Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  Throughout the Shenandoah I saw no bears. Perhaps they were already holed up for winter. But there were many, many deer, often heard bounding up in the rustling leaves before I saw them.

  Bathed in Yellow and Orange Leaves and the Light Shining Through Them

  As I descended from the Shenandoah the trails changed from relatively smooth National Park trails to steeply pitched piles and piles of rocks. I changed from the confident hiker, though aged, to a tottering old lady, picking her way down the rocks. The last few miles into Front Royal changed to nice trail, and for one last 300-400 foot climb it was so warm I stripped to sports bra, a nice change from snow and freezing cold.

  The hitchhiking grandma did well coming to Front Royal. I stuck out my thumb, and the third car stopped. A nice grandfatherly man gave me a ride and found the Scottish Inn for me. Long-distance hikers have no cars, at least with them. They are quite dependent on the good will of perfect strangers. I have met hundreds of such wonderful people over years of long-distance hiking. Hiker grapevines also help identify trail angels willing to provide transportation.

  November 1 was a lovely day. It was sports-bra weather all day long through trees still clothed in colorful leaves at lower elevations. I had a positively decadent late start at 9:00. The next day, daylight savings time would change to standard time. I would need to get to my stopping point for the day by 4:30-5:30, and hiker midnight would be before 7:00.

  That sounded so different. Yet it was, in reality, not very different from the day before. Changing time seemed an artificial construct while hiking. The only thing important was how many hours of daylight there were to walk. Calling it Daylight Savings Time or Standard Time was irrelevant. Still, it would seem strange to stop as early as the clock would say it was in November.

  Reaching the shelter by 5:30 I had plenty of time to get my water, bathe the sweaty parts of me, and get dinner before dark. How nice to still be warm enough to bathe. I always felt like a new woman, sweat removed. If it was cold, I could live with the sweat and dirt. As I fell asleep that night, I listened to crickets again singing in the warmth.

  Sunrise was especially striking, a brilliant red-orange ball before it rose and hid behind a cloud. The forest was beautiful. I felt positively bathed in yellow and orange leaves and the light shining through them, baptized in the light of God's love in yellow and orange, a nice Sunday image.

  The next day was even better. The roller coaster (a section of continuous up and down hills) was everything it was cracked up to be, but then a whole lot more. It was a glorious day. Oh yeah, it went steeply uphill and downhill repeatedly, and there were lots and lots of rocks under foot. But the forest. Oh my, the forest was gorgeous, a riot of color, the most color I’d seen on the whole trip. After the wind had blown away most of the leaves on the high peaks of the Shenandoah, this lower area bloomed with a riot of yellows, oranges, and reds. Magnificent.

  All the beauty took my mind off the struggle up and down the roller coaster of hills, and I marveled that I was the only one seeing it on that particular day. So much beauty and so fleeting a time before all those leaves would fall, brought me to tears. So many beautiful things in life are fleeting. I rejoiced that I could behold that particular forest at that particular time.

  I recommend the roller coaster in the fall, late fall. A big advantage of section hiking is to choose the time of year best for a particular section of trail. Why go through the roller coaster in sweltering June or July? Pick early November. I was so glad I did. I finally saw two other hikers on the last hill before Bears Den, a hostel in a beautiful old stone building and another iconic AT stop. Bears Den used to be the private residence of a wealthy physician and his opera-singer wife. It looked like a stone castle, or at least the manor house. Red Wing and Hopeful, two former thru-hikers, and their very sweet, almost two-year-old daughter, were the caretakers.

  I ate dinner with Red Wing and Hopeful, and in the morning I fixed myself pancakes, using pancake mix and syrup left in the community food section of the hostel. I fixed and ate two batches of pancakes, 12 pancakes, all by myself. And it wasn't even hard to do. Oink, Oink.

  West Virginia

  I said good-bye to Virginia as I passed the sign welcoming me to West Virginia. I’d made it through more than 600 miles of trail winding through Virginia. The forest wasn’t as glorious as the day before, but still pretty, just a little farther along in the season, the leaves not so brilliant and darkening to browns. The reds were more burgundy, but burgundy is a nice color, too.

