Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [15]
“I know that you’re gonna make it all the way to Maine,” he told me. “If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you. And when you get up there, I’ll come pick you up.”
“Mom doesn’t think that I’ll make it,” I said.
“You know your mother, she’s just worried. But the main thing you have to worry about on the Appalachian Trail is people, and people are a threat everywhere. So if this is what you want to do, then you should do it. Just trust your instincts and you’ll be fine.”
Even though my dad was supportive, that didn’t make leaving his youngest child and only daughter on the side of the road any easier. When we arrived at the trail, he gave me a big hug and tears welled up in his eyes as he helped me hoist my pack out of his truck bed and onto my back. As I turned to start my northbound journey, my dad held his camera to his eye and captured every step as I disappeared into the forest.
The excitement of being back on the trail helped me climb out of Unicoi Gap quickly, but when I looked behind me and no longer saw the road or my dad, my stomach began to twist into knots. As I continued hiking, I began to panic. Part of me wanted to sprint back down the trail and jump into my father’s arms. But I slowly kept placing one foot in front of the other, distancing myself from my dad and hiking farther away from where I started. I told myself that this is what my dad would want me to do. And this is what I wanted to do.
After several miles, the path leveled out on a ridge, and because the trees were barren, I could see the neighboring mountains in every direction. I finally stopped thinking about the life I had left behind and began to focus on the adventure ahead. My body was energized, and my optimism quickly carried me down the trail. I longed for the challenges that awaited me, and I raced down the path to find them.
The following afternoon, all that racing left me sidelined on a fallen tree. I had spent the last few hours trying to hike through the discomfort inside my sneakers. At first my feet just felt hot, and then increasingly sore, but now with each step the roots on the trail felt like daggers and the rocks like broken glass.
I sat down on a rotting log and buried my face in my hands. If I was going to continue hiking, I had to do something. I carefully unlaced my shoes and gently removed my socks to examine the soles of my feet. I had been blister-free for the first fifty miles and had acted rather self-righteous about not wearing boots, so looking down upon the dime-sized, pus-filled sacs that dotted my feet, I wondered what had happened.
I started sifting through my pack, looking for something sharp to pierce the tough outer layer of skin. At the very bottom of the bag, beneath my sleeping bag, I found my pocket-knife. It wasn’t a sterile needle, but it was the only sharp item I had so it would have to do. I carefully unfolded the blade, then I pressed the sharp tip to a swollen white sac near the ball of my foot and slowly began to skewer the thick skin. Once I penetrated the outer layer, I gently squeezed out the clear liquid as if deflating a balloon. I repeated this procedure again and again, and after half an hour, my feet no longer resembled a relief map.
I covered the smooth but tender skin with antibiotic ointment and then, knowing that a Band-Aid wouldn’t stick, I wrapped the soles of my feet with duct tape. Every trail book, blog, and briefing I’d read suggested bringing duct tape, and already I was discovering one of its many practical uses. I put my socks and shoes back on and packed up my gear to test my new feet on the trail.
I knew that my makeshift surgery wasn’t the most hygienic operation, but as I pushed myself off the log and slowly transferred my weight to my feet, I was pleased to discover that much of the pressure and some of the pain had disappeared.
Hiking nimbly through the bright afternoon sun, my feet continued to feel better, but my legs started to burn and a dull