I've been thinking a lot about Rodney, as I hike where we walked in 1982. I think it appropriate for me to write down all the details as I understand them of his last days, to share and to preserve them, and perhaps help to accept this still shocking and untimely event. This is my attempt at explanation, and of expiation. This blog is the easiest place to make it, as I sit out a rain day in Hiawassee, Georgia.
On Sunday April 13, 2014, Rodney and I left the hostel at Buena Vista, VA, getting shuttled to the trail head late morning after a relaxing and pleasant chat over coffee and tea with the owner. On trail, we encountered several sets of northbound thru-hikers, and stopped and chatted with a group of 4 at the first shelter. We had already heard about the stomach bug common in central VA, and these hikers confirmed this. There was a bag of midget tootsie rolls in the shelter, which the hikers said had been left by a father and son hiking south with a dog just ahead of us. Rodney and I couldn't resist, and ate some. We soon passed the two on the trail, saying hello and moving on. We walked that afternoon to the next shelter, and assumed the father and son would show up eventually. We gathered wood for the fire, ate dinner as it got dark, and started reading in our sleeping bags before sleeping. We both woke up when we heard the son arrive--their dog had jumped into the shelter and laid down right next to Rodney. The son sat outside for a while, waiting for his father in the dark. We went back to sleep. He apparently started a fire and cooked behind the shelter, and eventually came into the shelter, wrapping himself up in a noisy tarp. They had thrown away one of their two sleeping bags, and the father had the other one. By morning we realized the father had not shown up, but the son said he was probably sleeping on the trail somewhere. They were just out for a few days during the son's school break. He was also carrying a large machete, and after we left the shelter that morning we joked about how he might have knocked off his father along the trail. Perhaps the father fell ill with the same stomach flu, which I learned later was highly contagious and was widespread in the local towns, not just among hikers. Could the tootsie rolls have infected Rodney? We had been sharing the same water, food, life all along.
So that Monday morning, April 14 we hiked normally, up steeply and then along a ridge. One highlight was encountering two very attractive young women at a trail junction, just starting on a 5-day hike north unfortunately, as Rodney said "looking like aerobic instructors" with their cute leggings and hair perfectly in place. We joked that northbounders would be running up the trail after we told them what was ahead. We climbed down the ridge toward the James River, stopping at John's Hollow shelter for lunch. Again, all seemed normal, the only new thing was Rodney saying he felt like taking a nap after eating. He looked fine at least as I recall. But since the next shelter was only 4 mostly flat miles away, and we knew rain was coming tomorrow, we decided to just get there early to gather firewood and setup for what might be a rain day at the shelter. We walked together uphill to get back on the trail, but then, perhaps 1/2 mile from our lunch stop, Rodney said he felt lightheaded and needed to sit down. He put his pack down, sat on it and immediately doubled over and vomited violently, with even his false teeth flying out. I waited with him, he drank some water, and after about 15 minutes he got up and said he could walk on. Neither of us mentioned doubling back to the last shelter, so I assumed he felt well enough to make it downhill to the bridge over the river and then the few miles to Matts Creek shelter. He went more slowly then usual, but seemed to be okay about walking. As we approached the shelter he even stooped to pick up some firewood from the trail. After dropping packs we both gathered more wood, again, as normal. He didn't complain, but later said he didn't feel like eating any dinner, so I cooked over the fire and ate alone. We went to bed, and he read as usual. Later that night I heard him get up quickly and vomit over the edge of the shelter, but there was little evidence of food, just clear fluid or phlegm. The rain started heavily during the night and continued the whole next day, so we just stayed in our bags. Rodney didn't feel like eating, but was drinking the water I fetched to purify. We read and napped, with just a few hikers stopping briefly to snack out of the rain. The ridge runner was one of them, and I talked with her for a while. The stream was swollen from all the rain and we agreed it was too high to cross, so she turned back. Rodney, while looking ashen seemed normal, given his illness--in my experience he usually would just stop eating and try to sleep when sick. Wednesday the 16th was sunny, and Rodney suggested I hike on without him, that he would catch up later. The stream was still high though, and instead I figured I could easily walk back to the road and hitch a ride to the nearest town for more food, specifically ginger ale, bananas, crackers, etc., things that he could readily digest. I got a ride after waiting about 20 minutes, stopped at the public library to check email, blog, recharge, then shopped. As I sat outside the store eating a quick snack, a kind woman stopped and offered me $20 so I could "get a hot meal." I didn't realize I looked so bad myself, but I assured her that the nicest thing she could do was drive me back to the trailhead, which she gladly did. Pauline, a good Christian with lung cancer, asked if I minded while she smoked a cigarette with the car windows open a bit. At the trailhead she insisted I take the $20, so I assured her I would give it to Rodney and that he would appreciate it greatly. Back at the shelter that afternoon Rodney drank the ginger ale and ate a banana, and started eating crackers, and seemed to be improving. He said he still felt light headed and slightly nauseous, and stayed in his sleeping bag the rest of the day reading and napping. He was slow returning once from the privy, but just said he felt tired.