  I stayed at Blackburn Trail Center that night, another big old beautiful house that was a private residence, yet also a free hostel for hikers. Hikers could sleep in a bunkhouse or on the covered, screened-in porch that went around three sides of the house. I chose the porch for the view and the daylight in the morning to wake me up.

  No one was in residence but me. However, after a couple people passed by, I felt nervous to be there alone. So I latched all the doors to the screened in porch. Just a screen for protection. Silly, perhaps, but latching the screen doors made me feel safer.

  As I ate my dinner I noticed an unusually tall light in the distance. My guidebook told me the Washington Monument in Washington, DC, could be seen from Blackburn Trail Center. I drank my cocoa listening to an owl while watching the lights on the Washington Monument in the distance. Amazing.

  The Washington Monument was still lit as I ate breakfast in bed in the pre-dawn hours, and I saw nine deer within two hours of leaving on a nice, warm day. Fortunately I still had my shirts on when I passed a class of 5th and 6th graders on a hiking field trip. I enjoyed being show and tell for the day as they and their leaders asked me many questions about the AT.

  Before descending to Harpers Ferry, I met Boone and Follower, two SOBO thru hiking brothers, who had started from Katahdin on September 17. Wow. They’d passed many other thru-hikers and were more than half done with the trail in just a bit more time than it had taken me to do 400 miles. Ah, youth.

  Arriving at Harper’s Ferry, I went to the AT Conservancy Headquarters to pick up my food drop and add my picture to their records. A very nice previous thru-hiker gave me a ride to my hostel, a building built in 1840. I slept in a brass bed in a house reeking of history in the Old Town of Harper’s Ferry.

  People must have been smaller in 1840, judging from the headroom on the doorways and staircase. The shower had a wall of the local shale. I couldn't remember seeing a rock wall in a shower other than the house our family built in the side of a hill in Colorado when I was a kid.

  I played tourist on my zero day in Harpers Ferry, far more than a snippet of history to see. If there was a museum or exhibit I missed, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I toured the buildings and exhibits in the lower town telling the story of John Brown and the role of Harpers Ferry in the Civil War.

  The natural setting was also quite striking as the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers joined from each side before plunging through the gap in the Blue Ridge Mountains to the sea. The river was the reason for the town's existence, providing water power for industry. The river was also the reason the town almost died, because of floods.

  Thomas Jefferson said the view from what is now called Jefferson Rock was worth a trip across the Atlantic. He may have been a bit of a romantic, but I agreed the view was lovely and took a photo of river, the old church spire and bright red sumac. George Washington did surveying in the area as a youth and was responsible for the establishment of the armory.

  My health was holding good. My toe had finally healed. The ups and downs of the roller coaster seemed to have made my bad knee a little stronger. I still couldn’t independently do stairs, but perhaps I could do them more easily with poles or a railing than I could before the hike.

  That night I listened to the echo off the cliffs in the gorge when the train whistles blew.

  “I had a choice?”

  Leaving Harpers Ferry, I crossed the Potomac into Maryland for three level and enjoyable miles on the to
wpath, canal and railroad on one side and Potomac River on the other, a treat to have level miles. A 1,500-foot climb followed but wasn’t terribly challenging. The only bad thing was a tummy upset from the burger I’d had the night before. That night on standard time it was dark at 6:00, and not long after 6:30, I was asleep.

  On a Saturday with beautiful, clear fall weather so near to Washington DC, I must have seen 100 people on the trail. I also passed the Washington Monument, not the one in Washington DC, the original Washington monument, built by the people of Boonesboro in 1827, constructed of stone in the shape of an old-fashioned milk bottle and used as a lookout tower by Federal troops in the Civil War. I might never have known that charming bit of history without walking trails.

