Appalachian Trail, Part 6

What if everything is fine?

Last week I committed to a 1000-word article for Running Insight Magazine, a publication to which I regularly contribute. The piece is meant to focus on the trail’s popular footwear which, this season, seems to be the brand Topo—a roomy, low-drop option that, anecdotally anyhow, lasts about twice as long as anything else. I plan to tell that narrative alongside the stories of a few hikers I’ve met along the way. The shoe report is interesting, but any yarn about people is far more compelling.

Writing the piece in my tent is tough and slow-going. So this morning I delay my start, hopefully miss the torrential rain in the forecast, and finger-type the essay on my iPhone in the comfort of the Mohican Center Lodge. Between paragraphs, I stop to recall the camaraderie of last night’s impromptu gathering around these very tables. It’s amazing how a space can hold energy. It’s no wonder I firmly believe in ghosts.

The silence strikes me with a premonition. This is the life I’ve dreamed of. Of walking and writing. Has it finally come to fruition? My stomach flutters with possibility. Because yeah, I am ready. It’s no stretch of imagination to see myself writing and walking and writing and walking for my remaining days. I finish the article draft and am happy with how it feels. So I send it to the editor and get back on the trail.

Running Insight featured hiker Mouseketeer and her dog Vento

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All day it’s meant to rain, but it never does. The sky darkens and thunder hammers in the distance. Heavy clouds fill the forest with a mist that’s so thick I expect to feel it. Or at least notice how my body interrupts it. But neither happens. I simply move through the heavy air. Weightless. I hear my feet but I can’t see them. I’m ethereal. I imagine I’m floating.

Sometimes the trail feels like they said heaven would. And I suppose if it feels like heaven, it is heaven.

My pace mellows over slippery rocks, and I stop to witness a blue break in the sky. Then a burst of sunlight illuminates the climb ahead and I follow it like a beacon. Up up up I lunge, taking extra care on the shifty crags. After a near fall, I thank my trekking poles for keeping me upright. It’s not the first time they’ve saved me from eating shit. And it won’t be the last.

A double blaze ahead announces a turn in the trail, and the sharp left dumps me onto an exposed outcropping where a coiled timber rattlesnake suns itself. And though I’m in the habit of scanning for snakes, rattlers especially, its alarming presence knocks me back. Takes my breath away. “Hey there, beauty,” I say, sounding more like a plea than an actual greeting.

Timber rattlesnake on the AT in New Jersey

I have a history with snakes. I grew up terrified of them, and probably my strict Catholic upbringing is to blame. The snake, I was taught, is evil. Ever associated with sin and pain and temptation. The snake is a provoker. A threat. The bad influence. Its presence a sure sign that I’ve chosen poorly. Which I’ve often done. And still do. The snake was always my lingering bad habits. Living proof of my failures. Justification for my never-ending shame.

Through the years I’ve made peace with snakes, and now I witness them like polar bears, or the ocean, or anything similarly beyond my scope of comprehension. Snakes, like so many other things, are, to me, a mysterious iteration of the divine. To be revered and left alone. So, with respect, I keep my distance, knowing they still may be my end. And hey, if they are meant to be a player in my demise, then so be it. Until then, I’ll simply take care while minding my business.

A few nights ago at the Lookout Hostel, a couple hikers were showing around a video of their rattlesnake encounter. The massive snake was obviously agitated. “It was coming after us,” a hiker said. I’m no snake expert, but I know that most rattlesnake bites are defensive. Snakes want nothing to do with humans. “Did you fuck with it?” I asked him. “Well, no,” he said. “I was just trying to move it off the trail.” So yeah, he definitely fucked with it.

“Hey there, beauty,” I say again. And it surely is beautiful. It’s tan scales painted with patterned strokes of black triangles. Its tapered tail topped with what looks like nine rattles. The snake’s head rises slightly as its forked tongue tastes the air. “All good, little buddy,” I say. “I’m just going to admire you for a sec then I’ll be on my way.” With that, its rattling starts—but it’s a soft rattling. Not aggressive, not threatening. A reticent alarm that seems to say, more than anything else, See me. I am here. I respond with calm words. I thank it for letting me gawk, then I promptly move along.

Its rattling stops as I edge past, and a few steps later I reach a steep drop that plummets maybe three feet onto a slab of canting bedrock. I squat to lower my weight, and suddenly a pair of dropped Birkenstocks comes into view. I recognize them—they are Floppy’s. He had them on last night at the Mohican. But since there’s no sign of him or his wife, and since I know I tend to hike faster then him, I’ll likely be able to hand-deliver them up the trail. The prospect of doing this kind act excites me.

I use my hands for support as I reach down to the shiny, angled boulder. My foot makes contact, seems to stick, and I lever my weight upright to stand. I hold myself tall, shift slightly to test my footing, and all seems OK. I lift my leg to take a step and slip uncontrollably. My body weight whips with a jerk toward the unyielding and slippery surface.

I hurl the way of gravity and twist un naturally in a panicked jerk. I launch my poles as my torso careens, and I crash violently onto the sloping boulder. My right elbow breaks the blow and protects my head upon impact. I lay unmoving for a moment and, with a middle aged groan, I assess the bodily damage. As hard as I hit, something should be broken. A hip, perhaps? Some ribs? Sheesh—what a shitty way to end this hike.

An injury inventory comes up surprisingly clean. Everything feels pretty much alright. Everything, however, except my right arm. Which makes sense considering how hard it smashed the rock. My elbow throbs like a heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. But it’s not broken, or at least doesn’t seem to be. But it’s definitely going to hurt later.

