There was a heaviness in me that went beyond exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that no amount of rest could touch. I’d barely set foot on the Benton MacKaye Trail when I noticed the blister that wasn’t a blister.
Squeezing the swollen lump on my foot, I watched in disbelief as a string of green and white pearls shot out. “That can’t be good,” I muttered, half wondering if something had laid eggs inside me.
Each breath was a wheezing rattle, my lungs clogged with mucus, my skull pulsing with a headache that wouldn’t quit. The hike crawled forward at a pace that felt impossible, my body dragging itself along while my mind churned in feverish spirals.
Each night under my rainfly, I prayed for energy to return with the dawn. Instead, I felt crushed by waves of thought that pulled me further inward, isolating me in the confines of my frail, aching body. Fever dreams haunted my waking hours, swirling demons bound me to this reality with heavy chains of unhealthy attachments, their faces disturbingly familiar.
And yet, even in my frailty, I felt a comfort in the woods. The crunch of fall leaves underfoot, filtering clear water from cold mountain streams. It took four days to cover the 40 miles to the northern terminus of the Pinhoti Trail. The final four and a half miles stretched endlessly, consuming an entire day. I’d never moved so slowly in my life.
Honestly, I might not have made it if not for the brief flicker of cell service and a message from @soulslosher that his tramily (trail family) would be at the northern terminus of the Pinhoti Trail with ibuprofen to cut the fever, and a ride waiting to take me into town.
When I finally arrived, they handed me off to the @toadshadehill shuttle, and I was dropped at a hotel, where I fell into bed and slept for two days straight.
#pinhotitrail #thruhike