The cougar turned around and disappeared up the trail. I turned around and quickly went back to Kathy, excitedly saying, “Put your dog on the leash. Put your dog on the leash.” I was afraid Tasha would think the cougar was one of those chipmunks she dearly loved to chase, and we would end up with dead dog.
We didn’t see the cougar again.
After picking up our food drop and enjoying a meal and a good time with our two friends, we left Hart Pass saying good-bye to them and to Tasha. This last section would take us into Canada and too many days on the trail is not good for a dog, nor would the hassle of crossing borders with a dog be good for us. Tasha was heartbroken at being separated from Kathy. We could hear her howls and wails for a long time until either a mountain ridge separated us, or they drove away.
The evening we reached Hopkins Lake, I was getting clean by the lake when Kathy came running down the hill from our campsite. “Look over there.” she said. Over there was a huge billowing cloud of smoke. Kathy wondered if we should just try to walk out in the night. That smoke cloud seemed very close. “No. I can’t outrun a forest fire and this lake could save us if the fire came this way.” (We found out later that the PCT was closed by this fire a few days after we went through.)
We eventually reached Canada and took our pictures at the PCT monument on the border. I am sure we didn’t feel as thru hikers feel when reaching there. It was just the end of our section hike, but it was a milestone to remember for us, too, even if not as dramatic as for those who walk 2,654 miles in one year to reach it.
By the time we reached the highway, our feet were screaming at us. I spied a van with dogs taking a break in the muddy stream at the trailhead and asked for a ride to the lodge. I’d read about hikers hitch hiking and figured anyone who carried muddy dogs in their van might allow two dirty hikers in, too. They did. Kathy was impressed with my ride-finding skills. They drove us to Manning Park. The next day we caught a bus to Sumas and walked across the border back to the USA to meet Kari, another friend who drove us home.
I still had two small sections of Washington left, but I’d done the longest section yet and completed another 193.6 miles of the PCT. I was now retired and would have more opportunities for longer sections.
Retirement
Retired people often say they are so busy they do not know how they ever found time to work. That has certainly been true for me. By 2007 I had three grandchildren and another shortly to appear. I remained active in my local congregation, occasionally filled in as preacher for vacationing pastors, and planted and harvested a large garden every year, timing planting carefully before and between hikes. I’d definitely decided on a retirement goal of completing both the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail by age 70.
Being retired meant I could do some larger chunks of the trails as well as all my other activities. I decided 400 miles was about the right number of miles for me. Why 400? I really picked the number out of the sky. But it was a good number. It seemed like a do-able number of miles, long enough to make me feel like a thru-hiker, but short enough that I could go home and take care of my garden, see my grandchildren and have a regular life as well as a trail life. I am not a thru hiker, just a long-section hiker. 400 miles twice a year seemed enough for miles to add up over a few years to actually accomplish my goal.
I was still not thinking of the Continental Divide Trail or the Triple Crown, although by now I’d read journals of people who had done both. Accomplishing two trails seemed like plenty to bite off.
Spring and late summer/fall were my desired hiking times. Hiking in the heat of summer turned me into a dead daisy, or at least, a wilted one. I preferred to put up with cold mornings and nights to avoid being superhot in the daytime.
Chapter 9 April 10, 2007
AT
Medicare Pastor
My fourth grandchild was born on March 29, and on April 8 I flew into Asheville. Nancy Hoch picked me up and drove me to the Hike Inn near Fontana Dam. Jeff took me to the trail on April 10th, and I began my walk. That year, I too had a trail journal listed on Trailjournals.com. I wrote on paper while on the trail and transferred the journal to the internet when I could find places to do so along the way.
As I began walking, a man in a passing car asked me what my trail name was. My trail name had morphed over the few years I’d been hiking long trails. Now I was retired and Medicare seemed to be the appropriate name. (Medicare is the health insurance for most Americans after they turn 65.) But Pastor seemed right, too. I didn’t stop being a pastor by being retired. So Medicare Pastor became my trail name. No further changes have ever been required. The name basically means old lady retired pastor.
