On this day, exactly one week after my Katahdin summit, the trail broke me. I hadn’t been sleeping well for the first 4 nights – waking up in the middle of the night and staying awake for an hour or two. Your body pumps adrenaline all day and can’t slow down at night. It’s adjusting to the sky-high level of activity and doesn’t know what to do at night. While the excitement carried me through previous mornings, this time I woke up exhausted. I stood up to a wave of nausea. Packing up camp felt like a gargantuan task. My first steps on the trail were clumsy and measured. Three miles into the day, shooting pains began in my right foot about every 50 steps. I forded a river in sandals to find my friends on the other side, all happily chatting and ready to push forward. They had the next site on their minds while I was wondering if I’d pushed my injury so far that these pains were a new, deeper, more insurmountable symptom of my sciatica. They moved on, and I was silent. I mentioned the pain in my foot, but I didn’t want to hold anyone back from their day. They all moved on, as I would have in their position. All except Blake.
He had mentioned previously that he was a physical trainer for the YMCA. He asked if I’d like some stretching tips, casually noting it was technically his line of work to help people in situations like these. Desperate not to have this be a trip-ending injury, I went through each stretch with him, counting my breaths. The simple act calmed my anxiety to the point where I could put my shoes back on and follow Blake, step by step, at what I considered a snail’s pace. One foot after the other, up one hill and then the next, the piercing pain in my foot slowly went away. We got to our first rest area, and a headache slowly crept in along with the chills. Blake told me to drink water, keep stretching. Exhausted, I moved on with him. The headache subsided and I warmed up, but my back started screaming at me. Blake showed me more stretches. The shelter appeared, and I almost passed out. I could barely stay awake to set up my tent, and I was dreading the steep downhill to the only water source nearby. Blake got my water. My only dinner left at this point is whole grain pasta (no seasoning, no sauce), and I had to ration it because I needed some for the next two days. I had plenty of food – it was just food that I don’t like. I made myself heat up some oatmeal with the pasta. After finishing the tasteless and slightly cold oatmeal, in the middle of forking dry penne pasta into my mouth, completely spent from the day emotionally and physically, I started sobbing.
The last time I remember crying this hard was in 3rd grade when my sister took my Tamagachi pet from me and wouldn’t give it back, and I had an asthma attack since I couldn’t catch my breath. This time was a moment brought on by sheer exhaustion, emotional stress, and a mix of deep gratitude for the kindness of a complete stranger. There was some laughter mixed in with the tears, but it all came out as heaving, guttural sobs. I reflect often on what it means to be a “good person” – compassionate, giving, self-sacrificing, positive. I also think it’s hardest to exhibit these qualities in difficult situations. It was incredible how unflinchingly Blake jumped in to help me out on this day. It would have been so easy for him to move on. And for that, I owe someone else in the future.
Trails And Travels 