In Duncannon, wherever I expected to see life, there was decay.
The trail turned out of the neighborhood and toward a large bridge over the Susquehanna River. To my left there was a gas station, and looking ahead beyond the potholes in the road, I could see a looming mountain. I wanted to stop at the gas station to buy some candy or a soda before I kept hiking, but the entrance was blocked by a man in a flannel shirt smoking a cigarette and drinking from a brown paper bag, so I turned toward the bridge and kept walking.
When I reached a rocky overlook on the other side of Duncannon, I peered down on the town. From the cliffs I could see the expansive Susquehanna River, and Duncannon gridlocked on the other side by highways and railroad tracks. The valley felt secluded and forgotten, as if Duncannon were a town holding on to secrets and clinging to the past. Perhaps I would have had a more favorable impression of the town if Warren hadn’t warned me not to stay there, but everything inside of me said that I had made the right decision.
People told me that Pennsylvania was rocky, but I thought that the large boulders and rock formations in the southern portion of the state had been what they were referring to. It wasn’t until I left Duncannon that I knew what people had really been talking about. After Duncannon the trail was absorbed by rocks. There was no longer any dirt; there were just rocks. Rocks and snakes.
I had seen my first two black snakes in North Carolina and encountered about a dozen more in Virginia. But since entering Pennsylvania, I had seen at least two or three snakes every day. And they weren’t all black either.
Besides seeing my first rattlesnake, I had also come across a green snake slithering through the grass, a gray snake swimming in a river, and a brown snake hiding in the leaves. Leaving Duncannon, I saw ten snakes in three miles, and they were mostly camouflaged with patterns of brown, tan, and yellow.
I think that there were so many snakes on the trail in Pennsylvania because they loved the warm rocks, and also because it was mating season—at least, I think it was mating season, since several of the snakes I saw were coiled together in tight, wriggling balls.
That afternoon, I traveled on a long, sunny rock field that spanned the mountains above the Susquehanna River. Hiking across a scalding, unending rock field full of jagged edges, loose footing, and snake beds was brutal, and I rapidly transitioned from slightly uncomfortable to utterly miserable.
I thought my feet had become accustomed to rock fields, but now on the serrated ridge, a familiar burning sensation accompanied every step. In my mind, the uneven rocks had morphed into primitive weapon tips designed to pierce my flesh.
There was no dirt tread to rest my feet, and the trail was so narrow and overgrown that there wasn’t anyplace to sit and rest my body. I had to stop! I took my mop stick and spent five minutes poking around a large rock in the middle of the trail. I was prodding to see if there were any snakes, but in retrospect, poking them with my mop stick probably wouldn’t have made them very happy.
I sat down and immediately took off my shoes. As I stripped off my socks, I could see that the pus, inflammation, and polka dots had come back with a vengeance.
I had worn a new pair of socks since leaving Harpers Ferry, and my feet obviously didn’t like them very much. I took off the suffocating masks, put my bare feet back in my shoes, and kept walking. I made it about half a mile before I determined that removing my socks did nothing for the pain, but it did allow the dust and dirt direct access to the infected portions of my feet.
I again looked for a rock to sit on, checked it for snakes, then sat down to put my socks back on.
I made it another hundred yards before the shredding sensation in my feet became overwhelming, and without checking for snakes, I collapsed in the middle of the trail.
I had no intention of getting up. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. But as the first drop began to slide down my face, I smeared it away with the back of my hand and took a deep breath. I already felt a little dehydrated, and I decided that losing more liquids wouldn’t help the situation.
Instead, I sat there and thought about things that were worse than foot pain: I thought about cancer and malnutrition, slavery and women’s servitude. I thought about civil wars and terrorism, homelessness and genocide.
I know it seems dramatic, but it was like Mooch wanting to be smacked across the face to take his mind off his butt rash. When the hurt becomes too much to bear, sometimes the best way to work past it is with more pain. My feet screamed in agony, but they were just feet. By comparing them to realities that were far more serious, I was able to suck it up, stand up, and walk.
The rest of the day was wretched. My feet were killing me, and I have never been so depressed about the social injustices in the world. For five hours, I did nothing but focus on suffering.
When I arrived at an empty campsite that evening, I cleaned my feet and laid down in my tent to try and end the day as quickly as possible. However, as soon as I went horizontal, the pain that had been concentrated in my feet started to spread. It leaked into my legs and then filled my stomach with nausea, it permeated through my arms with stinging pricks, and then it seized my head in a throbbing migraine.
It hurt to open and shut my eyelids. I was entirely alone, and I was afraid something terrible was happening to me. I thought about trying to describe the overwhelming pain in my journal, in case someone came along later and found me unconscious, but the thought of moving to collect my pen and pad seemed torturous, so instead I remained rigid.
The pain never went away before I fell asleep. I just remember thinking I was experiencing a medical emergency, and then waking up the next morning and feeling fine.
My body had become totally unpredictable. After being seized with unbearable pain at the campsite, the next day I completed thirty miles with little discomfort.
Then the following day, I once again wanted to gnaw my ankles off.
