by Bill Walker
“It’s knees that knock people off the AT,” hiking veteran Too Obtuse said. “But feet are what knock people off the PCT.” However, it wasn’t my feet that were the problem. They had held up fabulously on the AT. It had to be the shoes. And I sure as heck wasn’t going to find any size 15 trail shoes in any of these backwater trail towns.
I took a side trail to the tiny resort of Warner Springs, hoping for a miracle. I ran into several hikers, in an air-conditioned restaurant there. Afterwards, as several of us were limping through a parking lot, St. Rick noted, “Gosh, mates. We’re supposed to be walking to Canada, but people can barely make it through the bloody parking lot.”
Trout Lily and I headed out of Warner Springs in the late afternoon, hoping to make several miles before dark. After several miles, we came to the banks of Agua Caliente Creek.
“Looks like a perfect place to camp,” I said.
But Trout Lily was dubious. “I don’t know if I should keep goin’ or stay here,” she said.
“There’s a climb out of here,” I said. “You might get stuck on a ridge.”
“I haven’t done enough miles,” she muttered. For all her scintillating qualities, she seemed to be genuinely insecure. I left her alone and intentionally set up my tent well apart from hers.
By the Book showed up at dark. As his trail name might suggest, he was one of these people who had delved into every imaginable minutiae of equipment and trail planning. One nice thing about having Trout Lily around was I knew he’d train his total attention on her, and I’d be spared a seminar on all these mind-numbing topics.
This was a phenomenon I’d see over and over along the trails. By the Book was a pudgy, non-descript, middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks and the least likely possible suitor (with the possible exception of me!) of Trout Lily. Yet he was on her like a metal to a magnet for the rest of the night until she finally pleaded fatigue and went to sleep. There’s something about the trail that demands the release of infatuation with members of the opposite sex, even when lust is out of the question. It was up to the precious few women out here to put up with it. Many, of course, played it to their advantage, and Trout Lily could do that with the best of ‘em. But sometimes it apparently just became too much for them.
The very next night, after a big group of males plus Trout Lily had hiked twenty miles and finally gotten to our intended campsite, Trout Lily simply announced, “I’m going on.” Everybody seemed to get the message, because nobody offered to join her. There wasn’t much of anywhere for her to camp, according to the map. Indeed, when she did finally camp her tent blew down several times during what turned out to be a miserable evening. But at least it got her the hell away from us!
The British have a core contradiction in their character. As an island nation they can be annoyingly insular. Yet that same island nation had once ruled over the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Centuries of this have made the British both competent in foreign affairs, as well as arrogant. They really do understand foreign cultures better than most Americans do. And it drives them crazy to have to perennially play second fiddle to us daft Yanks.
St. Rick was a classic Englishman in so many ways. As we walked along this Saturday afternoon, it seemed like he had hiked all over the globe. Because of his rock-solid confidence, he never hurried things. I stayed right on his heels listening to his colorful descriptions of his journeys.
“Why are you doing that?” Americans often ask, about a long hike I’m planning. That is not a question that a Brit, or a European for that matter, is likely to hear. Outdoor vacations are a much more integral and valued part of their life.
“It is a source of embarrassment to me,” St. Rick confided, “that as well as I’ve always been treated over here, the way my countrymen take so long to warm up toward Americans.”
“The core of the problem,” a British guy once confided in me, “is that we just can’t quite get over the idea that we’re smarter than you are.” I told St. Rick that story.
“We have stupid people too,” he said. “We just don’t put ‘em all over television talk shows and everywhere like you do here.”
Our discussion was now becoming too abstract. But I will stick with the thesis that if outdoor vacations (they can be quite economical—Rick was a social worker in London. On the Appalachian Trail I hiked extensively with a janitor from London named English Bob) became a greater part of American culture, we would begin to understand the world better. Better yet, the world could actually shed some of their macabre stereotypes of us. All but the most jingoistic chest-pounders would probably agree that might not be such a bad thing.
The spirited conversation with St. Rick and good miles we were making had me in high spirits. Maybe I’ve hit a turning point. But then we reached the turning off point to the Tule Canyon Campsite. By-the-Book was noticeably limping in the opposite direction with some other guy I hadn’t seen before.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’ve got a viral blister,” he reported. “I have to get off the trail. This gentleman is nice enough to show me a way out of here.”
It had to be a coincidence, but my feet had just started throbbing within a couple hundred yards of that. I limped down a hill to what turned out to be an unfortunate campsite. The water was running, but green-colored, and we were completely exposed to the wind. My high spirits of the afternoon flagged. Perhaps Trout Lily had known what she was doing getting the hell out of this campsite and hiking on. Speaking of hell, I was on the verge of my own PCT version of hell.
Chapter 11
Renee
“The lesson of history,” wrote historian, George Santayana, “is that people don’t learn the lessons of history.”
