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[at-l] Re: Sloetoe remembers
I love stories.
>From: tmcginnis@ucclan.state.in.us (Thomas McGinnis)
>To: "Cora Drake" <cora_drake@hotmail.com>
>CC: at-l@backcountry.net, progeng@spartanburg.net
>Subject: Sloetoe remembers, was [at-l] Freedom a thruhiker sighting
>Date: Wed, 4 Aug 1999 16:11:35 -0500
>
>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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