Long Route Log #3: The Changing Route Deals

August 4, day 3

half blind walker

About halfway through the third day of hiking, I discovered two serious problems.

The first: one of my contacts – for whom I had a specific eye exam and who had purchased explicitly for this trip – it was no longer there.

I muttered a curse under my breath and rubbed my eye with my hand, as if it could erase the blurry terrain that swam around me. I could wear my glasses, but I hated how quickly they became useless as they fogged up on days when the miles were long and sweaty. Plus, there was the fact that I would have one contact and not the other, which baffled me. I could remove the other contact, but, being a contact lens newbie, I still hadn’t gotten over the nagging fear of pricking my eyeball.

And now he had lost one, gone forever. I only had the “trial” pair I had in my hand as I left the optometrist’s office. The entire supply would arrive at my apartment long after we had left for Vermont. I couldn’t afford to lose one, but I did. Now he was walking half blind through territory that he knew would quickly level up.

I sighed. Maybe it was time to bring out the glasses after all.

The reminder was loud and clear, a message from both the Path and the Universe: Release control, because you have none here. The mountains don’t care about your plans.

Why is this easy?

The second problem may have been even more pressing: I was discovering the pleasure of ass irritation. While this is probably too much information for anyone who hasn’t hiked for a considerable period of time, other hikers’ crap (especially women) could relate to this. Thanks to rigorous strength training and proper diet, I had gained weight in the months leading up to our trip. This was a radical act of self-love for someone who once despised the thinness of her body. I had come to love the process of slowly building muscle on my slender figure.

But the extra kilos had a price. The fire emanating from the floor below was no joke. “How did you deal with this?” I shouted in disbelief at Chris, who had complained bitterly about his own problems on the Appalachian Trail.

«Grin and bear it,» he joked. He then assured me that we would get a body slide when we stopped at Manchester Center in two days. There, we would not only get resupply, but we would meet All-heart, our dear friend from our old AT Tramily.

I grit my teeth. Manchester couldn’t come fast enough.

At least the terrain was easy. Again. Suspiciously easy. We sailed, covering 12 miles without breaking a sweat. MY Vermont? I thought over and over again. This state broke me when we reached the AT. How could it be so easy? Perhaps I was weaker then, mentally and physically, dejected by the perpetual lack of calories and depressed by my longing to return home.

Or maybe he was just stronger now.

A change of plans

We paused for lunch and water at a shelter I remembered for having a pristine, icy spring. At night we stopped at the Kid Gore shelter. There was a secret camp in a clearing, away from the shelter, which was good, because the family from last night was here too. It was nice to chat with them, they were just a lot of energy for my introverted self. While we were having dinner together, I learned that they had gone on a hike through the section. I smiled at them, a little embarrassed that a couple of kids under fourteen were embarking on a week-long backpacking trip.

Then my phone lit up with a text message from All-heart: «I had an allergic reaction and may have to push back the date of our meeting.»

My spirits plummeted. I thought about my irritations and, more importantly, my dwindling food bag. I pushed Chris’s foot under the wooden picnic table. “Did you see All-heart’s message?”

He pulled out his phone and shrugged. «A few days is no big deal. We should be fine.» He took out his bag of food from the bottom of his backpack. «But let’s double check our food just in case.»

After dumping the contents of our supplies on the table, we saw another text: «It wasn’t an allergic reaction, whoops! The truth is that I’m sick! But if you give me until 8^th It should be fine!

I let that sink in. The 8th^th It was in four days. Four more days until they picked us up to replace our food. I groaned; that would also mean eight full days without showering.

I continued sorting my food into piles and doing the math. “I can do it,” I told Chris, “but it will be hard.” I grabbed a protein bar, already imagining how I would ration them to survive the mornings.

One of the moms looked up while adjusting her water bladder system. “Do you need food?”

«Oh, we’ll be fine,» I said hastily, not wanting them to think we hadn’t planned properly.

But they didn’t listen to him. «Tomorrow we’re going to the car. And we already have too much stuff,» he said as he tossed us small Ziploc bags of collagen and protein powder along with peanuts and sunflower seeds.

“Thank you,” I said, humiliated once again. El Camino still offers. It wasn’t enough for me to skip rationing entirely, but it was something.

That night I reflected on our change of plans with the resupply of our Manchester Center. I remembered how worried I was that things would be different on this hike: different between Chris and me; different in the sense that I was pausing a life I loved instead of hated; different in many ways.

But one thing remains the same, and will always remain the same: the Path forces you to change course. Sometimes daily. The change is the currency in which the Trail is negotiated. I would always have two options: regret this simple fact or adapt.

My stomach growled with hunger, my rationing process was already beginning.

I chose to adapt.

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