Adults are just like children in at least one respect. When we put off problems and kick the can down the road, it only gets worse. Much worse. Yet we keep doing it. Maybe it’s just the human condition. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, though. After all, how many times had been hiking along and suddenly a knee, shoulder, or foot would inexplicably begin to generate some pain. I might pop some Advil, take a break, whatever. Sometimes, it might even hurt for a day or two. But then, just as inexplicably, it would go away. That was what I had been hoping for here.
But it wasn’t happening. On Sunday, May 5, 2009, my feet pretty much were in sharp pain from the beginning. I had blisters on the outside heels of both feet, blisters on one of the toes, and the balls of both feet had a deep burning sensation. That feeling of my feet being inside a furnace (inside two pairs of wool socks and size 14 shoes) had returned. Up until today I had been able to find somewhere—either on the balls, the heels, even on the sides to plant my steps. Now though, this incredibly short-sighted strategy was flashing red alert. I was practically immobilized.
The full wrath of the sun was bearing down on us this day. Every half hour I would stop, take off my socks and shoes, lie down horizontally, and elevate my bare feet on my backpack.
Hikers passed by making various analytical remarks (“so high, so low”) about my condition. Finally, I would get up and apply triple-antibiotic ointment, tape them up, and gingerly shuffle off. Twenty or thirty minutes later I’d be laid back low again.
On one of these breaks, a south-bounder from Israel came by.
“Can you hitch from that road coming up?” I quickly asked.
“Yes,” he reported. “There’s a whole group feeding hikers and giving them rides into town.” With that news, I jumped up and frantically began trying to hike using all legs, and as little feet as possible. It slows you down greatly.
“Hector’s down there,” someone said, referring to the Blister Doctor.
Worried that the group might evaporate, I tried hurrying. But the downhills were especially excruciating. A big group was sitting under the tent watching me limp up pronouncedly. Meadow Mary and her entourage had a big pot of soup, refreshments, and cold beers. Normally, this would have been one of those magic moments that hikers periodicall
y experience where everything is perfect.
Instead, dispensing with all pleasantries, I immediately asked, “Is Hector here?”
“He just left.”
“Damn,” I flung my hiking pole and backpack down, and lay down under the tent brooding.
We hikers have it easy in one respect. There are people that truckle and cater to us like we are the masters of the universe. It is such an overwhelmingly positive experience, that it comes as a real jolt those rare times when we meet someone that is the opposite. And when that person is a doctor it can have serious repercussions for your entire journey.
I say doctor. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. The entire town of Idyllwild (population 4,500) didn’t have a single doctor for reasons that are mystifying. Dave and I had hitchhiked into town the previous night and gotten a cabin at the rustic Idyllwild Inn. In one of those quirks of fate, he had idly said, “There’s supposed to be a medical clinic near here. I think I’ll go have ‘em check out my feet.”
“Oh, I might pop up there with you,” I said.
The person who saw me was a nurse-practicioner. In fact, according to rumors I later heard, she was quite the journey-woman nurse-practicioner, having nurse-practicioned all over southern California. I sat there on a patient’s table with my shoes and socks off and bandages removed, when an un-pleasantly plump woman named
Renee barged in.
“Hiker,’ she barked out, barely suppressing her distaste.
“Yes,” I answered, and proceeded to explain. She started going over my feet like a mechanic rifling through a car engine. The look on her face was like somebody had placed a rotten sulfuric egg just under her two nostrils.
“How important is this trip to you?” she suddenly said. Shouldn’t that question be coming later in the appointment?
“Well, very important,” I answered. “I’ve been planning to hike this trail for years.”
“Have you had any blisters or swelling on your face, or anywhere else, recently?” What the hell is she talking about? This is about my feet.
“Yeah, I walked all over the beach in Florida in the middle of the day getting ready for this hike,” I answered. “My lips swelled up with uh,—I guess—sun blisters really bad for a few days.”
“Yeah, well,” Renee said with an increasingly sour look on her face, “the way your foot is all swollen up, you may have herpes of the feet.”
“Herpes of the feet,” I repeated in disbelief. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Yeah, you need to take a good five or ten days off the trail,” she said bluntly.
“I’m on a tight schedule,” I moaned. “Everybody is hiking together. It’s best to stay together in the desert.” Boy, I really know who to tell a sob story to, don’t I!
“These are awful-looking feet,” she said, reaching down and giving them a quick toss up to make her point. “And look at this left foot. It looks practically gangrenous. See the way this fluid is coming out from these calluses,” she pointed out. Sure enough there was fluid leaking out from these calluses. “Those are blisters under the calluses. They could get infected any time. Do you wanna’ lose your foot?”
If the ability to confuse and scare the hell out of a patient is the hallmark of a great physician—excuse me, nurse-practicioner—then this lady belonged in the Hall of Fame.
“Well, well, what should I do?” I stammered.
“These blisters need to be debreeded,” she said.
“How is that done?” I wondered.
“I have to cut the calluses off to get at the blisters underneath.”
“That’s gonna’ take a long time to get back to where I can hike,” I muttered. “Is there any alternative?”
“Well maybe you could try soaking them for a few days and taking antibiotics for the infection. I don’t know.” She walked straight out before I had a chance to discuss Plan B.
