Interruption

This afternoon an attractive 50-something year old man washed my feet and put my socks back on and laced up my shoes. Sadly, this was not a lover or even a pedicurist, but a technician at a podiatrist's office. Since I've been able to put on my socks and tie my shoes myself for at least a few decades, I felt rather foolish having him do the honors. There I was, my legs stretched out in front of me as I sat on the podiatry chair, jacked up to a height of about five feet off the ground. He said it was standard practice and, from what I observed in the waiting room, many patients are probably not capable of tying their shoes.

When I first arrived for my appointment, to check out some persistent pain in my left foot, I was one of the few fully ambulatory people around. Mostly older folk maneuvered in their wheelchairs and walkers, negotiating the path between the door and the reception desk. One man, his thinning hair slicked back with grease and his belly as round as that of the Buddha, was missing a foot. The receptionist handed me a stack of papers to fill out; on the top was written "Diabetic Foot Wound Center" and I asked her if, indeed, I was in the right place.

"Yes," she said. "Don't worry about that language. We take care of everything below the knee."

Below the knee. It was not an expression I'd heard before and, while it's true that my foot is below my knee, it can also affect areas above my knee, such as my hip and spine. But ours is specialized medical world and there was not much I could do about that. As I made my way through the forms, a woman in a motorized wheelchair returned to the waiting area from a consultation room; she wore specially made shoes, her head was held in place by a brace and her arms were covered with black fabric, obscuring her hands or where her hands might have been. Suddenly, my foot problem - and everything else on my mind - seemed quite trivial.

The podiatrist's analysis confirmed my suspicion of a pronated left foot; it has always tended to turn in but now the difference between my left and right feet had become quite stark and the imbalance was painful. My hiking habit will be interrupted for a few weeks while I wait for my orthotics to be made. In a saner system, my health insurance would cover the cost of these inserts, as they'll keep me active and probably prevent me from developing knee trouble later, which would be more costly to fix but would likely be covered. Such is the world we live in.

Instep

After seven years, several hundred miles and dozens of hikes, the last of which was a climb up Colorado's Quandary Peak (14,265'), my beloved hiking boots finally fell apart. From the first time I wore them until I took them off last Friday afternoon, they never pinched, gave me a blister or rubbed me the wrong way. I can't say the same about most of my other shoes (or people, for that matter). Although these boots look rather forlorn now, when I bought them they were smooth to the touch, a sophisticated blue in color and were extremely well-crafted. They conveyed quality but without being ostentatious. Made in Hungary by a Swiss company, their provenance connected me to the various times in my life when I lived in Budapest and traveled in Europe. Slipping my feet into these boots and lacing them up triggered feelings of confidence and optimism that often elude me in my non-hiking life.

So when the soles began to lose traction and water began seeping into the toe area, I went into denial rather than deal with the deterioration. "I'll just bring extra socks in case my feet get wet," I told myself. "I'll carry my hiking poles in case I need help balancing."

Those strategies worked until two weeks ago when I noticed the soles peeling off the boots, leaving large gaps. With two challenging hikes in my future and being fearful of attempting them without this trustworthy and faithful pair, I generously applied Shoe Goo to fill these cracks. The goo extended the life of these boots a few extra days, allowing my feet to be cradled by their comfortable companions on these multi-mile steep adventures. But as you can see from the photo the glue hardened and started to peel off; it was time for me to say goodbye.

I went online to search for boots from this same manufacturer as my local outdoor gear store was out of stock. Luckily, I found a web retailer that carries this brand in my size and within a day or two I should be receiving three pairs of boots to audition. They have big shoes to fill.

Ice Axe

Nearly two weeks ago I was at 11,000 feet, lying on my back. My helmeted head faced down a slope, my booted feet were held by two instructors in my Wilderness Trekking School. My hands gripped an ice axe. Before releasing me into a slide, my instructors asked me which way I was going to turn once I was in freefall.


"To the right," I replied, slightly lifting my torso and twisting to the right to reinforce my intention.

The point of this exercise was to learn how to stop oneself from slipping to one's death, serious injury or - in the best case scenario - inconvenience. Plunging the tip of the ice axe into the snow would create a fulcrum around which my body would rotate, so that I'd end up on my belly with my feet facing downslope, and by putting my weight onto the axe I would stop my descent. In theory, that is what was supposed to happen.


I gave the teachers the OK and they let me go. Off I went. Rather than terror, I experienced pure bliss sliding down a glacier in the bright sunshine, my skin tingling from the bits of snow that found their way inside my Gore-Tex layers. I didn't really want to stop and could have happily slid to the bottom, but with my classmates and teachers watching I had no choice. I plunged the ice axe into the snow and, sure enough, my body eventually spun around and my feet and head reversed positions. But I kept slipping. Without being conscious of it, I had lifted the axe out of the snow and plunged it in again, as if the initial plunge had been the problem. Eventually I stopped, but I had traveled a long way.


I climbed back to the top of our slide and awaited my next turn, observing the other students as they attempted this maneuver. Another woman seemed to have the same experience as me - she repeatedly, but imperceptibly, lifted her axe out of the snow and repositioned it, as if each successive plunge would work better than the preceding one. She, too, ended her slide a bit farther than desireable.


"Commit!" exclaimed our lead instructor. "Once the axe is in the ground, commit to it. Put all your weight on it. Don't pull it out!"


I tried again, with similar results. Even though I wanted to stick with my initial axe position, my reflexes had other ideas and I kept lifting it out of the ground. Landing at the bottom of the slope after several rolls and slides - and laughs - I had an even longer climb back to the top.


Before my third attempt, I tried to center myself as my instructors held me by the ankles. I was getting tired, so this was going to be my final try at a successful self-arrest.


"Commit," I whispered inside my head.


As I began my slide, I willed myself to hang onto that axe with all my might, pushing it deeper into the snow rather than lifting it back out. My mental preparation must have worked because I was able to stop myself rather quickly.


Reflecting on this experience, I realized that I need an ice axe equivalent for my life, something that I can plunge into the present moment to prevent me from falling further into negative mind states, getting trapped in thought-loops about the past, and sliding down other slippery internal slopes. Many days I feel as if I've tumbled and slid down life itself, unable to gain any traction, while my peers are off in the distance, out of sight, continuing their upward climbs. Or maybe this is just how it is to travel one's own path, uncharted, with no one providing direction or a map except my inner guidance system which, many times, seems to have me going around in circles, retracing my steps.

I do, however, have a few ice axes in my existential tool belt, if only I can remember to deeply commit to using them. One is meditation; it often succeeds in bringing me back to now. Another is writing; it often helps me gain a compassionate perspective on my life, to help me see that maybe I have not plummeted to the bottom of a ditch after all, that maybe if I poke my head out I'll be blessed with a beautiful view. And a third tool is art making; it allows me to externalize my inner conundra by creating physical objects to represent them, depriving them of their power over me.