My owner first saw one of my relatives in the climber’s campground at the Columbia Icefields. I guess it was love at first sight. The kicker… ha what a stupid pun… was that the Swiss kid who owned them could climb 5.10d rock in them; or so he claimed anyway. They had also served him well soloing the Messner Couloir on Denali. My owner did get to see them in action on a solo of the north face of Andromeda however, so the deal was sealed with that.
Doug to Lars…”so I should order a half size smaller than yours then….”
Here is a picture of these crazy climbers sizing feet in an attempt to mail order one of my cousins.
About a year later I was selected in person at a real climbing store; not some random and impersonal internet transaction. How special is that? (well, if I recall correctly we couldn’t really buy stuff over the internet in those days anyways) I was a real eye catcher as well. I mean who wouldn’t want to be seen in teal coloured boots? You could see my nice colour if my owner wasn’t so cheap; using black and white film all of the time. One of my very first outings was on one of those days in a rare year that good climbable ice forms on the Niagara Escarpment in the Spencer Gorge. What a grand day that was. My first rappel, my first front pointing. My first waterfall ice. A lot of firsts on that day.
Without a doubt however my proudest moments were at high altitude in Bolivia and Chile. I was really in my element then. Snow, ice, extreme cold. And boy did I perform well. Never a cold toe, no blisters, day in and day out use; what a champ.
It wasn’t all just cold ice and high mountains, no sir! I was equally adept hiking up long approach trails in the Coast Range and North Cascades, through dark mossy cedar and fir forests and up into alpine meadows with comfort and ease and always delivering dry and happy feet. Maybe I never climbed 5.10 like my cousin did, but I sure put in some rugged days on stiff class four.
Sadly nothing lasts forever. My owner got distracted from alpine and ice climbing. He was seduced by those tight curvy little slippers and the sun warmed crags and boulders. Hell some of those ‘shoes’ don’t even have laces! And he was lured away even further by all of those crazy dojo places that insist you go in bare feet. What a thing to believe…
Really….?
I got excited one winter as I was pulled from the shelf in the basement and dusted off. Oh boy I thought. This is it. Crisp air. Glorious sparkling blue- white frozen waterfalls with thick fat ice. Teamed up with some razor sharp Sarkens and a set of Vipers. Alas it was only to shovel snow in the driveway. But still good to be out in the snow and cold again eh; good to be of some use, even if it was only for some ignoble purpose.
But mostly I just sat in the cool, dark basement waiting. Years passed. I didn’t hold a grudge. My time would come again. I just knew it. Then one year I got called to work again, over fifteen years after first going into duty. I was being leant to another climber. That’s okay. You don’t ask questions, you just go into action. I even got fitted with some nice new Grivel crampons. I felt renewed, with a purpose. But somewhat was wrong. Something just didn’t feel right inside. Then one day without warning it happened. A small piece of me fell off. No big thing I thought, even though an eyelet was attached to that piece. I still had plenty of other eyelets. I was still serviceable and up to the task at foot. I guess I knew however, that deep down inside things weren’t right, and would never be right again, and that this was the beginning of the end.
But I had to put all of those morbid thoughts and crazy talk aside. There was a job to do here, and I was going to do it to the level best of my ability. One last hurrah. This was so cool. I even got to ride in a helicopter. I got to wear those crampons with the neon yellow ankle strap and stomp around on glaciers. I got to climb steep snow and feel the sharp bite of granite crystals on my soles again. But every day things deteriorated. Every day things got a little bit worse. A crack developed here. A split there. Another chunk of me came off. A big one this time.
My owner was there too, and tried so very hard to help me. He had duct tape. He had beautiful sensuous lime green gaffers tape. Every day he tended to me; patching as best he could. But that’s all it was, all it could ever be… a patch. There was no curing this malady. It was only a matter of time. My inners were just fine, as cozy as the day they came out of the factory in Bavaria, but they were no good without my outers.
Here is the boss trying to get me through another day….
What really brought this all into clarity for me was when we found an old pair of Galibier boots on this; the last mountain I ever climbed. These poor guys were real old-timers. They were split apart at the seams too, but still, for being made out of leather amazingly well preserved. Abandoned years ago for some unknown reason. They were silent though, and gave no indication as to their story. I knew then with finality that even the best boots don’t last forever.
I’m sure that these old timers had a story to tell…
One of the last known photo’s of me…
After we returned home and I was back in the gloomy basement there was all sorts of hushed talk I overheard. Stuff about polypropylene, degradation, oxidation embrittlement, old age; there were some photographs taken. I didn’t really understand it all. One day several months later it happened. Frankly, in retrospect, I was surprised that it didn’t occur sooner. I was escorted silently and without ceremony up out of the basement, put into a big green plastic bin and rolled out to the side of the road. I know that it was hard for the man to do this. As for me; I never saw the sun, touched the ice, nor felt the chill air again.
Man, you should have given these guys a proper burial. You might even have shipped them to me and I would have laid them to rest on one of the local peaks, there to found in 40 years by some climber who would wonder what their story was…