Thursday Rodney ate some oatmeal and a banana for breakfast, had crackers for lunch, and then a rice dinner. He said he still felt weak, and that he didn't think he wanted to walk up the steep ridge ahead of us the next day. We agreed that I would leave in the morning, and that he would hitch a ride to the next town while I hiked the 3 days it would take to get there. I told him that the easiest solution would be to ask passing day hikers on Saturday or Sunday to drive him, or just walk back the flat 2 miles to the road and hitch. I told him to call or get someone to contact me if he would be delayed past Monday morning. Later that night he got up quickly and vomited again, but in the morning I looked and it was just clear fluid again, no food particles. He seemed sheepish when I mentioned it, I think he hoped I hadn't heard him. But once again he still didn't complain, and strongly encouraged me to leave, that he didn't want to "wreck" my hike by holding me up any longer. So I left him at 8am on Friday. The stream was still high, but I was able to cross without getting too wet. As I climbed up the switchbacks directly across from the shelter I looked back and there was Rodney, at the edge of the shelter, moving his hat in big sweeping movements back and forth, waving goodbye.
As I hiked the next few days, I told oncoming hikers about Rodney, and asked them to check in on him, give him water, etc. A few had access to cars, so I asked if they could drive him, but none seemed willing or going in that direction. I had a great 3 days of hiking, up over one mountain above 4,200 ft. and got to the town park in Troutville late Sunday afternoon. I fully expected to see Rodney there offering me a beer.
I stayed in the park that night, with a few cyclists, and the next day another hiker arrived from the north. He said he talked with Rodney Friday noon, and that Rodney had told him about our plan to meet. I waited around on Monday, got a ride to the grocery for resupply, and still expected Rodney to show up. Instead, I heard that evening from our brother Jack that he had been notified that Rodney was dead, from gastrointestinal bleeding.
Rodney had been found unresponsive Monday morning, April 21st. The police told me that hikers staying at the shelter Easter Sunday talked with him, and Rodney told them that he "wasn't having a good day." On Monday they had to hike to the road before getting cell service to call 911, around 9:20am. He was still in his sleeping bag, so we could assume he died in his sleep. The police said that a family of day hikers, after reading about this in the newspaper, reported that they had stopped and had lunch at the shelter on Saturday, had talked with him and given him food and water. Rodney apparently did not ask them for any other assistance. The police gave me their address and I have since written to thank them, but have not heard back from them.
On Wednesday, before catching a bus home, I arranged for Rodney's cremation, and met with the police to collect his few possessions, which included some of the food the family had given him on Saturday--part of a ham sandwich, banana, etc. The police did offer the sad fact that a plastic bag was found under the shelter, with trash and some evidence of tarry stools -- indicative of internal bleeding. I can only conclude that at some point Rodney was too weak to walk uphill to the privy.
As to why Rodney didn't ask for assistance, or try to send a message to me by way of northbound hikers with cellphones, I do not know. I can only assume he decided to deal with this situation in his own way, on his own terms, as he had been doing all along for years. His death at some point, likely along the Appalachian Trail or some other trail, was not entirely unexpected given the way he chose to live. He didn't complain, and didn't ask for help.
