June's Boots

Originally published in the treasured Whitefish Review in Montana

                           JUNE'S BOOTS
                          
                         

It was still dark when the alarm clock went off and June swiping back a hank of sleep smashed hair, reached to shut it off. Seeing the time, "I don't get up at five," she announced out loud and then smiling remembered, it was Sunday.

Slowly standing up, she began to whistle a weak but identifiable rendition of the hit record, 'These Boots Were Made for Walking.' It was the day of her first solo hike.

Holding her arms out wide, "And that's just what they'll do," she continued with gusto in her off key voice. Looking in the full-length mirror, she belted out the finish. "One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you."

Many trails still remained to be checked off her wish list. If hiking them alone was the only option, then so be it.
Un-coupling. Not an easy transition after twenty years. Newly single, memories of activities previously shared played out as in a movie. As half of a couple, she'd covered many miles on trails John Muir pioneered in California's Sierra Nevada Mountains. After saying "I do", vacations were excursions scrambling up rugged peaks, fording rivers and zoning out in wildflower filled meadows. 

June often bragged that her youngest at age four, had conquered thirteen-thousand-foot passes, and her daughter always got a laugh about her un-conventional childhood by stating, "Until my first love affair at eighteen, I had never stayed in a hotel room". 

June's family was one of hikers and packers long before those pursuits became cool.Backpacks were configured in garages instead of being stocked in every style and size at a fancy sporting goods store. They bought their minimalist gear at Army-Navy outlets that provided a small selection of sleeping bags, un-appetizing dehydrated food and boots. The family that hikes and sleeps under the stars together, stays together, the family patriarch boasted. And it had, for two decades.
 
Tugging on her clothes, she laced up her cloth sneakers and trotted to the refrigerator to retrieve two pre-made egg salad sandwiches. Flipping the coffee pot on, down the dark hallway she opened the storage closet and felt around for her bulky boots and faded green canvas pack. Bought during those good old years, the aged leather pair, discolored, scuffed and re-soled, had outlasted her marriage she lamented, stuffing them in the pack along with sandwiches, canteen and tin drinking cup. Setting the bulging bundle next to the front door beside her carved hiking stick, her pursed lips blew out another round of 'Walking Boots.'

Personal grooming occupied the same amount of time it took for the percolator to perform its mission. Filling her thermos with the steaming liquid, she congratulated herself for dragging her butt out of bed to go on a hike alone.

Gathering her gear, she reflected with a touch of sadness, when two of them did what they loved best together. Glancing at her image in the wall mirror, "To my first solo flight," and grandly lifted her empty hand in an air toast. Then, squaring her shoulders, she confidently strode     out the front door to load up her five-year-old 1962 Datsun for this first solo hiking excursion three hours east.

Growing up in Chicago, June got around the busy city on public transportation. She didn't learn to drive until age twenty-five and never felt comfortable piloting any hunk of rumbling steel except on small backroads. Freeways in Los Angeles buzzed like hives, even pre-dawn Sundays. Car centered West-Coast women learned to easily maneuver crowded freeways in their early teens. For June, navigating the labyrinth of urban highways provoked anxiety. Leaning into the steering wheel like the bug-eyed Mister Toad on His Wild Ride, shaking her fist and spewing forth bursts of swear words, left her perspiring no matter the temperature. White knuckled, with a mouth so dry she couldn't wet it for the faintest whistle, vehicles sped past flashing their lights and honking, all seeming she thought, out to set a record of some sort.

Climbing Cajon Pass on Highway 395, the sun rose spectacularly, illuminating the rugged distant peaks in brilliant rose-colored bands. When after an hour of white knuckled freeway concentration, she read the sign pointing east leading to the hinterlands, her teeth un­ clenched. "Well," she exhaled with relief announcing out loud, "I got my driving badge today."
 
The welcome sight and starkness of the vast Mojave Desert prompted a vision of happier times. Near the end of WWII, she and her husband found themselves stationed at Edward's Air Force Base that occupied a large swath of parched Mojave County. Desperate because there was no on-base housing, options were few and when offered the use of a barely standing tool shed located on the grounds of an operational gold mine, they jumped on it. And in the shadow of a dusty extraction operation, clinging to the hill like an enormous erector set of flimsy towers, chutes and ladders, was the 20x20 clapboard shack that June's daughter was born in. Twisting her favorite lock of hair, ''Now that was an adventure", she declared, taking a long breath out the open window. 

Noticing a leisurely plodding tortoise alongside the road, she gave it a nod and felt every tense muscle melt like grilled cheese.

Catching her mind once again nostalgically drifting through various happy couple scenarios, she lifted her hand giving a soft whack to the side of her head. "Stop! To a great first solo flight," she declared in her peppiest tone and to further convince herself, summoned up the tired but still true old saying, 

"Time to turn lemons to lemonade." 
"Yes," she exclaimed again with even more surety, ''that's the ticket.. .lemonade, yum".

Following the signs, she pulled into the trailhead's parking lot. After long dreaming of this magnificent John Muir trail loop, it was coming true. Finishing up the remnants of an egg sandwich washed down with coffee, she counted twelve other cars which seemed like a lot that early on a Sunday morning.

