Tin Man
05-02-2006, 20:37
From The Times (http://www.nj.com/living/times/index.ssf?/base/living-0/114647126130820.xml&coll=5) of NJ:
<H1 class=red>Progress report
</H1>Cancer survivor Norma Jean DeVico has completed about a tenth of the 2,175-mile Appalachian Trail. Along the way, she's stressed the importance of mammograms and managed to elude the bears.
Monday, May 01, 2006 By NORMA JEAN DeVICO
SPECIAL TO THE TIMES
Call me "Single Malt." Everyone out here does. There's a tradition of trail names on the Appalachian Trail and I got mine the second night as I was drinking some. "Conductor" got his name because he uses his baton (a stick) to break up spider webs as he walks the trail. "Posey Picker" is a botanist who collects edible flowers. "Short Cut" used to have very long hair and "Rasta Legs" wears green, red, yellow and black striped tights.
Thirty people started hiking the day I did -- March 15 -- and, for the first week, about half of the group stayed together. Then some went faster; some slowed down; some dropped out. I haven't seen any of them in days. Except Conductor. We decided to stick together because we're the same age (old), cover the same amount of territory each day (not much) and are trying to avoid the 20-year-olds who create a frat-party atmosphere every night.
Every day, we shoulder our 30-pound packs (containing sleeping bag, pad and tent; a change of clothes (which doubles as a pillow); food, stove, fuel, pot and cup; water treatment system; maps, book and writing paper; camera and minimal toiletries, and we walk. We walk up and down mountains eight to 10 hours a day. Since I'm so slow, I notice the wildflowers, singing birds and the fact that the trees are in shadow on one side of the path and illuminated by the sun on the other side. I stop to take pictures of incredible vistas and occasionally sit on a warm rock to paint. One day as I was admiring the view, I asked a hiker who passed me, "Isn't this gorgeous?"
"Who has the time to look?" he answered.
I hear he's left the trail.
-- -- --
There's a lot to see, but every time I lift my head and continue walking I stumble. The path is strewn with rocks, roots, mud, branches and, once in a while, a log that is passable only by climbing over or scooting beneath. When it rains, there is a river where the path is supposed to be. Hikers are encouraged to stay on the trail and, as a result, a rut has formed in some places.
As I write, there's a torrential downpour outside Tricorner Shelter on the Tennessee/North Carolina border in the Great Smokies. I'm snuggled in my sleeping bag although it's only 3 p.m. In my struggle between being tough and miserable or wimpy and dry, the latter won out. In my 3 weeks on the trail, it's only rained after I was already inside my tent or on days off, and it was only really cold one night. Kinda like living in Camelot.
If someone told me he'd hiked more than 200 miles in one stretch, I'd think he was a real hiker. But with 10 percent of the trail under our belts, the folks with whom I travel and I still feel like real amateurs. We're still trying to figure out how to shed weight from our packs; what's the best food to keep us warm, sated and energized; which combination of clothes is suitable to cover every weather whim; and we ask the age-old question: to pop, or not to pop?
Blisters, that is. I've got one between my left little toe and the next, two on my heel, one on my big toe, and a matching set on the other foot.
Besides the condition of our feet, the other major concern is calories. We count calories; unlike at home, the more the better. Food that doesn't contain at least 100 calories an ounce is just not worth carrying. We aim for at least 3,500 a day, yet everyone seems to be shrinking. I've begun fantasizing about food. It starts about four days after returning to the trail from a day in town. I imagine eating a spinach salad, tortellini with pesto, and a steak smothered in onions and mushrooms. Some days as I walk, I shout out every food I can name in alphabetical order. "A! Apricot! Anchovy! Avocado! Asparagus! Artichoke! Apple pie! . . ."
Some days, I sing 40-year-old Broadway show tunes or make up silly lyrics to existing melodies. I think about my sweetheart, my family, and my friends. I also perform complicated mathematical equations in my head, such as, "If I walk 40-minute miles and the shelter is 12.7 miles away, and it's 8:42 now, I should arrive at . . ." I usually look forward to getting to the shelter, but I'm also a little sad when the day's hike is finished.
