by David Miller
“Do you think you will go all the way to Pen-Mar?” I ask Kodiak. Pen-Mar is a park on the border of Maryland and Pennsylvania.
“I might. Twenty-three miles…that would be a long day.” Although Kodiak is a stronger hiker than I am, he hasn’t been hiking days this long. He was hiking with his wife, and couples generally end their day when either person is ready to stop, resulting in shorter days.
“There’s pizza,” I add.
We know from the guidebook that there is a phone at the park and a pizza place close enough to deliver. Food is always a primary motivator. On the downside, there is no camping at or near the park. I continue on, with uncertain plans. Kodiak and Orbit will probably do the same. There are always miles to be walked.
The rocks abate for a few miles. A fifty-yard-wide swath is cut through the trees to make way for power lines that drape over the hills and extend out of sight. Huge four-legged metal giants stand in file, holding up the wires. The trail follows the clearing downhill, exposed to harsh sunlight and encroaching weeds.
The trail reenters the woods, and again rocks dominate the landscape. Earlier in the day, rock hopping was an interesting diversion. Now, having already hiked twenty miles, the rocks are an unwelcome challenge. The terrain is more difficult, with greater slope and rocks jutting up irregularly. This boulder field is significant enough to have a name: the Devil’s Racecourse.
I am tired and distracted, plodding through the boulders. I recollect events of the day, as I am prone to do, when it occurs to me that I am in the midst of a protracted day. Visiting Washington Monument seems longer ago than this morning.
The trail is going steadily downhill now, so I know I am nearing the end of the racecourse. Pen-Mar Park is only a couple of miles further. I take a lunging step down from a boulder about three feet high and land unevenly. All my weight, and the weight of my backpack, comes down on the outside of my right foot. I have rolled onto the outside of each foot a handful of times up to this point on my hike, but this time it turns a little further.
I fall and roll into a sitting position, my injured leg quivering. I know immediately that I have sprained my ankle. The feeling is not so much painful as it is numb, out of whack. I look around to see what went wrong. There is no outstanding irregularity on the ground that should have caused me to misstep. Maybe there was a rock that I landed on that kicked away after I stepped on it…no, my right foot must have nicked the boulder’s surface on the way down, so that my shoe turned inward before landing. My hiking poles are lying free on the ground, but I can’t even recall letting them loose.
I don’t even want to look at my ankle. If I take my shoe off, I probably won’t be able to get it back on. I take three Advil, stretch for my poles, and get to my feet. My best chance of walking is now—waiting will only make it harder.
I can put weight on my right foot, but I have to be careful about lifting and placing it. If the ground where I place my foot is uneven, I feel a tinge of pain. It is more painful to make the slightest bit of contact with a rock while lifting and moving my injured leg. This simple sequence of lifting my foot cleanly and finding a smooth place for it to land is a challenge among the jumble of rock.
Thoughts swirl though my head as I limp down the trail. I have some anger toward the trail for taking me through the minefield of rocks, and I’m disappointed in myself for getting tired and careless. Why couldn’t I stay focused? Why did I have to push myself through another long day? Then I play through all the scenarios of what I might do next. I’m not eager for another extended motel stay like my recuperation in Wytheville. It would be wasteful to spend more time away from home, especially being less sure that I’ll be able to continue hiking. Am I making it worse by walking on it? I need to get down to the park and take a look at my ankle before I can figure out what to do. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think; I could camp tonight and hope it’s better in the morning.
I hear Kodiak steaming down the trail behind me, so I pause to let him pass. As he approaches, he comments, “These rocks are a nightmare. Someone could really get hurt on this stuff.”
“Yeah, I just sprained my ankle.”
He continues on without pause or reply. What I just said didn’t register, maybe because I stated it so simply and he had his headphones on. This is fine, since I prefer not to be escorted down the trail. There is nothing he could do to help.
