Free Blistered Kind Of Love by Angela Ballard, Duffy Ballard Page A

about Scott, the aspiring “yo-yo” hiker. A yo-yo hike is a double hike, a Mexico–Canada–Mexico odyssey in one hiking season. So far, no one’s been able to pull it off, though several have tried. But according to Ed, because of the very low snow levels in the Sierra, this might just be the year. Scott (nicknamed “Let It Be”) was attempting the yo-yo for the fourth and probably final time. If he didn’t succeed this time, he probably never would; rumor had it that Scott would exchange his yo-yo hiking shoes for wedding rings in the fall.
    â€œJust another example of how some women try to keep men from achieving greatness,” Ed jokingly lamented. I thought it demonstrated great greatness that Scott could avoid finding steady employment for three years in a row and still locate a woman willing to marry him. Ed told us that his “sources” indicated Scott had already signed the trail register at Tehachapi (mile 555) and that he’d be in Kennedy Meadows (mile 700) soon. That put him a good 450 to 500 miles ahead of us and made me wonder whether we’d make it out of California before seeing Scott yo-yoing his way back to Mexico.
    I asked how old Scott was. Ed told me he was only twenty-eight, and then went inside the RV to get his PCT scrapbook so that he could show me a picture. He was back a minute later with Paul and each held a photo album in their hands. They bragged back and forth about their photo collections and in particular about competing autographed pictures of Let It Be. As I looked through the albums, complete with lists of trail register signings for several years, it occurred to me that Paul and Ed followed Pacific Crest Trail hiking as if it were a competitive sport. For them the “standings” were the trail registers with the lists of names and dates, and the “disabled list” was gathered through word of mouth and conjecture. “All-stars” were hikers like Scott, the fastest and most determined people on the trail. With such rabid fan support, no wonder some hikers seemed to get caught up in turning their hike into a competitive event. I wondered if Ed and Paul privately amused themselves byplacing bets on how far different hikers would make it. Considering that Ed had asked us to call Paul when we finally got off the trail, it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit. How far did they think we’d get?
    The next morning Ed sat with Angela and me on the porch.
    â€œYou’ll cry,” he warned Angela. Then he looked at me. “You’ll cry, too. This trail can break you.” He fixed his glance on our tent. “And sometimes that tent is going to seem awfully small for the two of ya.”
    â€œThanks, Ed, that’s very encouraging,” I replied.
    â€œWell, I’ve seen many couples torn apart on this trail. You guys are connected by an umbilical cord there,” he said, pointing at the tent. “You may want to pull away . . . but what then? Two people, one tent, one stove.”
    â€œOne sleeping bag,” Angela added. I glared at her.
    â€œDuffy, I hope I will see you guys in Kennedy Meadows. I throw a party on June 15, Ray Day. Drink up, and then head into the mountains. And that’s when we see who the
real
hikers are. Thirteen thousand feet, glacier traverses, and stream-crossings—and I am not talking about the type of stream-crossing that you and your little brother used to get a kick out of while standing over the toilet.”
    I gave his joke a token smile. “We’ll see you there, Ed, umbilical cord and all.”

The Race is On
    BEFORE SETTING MY TREKKING SHOES on the Pacific Crest Trail, I did plenty of reading—twenty-seven books’ worth, to be exact. These included John Muir’s
My First Summer in the Sierra
, Cindy Ross’
Journey on the Crest
, and a collection of short stories about misadventures in the wild called
No Shit, There I