Days 33-45: A Remedy for Mud

PARSONS, WV—

April 26-May 8, 2024

Days 33-45:

“Always dress for mud.” - Peter Markus

After one last firm handshake from Charlie Simpson, my feet returned to the road with a plan: 20 miles a day.

In conjunction with my walking, I would write an entry about the two-day hike to the mountains, another about the two-day hike through them, and then return to my daily entries as usual once I was on the other side of them. I had it all mapped out.

“Most people will tell you trying to make any sort of a plan on a long-distance trail is just asking for trouble,” Matthew Hengst, one of the seasoned thru-hikers ahead of me, said in a text later in the week.

Following a stop at a United Methodist Church in Antioch, where I was allowed to sleep in the sanctuary and was brought a warm home-cooked meal by their former minister Gwen, and a subsequent stop at Falls Assembly of God, where I slept under a pavilion on church grounds, I was finally in striking distance of Dolly Sods, a.k.a. remote mountain range wilderness.

Over the following three days, I climbed something to the tune of 6,000 feet over 60 breathtaking miles, covering:

Dolly Sods Wilderness.

Canaan Valley State Park.

Blackwater Falls State Park.

Early in the third day of this stretch, I was forced to slosh through some unavoidable shin-high mud enveloping the route within Blackwater Falls (a trail already ill-defined on a good day), causing my feet to become overly wet and dirty. In my hardheadedness, I erred and pushed forward without changing my socks—business as usual. Consequently, the tops of my toes and the backs of my heels were torn open on both feet from hours of slogging through the wet friction in my shoes, the skin aggressively filed down a few layers to an angry red hue by grime.

For mud, I dressed not.

By the time I was out of the mountains and in shouting distance of Parsons (the nearest town), I could hardly walk. I texted a trail angel by the name of David Ruediger who had offered to host me that evening, explaining I would need to be picked up.

“I think my body has given all it can today,” I said.

“We’re leaving the house now,” he replied.

As I sat along Otter’s Creek awaiting my ride, in divine comedy, it started to rain. When I went to put on my rain gear, I was forced to support my body weight without the aid of trekking poles for the first time in 10 miles. If my feet could scream, they would’ve set off every tornado siren in Tucker County. It was at this moment I realized I would be out of commission for at least a few days.

So much for my plans.

David, a witty and outdoorsy Michigan native (from the Saginaw area), and his bubbly and bright flower-loving wife, Pamela, picked me up in their Subaru and brought me to Weeping Willow Run, the name of their quaint home along a hillside in Parsons commemorating the small creek running alongside their property. In front of the creek and around their yard flourishes a beautiful organic garden, a project the two have been working on together since moving to Parsons in 2012.

Right away, Dave started making spaghetti and Pam showed me to the shower, where my open sores made a blood oath with the sting of hot water.

After eating, I befriended their 11-year-old, happy-go-lucky Portuguese Water Dog, Tucker, named after the county within which they live, and their 6-year-old Main Coon, Sugar.

As my food digested, Pam started treating my feet with silver gel and gauze to prevent what surely would've been an infection, if left to its own microbial devices. Frankly, I was amazed she could stand the sight of them; they looked like corpse feet.

Dave and Pam have a history of hosting ADT thru-hikers, in addition to exchange students and young locals in Thomas, a small up-and-coming town in the mountains a few miles down the road. Needless to say, I was in good hands.

For the next four days, the open wounds on my feet kept me from walking. In spite of this setback, I was so grateful for the Ruediger’s company, hospitality, support, and friendship during this time because pauses, particularly moments of forced stillness, have posed the biggest challenge to my mental on this journey.

While staying in their guest bedroom one morning, I participated in a live virtual interview covering our walk for Detroit-based WDIV-TV with Greg (who joined from his smartphone in Whitehall, Michigan), where all questions were directed toward me and not him for reasons I’m unsure of. The interview was quickly over before we really had an opportunity to dig into the meat of what we are up to.

My phone rapidly flooded with texts asking where Greg, our superstar, was. Naturally, I started to contemplate how people with disabilities are so often overlooked, even if done by accident. Some words from Peter that came through in the surge of messages really struck a chord with me:

“The core truth (of this walk) is your gratitude that you CAN walk and that others who can’t can still use other modes of expression to move and talk and write and tell the stories that live inside them,” he said.

I thought his was a perfect statement, because it spoke unambiguously of our purpose. This is not the story of a man walking across the country. This is the story of Greg Mans, a man embracing meaningful movement in all its diverse forms and methods to enrich humanity and, ultimately, animate all of us who hope to take certain steps to live in the most fulfilled, the most real, sense. To this my walk is a living tribute.

Shortly thereafter, I realized this pause I was forced by injury to endure, this being unable to use my body the way I want or expect to, was but a granular sliver of the experience shared by all paralyzed human beings everywhere. What’s more, from the moment I was immobilized, I struggled like hell to get any writing done. There was something about not moving that made writing feel totally unapproachable, even though technically doable. This was a humbling revelation for me. In time, with a few more encouraging words of wisdom from Peter, it became clear I was not allowing myself to rest holistically during this mud-prompted intermission. Perhaps, for a brief moment, I understood on a deeper level the metaphor this walk truly is.

“Self-doubt is a part of every writer’s journey,” Peter said. “Don’t think about it. It’s okay to take some time away from the page. Just like it’s okay to give some time off to your feet for them to heal.”

And so I took some time off. To heal. To grow. To learn and re-learn. To remember how to let my mind be blown once more by the wise words of Q’s horticultural therapist:

“Flowers aren’t constantly in bloom, so we shouldn’t expect ourselves to always be in bloom either.”

In remembering, I was much more present in my time with Dave and Pam.

I could smile while the wind blowing through the back window of their Subaru danced along my hair follicles as we took scenic, recreational drives through the mountains.

I could enjoy the music playing at the Purple Fiddle venue in Thomas, where I not only listened to the beautiful harmonies sung by the exceptionally talented Sweet Lillies, but also the musings of Dave’s friend Cory who spoke into poetry how each of our bodies possess a unique frequency making us tailor-suited for certain instruments.

I could in pure happiness watch Pam run to each Pink Lady's Slipper flower she saw on the mountainside with child-like excitement, as if she were just now seeing a flower, or the color pink, for the first time in her life.

I could watch in morbid fascination as Dave prepared freshly caught trout, chuckling as he ceremoniously picked and ripped the guts from our soon-to-be dinner, then subsequently pressing his thumb over the nozzle of a garden hose to power-wash what remained before smoking it on the grill, all the while keeping the head attached “out of respect for the fish.”

I could sit in contentment with Tucker’s head resting atop my lap in the car and appreciate his companionship, admiring his enthusiasm to be my friend and accept his proposition without hesitation.

I could. Possibilities. Not a cage. Just by observing. With openness.

These remarkable mountain folk have healed me in more ways than one. I can feel their heartbeat right now through the highland soil beneath my feet. As I look down, I see they have healed from the mud, thanks to a remedy called Weeping Willow Run.

I think I might have learned a lesson or something.

When I reflect on the asshole, the first person in West Virginia I encountered, who spoke pain to me last week, I no longer feel the same rage and primitive urge to kick his ass, but rather, an inclination to share some words of advice with an impatient and obstinate young man:

Life is going to kick your ass anyhow. Always dress for mud, because I got lucky.