Mired, earthy brown scuffed leather and knotted laces retired in the shade of a summer palmetto surrounded by talismans of adventures near and far. Insoles perfectly conformed from miles of hiking and gusseted tongues that lay askew as they were worn into place for my feet alone. The subtle curve of the sole where it has freed itself from the oil and dusted upper, grins contentedly. It's time to let go. Okay, call my shrink. I'm having a hard time saying good-bye; to my HIKING BOOTS! It's silly, I know; but there is a part of me that just can't seem to part company with my selfless companions. After all, who else in my life would be contented to be continually stepped on?

The day they were given to me lingers fresh in my mind. Rich oily smells of tanned leather filled my senses and the feel of the tight fit of new hiking boots washed my body warm with comfort. They were perfect and now they have gone to the great shoe box in the sky. Actually, I have had such a hard time parting with them that I still have them in my closet awaiting a most befitting farewell. Should I give them rest on Pikes Peak or float them down the white waters of the Snake River? Perhaps the sand dunes of Colorado would preserve them for a future archaeological dig or I could have them burned while playing "These Boots Were Made for Walking"? How does one say good-bye to such faithful friends? You have to remember, I am the same soul who wrote personified praise to my walking stick. In all honesty, these ole boots took me everywhere precious to me, thus my pining.

Our maiden voyage was in 1995 where we ventured west and began a great love affair with the Colorado Rockies. From atop Pikes Peak, we discovered the true inspiration of "America the Beautiful" as we stood where this hymn was originally conceived. We shared the Garden of the Gods' red rocks and rattlesnakes. Shelf roads and gold panning, breath taking hikes and azure skies impassioned my once latent soul while gravel of granite and quarts filled the treads of my boots.

In Vernal, Utah we trod upon ground where spirits of the ancients lived, hunted and played. Hieroglyphics etched in the sunset orange stones vividly fueled my primitive imagination. In Afton, Wyoming we hiked a crevasse to the source of the only cold water geyser at Periodic Springs. Here, amidst the rushing waters and cool shade of the sun not yet fully risen, I sang Amazing Grace at the top of my lungs for only myself to hear. A night in Teton Village, just outside Jackson Hole, brought me the earthy fragrant sage and the amusement of golden prairie dogs basking in the valley's warm sunshine.

Ah, then there was the big sky of Montana and my favorite; Yellowstone. We visited the fire scarred slopes that sprung green with hope and hiked the basin filled with hissing geysers and lurid pools of exquisite beauty and equally horrid smells. Buffalo, the size of small trailers, crossed our path and we sat quietly in the middle of an elk filled valley. A full moon lit our way on a night time hike that intoxicated me with the scent of balsam that even now, these years past, recall the richness of the moist evergreen forest.

We descended over a mile into Royal Gorge and let the mighty Colorado River lap at our toes and touched the pink summer snow of Mosquito Pass; much to our delight, as the pass is often unable to be conquered even in the warmest summers. Adorned in yellow rain gear we shlepped through the blinding fog of an early morning walk along Range Road back in Colorado at the end of our '95 journey. Our last night was spent snug in the luxury of a cerca 1912 Bed and Breakfast Inn called On a Ledge in the artsy town of Manitou Springs. Never once did my boots complain of scuffs or streams, but were merely whetted for more.

In the summer of 1996 we reveled in the patriotism of Olympic hysteria in Atlanta. I suppose hiking boots were not required gear on such a metropolitan trip, but we enjoyed every bit of it. Not only the throngs of people, but the leisurely strolls through Olympic Park where we found the bricks that bore our family's name. We trod the top of Stone Mountain with its eerie history of the War Between the States and later, though set aside to allow my free toes to be tickled by summer grass, we watched the laser show on the face of the stone. Befitting it was, as these special boots were a gift from my parents, that they should share the last vacation my father took before he died the following year.

Not to neglect our love for the west, we set out for a short visit to Colorado where we acted like children at our first balloon glow. Voices rose in the moonless night, counting; 5, 4, 3, 2, GLOW! Simultaneously, explosive flames hissed and sputtered into the fluttering images with warm orange glows as childlike squeals from young and old alike filled the air. Attentively, we sat in the pews of the Cadet Chapel at the Air Force Academy while in the early yellow of September they rehearsed carols for Christmas. Just outside the entrance to the Rocky Mountain National forest, in a favorite haunt, we gazed at the gold of the aspen slopes and hiked among the fairy filled mule ears that carpeted the autumn floor, while the distant bugle of the elk drifted with the mists. Another fine trip and my boots could only beg for more, understandable even with grooved tongues.

