A few weeks ago I backpacked in Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, at the top of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I hiked on cliff edges, Lake Superior, cool and clear, lapping at the beaches below, the whisper of its waves pacing my steps and soothing my aching body to sleep at night.
I trudged through the understory of tall trees, like an early mammal rustling among the brush in some ancient, massive forest.
I say “trudged” because I wasn’t as light or nimble as our first mammalian ancestors. I lugged a pack on my back that carved deep bruises into my shoulders and hips. But that wasn’t the only thing that slowed my stride. Only a couple days into my journey, my feet were made up almost entirely of blisters.
Imagine a blister shaped like a foot. Imagine two of them, attached to the ends of your legs. These are the swollen, painful, red things I was cramming into my shoes at the start of each day’s hike.
Every step felt like walking on a bed of needles. Stopping and standing still caused my pack to press me farther into the needle-points until it felt like my blister-feet would burst, so I kept moving, though I knew that the each step did more damage.
My shoes, my old ranger boots that had recently celebrated a decade of service, were falling to pieces around my wounded feet. They had seen me through countless miles, parks, hours stood behind a ranger desk. And yet, here they were, quitting on me with a violence I never thought I’d see from them. After all we’d been through together.
Their soles peeled away from the base of the shoe, leaving a lolling tongue that consumed sand and dirt as I walked. Their lining tore and caught at my socks, a webbing of cloth encasing my foot. And their insoles, or whatever had once passed for insoles, rubbed and ripped at my feet, creating the blister-foot monsters on which I now tread.
I guess the boots resented being taken out of retirement. I hoped I could get one last trip out of them, one last ride. But my ranger boots were letting me know that, like my ranger career, we were officially over.
Late the second day, the pain increased until it was all I could think about. I started having wild thoughts–chopping off my feet and screwing new ones on, teleporting off trail to purchase new boots and then popping back right to this spot.
But these were the only feet I’d brought with me, and I’ve never successfully teleported, no matter how many times I’ve tried.
It dawned on me, as I hobbled into camp on that second evening, that there were no real solutions to this problem that would result in me completing three more days of hiking. I was done.
I did what any rational person would do. I had a little cry about it. Released my frustration and disappointment over a campfire conversation. Stuffed my face with the heaviest, most decadent food in my pack (dehydrated pad thai with peanut butter). And then I made a plan.
The next morning, I hiked back the way I’d come, each step agony. There was a frontcountry campground a few miles back, where retirees with campers walked their dogs and enjoyed the crisp, early fall weather. My plan was to limp around until someone could either give me a ride to my car or tell me when and where the shuttle might stop.
I arrived at the campground, which in my pain-induced haze shimmered a little, like an oasis in the desert. One thing accomplished.
I located the campground host’s site, but no one seemed to be around. I saw no other campers at all, actually, their sites tied up for the day, out on hikes and scenic drives and whatever else one did in this beautiful place on a Sunday morning.
I was heading toward the entrance, hoping I might see a sign for a shuttle pickup, when I spotted my first humans. An older couple, taking a leisurely stroll around the campground.
I didn’t have to approach them; this was the Midwest–they said hello and asked me how I was before I’d even reached them on my devil-hot feet.
“I’m not great,” I said.
I told the couple that my feet were injured, asked if they knew about a shuttle or if the campground host might be coming back.
And before I could finish, the man was turning to his wife, whispering that they should give me a ride.
We discussed my options–they hadn’t seen a shuttle stop here in the last week, the campground host didn’t do much in their opinion, my car was an hour’s drive away.
“We should give her a ride,” the man said again, this time louder.
“We have a daughter who is a park ranger, you see,” the woman told me. “She’s always hiking. We would want someone to help her if she’s ever out and hurt like this.”
They brought me into their camp, gave me a place to set my pack and sit down. Handed me a flavored seltzer water. And they began tidying up their camp so they could drive me to my car.
“What else do we have to do today?” they said, as they made room for me to load my pack into their trunk. I sipped my drink, and gingerly tugged off my boots.
“What do you do?” they asked, and I smiled. “Park ranger,” I said. “Or, I used to be.”
I listed my parks for them, and they listed their daughter’s parks. She and I had no parks in common, but we must have crossed paths while traversing the country.
“It’s amazing we met you!” the couple told me, over and over, as they drove me to my car. “It’s amazing you said that you weren’t okay! That you told us you needed help.”
This seemed to be the thing that shocked them most, not that I was the same age as their daughter, that I had nearly the same lifestyle and occupation as her, not that these were the people of all people I had come across when I needed help–maybe the most likely people in the world to have helped me. But that I had actually reached out to them. That I had answered their question of “How are you?” honestly.
“I never do that,” they each told me, in turn. “I always say that I’m fine, even when I’m not.”
“I’m going to do that from now on,” they said. “I’m going to tell people how I’m really feeling and if I need help.”
So maybe this is how I repaid them for their incredible generosity. I taught them a lesson about asking for help when you need it. About the connections you can make with others when you speak honestly about your feelings.
For myself, this blown trip reminded me of three things. That human beings are capable of treating one another with tremendous kindness. That magical meetings with saviors can be more likely than all the doomsday scenarios roiling around in your anxious mind. And that you need to buy new hiking boots for your next backpacking trip, not use the ancient ones collecting dust in your closet.