BOB KORNEGAY: Footwear: An old friend’s final days

They’re dying. There, I said it. At last I must end the denial period in which I have existed these past few weeks. It won’t be long now. Soon, alas, they shall be gone.

For three years they have served me well, giving their all and asking nothing in return. Totally selfless, dedicated beyond belief. I am saddened by their imminent passing. I love them dearly.

Ah, how I yearn to wax poetic here and pay them glowing final tribute. But I shall not. Just suffice it to say they are wonderful, simply the best dadgum boots I’ve ever owned.

For more than 700 days, my old Timberlands have played many roles. As hiking boots, they have carried me on leisurely walks across fragrant meadows and on strenuous treks along mountain trails. As running shoes, they’ve outdistanced maddened yellow jackets, two or three angry rattlesnakes, and one irate spouse. They’ve climbed trees, elevated bird blinds, and sheer rock walls.

They’ve stepped in, on, and around almost every kind of noxious or toxic substance known to man. They’ve traversed countless mudholes, from St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge to the Rio Grande Valley. They’ve walked the deserts and high country of southeast Arizona. They have even on occasion complemented my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ wardrobe.

My wife, who owns 14 million pairs of shoes, fails to sympathize with my plight. She smirks at my grief, saying it is unfounded, ridiculous, and stupid. If she better understood my history, she would not say such things.

I have always been a shoe loyalist, never one to jump frivolously on a whim from one pair to another. As a youth, the Easter Bunny always delivered a pair of high-top canvas U.S. Keds, a tradition that started in 1957 B.N. (Before Nike). I was fiercely devoted to that annual pair of Keds. I had to be. I never saw another pair until Peter Cottontail’s next visit.

I did own a pair of “Sunday Shoes,” but they don’t count. They were shiny, pointy-toed, and had a buckle across the instep. I couldn’t have hunted, fished, or hiked in them even had Mama allowed it. About the only thing they were good for was diverting everyone’s attention from my too-big head, with its hastily-coifed crewcut and that one big ear that stuck out farther than the other one.

But those Keds? Oh my, they served me well. No young outdoorsman activity was beyond them. In them I did everything. I hunted, I fished, I climbed, I ran, I kicked, I jumped. They were scuffed, torn, totally nasty, and stank to high heaven. Such things breed devotion, my friends. These old Timberlands I cry over now are but a grown-up, more expensive version of those “tennie pumps” of yesteryear.

But I know it is inevitable. I may as well be a man and face it. Soon, within hours maybe, my boots will die. No, don’t let the smell fool you. That has not happened quite yet. It is coming, though. The signs are obvious.

So what’s an old shoe loyalist to do? Shall I toss them into the garbage can? That seems rather cold. Shall I give them to the dog? She hasn’t had a chew toy in quite some time. Shall I respectfully commit them to a well-dug grave and read reverently over them from the Bible? Good idea, says my wife, if not for the possibility of their killing every tree and shrub within a 50-foot radius.

Whatever I wind up doing with them, I must face the fact that I must procure another pair that I can only hope will be half as good. Alas, I cannot go barefoot until the Easter Bunny arrives next year. There’s also another dilemma. Owing to the recent purchase of a new pair of binoculars, I’m quite seriously strapped for cash at present.

Ah, but wait! Could it be that someone affiliated with Timberland is perchance perusing this humble treatise?

If so, I wear size 11D. I prefer an all-leather model.

Contact outdoors columnist and writer Bob Kornegay at [email protected].