The following year of our well broken in friendship took us to the ends of this vast country. From the balmy south of Ft. Lauderdale we flew to Seattle (home of, none other than, our famous Get Lost Magazine editor in chief!) where we hiked among the moss covered silent giants of the wood that guarded the foot of Mt. Rainier. Pristine skies afforded us a rare view, or so I've been told, of this snow covered peak all flustered with winds in her frozen hair. Nestled in twenty foot deep snow walls we slept in Paradise, for no higher assent could we manage that spring of '97. Ash and desolate haunted views of Mt. Saint Helens were where my boots left imprints on the 10th year anniversary of the fiery day that she blew her peak and violently consumed the earth around her. It was heart stopping, awe inspiring and frightening to imagine such forces.

Fat, wet snowflakes bid us adieu as we continued our journey to Alaska, last of the great wilderness'. We shared the trails with grizzlies, moose and dali sheep (or at least scat from said wildlife). My toes were kept safe and warm as we scaled slopes and forded glacial streams. Simple were the joys of night-time hikes into the forests of the midnight sun and oceans so alive with mammal, fish and foul that I was inspired to pen the "12 days of Alaska" featuring sighted wildlife in each phrase. (Would you like me to sing it for you? No-) Our dusty drive to the Arctic Circle was direct and there, among the twisted, wind whipped tundra trees, we basked in 73 degree weather and horse tail clouds in a cobalt sky. Near the painted mountains of Denali Park, along the muddied river banks, I found my boots had a match in size as caribou herds left a trail of hoof prints for comparison. One last stop on a rainy day found us surrounded by wolves. Big, wonderful, mystical wolves with piercing eyes and haunting songs. They were chained, but we were free to approach and pet and get peed on. (We were told that showed that they liked us.) Laces a little frayed and soles showing wear, another coat of oil and my boots and I were ready for more.

We came from a land down under in 2000. From Florida to Australia my boots and I traveled. A sort of last hurrah for them as they had begun to loose the soles at the toes of each and bore a sort of toothless geezerly grin. It seemed the care to oil and water-proof my boots was the demise of keeping the soles intact. Oh the agony of knowing this could be our final trip. With a little glue and some luck, they were ready to face the walk about of Sydney and the busy streets of yet another Summer Olympic Game. We trudged the puddled dressage fields and drowned in the rains of the gold medal softball game where we took the gold from gracious Japan. October sunrises were shared in the wine country of Hunter Valley where mobs of wild roos lept across dried fields not yet green with spring. We scaled the stairs of the great Opera House that sailed in Sydney Harbor one brilliantly sunny day and labored to the nose bleed section of the Olympic Stadium where the flame burned brightly in the night-time sky. We ventured where crocks quake in the shadow of Steve Irwin and mingled with wildlife that only Aussies can boast. My boots were exchanged for flip flops to manage the Great Barrier Reef of the north but gladly we meandered, together again, among the dulcet fragrance of the rain forest and tapped happily with the melodious drone of the didgeridoo as Aborigines retold their creation story.

Kind of as a pre-retirement, they were set upon the bungalow porch in Fiji for two days to rest and reflect, as did I, of great adventures and days spent together. For two rises and sets of the sun, no laces were tied, no eager feet were tucked in tight. They could rest and quite deservedly, for they had taken me over half way around the world with faithful service.

At home that fall, while on a morning hike in the Ocklawaha Prairie, we startled a mother bear and her cubs. We've trotted with the turkeys and have run with the white tailed deer of the Ocala forest and shared the mundane task of mowing the five acres of the family homestead.

There was one last adventure to be had . . . marriage! I was unable to convince Rodger that my boots could be worn under my wedding dress so they settled to come along for the honeymoon instead. Early spring of the current year (for that is the time of young, well okay, not so young brides) brought us to the coast of North Carolina along the Outer Banks. Dunes of wind swept sand and salty mists speckled with lace snowflakes were as rich as love. The new location for the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was broken in by our eager trekking and among the first springtime blooms of an Elizabethan Garden we frolicked in the green of new sprung grass. Though, I must admit, I had to remove my boots to run my toes in the green velvet carpet as our grass in Florida is so corse it much like the bristled welcome mat at your door. A modest summit of a shifting dune where man began the quest for flight was conquered gleefully and back road stops of cotton fields, antique shops and run down barns caught our adventurous imaginations at every turn. It was here they truly began to fade and I knew there would be little time left for us.

Not until an autumn hike in a local city park did they sigh a final farewell. Caught in the suction of a mud filled stream crossing, the sole did fully separate from my beloved, perfectly broken in boots. Wounded, we flip-flopped home, knowing this was to be our last outing. Funny; how something so silly can make such an impact. I know, it's not world hunger, nor war on terrorism. It's not the end of something important to the world, just to me.

Gail Boysen-Preset went to the Golden Arches thinking it was a store for orthotics. The burgers, she found, kept coming out the tops of her new shoes.

FROM OUR FORTIFIED FEATURES VAULT:

A stiff companion earns his keep 8/01

A Century of Flight 4/01

Spring Break In the Island Continent - 11/00

Back down to earth in otherworldly Homer, Alaska. 8/00

Traveling the Dark Side to the Sydney Olympics. 4/00