Boots for Special Occasions

Boots for Special Occasions
Dave Wright

The scuffed-up boot sprawled on its side in the corner of the garage. Its tongue lolled like that of a sleepy bloodhound no longer interested in the hunt. Worn eyelets stared at a cobwebbed corner, a smattering of mud anchoring the web. The boot’s mate lay a few feet away, carelessly dropped; its Merrill label obscured by dried crust. A field mouse sniffed the interior, contemplating whether or not to squat there for the winter.

Rex Tatum, the owner of the boots would never have abandoned his favorite footwear to the garage. He habitually scraped them clean and placed them in a tidy row next to his Nike sneakers and Sorrel pack boots. But Rex hadn’t been home since he parked his aging Jeep at the Baptism River trail head.

A raw wind blew in from the lake as he took his first steps up the path. He was certain conditions would improve when he reached the shelter of cedars and pines that crowded the trail. Despite that confidence, his daughter’s phone call rang in his ears. “Don’t be a fool. You’re too old to hike alone anytime, much less this time of year when no one is up there to find you if you fall." Rex put down his head, listened more closely to the rapids, and concentrated on the trail.  

Agnes had become more intrusive since the crash that left her mother dead and Rex alone. With her mother no longer there to temper her father’s ambitious excursions, Agnes felt it was her responsibility, as she explained it, to “protect him from himself.” She continually suggested, “Don’t you think it’s about time to move into a condo in Duluth?” or “I’ll bet you’d have more friends if you moved into town.” She even went so far as to suggest the sterile confines of assisted living.

Agnes never appreciated the beauty of nature like her mother and father did. They had moved to the cabin on the North Shore after escaping years of employment in the Twin Cities—trapped there by lucrative jobs. Retirement for them meant hiking and biking together in the summer and skiing and snowshoeing in the winter. They had been an outdoorsy couple, unlike Agnes, who remained single and firmly entrenched in city life. Agnes’s idea of outdoor adventure was sipping a latte on the Nicollet Mall.

Rex knew that although Agnes claimed to be looking out for his best interest, his view of any move from the cabin was a skipping stone to “the home”—and that, he felt, was a dumping ground for children’s guilt. Rex had friends who had been shuttled out of their homes, only to be forgotten and ignored by the same family members who facilitated the move. Residents loitered in over-stuffed recliners and dined on boxed potatoes and canned vegetables. Between “The Price is Right” and “Wheel of Fortune” they watched their fortunes disappear—jealous of others able to wander the French countryside or spoil thankless grandchildren.  

Regardless of Agnes’s intentions, Rex vowed never to let that happen to him and stepped up the pace so that he could reach High Falls by noon. A grey mist turned to light rain as he approached his destination, but foul weather never worried him. His layered clothing and REI rain gear kept him comfortable as he sat on a log to eat lunch and watch the river froth below him. He swallowed the last of his bologna on rye, took a sip from his water bottle, stretched, and started back down the path to the Jeep just as the rain turned to snow.

The first snow of the season was a mesmerizing, almost spiritual experience for Rex. It heralded the end of summer crowds and promised a quiet month before snowmobilers and cross-country skiers invaded the Arrowhead region. The crunch of his boots kept him company while fat flakes moistened his eyes. He thought of other first snow experiences—fall camping with college mates, trick or treating with Agnes, wandering through an empty campground with his wife—all of them comforting but carrying with them a wisp of nostalgia for another passing season. When he glanced up from his reverie, he noticed that he could no longer see the river below. Moments earlier snow powdered the oak leaves; now it accumulated as a slushy carpet.

Rex decided he had better move down the trail faster so as not to get caught in what was soon to become a blizzard. The first fifty yards went without incident, but a hidden obstacle in the path caught him off guard. His boot skidded off a slippery slab of granite causing him to reel over backwards. A moment before his head banged the rock he thought, this is a good way to go.

A week later Rex woke to the steady beep of an EKG machine, the weary hiss of a respirator, and an emotional hiss from Agnes. “I told you not to go hiking up there. It’s just lucky that that other idiot on the trail found you and called the park ranger. You fractured your skull and could have easily broken your neck.”

The nurse at his bedside offered a calmer explanation. “You’re lucky. When you fell you developed a hematoma on your brain, but because the fracture allowed the blood to leak away no pressure built up. We hope there won’t be permanent damage.”

