The young man in the restaurant has curling loops of wood for earrings. He tips his eyes back as if recalling something far in his past. "Yeah, ok. So you go down the train tracks: they're literally right over there. Go down those for a quarter mile and you'll find a farm gate. It overlooks the lake, and there are camping sites back there. It's choice."
"Ok, awesome." I've been a little worried about finding a place to throw my hammock for tonight without having to pay an exorbitant price for amenities I won't use. I'm in the Nanthahala Gorge National Forest. Camping should be free, if I can just find some public land. Bingo. He just gave it to me.
I shake his hand and walk out to get my stuff. Across the river, down the steps of the bridge, to the tracks. Things get mighty bumpy and I can't find the gate he's talking about, so I prop up my bike against a tall stack of ties and I trudge off down the tracks. I figure he may have underestimated the distance. About another quarter mile later, I sigh, turn around, and trudge back. I don't know if you own bike cleats, or if you've walked near a friend wearing them. There is a plate of metal screwed to the bottom of the shoe. That plate seems to slap and scrape against every rock I step on for a half mile there and back. Maybe I got the direction wrong, because I didn't see a lake. I walk upriver this time, but I leave my bike at the outset. I'm weary of bumps and wary of trains. Crunch and slap go my shoes. Crunch and slap.
Alongside the tracks, there's a pitiful little pond where the Appalachian Trail crosses and climbs steeply up a hill. I still don't see a farm gate like I was promised. I keep walking and soon the pond is replaced by a sheer rock cliff. Halfway up the cliff, precariously set and lopsided, there's a sign post that proudly declares "National Forest property behind this post." That's super helpful, thanks. I can see on the road side of the river what looks like a delightful roadside and riverside park where I really want to camp. My thoughts bounce from Ooh I want to go there to Wait, I would have to carry everything up the steps for the bridge again. Can I just put that off as long as possible?
I walk about a third of a mile from the bridge with no farm gate and no hope of one. The cliff just stretches away toward infinity. Time to give up. I turn around and slap crunch my way back to my bike. Maybe I can just stay at the small offshoot road where they rent canoes and kayaks out. There were some good trees there, it's gated, and if I'm up and out by seven, who's gonna know? Nobody.
Passing back past the cliff, I see a tree with two large red paint markings and a furiously nailed-on yellow sign. I scramble down the railroad grade to take a look, getting a mouthful of cobwebs for my trouble. "Bearing Tree," it proudly proclaims. Bearing what? I look up, and the tree and to go straight up forever with no branches or deviations. It's not bearing anything, I think. Wait. This is like an orienteering or survey landmark, I guess. Wild. I wonder when it stopped being useful, or if it's still important.
I turn around and scramble back up the grade, trip, fall to my hands and knees, and feel a shocking pain fire up my left leg from the ankle. Scream. I shake my right leg, thinking to free it from the vine that's tripped me. It won't shake off, and I shake it again, uselessly. I'm not sure why it won't let go of my toe. I twitch sideways and it won't let me move, and I look at it again. Barbed-wire. Damn.
I don't want to see how badly I'm hurt, but if I'm going to die here, I might well know why, so I sink my right knee in the dirt to lift my left ankle up where I can look at it. I'm bleeding, but not really badly. There are twin steaks of sapphire staining my sick on either side. I've caught the ankle square on the back, centered on the tendon. I scream again, at the sky, but not for pain this time. For frustration. I touch the blood, and it comes away on my fingers, but it's not gushing out. It seems to have stopped somewhat. My lucky day. Returning to a crouch, I reach back to the wire that has punctured the top of my shoe two inches back from the toe. I see small fibers around the hole, and I really have to maneuver to get the trap to release my foot. There's only a small gap in the cloth to show what's happened. A small gap in my left leg reminds me I don't care.
Clambering up to the railbed, I sit down. What have I got? I reach into my wallet and pull out the tiny bandaid I stash there. I stick it to my ankle and it saturates immediately and won't stick to my bloody skin. It falls off, and I try to poke out back on. It falls off after one step. I leave it.
