Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  I had to have cold food my last night. The store at Wrightwood had such an influx of hikers that there had been no fuel. Mountain House spaghetti rehydrated pretty well with cold water and even cold oatmeal the next morning wasn’t too bad, discovering I tasted the milk on instant oats more if the whole mess was cold.

  My last day’s walking and the end of my California PCT hike for the year was at Three Points. I needed a ride out. Thinking I should get more presentable, I was cleaning my fingernails with my knife when the second car went by. Perhaps he was put off by the fact that my hand with the thumb out was also holding an open knife. Oops. There just hadn’t been time to close it.

  After the knife was stowed, a woman and her daughter drove by from a church camp and picked me up. She was convinced it was God's doing that they were later than planned so they could give me a ride. Not only did they pick me up, they drove me below LA to Norco where my cousin, Liz, found me. The next day I was on an airplane flying over the PCT back to Washington.

  I called my doc, who had said he wanted to know how far I would be able to hike when I’d last seen him in March. He asked how far I went, and I said, “346 miles.” There was dead silence on the line for a minute or more. I suppose it was amazing. Get out of a nursing home in January. Hike 346 miles on the PCT in April and May on a leg that couldn’t support weight on a step higher than four inches. It was possible though, and I’d done it.

  Chapter 14 Summer 2008

  PCT

  Finishing Washington

  My PCT hiking for the year wasn’t quite finished. There were still two little pieces of trail to be completed to call Washington complete: from the Bridge of the Gods to Panther Creek Campground and from Chinook Pass to White Pass.

  I drove down to Stevenson in July and a pastoral colleague drove me over the Bridge of The Gods to Cascade Locks to walk back into Washington. The bridge has no dedicated space for walkers, but since workmen were on the bridge, the cars really did drive 15 miles an hour as they were supposed to. I took pictures each side of the bridge and a picture straight down through the metal lattice floor of the bridge to the river many feet below, being very careful to hang onto my camera. Anything dropped into the river would be gone forever.

  The hike past the bridge was a lovely stroll. Most thru-hikers probably see this stretch as a wandering impediment on the way to Canada, many taking the short cut on the road. But I enjoyed that little section. The trail wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere as it wandered and meandered. But then, I also wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere and just enjoyed being on the trail again.

  Stopping at Greenleaf Creek, I appreciated the differences from Southern California, mossy rocks to sit on and the forest canopy impenetrable by hot sun. It would have been perfect were it not for pesky small flies and at least one mosquito. That night I stayed inside my tent behind mosquito netting.

  Testing my knee, the day’s climb also yielded flowers and views of glaciated peaks, Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, Mt. St Helens and Mt. Rainier, three I’d climbed in my younger days. Sparse but interesting flowers bloomed at lower elevations, more thickly at higher elevations: lupine, paintbrush, columbine, lilies, mariposa lilies, larkspur, bear grass, yellow violets, wild onion, wild hyacinth, avalanche lilies, daisies, yarrow, and bunch berry.

  On the third day, failing to restrain myself, I walked 16 miles, reaching Panther Creek Campground a day earlier than planned. I had no intention of waiting a day for my arranged ride. Two nice women drove me to Stevenson to get my car. I gave them money for ice cream in Stevenson, and everyone was happy with the arrangement.

  Picking up a fast food dinner, I drove home. However, getting out of my car to get gas halfway home, I found I could barely stand. I had to practice standing for several minutes before I could pump my gas. When I pulled into my driveway at midnight, my knees, especially the left one, had so stiffened up that I could barely make it into the house without crawling. Hmm, I guess 16 miles was too much. It took three or four days for the knee to recover to what was now my normal.

  “It’s Medicare Pastor.”

  In September my friend Kathy and I set out from Chinook Pass SOBO for my last PCT hike for the year to complete Washington, also a shake down hike before heading to the AT the following week. Kathy, my Washington hiking buddy, and I were prepared to have a good time on the trail.

