The plan that day was to get to 220 as soon as possible. After all, I was mostly going downhill, right? I struggled to get everything packed up. The tent really exhausted me. It got harder to put into its bag. Yet I did one more time and eventually started heading south. I didn't even make the 0.6 miles to get out of the private property when during one break, I started generating spit in such huge gobs, I couldn't swallow them. I spit it out. This kept up a few minutes until I started to gag on it, throwing up, dry heaves. I felt so miserable at that point that I'd had enough. I was going to ask the next hiker to cross my path to call for paramedics. I was finished.
I waited, occasionally spitting, and waited some more. No one came. My strength returned, and the spit subsided. I gathered what strength I could and hauled on the pack again. I worked my way down to where the private property ended (not a great distance), and then to where the first ladder and road stood in my way.
At that point I could have dropped the pack and hailed a passing motorist, but my determination had returned, and I had an idea of using the upcoming brook to try to force food into my system.
So I threw the pack over the ladder, crossed the street, said hello to the cows again and then faced a monster of a climb.
You may remember in the previous blog me mentioning a grassy, rolling plain, that when going northward I climbed and then had a steep downhill trek, for which I was overjoyed. Well welcome to the other side of the fence. From this vantage point the grassy plain was a mountain.It took me 5 separate attempts to reach the summit, each effort generating a rest period.
My determination and will were greater than my strength at that point,. The idea of finding water and a nice place to rest was allowing me to overcome growing weakness. I did reach the top and again rested.
Yet after the climb there was a soft downhill trek to where the second ladder was. I threw the pack over, scaled it carefully, rested, then continued the trek until I came to Rte 11. Just across that road lay a source of water. I crossed it, left the pack by the bridge and taking an empty orange juice bottle that Mack had left me, along with my water pack and a package of Trail Mix, filled the orange juice bottle, threw in some Fruit Punch mix, and drank and ate Trail mix while sitting on the bank.
I got quite a bit of food in me all told, using that method. Yet it didn't take too long before my system would take no more. I filled the bottle, the water pack, sealing it with duct tape again, dragged my tired, near-corpse up the bank, and after a rest, scouted for a place to spend the night. I knew the spot I had spent that first night, which seemed so long ago, was just a hundred yards away, but I wanted something closer, so I could fill the bottle and bag again in the morning. I found a clearing large enough for the tent, spent my usual long time putting it up, and then lay like a dead thing inside it.
I found out later that during the process of setting up the tent I had inadvertently stepped on my glasses, crushing the frame and popping out one lens.I hadn't used the glasses much at that point, but nevertheless it was just another example of the bad luck I was experiencing.
The night was another cold one. I slowly fed myself, polishing off the Beanie Weanies I had started to eat the day before, which had left a puddle of sauce in my jacket. Again, the appetite wasn't all there, but I ate enough to get me through the night and into the next day.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Appalachian Trail Day 3: Backtracking
With the dawn of the new day my hopes had been restored. It was a cold morning and I still shivered, but I explored the shelter carefully. Besides the building itself, there was an old fashioned outhouse, and a spigot tucked low and away from the shelter, marked not fit for consumption, because it was rain-water run-off from the shelter roof, and the gutters on the shelter were filled with leaves and other such unclean things.
Seems the shelter was used by fire spotters from early last century, and was rarely updated. Yet I did drink the water - lots of it. None of the water I had drunk earlier had made me especially sick, though (and again, sorry for the grossness) I did have a small amount of diarrhea the night before. I used the outhouse and water from the tap to get a bit cleaner from that mess. Good thing I hadn't eaten much, eh?
After a change of underwear (one thing I did think of before I left the backpack) and socks, I had a chat with the other hiker, who must have seen that I was in bad shape, and left me with a can of Beanie Weanies and a Snickers bar.
I tried to eat the Beanie Weanies, thinking they were already wet and should go down easy. I was wrong. I had no appetite at all. I thought about resting at the shelter for a day, but it wasn't really a very protective shelter, and the water wasn't guaranteed. I was probably expecting more there than I should have. I half expected a ranger or some kind of person there who could give me a hand. But the reality is, it's just a waypoint and not really designed to be that helpful.
I remembered talking to other hikers who said there were better campsites on the other side of 220, where I started, one who even said he took a bath at a camp site just a half mile in. That became my new goal, to go back where I started, restock and then head the other direction. The only thing I needed to do was backtrack through mostly downhill passages, find the pack, and then continue down.
Around 9 in the morning I started my return trip, and yes, going downhill was faster than going uphill, and certainly less strenuous. Yet because I had eaten so little my strength was not at its peak. I got to my pack about 3 hours after departing the shelter, versus 12 hours going the other way.
I was tempted to continue going down, but my body was in a weakened state, due to muscle fatigue and lack of sleep, I scouted around for a place to camp, though it was only 1-2 pm. Though I regretted having to do it. I set up camp while still within that 0.6 miles of private property. The tent was harder to set up than ever, but once done, I collapsed.
I spent half the night trying to find a comfortable place to set the sleeping bag so I could sleep. Also the temperature plummeted again, though it was dry. The bag did not quite fit around me, so while my lower body seemed plenty warm, the upper body was still very cold and I shivered most of the night. I still could not eat, had limited water and must have smelled atrocious. Yet the day finally ended and I was still alive.