Crunch tap slap tap crunch, I hobble back to my bike. There's a changing room at one of the buildings, so I guess they'll have a bathroom too. I can wash this wound out and put some triple antibiotic ointment on it. That's all I can do, for now.
On the sink, I strip off shoe and sock. The tap is automatic, but it wasn't designed for ankles, so it takes a moment to position just right until—scream again. The water fires straight into the bloody mess the back of my leg and I grit my teeth under the intensity of it. I try to wipe at the dirt around it, I try to push and prod it, and every time I move, I have to reposition so the water will remember to keep running. At a certain point, I just sit, panting and grinning, letting the water run into my personal pain station.
Right now, I have a bandage from the camp nurse Odalid that is big enough for my wound. It won't stay on because I don't have any gauze tape. All I have is duct tape, and I'm not an idiot. Right now, I'm sitting next to the river writing, watching my battery percentage fall a point per sentence. Right now, I'm in a little pain.
I shake his hand and walk out to get my stuff. Across the river, down the steps of the bridge, to the tracks. Things get mighty bumpy and I can't find the gate he's talking about, so I prop up my bike against a tall stack of ties and I trudge off down the tracks. I figure he may have underestimated the distance. About another quarter mile later, I sigh, turn around, and trudge back. I don't know if you own bike cleats, or if you've walked near a friend wearing them. There is a plate of metal screwed to the bottom of the shoe. That plate seems to slap and scrape against every rock I step on for a half mile there and back. Maybe I got the direction wrong, because I didn't see a lake. I walk upriver this time, but I leave my bike at the outset. I'm weary of bumps and wary of trains. Crunch and slap go my shoes. Crunch and slap.
Alongside the tracks, there's a pitiful little pond where the Appalachian Trail crosses and climbs steeply up a hill. I still don't see a farm gate like I was promised. I keep walking and soon the pond is replaced by a sheer rock cliff. Halfway up the cliff, precariously set and lopsided, there's a sign post that proudly declares "National Forest property behind this post." That's super helpful, thanks. I can see on the road side of the river what looks like a delightful roadside and riverside park where I really want to camp. My thoughts bounce from Ooh I want to go there to Wait, I would have to carry everything up the steps for the bridge again. Can I just put that off as long as possible?
I walk about a third of a mile from the bridge with no farm gate and no hope of one. The cliff just stretches away toward infinity. Time to give up. I turn around and slap crunch my way back to my bike. Maybe I can just stay at the small offshoot road where they rent canoes and kayaks out. There were some good trees there, it's gated, and if I'm up and out by seven, who's gonna know? Nobody.
Passing back past the cliff, I see a tree with two large red paint markings and a furiously nailed-on yellow sign. I scramble down the railroad grade to take a look, getting a mouthful of cobwebs for my trouble. "Bearing Tree," it proudly proclaims. Bearing what? I look up, and the tree and to go straight up forever with no branches or deviations. It's not bearing anything, I think. Wait. This is like an orienteering or survey landmark, I guess. Wild. I wonder when it stopped being useful, or if it's still important.
I turn around and scramble back up the grade, trip, fall to my hands and knees, and feel a shocking pain fire up my left leg from the ankle. Scream. I shake my right leg, thinking to free it from the vine that's tripped me. It won't shake off, and I shake it again, uselessly. I'm not sure why it won't let go of my toe. I twitch sideways and it won't let me move, and I look at it again. Barbed-wire. Damn.
I don't want to see how badly I'm hurt, but if I'm going to die here, I might well know why, so I sink my right knee in the dirt to lift my left ankle up where I can look at it. I'm bleeding, but not really badly. There are twin steaks of sapphire staining my sick on either side. I've caught the ankle square on the back, centered on the tendon. I scream again, at the sky, but not for pain this time. For frustration. I touch the blood, and it comes away on my fingers, but it's not gushing out. It seems to have stopped somewhat. My lucky day. Returning to a crouch, I reach back to the wire that has punctured the top of my shoe two inches back from the toe. I see small fibers around the hole, and I really have to maneuver to get the trap to release my foot. There's only a small gap in the cloth to show what's happened. A small gap in my left leg reminds me I don't care.
