The End for Now

Some of you out there may be wondering where in the world is Mr. Happy (Signor Felice, Josh, what ever you want to call me). How is he? Can he walk yet? When will he be back on the trail? Others of you probably coudn’t care less. Those people probably don’t read my journal though.
Here are the short answers:
I am at home in western Massachusetts.
I am doing pretty well, if a little worse for the wear.
I can sort-of walk.
I will be back on the trail at the next opportunity. Most likely next summer. I will attempt another complete thru-hike most likely after I graduate in 4 years.

Of course, the short answers leave rise to more questions, such as “what does ‘sort-of walk’ mean?”
It means that I am definitely not 100% healed yet. Here is the story of what I have done since I came home in April.

I spent a few days recuperating, physically and mentally, from having actually left the trail. My whole family was in town for Easter, but I did not feel very social, and so mostly I kept to myself. I continued to sleep in a sleeping bag, rather than under the covers of my bed. I ate everything and anything in sight. Somehow my metabolism had never quite gotten used to NOT walking 10-20 miles each day. Within the first week I saw my physician and a chiropractor. The chiropractor adjusted my back, which was thrown out from limping, and helped me with the recuperation of my leg. My physician told me I had simply pulled a muscle and all I need was time. If it was still a problem, I should come see him in a month.
One month later I was even worse. Perhaps I should have been resting more, but I must admit that the idea of being completely bedridden did not appeal to me in the least. On the other hand, walking 3 miles to work one day was not the best idea. And so I found myself once more at my Doctor’s office. He sympathized with me and quickly ordered an MRI scan of my right thigh. It took another two weeks for me to actually get an appointment for that.
Getting an MRI is scary. I am mildly claustrophobic, but not so bad. It wasn’t the tight space that was scary. They slide you into the machine and give you headphones to listen to music on, and a call button should an emergency arise. For some reason, my music was the same 3 Greenday songs, repeated on loop. But I haven’t gotten to the scary part yet. Imagine the sound a heart-rate monitor makes when you are dying (or dead): that screeching alarm that calls half of the hospital’s doctors into the room. Now imagine that sound played at about 10 times normal volume, in a 2ft. diameter tube that you happen to be laying in. Oh, and did I mention that you are strapped down with gigantic velcro straps, and that they have something that feels like a lead blanket over your chest? Yeah. And then the part of the lead blanket near your crotch starts to vibrate, in a quite uncomfortable way. And to top it all off, right above my head there was a small glass lens with a label. The label read “Laser aperture. Do not stare!” Of course, the thing I wasn’t supposed to stare at was pretty much all I could see. And so I do my best to lay still and ignore my surroundings for the next 45 minutes (that’s how long an MRI takes). But they haven’t even started the machine up yet. All of a sudden there is a noise below me and the whole machine starts vibrating. It feels as if you are inside an old, clunky photocopier.
So that’s what an MRI is like. Nothing torturous, but not the best way to spend a beautiful summer day. Anyhow, a few days later I get a postcard in the mail that says “Your MRI came back ‘normal’.” Somewhat perplexed as to the meaning of normal, I make an appointment with an orthopedist, hoping for more answers.
Yet another week later I am at the orthopedist office, where I am told that my leg is a perfectly normal leg. No torn muscles. No broken femurs or hip joints.
“Are you sure that’s my right leg?” I ask, “’cause it sure hurts like hell.”
And the orthopedist suspects that the problem is coming from my back. He suggests possible nerve damage. Simply wonderful. A quick X-ray shows nothing, and so I am ordered in for yet another MRI. This time I come prepared, and bring a CD of music I like.
“Oh we can’t give you music this time.” the woman tells me, “you’re too far in for your back.”
Actually, since I knew what to expect, the second time was not nearly as bad, and before I knew it I was sliding out of the machine.
“Cut to the chase already!” you are probably thinking. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you out there kicking ass on the Appalachian Trail?”
I was wondering the same things for the past 3 months.
The second MRI comes up negative. I have a perfectly healthy back, as far as magnetic rays can tell.
Finally I decide to see an ostiopath (DO). The one I saw happens to be my best friend’s Dad, but he is also probably one of the best ostiopaths in the country. I should have seen him right away. Within five minutes he determines, by poking various muscles and nerves, that I have a severely strained Ilio-Psoas muscle. He pulls out a medical text book and shows me the muscle. It runs from the lower back, through the pelvis, to the inner thigh. It’s connection in the thigh is right around the area where my pain had been originating. It’s also right where the adductors muscle connects, which is why my physician had suspected that muscle. An hour with the ostiopath left me feeling much better, and with a full knowledge of what I can and shouldn’t do.
Basically, I am restricted to walking about the house and to the car. No swimming with kicking (I can swim if I use a pull-buoy that prevents my legs from moving, but helps them float), no running, no walking far, no carrying anything heavy, etc. Hopefully, I will be better soon, though due to the position of the muscle and the severity of the strain, I don’t expect to be doing anything serious this season.
Other than that, I am doing well. For exercise I kayak or swim (with the pull-buoy). I’ve left a note with my phone number in the Hemlocks Shelter on Mt. Everett and I am occasionally called by a thru-hiker in need of a ride to town. Whenever possible I try to help them out, and I head up to the hemlocks shelter often to camp and offer any passing hikers some extra food (the shelter is a mere .25 miles from a parking lot).
School starts on August 24th. I can’t wait.

Thank you all for reading my journal, for commenting, for your support, your emails, and advice. I’ll be back. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But sooner rather than later, I’ll be at the plaque on Springer Mountain once more, looking north to the horizon, preparing to put one foot in front of the other for as far as I can go. Hopefully, I’ll see you out there too.

Happy Trails,
Mr. Happy