“How old are you?” the man in the car inquired. “You don’t look old enough to be on Medicare.” I guess I looked a bit younger than my age. That wasn’t something I could take credit for. It was just a lucky break for me.
Walking trails has blessed me with keeping fit and active. An older person can’t simply throw on a pack and start walking on the trail. At least I wouldn’t advise that tack. As I aged, I had to work harder to keep in shape, something that took more effort each year. I had to train by walking, both in my neighborhood and going up and down the mountains and hills in Washington, so that I would be able to hike distances and continue backpacking as the years passed. The preparation necessary to hike long trails kept me active and in reasonably good shape.
“If there are not some nights when you are wearing everything you have brought, then you brought too much.”
I started walking at Fontana Dam, on a record cold year at the foot of the Great Smoky Mountains. Hiker journals told me the temperature had been getting down into the single digits in the week before I started. Brrr. I was hoping it would warm up a little. I didn’t like heat, but freezing to death wasn’t on my wish list either.
On my very first day, I acquired blisters on both heels from the steady uphill climb to Russel Field Shelter. Bummer. I’d hoped my new boots were the perfect fit, and I wouldn’t get blisters. Wrong. At the shelter that night I placed the gel strips of Second Skin over my heels, chatted with Boneless, M&M, Handyman and Tex, hung my food bag and dove for my sleeping bag to stay warm. It was so cold nobody wanted to tent. Fortunately we all fit in the shelter, which also had tarps across the front to keep inside whatever heat there was. Shelter registration was required for section hikers in the Smokies. (Great Smoky Mountains National Park). Although I’d hiked the trail from Springer Mountain, Georgia, I didn’t do it in 2007, so it didn’t count for the thru hiker pass in the National Park. Thru hikers have the option of tenting in the Park, but section hikers must stay in shelters.
It was bitter cold and windy for most of the next day. A side wind tried to knock me over with gusts and blew my hiking poles horizontal as they dangled on my wrist straps. At Clingman Dome, 6,643 feet and the highest point on the AT, my Frogg Toggs rainsuit was worth its weight as a wind breaker as I carefully negotiated ice in the wind to the ramp leading up to the space-age-like viewpoint.
By this time I’d already met 10 hikers. They all walked faster than me and usually passed me during the day. I was, however, often the first one up, out, and on the trail. Getting an early start helped make up for the deficiencies of age and slowness.
After my first experience on the AT, I tried to have resupply boxes as often as possible to keep my pack weight as low as possible. Knowing I needed to catch a ride to Gatlinburg from Newfound Gap to get my first resupply box, Ghetto Blaster and two other hikers reached the Gap and lined up a ride for me before I got there. They told a day hiker about my age that I was coming right behind them and needing a ride, and she graciously waited until I arrived. Amazing. A ride I didn’t even have to ask for. What a nice gift.
Hitching back to the trail from Gatlinburg was my first time hitching with my thumb out. It was discouraging to see cars whip right past me, but the wait was a short ten minutes until a family stopped for me. They took me all the way to the tra
il, though they were only intending to go to Alum Cave trailhead. The temperature was 34 degrees at the gap, although it did warm up during the day to 50 degrees. A quarter mile of the trail, thick, solidly frozen ice didn’t know it was warmer. I absolutely couldn’t walk on it without falling, so I picked my way through trees along the bank of the trail on equally frozen ground. But I didn’t fall.
Shelters in the Smokies were great meeting places for hikers, sharing camaraderie and fun, though we surely were cold, wet, and windblown. There is a saying on the AT: “If there are not some nights when you are wearing everything you have brought, then you brought too much.” There were nights I wore everything and also played footsie with myself in the sleeping bag until my feet finally thawed out, and I could sleep.
Two nights at Peck’s Corner Shelter and Cosby Knob ticked by, and I was down out of the Smokies at Standing Bear Farm Hostel. Standing Bear had hot showers and bunks for $15, and I picked up another food drop. The shower was heavenly. Then it started snowing.