Clambering up to the railbed, I sit down. What have I got? I reach into my wallet and pull out the tiny bandaid I stash there. I stick it to my ankle and it saturates immediately and won't stick to my bloody skin. It falls off, and I try to poke out back on. It falls off after one step. I leave it.
Crunch tap slap tap crunch, I hobble back to my bike. There's a changing room at one of the buildings, so I guess they'll have a bathroom too. I can wash this wound out and put some triple antibiotic ointment on it. That's all I can do, for now.
On the sink, I strip off shoe and sock. The tap is automatic, but it wasn't designed for ankles, so it takes a moment to position just right until—scream again. The water fires straight into the bloody mess the back of my leg and I grit my teeth under the intensity of it. I try to wipe at the dirt around it, I try to push and prod it, and every time I move, I have to reposition so the water will remember to keep running. At a certain point, I just sit, panting and grinning, letting the water run into my personal pain station.
Right now, I have a bandage from the camp nurse Odalid that is big enough for my wound. It won't stay on because I don't have any gauze tape. All I have is duct tape, and I'm not an idiot. Right now, I'm sitting next to the river writing, watching my battery percentage fall a point per sentence. Right now, I'm in a little pain.
Two months ago, I was hissing with pain. At camp, every Monday brings a code red: a fire drill. It's my job to check the headquarters building and the playground. I take things pretty seriously because it's the right thing to do. I check every room, closing doors behind me. I yell and run like it's for real, because it's my job. But at the outset of tween week, I run too slowly, or I close the door too quickly. Either way.
I ran through the upstairs door and it caught me on the ankle, stripped my shoe off, rolled my sock down, and peeled back the skin on the back of my ankle. My left ankle. I hit the ground, all momentum gone with the door closed on my foot, shrieking in acute agony. I looked back, grabbed my shoe, and finished the fire drill with minimal blood loss and no shoe on my left foot. When everyone was checked off three minutes later, my adrenaline was still so high I was barely bleeding.
Odalid took very good care of me. She changed my bandage maybe twenty times and ran through a few hundred feet of gauze, I'm sure. By the end of camp, I had a scab on top of a branching scar that ran from halfway up my Achilles tendon right down to the top of my shoe. It's still healing because twice during camp, I caught the back of my left leg and cut into the thin skin—once with my bike pedal, which flipped around and cut a deep gash horizontally and felt to me maybe as badly as the initial accident. At that time, I had Camp Council to get to and a play with campers, so I couldn't be late. I just did the play through the pain.
I ran through the upstairs door and it caught me on the ankle, stripped my shoe off, rolled my sock down, and peeled back the skin on the back of my ankle. My left ankle. I hit the ground, all momentum gone with the door closed on my foot, shrieking in acute agony. I looked back, grabbed my shoe, and finished the fire drill with minimal blood loss and no shoe on my left foot. When everyone was checked off three minutes later, my adrenaline was still so high I was barely bleeding.
Odalid took very good care of me. She changed my bandage maybe twenty times and ran through a few hundred feet of gauze, I'm sure. By the end of camp, I had a scab on top of a branching scar that ran from halfway up my Achilles tendon right down to the top of my shoe. It's still healing because twice during camp, I caught the back of my left leg and cut into the thin skin—once with my bike pedal, which flipped around and cut a deep gash horizontally and felt to me maybe as badly as the initial accident. At that time, I had Camp Council to get to and a play with campers, so I couldn't be late. I just did the play through the pain.
My right Achilles heel is perfectly fine, and as far as I can tell, always will be.
My left Achilles heel has one long scrape, two deep cuts, a puncture, and a history of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
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