Micheal Hotchkin

Several years ago, I set off on a week-long hike of the Washington coast from Oil City Beach to Shi Shi Beach wearing a pair of Vasque boots that had carried me over quite a bit of California. The boots were old, but in good repair – I thought. At the mouth of the Hoh River, 30 minutes from the trail head, I stepped into a tidal pool, whereupon the sole of that boot detached itself and was left floating in the water. Of the three options available to solve the footwear problem while sitting on a piece of driftwood, I elected to put on my camp shoes and press onward. Two days later, my feet were so mangled that I had to call it quits, and I have lingering podiatric complaints to this day. Lesson? Don’t fool around with what goes on the feet.*

From 26° one morning in the hills outside Ely, Nevada, to 105° one afternoon in California’s Central Valley, the Alpinestars boots in the picture have endured 40,000 miles of all‐weather motorcycle riding. They have perched on the foot pegs through hours upon hours of pouring rain and, yes, snow. They have been baked by the sun in Monument Valley, pelted by the graveled roads of Yukon, Canada, and smothered in the dust of Wyoming’s Great Divide Basin. They have been in the glare of light reflecting from Athabasca Glacier in Jasper National Park and shaded by the trees in Redwood National Park. They have crossed the Missouri River and the Golden Gate. They have seen the sun rise over Mount Shasta at the beginning of one long day’s ride home and set behind Grand Teton at the end of one glorious day’s ride straddling the Continental Divide. They have been atop Pikes Peak, on the beach of Seward, Alaska, and over much of the North American Cordillera between. They have stood in the ruts made in the soil by the wheels of wagons that were following the Oregon Trail, in pine needles strewn across Yosemite Valley, and on the shoulder of The Loneliest Road in America. Through it all, they have kept my feet warm, dry, safe, and sound.

The sole of the left boot has worn through at the ball of the foot, where it has touched the earth countless times while waiting for a stop light, or for me to take a photo, let bison clear the road, examine a map, have my passport inspected, or put gas in the tank, or to hold me up as I swung my other leg over the bike to park it at the end of the day’s travels. One of the zippers is getting dodgy. The linings are in excellent condition, and the leather has been abused but is still seviceable — but it is time for them to go.

A brand new pair just like them arrived a few days ago. It’s funny: I have had to adjust the shift lever to create a bit more clearance for the toe, as it is not as worn flat as the one it replaced. Perhaps together we may see attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, though if not, wherever the road leads my feet will be happy, which — after my experience those years ago wrecking them before reaching Third Beach — I know is a good thing.

* Two years later, wearing a new pair of Vasque boots, I finished the hike.