Fulfillment
The Boots
About six years ago, my good friend gifted me a fantastic pair of boots. Solid in dark brown leather, they zipped up to my ankles, keeping my feet dry in the wettest time of year on Kauai and warm during my annual winter trip to California. These were Doc Martens, the brand of the long-standing European shoe manufacturer known for a signature look and their substantial footwear.
The thing that was unique about these boots was that they didn’t look like Doc Martens. The round toe and high, thick rubber sole so commonly associated with their style had been replaced by a streamlined shoe that looked more like a moccasin than industrial footwear. Where typical Docs could easily handle the weight of a 200 pound man all day in the warehouse, this version looked more like they were ready to go skipping through Sherwood Forest with a quiver of arrows. Still solid in their design, they just looked softer. They were perfect, except for the fact that they were ankle boots.
Really, they’re an ideal height for tropical living and the few weeks a year that this climate supports them being worn at all. But it’s the knee-high version (which I discovered did exist) that would be ideal for riding side-saddle through ancient trees or scaling mountain paths in search of the Holy Grail (or at least some good writing material).
There’s just something about a pair of boots that go all way up to your knees. You’re covered, snug, secure. Footsteps feel even more grounded. You’re wearing boots. Now anything is possible on this path.
The last time I had a pair of knee highs was when I was seven years old. They were in style then (just as they have reappeared in fashion as of late) and I loved them so much I would tuck my jeans inside so as to showcase them in all their vinyl glory. I still can recall coming out of Yamaha piano lessons with my mom. It was night and we were walking back to the car in the parking lot and I was wearing boots. In that moment, I felt like anything was possible – I felt strong – my feet were solid on the ground. I felt my little seven-year old self touch some kind of power that was beyond seven years. Of course it wasn’t sourced in my Payless Shoe Store boots. But they were reminding me with every step about something within. Something that I was just in the early stages of sensing.
Since I was gifted those ankle boots six years ago, together, we have seen some miles. We’ve danced on sticky bar room floors, climbed to mountain vistas and walked city streets. I know I’ve fallen in love at least twice in those things. Recently the sole began to give way and separate from the leather. I’ve thought about the old-school shoe repair guy in Lihue where I could find out if they could be fixed. But I’ve never let go of the idea of the knee-high version. Thirty years after that parking lot moment in my boots, isn’t it time I got a new pair?
It was about six months ago that I decided to make my investment. Fueled by this vision of myself wandering through Europe, I could vividly see my steps meandering in these boots. I thought that if I bought the boots, the vision would be fueled. Step one (pardon the pun) towards bringing my fantasy into the physical. I thought it would be simple to go online and buy them but the search was futile. Over the course of a few weeks, I would periodically resume my search, finding many stores that offered them but not in my size.
Even the Doc Marten company did not have the boot available. The only place I could find the style and size was at their European location, which meant a huge cost in shipping that I just couldn’t bear to pay. It seemed my knee-high boot dream would remain an elusive symbol, the time not yet right to set foot on my travel path. I resolved that if those boots ever did materialize, it would be a harbinger of coming one remote step closer to packing my bags and stepping on a plane.
I hadn’t thought about the boots in a while. It was late afternoon on Easter Sunday and Jeb and I were digesting our meal, spending a little mellow time at home. As I checked my emails an advertisement for boots came on the sidebar (they know their target audience, to be sure). Just for fun, I checked again, fully expecting they would only have the typical odd sizes not fitted to my feet. I found myself on Doc Marten’s website and within seconds there were the boots in UK5, Euro38, US7. Those were my boots (and they came with free shipping).
Ignoring all reason that these were not a seasonably wise purchase for my current locale (especially with summer coming on) I persevered and input my shipping information – these boots were 30 years in coming! I could see us disembarking from the plane onto foreign soil as I typed. All points had brought us to this moment and within two days, Doc Marten said they would be shipped right to my doorstep. I’d figure out my archery practice later, this was the simple beginning…
With the ‘purchase’ button clicked and the confirmation email in my inbox, the rest is up to fate. There is still the possibility they may not be all I’ve hoped for. There’s that chance they just won’t fit. Either way, most likely, you dear reader, will hear all about it. Until then, my boots and I are walking through rocky seaside villages and pausing to lean against thick-barked tree trunks. If only in my mind.