Seems the shelter was used by fire spotters from early last century, and was rarely updated. Yet I did drink the water - lots of it. None of the water I had drunk earlier had made me especially sick, though (and again, sorry for the grossness) I did have a small amount of diarrhea the night before. I used the outhouse and water from the tap to get a bit cleaner from that mess. Good thing I hadn't eaten much, eh?
After a change of underwear (one thing I did think of before I left the backpack) and socks, I had a chat with the other hiker, who must have seen that I was in bad shape, and left me with a can of Beanie Weanies and a Snickers bar.
I tried to eat the Beanie Weanies, thinking they were already wet and should go down easy. I was wrong. I had no appetite at all. I thought about resting at the shelter for a day, but it wasn't really a very protective shelter, and the water wasn't guaranteed. I was probably expecting more there than I should have. I half expected a ranger or some kind of person there who could give me a hand. But the reality is, it's just a waypoint and not really designed to be that helpful.
I remembered talking to other hikers who said there were better campsites on the other side of 220, where I started, one who even said he took a bath at a camp site just a half mile in. That became my new goal, to go back where I started, restock and then head the other direction. The only thing I needed to do was backtrack through mostly downhill passages, find the pack, and then continue down.
Around 9 in the morning I started my return trip, and yes, going downhill was faster than going uphill, and certainly less strenuous. Yet because I had eaten so little my strength was not at its peak. I got to my pack about 3 hours after departing the shelter, versus 12 hours going the other way.
I was tempted to continue going down, but my body was in a weakened state, due to muscle fatigue and lack of sleep, I scouted around for a place to camp, though it was only 1-2 pm. Though I regretted having to do it. I set up camp while still within that 0.6 miles of private property. The tent was harder to set up than ever, but once done, I collapsed.
I spent half the night trying to find a comfortable place to set the sleeping bag so I could sleep. Also the temperature plummeted again, though it was dry. The bag did not quite fit around me, so while my lower body seemed plenty warm, the upper body was still very cold and I shivered most of the night. I still could not eat, had limited water and must have smelled atrocious. Yet the day finally ended and I was still alive.
The Appalachian Trail: Day 2 - Pure Hell and a Guardian Angel?
The goal so far had been to make it to the shelter that would provide water and possibly a place to semi-permanently pitch the tent. It was obvious at that point that I was not going to hike the entire Trail without serious resupplying.
As I struggled to repack the sleeping bag and tent, I told myself today was the day. I was going to use the shelter as a base, storing everything there and hike either side of the Trail from there at a casual pace until I was in good enough shape to go further on the Trail.
The sleeping bag wasn't hard to roll up, but that tent drove me crazy trying to get it back into its case. I could never seem to get it small enough, no matter how I rolled it. And each attempt took energy I could not afford to lose, since I still had no appetite. Finally, in the mid-morning, all was packed. I sat by my backpack, trying to muster the energy to heft it and go on my way, when a group of hikers came through. One thing I can say, is the hikers on the Trail care about each other. If they see you laying down, they'll ask if you're all right, and offer water if you need it. I needed it, and one hiker poured water into my water bag. Not the last time for Trail kindness.
I asked how much further to the shelter, and one replied '4 miles'. I was getting closer, but it seemed strange to me that with all the work I did the day before, I only went 2 miles. Then I saw them taking off down the Trail, and they were walking as if it were a straight and level path, taking the hills in stride. They were all thin and lanky and that makes all the difference in the world.
I finally stumbled up. I figured the easiest way to get the pack on was to be on my side, and slip it in. Getting up was another issue. Once I struggled to my knees, I tried to push myself up, looking for all intents and purposes like a one-year-old learning to walk. My pack often towered above me, about to topple over my head, except for one massive push that propelled me forward and to my feet.
That morning I propelled myself toward the Trail only to discover another bridge about 100 yards away, downhill, thankfully. Under the bridge ran a very active and babbling brook. I took off the pack, scaled the banks and put my boots in the water. I had my water bag with me and filled it gratefully. I drank several times from the brook and even put Fruit Punch mix in to sweeten the taste when I filled it for the last time.
I was really loathe to leave that brook, but there was a road ahead, and I wanted to see if any stores were visible. I did do a recon without the pack, but no stores were in sight, only houses. I did find out later that this was Rte 11, a major highway of its own.
So, disappointed, but no longer disheartened, I trundled on again along the Trail on the other side of the road, As usual, it was leading up. As usual I was collapsing every 100-150 paces. People would pass, ask if I was okay, and I'd say 'Yes, just resting.'
Eventually I came up on the last thing I expected on the Trail - a ladder. The area was fenced off with barbed wire and apparently the only way to get back on the Trail was to scale the ladder. It was a short ladder, but I knew if I tried to cross it with the pack on, I'd kill myself. There'd be plenty of time for that later. I took off the pack, threw it over the ladder where it landed with a thump, and slowly made my way over it. Tired at that point, I took a long break, tried to eat, with no luck, and used the ladder to help me put the pack back on. After much stumbling and resting, I came across a treeless, rolling green field of grass. By rolling I mean I still had to go up to stay on the Trail, but I eventually hit the top to see a steep downclimb ahead of me.
Overjoyed, I steadily made my way down the slope. At the bottom, a small brook ran past it, but it wasn't running very fast or deep, so I did not fill up my water bag.
The next surprise was crossing a bridge to find cows in my way - literally. They sat in the shade at the end of the field, one sitting right on the path. I greeted them warmly, avoided the cow patties, and passed them. I came across another bridge, then a gate that I could pass through. Mind you, I'm still stumbling along and stopping every 100-150 paces.