  In spite of nearness to civilization, I saw bear scat on the trail. By nightfall I was reminded of nature’s biggest critter problem. A knowledgeable hiker who passed me recommended against staying at Devil's Racecourse shelter, as it was very near a road, and some locals liked to party there. So I left my pack on the AT and went down .3 mile to get water to haul back up to my camp on the ridge above the shelter.

  There are advantages to tents. They are usually warmer than shelters as the tent is not open on a whole side. The forest floor is much softer to sleep on than a shelter’s board floors and my belongings were more confined and easier to reach in my tent. But I had a hard time convincing myself of all that when the shelters were so handy and required no set up or take down. They’d come to feel like my own private bedroom. What? I can’t sleep in my bedroom because carousing strangers might be using it? It seemed a violation of my private space. Of course, it wasn’t solely my private space, but each shelter had come to feel like home, at least my home for the night.

  Another cold front coincided with crossing from Maryland into Pennsylvania. Penmar Park was all closed down for the winter under steely gray skies. Earlier in the day, I’d met one day hiker and then a whole bunch of Outward Bound hikers from a Baltimore High School. It was fun to talk with them, and they gave me Oreo cookies. Yum.

  My tummy upset after leaving Harpers Ferry was only a memory, and all systems were working in the privy at Deer Lick Shelter. It was a very cold 31 degrees as I settled into my sleeping bag wearing everything I had with me, I woke up at 1:30 AM with severe abdominal pain. Sitting up seemed to ease the pain. But sitting up soon made me cold and I snuggled back down into my sleeping bag to get warm again. Then pain would return, forcing me to sit up again. I slept off and on for a few more hours, but kept waking in pain.

  Finally, just before dawn, I got up, collected my things and started slowly walking to the road. My belly was so bloated that my pants were at least four inches from closure. Those same pants had seemed an inch or two too big for me the day before due to weight loss from hiking. There was no cell phone service to call for help. There were no other hikers on the trail. It was a very long two miles to the road. I walked slowly as any jolting step increased the pain in my gut. I was very glad it was only two miles as I focused on reaching the road.

  The second car to pass by stopped. Was I getting good at hitch-hiking or what? It might have been due to pain lines etched across my face. The lady who stopped told me she knew I was in pain.

  She took me to the Bible Church in South Mountain where she was a pre-school teacher, and I used their phone to call the Rev John Spangler from Gettysburg Lutheran Seminary where I’d been planning to stay for the next two nights. It was a long wait with increasing bouts of excruciating pain until he arrived to play ambulance driver, taking me to Gettysburg Hospital where I was x-rayed, CT scanned, and had my heart, my blood, and my urine checked. I had an intestinal blockage and was admitted to the hospital.

  The nurses expressed amazement that I’d been able to walk out two miles with an intestinal blockage. I looked at them and asked, “I had a choice?” Of course I walked out. There was no choice.

  They were kind and let me get a quick shower before hooking up the IV. It was probably kind to everyone else, too, since it had been five days since my last shower in Harper’s Ferry. I was given painkillers, antibiotics, and a nasogastric tube. The hiker was tethered to the bed by tubes. I guessed hiking was done for the year. Ya think?

  I responded very quickly to conservative treatment and was glad when the docs stopped using phrases about possible surgery. An American Methodist Episcopal seminary student chaplain’s assistant (That’s a mouthful for a title.) at the hospital agreed to pick up my last resupply box from Boiling Springs, which I would now not reach. The kind folks at Holly Springs B&B took my reservation cancellation, quite concerned that I find needed transportation to my daughter in New York.

  John Spangler took my gear and washed all my filthy hiking clothes while I was clothed in a hospital gown. The staff at the hospital was very caring and efficient. Another chaplain visited with me the next day as well as two more local clergy alerted by the Washington Synod prayer chain’s contacts across the country. An extraordinary amount of pastors gave pastoral care to one hiking pastor.

  John Spangler and his wife just happened to be going on a quick trip to New Hampshire to visit their daughter and they drove me straight to Troy, delivering me to mine. All of that care went way beyond trail magic. Thanks be to God!

