Our first day, we planned to hike nine miles before making camp. Even with little elevation gain, we felt this would be a decent hike, so we got an early start (about noon). At the beginning of the trail were the usual warnings about bear and cougars, but this trail held another threat. Elk. Fresh baby elk pranced about making the adults more likely to butt, stomp and trample curious campers.
At mile marker 3.2, we stopped for lunch, hoping to wolf down some food before the threatening rain began. We crashed through the underbrush in order to eat by the river and startled a herd of elk reclining on the rocky bank of the Hoe. As the herd lumbered to their feet, a mere hundred feet away, we watched in trepidation, but they ignored us.
We donned our rain gear and ate a hurried lunch keeping one eye on the sky and the other on the elk, who munched away at their own meal and warily eyed us. By the time we finished lunch, the immediate threat of rain seemed to have vanished, so we pulled off our rain gear, loaded up our packs, and hit the trail.
Being in a rain forest, the presence of mud was hardly a shock. In order to reduce the degradation of the trial, a hiker is supposed to walk through the mud instead of trying to skirt around the edges. As coconscious backpackers, we examined each mud patch (there were many) and chose our footing with care in order to keep our feet as dry as possible while staying on the path. Once we were through, we would pick up our pace until the next patch of mud.
Then, Robyne ruined everything. "I'll be disappointed if we hike in the rain forest and we never get rain," she said. "I'd hate to have brought my rain gear for nothing."
Within an hour, the skies opened up, transforming our mud patches into puddles. As our boots sopped up the water from the sky and the ground, our concern about foot placement decreased. A shoe can only get so wet. By the end of the day, we were splashing through the puddles with wild abandon.
When we reached camp, the rain subsided giving us time to erect our tents and tarps at a campsite next to the Hoe herself. A rocky strip of land protruded from the center of the river, providing an ideal spot to retrieve firewood. The only barriers were the strip of ankle deep water and an otter. Okay, the otter didn't prove to be much of an obstacle since he just swam away. Since the drippiness factor of my boots was already high, I simply plunged through the water to retrieve firewood. After several trips, I felt we were ready.
We just got the fire going when the rain returned, but with the constant breeze and the seasoned wood, the fire held strong. In contrast to the car campsites, where I had purchased dry wood and had trouble getting the flames to even catch.
So far, we had been please by our bodies' handling of the rigors of our trip. But now, nine miles away from civilization, our ingenuity and resourcefulness would be put to the test.
While setting up camp, Robyne was stuffing her ThermaRest into her chair when, "pop." The top joint of the middle finger on her right hand would no longer straighten. She swayed for a moment before dropping down onto a log. Elaine and I immediately took charge. "Should we try and hike out tonight?" "That may not be wise in the dark." "Can you wait until morning?"
"Guys," Robyne cut in, superbly controlling her agony, "it doesn't hurt. I have no plans on hiking out early."
With the knowledge that our trip would not be impacted, we switched immediately to wilderness medical care. We decided the problem was with the tendon. Elaine suggested splinting the joint, I recommended cutting the finger off. Robyne played favorites and went with Elaine's suggestion.
Using a curved piece of wood, which they took from my precious fire supply, Elaine cut, shaved and filed a splint and used strips of moleskin to secure it to Robyne's finger. Through the rest of the trip, any tart comment was met with the question, "Do you want to see my injury," and the proud display of her splinted middle finger.