Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [81]
When I reached a rocky overlook on the other side of Duncannon, I peered down on the town. From the cliffs I could see the expansive Susquehanna River, and Duncannon gridlocked on the other side by highways and railroad tracks. The valley felt secluded and forgotten, as if Duncannon were a town holding on to secrets and clinging to the past. Perhaps I would have had a more favorable impression of the town if Warren hadn’t warned me not to stay there, but everything inside of me said that I had made the right decision.
People told me that Pennsylvania was rocky, but I thought that the large boulders and rock formations in the southern portion of the state had been what they were referring to. It wasn’t until I left Duncannon that I knew what people had really been talking about. After Duncannon the trail was absorbed by rocks. There was no longer any dirt; there were just rocks. Rocks and snakes.
I had seen my first two black snakes in North Carolina and encountered about a dozen more in Virginia. But since entering Pennsylvania, I had seen at least two or three snakes every day. And they weren’t all black either.
Besides seeing my first rattlesnake, I had also come across a green snake slithering through the grass, a gray snake swimming in a river, and a brown snake hiding in the leaves. Leaving Duncannon, I saw ten snakes in three miles, and they were mostly camouflaged with patterns of brown, tan, and yellow.
I think that there were so many snakes on the trail in Pennsylvania because they loved the warm rocks, and also because it was mating season—at least, I think it was mating season, since several of the snakes I saw were coiled together in tight, wriggling balls.
That afternoon, I traveled on a long, sunny rock field that spanned the mountains above the Susquehanna River. Hiking across a scalding, unending rock field full of jagged edges, loose footing, and snake beds was brutal, and I rapidly transitioned from slightly uncomfortable to utterly miserable.
I thought my feet had become accustomed to rock fields, but now on the serrated ridge, a familiar burning sensation accompanied every step. In my mind, the uneven rocks had morphed into primitive weapon tips designed to pierce my flesh.
There was no dirt tread to rest my feet, and the trail was so narrow and overgrown that there wasn’t anyplace to sit and rest my body. I had to stop! I took my mop stick and spent five minutes poking around a large rock in the middle of the trail. I was prodding to see if there were any snakes, but in retrospect, poking them with my mop stick probably wouldn’t have made them very happy.
I sat down and immediately took off my shoes. As I stripped off my socks, I could see that the pus, inflammation, and polka dots had come back with a vengeance.
I had worn a new pair of socks since leaving Harpers Ferry, and my feet obviously didn’t like them very much. I took off the suffocating masks, put my bare feet back in my shoes, and kept walking. I made it about half a mile before I determined that removing my socks did nothing for the pain, but it did allow the dust and dirt direct access to the infected portions of my feet.
I again looked for a rock to sit on, checked it for snakes, then sat down to put my socks back on.
I made it another hundred yards before the shredding sensation in my feet became overwhelming, and without checking for snakes, I collapsed in the middle of the trail.
I had no intention of getting up. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. But as the first drop began to slide down my face, I smeared it away with the back of my hand and took a deep breath. I already felt a little dehydrated, and I decided that losing more liquids wouldn’t help the situation.
Instead, I sat there and thought about things that were worse than foot pain: I thought about cancer and malnutrition, slavery and women’s servitude. I thought about civil wars and terrorism, homelessness