  Unfortunately, a forest fire in Oregon made the sky hazy, and the normally clear and beautiful views of Mount Rainier were absent. The blessing when long views are obscured is that short views and flowers become more striking, not having to compete for attention with the more overpowering long vistas.

  Shortly after starting on the trail from Chinook Pass, three hikers came toward us NOBO. “It's Medicare Pastor,” said one. Forager. From Big Bear. He’d made his way north and was on his last state. Circle also passed us heading NOBO. How fun to meet hikers I’d met in the spring.

  An elk bugled outside our tent several times during the night, waking Kathy. She said she’d contemplated getting up and stabbing it with a hiking pole so she could get some sleep. Actually, we both slept well regardless of the love-sick elk.

  “What a beautiful morning.”

  At Kathy’s suggestion the next day, we ticked off more miles than planned and camped in the only spot we could find not covered in bushes or bogs. The trees were beautiful. The night was still and oh, so peaceful. A beautiful lake, beautiful trees, a cozy sleeping bag, good company, full bellies and a great day on the PCT. What more could one want?

  It rained softly all night. Stirring at 6:15, the rain conveniently let up for breakfast and packing. That wet and drippy morning, fog gave an ethereal look to the trees, stream, and lake. Kathy sat on a damp log eating breakfast and said, “What a beautiful morning.” She wasn’t being sarcastic. She meant it. One of the reasons I always like hiking with Kathy is she honestly enjoys the outdoors in all of its aspects. And it was beautiful, even in the damp.

  Meandering through alpine trees and around lakes, ponds and bogs, there were no grand vistas, but trees, meadows and lakes were no less beautiful, freshly washed by the rain and viewed through mist. Our rain gear worked perfectly, ticking off our miles with stops for snacks and a brief rest, we were at White Pass. Washington was complete as was a nice chunk of Southern California, all on a pitiful knee.

  My PCT hiking for 2008 came to a close, and my AT hiking for 2008 began.

  Chapter 15 September 24, 2008

  AT

  The Body I Currently Possessed

  My plan was to start hiking north on September 25 from Bland, Virginia, where I’d stopped in 2007. At my new, slower pace, if the knee and other failing body parts held up, I would make it to Duncannon, Pennsylvania, by November 18. I wished I had the body of the year before but I only had the body I currently possessed, so I would see what it could do. My PCT hike in the spring had taught me to be thankful for any hiking I was able to accomplish. Each step would be a blessing in spite of failing body parts, and I would be happy.

  I had a new brace for the left knee, a heavy-duty brace with metal uprights and various bars and straps. The good news was the knee felt better in the brace. I still couldn’t quite do six-inch stairs independently, but I was much closer to doing so with the brace. The metal uprights prevented little sideways instabilities causing pains—minor and sometimes major. Its main function was to prevent the tibia (main lower leg bone) from sliding back when the knee bent since my doc thought those little staph buggies had eaten my posterior cruciate ligament, which was supposed to hold the tibia in place

  After two days, four airplanes and two rides from angels Bobbie and Linda, my feet were once again on the Appalachian Trail taking me to a shelter that night with four other hikers. Wind blew softly through the trees, Cicadas were noisy in the woods, and I slept for ten hours.

  Sleep does a body good. So does hiking. The trail had large sections of level-ridge walking amid very short ups and downs over mountains often named Brushy. Views were
hidden by trees, and there wasn’t much fall color. But every now and then, brilliant red or orange shone vividly against the green of the rest of the trees, bringing a smile to my face.

  My chances to get to know people would be limited by my slowness of gait and the opposite flow of the main hiker traffic heading southbound in the fall. A few were headed northbound like me. I ate dinner with Gary and Jeff, on their first backpack trip ever, inspired by Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods. They, Mama Llama, and Erin were on the trail with me until Pearisburg. It was a wet stretch. The 10-day forecast was for 70-degree days, 50s in the evening, and no rain. Yeah. Right. It sprinkled, poured, and was very rarely dry all the way to Pearisburg. Oh well, they needed the rain. Before the rain began, hikers were worried about water. Rocky AT drenched in rain meant an old lady with a bum knee walked very, very carefully.

