Boots of Spanish Leather
The wind was beginning to shift and a ghostly chill, dry and crisp, hung heavy in the air as we packed our gear into our backpacks. The trailhead parking lot was empty, as expected; a storm watch usually keeps most people cuddled up at home, save for Zack and me. It has been a very long year, full of unimaginable losses and outrageous change, and we’ve been enduring it all at home. This short trip was our first chance to get away, to be free, to pay our respects; and nothing, not even the fright of a snow storm was going to keep us from it.
As we gathered the last bit of our gear, a Yosemite park ranger cruised by and stopped next to our car.
"Hey. You guys know you'll be the only two out there," he said.
We looked at him, each of us with a toothy grin stretching across our faces. Our excitement practically hung from the edge of his words; our thrill was palpable; even from a distance, I’ll bet the ranger to could see the sparkle of wild adventure glisten in our eyes.
Zack loves the snow, I love the challenge of learning something new - I was Nordic Skiing for the first time on this trip - and both of us live for the unmatched solitude we find in the mountains. None of our friends or family would be the least bit surprised to hear we were heading out just before the storm hits. After all, we met while lost in the rough beauty of the mountains all those years ago; both the beauty and the harshness of the mountains have become totems to our luck and fate, totems to the grand cosmic order of the universe as we know it, breath it, feel it, live it, and love it.
And it’s important to mention that the ranger was wrong, it wouldn’t just be the two of us; Geoff’s spirit rides on the wind of mom nature, so it will always be us three.
"It's gonna snow a good 12 plus inches tonight," the ranger continued.
"Wooooo," I said cheerfully as I enthusiastically stuck a foot into the rental ski boot. I instantly registered that my foot slipped into the boot far too gracefully.
"Yeah! We're excited," Zack replied, as he continued to rummages through all our gear sprawled out around the Jeep.
"Well, it's exciting so long as you're prepared to be in it”.
"Oh, we're prepared," Zack assured him, and held up our snow shovel as proof.
"Good. It's going to be beautiful out there. Have fun, now”. Way he went in his forest green 4x4 truck.
I slipped my foot out of the boot, and pulled back tongue to check the size.
M -9, was printed on the tag.
Shit. They were the wrong boots, not the 6s I had tried on the day before at the rental store. Which means I must have mistakenly pick up the wrong pair of boots when I left the store.
Dang it!
I looked at my watch; it’s 3pm. It was to late to do anything about it; not to mention, we are hours away from any town, little own a gear rental store. I quietly sat there in the empty parking lot staring at those clown looking ski boots, as Zack continued to methodically stuff his backpack. I couldn’t help but think of my Father, good ol’ Tom Cookston, or Tom’s Pools as Zack calls him; this is absolutely something that would’ve happened to him.
In fact, I’m almost certain he tells a story just like this, a story that I’ve laughed at and made fun of him about years over; him in the middle of nowhere, wrong shoes, cold mountain air, snow everywhere, a storm blowing in, nowhere else to go. I guess I have my Father’s luck. Fantastic.
I sat silently for a moment longer thinking; does it even matter that the boots are too big? Probably not. I’m sure I won’t even notice.
Finally, I decided to tell Zack.
“Well, shit.” I said to myself, loud enough so Zack can hear.
“What?”
“Oh, ya know, my boots felt a little loose when I put them on, and turns out they are Men’s 9s. Darn. I must have picked up the wrong boots at the counter. I was in a little rush because I had Ellie in the car.” I explained.
Zack, bless his heart, was neither surprised nor worried. He stood there expressionless, in silence, for a solid minute blankly staring at my big ass boots before he finally responded.
"So what’s the call, E, it’s up to you. You think you’ll make it in those or what?”
“I think' so. I mean, I’ve never cross country skied before anyway. So the finer points of the right size boot will probably be lost on me, don’t you think? “
I stuck my foot back into the giant boot.
“I have nothing to compare it to. I probably won’t even know the difference ,to be honest. It was going to be a suffer-fest no matter what. Ya know?”
I plunged my other foot into the other boot.
Zack continued to pack quietly, but first he said through a snicker,
“ You’ve got the worst luck with shoes, girl.”
I laugh.
“I know.”
It’s true. I have the absolute worst luck with shoes. That’s the price you pay for spending most of your days barefoot teaching yoga; shoes become an aside.
And so, with boots too big for my feet, two backpacks full of down-feathers, and a collapsible shovel, we clipped into our skis we walked into the wild, into the storm, into the wintery wild world of mountain wonder. Our days were full of single digit temperatures, dumping snow, a few of my tears, breaking trail through knee deep powder, cold feet, frozen hands, hot instant coffee, 10 hours of sleep each night, solitude, sorrow, and constant reminders of our dear, dear friend.
Long live the freedom of the wild.
Thank you, Mom Nature.
May you endure, and may you continue forever and ever.
