Musings of a Thru-Hiker
By Gary Shealy
Rainbow Springs (continued) April 24th
Things finally settled down again at the camp store. The better part of the morning was already gone by the time the make-shift shuttle prepared for departure. At Rainbow Springs they went out of their way to accommodate hikers. The shuttle was an old flatbed truck that ran with uncanny regularity in spite of its apparent condition. Earlier someone mentioned that the truck was low on gas, the fuel gage was broken and no one really knows how much farther the truck will go, and yes, it has been a hard year, so much to fix and so little money to fix it. Moments after the last sale was made, the register was closed, the proprietors disappeared, and after time enough for bank deposit slips to be filled out, the shuttle slowly appeared.
Packs and gear that collected on the porch all morning, are heaved into the truck by full, rested, and restless hikers. Instructions are given to direct seating with precautionary warnings stating the eminent dangers associated with traveling in the back of the truck. Finally the truck is filled and slowly starts its belabored climb back to the trail crossing. Unloading is mechanical except for the final zing of pack zippers as each passenger relinquishes one last dollar to the general funds of the campgrounds. Strange how physically fit, able bodied outdoorsman having already walked over a hundred miles now find it impossible to leave camp without paying for a ride. As hikers spread out along the trail, each assuming his own pace, the experiences and lessons of the camp were related, and each had time to reflect on his stay at Rainbow Springs. Each day the trail graciously provides a little more wisdom.
It was difficult for me to watch them go. My ankles were sore, but better, and my poison ivy was vastly improved. Yet my condition was serious enough to make me think twice. In fact a full stomach and clear head easily won out, this time. Clearly there was no sense in pushing on too quickly. The medicine I continued to take would quickly dehydrate me on the trail and finding water might be difficult. Besides, it is a journey of 2000 miles, not in a day, but over months, and a few days could not possibly make any difference. The doctor recommended staying off my feet for a few weeks (right), soaking my feet, and keeping them elevated. I am sure he did not intend soaking them in sweat filled boots, while lugging a sixty pound pack over the highest elevations in North Carolina. Here I had to come to terms with myself and deal with the possibility that I might not be able to continue, and pushing on too soon could cause permanent damage. For the rest of the day I cleaned and dried my gear, carefully worked the soot out of my stove, and tried to stay off my feet. Every hour I would hobble down to the stream, remove my unlaced boots, and slowly immerse one foot at a time in the icy cold mountain water. It was not possible to hold my foot in very long, so I would alternate until I could not bear the numbness any longer. I managed to eat a pint of ice cream before and after every meal, and added an extra pound of cheese to my body weight. I loaded up on aspirin(reduce swelling?), read the guide books, wrote letters, and filled in my journal to pass the day.
As evening came a new group of hikers filtered into camp. The Orlando boys were still here, and finally the honeymooners arrived. They could not believe the miles that I had been doing, as I kept worrying about falling further behind my own timetable. She was in good condition but concerned about her husband. Her no sock training treks over Stone Mountain had paid off. However, his feet were miserable. The blisters on his heals alone were larger than mine had been at Neels Gap. I told him about the blister kits, second skin and peroxide, but he did not seem interested; he just threw his blood soaked socks away. All the time he was sure that his pack was the problem and not his feet. While we talked he called back to the Walasi-Yi and ordered a new internal frame pack. They shipped the pack to the Nantahala Outdoor Center.
By evening the camp had assumed a new personality. This group differed considerably from the hikers that left that morning. Throughout the evening and late night hours, the traffic in and out of the bunk house continued as they pursued their own interests. It would be a long night even without the frequent trips mandated by the medication.
Peace,
Slim
Copyright 1991-2000, all rights reserved
This is a fictional account of an actual Thru-Hike in 1990. Any resemblance to specific individuals or events is purely coincidental.