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Sloetoe remembers, was [at-l] Freedom a thruhiker sighting
Why thanks, suh. Tell me the tale of your trail name? JPJ
Hawk Mountain Shelter, April 10, 1979. It was cold. Wet, windy, and
cold. We, the eight of us, all newly met aspiring throughhikers,
moved slowly and tentatively, trying out sore bones and new
insulation, seeing if the insulation would win out over the wind,
and warm the sore bones to moveable temperatures. Some were up
earlier than others. I'd frozen all night in my North Face Cat's
Meow (20* bag) wrapped inside my tent laid out on the floor of the
leanto as a ground cloth / bivy.
A gray day, low clouds lowing close over the summit on the stiff
wind. People huddled with hands thrust deep into pockets, trying to
shield whomever was brave enough to work a lighter on unwilling
stove. I saw this and decided to adopt permanently my mantra of the
previous morning: (With apologies to Paul Masson) "I will see no
morning before its time." I could not figure the wisdom of leaving
a (halfway) warm sleeping bag in order to stand shivering in the
wind doing stove stuff. Nah! Not even my teenage male ego was
speaking out; it said instead "Warmth! Do Warmth!" I concurred and
slipped back into my bag until sunlight warmed me sufficiently to
allow movement with out impeded fine motor skills -- that took an
hour or two.
Eventually, I did the breakfast thing, and then had to confront the
"what do I do as part of establishing a morning routine???"
question. What I do this morning (I thought at the time) will
follow me as a morning routine all the way to Katahdin (which, in
my mind's eye, I would probably begin to see in a week's time, two
tops). Well, I remembered, along with teeth and hair (ha! that
lasted!), I needed to trim my toenails. I'd neglected to do this
before I left the motel in Commerce, GA on the morning of the
Eighth....
Trimmed the toenails like any other day, like any other person,
like any other place, but as I was finishing my right big toe, a
tiny little tab on the right side was missed. Stuck up a bit;
thought it might catch on a sock; I grabbed it between my thumb and
forefinger and gave a quick, sharp pull out and away. Poof, it was
gone.
But then I noticed in the place where the little tab of toenail had
been was a small drop of blood. Oh, no matter -- tish-tish, nothing
to it. I smeared it with a nearly thawed hand and put on my socks,
trying to tell myself that the sun struggling through the
wind-driven clouds really was warming my body, and that if I was
truly AT-worthy, I'd be able to feel it. I went unconvinced.
In any event, time marched on, and so did the toenail. A scab grew
into a swollen sore which needed to be drained every morning if it
wasn't going to leak green/yellow/red/brown all over my liner
socks. Sometimes this draining process elicited howls of pain from
me, especially if I thought I was alone as the last to leave
"camp." Went through toilet paper, bacitracin, boiled water. Soaked
in salt water in Fontana, Epsom salts in Hot Springs, but it was
just getting worser and worser. The infected tissue now comprised
the upper third/top of my big toe, whilst the nail itself was
ingrown so far that fully half of it was buried. The toe throbbed
in pain just to be looked at, but once ensconced inside my mountain
boots, it was unaffected by even the most deliberate provocations:
I could kick a tree with my boot on and not feel it, but to stroll
around camp in my moccasins was to chance a stumble and pain
radiating up my leg sufficient to make me faint. Or WISH I'd
fainted. But the short story was that as long as the boot was on, I
was comfy, and so I hiked northward. I was still "Connecticut
Yankee."
Climbing Roan Mountain was about the only place where the pain of
the toe was too great to continue without a break. I stopped,
drained the colorful toe again, took pictures of Its Hugeness, and
tried to enjoy a beautiful day, but the toe hurt too badly. I think
that's where the idea of "Sloetoe" -- with a Winged (Mercury) Foot
with a Huge and Inflamed Toe cartoon symbol was conceived. But I
forgot about it until Damascus.
The morning I got up to hike into Damascus (May 2?, 7 weeks and 500
miles up the trail), I noticed red streaks tracing up my calf --
first signs of blood poisoning, as I recall. Hit The Place, decided
to have a Doctor lookie at the toe, and availed myself of the
services of the good Dr. J. Thomas Luck at this little glorified
garage of a clinic 100 yards from the hostel. Was able to get in
right away, and (after a shower and what I thought was a really
excellent job making the toe look as healthy as possible) went in
for the 500 mile inspection.