It was a planned resupply day, and my goal soon became very clear: hike twenty-three miles to Port Clinton and seek immediate medical attention.
In general, I had a severe aversion to going to the doctor. However, at this point, the soles of my feet were infected, bleeding, and they reeked of sour putrescence. I was determined to find a doctor or emergency room before the day was over. I worried that if I didn’t, my ailing feet would force me to end my hike, and that thought was even more unbearable than the shredding sensation in my soles.
The path to Port Clinton was lined with rocks and every step felt like I was walking barefoot over hot coals. If I had been able to come up with any other means of effectively moving down the trail besides walking, I would have done it.
When I arrived at an overlook above Port Clinton, I honestly wondered what would happen if I just rolled my body down the remaining descent. Then, turning away, I gritted my teeth and descended, one flinch after another, into the valley.
The base of the mountain marked the start of the town—and also the end of the town. With one quick glance, I lost all hope of finding a doctor’s office or urgent care center. Like Duncannon, Port Clinton looked deserted. I didn’t see a traffic light, I didn’t see any businesses, and I didn’t see anyone walking down the sidewalk or driving down the street. It was an abandoned mountain town with litter-strewn railroad tracks running beside it. Port Clinton and Duncannon both seemed like they had once been thriving places of industry and trade, but as time passed, these places had been neglected and eventually left behind.
In despair, I plodded down the empty drag looking for a sign of life. When I passed a closed door with an old FIRE STATION sign on it, I thought my prayers had been answered. Surely someone here would have the knowledge and first aid supplies to assist me.
The door was locked, so I knocked loudly.
The hinges creaked, and through a small crack in the door the sound of loud eighties rock music escaped. I peered in the vertical opening and saw what looked like a small sports bar in the background.
Then the door o
pened more, and a tan, gaunt, dark-haired man stepped into the entrance. Before he could say anything to me, a gruff voice from the bar yelled, “It’s a girl! Let ’er in!”
The man looked me over for another few seconds, then ushered me into the building. As I passed, he said, “This is a locals’ bar. You’re lucky we let you in.”
The man made me sign something like a guest log before I could sit down at the bar.
“Do you guys have a first aid kit?” I asked the bartender.
She shook her head and said, “Nope, but we have plenty of Jägermeister.”
I didn’t want to drink with this crowd. “Maybe I’ll start with a soda,” I said.
One of the patrons overheard me ask for a first aid kit and kindly went out to his car to retrieve a travel medical kit. He brought it back, sat right beside me, and started asking me how old I was and if I had a boyfriend.
I don’t know if you can classify residents of the mid-Atlantic as rednecks or if those only reside in the South, but these men proved to be close relatives of the Southern species. At 3:00 in the afternoon, most of them were inebriated and yelling at the TV, and the Pittsburgh Pirates—down by three runs—weren’t helping the situation.
Excusing myself from the bar, I found a separate table and began to nurse my wounds with triple antibiotic ointment, gauze, and a second soda. Surprisingly, the travel first aid kit had a great selection of cleaning pads, medicated ointment, and bandages. After twenty minutes of work, I had decimated its inventory, but had managed to soothe the burning irritation in my feet.
As I began to reorganize what was left of the supplies, I heard another knock at the door over the din of clanking glasses and men shouting at the TV.
The same man that let me in walked to the door and opened it just a crack, but it was a big enough crack for me to see Raptor.
“He’s with me!” I shouted.
I had met Raptor at the last shelter, and although I didn’t know much about him, I knew he was a thru-hiker, and I knew he had grand-kids because he had showed me their pictures. The way he had teared up as he looked lovingly upon his family’s faces had made me like him immediately.
The doorman gave me a cold stare and let Raptor in.
Raptor signed the guest log and then sat beside me. He was a strong hiker, and I thought he looked too young to be a grandpa. When I asked, I found out he was the same age as my father. Raptor kind of reminded me of my dad, and I was glad to have him here to protect me from the other men—also my father’s age—who were trying to hit on me.
It turns out that Port Clinton does have one restaurant. The locals at the “fire station” gave us directions, but when we arrived, we were told that hikers weren’t allowed to eat in the main dining room. We were only allowed to sit at the bar.
I found an empty stool, but I was not happy. This was not an especially nice restaurant, and there were certainly plenty of empty tables available. Then, partly due to the circumstances and partly because of my low blood sugar, my annoyance soon grew into rage. This was discrimination!
All the thoughts of social injustice from the last section of trail came flooding back. So this is what it felt like! This was segregation. At least the prejudice I faced was based on the concrete fact that hikers are filthy and smell bad. But underneath the dirt and grime, hikers are still people!
I couldn’t believe that, within my parents’ lifetime, parts of this country had had separate restaurants, restrooms, and water fountains simply based on skin color. On skin color!
I was reminded of John Brown’s raid, which had taken place in Harpers Ferry. Maybe this was my time for revolt? I was about to stage a walkout, really I was, but then a plate of battered chicken fingers piled high on a stack of golden fries was placed in front of me.
I relinquished my stance and asked for the ketchup.
