Notes from the Edge of Insanity: Hurricanes, Loss, Injuries, and Various Adventures of the Home Stretch

"According to the research I've done, the only way you are going to run in to snow in the south is if some kind of freak storm rolls in"--Steve Marshall (Pawn Sr)

"I have been acquainted with the night/ I have walked out in rain, and back in rain,/ I have out walked the furthest city light." --Robert Frost.

Long past time for an update.

At some point in mid October I started telling my hiking buddies, my parents, Rachael, and practically anyone who would listen that I had just about reached the end of my physical and mental endurance. Like a battery that has been recharged too often, I wasn't holding a charge anymore. I woke up more and more tired each day, and every mile came harder and harder. Still, the end was in sight, with less than five hundred miles to go till I finally completed this monumental jaunt that I started on July 3rd. Tired as I was, I was confident in my ability to finish.

Then came Sandy.

Somewhere around October 27th we started hearing rumblings. Day hikers and weekenders are a great source of weather information, and as the weekend came and went their news became more and more dire. A cold front, some rain, some ice, some snow...a blizzard? A hurricane?

Being from the south I did what any experienced southerner would do in the face of such dire news. No, I didn't run to the grocery store and stock up on bread and milk. Rather, I discounted the predictions as overblown and fatalistic. A few inches, sure. But two feet? Come now. Please.

On the night of the 28th seven of us huddled in a five man shelter as the falling rain turned in to sleet, then snow.

"Look", I said, in what would prove to be the most erronious statement in a lifetime of erronious statements. "It's not even sticking. We'll be fine."

The next day the snow was still falling and the wind was blowing. There was three to six inches on the ground and more accumulating all the time. We set out through the snow, hoping to make it seventeen miles.

We made it eight.

Luckily, as I have written, I bought some shoes for just such an occasion. But in all other respects, especially in regards to the light woolen glove liners that were my only hand protection, I was amazingly unprepared for Sandy.

I rolled the dice gear wise, opting to carry light gear and a minimum of clothing, banking on the fact that snow in the southern Appalachians usually hits in January or February. And...I lost.

Cold Beer's mom lives in Ashville. She picked us up on Monday the 28th after eight miles of walking with my hands shoved under my armpits, hunched over and with my hat pulled low and scarf hiked up.

We sat Tuesday out, as it was the biggest day of the storm. We did some laundry, took hot showers, and bought some gear more suited to the conditions we were about to face. At least, the conditions we THOUGHT we were about to face. Had I any idea of exactly how difficult the next week and a half of my life would be, it's likely that I would have sat right there in Ashville, weeping in the shower like a little girl.

So here was the plan. For the next three days, Cold Beer's mom "slack packed" us, meaning she dropped us off in the morning and picked us up at night, allowing us some rest and warmth before heading back out in to the snow.

On Wednesday the 31st we made nineteen miles. The snow was a foot deep on the trail, and trees and shrubs were laden with snow and hanging down in the path, requiring a stop every minute or so to knock them clear of the weight so they would spring clear. Often huge trees had been knocked over by wind and ice, neccesitating more scrambling and slow going.

We took turns breaking trail, or "post holing", the most exhausting position. When one person got tired at the front of the line, he would step aside and move to the back. With the snow, the cold, and the obsticles, each mile took the energy of three or four normal miles.

Halfway through that day we ducked into a hostel at a road crossing to warm up, and I turned my phone on. I had a text from my parents. My grandmother had died.

It has been a long time coming, and her death is really a mercy and a blessing for all involved, especially her. Still, tha doesn't make it any easier to bear, does it?

A snow bound hostel named Uncle Johnny's is no place to grieve. Instead I poured all of my emotion in to walking, taking the lead position and breaking trail like a maniac for the rest of the day.

This would be my pattern for the next day as well, where the snow was deeper, the climbs steeper, and the going even slower. We only made fourteen miles that day.

That night several members of our group (now numbering seven) voiced the opinion that we would never make it to Springer by the 15th. Not if conditions remained the same. Indeed, they were about to get worse. Before us loomed the Smokey Mountains, were we would be above five thousand feet for several days. The snow was deeper up there.

Again I channeled my grief into determination. Mimi's memorial service was slated for the 17th. I was not going to miss it.

On November second we were dropped off at the trail for good, our period of slack packing over. Patches, Six String and I did 24 miles through even worse conditions, hiking from eight in the morning to eleven at night without stopping. Stopping meant getting cold, and getting cold was worse than getting tired.

The next week is kind of a blur. Four of the seven fell behind, unwilling or unable to keep pace through the smokies. The days were an endless haze of fog, constant snowfall, and mile by knee deep mile. Still we were breaking trail, all other traffic on the AT apparently taking a break. The nights were damp and shivery and any time spent out of a sleeping bag was unbearibly frigid.

We saw no views, and Clingmans Dome, the highest point on the AT, was a wasteland of ice. I didn't even look around asI went over it. There was nothing to see.

Our feet were wet all the time of course, for eight straight days. In addition to that, my new shoes gave me bisters, and something about trudging through the snow began to inflame the achillies tendon on my right foot.

It was bad. It was very bad. But we were making the miles. We were doing it.

Finally, on our last day in the Smokies, the sun came out. We saw the ground for the first time in a week. We formed a plan named "Get the BLEEP Outta the Smokies" and pulled an epic 31 mile day to Fontana Dam. Mercifully, the shelter had a shower facility.

I looked at myself in the mirror there and was shocked. Sandy had stripped the last vestiges of my old lifestyle completly away. I had no belly to speak of. At all. I haven't been able to say that since I was about sixteen.

Not that I looked healthy, mind you. I was more exhausted than I have ever been, and it showed.

"It ain't the years honey. It's the milage" I said to my reflection, trying not to giggle hysterically.

I stood in the shower and let the hot water try and wash away the last week. "I have to be careful" I thought to myself. "I am hovering on the edge. I am a week away from finishing but I am not in a good place. It would be easy to get injured."

And that very day, I did.

It was supposed to be an easy day. Twenty miles on a warm day with no snow at low elevation. But my body finally rebelled.

After eight days of moisture, my feet dried out and every crack on my heals, pads of my feet, and in between my toes suddenly split wide open. My achillies tendon, bothersome for days, went nuclear and began sending sharp pains up my leg with every step. My knees, abused for 2000 miles now, began throbbing as I changed my walking pattern because of foot pain.

I slowed, then I slowed further. Finally I stopped, three miles from camp. 

I called my parents, then Rachael, simply needing to hear some friendly voices. They all advized me to stop for the night and continue on in the morning. Good advice.

Rachael also told me that her father is in the hospital with chest pains. She is overcome with worry, as anyone would be. I felt impotent and powerless to help her.

After getting off the phone, I looked up at the stars for about a minute. And then it all came out. Grief for my grandmother, exhaustion, my rage and frustration at my failing body, my in ability to be there for my loved ones when they need me.

I started this blog with the intention of being honest. I cried. I cried for a while. And then, not really feeling any better, I went to sleep.

The next day I only went three miles, trying to heal myself. That was yesterday. Today I went five and then hitched in to town. I am skipping about thirty miles of trail to meet back up with my friends and try to finish on the sixteenth. I don't really know if I can. But I am sure gonna try.

I am upset and ashamed about skipping trail, but I want to finish with my friends, and after two thousand miles, I don't really think anyone can begrudge me thirty.

I am on my way back to the trail now. My next post, God willing, will be from the top of springer mountain. The end of the journey.

Wish me luck. I am really needing it now.

--Pawn