Hello, all! It’s Michelle with a major update!
In the last three days I have had pizza three times and sat on a couch.
What, you ask? Either, A) I have found a couch and free pizza shop in the wilderness, or B) I am no longer in the wilderness hiking the John Muir Trail.
Well, bittersweetly, it would be the latter, and it comes with a story.
A couple miles descending from Muir Pass on Friday, July 25th, the trails were very steep, covered in loose rocks that were sharp, uneven, and ate ankles for breakfast. Andrew and I were picking our way down that hot and bright afternoon, even losing the direction of the trail at times, when I turned to him and said, “Andrew, I don’t like this trail. This is an ankle-breaking trail.”
Apparently, I may sometimes tell the future. Thirty seconds later, I heard/felt a loud “pop” in my right ankle. Then I was down on the ground, poles under my body, backpack twisted to the side, in the fetal position, with creekwater soaking into my pants.
Usually when I go down, I hop back up, suck it up, and say to anybody concerned, “It’s all good!”
This afternoon, I tried to hobble back into a standing position, and was immediately back on the ground with the pain and lots of words coming out of my mouth. I knew then the ankle was either broken or sprained, and the realization of what that meant for the rest of the trip washed over me darkly.
Not quite the view of the trail 😉
Time stilled as I lay crumpled in the sun on the water, grassy patch, and rocks.
“Can you…still walk?” Andrew ventured.
“Yeah…just give me a moment.”
I tore off my backpack, twisted into a sitting position, massaged and tied up my ankle with my bandana tightly, and popped three pills of Advil. Andrew graciously told me to give him my bear can fully loaded with food from our last resupply the day before, which weighed almost 20 pounds. Without this weight, I could now manage my backpack and stand, though not without pain in my sprained right ankle.
We would keep going.
We kinda had to.
To the best of our knowledge, the next ranger station was several miles down the trail at LeConte Canyon. And there were no roads except the road out, at Whitney Portal, in the around 80 miles and 6 days ahead. There is no feeling like the feeling that poured into me as I realized these things.
So we spent the next six miles of steep, rocky downhill hobbling along, Andrew kindly taking the weight of his full bear and can and mine in incredible stride, and me relying greatly on my left leg and trekking poles.
Several miles down the trail, as it was getting dark, a kind father and son team knelt in the dirt and helped wrapped my ankle with some ACE bandage they had in their med kit. Another family we came across gave me an extra waterbottle to replace my one full of holes. And with Andrew taking up so much extra weight from my pack…I realized that in pain or in weakness that I experienced great compassion. I was and am so grateful for this, and for the way God whispered over and over, “take hope.”
We hiked around six miles that night until it was nearly dark, and still didn’t make it to the ranger station. Setting up camp, Andrew and I figured we would see how it was in the morning.
Saturday morning I sat up quickly, wincing, and went to rip my sock off my wrapped and swollen ankle, only to realize that that hurt more. Very few, if any, times in my life have I felt that kind of pain. The Advil was taken like candy again, and then a brief moment to clear my mind. Filtering water. Digging out and preparing breakfast that was in the bear can up the hill. Pooping. Repacking my bag. So many things vie for your energy, time, and attention when waking up and going to bed on the trail, and often all of them seem crucial to continuing to survive. The sun got hot as we pulled ourselves together to leave.
When Andrew and I finally hit the rocky path again, I was even slower and had greater difficulty than the night before descending into the valley. It was obvious that Whitney was becoming more and more distant a reality.
When I found the ranger station a few more miles down the trail, it was closed up. The ranger was out on duty, but several directions were left on how to get to the nearest help/area of civilization. That being…12 miles up and over Bishop Pass. At the end of this stretch was promised a busy parking lot. Then 20 miles of aphsalt into the nearest town of Bishop, CA.
