Forty days and forty nights
On the fortieth day, I’m still walking in the desert. Like one of the most famous characters in one of the most widely circulated, read, and known books in the world.
It was a longer day than expected: we decided not to stop at the first camp – there was no one there, but we wouldn’t have any water either – and we continued for another four miles or so, bypassing the headland we climbed in the early afternoon and reaching the adjoining valley. Still desert, still the usual vegetation. And still the same fairly intense heat, at least until four o’clock. But now I have an umbrella – not always easy to set up in a hands-free manner.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the backpack (again), because I've been wondering that I may have gotten a size too big. I may have already lost some fat mass right around the waist, which would explain why the hip belt is almost at the end of its travel when I fasten it with a fully loaded backpack. It’s not like I have many options – I certainly couldn’t return this one that I’ve been using for a couple of weeks. The alternative would be to get another one, but is that really necessary? And how do I deal with the delivery time? I have no idea because I had no internet since I got out of Agua Dulce. I’d better think about it a few more days before making another purchase that I might regret.
My body is not in top shape: in addition to two blisters that reappear every time I start walking again – I like the shoes, but my feet don't seem to agree – I have discomfort in my right calf. It’s some kind of muscle stiffness, maybe a deep contracture. And we are at least three days away from getting to Hiker Town. I found out that the globe-trotting physiotherapist will be there starting next Wednesday; it might be a good idea to try to hear what she says. The discomfort in my other leg is certainly not gone, but it has improved a lot. Maybe it’s the stretching (which I don't do all the time though, not every two hours as I was advised), maybe the continued training.
Last night I collapsed almost as I finished writing and said nothing about where we stopped. Thirty bucks and Farmer John – you can’t quite tell what he grows, probably the substance he uses most judging by the smell of his car – lets you wander around his materials depot, because that’s what it is. Several sheds, old wooden garages, hovels put up haphazardly – a fire would raze everything to the ground. Everywhere there were those little insects with two pincers on their tails. They are harmless but invade anything: there were at least four in my shirt and as many in my shorts hanging out to dry. Not counting the ones I got rid of when I packed the tent this morning. They are not snakes, and they do not bother much; however, I know that some people might be horrified to read these lines. Perhaps we have become accustomed to standards of cleanliness and decorum far below our normal lives.
