A Limp in the Woods (Day 2)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 2: Tuesday, March 26th, 2013
Springer Mountain Shelter to a mile Past Hawk Mountain Shelter = 9 miles

The Appalachian Trail? “It’ll be fun,” they said.

Today is the first day of the rest of my hike; I hope each of those to follow, if they follow, continue to be. Upon waking, I wasn’t so sure of the rest of my hike. The notion implies an amount of time or distance. Both seem dubious now. The rest of my hike might just mean a slog toward the next road crossing. A number of prospective thru-hikers have already been traumatized by trail. They’ve abandoned their hikes for a later start date. I cannot blame them.

The address and direction for the next half year

I’m stiff as a fossil and sore to the touch. Ergo, no go; I refuse to touch myself. Nor will I let anyone else, though that depends on what she looks like. And where she touches. The usual delayed onset muscle soreness--aka: DOMS--didn’t get the memo that it was supposed to be delayed. (Muscular damage has a way of procrastinating before showing up; late to the party, but the life of it upon arrival.) My body feels like one unanimous knot, all muscles in accord, in a cord. The muscles aren’t alone; other bodily parts are equally as afflicted. These include, but aren’t limited to: skin, organs, fingernails and eyebrows. This, after just one day of hiking. I’m currently on an all-painkiller diet. All for knot!

Before stepping on it, it’s easy to romanticize and idealize the AT. After stepping on it, it’s easy not to.

And so it was well nigh midday when Ruth and I hit the ground crawling. The thought-shots ended, as did the mental warm-up; it was time to mosey toward Maine (i.e., South Canada). Destination Elsewhere.

Bailout shelter

We were awakened by our breath, but not in the presumed sense. There was no snoring or noise whatsoever. Nor was there any rancidity, since we both flossed, brushed, and gargled last night, as we’d long ago been conditioned to do, through mental-parental-dental control. What had happened was the condensation crystallized inside our tent, forming frozen slivers. These mini daggers fell onto our faces and back into our mouths each time one of our shelter mates bumped into our sagging nylon refuge. Recycled respiration! Another first for Ruth. Old news for me I fear, and not the most welcoming way to wake. 

I remember sometime in the early hours, shivering to no end, I’d thought of unwrapping my toilet paper roll. I was going to wrap myself in the stuff, mummified style, for the added warmth (with the obvious benefit of absorbing any bodily leaks I might incur). But no. I just struggled and snuggled. Some nights are longer than others.

It snowed through the night. It was falling intermittently as we slipped away (in the literal sense) from the shelter. Neither of us are graceful skiers or skaters. We knew we didn’t have to climb as much as yesterday, but I knew: fatigue only snowballs when backpacking. Injury impends where snow or ice or fatigue are found.

I had ‘nose-cicles’ as long as these

But the day wasn’t too bad! The snow fell as it had yesterday, but usually only in a half-hearted manner. It felt as though the storm was going to lose its grip before we were. I smiled when Ruth tried catching snowflakes with her tongue. We’re all just kids, only most adults seem to have forgotten it.

Shoulders slumping under the weight of our packs, we each settled into our rhythm, regrouping every half-mile. Ruth worried that because she’s out of shape I might be bent out of shape. “I don’t want to be a Baby Ruth.” 

I assured her the only thing bending me out of shape was the backpack. The evidence shows.

Neither of us are in a rush, but because I have an easier time on the hills than she does, I pull ahead every time the trail starts upward. So far the trail has largely slanted upward.

I don’t mind the stop-n-go, but at thirty degrees, the temperature dictated how long I could stay still. I’d start to shiver with each stop, and within seconds. Ruth is unindoctrinated to long-distance backpacking in any kind of weather, and although I wasn’t in any hurry, I required constant effort to stay warm. I wasn’t born with ice in my veins. Or maybe I was.

     Enter the push-up!

Push-ups are not a strength of mine, since they require strength and, well, strength isn’t my strength. But that’s why they kept me warm, despite the decreasing quantity each time I dropped to the ground, from four in a row to none in a row. I lost count how many I’d done in all, but it was at least six or seven. I hoped my sweat glands might freeze and clog, trapping that much more heat.

The first week or two of a long-distance hike is a hardening period of sorts and I figured the extra exercise would only do some good. Unused muscles begin to atrophy during a long hike and I’m only going to get thinner and thinner as time rolls on. So, regardless of the conditions, it’s worth the extra work. Of course, history shows I only ever perform the extra exercise when chilled and waiting.

Walking on I was forced to alternate between using hiking poles and going without, tucking them under my armpits. Even with mittens and plastic dog poo bags inside the mittens, my hands were too cold to be exposed. (I’d’ve welcomed warm dog poo.) Inborn Raynaud’s added to the effect. Relief arrived only when I’d tuck my hands down my pants while walking. I did this a lot, letting my nose run like a watercolor in the rain. Right down my lips and chin. Hiking in winter is pretty, and not so pretty.

When we neared the Hawk Mountain Shelter we’d hoped there’d be room for our type. Nope; there wasn’t room for any type. We moseyed a mile past, pitching the tent on a bed of dead leaves, after we’d cleared the snow. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. It’ll do is a common camping term.