The next surprise was another road to cross. This was not a super busy road like Rte 11, and crossing it wasn't a problem. What was a problem was the appearance of another ladder, this one less stable that the previous one. I spent some time resting before tackling the ladder, and had several drivers stop and ask if I was all right. I gave them all the thumbs up and 'Resting' line, and then shoved the pack over the ladder, and then gingerly worked my own way across it.
After my rest was over I turned to the Trail again. I found a sign that said 'Private property next 0.6 miles, Please stay on the Trail.' It also said the shelter was 3 miles away. My hopes went up slightly, though I was still disappointed with my progress. How were they measuring how far it was, by the crow flies or how the Trail wound?
The Trail did go on, however, and guess which direction? Up! The Trail became steep, thin and zig-zaggy. One side went up, the other side of the path headed down. I vaguely remembered the zig-zag path from maps I had seen online. The day progressed, slowly. About 3 pm I seemed no closer to my goal than before and my strength was waning.I went to sip from my water to find it nearly empty. Apparently one of the times I threw it over the ladder had released some of the contents. I also found that the cap to my bag had been torn off by branches. The bag would hold no water unless the tube leading from it was held up. I tried to repair it with duct tape, with only mild success. I had no water once again.
At this point I was exhausted, thirsty and hadn't seen any place to get water since the brooks that morning. Something about the situation put me in panic mode. Instead of making camp, I felt the need to press on, leaving behind the backpack that was slowing me down so much, and pressing forward to the shelter, where I would find water. I would come back for the pack later, after I found water and had rested.
I could see a ridge, high up in the distance and prayed that it wasn't where I was headed. One prayer not answered! At first I made good progress, but soon found I was too far spent. I still stumbled, still had to rest every so often. It got to the point, around 4pm, and I collapsed and lay there, almost dead to the world. I waited for someone to come along with a cell phone to call for help.
Someone did come along. His name was Mack. Mack the Trucker. He was a day-hiker just out to get some exercise, and had covered the same distance I had in the previous two days in just a couple of hours. He seemed shocked that I could not move faster.
Yet when I asked for help he did give it to me. He did not call the authorities. He gave me some orange juice and then got me on my feet and walked with me for a while, always ahead, pointing out useful things for a hiker to know, such as what leaves were edible, leaves of the violet and sassafras. He was looking for mushrooms, but I could see none, since I was not wearing my glasses and was too tired to take them out of my pocket.
Mack was an angel in disguise, perhaps. Instead of acknowledging that I was in trouble, he gave me encouragement, he gave me spirit when I really needed it. He even gave me a Trail name: 'Turn up,' because I just turned up on the Trail.
Eventually Mack had to go on his own way, but he left me with a half a bottle of diet soda, and told me if it was God's will that I survive that night, that I would, and if not I'd be in heaven. I'm not sure how encouraging that part was, but I did resolve to go on.
I stumbled on without him, dressed in a long sleeved shirt, a thin jacket, a thin pair of pants, socks and boots. After a time I came across an obvious campsite, strewn with pine needles, which I remembered Mack telling me was good because they were acidic and nothing would grow or crawl there, I stopped there for a little while, but I was determined to make the shelter.
The Trail went ever up. It began to get dark. I had my flashlight with me, really just lucky that it was in my pants pocket. As it got darker I used the flashlight to make sure I was still on the Trail, and could see things flashing past the light - bugs, noseeums. It got colder, gradually colder than the night before. I pulled a wool cap out of my jacket pocket, another lucky break, and pulled it over my ears. When I rested I pulled it over my eyes as far down as it went, to protect against both the cold and bugs, and perhaps to not allow me to see how much trouble I was in. I napped when I could, but the bugs and the cold did not allow much in the way of rest.
Sometimes I wanted to stay there the rest of the night, but then I'd wake up to find my extremities feeling numb and my body freezing up. I got up, turned the flashlight on, and stumbled a bit further. One of those times I even disturbed a bird roosting nearby who squawked and then flew off.
The final drive found me waking and feeling a sense of urgency. It was around 3am. I rose, started forward, realized something was wrong because I was going downhill and then turned around, backtracking, until I found something familiar, two logs open in the middle of the path. I had been going in the right direction the first time. I turned back, my hopes rising with the inversely with the level of the ground. After a few more minutes, I came across a sign. The shelter was only 0.1 miles away! I practically leaped the rest of the way, and in the distance a building slowly came into my flashlight beam. It was a 3-sided building, with a floor made of wooden planks and a place to light a fire with a charred log in it.
Someone else was already there, curled up in a sleeping bag, so I quietly crawled into a corner of the shelter, and lay shivering, yet in relative safety for the remainder of the night.
As I struggled to repack the sleeping bag and tent, I told myself today was the day. I was going to use the shelter as a base, storing everything there and hike either side of the Trail from there at a casual pace until I was in good enough shape to go further on the Trail.
The sleeping bag wasn't hard to roll up, but that tent drove me crazy trying to get it back into its case. I could never seem to get it small enough, no matter how I rolled it. And each attempt took energy I could not afford to lose, since I still had no appetite. Finally, in the mid-morning, all was packed. I sat by my backpack, trying to muster the energy to heft it and go on my way, when a group of hikers came through. One thing I can say, is the hikers on the Trail care about each other. If they see you laying down, they'll ask if you're all right, and offer water if you need it. I needed it, and one hiker poured water into my water bag. Not the last time for Trail kindness.