I roll to my back and look up at the sky. It’s no longer blue. Billowing clouds threaten more rain. I gauge how far it is to the next shelter—where I assume Floppy is. About five or six miles, presume. Maybe two hours. I tie his sandals to my pack and get back to walking.

Racing weather is always risky, but today I don’t have an option. The sky is going to open up regardless. And if I can set up camp beforehand, well, cool. But the odds are slim I’ll pull it off. So just to be safe, I put my pack’s cover on and make my rain gear more easily accessible. I head back into the forest, sore elbow and all, and fully expect the worst.

Precursor to an unleashing of hell

The birdsong stopped long ago, as did the typical scurry of squirrels. The sky rumbles constantly and I brace for the torrent. By some miracle I make it to Brink Road Shelter before the rain begins, where I find, as expected, Floppy and his wife, Flower Girl. “You missing something?” I ask Floppy. He hadn’t even realized his sandals were missing.

We share snake stories before I swiftly excuse myself to make camp. Floppy assures me they could make room in the shelter, but I decline. I’ve been partial to a tent ever since I woke up to mice running up and down my sleeping bag at a shelter back in Virginia. “Best hurry up,” he says, looking at the treetops. “There’s already severe weather in the forecast. Plus a tornado warning.”

After a quick survey of three possible sites, I choose the one that seems flattest. All the options have widow-makers looming overhead, so I try not to think about the particular one above me as I race to get my tent up. I feel the heaven’s first drops just as I finish tossing all my gear inside. Seconds later, and immediately after I crawl in, the clouds finally unleash. Once again I beat the rain—and I scream my delight over the roar of crashing sheets. My tent drums is so loud I can’t even hear the audio of Instagram reels I mindlessly watch while waiting things out.

The rain batters harder and harder, and I before long I notice water pooling under my tent. I slap it and it jiggles like the waterbed my parents had during my entire childhood. I remember wondering if they ever replaced the water. Because if not, it contained water from before I was born. Something about that fascinated me—the water in my parent’s bed was older than me.

Soon, my tent sits in a small pond of fast-accumulating rainwater. And though the floor’s material is waterproof, the condensation makes things feel wet. Which is enough for me to consider an alternative. “I have to move,” I say aloud. Then I wait a few minutes for a lull but it never comes. When the flood of runoff reaches the top of my bathtub, I spring into action.

My Zpacks Duplex on a very different day

I take off all my clothing except my shorts and crush all my loose gear into my pack’s main hold. Then I heave it outside under the tent’s vestibule and tie up my drenched shoes. If I unstake the corners of the tent, its external frame will allow me to pick it up and move it with relative ease. Question is—to where? As I consider the other sites in my memory, my right hand starts feeling weird. As if my pinky and ring finger want to stay in a clasped position. I disregard it and explode into the throng.

Minutes later I am nestled, once again, into my tent. Albeit this time on higher, and far less flat ground. When the storm mellows, I hear Floppy’s voice through the trees. “Amble! You OK?” he shouts. “Yeah, I’m good!” I shout back, just as the next wave hits.

For the next hour I diligently wring things out. Against my better judgment, I eat an abundance of snacks inside the tent. Ultimately I’ll need to hang my food bag in a tree, but that will have to wait until much later.

Meanwhile, the tenderness in my right hand grows progressively worse. And by the time I get to my tuna packet, I can’t maneuver my hand to open it. The throbbing pain in my elbow stretches from my fingers to my neck. I’m concerned I might vomit. I’ve felt this pain before—years ago when, after sustaining a fall while shooting hoops with my class of. Middle schoolers, I broke my wrist. Similarly, back then the acute pain didn’t show up until hours after the fall that caused it.

Each passing minute increases the stinging intensity, and before long I’m prone and writhing. My body alarms with each throbbing heartbeat. This hike is fucking over. I just know it. I call my friend, Katie, back home to tell her as much. “Goddamn,” I say to her. “I really wanted to get to Vermont.” Katie asks me why, and I don’t have a definitive answer. Because that was the plan, doesn’t seem to cut it.

Before we hang up, Katie jumps online to help me locate a walk-in medical office. There’s one a few miles ahead in Branchville, NJ. Getting transport out of Branchville may not be easy, though. But shit, if I truly have a broken wrist, I’ll figure something out.

The pain jolts and take four ibuprofen as I wrap up our conversation. “Hey,” she says. “One more thing.” I cringe when she pauses—my arm’s ache is becoming unbearable. She asks if she can offer a final thought. Please do, I tell her.

“Maybe reframe things,” she says. “Maybe…rather than assuming you’re done…maybe trust that everything is going to be OK. You’re injured now, but what if everything is fine in the morning?” I tell her I’ll be shocked if that’s the case, but I hang up and follow her suggestion.

Before falling painfully asleep, I think, all will be well come sunup. I don’t believe my words, but I say them anyway. I repeat them like a mantra as my tent walls separate me from the world as it drowns outside.

When I wake up some ten hours later, my arm is fine. Like, totally fine. It’s as if nothing ever happened. Which is sort of like how the forest looks, too. There’s no evidence of the night’s gale, and the clear morning sky, in fact, hints to a gorgeous day to come.

I strike camp and return to the trail before most folks have woken up. For hours I break through spiderwebs—which is usually one of my least favorite things to do. But this morning I don’t mind. Not one bit.

Perfection is imperfection