-- -- --
There's a different cast of characters around the campfire every night. I'm always happy to see "Bloomer," "Route Step," "Fish," "Enuf" and "Too Much." They're older than the rest of the crowd and seem to be out here for the right reason. (Just don't ask me to say what that is.)
I prefer to sleep in my tent. I needn't listen to snoring or conversation, and when I awaken in the middle of the night (after all, we crawl into "bed" at dark and wake up with the birds -- who needs 11 hours of sleep?) I can turn on my headlamp and read. I can also take my "bath" -- moist towelettes applied to select body parts -- in privacy. The shelters are three-sided buildings with a roof and a platform floor, open to the elements. That is, except in the Smokies where there's fencing in front of the shelter to keep the bears out.
And yes, they do, um, poop in the woods -- right along the path and it stinks to high heaven. The first time I inhaled the aroma, I suspected bear, but was willing to consider I was smelling skunk, animal spray, or my own six-days-without-a-shower stench. I met a Ridge Runner (a volunteer who checks on the condition of the trail and shelters) who assured me the "musky" odor was indeed bear scat. I told him I'd been making noise by banging my walking poles together and on rocks to scare them away. He said bears are intimidated by humans in the Smokies. Apparently living in New Jersey has colored my perception of a bear's capabilities.
-- -- --
In addition to walking and eating enough, my job out here is to raise breast cancer awareness. When day hikers or people in town ask what made me take this trip, I tell them that when I was diagnosed with breast cancer I realized life is short and the time had come to do something I'd wanted to do for 30 years. When I was in a supermarket in Hiawassee, Georgia, a trail town, an employee directed a woman to the same shelf at which I was standing. She was profuse with her thank-yous, and the employee asked if he could do anything else for her. I commented on how polite everyone was.
"You're in the South, ma'am," she said. Noticing I was dressed in mud from head to toe, she asked if I was hiking to Maine. During the conversation that ensued I asked her when she had had her last mammogram. She thought a bit, and realized it had been two years. She promised to make an appointment that Monday morning. I guess I'm doing my job.
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<H1 class=red>Progress report
</H1>Cancer survivor Norma Jean DeVico has completed about a tenth of the 2,175-mile Appalachian Trail. Along the way, she's stressed the importance of mammograms and managed to elude the bears.
Monday, May 01, 2006 By NORMA JEAN DeVICO
SPECIAL TO THE TIMES
Call me "Single Malt." Everyone out here does. There's a tradition of trail names on the Appalachian Trail and I got mine the second night as I was drinking some. "Conductor" got his name because he uses his baton (a stick) to break up spider webs as he walks the trail. "Posey Picker" is a botanist who collects edible flowers. "Short Cut" used to have very long hair and "Rasta Legs" wears green, red, yellow and black striped tights.
Thirty people started hiking the day I did -- March 15 -- and, for the first week, about half of the group stayed together. Then some went faster; some slowed down; some dropped out. I haven't seen any of them in days. Except Conductor. We decided to stick together because we're the same age (old), cover the same amount of territory each day (not much) and are trying to avoid the 20-year-olds who create a frat-party atmosphere every night.
Every day, we shoulder our 30-pound packs (containing sleeping bag, pad and tent; a change of clothes (which doubles as a pillow); food, stove, fuel, pot and cup; water treatment system; maps, book and writing paper; camera and minimal toiletries, and we walk. We walk up and down mountains eight to 10 hours a day. Since I'm so slow, I notice the wildflowers, singing birds and the fact that the trees are in shadow on one side of the path and illuminated by the sun on the other side. I stop to take pictures of incredible vistas and occasionally sit on a warm rock to paint. One day as I was admiring the view, I asked a hiker who passed me, "Isn't this gorgeous?"
"Who has the time to look?" he answered.
I hear he's left the trail.
-- -- --
There's a lot to see, but every time I lift my head and continue walking I stumble. The path is strewn with rocks, roots, mud, branches and, once in a while, a log that is passable only by climbing over or scooting beneath. When it rains, there is a river where the path is supposed to be. Hikers are encouraged to stay on the trail and, as a result, a rut has formed in some places.