“Maybe it knocked some sense into him,” suggested Agnes to the nurse as she smoothed her skirt. Turning back to Rex she said, “They expect you will recover, but it’s going to take time. After the hospital stay, you’ll need physical therapy at a nursing home. After that I think you should consider moving into assisted living.”

Rex found it difficult to argue with a respirator in his mouth, so he just shrugged and closed his eyes. I saw the light, he mused, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t turn into a fluorescent light bulb. What a disappointment. He lapsed into unconsciousness smelling disinfectant and starched sheets, a dismal reminder of his future.

Four months later Rex shuffled out of the nursing home and crawled into Agnes’s Saab. A whiff of leather and perfume reminded him of how different her preferences were to his. Agnes accumulated a shoe store full of heels; he didn’t own a pair of dress shoes. She frequented five-star restaurants; he preferred burgers and beer. She had season tickets to the opera; he splurged on an occasional movie.

“How did the cabin fare over the winter?” he asked as they pulled away from the Good Samaritan, his residence during convalescence.

“It’s fine,” she replied. “I found someone to clear the snow. It’s good that it’s an early spring. You can see bare ground on the driveway, but how about visiting a couple of assisted living facilities before we head up the shore.”

“Let’s go home instead,” said Rex, a weariness in his voice. “I haven’t had a breath of pine that didn’t come from a Lysol bottle in months.”

Agnes agreed reluctantly and drove the Saab north on Highway 61 past Two Harbors. As they pulled into the driveway and approached the cabin Rex saw a white and blue sign leaning against the garage door: “For Sale, Ready Realty.”

“What the devil is this, Agnes?” shouted Rex. “So you hired a realtor to care for my home? Who gave you permission to do that?”

“The realtor offered to clear the snow over the winter if we listed it with them in the spring,” explained Agnes quietly. “You were unconscious for weeks and I couldn’t imagine that you would move back here. As your power of attorney at the time, I thought it was a good idea.”

“Well, you’re not my power of attorney anymore. I’m fully capable of making my own decisions. You can call off that realtor now,” he demanded. “And take the damned sign with you on your way out.”

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll call on my way back to the Cities. I’ve got an early morning meeting, so I’ll have to leave for home soon. I bought eggs, milk and a few other groceries to hold you over until you can get to the store yourself.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” Rex replied, wishing he had not lost his temper. “I know you believe moving me to town would be best for me, but those months in Good Samaritan reminded me of how miserable I would be if I couldn’t get out on my own, walk in the woods, eat on my own schedule. I’ll be fine.”

“I understand, Dad. Don’t go doing anything stupid. I’ll drive up Friday after work. Call if you need anything before that.”

After Agnes left, Rex started a fire in the fireplace and poked around the house with his cane to see that everything was as he had left it. His Poetry of Robert Frost was still next to his recliner on the end table. His tattered day pack hung on the wall next to his rain gear. But where were his hiking boots? Agnes must have returned his personal items after the accident but forgotten his boots. “I suppose they went to the Salvation Army and are now the property of some homeless veteran,” he grumbled.

Rex opened the door to the attached garage to finish his inspection. The old Jeep was parked where he always kept it and looked far more inviting than the Saab. He walked around the front of the Jeep. There in the corner were his boots. Maybe Agnes had thrown them there in a fit of frustration for not listening to her. Maybe she didn’t want to bother cleaning them up, but they deserved more respect than that. He gathered them up, knocked the dried mud off the soles and emptied the shredded newspaper from the mouse’s winter retreat. “They’ll be back on my feet soon,” he declared. “I’ll show Agnes that this is where I belong.”

Rex dedicated the next month to proving his independence. His cane was gone in a week; his limp in two; and within a month he trotted to the mailbox and back.

The March morning greeted Rex with a sense of eagerness that he hadn’t experienced since he started up the Baptism River trail months before. Dark clouds hung over Lake Superior, but the air carried the promise of spring—that damp scent of mud and decayed leaves exposed after a winter’s hibernation. He grabbed his hiking poles, pulled on his old hiking boots and drove to the trail head.

The radio delivered a terse weather report as he stepped out of the car. “Spring snowstorm expected later today. Travel not advised.” Rex closed the door with a smile and stepped onto the trail.

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