I bought them at age 18, preparing to lead campers on hikes through the New England woods as a counselor. I broke them in on trails overlaid with pine needles and studded with rocks, belting out camp songs and encouraging my fellow-hikers toward the pepperoni, cheese, and crackers coming at the next break.
I used them in the Rocky Mountains at age 20 when my sister and I worked on staff at a guest ranch and then again at Yosemite National Park at 21, padding through trails with my best friend on our cross country trek in her Acura, “Sparky."
They were loyal as any boots could be when they crested Mt. Kilimanjaro, I hiking the summit with my sister near the end of four months traveling through southern Africa.
I had them on at the top of Mt. Washington when I was 28, my husband and I at its peak to celebrate our five year anniversary. I couldn’t have guessed the challenges those years would bring us, nor the emotion I’d feel as I looked out over the wide New Hampshire sky... boots on my feet and new diamond studs, gift from my husband, in my ears.
I brought just two pairs of shoes with me to New Zealand on my husband's and my trip there when I was 29; the boots made the cut. They served me well as we tromped along the Kepler Track.
A long hiatus at the back of my closet was the boot's fate in the years our four babies joined our family, one after the other. I couldn't have known how curtailed would be the freedom of trails (and travels) during those years. The boots' place deep in the wardrobe was uncontested and undisturbed for the five years we lived in California.
They traded to new closet space in our Virginia farmhouse when I was 36, and and they carried on hibernating several more years. At last they emerged on a cold Saturday, just after Thanksgiving, when the babysitter arrived and my husband and I set off toward Old Rag. They slid through 6 inches of snow but stayed true… ushering in new hope and promise on that grey November day.
They came out on Monday, their first appearance in our Crete chapter, carrying me the 11 miles down through Samaria Gorge as my husband walked beside.
My toes struck the front and bruised a bit as we descended through the miles, the first time that had ever happened. It seems my foot has changed shape across the years these boots have loyally served me. It’s only fair that they would; twenty-three years is after all a long time. More than half my life. They've carried me into terrain I'm been privileged to cross. They've shod me in the journey from teen to young woman, from single to bride to mother, from one continent to another, from home to new home and and new home again. The feet that fill them this week are the same and not the same as those tried them on years ago in a Massachusetts REI. So my time with them is up, but I don’t relish saying goodbye.
Would that I find friends so faithful in every area of my life. Would that my new boots may take me on as many travels, and through as many scenes of struggle and triumph. Would that adventure go on marking my years so faithfully, weaving an ongoing tapestry of memory and gratitude enduring longer than shoes ever could.
And would that I continue receiving grace and courage to keep walking it out with diligence, wonder, and joy.
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