I told myself that if it had been racial, sexual, or religious discrimination, I would have stood up and left. But this was just about being a hiker, and God knows I was a hungry hiker.
After dinner, Raptor and I traveled to a pavilion at the edge of town where hikers could spend the night. We claimed different corners of the open-air structure, crawled into our sleeping bags, and tried to fall asleep. The attempt proved unsuccessful. Before I drifted off, I started to hear voices approach the shelter. Drunk voices.
There was a trio of voices: one happy female soprano, one angry male baritone, and another female who just sounded belligerent. The entourage sat on the pavilion steps, lit a joint, and started passing it around. At first, they were oblivious to our presence, and neither Raptor nor I moved a muscle. But when they spotted our sleeping bags, the hazing began.
“Damn thru-hikers coming to town,” the man said, raising his voice.
“Stinkin’ hippies!” shouted the woman, followed by an unsettling laugh from the other female.
Then they started whispering, and actually succeeded in not letting us hear what they were saying—except the woman who couldn’t control her laughter.
“He he, yeah, we should do it. Ha ha ha.”
Then there was silence.
The three of them stood up and stumbled away, the woman’s laughter occasionally flaring up in the distance.
I heard a noise coming from Raptor’s end of the shelter.
“Psst. Raptor, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just getting my pocketknife out of my pack.”
“Do you think they’re coming back?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I lay awake, listening for any unusual noises. The wind was blowing hard, which made it difficult to hear anything else, until the thunder started. It grew louder and was followed by heavy rain and bright lightning. I was thankful for the storm. I hoped that if the Port Clinton residents had made any plans to come back to the pavilion, the weather would deter them.
The rain lasted a long, long time. The downpour washed away some of my fear, and before the end of the storm, I was asleep.
I awoke later that night to a noise in the distance. At first I thought it was more thunder, but as it grew louder, it seemed more like a churning sound. It grew louder and louder, and then I could feel the floorboards of the pavilion begin to vibrate through my sleeping pad.
I was anxious and frustrated because I couldn’t figure out what was happening. I slept so heavily on the trail that waking up in the middle of the night always left me disoriented. It seemed that if I couldn’t figure out what was coming toward me, it would consume me. Then I heard the whistle—a train.
I hadn’t seen the railroad tracks when we set up in the pavilion, but they must have been close, because even though I covered my ears to muffle the sound, I could still hear rocks from the tracks hitting the side of the building.
After the roaring freight train passed, I didn’t go back to sleep. I just lay on my back with my eyes open, waiting for the sky to lighten.
As soon as the dawn greeted the darkness, I packed up and walked over to Raptor. He was still asleep, with his pocketknife clutched in his hand.
“Hey, Raptor,” I whispered.
He awoke immediately, his eyes wide open, as if he had tried to be vigilant even in his sleep.
“Hey, I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving. I wanna get out of this town.”
“I’m right behind you,” he said.
I wanted to leave Port Clinton as quickly as possible. Originally, I had planned to take a rest day to care for my feet, but now I just wanted to get back on the trail. However, I knew I couldn’t leave without new socks.
It amazed me that socks were such an important piece of equipment. I had experienced enough discomfort by now to know that it wasn’t my shoes causing the pain, it was my socks—or, really, the combination of my socks and the weather. The wicking socks I bought in Roanoke were great, but switching back to a synthetic pair made me miserable. And whether it was from rain, sweat, morning dew, or a river crossing, it seemed that my synthetic socks were always wet. Wet fee
t in wet socks led to stinky, bleeding, crumbly white feet with polka dots. The rocky terrain in Pennsylvania just exacerbated the situation.
I knew I wouldn’t find socks for sale, let alone wicking socks, in Port Clinton. I had asked at the restaurant the night before, and a man sitting at the bar told me there was an outdoor store ten miles down the road. I needed to get to that store, and that meant I needed to hitch. I was still hesitant about hitching alone, but I was sure that if my mother had seen my feet, she would have understood. That, or she would have yanked me off the trail.
I stood at the side of Port Clinton’s main road and held out my thumb.
A few cars passed, splashing stagnant rainwater up onto the sidewalk. It’s easy to tell when people are not going to give you a ride, because they don’t even look at you. It’s like they justify not picking up hitchhikers by pretending that they aren’t there. I’d rather someone smile and nod their head or even look at me in disgust as they drive by than act as if I didn’t exist.
In a few minutes, a large eighteen-wheeler roared down the road. As it passed me, it started to slow down, and I heard its brakes screech on the wet asphalt. The truck pulled off the road and finally came to a stop about a hundred yards down the highway.
I wasn’t sure whether or not he had stopped for me, but I cautiously jogged down the side of the road and approached the driver’s side of the cab.
Staring up inquisitively, I saw an older, bearded man stick his head out the window and ask, “Well, honey, you need a ride or not?”
I had always wanted to hitchhike on the back of a motorcycle, but this was so much cooler!
As I climbed into the shiny blue cab, it seemed like I was staring out of the top window of a two-story house. I could not believe how high above the ground I was.
Becoming Odyssa Page 19