heat, and interminable monotony? And, to be fair, vistas in twenty shades of brown. Green, six-inch lizards basking on rocks. Cacti shadows that flicker at dusk. Okay, it’s not so bad.
She tripped in a mouse hole and stumbled into bushes, scraping her arms and legs.
Or maybe it is. What did he think he was going to get out of this? And what the heck goes through Lone Star’s mind as he’s walking out here?
She saw a large footprint in the path. Her heart fluttered.
Is he slowing down so I can catch up to him?
She sped up. After hours of hard, persistent, and solitary climbing, Grace spent the night at a campground a few miles short of her first resupply stop.
My soles feel like I’ve been walking on hot coals. I’m sure Lone Star’s long gone already. And that Mount Laguna store is probably closed. Don’t want to make a wasted trip.
After pitching her tent and cooking her first trail dinner, she shone her headlamp on her feet. Several enormous, festering blisters stared accusingly at her.
Wow. I’ve gotten blisters with a new pair of pumps, but these are larger than a Texas hippo’s backside, or whatever Lone Star would say. I’ll wear my camp shoes tonight. Maybe they’ll disappear.
They didn’t.
Grace hobbled onto the porch of the Mount Laguna store before eight the next morning. Four bearded, smelly hikers greeted her with high fives. The contents of their backpacks plastered the ragged wooden floorboards. The twenty-somethings pawed through the contents of the hiker box.
“We’re looking for anything we can yogi.”
Yogi?
“How did I miss you guys on the trail yesterday?” Grace pushed aside a pack to sit on the edge of the porch.
“We hiked straight through from Lake Morena. Must have leapfrogged your tent.” A freckled teenager winked at her. “We got here right at closing and stayed in that cabin over there. Too bad you weren’t here to join us for the vodka shots.” He patted an empty bottle next to him.
I remember their type from college. Fun-loving, but not reliable. Still, I could use some advice.
Keen faces crowded around her dangling feet. Fingers examined and prodded the blisters. Different people offered solutions.
The consensus was that while blisters were serious business out on the trail, Grace was in luck. Hers hadn’t broken open and bled. But judgments divided about the best treatment. To pop or not to pop. To build a small wall of foam around each one, or to cover the entire surface with foam. To hold bandages in place using duct tape or surgical tape. Grace held her head in her hands.
“Who knew blister care was as controversial as fracking?”
A gravelly voice interrupted the heated debate. “Hope you don’t mind my butting in. But I think you need to give your feet a rest. I suggest you get a cabin for tonight, one with a bathtub. Soak your feet. Then take another look in the morning. Don’t use duct tape if you can avoid it. Thrus love it, but the adhesive is nasty stuff.”
The voice had a distinctly Midwestern ring to it. Grace looked behind her, expecting to see a grizzled farmer in overalls with a corncob pipe jutting from his mouth. An athletic, handsome man of about sixty in tan hiking pants and a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt returned her glance. Blue gaiters with white stars protected his shoes. He smiled benevolently and swung a day pack across his back.
“Good luck.” He jerked his chin, saluting Grace. “Next time, stop as soon as you feel any kind of pain. Treat anything that could become a blister like it is a blister, and you’ll be in better shape.” To the guys congregated on the porch he waved a hand. “See you soon. I’m sure you’ll leapfrog me in no time.”
“Who was that?” Grace stared after him.
The young men answered in unison. “Eagle.”
“Used to be a banker. Now he’s a trail angel.” The freckled youth smiled at her.
“Do you have to talk in code? I can’t understand half of what you’re
She tripped in a mouse hole and stumbled into bushes, scraping her arms and legs.
Or maybe it is. What did he think he was going to get out of this? And what the heck goes through Lone Star’s mind as he’s walking out here?
She saw a large footprint in the path. Her heart fluttered.
Is he slowing down so I can catch up to him?
She sped up. After hours of hard, persistent, and solitary climbing, Grace spent the night at a campground a few miles short of her first resupply stop.
My soles feel like I’ve been walking on hot coals. I’m sure Lone Star’s long gone already. And that Mount Laguna store is probably closed. Don’t want to make a wasted trip.
After pitching her tent and cooking her first trail dinner, she shone her headlamp on her feet. Several enormous, festering blisters stared accusingly at her.
Wow. I’ve gotten blisters with a new pair of pumps, but these are larger than a Texas hippo’s backside, or whatever Lone Star would say. I’ll wear my camp shoes tonight. Maybe they’ll disappear.
They didn’t.
Grace hobbled onto the porch of the Mount Laguna store before eight the next morning. Four bearded, smelly hikers greeted her with high fives. The contents of their backpacks plastered the ragged wooden floorboards. The twenty-somethings pawed through the contents of the hiker box.
“We’re looking for anything we can yogi.”
Yogi?
“How did I miss you guys on the trail yesterday?” Grace pushed aside a pack to sit on the edge of the porch.
“We hiked straight through from Lake Morena. Must have leapfrogged your tent.” A freckled teenager winked at her. “We got here right at closing and stayed in that cabin over there. Too bad you weren’t here to join us for the vodka shots.” He patted an empty bottle next to him.
I remember their type from college. Fun-loving, but not reliable. Still, I could use some advice.
Keen faces crowded around her dangling feet. Fingers examined and prodded the blisters. Different people offered solutions.
The consensus was that while blisters were serious business out on the trail, Grace was in luck. Hers hadn’t broken open and bled. But judgments divided about the best treatment. To pop or not to pop. To build a small wall of foam around each one, or to cover the entire surface with foam. To hold bandages in place using duct tape or surgical tape. Grace held her head in her hands.
“Who knew blister care was as controversial as fracking?”
A gravelly voice interrupted the heated debate. “Hope you don’t mind my butting in. But I think you need to give your feet a rest. I suggest you get a cabin for tonight, one with a bathtub. Soak your feet. Then take another look in the morning. Don’t use duct tape if you can avoid it. Thrus love it, but the adhesive is nasty stuff.”
The voice had a distinctly Midwestern ring to it. Grace looked behind her, expecting to see a grizzled farmer in overalls with a corncob pipe jutting from his mouth. An athletic, handsome man of about sixty in tan hiking pants and a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt returned her glance. Blue gaiters with white stars protected his shoes. He smiled benevolently and swung a day pack across his back.
“Good luck.” He jerked his chin, saluting Grace. “Next time, stop as soon as you feel any kind of pain. Treat anything that could become a blister like it is a blister, and you’ll be in better shape.” To the guys congregated on the porch he waved a hand. “See you soon. I’m sure you’ll leapfrog me in no time.”
“Who was that?” Grace stared after him.
The young men answered in unison. “Eagle.”
“Used to be a banker. Now he’s a trail angel.” The freckled youth smiled at her.
“Do you have to talk in code? I can’t understand half of what you’re
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