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

Was
. I didn’t limit my research to paperbacks, though; I also scoured the Internet and newspapers for tidbits—anything that would help me prepare for the journey ahead. By the time we got out of Bob’s van at the Mexican border, I thought I had a decent idea of what to expect. But I quickly discovered that the printed page couldn’t adequately prepare me for life on the trail. In particular, the printed page absolutely failed to prepare me for meeting Meadow Ed. But while Meadow Ed came as a surprise, he instantly became an integral part of my hike. His visage would hang over me for the rest of the summer, pushing me forward. Unwittingly, he became one of my greatest motivators, albeit in a twisted, “I’ll show you” sort of way. Meadow Ed was skeptical about our chances, and I suppose, considering our condition when we first met, I couldn’t really blame him.

    The night before we reached Kamp Anza had been difficult. Dirt seeped into every nook and cranny of our bodies, clothing, and gear. I could feel it between my toes and on my scalp, like sand after a windy day at the beach. It was only our ninth night en route to Canada, and our 139th mile, but alreadyI felt farther away from home than I’d ever felt before.
    Wind whipped through the canyon where we camped and pummeled our tent all night. Adding to the wind’s roar was the constant flapping of our rain fly and periodic showers of sand against the tent walls. Snuggled beneath our shared sleeping bag, we slept fitfully until a gust tore out our tent stakes, causing the whole darn thing to cave in.
    â€œSave the women and children!” Duffy yelled. I awoke with a start, and all restful slumber was ended for the night.
    When dawn finally broke, the cold wind hadn’t let up and we had to keep moving to stay warm. We didn’t pause for breakfast because we had none. We didn’t have lunch, a snack, or dinner, either. What we did have was pancake mix—just the mix: no butter, no frying pan. By midmorning, I was starved and thought I’d try making pancakes in our pot. Duffy (being a more experienced cook) tried to talk me out of it, but I stubbornly continued combining flour and water and heating the concoction. The result was lumpy and burnt. I ate it anyway, until I started to feel sick. Duffy gave me a smug look.
    â€œI told you, Chiggy.”
    I didn’t know it yet, but similar provision miscalculations would plague us for weeks to come. But this was our first experience with hiking hungry, and it would be short (or so I told myself)—just a three-mile hike to a jeep road and then a five-mile road-walk to our next re-supply, at the Hiker’s Oasis at Kamp Anza.
    When we got to the jeep road, it was as deserted as it was dusty. The desolation was made all the more complete by an absolute lack of street signs, and soon we were lost in a maze of dirt roads, barbed wire fences, and anonymous ranches. The horizon was hazy. I stared at a cow skull strapped to a fence and just couldn’t believe how cold it was. The temperature and the terrain didn’t match. Duffy plodded stoically a hundred yards ahead. Lagging behind, I stumbled over my numb, Raynaud’s-ridden feet and wiped tears of frustration from my eyes.
    Farther down the road, as we rested against weathered fence posts, a white car with government plates slowed to a stop beside us. From inside a large woman with long braided hair peered at us suspiciously. She workedfor the IRS and was searching for a local rancher who needed an audit.
    â€œYou guys okay?” she asked. We nodded. She seemed about to offer us a ride but then hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t pick up hitchhikers in a government car. You guys aren’t wackos, are you?” I tried to reassure her of our sanity, but explaining that we were in the process of hiking to Canada didn’t seem to help and she drove away.

    Many wrong turns later, we