Wanda picked me up at 10:00 on Sunday. Before we left the house, I told her, "I think I am going to exhume my old hiking boots for today's hike. I love my Salomon hiking shoes, but I need to revive my old L.L. Beans if I want ankle support in the Grand Canyon this Spring. I haven't worn them in about 6 years since buying the hiking shoes, so I wore them around in the yard this week. I don't think they will rub or pinch."
She suggested I bring my Salomons for back-up. I replied, "You know how I hate to carry things on the trail."
"You can keep them in the car for afterwards - you don't have to carry them in your pack."
"Nah, it'll be fine." Famous last words.
After a long, winding drive, we arrived at Morrow Mountain State Park just before noon. We always start our hikes with empty bladders, so we parked at the facilities at the entrance. As we exited the toilets, I stepped on something. I felt it stuck to the back of my boot. I looked down as I walked. I couldn't believe what I saw.
"Wanda, LOOK!"
I had stepped on nothing. The thick sole of my right aged hiking boot had split in two. It slapped like a flip flop when I walked, hinged under the ball of my foot.
"What on EARTH!?! They were just fine the other day! And look at the other one!"
The second boot was flopping just as completely by the time we reached the car. "Oh my God," I said, "we drove all this way and I can't hike with these."
Wanda pondered as I oozed apologies for not taking her advice. If I had brought my shoes, we'd be on our way up the mountain. I felt so foolish. What a waste of gas.
"Let's drive back to Badin and see if there is anything there. If we could buy duct tape and fix them like in Wild, would you hike?" Wanda asked.
Not at all in favor of hiking in boots held together with tape, but too guilty to fuss, I said, "Sure."
Badin's population is less than 2,000. Not only were there no duct tape or shoe stores there, nothing was open on Sunday but church. Wanda pulled up Google Maps and we decided to go 7 miles farther, into Albermarle, hoping it offered footwear. Or duct tape. If not, we would bail out on Morrow Mountain and head home.
We were looking for WalMart per Google, but I saw Hibbitt Sports first. "Let's try Hibbitt. I hope they are open." We pulled into the strip mall and she parked her Honda. Crossing the parking lot, I felt like I was wearing scuba flippers. I had to lift my knees high like a majorette with each step and thunk-slap, thunk-slap, thunk-slap my way along. Wanda was greatly entertained by my march of shame, and I attracted stares from a few shoppers who skipped church. By the time we entered the store, we were both laughing. Each step I took left black crumbles from my soles on the carpet, like a trail of crushed Oreos. We laughed harder.
We walked the perimeter of the store, my knees still high, to the "Women's Shoes" wall. No hiking footwear, but plenty of sneakers. At the first bench in the shoe section, I took off my boots and selected a shoe from the wall. The salesclerk, a strapping buck of 25, brought me a pair in my size. They fit, so we eagerly trotted after him to the check-out counter. It felt good not to march. I put my boots on the counter as I paid. He saw them and asked, "Do you want me to put these boots in the empty box?"
"ABSOLUTELY NOT. You can keep the box, and you can keep the boots, thanks." He picked up the boots in a two-fingered pinch and daintily dropped them in the can. We left the store, and returned to Morrow Mountain. "Thanks for being so patient!" I told Wanda, "Barring any middle-aged menstrual emergencies at the summit, I think we salvaged the day!"
"Don't jinx us," she giggled, and we started up the trail.
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| Image courtesy the internet. Not my boot but you get the idea. |
We were looking for WalMart per Google, but I saw Hibbitt Sports first. "Let's try Hibbitt. I hope they are open." We pulled into the strip mall and she parked her Honda. Crossing the parking lot, I felt like I was wearing scuba flippers. I had to lift my knees high like a majorette with each step and thunk-slap, thunk-slap, thunk-slap my way along. Wanda was greatly entertained by my march of shame, and I attracted stares from a few shoppers who skipped church. By the time we entered the store, we were both laughing. Each step I took left black crumbles from my soles on the carpet, like a trail of crushed Oreos. We laughed harder.
We walked the perimeter of the store, my knees still high, to the "Women's Shoes" wall. No hiking footwear, but plenty of sneakers. At the first bench in the shoe section, I took off my boots and selected a shoe from the wall. The salesclerk, a strapping buck of 25, brought me a pair in my size. They fit, so we eagerly trotted after him to the check-out counter. It felt good not to march. I put my boots on the counter as I paid. He saw them and asked, "Do you want me to put these boots in the empty box?"
"ABSOLUTELY NOT. You can keep the box, and you can keep the boots, thanks." He picked up the boots in a two-fingered pinch and daintily dropped them in the can. We left the store, and returned to Morrow Mountain. "Thanks for being so patient!" I told Wanda, "Barring any middle-aged menstrual emergencies at the summit, I think we salvaged the day!"
"Don't jinx us," she giggled, and we started up the trail.
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| New sneakers, minutes after purchase, from the passenger seat of Wanda's car. |
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