  I had so very much for which to be thankful. I was thankful to be able to hike long distance hikes in spite of advancing age and injuries. I was thankful I was able to get to a hospital when I needed to. I was thankful for all the trail angels, who had helped me along the way. I was thankful for my family, grandchildren in Washington State and New York State.

  Crowning the list was the birth of my fifth grandchild, 13 days after I left the trail. You can hardly beat that for an ending to a hike. You can hardly beat that even if you are not hiking.

  Chapter 16 Winter 2008-2009

  Decrepitude and a Dog

  Another year. Another two or three hikes to look forward to. I spent the winter planning hikes.

  My doctors had no idea why I’d had a hike-ending bowel blockage in 2008, nor did they have any idea if I would ever have another. It didn’t seem to be connected to the trail except that I happened to be on the trail when it happened.

  My friend Kathy and I often joked about our ages and states of decrepitude and rejoiced that we still hiked anyway. There is not just one way, one age, one time in life to hike. I still found it quite difficult to go up and down 6-inch stairs. But hiking with poles was just walking with two canes. HA.

  Not only were Kathy and I still hiking, even though we had failing body parts, so was her dog. Tasha was then 15 years old, pretty darn old for a dog. In the fall she seemed to have a couple of strokes, losing the ability to walk, only able to drag herself around the house with her front legs. Kathy tenderly cared for her furry friend. After a few months, Tasha suddenly started to walk again. She limped and sometimes fell. She was pretty deaf. But she still loved to go out with us on day hikes. She was fitted with a bootie for the foot that dragged to protect it from abrasions, and we three old ladies still hiked. Tasha inspired us.

  On a cold, wet spring in the northwest, 6th snowiest year ever, I managed to get my spring garden in, though I’d had to till some frozen chunks of ground to do it. The seeds were promptly covered in snow but survived to grow while I hiked on the PCT.

  On one rare sunny day, Kathy and I hiked up Mt. Si with nearly full packs. It was a milestone for me, the first time I could make that climb since knee surgery and infection. I was certain I should have hiked more before heading to Southern California. But I was in whatever shape I was in, ready and eager to go. I planned what I thought were pretty reasonable days to start. I would find out if I’d have the same opinion when I got there.

  Chapter 17 March 31, 2009

  PCT

  Greeting Flowers Like Old Friends

  Liz drove me up to Three Points, and off I went. Oops. I almost had a major disaster, leaving my maps, book pages, and permits in the car. Liz saw them and beeped her horn ho
ping I would hear, even though I’d already gone up the trail and quickly out of sight. Fortunately, I did hear the horn and her calling me.

  Returning to the car, I put the maps in my pocket where they belonged and started off again.

  After leaving Liz, I saw no people all day. It was still, quiet, peaceful hiking. I loved the pine forests on the shoulders of Pacifico Mountain and kept trying to think of excuses to stop, sit in the sun, and enjoy the peace. Finding a log to sit on, I listened to the silence.

  I’d discovered great joy in hiking solo. I liked hiking with other people. I liked having company. But starting out on a morning solo, having the whole world in front of me waiting for my steps to take me wherever the trail would lead was a marvelous feeling. The world before me was mine, just waiting for me to come and see it. My footprints were the only ones in the patches of snow over 6,000 feet. That is, they were the only ones except for the very clear, fresh-looking bear tracks with distinct toes.

  However, I saw no bears on the way to the campground, campsites set in pine trees near granite boulders. The amenities included picnic tables, a privy, and bear-proof trash cans with a door on the back that could be lifted to show a space for food bags. After dinner, washing up, and brushing my teeth, I snuggled into my bag and tent at 7,124 feet, hoping for a nice morning sunrise.

  Instead, the wind blew ferociously all night, ripping the tent loose from its moorings in the early morning. I was surprised the tent had lasted that long. In high winds at 34 degrees, I packed up and got the heck out of there. It wasn’t the most auspicious start.