Date: 2018-01-10
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Miles today: 0.0

Have you ever met people who proceed through life as though they are born with detailed AAA TripTics? For them, everything goes according to plan, step-by-step, year-by-year, and there are no surprises. Perhaps you are one of them. Santa always brought you what you asked for. You were accepted into the college of your choice and have been offered every job you¢ve ever interviewed for. You never have a bad hair day, and you never had a zit. You fell in love with the perfect mate, have 2.2 perfect children, and a well-mannered dog who loves everyone. You are mystified by the seeming chaos of other peoples¢ lives. Then you may not understand this story, for I¢m the kind of person who can connect the dots of my life only with hindsight, and I have yet to see what the lines will reveal. Although I compulsively plan, few things proceed according to my plan. Yet somehow, everything seems to work out. I¢m including lots of details so you can see what I mean. I couldn¢t make up this story if I tried.I hiked most of Virginia in 1997, starting at the visitors¢ center at Mount Rogers National Wildlife Recreation Area where I had ended my hike in 1996, hiking north to Waynesboro in May and June, and then after Labor Day, hiking south from Harpers Ferry, West Virginia back to Waynesboro. On the flight up to Atlanta in May ¢ in the South, flying nearly anywhere means changing planes in either Atlanta or Charlotte ¢ I was seated next to the ex-wife of my faculty advisor from when I had been a student at New College. She was into holistic medicine and noticed that I was massaging my knees. She recommended various herbal remedies and I nodded politely. Perhaps I should have paid more attention.  From Atlanta, I flew to Tri-Cities Airport in Northeast Tennessee and was met by a shuttle driver I had arranged through Mount Rogers Outfitter in Damascus, Virginia. The drive to the Visitors¢ Center took about an hour and after filling my water bottles, I was actually hiking by noon. I foolishly tried starting with a fifteen mile hike to Davis Path Shelter, since removed, but darkness overtook me and I tented alongside the trail.  I awoke the next day with my knees swollen to about the size of grapefruits and quite painful. My hiking speed was reduced to under one mile-per-hour, and it took me all day to walk the 12 miles to Knot Maul Branch Shelter. There were about six thru-hikers in the shelter. After introductions, I said that I thought I would quit my hike because the pain was just too much. There were some overnighters tented behind the shelter, and I could easily have yogied a ride somewhere. One of the thru-hikers who I later knew as M suggested that I postpone deciding until the morning and mentioned that he had read of a medical clinic in the town of Bland, not too far away.  I awoke early the next day to light sleet and decided to take M¢s advice and try hiking on. On the climb up Chestnut Ridge, the sleet turned to snow and I was glad for my rain suit. It was May 15, a bit late for snow, but there it was. I took a break in the old stone fire warden¢s cabin on Chestnut Ridge, quite possibly the coldest shelter I¢ve ever experienced. The sun came out as I descended from the ridge, greatly improving my mood. My knees were not hurting as much, perhaps because of the cold, and I stopped at Davis Farm Campsite after 16.6 miles. This campsite is down a steep path to the west of the trail, and is the site of an old farm. There¢s room for two tents, and there¢s reputed to a be a stream or a spring about 200 yards further along the path, but I never found it. What I did find, however, is that this campsite overlooks Burke¢s Garden, one of the most fertile valleys in Virginia, farmed mostly by the Amish. It¢s a nearly circular cove that formed when a limestone cavern collapsed and is sometimes called God¢s Thumbprint. The view was worth the dry campsite.  The next day, I hiked about 15 miles to the trailhead on U.S. 52, and immediately got a ride to the Big Walker Motel in Bland, Virginia. There was a medical clinic as M had said, and I phoned them. They suggested that I shower before walking down. The doctor was an internist from India. I was sure that after seeing my badly swollen knees, she would suggest that I quit hiking and go home. The portable X-ray machine had been there the day before and wouldn¢t return for a week, but because both of my knees were swollen, she doubted that trauma was involved and diagnosed osteoarthritis, the first of many doctors who would do so. She discussed treatment options, and I settled on prednisone, industrial strength naproxen, and codeine for the pain at night. The doctor warned me about prednisone, the risk of avascular necrosis and potentially euphoria. There was no pharmacy in Bland, the nearest being in Bastian, about seven miles away on the other side of I-77. I didn¢t know how I would get there.  