I asked how much further to the shelter, and one replied '4 miles'. I was getting closer, but it seemed strange to me that with all the work I did the day before, I only went 2 miles. Then I saw them taking off down the Trail, and they were walking as if it were a straight and level path, taking the hills in stride. They were all thin and lanky and that makes all the difference in the world.
I finally stumbled up. I figured the easiest way to get the pack on was to be on my side, and slip it in. Getting up was another issue. Once I struggled to my knees, I tried to push myself up, looking for all intents and purposes like a one-year-old learning to walk. My pack often towered above me, about to topple over my head, except for one massive push that propelled me forward and to my feet.
That morning I propelled myself toward the Trail only to discover another bridge about 100 yards away, downhill, thankfully. Under the bridge ran a very active and babbling brook. I took off the pack, scaled the banks and put my boots in the water. I had my water bag with me and filled it gratefully. I drank several times from the brook and even put Fruit Punch mix in to sweeten the taste when I filled it for the last time.
I was really loathe to leave that brook, but there was a road ahead, and I wanted to see if any stores were visible. I did do a recon without the pack, but no stores were in sight, only houses. I did find out later that this was Rte 11, a major highway of its own.
So, disappointed, but no longer disheartened, I trundled on again along the Trail on the other side of the road, As usual, it was leading up. As usual I was collapsing every 100-150 paces. People would pass, ask if I was okay, and I'd say 'Yes, just resting.'
Eventually I came up on the last thing I expected on the Trail - a ladder. The area was fenced off with barbed wire and apparently the only way to get back on the Trail was to scale the ladder. It was a short ladder, but I knew if I tried to cross it with the pack on, I'd kill myself. There'd be plenty of time for that later. I took off the pack, threw it over the ladder where it landed with a thump, and slowly made my way over it. Tired at that point, I took a long break, tried to eat, with no luck, and used the ladder to help me put the pack back on. After much stumbling and resting, I came across a treeless, rolling green field of grass. By rolling I mean I still had to go up to stay on the Trail, but I eventually hit the top to see a steep downclimb ahead of me.
Overjoyed, I steadily made my way down the slope. At the bottom, a small brook ran past it, but it wasn't running very fast or deep, so I did not fill up my water bag.
The next surprise was crossing a bridge to find cows in my way - literally. They sat in the shade at the end of the field, one sitting right on the path. I greeted them warmly, avoided the cow patties, and passed them. I came across another bridge, then a gate that I could pass through. Mind you, I'm still stumbling along and stopping every 100-150 paces.
The next surprise was another road to cross. This was not a super busy road like Rte 11, and crossing it wasn't a problem. What was a problem was the appearance of another ladder, this one less stable that the previous one. I spent some time resting before tackling the ladder, and had several drivers stop and ask if I was all right. I gave them all the thumbs up and 'Resting' line, and then shoved the pack over the ladder, and then gingerly worked my own way across it.
After my rest was over I turned to the Trail again. I found a sign that said 'Private property next 0.6 miles, Please stay on the Trail.' It also said the shelter was 3 miles away. My hopes went up slightly, though I was still disappointed with my progress. How were they measuring how far it was, by the crow flies or how the Trail wound?
The Trail did go on, however, and guess which direction? Up! The Trail became steep, thin and zig-zaggy. One side went up, the other side of the path headed down. I vaguely remembered the zig-zag path from maps I had seen online. The day progressed, slowly. About 3 pm I seemed no closer to my goal than before and my strength was waning.I went to sip from my water to find it nearly empty. Apparently one of the times I threw it over the ladder had released some of the contents. I also found that the cap to my bag had been torn off by branches. The bag would hold no water unless the tube leading from it was held up. I tried to repair it with duct tape, with only mild success. I had no water once again.
At this point I was exhausted, thirsty and hadn't seen any place to get water since the brooks that morning. Something about the situation put me in panic mode. Instead of making camp, I felt the need to press on, leaving behind the backpack that was slowing me down so much, and pressing forward to the shelter, where I would find water. I would come back for the pack later, after I found water and had rested.
I could see a ridge, high up in the distance and prayed that it wasn't where I was headed. One prayer not answered! At first I made good progress, but soon found I was too far spent. I still stumbled, still had to rest every so often. It got to the point, around 4pm, and I collapsed and lay there, almost dead to the world. I waited for someone to come along with a cell phone to call for help.
Someone did come along. His name was Mack. Mack the Trucker. He was a day-hiker just out to get some exercise, and had covered the same distance I had in the previous two days in just a couple of hours. He seemed shocked that I could not move faster.
Yet when I asked for help he did give it to me. He did not call the authorities. He gave me some orange juice and then got me on my feet and walked with me for a while, always ahead, pointing out useful things for a hiker to know, such as what leaves were edible, leaves of the violet and sassafras. He was looking for mushrooms, but I could see none, since I was not wearing my glasses and was too tired to take them out of my pocket.
Mack was an angel in disguise, perhaps. Instead of acknowledging that I was in trouble, he gave me encouragement, he gave me spirit when I really needed it. He even gave me a Trail name: 'Turn up,' because I just turned up on the Trail.
Eventually Mack had to go on his own way, but he left me with a half a bottle of diet soda, and told me if it was God's will that I survive that night, that I would, and if not I'd be in heaven. I'm not sure how encouraging that part was, but I did resolve to go on.