  The AT can have a sameness about it much of the time. After I stopped for a break, I had to think hard to remember which way I’d come from and which way I was going to as the rhododendron tunnel to the left looked exactly like the rhododendron tunnel to the right. Finally deciding the log was on my right as I came up the trail, I was soon on top of the ridge. Note to self: when stepping off the trail in such terrain, make a note of the desired direction to continue before leaving the trail. There are quite a number of hikers on the AT with the trail name Wrongway. I could see why.

  My pack was heavy with food and water, but the weather was better as I climbed out of Pearisburg up Peters Mountain. Somehow, moisture had gotten to my camera even in its case under my raincoat, and it stopped working. Reaching the hill near Rice Field Shelter I set the camera in the sun, after which it briefly cooperated for two pictures of the lovely view before deciding to conk out again.

  A younger hiker, Canyon Voice, caught up to me that day; we camped together and enjoyed conversation. It was nice to have congenial company and, as Canyon Voice said, we had a room with a view from Symms Meadow. I remarked about a beautiful, very large black snake I’d seen, and Canyon Voice allowed he had friends and relatives who would never put beautiful and snake in the same sentence. We would.

  Starting a long section hike, Canyon Voice was trying to let his legs become trail legs at a gradual pace. As we walked together through the day, Canyon Voice twice got water for me. What a sweetie. I also learned about Aqua Mira drops for water treatment. Those drops in little bottles looked much lighter than my filter.

  The AT through Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee ticks off those states fairly quickly. Virginia is another story. Many hikers tire of hiking Virginia long before they run out of Virginia. The trail tread went over rocks, down a few country roads, (mostly for detours) uphill, downhill and over few areas of flat trail. I walked Virginia in the fall.

  Sun, foggy days with rain and the changing color of the leaves were all mine, as were lovely views out over valleys and forests, farms and small towns carved out of the forest. Farmlands, pastures, forests and rocky, mountainous terrain meant both cows and deer were common.

  Many southbound thru hikers passed me, also day hikers and a few northbounders, their names peppering my journals. I usually stayed in AT shelters, usually simple three-sided affairs, occasionally with multiple levels. Some even had picnic tables nearby or under the cover of an extended roof. Privies were built near most shelters, and it was a wonderful luxury to sit for my morning constitutional compared with squatting over a cat hole I dug for myself on the majority of trails in the western parts of the USA.

  Do not be deceived, however, into thinking the AT was always an easy walk in Virginia. The trail went uphill and downhill, over rocks small and large. I was often on ridgelines, which led me to clamber over and around rock after rock, after rock, the size of cars and trucks. It was challenging terrain for a gimpy old lady with a bad knee and what had become an infected toe.

  Before Laurel Creek Shelter the trail became more like a trail and less like a rock scramble as I pushed to reach the shelter before dark. Yet on the way down the trail, I was treated to one last beautiful view of valley and mountains with evening shadows highlighting the hills. I stopped to admire the sight even though I was fighting coming darkness. Gradually losing daylight, in October, each day was shorter than the day before.

  In another snippet of history, I passed the Audie Murphy Memorial, made for the most decorated soldier in WWII who’d died in a plane crash nearby, the monument erected by people from Christiansburg.

  “Isn’t it nice that at our age we can be proud of our age.”

  The trail was rough, with many large rocks to scramble over or scoot down passing the Dragon’s Tooth. If the Dragon's Tooth was an incisor, then I was scrambling over the molars. After baking my camera in the sun, it decided to work once again, giving me the opportunity for a picture of the Dragon's Tooth, a narrow rock sticking straight up into the sky.

  North of Dragon’s Tooth was even more challenging terrain going down fixed rebar in vertical rock to use as stairs. A younger me would have loved it. Even myself as a gimpy old lady found it interesting. While climbing backwards down rebar steps, I met a man a year younger than me, Teabags from Great Britain, who said. “Isn’t it nice that at our age we can be proud of our age.” I vowed from then on to consider “old lady” to be a crowning achievement, not a pejorative term.

