Back in 1988 I decided to do a five day solo hike on the Superior Hiking Trail in northern Minnesota. It was mid May and the snow was all gone in the southern part of the state, so I thought the trail would be clear up north. But I also knew enough to be wary of the climate north of Duluth, so I came half expecting to find out that there would be too much snow to attempt the hike.
Therefore, I stopped off at the ranger station and asked them if the trail was clear going north behind the Sawtooth Mountains. "No problem," they told me. "The trail is clear all the way north."
My first big mistake was believing them. So I told my girl friend that I was going to do the trip after all, and I asked her to pick me up five days hence at a pre-determined location. She took off and I headed up the trail.
At first it looked promising. The ground was muddy, but passable, and I even saw mountain bike tracks leading up the trail, which only contributed to my belief that this was a doable trip. I got to Carlton Peak (the highest point in Minnesota), had some lunch, enjoying the fine day, then headed down the mountain, which is when I started running into snow. Before long, I was crotch-deep in wet, heavy, melting stuff and of course the trail was nowhere to be seen.
I should have turned back at that point (really, this was probably my single biggest mistake), but I continued on thinking that eventually the snow would disappear as I got to a lower elevation. Well, sure enough, it did, but it was replaced by forest-turned-to-swamp due to melting snow. Fortunately, I found a trail (still not sure if it was the right one) that kept me out of the worst of the ice water and mud. So I kept going, thinking that surely things would get better.
Finally, after a few hours of struggling, I came to a wider trail, which lead to a muddy area that was half-submerged in spring run off. The trail lead across the muddy area on a bridge of sorts built of split birch logs. The half-logs looked like they were laid down directly on the mud, and I figured it was there to give four wheelers traction when crossing the area.
Anyway, me and my 60-lb pack started across this thing, got half way across, when my foot broke through the logs (which turned out to be rotten and only solid enough to have held me to that point due to ice). I dropped about a foot into standing ice water, twisting my ankle badly. With my next step, I broke through the logs again, but this time didn't twist my ankle.
Long story short, I struggled off that "bridge," breaking through it with every other step, and another quarter of a mile up the trail to a high, wide spot clear of snow, mud and water. I pitched my tent, built a fire, and spent the next day contemplating the errors of my ways while I waited for the swelling to subside in my ankle.
Fortunately, I didn't break my ankle or someone probably would have had to come find me. As it was, I was able to limp a few miles to a logging road, then down to the highway where I hitched a ride to a state park. I then spent the next few days staring at Lake Superior while waiting for my girl friend to come collect me.
Moral of the story: don't be too proud to turn back, especially when you arrive for the hike already half thinking that you aren't going to be able to do it.
And, yes, I know, I shouldn't have been out there solo. But I almost always end up solo hiking thanks to a lack of hiking partners in my life. When the choice is go it alone or don't go at all, sometimes you just have to go it alone. At least I had enough gear to get me through it.
By the way, that ankle is still weak to this day, which is why whenever I got off trail in even a semi-serious way I always wear boots with good ankle support. I also no longer believe in 60lb packs, which certainly didn't help the situation at all, and which forever after my ankle utterly despises.