At Pen-Mar Park, I get my shoe off and have a look. Disturbing, unnatural swelling has overtaken the outer knob of my ankle joint. Kodiak, still lingering at the park, offers his assessment of my ankle: “Oh, shit!” The look of my ankle eliminates any thought I may have harbored about walking through the injury, and increases my doubts about continuing at all. Perhaps I should be thinking of ways to get back home. I call Juli from a pay phone at the park. From home, she looks up where I am and tells me of the nearest hospital in Waynesboro, Pennsylvania.
I also call Tim, who has already flown back to Florida. I wonder about returning to the Keseckers’ home, but I’m too tentative about inviting myself to call them directly. Tim is encouraging, telling me that they would be thrilled to have company.
“The man at that house over there,” a park ranger says, pointing to a home across the street from the park, “will give you a ride. He’s taken hikers to town before.”
The Waynesboro Hospital is bright and empty in the evening. I have X-rays and speak with a doctor.
“Nothing is broken,” he explains. “I’d say you have a severely sprained ankle.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Normally, I would recommend doing nothing strenuous for a month,” the doctor says as he wraps my ankle. “But I’ve had hikers in here before. I know you won’t. Just give it at least a week.”
He gives me other advice on wrapping and icing down my ankle and suggests an anti-inflammatory and a pain reliever. I am also given an Aircast. The Aircast consists of two contoured plastic splints for the inside and outside of my ankle, connected by a strap that loops under my foot, and by Velcro straps that wrap around my shin. There is a plastic air-filled pad on the inner surface of each splint. The cast not only stabilizes the injured ankle, it reduces swelling by compression. Two underworked paramedics give me an ambulance ride to a nearby hotel. The doctor’s prognosis was better than I expected. I believe I can recover and resume my hike of the AT.
By morning, Juli has spoken with Dan and Wilma, and they are eager to have me back. They drive to Waynesboro to pick me up. They are gracious, welcoming, and do all they can to make me feel as though I am no imposition.
The Aircast came with the videotape, “Caring for Your Sprained Ankle.” With little interest I begin the video, prepared to hear what the doctor already told me: to rest, put ice on it, blah, blah, blah. Instead, the Aircast video promotes exercising a sprained ankle right away and demonstrates exercises that speed recovery: “Even though your ankle may hurt, it’s best to move it as soon as possible to help it heal.” This is more good news. Hearing this spawns within me the notion that I may accelerate my return to the trail. I launch into the exercises. Also, I reason that walking is a form of rehab, which the video just encouraged me to do as soon as possible. I feel like I have more invested in the hike, as I felt when I took time off with a foot infection. Damned if I’ll quit my job, suffer through knee pain, a foot infection, and now a sprained ankle, just to go home saying I did half the AT.
Dan Kesecker drives with me back to Harpers Ferry, where we spend time seeing the town. We watch a presentation about the town’s history, how it thrived by the trade along the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, but also suffered floods because of them. Back at ATC Headquarters, thru-hiker Leaf is checking in. I look over the photo album to find out who else I might see when I get back to the trail. I feel fine limping along on smooth walkways without the weight of a pack, but my ankle is sore by the time we leave.
Wilma takes me to a sporting goods store on my quest for more comfortable shoes. The shoes must also acc
ommodate the additional bulk of the Aircast. I settle on a lightweight running shoe, size 12 in width 4E.
The Keseckers are wonderful hosts, considerate to make sure I have everything I need. During my four-day stay, Wilma cooks delicious meals morning and night. Dan grills hamburgers on Independence Day. Despite all my indulgent eating, I hardly regain weight, and my appetite shows no signs of weakening.
Blackish-blue blood from the injury works its way down the outside of my foot and then dissipates into a jaundice yellow. The swelling, pushed around by the Aircast, manifests itself in different parts of my ankle and foot. Mainly, I am just biding time while I heal. I eat, watch TV, and surf the Internet. I have nothing to do, so I stay up late doing it.
I intercept Dan on his way out to mow the lawn. I must make myself useful. He gives me instruction on his riding mower. I’ve never used one, so I whip around the yard silly over how cool it is to drive a lawn mower. On the second pass, I have trouble finding a swath to follow, since I had neglected to lower the cutting blades.
