Goodbye Old Boots

I had been making a list and checking it twice. Hat: check. Clothes: check. Daypack: check. Hunting knife: check. Rain gear: check. Compass: check. Flashlight: check. Boots: check. Wait a minute: there are supposed to be two pair of boots, one insulated and the other not. Here are the insulated ones. Where is the other pair of boots?

Linda smiled patiently as she watched me move from the garage to our bedroom and back again. It was my annual spring ritual, getting ready for my post-Easter Canadian bear hunt. The preparation begins right after Easter Sunday with the fletching of new arrows and the waxing of bowstrings. By the time Pentecost approaches, I am dragging out my hunting and camping gear, laying it out on our bed, scattering it throughout the house, and taking inventory. It had been a long eight months since my “busy season” started last September. A week in the boreal forest of the Canadian wilderness refreshes my soul.

But this time a mild, curious concern had set in. The one pair of non-insulated boots had gone missing. I rooted around through all the tents, sleeping bags, and other camping gear that was stowed in our garage. I checked our vehicles. I scratched my head (one of my favorite things to do when I am perplexed). Those old boots were not to be found.

Now this particular pair of boots had a history. They had been my muddy companions for seven or eight years now. Just a year ago they had both split and cracked just above the instep and I had repaired them the classic Arkansas way: with silicone and duct tape. Now each boot sported a stylish matching band of duct tape just above the ankle. In my mind these boots were unique. These boots had made tracks in Texas, Montana, New Brunswick, Manitoba, and Ontario, not to mention a number of places here in Arkansas. Surely they would be good for one more trip.

But alas, no boots were to be found. I went outside to sit and think. Eventually it came to me that I had probably left the boots at the archery range about a month ago. It began to appear that my good old boots were long gone.

I went inside to share this with Linda, who had noticed me going out and coming in with more than the usual frequency. She remembered the boots, having rolled her eyes a few months ago upon seeing my duct-tape fashion statement. “Maybe it’s a sign,” she hinted, “that it might be time for a new pair of boots.”

I am always the last one to admit when I need new clothes, even when it’s hunting boots. But next week when I get paid, it’s off to the farm store for a new pair, and I plan to break them in with a trip to the North woods, making new tracks and new memories.

Blessings,
Rev