It was a long way to the end of the fencerow, and plantar fasciitis was killing me. Each step felt like a spear was being jammed into the bottom of my heel; and to avoid the torture, I cut each step short, trying not to stretch my Achilles’ tendon. Hopping along like a lame chicken, I remembered Ruth’s words the night before: “You must have some sort of insanity, going hunting where you have to walk for miles on rough ground, when you can’t even put your foot flat and walk to the kitchen.”