I stumbled on without him, dressed in a long sleeved shirt, a thin jacket, a thin pair of pants, socks and boots. After a time I came across an obvious campsite, strewn with pine needles, which I remembered Mack telling me was good because they were acidic and nothing would grow or crawl there, I stopped there for a little while, but I was determined to make the shelter.
The Trail went ever up. It began to get dark. I had my flashlight with me, really just lucky that it was in my pants pocket. As it got darker I used the flashlight to make sure I was still on the Trail, and could see things flashing past the light - bugs, noseeums. It got colder, gradually colder than the night before. I pulled a wool cap out of my jacket pocket, another lucky break, and pulled it over my ears. When I rested I pulled it over my eyes as far down as it went, to protect against both the cold and bugs, and perhaps to not allow me to see how much trouble I was in. I napped when I could, but the bugs and the cold did not allow much in the way of rest.
Sometimes I wanted to stay there the rest of the night, but then I'd wake up to find my extremities feeling numb and my body freezing up. I got up, turned the flashlight on, and stumbled a bit further. One of those times I even disturbed a bird roosting nearby who squawked and then flew off.
The final drive found me waking and feeling a sense of urgency. It was around 3am. I rose, started forward, realized something was wrong because I was going downhill and then turned around, backtracking, until I found something familiar, two logs open in the middle of the path. I had been going in the right direction the first time. I turned back, my hopes rising with the inversely with the level of the ground. After a few more minutes, I came across a sign. The shelter was only 0.1 miles away! I practically leaped the rest of the way, and in the distance a building slowly came into my flashlight beam. It was a 3-sided building, with a floor made of wooden planks and a place to light a fire with a charred log in it.
Someone else was already there, curled up in a sleeping bag, so I quietly crawled into a corner of the shelter, and lay shivering, yet in relative safety for the remainder of the night.
The Appalachian Trail: Day One - Fatso Meets Reality
In the morning, I made sure everything was packed as well as can be, made frequent use of the motel's breakfast. Not much there, cereal, donuts, bagels, coffee, orange juice, apple juice and milk. I drank liberal amounts of everything, not wanting to be dehydrated, waited until the last minute to check out, my water bag filled with tap water. I hefted the backpack and headed toward where the Trail headed north. I was filled with hope and confidence. The goal was to make it to the first shelter, approximately 6 miles ahead.
There was a sign in the road that warned of hikers, and a path leading up. The path paralleled I-81 for some time, but at first only led up.
I cannot accurately describe the feelings of a man who is 100 lbs overweight, climbing a steep path with a 30-35 lb backpack on. Each step was excruciating. I was gasping for air from the first step. After just a few steps I had to bend over to catch my breath. And when bending over wasn't enough, I literally fell on my side, gasping, my heart racing.
The amount I rested varied, but generally was about 15 minutes, for each 5 minutes or less of actual hiking. There were times I'd feel rested, try to get up, and fall back, my energy levels not enough to even attempt to get up. I'm quite certain I spent only 10% of my time hiking, the rest spent on my side, recovering.
An unfortunate turn occurred in the first hour. I went to my water bag, filled at the motel, and found it virtually empty. During one of my breaks I must have fallen on it, releasing the contents. Worse yet, I had no backup. My first mistake.
I then made my second mistake by not going back to where I started to pick up more water. I had heard there were places on the way to the shelter to get water. So I pushed forward, finally hitting a long downhill section where I recall saying I was glad I wasn't going southbound. And though that was easier than going uphill, I still had to take breaks.
But even that soon ended and the path went up again, and did not go down for a long time. Finally, dead tired and thirsty, I broke into a highway area. I wasn't sure what highway it was, but there were steps leading down from the Trail to it. As I frantically looked for signs of a store where I could buy water, I was also looking for signs of where the Trail picked up again. I could see I-81 to the right, but I did not think the Trail would cross it that soon.
Well, as luck would have it (and sorry to be so graphic here), I felt my first bowel movement in the wild come on. This was still while I was on the road, and I felt it was in bad taste, not to mention not private at all, to go on the side of the road. So I was forced to backtrack up the path a ways, do my thing, clean it up and then work my way back to the point where I was before.
This time I went under the overpass, and was tempted to throw a sleeping bag there and spend the night. I saw a house nearby with a couple of men and approached them for directions, and to see if I could use their tap water.
I must have looked a sight to them, but there was no offer of tap water. One did offer me a bottle of warm water, which I did offer to pay for, but he refused. My first experience with Trail kindness. I returned the favor my collapsing on the edge of his property.
After I recovered, I followed his instructions on how to get back on the Trail, and just as the trees started to surround me, I crossed a bridge over a small brook and saw a clearing. It was technically still visible from the road, and it's a no-no to to camp within sight of the road, but I was exhausted, and it seemed like a good spot to me.
So I made camp. Let me tell you, putting up a 3-man tent when you're by yourself and exhausted is more than a chore.I spread the tent out and literally fell on it. I might have even taken a nap. Once I recovered from that I put up the tent poles, didn't bother to stake them down and plopped on the floor, exhausted once again. I felt like every little thing I did made me gasp for air and collapse, waiting for the energy to return. After a few minutes rest I dragged everything else into the tent and sealed it up.
It was still fairly early, around 4-5pm by this time. I had eaten some orange slices earlier, and now tried to eat some of the food I had brought. Nothing went down easy. I tried M&M's, sunflower seeds and Trail Mix, I could not swallow. In desperation I cracked open a package of tuna (stored in water) and managed to slowly eat a portion of that, taking in the water at the same time. But I could not figure out how a man who loves to eat as much I do could not force food down his throat now.