In the few short years since the mid 1950's, trail traffic in California exploded. Many popular hikes now required reservations. Spoiled early on, she yearned for the good old days that of course were gone forever. Plain and simple, California and its crowds were rapidly losing their appeal. Hearing friends boast about the un-crowded big sky country in Montana made her wonder if that wild west destination should be elevated to the top of her adventure list.

Happy to be off the highways and energized by the warmth of the morning sun, she exited from the cramped car to stretch her long confined limbs.

Whistling an old show tune while rifling through her knap-sack in the back seat, she extracted her boots. "What?" Holding them up one looked bigger than the other. 
"Huh?" she exclaimed loud enough for passersby to turn their heads in her direction. Both looked left footed. Not believing her own eyes, she wondered, "What the heck?"

They both looked the same, basic brown leather high topped boots. Placed in her lap, upon closer inspection it became clear. In her haste, from the dark closet she'd grabbed two boots alright, but one belonged to her six-foot three, size 12 teenage son. In the light she could see his dwarfed her size 7 version.

Crap, she thought to herself. She'd dreamt of this outing for weeks. She'd driven three hours. Two left boots? "Crap", she growled, looking around to see if anyone was watching.

So much for Plan A. Feeling ridiculous, her brain searched for a Plan B. Lemons to lemonade? Was this a test?
Wearing sneakers wasn't an option. The trail looked muddy, a lot like the mud-bog races that her husband had dragged her to one time. Mud so deep whole trucks were sucked under.

And then there was the late season snow visible even from the parking lot. The choice came down to two icy cold feet or two warm ones, albeit one inside a non-conforming space. "Crap."

Frustrated but not defeated, an idea took form. Rooting around in her pack for extra wool sox, she wondered what degree of comfort could be obtained with their use. Pulling three heavy layers of foot coverings onto her right foot, she noted the obvious increase in size. It was huge. Misshapen yes, comfortable? Hmmm. Gingerly she eased her heavily swaddled right foot into her son’s Jolly Green Giant sized left boot. Surprisingly the extra layers filled the vacant interior spaces quite nicely. Walking?

Eagerly she laced up her other left boot and stood up. Looking down at the mis-matched pair brought forth an eruption of laughter. This was absurd she thought taking a step or two. To her pleasant surprise however she suffered no pain. Walking a few more paces her oversized right/ left foot performed in an awkward but forward, clumsy motion. Eight miles? With two left feet? Crap.

Adjusting her day pack, she was locking the car when from the corner of her eye she noticed a couple coming toward her. Quickly she re- opened the door and jumped back inside, concealing her ridiculous boot clad appendages from scrutiny. Rolling down the window she discussed trail conditions cordially but curtly, not encouraging any further discourse. When they wandered off the two left- footed woman wondered how crowded the trail would be? Not very, she hoped, feeling more than a bit foolish.

June emerging from her vehicle again, scanning the parking lot for others and seeing none, pulled down on the legs of her pants (as if any measure would masquerade the obvious foot size difference,) and marched toward the trailhead, whistling with as much nonchalance as could be mustered.

Her pace, a hobble, finally gained a rhythm of sorts. Glad to be in her element, the splendid vistas presented in every direction kept her mind off her plight. Only when she heard hikers approaching from behind was her reverie broken. Scanning the trail for large boulders, she'd scamper behind one to hide from what were sure to be questioning eyes. If no big rock presented itself, she adopted an awkward stance with her oversized foot behind the smaller one, hoping the group were fast hikers, all the while giving her best 'nothing wrong here' grin. Her mantra and fondest wish became, please don't talk to me. Just walk on by.
The summit in sight, not breaking her cock-eyed but determined gait, she ate her second egg sandwich on the fly, swigging from her tin cup water scooped from a creek.  At the bottom of the final ascent an enormous field of snow covered the slope ahead.  Tromping clumsily along, boots sinking into the white crust, she heard rumblings from the trail below. More people. Crap!
Scrambling to find cover, a slab of granite offered itself.

Scrunching down, June heard the befuddled voices below of a couple slogging through the snowfield she had just traipsed across. "What are these?" she heard a baritone ask. Not having thought about leaving boot prints when the dirt path turned to snow, hidden from view she poked her head out just enough to see the approaching party closely examining what surely were mystifying tracks, going uphill in their same direction.
Struggling to keep herself from collapsing in hysterics, she heard them in earnest discussion trying to come up with a good argument that they were not following a two-left footed Yeti. Looking in the footprint’s uphill direction, a head shook 'no', a shoulder shrugged and much to June's relief, the couple veered off on an alternative course up the slope.

With no further encounters requiring ridiculous maneuverings, alternately whistling and chuckling down the mountain, June, limping by then, descended as fast as her throbbing feet would go when the parking lot came into sight. Quickly leaping into her car, she gave herself a pat on the back and unlaced the ill-fitting boot. 

Freeing her tender toes from their lumpy confines, she softly massaged them thinking what a story! One she could hardly wait to share in a letter to her out of state daughter. What a laugh she would have about her dorky mom.

Actually, she felt quite pleased with herself. On her first solo flight, in spite of the dumb  boot mistake, it had been a very memorable day. 

With that, she gave a mock salute to the heavens and driving sock footed, pointed the car west.

Yep, she thought again driving down the windy gravel road, that was some sweet lemonade alright and before she realized it, began whistling the iconic tune from The Sound of Music that counted lemon-drops as being one of the favorite things.