Dr. Luck noticed the red streaks and casually mentioned it was a
good thing I hit town before they hit my abdomen. Ohhhhh. Then he
suggested that he take care of the toe right away. Okie-dokey! He
got out this and that, prepared a syringe of local anesthetic,
turned to the nurse and said (casually)
"Why don't you get a hold of his foot."
I said "Why? You're not going to give that to me Chinese style, are
you? You know, under the nail?"
"Oh no, from the top." He assured me.
I should have gotten a clue from the vice grip the nurse put on my
ankle -- both hands, full body weight. I'm laying back, but I can
still see Luck winding his arm up like Luis Tiant presenting a
submarine fastball across the plate. WHAM! Right up the length of
the toenail. I took a full throughhiker lung of air and cried out
"OOOWWWWWUUUNNNNGGGHHH!!!" "Careful!" came the reply, "It's not all
the way IN yet" and he pushed again, visibly hard and far -- I was
SURE the needle was going to come out my ankle. "SONOFABITCH!!!" I
cried out again, and this time, even with the nurse doing Full
Nelson on my ankle, my entire body came off the gurney. (I only
know this because I felt the "thump" of my landing.) "AWG!!!" I
cried. This was the most painful thing I have EVER experienced.
At this point, I heard hurried footsteps running from the waiting
room next door, and the screen door opening and slamming
repeatedly. I was emptying the clinic.
But that's when the cool stuff started. With the toe (and, I
suspect, half my foot) now thoroughly numbed, J. Thomas took out
the Nephrecator, a marvelous little pen device which burns off skin
and tissue with the stroke of a ball point. I watched (I'm leaning
up now, observing everything frantically, ready to grab for a
scalpel and escape with my life if anything looks suspicious) as he
drew the Nephrecator over my toe, again and again, leaving charred
and smoking blackness instead of ink, wherever it passed. When the
affected area was completely cooked, he'd take iodine and scrub
brush the char away. It was REALLY cool to watch, until it occurred
to me that he was going REALLY far down into the toe. He was
amazed, too; "Where's your toenail?" "I don't know. Urp."
But I kept watching, and he kept Nephracating, and eventually the
toenail was revealed. At that point, it was a simple procedure to
snip away under the nail, remove the offending in-growth, and form
a nice smooth taper that would grow out naturally over time. He
also instructed me to notch my toenails in the middle -- like
cutting a "V" into the nail at the front -- a practice which I have
followed RELIGIOUSLY for twenty years.
Afterward, while Dr. Luck chased down his escaped patients, the
nurse wrapped my toe inside a huge bandage with thick padding all
around. When I asked him when I could return to the trail, he said
whenever I'd like -- that the toe should be fine. With that, I
hobbled delicately back to the hostel, doing the three minute trip
in twenty. I went upstairs to the middle room right off of the
staircase and crashed on a mattress, moaning not at the pain --
because there wasn't any -- but at the MEMORY of the pain! And for
the next 48 hours, whenever anyone would walk by "thump thump
thump" in their big ol' clunky hiking boots with the big, mean
looking Vibram cleated soles, I'd dive protectively for my foot,
saying "Please! Please! Not the Foot!" That's a memory. My foot
hurts just remembering this.
As I was leaving The Place, and trying to figure out what to write
in the register, the "Sloetoe" idea came to me, complete with
detailed WINGED FOOT cartoon. Poof. I was "Connecticut Yankee" no
more. Never did like that name anyway. Boring. Who cares where
you're from? Nah! I was SLOETOE! THE MAN OF THE TOE! And I signed
with THE SIGN OF THE TOE! And when I was going through (fast)
thereafter, I was "Sloetoe stomping through!"
So I forgots about the whole Sloetoe thang for a number of years,
except for occasional visits to, say, Damascus or DWG or an AMC
hut. And now, like 20 years later, there's like this whole
cyber-community who knows me mostly as that nutball Sloetoe.
Ah, yes......
Oh, and during Trail Days this past May in Damascus, I had reason
to head once again by that fateful street corner which held the
Damascus Clinic way back when. On the site is a tidy little
professional building, all in brick, you know. Quite different. But
who's the presiding medical person? Dr. J. Thomas Luck. Bless him.
Regards,
Sloetoe'79
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