Read Online Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail by Bill Walker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Walker
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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 periodically 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,
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 periodically 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,
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