Hardware Test: Walking After Knee Replacement

I went to Utah to find out if it would hold up.

With my tent in the cold shade, I open my eyes and see a sunlit cliff. Deep sleep was interrupted twice. Once to the stars, once to the first light that filters through. I crawled out to pee both times, with fresh sand on my knees. I feel the hardware pressing against the skin of my left knee. Creepy, but I can use it.

I listen to the quiet roar of the stove and watch bubbles collect at the bottom of the pot. Water for real coffee, Peet’s, with a tablespoon of sweetened condensed milk. Luxuries I didn’t have on the PCT and CDT: too much weight.

Close the gas valve. Silence.

I take a sip of coffee and chew on a bagel between bites of Hershey’s dark chocolate. The hikers on the other side of the creek left at dawn. I can only hear the water moving.

I put my quilt in its bag, roll up the air mattress and collect the equipment. There is fine dust in everything; I’ll take some home. A line of sand comes out of my tent when I tip it over. Maneuvering on my knees, I try not to favor the good guy. It’s the new one that needs testing.

I lift my backpack. The weight and pull on my shoulders feels good. Up the canyon, the sandy creekside trail is dark and firm. The air smells like wet stone. My steps are deliberate. I hear and feel my left knee clicking, constantly for the first few minutes, then recedes and intermittently.

After half an hour, the stream is absorbed. The sand loosens. The cliffs lose height. The sun is full of me.

And my sunglasses are missing.

I lost them entering Coyote Gulch. Passing through thickets of salt cedar and fallen aspen trees wrapped in debris, I dropped onto a sand embankment to rest. Reaching for my sunglasses (the ones I wore on the CDT, five months and 3,000 miles), my fingers brushed the empty space.

I looked back at the mess I had been through. There was no way I was going to find them.

On my last day in Coyote Gulch, the canyon floor widened enough to leave a trail. Green spring grass and budding aspen trees replaced brush and fallen logs.

Now I’m leaving. Lihat juga osYSJ3d. The Hurricane Wash trailhead is five miles away.

When I get to my car, the beer in the cooler is still cold. I take long gulps, studying the slick baked rock dissolving in the glow of heat. The warm wind blows the sweat off my face.

The next morning I am fording the Escalante River.

The Escalante River

The clear water slides over cobblestones placed in the sand. The cold seeps into my shoes, envelops my feet, and then slips away as I climb the opposite shore. The cannon opens. Poplars thick as refrigerators.

I stop at Cliff House Arch and study the ruins. I think about the people who filled the barns with corn and beans, how they moved along these walls with their loads and their children.

My destination is Death Hollow. At first I am far from the river, advancing on baked sand. Then the crossroads come closer. The banks steepen. The path breaks and reforms between tamarisks and trees. The hikers walk away. I focus on the route and stream crossings.

Then I notice it.

My new knee and hip, tight IT band – just an echo, not a pain. Just background.

I plan to camp at the confluence, but about a mile away I find a spot: a wide platform of pale sand that slopes toward the water. There is no one else around.

I set up the store. Spend too much time moving it around to get the floor perfect. Then I sit on the cool sand, with my back resting on my backpack, with the stove on and the water heating up. I listen to the river but I listen to my body.

Low back, good. Stiff but usable knees. The new hip is no different from the old one.

I stretch my legs in the cool sand. This is working.

It is an answer to a question.

After the knee replacement, I mapped it out carefully. Glacier. The Superior Hiking Route. The Washington Chapter of the PCT. A careful staircase back to the AT. Next spring, I told myself. If everything were maintained.

Utah blew that up.

If I wait, the window slams shut.

I bought an Amtrak ticket to Pittsfield, MA. I’m leaving on June 16. I’m breaking the promise I made to myself to never change my mind again. I will retrace my steps starting in 2024: from Dalton to Killington.

This time I keep going.

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