Trail Talk – October 2024

“There are some good things to be said about walking. Not many, but some.” ~E. Abbey

AFTER RECENTLY FINISHING Kevin Fedarko’s, A Walk in the Park, we were reminded of the mindfulness that becomes imperative when venturing out on foot into wild places. Biting off large chunks of difficult terrain, as “long-distance hikers” are wont to do, often comes with a cost, mostly physical, but emotional as well.

Fedarko’s telling of blistered feet wrapped in duct tape, with additional duct tape holding one’s shoes together after just a few days of thru-hiking the Grand Canyon brings to mind a similar episode we experienced running (fastpacking) the PCT through John Muir Wilderness. Melting snowbanks on north facing slopes had converted the trail tread into a steady stream of water, so each day as one pair of socks dried on the outside of our packs, the other became soaked. Our feet simply couldn’t dry out and blisters, NeoSporin, and duct tape became our reality.

While this particular adventure did not incur difficulty in staying hydrated (we’d save the dehydration and subsequent hyponatremia for another multi-day adventure), we did experience the weight loss that occurs from multiple days of burning over 5000 calories while being able to pack less than 1500. As tasty as the Mountain House dehydrated meals may be, before long the idea of wolfing down a can of Spam became paramount in our thoughts. And we were only out 7 days on this adventure.

We had also shared adventures in running long distances within Grand Canyon National Park, though we were certain to plan these in cooler temperatures. Even then, packing gallons of water down the South Kaibab to stay hydrated on the return trip after a quick jaunt to the North Rim and back was necessary. And when M. Fedarko wrote of cactus spines in unseemly places, yes, that’s a real thing. Dragging a 2 cm. spine from within the knee joint while soaking in a hot bath gave new meaning to “been there, done that!”

And yet, we kept at it. There was an emotional high that came with moving through so much nature on foot, every step a connection with the wild place. Running the knife edge PCT through the Leavenworth Alps in Washington state, peering into the bottomless fog-filled chasms on each side, one could sense the very backbone of the mountain ridge. Rounding a corner onto a north-facing slope, coming into a snowfield, and losing traction to slide 50 meters down the slope, ice filling my running shorts as I went, could only bring forth a laugh, as the ludicrous nature of what I was doing became clearer. I was in the moment, fully embracing the here and now.

In the end, it’s this connectedness, the sole of the foot against the bosom of our Earth, that should make hikers of us all. “May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.” E. Abbey