Finding Adventure Balance When Chronically Ill
“Nothing like a good morning poop to set ya straight!”
I was in the middle of the woods, on my first solo backpacking trip, and my journal entry belies the amount of frustration I was experiencing. Although a decent poop can admittedly feel rather good, I had been on the struggle bus for the last 12 hours and was considering throwing in the towel on the whole excursion.
I drove to the Michigan Upper Peninsula from my Indiana home in a two-day stretch. After the first day’s 8-hour push, I set up my tent at a pre-booked site at Bewabic State Park, just over the border from Wisconsin into Michigan. My destination the next day would be the Keweenaw Point Trail, high on the Keweenaw Peninsula that juts out from the southern shore of Lake Superior. I chose this location because it is comparable in longitude to the Superior Hiking Trail (SHT) in Minnesota. Ever since being introduced to backpacking, I had conjured a bucket list goal of a solo through-hike of the 300+ mile SHT. My weekend jaunt in Michigan would serve as a test trip, both for my mental resilience and for my cold-weather gear.
I wasn’t even on trail yet, and my night at Bewabic was miserable. The temperature dipped into the 30s overnight, which was much lower than expected for this time of year. I happen to have a rare neurological condition which comes with a diverse array of symptoms, including hypersensitivity to both ends of the temperature spectrum. I borrowed my friend’s backpacking quilt for the trip, but my trembling hands wrestled with the unfamiliar zippers and straps while I hurried to get my sleep system arranged. Staring at the roof of the tent, I watched my steamy breath while sleep eluded me for most of the night.
Body aches and a squeeze in my chest accompanied my morning pack routine. Before hitting the road, I discovered a local coffeehouse and grabbed a hot autumnal drink to sip during the remaining 2 ½ hour drive to the trailhead. The scenery of stately pine and peeling beech passing me by on either side, along with the rich pecan caramel sips of coffee, slowly calmed my nerves and allowed my natural longing for exploration to return. However, when I reached my goal, I felt disappointed to find no parking near the trail. Instead, I would have to park at Fort Wilkins and walk a little over a mile on the road before getting to my actual starting point. Storms were coming in the evening, so the added mileage cranked my anxiety back up while I considered the need to make progress and find a dispersed campsite ASAP.
Once I had hoisted my backpack and scurried up the road to “Phase 1” of the trail, I began meandering through the woods parallel to the service road that took over from US Highway 41’s terminus. The trail boasted lots of quick ups and downs and swept around switchbacks with slanted grades. Soon, a few signs showed that the area had undergone recent renovations into a large bike park. I realized that my two choices were to continue on the bike trail, with its artificial elevation changes and extra steps, or to take the service road and sacrifice the feeling of being immersed in the woods. I bopped between the two choices haphazardly, unsatisfied with both options.
Finding a campsite was no picnic, as I was looking for a magical combination of clearance for my tent, high ground to avoid being flooded out during the night, the local required distance of 200 feet from the trail, no dead trees ready to pummel me in a storm, and a good bear hang tree. While the light shifted to the softer palette of twilight and the scent of rain floated through the tree’s branches, I settled on the best spot I could find and rushed to make camp. I didn’t feel like putting in the effort to cook. Instead, I pounded down some tuna and apple chips so I could crawl into my tent and sleep away my annoyance. It took a while to drift off, my mind turning over the idea of heading right back to my car the next day, until exhaustion finally shut the drapes on my racing thoughts.
My perspective softened in the morning over a cup of hot coffee and quiet appreciation of the rising sun’s rays prying their way out of the horizon. The aforementioned poop was a pleasant bonus. While packing up camp, I talked myself off the ledge and kept going. I already drove all this way…might as well give it a go. I was back on the service road, but I enjoyed the images of beauty created by the overnight rain–bright green leaves sprinkled with tiny beads of water, paw prints of animals taking a stroll through the mud.
Only a mile into my day, I chuckled as I passed a roadside campsite, perfectly clear and boasting its own stone firepit. Wish I had known that was there last night! I marked the site as a waypoint on my Garmin, thankful I had found a predetermined spot for my return trek. Next, I saw a wooden sign to my left, inviting me onto a turnoff, and as I walked closer, I read “Keweenaw Point Trail Phase 2.” This stretch of trail climbing up and west of the service road looked much more akin to what I was expecting. For another five hours, I relished the canopy’s cool shade, taking pictures of interesting mushrooms, lunching on a smooth slab of glacial rock, and inhaling the tranquility as if I could pack it into a baggy for an afternoon snack.
