The End for Now

Some of you out there may be wondering where in the world is Mr. Happy (Signor Felice, Josh, what ever you want to call me). How is he? Can he walk yet? When will he be back on the trail? Others of you probably coudn’t care less. Those people probably don’t read my journal though.
Here are the short answers:
I am at home in western Massachusetts.
I am doing pretty well, if a little worse for the wear.
I can sort-of walk.
I will be back on the trail at the next opportunity. Most likely next summer. I will attempt another complete thru-hike most likely after I graduate in 4 years.

Of course, the short answers leave rise to more questions, such as “what does ‘sort-of walk’ mean?”
It means that I am definitely not 100% healed yet. Here is the story of what I have done since I came home in April.

I spent a few days recuperating, physically and mentally, from having actually left the trail. My whole family was in town for Easter, but I did not feel very social, and so mostly I kept to myself. I continued to sleep in a sleeping bag, rather than under the covers of my bed. I ate everything and anything in sight. Somehow my metabolism had never quite gotten used to NOT walking 10-20 miles each day. Within the first week I saw my physician and a chiropractor. The chiropractor adjusted my back, which was thrown out from limping, and helped me with the recuperation of my leg. My physician told me I had simply pulled a muscle and all I need was time. If it was still a problem, I should come see him in a month.
One month later I was even worse. Perhaps I should have been resting more, but I must admit that the idea of being completely bedridden did not appeal to me in the least. On the other hand, walking 3 miles to work one day was not the best idea. And so I found myself once more at my Doctor’s office. He sympathized with me and quickly ordered an MRI scan of my right thigh. It took another two weeks for me to actually get an appointment for that.
Getting an MRI is scary. I am mildly claustrophobic, but not so bad. It wasn’t the tight space that was scary. They slide you into the machine and give you headphones to listen to music on, and a call button should an emergency arise. For some reason, my music was the same 3 Greenday songs, repeated on loop. But I haven’t gotten to the scary part yet. Imagine the sound a heart-rate monitor makes when you are dying (or dead): that screeching alarm that calls half of the hospital’s doctors into the room. Now imagine that sound played at about 10 times normal volume, in a 2ft. diameter tube that you happen to be laying in. Oh, and did I mention that you are strapped down with gigantic velcro straps, and that they have something that feels like a lead blanket over your chest? Yeah. And then the part of the lead blanket near your crotch starts to vibrate, in a quite uncomfortable way. And to top it all off, right above my head there was a small glass lens with a label. The label read “Laser aperture. Do not stare!” Of course, the thing I wasn’t supposed to stare at was pretty much all I could see. And so I do my best to lay still and ignore my surroundings for the next 45 minutes (that’s how long an MRI takes). But they haven’t even started the machine up yet. All of a sudden there is a noise below me and the whole machine starts vibrating. It feels as if you are inside an old, clunky photocopier.
So that’s what an MRI is like. Nothing torturous, but not the best way to spend a beautiful summer day. Anyhow, a few days later I get a postcard in the mail that says “Your MRI came back ‘normal’.” Somewhat perplexed as to the meaning of normal, I make an appointment with an orthopedist, hoping for more answers.
Yet another week later I am at the orthopedist office, where I am told that my leg is a perfectly normal leg. No torn muscles. No broken femurs or hip joints.
“Are you sure that’s my right leg?” I ask, “’cause it sure hurts like hell.”
And the orthopedist suspects that the problem is coming from my back. He suggests possible nerve damage. Simply wonderful. A quick X-ray shows nothing, and so I am ordered in for yet another MRI. This time I come prepared, and bring a CD of music I like.
“Oh we can’t give you music this time.” the woman tells me, “you’re too far in for your back.”
Actually, since I knew what to expect, the second time was not nearly as bad, and before I knew it I was sliding out of the machine.
“Cut to the chase already!” you are probably thinking. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you out there kicking ass on the Appalachian Trail?”
I was wondering the same things for the past 3 months.
The second MRI comes up negative. I have a perfectly healthy back, as far as magnetic rays can tell.
Finally I decide to see an ostiopath (DO). The one I saw happens to be my best friend’s Dad, but he is also probably one of the best ostiopaths in the country. I should have seen him right away. Within five minutes he determines, by poking various muscles and nerves, that I have a severely strained Ilio-Psoas muscle. He pulls out a medical text book and shows me the muscle. It runs from the lower back, through the pelvis, to the inner thigh. It’s connection in the thigh is right around the area where my pain had been originating. It’s also right where the adductors muscle connects, which is why my physician had suspected that muscle. An hour with the ostiopath left me feeling much better, and with a full knowledge of what I can and shouldn’t do.
Basically, I am restricted to walking about the house and to the car. No swimming with kicking (I can swim if I use a pull-buoy that prevents my legs from moving, but helps them float), no running, no walking far, no carrying anything heavy, etc. Hopefully, I will be better soon, though due to the position of the muscle and the severity of the strain, I don’t expect to be doing anything serious this season.
Other than that, I am doing well. For exercise I kayak or swim (with the pull-buoy). I’ve left a note with my phone number in the Hemlocks Shelter on Mt. Everett and I am occasionally called by a thru-hiker in need of a ride to town. Whenever possible I try to help them out, and I head up to the hemlocks shelter often to camp and offer any passing hikers some extra food (the shelter is a mere .25 miles from a parking lot).
School starts on August 24th. I can’t wait.