As far as the tent that night, it would have been nice to find one spot where sticks didn't dig into my spine, and where the ground was level enough to keep me steady while I tried to sleep. But such is nature. My one consolation was that it wasn't too cold, and the sleeping bag, though not made for someone of my girth, worked well enough that first night.
The high point of the night was when a light rain passed by, dripping softly against the tent. It didn't last long, but since part of the tent is open the the air, it did force me to move the sleeping bag to avoid getting wet. The tent, by the way, has a mesh on that side, and you can put an extra 'flycatcher' over the tent that seals up the hole. I, however, was far too tired to do that.
So ended the first day, my confidence and hope shattered a bit, but no gone completely, and after all, tomorrow was another day.
There was a sign in the road that warned of hikers, and a path leading up. The path paralleled I-81 for some time, but at first only led up.
I cannot accurately describe the feelings of a man who is 100 lbs overweight, climbing a steep path with a 30-35 lb backpack on. Each step was excruciating. I was gasping for air from the first step. After just a few steps I had to bend over to catch my breath. And when bending over wasn't enough, I literally fell on my side, gasping, my heart racing.
The amount I rested varied, but generally was about 15 minutes, for each 5 minutes or less of actual hiking. There were times I'd feel rested, try to get up, and fall back, my energy levels not enough to even attempt to get up. I'm quite certain I spent only 10% of my time hiking, the rest spent on my side, recovering.
An unfortunate turn occurred in the first hour. I went to my water bag, filled at the motel, and found it virtually empty. During one of my breaks I must have fallen on it, releasing the contents. Worse yet, I had no backup. My first mistake.
I then made my second mistake by not going back to where I started to pick up more water. I had heard there were places on the way to the shelter to get water. So I pushed forward, finally hitting a long downhill section where I recall saying I was glad I wasn't going southbound. And though that was easier than going uphill, I still had to take breaks.
But even that soon ended and the path went up again, and did not go down for a long time. Finally, dead tired and thirsty, I broke into a highway area. I wasn't sure what highway it was, but there were steps leading down from the Trail to it. As I frantically looked for signs of a store where I could buy water, I was also looking for signs of where the Trail picked up again. I could see I-81 to the right, but I did not think the Trail would cross it that soon.
Well, as luck would have it (and sorry to be so graphic here), I felt my first bowel movement in the wild come on. This was still while I was on the road, and I felt it was in bad taste, not to mention not private at all, to go on the side of the road. So I was forced to backtrack up the path a ways, do my thing, clean it up and then work my way back to the point where I was before.
This time I went under the overpass, and was tempted to throw a sleeping bag there and spend the night. I saw a house nearby with a couple of men and approached them for directions, and to see if I could use their tap water.
I must have looked a sight to them, but there was no offer of tap water. One did offer me a bottle of warm water, which I did offer to pay for, but he refused. My first experience with Trail kindness. I returned the favor my collapsing on the edge of his property.
After I recovered, I followed his instructions on how to get back on the Trail, and just as the trees started to surround me, I crossed a bridge over a small brook and saw a clearing. It was technically still visible from the road, and it's a no-no to to camp within sight of the road, but I was exhausted, and it seemed like a good spot to me.
So I made camp. Let me tell you, putting up a 3-man tent when you're by yourself and exhausted is more than a chore.I spread the tent out and literally fell on it. I might have even taken a nap. Once I recovered from that I put up the tent poles, didn't bother to stake them down and plopped on the floor, exhausted once again. I felt like every little thing I did made me gasp for air and collapse, waiting for the energy to return. After a few minutes rest I dragged everything else into the tent and sealed it up.
It was still fairly early, around 4-5pm by this time. I had eaten some orange slices earlier, and now tried to eat some of the food I had brought. Nothing went down easy. I tried M&M's, sunflower seeds and Trail Mix, I could not swallow. In desperation I cracked open a package of tuna (stored in water) and managed to slowly eat a portion of that, taking in the water at the same time. But I could not figure out how a man who loves to eat as much I do could not force food down his throat now.
As far as the tent that night, it would have been nice to find one spot where sticks didn't dig into my spine, and where the ground was level enough to keep me steady while I tried to sleep. But such is nature. My one consolation was that it wasn't too cold, and the sleeping bag, though not made for someone of my girth, worked well enough that first night.
The high point of the night was when a light rain passed by, dripping softly against the tent. It didn't last long, but since part of the tent is open the the air, it did force me to move the sleeping bag to avoid getting wet. The tent, by the way, has a mesh on that side, and you can put an extra 'flycatcher' over the tent that seals up the hole. I, however, was far too tired to do that.
So ended the first day, my confidence and hope shattered a bit, but no gone completely, and after all, tomorrow was another day.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Appalachian Trail - Preparation
When I first came up with the idea of hiking the Appalachian Trail I went web surfing in all directions. The ATC Website ATC.org, was useful in seeing where I could get on the Trail. They offered maps that I could not afford at the time and general pointers. But the web site did not even begin to give this 49-year-old man a sense of what the Trail would be like for someone who is out of shape and has Diabetes to boot.
Yet I did my best to prepare, as much as my budget would allow. I got a backpack, sleeping bag and tent. Later in the preparations I got a compass, water bag, matches, and food - lots of food. Too much food. I tried to pack my pack the night before I left and found space wanting. I left quite a bit behind. - wasted money - not for the last time.
