You’ll often hear people talking about the importance of getting off to a good start, and that’s certainly sound advice. Finishing well is a valuable skill in its own right, though, and it’s one that I’ve struggled to cultivate at many points in my life.
As a student, I quickly learned that a strong fall made for a lazy spring. Once you stockpiled a few 103s and 104s, thanks to liberal extra credit policies, two things occurred. First, you obviously had a comfortable margin for error, allowing you to miss some points here and there, without it imperiling your grade. Second, and more significant, was the fact that once the teacher identified you as that kind of high-performing student, all subsequent work submitted was viewed through rose-tinted lenses. A-level students do A-level work and, quite reasonably then, earn As. This didn’t hold true quite so reliably in the later years of high school, but for most of my adolescence it was a supremely effective strategy. And given that, I rarely needed to make April or May with anything resembling urgency. When other students would be at their most strung out, I had one foot out the door.
The challenge of finishing well became even more pronounced on the Camino. In the final days of my first Camino, my shoulders began to ache excruciatingly, a problem when one needs to wear a backpack. On the last day, the pain was such that I experienced little of the joy or satisfaction one anticipates at the end of a long journey; I mostly just wanted it to be over. On my second Camino, and my first leading students, I experienced perfect health for most of the walk–until, again, those last few days, when my right quad caused me significant trouble, forcing me to labor through the final kilometers. In more recent years, when I’ve become a much more accomplished walker and thus less vulnerable to injury on the trail, I still struggle with the end of the trip, and particularly the dissolution of the group, which comes together like a family over the course of the weeks together.
Over these past two weeks, I’ve fallen much more closely in line with the historic Oregon Trail. Leaving Bliss, I plodded downhill, winding into the gorge cut by the Snake River, and then crossing to the south side of the river, followed by most of the pioneers in this section. As the morning passed, the valley widened, leading me through fields of wheat and corn, as well as a solar farm. I climbed to the cliff top, admiring the sapphire curves of the Snake below, before hopping a fence and slaloming down a sandy trail, catching a mangy coyote by surprise along the way. While I had hoped to catch a perfect view of Glenns Ferry from above, the small town was tucked away, hiding its charms until I finally crossed its limits.
How did the pioneers feel when they reached this point in their journey? They didn’t have an arbitrary endpoint as I do. They could have stopped anywhere. By this point, they had survived the most arduous parts of their journey, and while the winters here–at 3000 feet–are assuredly cold, the land is sufficiently rich to allow a settler a comfortable life. Why push on? And if they did push on, how much fear persisted in their minds? Were they so comfortable, so settled into routine at this point that the land had relinquished its terrors?
I find that doubtful, because they still had to navigate a place like Glenns Ferry. For the first decades of pioneers, neither the ferry nor the town existed. Not until 1869 did Gustavus Glenn build his ferry. Instead, those pioneers just had a terrible choice–to remain on the south side of the river, through sand dunes and otherwise arid terrain, or to face a dangerous crossing over treacherous waters. Imagine making it this far, just a handful of days from present-day Oregon, only to drown in the Snake? Sadly, many achieved exactly that outcome, with many dying in the “Three Island Crossing.”
Today, the ferry has been replaced with a bridge, so my crossing was simple enough. I still faced the same dilemma of those emigrants, though, as the southern route through the Bruneau Dunes held some appeal to me, but ultimately I was swayed by the same arguments that my predecessors were. The stage to Mountain Home was one of the easiest routes to prepare, as most of the walk follows the helpfully named Old Oregon Trail Road. While it doesn’t perfectly follow the original route, it’s certainly in the ballpark, and you can put route-finding squarely alongside horseshoes and hand grenades, as far as I’m concerned. On this early fall day, what the terrain between Glenns Ferry and Mountain Home lacked in variety was more than offset by the brilliant golden sheen, running from the wheat fields surrounding me to the yellow hills in the distance. Yesterday’s solar farms were replaced with wind farms, and I walked with a steady headwind, keeping me cool even as the temperatures made a return trip to the low 90s. It was like a visit from an old friend.
Today’s Mountain Home was originally known as Rattlesnake Station. Years after its establishment, some locals worried that the latter might scare some folks away, so they made the change. As always, once you let the marketing people get involved, you lose all the cool stuff, and you end up with something nonsensical. Sure, there are hills on the margins, but the town itself is flat as a pancake. It’s false advertising. My grievances aside, this was also a place where some pioneer journeys ended in tragedy. At the nearby Rattlesnake Creek, pioneer diaries recall seeing eight graves in a row.
This has not been a fun week. The shoe issues that began just outside of Pocatello have persisted, in various ways. The damage itself was brought under control after the first unfortunate day, with bandages and tape ensuring that it doesn’t worsen. Some healing has occurred. But one of the big lessons you learn when walking is that it’s never the first injury that gets you in trouble. It’s the ripple effect. That blister won’t end your trip, but the subsequent hobble that causes knee tendonitis or a sprained ankle–that’ll send you straight to a plane home. In my case, having my heels rubbed raw is annoying on its own, but the pressure this places on my feet when they’re in certain positions makes me nervous for my Achilles, and it also causes my calves to cramp, especially early. I can mitigate the impact a fair amount–gritting my teeth and forcing my stride to remain smooth and even until the pain goes numb–but there are limits.
On one hand, this has made it easier to look ahead to the end as something desirable, something to long for, something that is all sweet and no bitter. And for the most part, I think that’s true in the case of this trip. I’m proud of it, glad to have done all of it, and I also don’t need it to be longer. That said, on the other hand, the pain of this past week has made me look back with gratitude at the remarkable health I’ve had throughout most of the preceding weeks. By all rights, my body should have hurt, should have hurt a great deal, at many points in this walk. It didn’t. It met every challenge along the way with remarkable resilience and equanimity. That’s incredible! I’m even more appreciative, though, of how my body has met this difficult week. Just because I’ve made it to this point doesn’t mean I’m guaranteed to reach Portland, or even Oregon. Look at those pioneers. They made it so far, only to fall short.
Of course, I have some extra help. The modern Pony Express had a new pair of shoes waiting for me in Mountain Home. Here’s hoping they carry me to the finish line.
