Musings of a Thru-Hiker
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. By Gary Shealy