August 8, day 7
In the morning, I put on my backpack and shifted between my feet, bracing myself for a pain that never came. Half stunned with disbelief, I leaned fully into the muscle that had barely half that strength the morning before. There was no tenderness. Painless. Nothing. It was as if yesterday’s disaster that almost ended the walk had never happened.
I shook my head and recognized the sign my late grandfather sent me the night before: You are worthy of accepting care and love. Let him carry your burden.
Read yourself loud and clear, I thought, half giddy as Chris and I stepped out into the sun.
I was giddy for another reason: after seven days of stench and food rationing, we were finally going to shower and resupply in Manchester.
In all the chaos of yesterday, I had forgotten about our impending zero day with All-heart, who was staying with his parents during his college break. Now that I remembered that we were going to stay with her, and that my leg was not, in fact, going to force me out of the way, I felt dizzy with relief. I could barely stand my own stench. Seven days was one of the longest stretches I went without showering on both the Long Trail and my AT hike.
A near accident
We ran three easy miles to our pickup point on Rte. 10, which was more of a dirt road and less of a real road. There were two hikers sitting on the gravel.
As we got closer, I recognized them. «Hey!» They were the two guys Chris and I had met on our first night.
One of them looked up and smiled, but the other was focused on adjusting the ACE bandage around his foot. My smile flickered. «Uh-oh.»
He didn’t need to say anything else. The bandages guy looked up at me and grimaced. «I think I’m done,» he growled. «My ankle has been acting up the last few days and it’s only getting worse.»
I tried not to visibly shudder. That was almost me. Seeing this pair of strong, capable hikers on the verge of recovering from injury was a reminder: the Trail is humble and unforgiving. Although this hike is “only” 280 miles, many things could go wrong. The day before he had been on the verge of getting lost.
We said goodbye to the hikers for probably the last time as All-heart drove down the road in a huge pickup truck.
«It’s my dad’s,» he laughed as he jumped up to open the bed. After dumping our disgusting backpacks, I leaned against the plush headrest in a happy daze, drunk at the prospect of non-Trail food and air conditioning.
I took what was pretty much the best shower of my life before Allheart took us into town to resupply at The Mountain Goat. The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering the street sales and adorable second-hand shops, followed by a Ghibli movie in the basement. With the exception of limping up and down stairs, my leg was calm throughout the entire process. – my tired ship was rested, full of much-needed calories and fat.
Lying in a real bed, with Chris’s back pressed against me as he slept, I woke up and thought. If they had swapped today and yesterday, would my leg have turned red? Was his magical recovery a coincidence? I thought about my grandfather again and decided it was definitely not a coincidence.
I had a feeling it wouldn’t bother me anymore.
Accumulated pains
August 9, day 8
In addition to making us a hearty breakfast of eggs and hash, All-heart kindly offered to carry our luggage for the next few days. Slackpacking (when you leave your heavy backpack elsewhere, hike with a lighter backpack, and carry your heavy backpack and sleeping supplies to your camp for the night) meant we were able to cover more ground than we had anticipated at this point in our hike.
We immediately said yes.
Although walking with just a backpack was wonderful, I soon noticed pain settling into the soles of my feet, a deep ache that refused to go away with just a day of rest. I was very familiar with pain on the trails and knew what was going on. Seventy miles of walking were piling up on my body faster than I could recover.
water gold
The day’s miles passed in a pleasant haze and without luggage. That night we were headed to the Clarendon Shelter, but first we had to cross the jumping cable bridge suspended forty feet above Clarendon Gorge. We looked over the side at the water rushing below, sparkling like diamonds in the golden hour. We exchanged a knowing look.
«Do you want to go swimming?» Chris asked, and I smiled because he had read my mind.
We walked the remaining 0.1 mile to the next road junction to pick up our packs at All-heart and then headed straight back into the gorge. As we reclined in the water, we watched an older man cross the river in a calmer pool, cast in long shadows amid the deepening sunset.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Chris wondered aloud.
I narrowed my eyes and then shrugged, more interested in diving into the pristine river than the man hunched over in the shallows.
«I’m going to say hello.»
That?
This is what I get for dating a golden retriever. I said I would go with him and then took my time getting out of the water. I was lingering, conscious not to disturb the man. What if he wanted to be left alone?
We crossed the rocks until we reached the man who was swimming in the ponds. That’s when I noticed a giant collection of Tupperware and black rubber frying pans scattered on the shore.
«Hello!» Chris said happily, unfiltered as always. «Are you looking for gold?»
The man slowly looked up and then nodded. «I am. I’ve been coming here for years. Sometimes I find something, sometimes I don’t.»
We settled on the giant rocks for an impromptu lesson in gold mining, as the man spoke with quiet authority and interest about what was clearly his passion. It was a strange and serendipitous moment, as Trail times usually are. Before we left, he found some flecks of gold right in front of us, holding the pan shining with small sparkles.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the earthy taste of the river water. They say one day makes a difference, and that has never felt more true than on the Long Trail. Yesterday I cried with fear because I couldn’t continue. Tonight I reclined on sun-baked rocks as I watched a man pull gold out of the water.
How strange indeed. How magnificent. We were eight days in and I couldn’t wait to see what the rest of this hike had in store for us.
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