ode to my tramping boots

My tramping boots

I got these boots for Christmas in December 1996. Solomons, paid for by my parents. These boots were made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do...

I wore them around Hamilton - first when I was living in room 317 at International House, and then when we moved into 99TC. I took them to Guyana where the lower sole of the left boot fell off because I had been wading in water up to my waist, and because of the general humidity. I duct taped the lower sole to the upper sole and wore it like that for the rest of the summer, although bits of grit and the omnipresent moisture made this more of a joke than an effective strategy. There is still Guyana grit stuck in there - red mud, small stones, bits of grass. I honestly don't remember what laces were in them at the time, but I remember during debriefing when we were back in Georgetown, a woman from Vancouver who had worked in Toka gave me some fuchsia coloured laces, and I've had them in ever since. When I returned to Canada I should have returned them for a new pair, since they were still under warranty. But I couldn't give them up for a shiny new pair straight from the factory. They followed me back to 99TC in September 1997, duct tape replaced but sole still not mended. Then I moved to Florence in September 1998 and remained with me there until I graduated in April 2000. During those times they saw Hamilton thunderstorms, grainy winters, walks around town, walks around Cootes' Paradise. They walked me to school, ran me to hand in assignments that were just about to be late, they walked me to the busstop, they were there when I wandered around in the rain feeling lost or depressed. They were trodden on in Hamilton buses. They were there throughout the tragedies and victories, the warmth and the cold, good men and bad. They took me into No Frills and then Fortino's for groceries. They took me to Heather and John's apartment, and to Polo's to hear Mike play. At different points over the years (and always when I came home during some kind of break from school) my father experimented with various types of glue to fix that left sole. He's finally hit on a good product, and has given me a small piece of sandpaper and a tube of the stuff, which I have conveniently left at home in my chest-of-drawers or given back to him. The toe of the left boot is still slightly damaged because of the duct tape. In the summer of 2000 they saw some action in Sweden. They followed me to Halifax. Took me to New Brunswick. And then saw more action in Sweden in the summer of 2001. Then back to Halifax for another winter.

Then to NZ. And I don't think they'll ever be the same. I wore them on the plane. They walked me around the Pineapple-Flagstaff track in Dunedin, my first little adventure with the tramping club. They've been with me as I struggled up Turret Ridge and then slid down and tore a muscle in my thigh (I forgive them for allowing me to slip. But just this once). They tramped in the rain when I was around Manapouri, they took me up the ridge to Titiroa, they froze all night and then performed gloriously as I took them to the peak and back down again, remaining soggy for about a week. They've taken me around Wanaka. They've been drenched on the Milford Track. They took me to Copland hot pools. The sole broke off again while leaping out of Beccy's campervan on the way to catch the ferry from Picton to Wellington. They made it through Taranaki held together by various bits of tape, glue, and finally string. They were fixed in Taupo. They then performed brilliantly and took me on a two day mish around Tongariro. To Bushball. Up to Waiorau to go skiing. Up Mt Alarm with Melanie. Across the Silver Peaks with the X-Y's tramping club. Marinated in mud on the mission Simon and I did around Stewart Island. Around Dunedin. On and on ad nauseum.

They've been cleaned and dried and sprayed with waterproofing stuff. They've been stuffed with wet newspaper in a bleak attempt to dry them out while on a wet tramp. They've basked in the sun. They've been baked un-hygienically in our flat oven. Sometime around the beginning of May, I decided to switch the laces because I wasn't sure how much longer the fuchsia ones would hold out. I finally put in the laces that came with the boots. I also discovered Nikwax, and I think my boots are enjoying the pampering. Mmmm...the smell of Nikwax.

Now I gaze down at my boots. There are a few cracks between the upper and the sole, and though I've tried to fix them with sealant or stuff some Nikwax in, they sometimes leak and my feet are less than dry (of course when there is no distinction between the river and the track a small crack in your boot is not really an issue). There are bits of dirt and grass permanently ground into the seams. The D-rings are showing some rust. The inside of the heels have been worn and mended by the Russian shoemaker in Georgetown. The toes are a bit scuffed from banging against rocks and other things. The soles are a bit worn, and no longer grip the track the way they used to. The insides don't smell TOO bad...But these babies have HISTORY.

Where do boots go when they die? I whisper, not wanting my boots to hear. Is there graveyard somewhere, a fencepost where I should let my boots spend their golden years, elevated from the mud for once, allowed to bask in the sunshine, free from my stinky feet, free from the pounding they take on the earth's surface. To throw them out after all we've been through together would just be wrong. And when do you finally decide to give up on the old pair and buy a new one?

Here's to my boots, a bit cracked, a bit worn, not as waterproof as they used to be, but irrevocably a part of my life. There's a few more years life left in them yet.

Love Christine