The doctor kindly gave me a ride back up the hill to the motel since I was her last patient of the day.The Big Walker Motel used to have a restaurant on site, and we had a round table of about eight hikers that night. I mentioned my problem of needing to get to Bastian the next day. The waitress overheard and volunteered that her father could take me the next morning, on his way to his job at a nearby prison. Her father met me after breakfast the next morning, and carried me to the pharmacy in Bastian, refusing to accept anything but my thanks. The prescriptions were filled immediately and I took my first pills with a little water offered by the pharmacist. I had no idea where I was in relation to the trail, but as soon as I stepped out of the pharmacy, a blue senior citizens¢ bus stopped and offered me a ride. I wasn¢t a senior citizen at the time, but the driver didn¢t seem to mind. I mentioned that I needed to find a grocery store, and he dropped me off at an old-fashioned general store, J. Fred¢s.  J. Fred was behind the counter and volunteered that he could take me back to the trail when his help arrived at 11. It was about 9 then, but knowing neither where I was nor where the trail was, I thought that was a fine offer. Then he mentioned the kicker. Fred was a Pentecostal preacher and I would have to listen to him preach for two hours. He softened the threat by offering to feed me the whole time. I responded Amen and Hallelujah, being careful to sound a long A and to pronounce the H. I was grateful for the food (second breakfast and an early elevenses) and that the text of his sermon was neither Sodom and Gomorrah, Leviticus, Romans nor 1 Corinithians about the sinfulness of homosexuality. That would have been more than I could have swallowed. Apparently, aiding and abetting gluttony was not a sin for Fred, for he fed me quite well and I was able to find groceries on his shelves for the next section of my hike. About 10:30, his fiery sermon had moved on to the topic of death and judgement and was progressing toward Heaven and Hell. He mentioned that his wife had died during surgery. I expressed my condolences, and at that moment the radio telephone (we were really out in the country) rang. Fred excused himself because it was his wife. I was thinking Twilight Zone thoughts, but when Fred completed his call, he explained that his wife had died during surgery, floated up to the ceiling and seen the doctors trying to revive her, and then saw Jesus and her loved ones all dressed in white. She was given a choice of staying in Heaven or returning to preach about life after death. She chose the latter and was restored to life. I was spared from learning more when Fred¢s help arrived. Hallelujah, indeed.  For my lunch, Fred graciously fixed me an enormous sandwich on a bun exceeding seven inches in diameter, the whole thing weighing several pounds. We loaded my backpack and the sandwich into his ancient Ford Galaxy and he drove me back to the trailhead on U.S. 52. He insisted on praying over me before I could exit his car. Fine and dandy. Then he tried starting his car, but nothing happened. He asked me join him in laying hands on the hood, but instead I flagged down the first car that passed. They had jumper cables (the Lord will provide), and Fred was soon on his way and I was on mine. Thanks to the Prednisone, I made it 11.9 miles to Jenny Knob Shelter. The sandwich was eaten long before then.After a good night¢s Codeine-induced sleep, I was feeling pretty good the next day. I stopped at Trent¢s Grocery after only 6.5 miles, for an early lunch. Several hikers, including M, were there and had phoned into Pearisburg and arranged a shuttle to town. I joined them and spent the night at a hostel in an old barn behind Holy Family Catholic Church. M and I arranged a shuttle back to Trent¢s the next day with the hostel caretaker Bill Gautier, leaving our packs at the hostel, something hikers call slackpacking. Our pack lids converted to fanny packs and we brought only the essentials that no hiker should be without (map & compass, water, rain gear, lighter, headlamp, whistle, knife, first aid kit, and of course, food). It was nearly 27 miles and I had clearly given in to the Prednisone euphoria. With still about 8 miles to go, it started to rain and I found that my rain jacket had popped out of my fanny pack somewhere along the way. It was on the cold side, probably in the low 50¢s, and I debated whether to stay at Doc¢s Knob Shelter until it stopped or just to keep moving, trusting the exercise to keep me warm. I chose the latter and was fine.The next morning I was faced with the dilemma of either continuing my hike without rain gear or taking a zero day to hitch to the nearest outfitter in Blacksburg, about 24 miles away. Before I could decide, Bill Gautier walked in holding my rain jacket in his outstretched hand. Another hiker had found it and carried it into Woods Hole Hostel, about 10 miles from Pearisburg. Tillie Wood, a true trail legend, had phoned Bill to see if anyone had lost one and he had retrieved it for me. M and I continued hiking together until Waynesboro and remained friends for years.Planning ahead is a bedrock principle of Leave-No-Trace, and it helps to have appropriate equipment and supplies, but don¢t expect that your hike will proceed in accordance with your plan. If nothing else, planning ahead provides you with the flexibility to respond to life as it happens. The Trail will plan your hike for you, like it or not.