Thank you all for reading my journal, for commenting, for your support, your emails, and advice. I’ll be back. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But sooner rather than later, I’ll be at the plaque on Springer Mountain once more, looking north to the horizon, preparing to put one foot in front of the other for as far as I can go. Hopefully, I’ll see you out there too.

Happy Trails,
Mr. Happy

Summary

The following was originally written in an e-mail to my high-school teacher Mr. Scanlon on May 1st. I have decided that it is a good summary of my hike, and worthy of publication. Here it is, with a few edits.

On January 12th I flew down to Mississippi to my girlfriend Margaret's house.  Her and her father drove me to Atlanta, Georgia, near the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.  On January 15th I began my long, long journey.  For two days, it was warm, which is what I expected so far south.  Then the Georgia mountains started to look more like the realm of Hades than the american south.  The temperatures dropped below 0 almost every night, and rarely rose above 20 (F) during the day.  A few inches of ice covered every surface.  On January 28th it got so cold (-15 degrees F with a 40-mph wind) in North Carolina that I didn't sleep at all, and in the morning I was quite hypothermic.  I walked 5 miles (it took me almost 5 hours I was so cold) to the top of a mountain, where there was a road and my cell phone worked, and I called for an evacuation.  Having had enough of winter, I got a ride back to a hostel I had stayed at in Georgia, where they allowed me to work-for-stay for a week, while things "warmed up".  During that week two feet of snow fell, and it did warm up - a little.  I set off again.  A week later, I came to the top of Shuckstack mountain near the Tennessee border, and looking back, decided that I had had enough.  It was still only 30 degrees, cloudy, dead, and desolate.  I was the only living thing for hundreds of miles.  The occasional squirrel would pop it's head out of a warm hole and look at me as if to say "What the hell are you doing you crazy bugger?  Don't you know it's WINTER?"  and so, realizing the silliness of my ways, I resolved to head home until Spring.  I took the greyhound bus, and now have a newfound respect for the Italian public transportation system.  It may not be as good as Germany, but it's cheap and you don't have to go all the way to Cleveland Ohio just to get to Massachusetts (thats about 800 miles out of the way).

While I was home in February the North East got hit with 4-10 feet of snow, depending on where you were.  I actually enjoyed it this time, since I didn't have to sleep in it, and managed to make some money by shoveling it for people.  This recovered what I'd spent to leave the trail.

On March 2nd my Dad offered to fly me back to where I had left off.  We had another little side adventure on the flight down in his small airplane, as we were rerouted by weather twice.  The whole trip took 3 days.  On March 5th my Dad hiked up Shuckstack mountain with me, and then headed back down the way we'd come.  He would go home, and I would continue.   My journey would be much improved.  It was sixty degrees out, and I had traveling companions this time -- 3 other hikers who we met the night before at the hotel we had stayed at.  Myself and my 3 companions hiked together for two beautiful days, and even formed a group which we called the "Fellowship of the Egg", a take on the Lord of The Rings.  Eggs are hikers favorite food in town, because they are cheap, full of protein, and delicious.  Sadly, on the third morning I was forced to leave the Fellowship of the Egg.  I had pulled a muscle in my leg (I thought) from hiking too hard, too far, too soon.  I had fallen out of shape during my brief hiatus, but I had expected to be able to come back to the trail and hike as if I had never left.  This was a mistake.  Sadly I said goodbye to my friends, and headed down a side trail towards the tourist town of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  From there I took another greyhound bus to Margaret's house.  She had been planning on visiting me for her Spring break, but since I was injured and needed somewhere to heal up, it made more sense for me to visit her.  After yet another week I was walking around as if nothing had happened, and Margaret drove me back to the trail.  I made it one mile before my injury represented itself and I was forced to turn around.  Determined not to throw in the towel, I tagged along with someone who was being shuttled farther up the trail, beyond Great Smokey Mountain National Park, to a hostel called Standing Bear Farm.  There I met Curtis, the owner, a genuine tennessee hill billy and a genuinely nice guy.  I spent a week there before getting restless and deciding to hitchhike farther north with another hiker.  The two of us made it to Hot Springs, North Carolina, and Elmer's Sunnybank Inn, a Zen Retreat by winter and a hiker haven by summer.  Books were everywhere, and an all organic vegetarian meal was served everynight.  It was always delicious despite the lack of meat.  Three days in Hot Springs and it was time to move on again.  Bear with me... the story is coming to a close. 

I hitchiked to Erwin, Tennessee, and Miss Janet's House, another hiker hostel.  Miss Janet let me sleep in the hammock out back for free, and in exchange I helped with the chores.  I stayed for half a month, and met a lot of hikers, learned how to cook a little, and made a lot of friends.  Finally, I was driven to Asheville airport and I flew home once more, my long journey over -- for now.

Doctors have told me that I can expect to hike regularly again in June.  I probably won't go back to the trail, as I won't have enough time to finish, but I will certainly be involved in the trail community.  I plan to do "trail magic" in the area where the trail comes near to my own home.  Trail magic is something townfolk often do for hikers, taking warm hot meals out to places where the trail crosses a road, and feeding the hikers, taking their trash for them, and offering them rides into town.