A few minutes later a thirty-ish male walked in with a clipboard.
“We just need you to sign this showing you agree to the procedure and the price,” he said.
“But what about the other option—the soaking and the antibiotics?” I asked.
“What other option?” he asked. The communication problems in this clinic seemed to run in all directions. Renee came back in with a determined look about her.
“Lie down on the table.” I had no idea what was getting ready to happen. But my feet were badly ravaged, I reasoned. So I laid down on the table.
“Do you fit?” she asked.
“Yes, can’t you tell,” I fired back with my head and arms draped over the end of the table.
“Oh, these are much worse than I had thought,” she immediately said. “I’m going to have to go deep. This might be painful.” For the next fifteen minutes I felt like you do at the barbershop, worried the barber is cutting too much, but not sure whether to interrupt.
“Okay, I’m through,” she announced.
I pulled up my feet to take a look, and immediately felt sick at my stomach. Seventy percent of my calluses on the balls of my feet were gone. Instead, there was a visible terrace from where calluses ended and the drop down to a deeper red color where she had cut. Yeah, the blisters were gone and in blister heaven. But how the hell was I going to hike to Canada?
Renee commenced wrapping my feet in one layer of surgical tape after another in a way I couldn’t possibly hope to replicate. I tensely asked one question after another about the taping, walking, etc. which she robotically answered. Then she was finished.
“You’re done for awhile,” she said in full-stride as she bolted out of the door.
To be perfectly fair, I was in a helluva’ fix when I had hobbled in there this morning. But that was nothing compared to the way I walked out. I could barely make it to the waiting room. After paying I just hung out in the waiting room. Renee came flying through.
“Excuse me, Renee,” I said diplomatically. “Could you just give me a ballpark figure of when I should be aiming to get back on the trail again?” She looked at me a couple seconds, as if in thought. Then, she wheeled around and whisked away without saying a word.
“You’re done for awhile.” Her words rung in my head. She sure showed me.
Chapter 12
Bettina
“Is this Renee?” I kept asking.
“Yes, I’m the lady that cut the blisters out of your feet,” she said. I was in disbelief.
“Yes, yesterday morning,” she assured me. “That was me.” I was totally confused.
Dave and I had tried to walk back to the Idyllwild Inn the previous day. But after about twenty yards, he had called the Idyllwild Inn and ask them to come pick me up. They had obliged and I had buried myself back in the cabin for the rest of the day. Deep depression set in. My calculations—entering the high Sierra on June, 15th, getting to Canada before October, etc—all lay in shambles.
Idyllwild was overrun with PCT hikers as the annual wave of thru-hikers was passing through, and word had filtered out about my misfortune. Hikers were dropping by the cabin to commiserate. In reality, though, most simply wanted a firsthand look at the atrocity they had all heard this woman had committed on me.
“I’d call her up and raise hell,” Wrongway suggested.
“I’d call her up,” Cruiser asserted, “and tell her you were going to sue the shit out of her.” Neither fit my laid-back character. However, I did grit my teeth and call the clinic to try to clarify taping instructions. I was braced for a verbal shellacking from Nurse Renee. Surprisingly, they put me right through to her. Much more surprisingly, though, was her attitude. Gone were the surliness and antipathy to hikers. The new Renee was respectful and glad to repeat bandaging and medical instructions over and over to a neurotic ex-patient. Actually, there was even a hint of defensiveness in her speech. Was she remorseful that she had laid me so low? More likely, she was worried because Idyllwild is a small town. And yesterday she had made sure I was going to be here for awhile.
Headli
ne: Cougar attacks hiker in the Cleveland National Forest. Dave had turned on the television and this bit of journalistic gold was at the top of the news.
“Hey, isn’t the Cleveland National Forest where we are right now?” Dave asked.
“We were,” I answered. “I’m not sure if we’re still in it.” A cougar had attacked a hiker there. The hiker’s dog had loyally jumped in to defend the hiker, at which point the cougar had made short work of the dog. The big surprise, though, was that it had occurred in the middle of the day.
“I thought they only moved around at night,” Dave said, sounding a bit concerned. He was planning to hike out alone the next morning.
There are about 5,000 cougars in California. They are nocturnal and extremely stealthy. So stealthy that they sometimes follow their victims for days at a time. In fact, most PCT hikers are probably followed by a cougar for awhile, although only about fifteen percent actually see one. They like to hang out on rocks where they spring out to break the back of their prey’s necks instantaneously. Fortunately, cougars are such great hunters that they almost always choose tastier prey than us wretched humanoids.
Dave wasn’t an alarmist type, but I did notice him watching the local news again that night at 6:00 and 10:00. And when I awoke and went to the bathroom at 3:00 that morning his light was on, and I heard him re-arranging his backpack yet again. He was just retiring in Florida where he had quite a nice lifestyle; this was proving tougher than expected. Off he went alone at first light into one of the most brutal dry stretches in the desert. My heart went out to him.
“How tall are you?” came the question from behind me. Never has been my favorite question. But in the literally tens of thousands of times I have fielded it, this would prove to be my very favorite.
