If the shoe fits…
«Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment.»
— Will Rogers
tHey, if the shoe fits you, wear it. This advice is rubbish.
I needed a new pair of shoes and should have bought a pair at the Great Outdoor Shop, but I chose to make a mistake. At the Jackalope Motor Lodge, a PCT-looking German hiker named Chuck Smores had stuffed his shoes in the hiker’s box. They were my size so I tried them on.
“How many miles are on these?” I asked as I put them on and pranced around.
“Five hundred more or less,” he told me.
The shoes were Altra Olympus 6, my current shoe of choice, and the same pair I needed to replace. Both Ice Cream and I already owned two pairs of Olympus 6s and had put over a thousand miles on each before having to buy new shoes. I pranced more and reflected. «They feel different than mine. You must have different feet.»
«Yes. Of course I do,» Chuck said.
I assumed a positive intention. «Of course, of course you do. Why do you change your shoes, Chuck? Do you change them every five hundred miles like Big Shoe recommends?»
«Big shoe?» Now he really thought I was an idiot.
I rejected the vernacular. “Why get new ones?”
“My feet hurt.”
Well, I knew this particular brand didn’t hurt. my feet, so that was it.
***
Before leaving town, Ice Cream and I had two important missions: first, to hang around gas stations and drink soda and eat gas station food. Secondly, visit the Mountain Man Museum.
We start with mission one. The gas station reminded me a little of Heaven Texaco in Island Park, so it wasn’t a big surprise when a Sprinter van pulling a cargo trailer pulled up in front of one of the pumps and a group of extravagantly styled people got out. One, naturally, leaned against a nearby wall and lit a cigarette. She wore a flat-brimmed leather hat and wore turquoise jewelry.
He was sitting at a nearby table eating a delicious, trash quality pizza. “And what band are you?”
He smiled. I could see it in his face; hikers get the same. Here come all the boring and usual questions. “High Step Society.”
«We met another band a while ago. Fruition.»
Now he seemed interested. «Yes! Those are our friends.» He asked me where we had seen them, I told him, and we struck up a conversation of greater mutual interest. The usual stuff, but with enough of a twist to keep us both from getting bored with each other and ourselves. Then, as Fruition had done, they moved on to the next program and, as before, I sought them out and listened to them. The talent was obvious. I played High Step Society on my headphones as Ice Cream and headed to the Mountain Man Museum.
***
Fashion almost doomed the beaver, but silk hats replaced beaver fur top hats, and thus the species got a reprieve. It’s crazy how style and a silkworm can save an animal that the mountain people almost exterminated. The museum explained all this with 1990s-style documentaries, a teepee made by a Native American historian using traditional materials and methods he had meticulously researched, and trapper-era firearms behind glass.
Chupadogra was also in the museum. Our Venn diagrams overlapped in this area and we worried about the pros and cons of owning a beaver fur coat. Next time I see him, I hope he wears one. I wouldn’t be surprised if he trapped all the beavers and made the coat himself.
With Mountain Man’s education over, Ice Cream and I hit the road to hitchhike. As usual, several $70,000 trucks with $15,000 worth of landing gear passed by. None of these had even a scratch or speck of mud anywhere. Show trucks driven by well-educated noblemen, perhaps on their way to Jackson Hole to be held in the hand during a moose hunt on private land. We salute and send our blessings. Every once in a while, he would blow a kiss and earn me a smile or a frown. Most of the time the nobility stared straight ahead, the same way one does in a crowded city when a homeless man asks for change. Oh, I know how it is. I’ve been on that side of the wheel before.
We continue browsing. Hey man, do you want a ride?
Many other drivers seemed to regret not being able to pick us up and raised their fingers as if to pinch the air and say, «I’m sorry.» We just go a little further. Many of them stopped on nearby local streets shortly after passing us.
Finally, to our complete surprise, a dirty old beater stopped. A truck with a double cab whose driver brought back the 80s, mullet, mustache and all. A big black dog with a grayish snout was riding a shotgun, so Ice Cream and I jumped in the back and sat on the various pieces of trash. McDonald’s bags and empty soda cans crumpled and clinked as we settled in; I was surprised not to see a rifle on the ground, but maybe Wyoming is a step more civilized than Montana.
The driver’s name was Shrike, in honor of the birds he studied. He was a college type, leaning as far to the left as the Leaning Tower of Pisa seen from the west side, although he looked like he belonged in a MAGA hat. The dog’s name was Gunner and he also looked like he belonged in a MAGA hat. Gunner gasped and smiled with his dog that ignorance is bliss as Shrike taught us about shrikes, small birds that look like songbirds, but have a sinister side. They hunt small creatures (mice, insects) and impale the bodies of their prey on thorny bushes, using the thorns as a macabre pantry.
Then, with a thank you and a final pat on the head from Gunner, we were back on the road. Well anyway we were back on the trail leading to the trail. On the way out we saw many of the same faces we had seen on the way in, hikers who had successfully planted their droppings in the valley and were heading back to the comforts of their own bathrooms.
At a water feature we met They and Them, two impressively fast (and friendly) hikers who had started around the same time as us, but had covered hundreds of miles more, including much of the Wind River High Route. They had a fun full-size print of Them’s face on their backpack (what a phrase), and I recognized them from a poorly drawn wanted sign at the Pinedale visitor center that said:
THEY. WANTED FOR TOO FAST HIKING. PRIZE. $3 AND A PACKAGE OF HOT SAUCE.
The wanted poster was right and I don’t think they were ever stopped.
Then, when the townspeople left and the rest of the bubble was still in town or had already passed by, Ice Cream and I got back into the swing of things. We traversed the stony, rock-laden foothills back into the mountains. The sun was setting. When the light went out, I started sniffing around for a place to cast. Ice Cream waited on the road as it was our way. When I returned from exploring, I found her talking to two NOBOs, Horny Toad and Smoking Room. The smoking room sat on the floor, rolled a cigarette and lit it; Horny Toad did most of the talking, during which he dropped more than a few hints or mentioned attractive women he had seen. One time, he included Ice Cream’s tits in the conversation (something about how she probably doesn’t use the chest straps on her backpack because her boobs get in the way), but he made it technical enough to call it out. me He looks like the idiot. I raged internally but stayed civil. He would be gone soon, perhaps never to see him again, and as a man, I could empathize with how, say in need of companya man can follow the trail. It’s a known thing, and the kids talk quietly about it from time to time. I was reminded of the shelter check-in at The Priest on AT, where someone admitted that they had masturbated in every shelter they had stayed at.
God bless you.
Letting the comment about the boobs slide, I complimented the unique Horny Toad hoodie, a blend of fleece and alpha fabric that I had purchased at the local store in Chama, New Mexico. Distracted, he thanked me and we moved the conversation to who else he had seen that day. We were supposedly the 27th SOBO of the day. Who knew how many tits he had seen. Hopefully it’s an even number.
Then the sun set and we bundled up. Ice Cream rested her head on my chest and whispered. yessss to herself as she caressed my fleece, or my snuggle shirt as she calls it. I stroked her hair and, thinking of Horny Toad and remembering what it had been like to be alone, I told her I was grateful for her.
She smiled a smile as warm as the sun and then arched her neck to kiss him. Then she said, «And I’m grateful to you. So much.»
God bless you. And good night.
While I was falling asleep, I noticed that my feet hurt a little, but not always? It was probably nothing.
Unless I am given express permission to use them, all names and path names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. If you like my writing, feel free to subscribe or buy me a coffee using the Suggest the Author button below.
