AWOL on the Appalachian Trail (18 page)

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 accommodate 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.

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 aheads yesterlaces 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

"1/2 gallon peanut butter ice cream: 48 minutes. Chicken nuggets & fries: 24 minutes. Biggest bellyache of my life: priceless. Some things money can't buy."

--Mothman

"21 1/2 minutes of ecstasy in the form of cookie dough ice cream. I'm going to chuck now."

--Stretch

"16 min 21 sec. No problem. I think I'm gonna get more ice cream."

--Hungry Hiker

"I wish I could do this in every town...wait a minute...I can!"

--Trip

"29 minutes, chocolate. Washed it down with a delicious cheese-burger."

--Moo

"I don't know why I did it but I did. Heed the warning; don't go for peanut butter twist."

--Brew

I am not indisposed by the ice cream, and I eat a small dinner afterward. Ironmasters Hostel is in a huge two-story brick mansion next to the camp store and is my home for the night. It is an old building with layers of peeling paint on the window frames, a moldy basement, obsolete furnaces, and no air conditioning, mixed with vestiges of elegance like hardwood floors and a piano. Single men, single women, and families are segregated into separate spaces filled with low-budget bunk beds.

The park is named after a Civil War-era iron furnace, a trapezoidal stone structure still standing on the park grounds. I pass by it on the way out and pick up some glassy blue pebbles that are mixed in with the rock of the trail. It is slag, a byproduct of the furnace. The first eight miles out of Pine Grove Furnace are ideal, flat, tourist trail, leading me to a deli at Tagg Run Campground and an early lunch. I sit at a park bench out front to eat subs with thru-hiker Dharma Bum.
²⁶
The next ten miles are harder. The trail goes up and down small hills
and weaves through boulder fields at the summits. In addition to the white blazes, arrows are painted on some of the boulders directing me through the proper crevices. The hills are thinly wooded, so I am often in the sun on this day with little breeze. The trail exits the woods and cuts through fields of corn and soybeans for the final mile into Boiling Springs. Now in scorching full sun, I can feel the heat radiating up from the earth into my feet.

Amid this farmland, Boiling Springs, a swank little town, is built around bubbling springs that feed into a lake at the center of town. The trail passes through town, sharing the park path around the perimeter of the lake. Ducks paddle in the serene water. A few homes and businesses are nicely situated on the far shore. Beyond the town is a thirteen-mile stretch of the AT across the Cumberland Valley. The valley is checkered with farms and pastureland and sliced by roads. There is no camping in this section.

Cornfield on the approach to Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania.

I go to the regional ATC office to ask about options for a place to stay. A woman at the desk is surfing the Internet and talking on the phone. She has a sign on her desk which reads, "I can only help one person a day, and today is not your day." I mill about the office for about fifteen minutes, making it obvious that I am waiting to speak with her, while she makes it obvious that she is in no hurry to speak with me.

I move on for a walk about town, exploring the places listed in Wingfoot. There are two bed and breakfasts in town. One is full, and the owner at the other suggestively tells me, "You probably don't want to stay here."

I go down the street to a convenience store, where I get hot dogs for dinner, and then to Leo's Ice Cream for dessert. Cooling down with ice cream and the dropping sun, I look over my guidebook to see what is ahead. In eight miles, the trail will cross the Harrisburg Pike, and there is an inexpensive hotel nearby. It is 6:30 p.m., but I am inspired by my impromptu plan. I can cover eight miles of farmland at sunset and avoid the heat. Full speed ahead. The trail skirts the perimeter of fields of corn, runs alongside fences, behind homes, and down a few streets. Occasionally, the trail tunnels though a narrow corridor of woods in the valley.