By the time Andrew came back and we talked it over, I felt at peace with the tough fact that I was leaving. 12 miles of steep gain and descent and the road to Bishop would not be easy, but it was better than the 80something miles to Whitney, during which I would have dragged behind in pain, and not have been able to carry most of the weight in my pack. It was also a gift that Bishop Pass and its connection to civilization existed—I could have been injured in an even more remote place, where there was no side hike out. I let go of Whitney.
Wildly, those moments following our decision to head off the trail were some of the most peaceful, enjoyable, and fun of the whole trip.
Andrew and I settled into the large, homemade Adirondack lounge chairs in front of the station, replenished out bodies with food before going, and came to terms with the reality of what we were doing. We chose to laugh about our situation, the funny things that had happened in the last two weeks, and outrageous joke ways of getting home or back into civilization.
Somehow, because the uncertainty of how we were going to deal with this setback dispelled once we made the decision to cross Bishop Pass, we were free to be joyous again, and take it as it was.
I couldn’t change what had happened. So I accepted it, and we focused on the new and difficult journey home ahead of us. It was okay–I had given my all, and was proud of the 150+ miles I had already put in, and of all the effort and attention and presence that went into them.
It was in the afternoon by time we set off for Bishop Pass, with around 6 miles of switchbacks uphill and 6 downhill through a gorgeous, Alice-in-Wonderland–like scenery. The going was tough uphill in the sun, but by late afternoon we were down on the other side, down a steep rocky cliff section and then cruising (as best as you can “cruise” on a sprained ankle and plenty of painkillers ;)) through the lake-filled valley.
Hobbling fast enough with a lot of help of my trekking poles, we hoped to make it to the parking lot/trail head before dark. As long as I focused on moving, I could remain distant from the pain. I knew what I was doing was bad for my ankle, but doing anything but pounding on it was far from an option at that point as the sun sank lower and lower behind the mountains.
After several hours (and still no cell service the entire way), we finally walked out, exhausted, into the fabled parking lot. No words can describe the silence, tension, impatience, and yet un-ignorable natural beauty that surrounded us in the final sunset hours before finally arriving there.
Wandering the lot, there were plenty of cars but no people. It was around 7:30pm. We debated our options for awhile, sad that we had made it somewhere where there was possible help, only to have it be devoid of people. Then, a fishing couple eventually came up from the lake and wandered by.
“HEY! Are you going to Bishop?” We two dirty, stinky, haggard hikers shouted at them.
Then, thankfully, “Yup. You two need a ride?”
“YES. Yes, please.”
“Hop on in.”
The middle-aged couple, Anna and Darren, were so kind, and had given injured hikers rides before. They drove us the 20 miles into Bishop as it got dark, and even showed us around the main streets of the town by car. They also helped us find a place where we could camp for free, at the Fairgrounds of all places, and introduced us to a lady there who fed us dinner for free, as well, and showed us where we could use the bathroom and take free showers. It was all quite overwhelming and beautiful of these people to help us as they did.
Andrew and I slept a broken handful of hours in the dust of the RV parking lot before I returned home with my incredible parents, who insisted on coming at 3am to bring me home (I honestly could not ask for better parents, I was astounded by their urgency). Later, Andrew hitchhiked four hours back down to Southern California. I was so humbled and awed as our journey wrapped up.
And that is the story of how I came in range of pizzas and couches, and in gratitude to so many people.
Though I am now at home resting, icing, and elevating both swollen ankles, and no longer on the physical trail (though I think of it every day ;)) I still dedicate myself to my sisters in Mumbai, who are being abused and sex trafficked. I will keep bringing attention to them, and the opportunity of better, free and independent lives through education.
I am grateful and proud of what Christy’s, Andrew’s, and my roughly 340 collective miles were, for the experiences, the many people we met, the natural beauty, the growth, the conversations, and the challenges we survived. And I and thankful for you, as you supported us along the way and continue to, even now. We are not finished yet 🙂
If you have not donated yet but would like to, now it definitely the time 🙂 We and the women working in Kamathipura would be so grateful. Go here:
https://www.crowdrise.com/walkwithoutfear/
Thank you, deeply!
Walk Without Fear 