Spent. Our first full day back on the Buffalo River Trail was going almost exactly as we'd planned, with the minor hiccup of missing the spur to hit the toilets and a picnic table at lunchtime. We just found a flat rock in a sunny place for lunch instead, and continued our hike along the thru trail. Our views along the trail continued to impress, with glimpses of the river through the trees and a few high spots that allowed us to overlook swaths of the Ozarks.
One thing we did miss out on, however, was the chance to fill up our water bottles. We'd planned on filling up at Kyle's Landing, if not from the taps that were likely closed for the season then at least from the river using our filter. We missed our turn, though, and walked several more miles before we found a small pool set in the shade of an alcove where we sat for a few minutes and drank our fill. It was around this time that I realized I hadn't been taking proper care of my feet, and I was beginnning to fill the hotspots that hearlded a comming blister. I took a few extra minutes to remove my shoes and cool my feet, changing my socks and hoping the damage wasn't too bad.
Of course, as we continued hiking it became pretty apparent that I hadn't acted quickly enough. My feet hurt, concentrated on my right heel, and I found myself compensating by walking with a pronounced limp. We still had several miles to go before we called it quits for the night, planning on reaching Erbie Campground and one of our cars at the trailhead. Torrey offered to slow down several times, but there was no point. We still had the same amount of ground to cover, and in my head hurrying through them was preferable to prolonging my discomfort.
We took what shortcuts we could, following a forest service road instead of the trail itself until it spit us out at Erbie Historic Site. After poking around the homestead a bit we hopped on the road, knowing it would take us up to the campground and the luxury of our car. As is my usual, I began to second guess myself if we were heading in the right direction, if our car really was only a mile or so up the road and not three miles up like I suddenly began to fear. It was close to dark, and night falls quickly in the mountains. A mile we could handle, three miles would mean we'd be walking in a dark forest, alone, with only our headlamps and night noises for company. I confessed my fear to Torrey, convincing myself with every step that I'd somehow messed up and parked further away than we really needed to, prolonging my already intolerable foot pain into something that surely counted as self-torture.
You can't imagine the tidal wave of relief that crashed over me when we saw the sign for the campground after only a mile on the road. I grinned like an idiot, ridiculously pleased with myself that I hadn't managed to screw up this year. As I limped up to the car and dumped my pack I could have cried. As it was, we really didn't have all that long before we lost the light so we hurried to pick a site where we set up the tent and began dinner. We stayed out at the picnic table far longer that we would have hung around if we were in the backcountry, watching the stars come out above us as we listened to the river rushing past, contemplating the next day and the end of our trail. Then, of course, we hit the bathroom before bed and Torrey decided to take us on a joy ride to the creepy abandoned farmstead just down the road. And I really did cry. Read about the night we confirmed I'm a wimp here.
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