I make some use of the idle time to clean my gear. I run my water bottle and pot through the dishwasher, and I wash out my backpack, emptying every nook and cranny. When I load everything back into my pack, I no longer have the stone I had been carrying with me since Springer Mountain, the one I had planned to leave on Katahdin. I don’t think I lost it here and can’t think of anywhere else it could be. I’m perturbed by the mysterious loss and have a superstitious uneasiness about proceeding without it. I decide to nullify the bad omen by not speaking of the lost stone to anyone, not even Juli, until the end of my hike.
9
Pennsylvania
Pen-Mar Park is bustling on Sunday morning. Families are starting their picnics early on this final day of the long Independence Day weekend. Five days ago when I left with a sprained ankle there were three other people at the park; now there are over a hundred. Dan and Wilma escort me through the crowds. I have new shoes, clean clothes, and a freshly scrubbed pack. I’ve lost the disheveled look that distinguishes long-distance hikers. With all the kids looking on, I feel unproven, awkwardly clean, like a kid reporting to his first day of football practice in shiny new cleats. I am ready to be moving north once again. If my ankle starts to hurt I will stop, satisfied with any amount of progress.
I start out slowly, carefully picking my steps. It is distracting to be mindful of my ankle, whose normal functioning I’ve always taken for granted. All of my senses are muted except for those coming from the nerves of my ankle. Walking with the added weight of my pack isn’t a problem. My first uphill is not painful, and neither is the downhill. The terrain is mild with few rocks. There is nothing to make me feel as though walking on my recovering ankle is risky.
I reach a pair of shelters five miles from Pen-Mar Park in less than three hours. Both my comfort level and the speed at which I have covered this distance exceed my expectations. Continuing after a rest at the shelters, I make my first misstep, which sends a spike of pain up my right leg and reminds me that I cannot get careless. I go on to have a handful of painful steps during the day.
An excessive number of shelters are on the stretch between Pen-Mar Park and Caledonia State Park. In addition to the Deer Lick Shelters, I pass Antietam Shelter, Tumbling Run Shelters, and Rocky Mountain Shelters. In passing the last of these shelters, I feel strong and have committed to making it to Caledonia State Park. Beyond the final shelter, the trail is level, uneventful. But then it makes a sharp turn to the right, leading me into a field of rocks the size of footballs. I am unnerved encountering this obstacle late in the day, recalling that my ankle injury occurred late in the day when I was tired and careless. But after only one-half mile, the trail turns back to the left and resumes a path along the line that I was previously walking. Seemingly, the diversion was contrived to lead hikers through the rocky obstacle. My first day back concludes after 18.5 miles with no ill effects.
The trail around Caledonia State Park is parallel to a wide, slow-moving creek. I make the walk in the quiet morning on the second day of my return, passing campground tent sites and skirting the central clearing of the park, where there is a swimming pool and picnic area. I’m at Quarry Gap Shelter after a quick two-mile climb from the park.
My first day back after spraining my ankle.
I would wear the Aircast for the remainder of my hike.
Innkeeper Jim Stauch is cleaning up. He is proud of the place: “It’s as good as any shelter on the AT.” The shelter has two separate sleeping platforms with a table in between, all covered by one roof. Solar-powered landscape lights line the path to the spring and to the privy. The AT is what it is because of a collection of independent efforts by dedicated people like Jim.
My break has placed me in a hiker void. I saw no other thru-hikers yesterday, and would only see one today. I am content to be alone with my thoughts, hearing my own breath, shallow or deep, fast or slow, in unison with the difficulty of the terrain. My fuel canister makes muffled dings against my cookpot, so I stop to rearrange my gear. Normally, my pack is stuffed tightly and is firm to my back, making little noise. My trekking poles have rubber tips that keep them silent, unless I carelessly clang them on a rock.
