These boots. Oh, the stories, if these boots could talk.
I bought them in 2002. I was in my first job, fresh out of college, running outdoor programs at a camp north of Seattle. It was the first time I lived anywhere but the north woods of Minnesota, and I was loving the cool-not-cold Washington rainy winter. I sent photos of the brilliant, always-green grass and trees and misty skies to my family after every Minnesota snowstorm, and after a lifetime of sub-zero cold winters that felt like they lasted forever I didn’t mind the constant drizzle. It wasn’t really rain, only tourists used umbrellas. I spent a lot of time outside, because if we paused our outdoor programming for rain we’d do nothing for nine months of the year; I would lead groups of students through trust games, ropes courses, nature hikes, field activities, and zip lines, rain or shine. One thing was awful, though – wet shoes. One short walk thru the field and my feet were soaked and subsequently freezing, and I knew I needed to do something about that.
I don’t think I had ever been to REI at that point either, having not had one in my hometown, and a colleague was always talking up the flagship store in Seattle. So one day a group of us took a road trip to the city and I headed straight for the boot section. I remember explaining to someone what I needed them for and trying on a couple of pairs before feeling like these, these are the right ones for me. They fit perfectly, were completely waterproof, and guaranteed for a really long time or a lifetime, I can’t remember. And they were also by far the most money I’d ever spent on an article of clothing.
I was deep into the post-college trying-to-get-it-together years, where student loans and a car loan and idiot credit card bills I’d amassed while in college were constantly breathing down my neck. I had to balance payments and bills and feed and clothe myself on a miniscule camp salary, and the majority of the clothes I wore and things that filled the little trailer I lived in were purchased at a local thrift store or were on sale or clearance at a discount retailer. I can’t remember how much these boots cost, but they were well over $100 which felt like an obscenely high amount to me then, but something in me said go with this and you won’t regret it. So I did.
And man, these boots. They were everything the sales person promised they’d be. I wore them every single day and my feet were dry and warm, and it changed everything for me, in that season. And they’ve been my constant companions ever since. They’ve climbed mountains all over the United States, Europe, and Africa. I’ve worn them on countless airplanes, because they were big and heavy and, as frequent cross-world travelers know, we wear the biggest, heaviest, bulkiest clothes on the airplane so we can fill that space in our suitcases more efficiently. I’ve bought specialty leather cleaners and conditioners and cared for them well, more so than any other thing I think I’ve ever owned. I feel like these boots really were different to me, a person who generally bought (and still do, to some extent) disposable, inexpensive things; to invest in something, to commit to taking care of them, to make them worth every penny I spent, was a different experience at that time.
Fast forward nearly twenty years. Twenty! Time sure does fly, doesn’t it? These boots came with me to South Africa, and one of the best things about where I live is the abundance of hiking opportunities. I get so much life from an early morning hike, when the cool is still hanging on near the ground and the pink skies are just starting to edge towards blue. This was my lifeline during long Covid lockdown weekends, and now I’m loving sharing this experience with my husband. But something happened a few months ago that I’m still pondering.
I got a blister when hiking.
In the nearly twenty years I’ve had these boots, I have never once gotten a blister. They have been perfect, from day one.
And also? My feet hurt.
A lot.
After a few miles, which for some I realize is a lot but in my reasonable physical shape it wasn’t, my feet would just ache as if I’d been standing on them all day long instead of just hiking a few miles. I would grit my teeth and bear it, assuming they ached because I was out of shape, or out of practice, as no one else seemed to have a problem so obviously it wasn’t difficult terrain or other outside reasons. I hiked miles and miles, grimacing in pain but trying my best to hide it lest I be forced to admit I was clearly a weakling. And then when I got a blister, I actually wondered out loud how that was possible, as I’d never had a problem before. I assumed, as always, the problem was me. Until my friend casually suggested, maybe you need new boots?
It was one of those moments when time seemed to stand still. I was speechless. Maybe I need new boots. The thought had honestly never once occurred to me. These boots were such a constant part of my life and story and existence, it never crossed my mind they might need replacing. Obviously the problem was me, not the boots – right? Even though the boots were twenty years old and had likely thousands of hiking miles on them?
Huh.
I spent most of my formative early-adult years in a faith community where I learned that the body is not to be trusted. This skin-enclosed bag of mostly water is weak, easily manipulated by the forces of evil, and is something to be controlled, ignored, or rebuked. Feelings are feeble and fleeting, desires are sometimes from God and sometimes the enemy leading us astray and somehow we had to figure out which was which, but just to be sure, assume it’s evil until proven otherwise. I must assume the problem is in me, is my lack of faith, or strength, or focus, or whatever else, and grit my teeth and be strong and courageous and know that whatever my body was telling me was not true because God is bigger and stronger and I can do all things.
Now I look back on that girl with compassion; I am slowly unpacking and unwinding myself from those unhealthy beliefs and learning to trust and be kind my body when she speaks to me. This old belief system shows up in a myriad of ways, this experience with my painful feet is only one small example. More than just needing new footwear, the bigger question is… What does it truly look like to trust myself? I’m sure I have a long way to go. But all journeys start with a single step, and in this case, this journey is being made in a pair of new, comfy, pain-free boots. They are not meant to last forever, and our bodies are meant to be listened to, cared for, and believed. I’m grateful to these boots for the stories they tell, the mountains they’ve climbed and the places they’ve seen. And I’m grateful for my body, and friends along the path, who tell me when it’s time to listen, and when it’s time to let go.
Let us begin 