The Wall, the Vortex and the Ice Cream Man

The Wall, the Vortex and the Ice Cream Man

Waynesboro, VA. June 28, 2011 -- Just outside Daleville, I hit the wall.

The re-supply and blog-posting there had been exhausting. Up very late writing; terrible sleep because I was in a bed indoors and not a tent; up early as usual, but at a computer, not a campsite. After a late start and five miles into what was supposed to be an easy 15-mile day, I crashed and burned.

I dozed at a shelter before slipping into my tent for a three-hour nap. It was a combination I knew well – the letdown after a writing project and a psychological payment due for my celebrating 700 miles when I still have so very far to go. I was physically tired from hiking very difficult and rocky trails and mentally whipped from living in the woods for so long

My body had been telling me something, and I promised myself at the beginning of the hike that I would listen to it when it talked. My body – and my mind – have been talking to me a lot for the past 200 miles. Some of it hasn’t been pretty.

Somewhere north of Damascus, the Virginia Blues grabbed me and the adventure of a lifetime became a full bore struggle. Routine climbs became agonizing and long hiking days became even longer.

But here I sit in Waynesboro, VA after a Zero Day, not hiking at all. With my first shower in 12 days and a shave, I am a happy man. I have been thrilled by an unexpected package at the post office, brownies and a terrific paperback from two tai chi buddies in Charleston. I have pigged out with friends at Ming Chinese Garden, where we enjoyed a marvelous buffet and a bottle or two of beer.

Pun not intended, however, I am not out of the woods yet. I have labored, but worked my way through it and, as I write, I am on the edge of the Shenandoah Valley and eager to start hiking some of the most beautiful ridges of the Appalachian Trail.

Physically, and mentally, I am ready to go walking again.

My feet hurt, but that’s normal because of the continued pounding and the jolting downhill hiking on roots and rocks. I lost the nail on the second toe of my right foot, but its successor seems to be holding up well.

My ankles are fine now, after a few days of pain. My right ankle was very sore and I worried about it on an 18-mile day, then it felt better the next day (16) and better still the day after (another 16) although my left ankle started bothering me a bit. It is easy to roll an ankle or take a nasty spill out here, and I worry about my feet, ankles and legs because injuries are, of course, a hike killer and I have come too far to be taken out by injury.

Long-distance hiking is as much mental as physical and that night a few miles north of Daleville at the Fullhardt Knob Shelter, I was a bit of a mess.

Another beautiful summer evening passed quickly as I chatted with another thru-hiker and some other folks on the trail for short hikes. Sleep consumed me again by 9 and I was out again until 6 a.m., when I awoke groggy, but ready to hike on.

Determined to make up for lost time, I forced myself to hike 20 miles that day – and I made it! I camped alone that night and hurried along the three miles down to Jennings Creek the next morning because of the Trail Magic that was supposed to be waiting. Word on the trail was that a veteran thru-hiker was entertaining at the creek, cooking burgers and hot dogs and offering beer and soft drinks to hikers headed to Maine

With little warning I was sucked into the vortex.

Pancakes were on the griddle when I walked into camp around 9, and hikers were getting up and stirring about, recovering from the excesses of the night before. Pancakes led to hamburgers. Hamburgers led to chili cheese dogs, and when one session of Trail Magic ended early in the afternoon, another party started, as another hiking veteran was bringing in more beer and hot dogs.

Hikers marvel at a vortex, when, despite the good intent to hike 20 miles, they get snagged for a Zero Day at shelters or towns, but the Trail Magic at Jennings Creek was the mother of all vortexes.

By mid-day 20 hikers were sucked in to share a Zero Day of relative indolence, sloth and gluttony. It was fantastic. We laughed, shared stories, talked about bears and snakes and Trail Angels and our feet and our blisters. Some slept, others played cards, but mostly we ate – and drank, deciding uphill hike facing us after Jennings Creek could easily wait another day.

The Aussies, Slider and Stroller, were there, and Slider was his usually entertaining self; Stroller permitted herself a single beer because she found out 500 miles back that they are expecting a baby on Christmas Day.

Katie (a.k.a. Queen Ferdinand) from Maryland and Harmony, her friend from Alberta, were there, excited to be getting off the trail a week later for a night being entertained by Katie’s Mom. The Safety Tribe, a mixed bag of hikers (Sunkist, Sage and Hawk Run) I had known since April wandered in -- and stayed. So did Napalm, Dingleberry and Duct Tape as well as a couple of homeless men who seem to be wandering the trail somewhat aimlessly.