Medicare Pastor Again
That night at Standing Bear, I sang Holden Evening Prayer for Papa Bear and Ferrel, while standing in the storeroom as snow turned the world outside into a winter wonderland. Papa Bear had missed church on Easter Sunday and appreciated me providing them with a bit of church, even while standing in a cold storeroom. I can always sing Holden Evening Prayer.
A word about being a pastor on the trail: I didn’t want other hikers to freak out about me being a Pastor. I am not an in your face pastor. People on the trail hold many different religious views and come from all walks of life. I do not push my views of faith on anyone. I firmly believe that God loves and cares for each person, regardless of their religious views, and I am content to let God be at work in each person's life in God's own fashion, not mine, though I can talk about faith if anyone so desires.
I usually carry a pocket New Testament with the Psalms and copies of Holden Evening Prayer. I like to sing that service on weekends or as requested, by myself or with others. At times, even those not wishing to participate have told me they liked to hear me sing. Marty Haugen’s beautiful Holden Evening Prayer was written to be sung in the mountains at Holden Village in Washington State so it seems natural to me to sing it on the trail.
So - I was a non-pushy pastor, who carried a New Testament and sang. I also had ears to listen, but entrusted myself and my fellow hikers to God's care. That was enough.
I left Standing Indian on a white wonderland trail following a few footprints in the snow. Three days later, including a very cold night tenting by myself, I arrived at Hot Springs having shed warm layers to hike in my sports bra. Elevation change made a difference, as did a warming trend. Taking advantage of the opportunity to slack pack, I used a shuttle service along with three other hikers. (A slack pack is hiker lingo for walking with just enough for a day, without all your gear.) I also took a zero day and soaked in a spa beside the river. Cushy. I said good-bye to Papa Bear and Ferrel and wondered who would make up my next trail family in the days ahead.
Barking Spider was moving more slowly than usual, nursing shin splints, and we took each other’s pictures on White Rock Cliffs. I also met Swamp Fox and Blue Sky, a delightful couple I was to see many times in 2007.
The next day I turned a challenging 14.7 mile day into an extremely challenging 18+ mile day by leaving my water bottle at a shelter and being crazy enough to go back for it from two miles out. Everyone else thought I was nuts to do so. My feet hurt so badly that night that I couldn’t even bear wearing socks to bed as I usually do.
The temperature then climbed to 80 degrees during the day, and I missed the cold but enjoyed the flowers. Spring had definitely arrived. Spring Beauties were so thick they looked like snow under the trees. Yellow Trout Lilies, huge purple Violets and tiny yellow ones plus three or four other kinds of white and yellow flowers lined the trail or could be seen under the trees. One of my joys in hiking is the flowers. Flowers differ from coast to coast, and I find new ones on every long hike, but seeing them always raises my spirits no matter the steepness of the trail or the pain in the feet.
I have problem feet. I suppose it is somewhat crazy to do long-distance hiking with problem feet. The removal of Morton’s neuromas on both feet helped, but the conversation I often had with my feet went like this:
Me: “You really hurt, right?”
Feet: “Owiee Zowiee, yes.”
Me: “You would like to get the weight off and get put up somewhere, right?”
Feet: Oh, please, please.”
Me: “Well, if we go as fast as we can today we will get to town sooner and be able to sit down.”
Feet: “Oh, OK.”
No, my feet didn’t talk out loud. But if they could have done so that is what they would have said.
The next day my feet were hurting so I went on a 19-mile slackpack. It seemed like a good idea when I planned it and was sure my feet would agree the following day, even if they were not too sure about it at the time. You see, by taking a 19 mile slackpack, I was able to cover 19 miles WITHOUT 34 pounds of pack on my back, and the next day I would go only go 4.5 miles to reach Greasy Creek Friendly, the hiker hostel at which I planned to stay. All the rest of that day I planned to rest. Have I mentioned that hikers are a little nuts? But it worked.
"Dayenu - if God had only...it would have been enough.”