The Scent of my Kelty Tent
It’s a wonder I have anything from my past. Photographs, keepsakes. I moved around so much in my twenties (and went through numerous purges of personal possessions) there isn’t much in the material that has remained.
There is one solid constant that has served me for nearly twenty years. It’s seen snow and beaches, sunrises and sunsets. It’s been with me through thunder and wind storms. It’s seen me in safe and sound, and petrified to the core. It was the first stepping stone toward adventure that lead me to this very point in time. It’s my little Kelty tent for two. And yesterday, I pulled it down and opened it.
Jeb had a friend over and the two of them wanted to make a ‘hide out’. “Please, mom, can we set up the tent!”
I bought this tent back in 1994. I was twenty, about to turn twenty-one, and I had decided that I would spend the summer traveling the West coast, exploring Oregon and Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. It was critical in my mind that I undertake this journey alone. I wanted to see if I could face my fears. Test my theory that with good intent and openness, deep truths and spiritual connection could be attained.
Step one. The tent. Before I ever started out, I had to overcome my doubt that I would be adept enough to set up my own tent. I was afraid I’d find myself in a downpour in a Washington rainforest, unable to remember how to prop up my shelter. I remember iterating this point clearly to the salesman at the sporting goods shop. He assured me that the tent we were looking at was very simple to erect. He did give me a demonstration. I was still unsure. All reservations about my pending adventure were directed to the tent.
Knowing I had no control over the circumstances that may occur on my summer trip, I focused my energies on being prepared. Standing in the living room at my mom’s house, I would practice setting up the tent as quickly as I could, imagining inclement weather, darkness, or other crises. How fast could I create my shelter?
Of course, the tent was very simple to put up and that summer I got plenty of practice. It saw a parking lot with 90,000 Grateful Dead fans in Eugene. A beach-front bluff in coastal Oregon. That tent and I spent time in thick, mossy forests on Washington’s peninsula – quiet and lush with morning butterflies. The tent-for-two aspect proved handy when I softened on my strictly solo travel plan and spent a week with the Swiss Traveler I met in Seattle. For those few days I had a kind and gentle companion with whom to meander up to Orcas Island, wandering forests and sand together before he flew back home.
That summer marked a fork in my life road, and by the Fall it was apparent I had set foot on a path less traveled. Not a decision made with my mind, but rather a knowingness felt with all of my instincts – a guidance that had been so sharply honed that summer in my travels.
I packed up my tent and continued to quest. Eventually, I drove all the way to New England from California, camping along the way. That Kelty tent served as my touchstone in every state. Later, I’d spend another summer living in my little pop-up. I camped in the Vermont woods at night while working at a local bagel shop by day. The Swiss Traveler even returned for two more weeks of wilderness and tent-life living.
Nearly twenty years later, I’m in my front yard on Kauai with my seven-year old son, opening the original bag that houses my little tent. The bag is brittle and tearing, held together with patches of old duct tape. Jeb and I unzip the bag and unroll its contents. The scent of the synthetic material wafts to my nose, so familiar. All of these years and the smell of my tent has not changed. With it comes a flood of memories. All of the places where these four corners have been staked. Nearly two decades of feelings experienced within these flimsy walls.
Woven in this scent is adventure. The courage to embark on something new. The bravery to try. The willingness to love. The desire to find some truth. The need to forge ahead towards something different. A yearning to have the journey matter. And one solid thread holds at the core of all the information carried with this whiff of Kelty tent. Youth. My own. And all of it’s precious, earnest seeking.
Now I have my own son. And we set it up together, easy as one, two, three. No matter that the bungees have lost their elasticity (I will not indulge in parallels or metaphors at this juncture). The rain fly will still hold.
By day’s end, a tropical rain has passed and soaked the tent. Jeb and his friend have wrestled inside it, leaving it twisted and misshapen. But this reliable old tent is still standing solid. Now a place of refuge for my offspring.
It stands as a reminder of that spirit of adventure. That trust. That haven. I’m still on the quest. And all that’s held within the scent of my Kelty tent, still lives inside me.
For the Archives 