And lifting that monstrosity to my back for the first time proved very difficult. But it was packed and ready to go, as was I, a beacon of hope, filled with the possibilities of losing weight and getting into shape.
The Trip There
I didn't get much sleep the night before, so excited was I, but after making my final packing changes, I slung the thing-that-weighed-a-ton on my back with a mighty heave, and stumbled out the door. I had not had time to work with a full pack before. I had done some hiking on the streets of Raleigh with a partially full pack and a sleeping bag attached, but never the full pack. Just making it to the bus stop was torture.
The weight was so burdensome that I frequently had to stop and rest, hands on knees, panting. The bus stop was less than a quarter of a mile away from my apartment, but it took what seemed like an eternity to get there. Yet I did get there and I relieved my burden by sitting, well closer to laying on the hill next to the bus stop.
I had already made up my mind to toss additional objects from the pack. I was wearing my jacket and also carrying my big winter coat, but I felt I would need that before it was over.
When the bus came, I stumbled up and was lucky that there were 2 seats up front. I hefted my pack on one seat, which really needed 2 seats by itself, and made my way to Downtown Raleigh. I repeated the process on another bus that would take me close to the Greyhound Bus Station.
I stumbled off the bus and made my way to the station. At the station I bought my ticket to Roanoke and they weighted my bag. Both the sleeping bag and tent hung off the scale, but it tipped the scales at 25 lbs. I figured add 10 lbs for the tent and the sleeping bag.
The rides themselves were uneventful, with two exceptions: The ride to Richmond included a very articulate 3-4 year-old girl who literally would not shut up the entire ride. If no one was talking to her, she simply carried on a conversation regardless. She was not on the bus to Roanoke, thankfully, but was replaced by a father who constantly drilled his 2-year-old son on his abc's and numbers. No sleep for me!
The bus to Roanoke also stopped in Charlottesville, but had to wait for another bus to come before it left, a wait of 45 minutes. Then in Lynchburg we had a 5 minute stop that turned into an additional 10 minutes when one person didn't heed the call to reboard, and had to be brought to where we were stopped.
We did finally arrive in Roanoke, however, and I tried to call the shuttle service that I had found on the ATC site for a ride to the Trail. I could not reach him, and since it was late and I did not want to stay in a hotel in downtown Roanoke, I took a taxi to a hotel where the was closest. Can you say ca-ching?
As it turned out, the guy who did the shuttle was waiting for me at Roanoke, but because the bus was an hour late, I just missed him.
The motel where I stayed, Motel 8 at 220 and I-81, was about 100 yards from where the Trail started. The motel had internet access and let me check Facebook and email, but I was too tired to put a blog entry at that time.
I spent the evening trying to determine what would be the best thing to leave behind, and after leaving more food behind, I decided to leave the big coat.
Then I went to bed and tried to suck what comfort I could from that last night of civilization.
Yet I did my best to prepare, as much as my budget would allow. I got a backpack, sleeping bag and tent. Later in the preparations I got a compass, water bag, matches, and food - lots of food. Too much food. I tried to pack my pack the night before I left and found space wanting. I left quite a bit behind. - wasted money - not for the last time.
And lifting that monstrosity to my back for the first time proved very difficult. But it was packed and ready to go, as was I, a beacon of hope, filled with the possibilities of losing weight and getting into shape.
The Trip There
I didn't get much sleep the night before, so excited was I, but after making my final packing changes, I slung the thing-that-weighed-a-ton on my back with a mighty heave, and stumbled out the door. I had not had time to work with a full pack before. I had done some hiking on the streets of Raleigh with a partially full pack and a sleeping bag attached, but never the full pack. Just making it to the bus stop was torture.
The weight was so burdensome that I frequently had to stop and rest, hands on knees, panting. The bus stop was less than a quarter of a mile away from my apartment, but it took what seemed like an eternity to get there. Yet I did get there and I relieved my burden by sitting, well closer to laying on the hill next to the bus stop.
I had already made up my mind to toss additional objects from the pack. I was wearing my jacket and also carrying my big winter coat, but I felt I would need that before it was over.
When the bus came, I stumbled up and was lucky that there were 2 seats up front. I hefted my pack on one seat, which really needed 2 seats by itself, and made my way to Downtown Raleigh. I repeated the process on another bus that would take me close to the Greyhound Bus Station.
I stumbled off the bus and made my way to the station. At the station I bought my ticket to Roanoke and they weighted my bag. Both the sleeping bag and tent hung off the scale, but it tipped the scales at 25 lbs. I figured add 10 lbs for the tent and the sleeping bag.
The rides themselves were uneventful, with two exceptions: The ride to Richmond included a very articulate 3-4 year-old girl who literally would not shut up the entire ride. If no one was talking to her, she simply carried on a conversation regardless. She was not on the bus to Roanoke, thankfully, but was replaced by a father who constantly drilled his 2-year-old son on his abc's and numbers. No sleep for me!
The bus to Roanoke also stopped in Charlottesville, but had to wait for another bus to come before it left, a wait of 45 minutes. Then in Lynchburg we had a 5 minute stop that turned into an additional 10 minutes when one person didn't heed the call to reboard, and had to be brought to where we were stopped.
We did finally arrive in Roanoke, however, and I tried to call the shuttle service that I had found on the ATC site for a ride to the Trail. I could not reach him, and since it was late and I did not want to stay in a hotel in downtown Roanoke, I took a taxi to a hotel where the was closest. Can you say ca-ching?