I chose not to bring a radio or MP3 player, preferring to give all my attention to the woods around me. As many as half of the solo hikers wear headphones, and I’m sure I would find them addictive. However, I never feel bored on my long days of travel, as one might feel traveling by car. From a passing vehicle, miles of woods seem uniform and bland. On foot inside the woods, I am much more attuned to the sights, smells, and changes in terrain. I pass trees, rocks, underbrush, streams—same as everywhere on the trail, but always different. I see blueberries for the first time, but they aren’t ripe. The trees, plants, and rocks on different sections of the trail have variations too subtle for words. Added together, the differences give each segment of the trail, each day, each hour, a substantially unique feel.
In suburbia I didn’t feel harassed by noise. The din of traffic, machines, and the voices of other people were the norm. In the forest I appreciate the quiet and the clarity of thought that it induces. It is a welcome, unanticipated benefit. I feel unstressed, fit, alert, and invigorated by the blood pumping through my body.
There is plenty to occupy my mind. Nearly at a subconscious level, I am charting my footsteps, looking ahead for places to land my feet. I prefer the softness of landing on soil instead of rock. I always avoid stepping on roots, especially when they are wet. Which way will I take around obstacles like boulders and fallen trees? Even over distances as short as ten yards, I look for the path that might eliminate an unnecessary step up or down. I try to break a steep climb into more gradual steps. One lunging step will take more out of me than a hundred yards of gradual climbing. Passing a stream, I give my water bag an udder squeeze to determine if there is enough water for me to continue, and I consult Wingfoot about upcoming water sources.
I check the time frequently—at least every quarter hour—and I also take peeks at my guidebook for landmarks passed. I’ll do a rough calculation in my head of how far I have walked and how long it has taken, and I’ll estimate how much farther I will walk and when I will get there. Most of the time I’m fairly certain of where I will stop for the night. At any given moment I’m aware of my location, usually within a mile. I’m not proud of this. I’d like to shake the habit of obsessing over where I am on the trail.
The trail is pleasant, ranging in elevation from eight hundred to two thousand feet with steady inclines. Like yesterday, the trail makes diversions to pass briefly through rock fields. The stability of my ankle in the Aircast induces confidence. I still have intermittent pain and my right ankle is a little weaker, but it is clear that the injury will not stop me from completing my hike. Also, like yesterday, I pass three shelters and end my day when I reach a park. Today I’ve set my sights on Pine Grove Furnace State Park.
The last couple miles of the trail follow a disused roadbed,
making for an easy walk for the rest of the day. Along this path, at an unmarked point just two-tenths of a mile before the park, I complete exactly one-half of the AT with no fanfare. At the park, I will celebrate by participating in the infamous half-gallon challenge. Tradition demands that thru-hikers celebrate their half-trail experience by consuming half a gallon of ice cream.
Before hiking, I was a modest, healthy eater. I had eliminated sodas and french fries from my diet. The only candy bars I ever ate were those I would pilfer from my kids’ Halloween spoils. I’d read about the superhuman appetite of thru-hikers and their eating feats: ten candy bars a day, a dozen doughnuts in one sitting, meals on top of meals. I was going to be different. Sure, I’d need to eat more, but I’d try to eat good stuff: protein bars instead of candy bars, fruit and vegetables whenever I could get them. Healthy eating quickly fell by the wayside. A cold soda is my favorite treat. I prefer the quick energy of candy bars to protein bars. Now I sit with half a gallon of cookie dough ice cream before me, fairly certain that it won’t be much of a challenge.
A small camp store at the park sells the ice cream. They have limited flavors, so wimping out with reduced-calorie vanilla is not an option. Cookie dough is the most palatable and has 2,880 calories per box. I spend fifty-two minutes eating, my progress slowed by chipping away at the frozen block. Hikers who have participated in the half-gallon challenge comment on their experiences in a spiral notebook similar to shelter registers. I bring it to my picnic table and read from it as I eat:
“That was the most disgusting thing I’ve done, except for the pancake challenge.”
—Gazelle