were dressed in black leather, with t-shirts bearing second amendment slogans. And they were eating fancy snacks on the tailgate of their sag wagon pickup truck. “Hey, d’you want a Pepsi? water? beer?” they asked. “Here, you gotta try this.” And these biker guys showed me their favorite combination: a Pretzel Ritz cracker, topped with cream cheese, then a dab of jalapeno jelly, using a knife that looks like it was for cleaning fish. They had never “rescued” hikers before. They said we understood a little of what it was like to bike across the country at 70 mph in the wind and rain.

Or the people–friends and family, and also ones I met for just a moment on the trail–who leave comments on my journal entries, which is like having cheerleaders. Witnesses. It brightens my days.

And people I definitely don’t know, musicians who write songs that go into my mind through my mp3 player, songs that push me up the hills, distract me from my toes, make me want to dance, swagger a bit after too much cowering. (Currently, my hiking anthem is Muse’s Uprising. Arr!)

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You, and the occasional burst of perfect Vermont sunshine, save me every day.

P.S. You may think this is crazy, but I have tentative plans to hike the 2600+ mile Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) next year with Zippy.

Everyone says it is much, much more pleasant.

If they are right, I just might do it.


One Reply to “Hell or high water”

  1. Keep swaggering, mydear! I swagger a little just being able to say I know someone who’s gone from GA to VT on the App Trail! Be proud– and I’m sending you much, much joy from rainy MT.

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