[at-l] Bister Sister's article in the WSJ

[Slyatpct@aol.com (Slyatpct@aol.com)]

Nearing 70, the Blister
Sisters Hike On
By MICHAEL ALLEN

When my mother and her sister announced back in 1989 that they were going to=
=20
hike the Appalachian Trail, my dad and Uncle Dave predicted the ladies=20
wouldn't last a week.

In truth, Betty Sue and Barbara Jo were secretly preparing for failure=20
themselves. Both in their late 50s, neither had ever hoisted a real backpack=
.=20
The pictures they'd seen in National Geographic were pretty, but the two kne=
w=20
little else about the 2,167-mile trail stretching from the piney woods of=20
Georgia to the rugged wilderness of Maine. They told everybody they'd hike=20
for a month that first year. Just in case they couldn't hack it, they planne=
d=20
to check into a spa along the way and make up journal entries to cover the=20
missing days.


Blister Sisters Betty Sue Allen (left) and Barbara Jo Shenton on the=20
Appalachian Trail.=A0=20
They didn't know it at the time, but they were part of a growing trend in=20
so-called "high-adventure sports." Most women wouldn't be caught dead -- no=20
pun intended -- hang gliding or hunting or snowboarding. But nearly half of=20
the nation's 12.2 million serious hikers are women, according to the Outdoor=
=20
Industry Association. And the enthusiasts, men and women alike, are graying=20
fast. By last year, 43% were 45 and older, up from 33% in 1999.

It isn't at all uncommon these days to find yourself eating septuagenarian=20
dust on the trail. Outdoor author Earl Shaffer, who in 1948 became the first=
=20
person to complete the AT in one continuous hike, repeated his feat three=20
years ago -- at the age of 80. Senior hikers have been helped by the trend=20
toward lighter and better-padded gear. And, in the case of the Appalachian=20
Trail, which skirts nearly every major city on the East Coast, they're rarel=
y=20
far from a good orthopedic surgeon.

For my mom and Aunt Barbara Jo, the hiking idea started off as a lark. "It=20
just seemed like a good sisterly thing to do," my mom says. "We could have=20
gone to Europe but we decided to do this instead."

But the lark ended as soon as Dave dropped them off at the southern terminus=
=20
on Springer Mountain, Ga. Loaded down with nearly 40 pounds of gear each,=20
they could only manage 15 steps at a time before taking a break. After their=
=20
first night on the trail, they woke up to near-freezing temperatures and a=20
stove that wouldn't start. "Ate cold oatmeal and coffee," read the journal=20
entry for that day. And then: "Another day of thunder and lightning, wanting=
=20
to quit."

Beyond the physical difficulties, they were nervous about sleeping=20
arrangements. Rather than go to the trouble of pitching tents, hikers tend t=
o=20
shack up for the night in wooden shelters dotting the trail, often throwing=20
strangers of both sexes together. An electronic bulletin board dedicated to=20
the trail recently hosted an exchange about unwanted advances. "The very=20
nature of a thru [hike] sometimes indicates a midlife crisis, and a woman ma=
y=20
get herself in [an] ongoing hassle without realizing it," warned one writer.

As it turned out, the biggest pests for Mom and Barbara Jo were the mice tha=
t=20
ran through their hair in the shelters. And a good many of the men they met=20
were well past midlife. Four days into the hike, they spent a memorable nigh=
t=20
with a retired West Virginia auto mechanic, who, at the age of 71, was on=20
this third through-hike -- hence his trail name, "Rerun." They awoke the nex=
t=20
morning surrounded by eight inches of snow and passed the next two days=20
trying to keep a fire going until the storm blew over.

After that, things looked up. Their muscles began to harden and they got=20
their trail legs. They stayed on the trail for the whole month, covering 250=
=20
miles. When Mom emerged that year, tanned and 20 pounds lighter, she caught=20=
a=20
bus to Texas to see my newborn daughter, Samantha, her first grandchild.

As the years went by, the two developed a routine. Come spring, they'd dig=20
out their backpacks, load them up and stride around the neighborhood to get=20
into condition. Mom would start stacking fruit and meat in the dehydrator.=20
They divided up food rations and mailed them to post offices along their=20
route, and cut the ends off their toothbrushes to save weight. And then they=
=20
were off, disappearing for weeks as their husbands fended for themselves.

They mingled with an eccentric crowd, made stranger by the fact that hikers=20
tend to adopt pseudonyms -- a sort of nonvirtual Internet chat room. There=20
was Cool Breeze, an ex-musician of apparently independent means who wanders=20
the trail full-time, playing the penny whistle; Isis and Jackrabbit, two=20
sisters from Maine who hike barefoot; and Nimblewill Nomad, a retired=20
optometrist who decided to double his mileage by starting in Key West, Fla.,=
=20
and finishing in Cap de Gaspe, Quebec.

My mom and my aunt didn't hike in the summer of 1992. That's the year Uncle=20
Dave was diagnosed with bone cancer. Barbara Jo cared for him for the next=20
four years, until he died. Their parents' failing health knocked them off fo=
r=20
two more seasons.

And yet, in between, they kept rolling up the miles. By now known by their=20
trail name, the Blister Sisters, they negotiated the ankle-turning rocks of=20
Pennsylvania, the PUDs (pointless ups and downs) of New York and New=20
Hampshire's White Mountains. They cajoled eight grandkids into joining them=20
at one time or another, including Samantha, who logged 20 miles when she was=
=20
nine.

By last year, they were all set to finish. Then, just 117 miles short of the=
=20
goal, disaster. Sliding on a slab of slate in Maine's 100-mile wilderness,=20
Barbara Jo landed on her tailbone and couldn't even stand, much less walk th=
e=20
nine miles to the next campsite. A fellow hiker named Flybait went for help.=
=20
Seven hours later, nearly two dozen rescuers converged, including game=20
wardens, paramedics and townspeople from the nearest village, 27 miles away.=
=20
Using chainsaws to cut a path through deadwood, stretcher-bearers carried he=
r=20
to a four-wheel-drive ambulance. At the hospital, X-rays showed nothing wors=
e=20
than bruises, but that was it for the hike. Dejectedly, they hitched a ride=20
back to the airport.

Ten days ago, the Blister Sisters set out again from that same slab. If all=20
goes according to plan, they'll finish the trail atop Maine's Mt. Katahdin=20
this Friday, on my mom's 70th birthday. And if not? There's always next year=
.


--- StripMime Report -- processed MIME parts ---
multipart/alternative
  text/plain (text body -- kept)
  text/html
---