  Bobbie, who had picked me up at the airport, met me four miles in from the trailhead, and we chattered as we walked to the parking lot. Then she drove me to the little country store, so I could purchase a few items before going to The Home Place, a very popular restaurant in the woods for hikers and all sorts of other people, too. We had to wait over an hour to get a table.

  Once seated, they brought us fried chicken, choice of roast beef or country ham, cole slaw, corn, green beans, red beans, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits and apple butter—all you can eat for $13.00.

  After walking on the trail for a week or two, hiker hunger is common. A hiker can eat anything not bolted to a table. Hikers love The Home Place. The food was quite good, and we had peach cobbler with ice cream for desert. Yum.

  After dinner it was pitch dark, and I had a mile to go to the next shelter. Bobbie took me back to the trailhead, and I started up the trail in the dark with a headlamp containing an almost dead battery. It took an odd size, 6 volts, and the country store didn’t have one. Nevertheless, I put the headlamp on low setting to coax as much life out of it as possible and started up the trail. I was to discover the next day that I went past the shelter I was aiming for, missing the turnoff in the dark. Eventually the headlamp ran completely out of battery, and there I was on the AT with a pile of rocks on the trail behind me and a pile of rocks on the trail in front of me at last lighted sight. There was no light left from my headlamp, and the moon wasn't bright.

  On one side of the trail the hill sloped steeply down and on the other side of the trail it went steeply up. So, being an old lady who didn’t want to further damage any more body parts, I stopped. Right there.

  I spread the tent on the flat part of the trail and cowboy camped on top of it, taking care that all roll-able objects were on my uphill side. I was safe; my tummy was full; and I ended the day sleeping in the middle of the trail. When it began to get light, two hikers came up the trail as I was sitting in my sleeping bag. I apologized for taking up the trail, and they went around me on the hillside. I hurriedly packed up before more hikers came by.

  I continued up the good trail to McAfee Knob, a large shelf of rock sticking out over a drop of several hundred feet, with a breathtaking view. McAfee Knob is the most photographed spot on the AT. I chatted there with Teresa, a Chinese American born in Hong Kong, who took the traditional picture of me sitting on the overhang. It was such a pleasant morning, I could have stayed there for hours with beautiful views and good company.

  However, I hike with a hiker plan, and my goal was to go past Tinker Cliffs, another interesting hunk of rocky cliffs with a steep drop on the way to Lambert’s shelter. I met Rocky and another
Swamp Fox by Tinker Cliffs, and they have stayed in touch on my guest book over the years since then. At Lambert’s Shelter, I melted my jacket sleeve reaching over my lit stove and had to patch it with duct tape to keep the down from disappearing into the countryside. Note to self: Don’t reach for anything over a lit stove.

  The next day I saw two bears. There are more bears on the AT than the Pacific Crest or Continental Divide Trails. Receiving more rainfall, vegetation is thicker on the AT, making wildlife habitat compatible with higher numbers. Also, they didn’t seem to be hunted.

  The bears I saw were yearlings, not cubs. They didn’t see me at first. I stood still, watching them until one turned away from the other and headed straight toward me, still not seeing me. I could have had a smashing picture, but I was a little alarmed at the speed with which the bear was approaching me. Instead of snapping a photo, I waved my hiking poles at him and told him to go somewhere else. Standing on his back legs, he gave me a really good look, perhaps wondering what I was doing on his mountain, before scampering off up the hill along with the other bear. It was a great bear sighting.

  When I reached Highway 22, I was met by Michael, the same Michael I’d met the year before on Mather Pass in the Sierra. Michael’s trail name was Sugar Daddy because he ate so much candy. So I had a welcome zero day with a young, handsome dude named Sugar Daddy, who was a perfect gentleman to an old lady the age of his grandmother.

  “Hello, Dear Friend.”