Date:
July 31
Exploration:
Reddington Stream Campsite, Appalachian Trail, Maine
Station:
14 Bethel Outdoor Adventure & Campground, Bethel
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The next mountains in our climb, The Horn (right) and Saddleback
Mountain
Seen from Saddleback Junior looking southbound on the Appalachian Trail
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Backpacking and hiking really aren’t all that similar.
Hiking, by definition, I’ve experienced, is a walk in the backcountry with a
little pack and a camera enjoying mountain air and returning to the house for a
glass of wine and a big dinner before retiring to a bedroom for a dreamful
sleep. Backpacking is mountain air, then mountain air again, maybe a few more
times, often with crappy weather, carrying everything needed for survival in a
heavy pack, and living in the woods without toilets or wine. The idea that I
hiked 1,000 miles to prepare myself for backpacking is foolish. It was like
practicing with a bicycle to drive a logging truck.
In 2011 when I visualized writing my story of backpacking, I
thought it would be an angelic tale of skipping through a field of wildflowers.
I thought I would have been full of strength and making the right decisions.
None of the words I’ve actually written were planned in the rough draft. I
never thought I’d have cried, wrecked a camera, been in pain or sick with
dehydration.
And I never thought I’d be telling my team members that I
couldn’t go on.
When I caught up with them, I turned to show Roni my
backside. Coming down Saddleback Junior, I’d slid off a rock from my derrière,
ripping my pants from my belt to my crotch (I had two cracks in my butt now).
We laughed at my misfortune, but then it was time to be serious and decide our
next course of action.
Hiking apart from the others, I only really knew of my own
struggles, but the day had been taxing on my companions, too. Ushers Syndrome
challenged Roger’s balance, which made his pack swing and rub, leaving his hips
raw just like the arches of my feet. Yet his appearance was brave and ready,
the same determination I saw in Paul’s eyes before he’d deployed.
Knowing I needed to rest and rehydrate before continuing the
next day, I offered to spend the night at the Reddington Stream Campsite while
the others hiked on, coming off the trail a day later, but in the wake of Inchworm’s
disappearance, Paul wasn’t eager to leave me behind. Roger, too, could use
the time to recuperate as well, so the new plan would leave him, Paul and me at
the Reddington Stream Campsite; Roni would hike on, eventually dropping her
supplies at the vehicle in order to meet us again and carry the remainder of
Roger’s gear.
Watching Roni hike away, I felt like a failure. I’d gone on
this trip to help Roger carry some of his gear, but only Paul was carrying it. This
was my first backpacking trip, and I’d exceedingly bit off more than I could
chew.
Hobbling around as we set up the campsite, my feet, knees
and stomach wailed. As disappointed as I was in myself, stopping was the best
thing for me. At the rate I was continuing, my best effort might have taken me
over the next mountain, The Horn, but nightfall would have met me.
I looked around at my companions, and noted the tiredness,
too. Or perhaps it was defeat with the new plan.
When the campsite was set up, I went to work fixing my
biggest problem, dehydration. I carried powdered sports drinks, and I filled my
mug as water boiled to make broth. When Paul and I packed, I mocked him for
packing Ramen Noodles and not a more balanced meal, such as my freeze dried
food. “It’s a power food on trail,” he said, but I called bull. Now I was happy
he brought it, at least the bouillon, which was my biggest help to becoming
hydrated. Salt is an electrolyte, helping the body retain water. In today’s sedentary
society where most Americans do not live in survival mode, sodium is shunned. But
here it helped me feel like myself again.
All three of us gulped the magic Ramen juice, and soon there
was laughter coming from our campsite. We looked happy, not like we were
whipped by the trail. Our bodies worked hard for us, and now we were helping
our bodies repair—and that even meant dressing our wounds, my blood-blistered
feet, and Roger’s raw hips.
As the sun lowered on the horizon, I sat beside Roger on the
downed tree and began to write in the notebook that had discussed our trail
itinerary, our changes, and tonight’s conversation where we learned about each
other and became friends. I took a deep breath, composing my words, and wrote
to him an apology, my regret of holding back the hike and discouragement for
the difficulty of the trail.
Roger waved, dismissing me, and wrote about Georgia. Several
years ago, when he began his journey
on the A.T., he’d been in my position wondering, “What the heck am I
doing?” He had to skip pondering the difficulty and focus on the dream while appreciating
the hard. Those few moments speaking with Roger were the most memorable of the
entire backpacking trip, an electrolyte for my heart. He reminded me that I had
to start somewhere.
That night I went to bed with a full stomach. The liquid
nourished my body. I slept soundly, and I didn’t have to get up to pee this
time, either, but not because I was dehydrated, but because my body was holding
the water I so desperately needed. I fell into slumber with dreams of driving a
logging truck.
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Adventurous Cane
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Thank you for exploring
America with 1,000 MILES!
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© Abigail Austin 2011-2013
All rights reserved
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