If #shoes could talk, what a story they would tell. I have seven pair myself, and I’m a guy. In 1988 I walked eleven-hundred miles of the Appalachian Trail. I wore out a pair of brand new Timberland Hiking books, which cost over $100 at the time. That was half what my first car cost. That was a lot of money for a kid who just took his car off the road because I couldn’t afford insurance while I spent three months on the trail. I stuffed everything I owned in the back seat and parked it in my father’s back yard. I had a backpack full of supplies, a plane ticket to Atlanta, Georgia, and $200 in my pocket to survive for three months as I walked back home to New York. I must have had a lot of faith. And determination.
From time to time, I would hitchhike into the nearest town and check if the post office was holding any mail for me. Before I left, I provided my family with a list of towns I would be stopping in so they could send me letters. Receiving a note with two dollars from my grandmother was a welcome treat. It meant I could buy a couple candy bars that week. I was used to not having much money. My parents didn’t make a lot when I was growing up.
I never really think about it much, but my hike was a remarkable achievement for me. When I was a kid, I was pigeon-toed. My feet turned in toward each other. The doctors call it in-toeing, which can make it difficult to walk. My father tells a story about a day he came home, and I went running to him all excited and then tripped and fell flat on my face. It broke his heart, he said. So he had to buy me special shoes to help correct the problem.
I couldn’t wear sneakers or anything else for that matter. I always had to wear orthopedic shoes that corrected my feet so I could walk properly. And those shoes did not come cheap. It wasn’t easy for my father to part with that money, but he did, and I had my special shoes.
Until one day we went camping. I knew that I had to take care of those shoes, so, before going salamander hunting in the lake, I took them off and set them next to my bike. I spent hours hopping through the water, chasing turtles and snails, and other things I loved. Eventually, I got hungry and left the water to get my bike. My brand new orthopedic shoes sat in the sun, but my feet were wet and muddy, so I decided to carry them and go barefoot. When you’re a kid, you learn how to do crazy things. I could hold onto the handlebars of a bicycle while clutching an object in my fingers at the same time. In the one hand, I held a large tin can full of salamanders I had caught, and in the other, I held my shoes as I peddled back to camp. Though not everything always goes well when you’re riding a bike.
I didn’t get far when disaster struck. My leg came up as the peddle circled around, and my knee bumped against the bottom of the can I was holding. The can, being pushed by my knee, thrust my hand forward—The hand that was holding tight to the handlebars. The front-wheel turned suddenly, and I went crashing off a small ledge into the lake. It must have made a loud noise because, before long, a half dozen people came running to help. One man reached down and pulled my bike out, and someone else offered me their hand.
I didn’t accept it. I was standing in water up to my waist. My special, super expensive, orthopedic shoes were gone. Somewhere in that murky water, they lay at the bottom of the lake. I was terrified. We had just picked them up before leaving for camp that weekend. My father was going to throw a fit. I had to find those shoes.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, feeling around the gunky lake bed with my bare feet, hoping I would step on something that felt like a shoe. It never happened. Eventually, I had to slump back to camp and explain it to my father. I was so sick, I thought I was going to throw-up. He was not happy. He had my older sister and brother spending their evening using diving masks to search for the shoes. They never found them.
My father had to buy another pair the next day. He was miserable.
I think of this story almost every time I put on a pair of shoes. I often wonder how many salamanders and fish and snails made my shoes their home. I wonder if anybody ever snagged one of them on their fishing line. That anonymous shoe that has been recorded as being the catch of the day to millions of fishermen all over the planet. How did it get in the lake in the first place? Imagine the story that shoe could tell. About a pigeon-toed kid who lost control of his bike while out catching salamanders. One who eventually would walk eleven-hundred miles of the #AppalachianTrail.
Though money’s tight. I’m so glad I don’t have to worry about things like buying shoes.
#JeffreyDMontanye
Story and photo by Jeffrey David Montanye
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