Someone counted 18 tents near there that night, but I know I was the first out the next morning, breaking camp at 6:30 for that dreaded climb and vowing to pay penance making it 18 miles to a campsite with a spring. It promised to be a sweaty day as impurities were eager to come rolling out in waves.

Trail Magic struck again as Katie, Harmony and I were about to leave Thunder Hill Shelter (Mile 762) after a 5 p.m. break when a voice from the trail asked, “Do any of you guys like ice cream?”

Our heads snapped around to see an elderly man wearing a daypack and carrying a cooler. “I have some Trail Magic here if you’d like,” he said, opening the cooler and bringing out a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream (my favorite, by the way,) two quarts of slushy lemonade, and two bags of Oreos (regular and vanilla.)

The Ice Cream Man explained that he had brought Trail Magic to Thunder Hill before, only to find it empty. We shared news of the vortex 14 miles south and eagerly devoured two bowls of ice cream each, grabbed a handful of cookies and fought off the frozen throat that comes with too much of a good thing.

I could have stayed, but I marched on, freed from the vortex and determined not to lose more time and momentum, although the late afternoon Trail Magic meant I would not catch up with friends. That burp in my schedule pushed me to find the solitude that had lured me into the woods but has been somehow hard to find. Camping alone, I set my own course for Waynesboro and beyond.

I decided to push myself hard and do the 80 miles in five days, meaning a 15-miles-a-day pace. Even by Virginia standards, that can be difficult because there are no easy miles on the Appalachian Trail and because there would be several long and steep climbs and then the downhill sections sure to bang away at ankles and knees.

Long hikes are done in chunks; time and distance are often measured by the miles to go before a re-supply town or the number of days needed to reach a certain destination. I had already forgotten or ignored one rule of thru-hiking – Hike Your Own Hike – and I was losing sight of another – It’s the Journey, Stupid, not the Destination.

Freed from the vortex of Trail magic, I found myself sucked into the vortex of doubt, dismay and frustration and I started pounding away at myself for my perceived lack of progress. I had forgotten the joy of the trail while being consumed with a pre-hike objective of making it to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia by the 4th of July.

Harpers Ferry is 1013 miles from Springer Mountain, Ga., the southern terminus of the A.T. and while Harpers Ferry is a bit short of halfway along the 2,180 mile Trail, it’s the ceremonial halfway point and hikers there around the 4th of July are on pace to make it to the northern end at Mount Katahdin in Maine.

Silly as it might sound, I began to grind away at figuring how many miles a day it would take for me to get there on time and, not being able to hike that far that fast, I started being disappointed in what I had been able to do

I was grinding away one afternoon, well into a 12-hour, 18-mile day and cursing myself for not getting to Harpers Ferry by the 4th of July when I had one of those ‘aha’ moments that changed everything.

Several thoughts converged:

“Patience, grasshopper.”

“Smile, damn it.”

“You are living in the woods on the adventure of a lifetime and beating yourself up because it will take a couple of extra days to hike a thousand miles – A THOUSAND MILES – so this adventure is a failure?”

I started laughing out loud and vowed to remember that I am here to have fun and am having an amazing wilderness experience that will change me forever and already has

My mood brightened, the pack felt lighter, and there was a new spring in my step. I was again a happy camper on a merry woodlands adventure.

I made it to Waynesboro at my pace and on my terms and checked into the YMCA on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Hikers can camp nearby and use all of the Y facilities, so I grabbed my first shower and shave in nearly two weeks and was clean and able to take a another look at how I had come to where I am.

The locker room has a set of zero-balance scales, and I was curious to see what nearly three months and 850 miles had done to me. I was close to 200 pounds when I started at Springer, 182 pounds at Damascus at Mile 464, and a shocking 170 at Woods Hole Hostel a couple of hundred miles ago.

The scales stayed steady at 175 pounds, and I can only wonder what might have registered had I not been able to get that Monkey of Expectations off my back.

My feet still hurt, but it’s mostly my toes. The knees are fine, and so are the ankles.

Now the head is screwed back on right, and I am eager to get back on the trail – hiking my own hike and enjoying my journey without obsessing on the destination and without playing foolish head games.

I also embark alone, although there will be plenty of company along the way. The late arrivals at the Y tonight included two buddies from Columbia, Reese and Oatmeal, who were back on the trail after an injury timeout and a trip home.

I will post this blog, stop for second breakfast and snag a ride back to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the start of the Shenandoahs.

Harpers Ferry is 160 miles away -- about 8 day of good walking-- but I will get there when I get there -- not before, and I will be a happy camper when I do.