As it turned out, the guy who did the shuttle was waiting for me at Roanoke, but because the bus was an hour late, I just missed him.
The motel where I stayed, Motel 8 at 220 and I-81, was about 100 yards from where the Trail started. The motel had internet access and let me check Facebook and email, but I was too tired to put a blog entry at that time.
I spent the evening trying to determine what would be the best thing to leave behind, and after leaving more food behind, I decided to leave the big coat.
Then I went to bed and tried to suck what comfort I could from that last night of civilization.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Hiking With Diabetes: Introduction
My name is Michael Fox. I'm 49 years old, and was diagnosed with Diabetes about 2 years ago. At this writing I'm about 100 lbs overweight, and in lousy shape.
That said, I've had dreams for years of walking across the country, and even the world. This Spring, that dream will start to come true.
I have a number of reasons for wanting to do this. I'm soon to be out of a home, and soon to be out of a job, because I work from home. I could go into a homeless shelter. I've done it before, but I won't. Homeless shelters are not designed to be an upbeat place to live out of harsh economic times. They are depressing, and right now I need something that is decidedly not depressing.
So I went back to my dream, to walk across America. Not an easy task to be sure. There are long stretches where food and water may not be available. I've never hunted in my life and I don't propose to start now.
Yet, people have walked across America and lived to tell about it. I hope to be one of those.
But first things first: to get into shape.
I plan to hike at least some portions of the Appalachian Trail until I drop that extra 100 lbs. Why the Trail? Lots of shelters, not like the homeless shelters. They have campsites so I can pitch my tent. They have places to get water and food, though the food will cost money. There will be other hikers with whom to share my adventures, and listen to theirs. There is wildlife, not to eat, but to photograph. And there will be time to write.
I am a writer at heart. I have 2 books published, and I am working on a script based on those books. The hikes will give me time to work on those scripts, with my Digital Voice Recorder. I have a friend who will transcribe the recordings.
I'm doing this to follow a dream, sounds crazy, no? I'm homeless, jobless, virtually broke, ill from Diabetes and I want to walk across America. Well, perhaps I'll find my sanity on the way. Maybe the dreams were a way for my subconscious to communicate the right thing to do.
But the insanity doesn't end there. I've had another dream, of walking across the Atlantic Ocean. Not quite as crazy as it sounds. I would be in a sort of mini-sub, a bubble, if you will, powered by a combination of solar panels and the electricity created from a treadmill where I would be walking. The engine would drive the propellers to go at whatever speed I'm walking. The top could open up during sunny weather , close at night and during rainy weather, and if the seas got too rough or, God forbid, I run into a hurricane, the sub part takes over and it submerges to a safe depth until the storm passes.
And once I reach Europe, I would continue the walk, and walk right around the globe. At age 50 or so.
How that for insane?
I'll come right out and ask for donations. Send them through PayPal to my email address: michaelharrisonfox at yahoo.com. You don't have to donate. But if you enjoy the writings, and pictures that I put up here, I'd appreciate a little something in return.
That's it for now. I'll post more as the big day approaches!
That said, I've had dreams for years of walking across the country, and even the world. This Spring, that dream will start to come true.
I have a number of reasons for wanting to do this. I'm soon to be out of a home, and soon to be out of a job, because I work from home. I could go into a homeless shelter. I've done it before, but I won't. Homeless shelters are not designed to be an upbeat place to live out of harsh economic times. They are depressing, and right now I need something that is decidedly not depressing.
So I went back to my dream, to walk across America. Not an easy task to be sure. There are long stretches where food and water may not be available. I've never hunted in my life and I don't propose to start now.
Yet, people have walked across America and lived to tell about it. I hope to be one of those.
But first things first: to get into shape.
I plan to hike at least some portions of the Appalachian Trail until I drop that extra 100 lbs. Why the Trail? Lots of shelters, not like the homeless shelters. They have campsites so I can pitch my tent. They have places to get water and food, though the food will cost money. There will be other hikers with whom to share my adventures, and listen to theirs. There is wildlife, not to eat, but to photograph. And there will be time to write.
I am a writer at heart. I have 2 books published, and I am working on a script based on those books. The hikes will give me time to work on those scripts, with my Digital Voice Recorder. I have a friend who will transcribe the recordings.
I'm doing this to follow a dream, sounds crazy, no? I'm homeless, jobless, virtually broke, ill from Diabetes and I want to walk across America. Well, perhaps I'll find my sanity on the way. Maybe the dreams were a way for my subconscious to communicate the right thing to do.
But the insanity doesn't end there. I've had another dream, of walking across the Atlantic Ocean. Not quite as crazy as it sounds. I would be in a sort of mini-sub, a bubble, if you will, powered by a combination of solar panels and the electricity created from a treadmill where I would be walking. The engine would drive the propellers to go at whatever speed I'm walking. The top could open up during sunny weather , close at night and during rainy weather, and if the seas got too rough or, God forbid, I run into a hurricane, the sub part takes over and it submerges to a safe depth until the storm passes.
And once I reach Europe, I would continue the walk, and walk right around the globe. At age 50 or so.
How that for insane?
I'll come right out and ask for donations. Send them through PayPal to my email address: michaelharrisonfox at yahoo.com. You don't have to donate. But if you enjoy the writings, and pictures that I put up here, I'd appreciate a little something in return.
That's it for now. I'll post more as the big day approaches!
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