Read Online Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail by Bill Walker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Walker
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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
“T he 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
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
“T he 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
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