It was a Sunday morning and an early winter storm had moved in over night. I had just started the coffee and went to put on my snow boots to get the paper when I realized I had left them at work. Such is the characteristic of Denver snow and sun, enough snow to warrant boots in the morning and sun by midday to have you wishing you had your sandals with you.
Dang! Not wanting to venture out in my slippers, I reached for my old standbys, my Danner hiking boots. Bought in the spring of ’75, they have been my sole companions across thousands of miles; the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of New Mexico, the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina, the wetlands and hills of northern Michigan – I think I probably wore them daily as a student in Marquette, up-county Kenya and Tanzania, they even took me to the top of Kilimanjaro and back. Needless to say they have seen better days, but there are no better companions for my feet. Years of wear have molded them to a perfect union of flesh, socks and leather.
Shoes can tell a lot about a person, and while I am probably identified more by my Bass Weejuns than my Danners, my Danners represent the explorer poet I’ve always longed to be. I can’t put them on without being transported to the past and future.
One of my favorite childhood pictures is a black and white photo of me placing my one-year old feet into my dad’s black steel toe work shoes. I imagine most of the world’s children have at one time in their life tried to put on an adult pair of shoes or sandals.
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