As I write, there's a torrential downpour outside Tricorner Shelter on the Tennessee/North Carolina border in the Great Smokies. I'm snuggled in my sleeping bag although it's only 3 p.m. In my struggle between being tough and miserable or wimpy and dry, the latter won out. In my 3 weeks on the trail, it's only rained after I was already inside my tent or on days off, and it was only really cold one night. Kinda like living in Camelot.
If someone told me he'd hiked more than 200 miles in one stretch, I'd think he was a real hiker. But with 10 percent of the trail under our belts, the folks with whom I travel and I still feel like real amateurs. We're still trying to figure out how to shed weight from our packs; what's the best food to keep us warm, sated and energized; which combination of clothes is suitable to cover every weather whim; and we ask the age-old question: to pop, or not to pop?
Blisters, that is. I've got one between my left little toe and the next, two on my heel, one on my big toe, and a matching set on the other foot.
Besides the condition of our feet, the other major concern is calories. We count calories; unlike at home, the more the better. Food that doesn't contain at least 100 calories an ounce is just not worth carrying. We aim for at least 3,500 a day, yet everyone seems to be shrinking. I've begun fantasizing about food. It starts about four days after returning to the trail from a day in town. I imagine eating a spinach salad, tortellini with pesto, and a steak smothered in onions and mushrooms. Some days as I walk, I shout out every food I can name in alphabetical order. "A! Apricot! Anchovy! Avocado! Asparagus! Artichoke! Apple pie! . . ."
Some days, I sing 40-year-old Broadway show tunes or make up silly lyrics to existing melodies. I think about my sweetheart, my family, and my friends. I also perform complicated mathematical equations in my head, such as, "If I walk 40-minute miles and the shelter is 12.7 miles away, and it's 8:42 now, I should arrive at . . ." I usually look forward to getting to the shelter, but I'm also a little sad when the day's hike is finished.
-- -- --
There's a different cast of characters around the campfire every night. I'm always happy to see "Bloomer," "Route Step," "Fish," "Enuf" and "Too Much." They're older than the rest of the crowd and seem to be out here for the right reason. (Just don't ask me to say what that is.)
I prefer to sleep in my tent. I needn't listen to snoring or conversation, and when I awaken in the middle of the night (after all, we crawl into "bed" at dark and wake up with the birds -- who needs 11 hours of sleep?) I can turn on my headlamp and read. I can also take my "bath" -- moist towelettes applied to select body parts -- in privacy. The shelters are three-sided buildings with a roof and a platform floor, open to the elements. That is, except in the Smokies where there's fencing in front of the shelter to keep the bears out.
And yes, they do, um, poop in the woods -- right along the path and it stinks to high heaven. The first time I inhaled the aroma, I suspected bear, but was willing to consider I was smelling skunk, animal spray, or my own six-days-without-a-shower stench. I met a Ridge Runner (a volunteer who checks on the condition of the trail and shelters) who assured me the "musky" odor was indeed bear scat. I told him I'd been making noise by banging my walking poles together and on rocks to scare them away. He said bears are intimidated by humans in the Smokies. Apparently living in New Jersey has colored my perception of a bear's capabilities.
-- -- --
In addition to walking and eating enough, my job out here is to raise breast cancer awareness. When day hikers or people in town ask what made me take this trip, I tell them that when I was diagnosed with breast cancer I realized life is short and the time had come to do something I'd wanted to do for 30 years. When I was in a supermarket in Hiawassee, Georgia, a trail town, an employee directed a woman to the same shelf at which I was standing. She was profuse with her thank-yous, and the employee asked if he could do anything else for her. I commented on how polite everyone was.
"You're in the South, ma'am," she said. Noticing I was dressed in mud from head to toe, she asked if I was hiking to Maine. During the conversation that ensued I asked her when she had had her last mammogram. She thought a bit, and realized it had been two years. She promised to make an appointment that Monday morning. I guess I'm doing my job.
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