The tip of the peninsula, where the deep blue hue of Lake Superior stretched as far as the eye could see, was the end of the trail and my reward for a hard day’s hike. I wandered the shoreline, half captivated by the gorgeous scenery and half searching for the promised primitive campsites I had read about in my research. I saw a middle-aged man with a scruffy gray goatee perched at the waterline and called out to him, “Hey, have you seen any campsites around here?” He bounced over to me, and his kind eyes were assuring while he explained he was staying at one of the campsites and he’d take me over to the loop and give me a tour. Just a short walk away, my new friend showed me an incredible spot that no one had claimed yet, and I grabbed it for my overnight home.
I couldn’t have asked for more. The clearing rose above a secluded sandy beach, and a large stone fire ring sat at the perfect angle for looking out over the water, while a building with pit toilets stood only a few hundred feet down the path, adding the perfect finishing touch. After setting up camp, I enjoyed a calm evening strolling along the beach, gathering firewood, cooking a hot supper, and journaling by the light of my fire’s flames.
My third morning started with serenity reminiscent of a Disney film. While I prepared my Jetboil coffee, chipmunks chirped around me gathering acorns, flitting within just a couple of feet. I chatted with them merrily, apologizing that I do not make a habit of feeding wildlife, but sharing with them my chores for the morning. As I packed up camp, however, I experienced intense headache bursts. Soon, I also navigated bouts of lightheadedness, finding the ups and downs of tent extraction a little treacherous. It’s hard to tell whether these symptoms are from dehydration or my neurological challenges. I had been paying special attention to water intake to prevent additional problems, so I found dehydration suspect. Whatever the case, it seemed like a slight change in plans was in order.
Instead of taking the same meandering route of the KPT through the woods back south, I decided to stay on the service road as much as possible. Not only would this shorten my mileage some, but it would also keep me within view of passing ATV traffic during the trek. If I spiraled down into worse physical shape, I could always hitch a ride back to Fort Wilkins, my car, and cell reception.
It turned out that the service road had some nice hiking advantages. I passed by Schlatter Lake, which gave me the opportunity to take a side path down to the water and soak in the peaceful inland water view. The sheer silence only ½ mile from the road was impressive and refreshing. I also walked within ten feet of a phenomenal bird of prey. It looked like an eagle, but I wasn’t sure if it was a juvenile bald eagle or an adult golden eagle (I confirmed it was a bald eagle when I returned home).
While basking in the wonders of nature, I thought quite a bit about my SHT through-hike goal, as well as my general proclivity for experiences outdoors. Away from my family and friends for only 4 days, I was already aching to see my husband. I had a Garmin for brief exchanges to quell his nerves about me being alone in the wilderness, but it wasn’t enough. I reflected on the times I most enjoyed nature, and it was always when immersed with other people. Showing off a reel of photos after the fact is nowhere near as fun as discovering, laughing, and crying with people in the moment.
It was my old self, before my rare disease diagnosis, that wanted to take every adventure to the extreme and check things off a list as a means of self-approval. The new me, the one who understands how short and precious life is, prefers to suck the marrow out of life in community. The new me is also learning how to minimize risk so that my adventures don’t take me out earlier than my disease likely already will. I have a child and a husband counting on me to extend my years as long as feasible.
These insights gelled just in time for a lunch break. Checking my GPS, I noticed I was only a mile from the campsite I had marked the previous day. It would be too early to stop and set up camp when I got there, so I hatched a plan to keep hiking all the way out a day early. My head was still throbbing, and my foggy brain was reminding me I hadn’t slept well for three nights, but the prize of hearing my hubby’s voice and camping at a park with showers and toilets was enticing.
I pushed through the last four miles, making the day a cumulative 10-mile hike (pretty long for this lady). When I arrived at Fort Wilkins, I dropped my pack at my Jeep and shuffled as quickly as possible to the tiny patch of the park where Verizon’s signal broke through. I nearly cried when I heard my husband’s chipper voice, just as eager to be on the phone with me. Even better, he asked me to drive south, and he would find a hotel, book a room for me, and send me the details. Hallelujah! A hot shower, proper food, and a comfy bed. Maybe I’d even get in another good poop before my jump start on the drive back home the next day.
Written by | Megan Wright
Megan Wright is a writer, a person in long-term recovery, a person living with chronic illness, a proud mother and wife, and an avid purveyor of the philosophy, ‘When was the last time you did something for the first time?’ She is also an ambassador for the local Indiana Chapter.