Greasy Creek Friendly, a little bunkhouse next to Connie’s house was a positive experience and a good rest with one exception. Connie, the woman who ran Greasy Creek Friendly, had a neighbor who wasn’t running on all cylinders. Really. He didn’t think hikers should be in his neighborhood, so he made noise by running his lawnmower constantly, even in the snow, loudly banged on things and shouted out at all hours. After a while, it got to be pretty funny. He was my snooze alarm in the morning, running his lawnmower and banging on things at 5:10. I looked at the time, deciding it was too early to get up, I went back to sleep. He started in banging again at 6:10, when I really did want to get up. I guess he felt fulfilled each morning when the hikers left, as if his banging had caused our leaving. I felt sorry for Connie, though, who had to hear him every day.
After I left Greasy Creek Friendly, the rest of the day was wonderful. I kept thinking of the phrase from the Jewish Seder - "Dayenu - if God had only…it would have been enough.”
If only the rest day had made my feet feel better - Dayenu, it would have been enough. If only large sections of trail had turned smooth and easy to hike - Dayenu - it would have been enough. If only the wildflower displays - purple, yellow and white Violets, purple and white Trillium, yellow Lilies, white Bloodroot, blue Larkspur and others were all - Dayenu - It would have been enough. If only my energy was adequate for all the climbs including Roan Mountain (6,285 feet) – Dayenu - it would have been enough. If only the spectacular views from Roan, Little Rock Knob and three lovely balds including Jane and Grassy Field were all - Dayenu - It would have been enough. If only the cool weather for hiking were all- Dayenu - it would have been enough. And I’d all those blessings. It was all wonderful.
History lessons can be found in brief snippets along long trails. Our American history lesson that night was camping at Overmountain Trail, where 1,000 North Carolinian and Virginian militiamen crossed over the mountains to defeat the British at Kings Mountain in the Revolutionary War.
Kincora
Three long days, 14.8, 17, 14.5 miles, and I was at Kincora. I was definitely not a 20-mile-a-day thru hiker. But then, not all thru hikers are 20-mile-a-day hikers either. One of those days was quite cold, and the next warm. A surprise was the crown that fell off my tooth while eating lunch. I carefully saved it.
Kincora is another legendary AT stop, the home of Bob and Pat Peoples, trail angels and trail workers extraordinaire. I picked up another food drop, and Bob Peoples found a dentist whom he talked into an early morning appointment for me to replace my crown.
My slack pack on a hot day to beautiful Laurel Falls was foll
owed by a huge feed put on by Pat and Bob Peoples to celebrate Beltaine, the Celtic New Year. Twenty hikers had Cock a Leekie Soup, Corned Beef, Irish Soda Bread, Beer Bread, Onion Pie, Potatoes, Cabbage, Carrots, Green Beans, Sodas and Triffle for desert. We ate like pigs or starving thru-hikers. There is not a lot of difference between the two. Although we tried to practice leave-no-trace eating, we couldn’t finish it all. Three or four more hikers showed up late and had the last of the feast.
What marvelous generosity the Peoples exhibited. I have a photo of white-haired Pat Peoples smiling joyously as she observed hikers’ delight in eating food she’d prepared or whose preparation she’d supervised. It will always be to me the perfect picture of the joy of serving others. Pat passed away the following year of the cancer she was fighting when I saw her. I cherish my memory of her.
I sang Holden Evening Prayer at Kincora, this time with Music Man and Wonder. Music Man was headed for seminary in the fall and Wonder professed to be a Pagan who liked music. They were both musical and could sing parts, which was great fun. The words and music spoke for themselves, no preaching necessary.
The trail held a moving community. I formed a bond with people I saw once or twice. We helped each other as we could. Yet there was always the freedom to be alone, to go ahead, or to stay behind as needed or desired. The trail grapevine, through journals, notes in shelter registers or simply word of mouth, fostered the sense of community. One day Creeper left a prayer for Medicare Preacher in a shelter register though I’d only met her twice in passing on the trail. Amazing. It was a unique, if mobile and constantly changing, community.
The morning before Damascus, thinking how nice and comfy my tent and sleeping bag was, I made myself get up with the promise of coming to town, packing up to march up the hill from Low Gap. (Anything called a Gap means a climb up out of it.) A quarter mile past the shelter a deer stood in the path so I could take its picture. It looked pretty thin to me, as if it needed to eat more.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 5
