The Story Behind the "Cruel Shoes" Cover Photo

[Note for Walk With Me readers:  This hike comes in the "Descent" portion of Walk With Me, in between "Chapter 15:  A New Kind of Life" and "Chapter 16:  Red Deficit."]

     A Bronco sped across the Utah desert.  The stereo blared out U2's "Joshua Tree": 

     I looked over at my brother-in-law, Mike, and smiled.  We were going to bag King's Peak, Utah's highest mountain. 
     Bono continued to belt out one desert song after another as we approached and then climbed into the Uinta Mountains. 
     After working our way up a ravine, we parked at the Swift Creek Trailhead and prepared for our three-day hike.  Both my pack and boots from the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) were history.  I retied a pair of beat up Nike hiking shoes that I had been wearing since the PCT.  My new pack settled comfortably onto my back. 
     "Let's walk for two hours and get up to the good mountains," I said. 
     Mike nodded and we were off. 
     The trail ascended amid strange trees and strange rocks.  The Uinta's weren't anything at all like the Sierra Nevada Mountains I was used to.  I felt uncomfortable.
     About an hour into the climb, my knee started to hurt.  It felt like someone was pushing a nail into my kneecap.  I tried to walk the pain off.  This usually works.  It didn't. 
     "My knee really hurts.  I don't think I'm going to make it to Timothy Lakes today." 
     Mike nodded and said, "Let's just keep going.  Maybe we can make it."
     We both knew it was crucial to get to our planned destination.  If we didn't make it to Timothy Lakes on Day 1, we weren't going to climb King's Peak. 
     I took a deep breath and said, "OK."  I had walked in pain before.  I could do it again. 
     I almost gave out at mile ten.  There was a nice meadow to camp by and a good stream.  But Mike wanted King's Peak and pursuaded me to keep going.  But the next four miles were awful--for both of us.  When we finally stumbled to the shores of Timothy Lakes, we were wasted.  After setting down our packs, we spent several minutes just sitting, each holding our drooping heads with both hands. 
     The sun was still setting when we collapsed and slipped into an uneasy sleep.
     I hoped that things would look up in the morning. 

     They didn't.
     We both felt terribly achy.  We both were walking unsteadily.  We avoided the subject of King's Peak for as long as we could.  But as we got ready to try to walk I said, "I can't make it to King's Peak.  My knee is killing me and I'm exhausted.  I can't walk fifteen miles a day for the next two days."
     Mike sighed.  "I don't think I can either."
     We both looked at the sky for a while. 
     "So what do we do?" I asked. 
     "Do you want to walk back down?"
     "No." 
     "I don't want to do that either.  Out and backs are boring."
     I nodded and said, "Maybe we can take the trail to the junction with the Yellowstone Creek Trail and return to the car that way."
     We looked at a map.  This was still a long hike.  Too long. 
     I looked at the ridges. 
     "I have an idea.  Look at that pass along the ridge.  Let's just climb up to that pass, go down the other side and we'll be in Yellowstone Canyon.  Can't be more than two miles to the trail and we'll save about six miles of walking."
     "There's no trail up to that pass."
     "So what?  It's right there.  It doesn't look too steep."
     Mike eyed it.  "You're right."
     The thought of going back was boring.  The thought of all that trail walking was painful.  The pass looked better all the time.  We decided to go for it. 
     We shouldered our packs and strolled at a creeping pace, working out our pains and aches. 
     When the pass grew near, we left the trail and began to ascend to gathering clouds.  About 200 yards from the pass, a horrific thundershower let loose on us. 
     We improvised a quick shelter with a tarp and sat out the worst part of the storm.  Thunder exploded around us.  Drops of water fell from the tarp all too near us. 
     I realized at that moment how different mountain ranges can be. 
     The Sierra always felt so welcoming to me.  Trees sang in the breeze.  Streams and rivers splashed with joy.  Wildflowers looked to the warm sun.  Rain in the summer was rare and short-lived. 
     But these Uinta's were different.  I felt like an invader.  These mountains did not like visitors. 
     Part of this uneasiness I credited to the Uinta's unusual shaping.  The Uinta's are the only major mountain range in the contiguous United States that run east-west instead of north-south.  After hundreds of days of hiking in the north-south trending Sierra's, I was disoriented here.  The sun always seemed to be in the wrong place in these mountains.  The shadows wrong.  Streams flowed the wrong way.
     I shook off this eerie feeling as the rain lessened and stopped. 
     We huffed and puffed up to the pass and looked into Yellowstone Canyon.  We could see the trail winding its way along a small creek about a mile away. 
     "Now, all we have to do is get down," Mike said. 
     "Look at the ground."  I pointed.  "There are deer tracks here.  If they can make it, so can we."
     "Uh huh."  Mike didn't sound convinced.  The grade was steep--so steep that we couldn't even see where the pass descended to. 
     I started down a scree shoot and used the rocks along the edge for hand and foot holds. 
     The descent got steeper. 
     I looked behind me at Mike.  He was gone. 
     "Hey, Mike.  Where are you?"
     Mike appeared in the rocks to my right with a big grin on his face. 
     "I didn't like the scree slope.  I decided to rock climb."
     "This is getting pretty steep.  Do you think we can make it?"
     "No choice now.  Let's keep going."
     I managed to descend a few inches at a time by sliding down the slope on my butt while holding on to the rocks.  But the slope kept getting steeper.
     Finally, the degree was so steep that my backpack threatened to pull me away from the slope and send me toppling toward the rocks at the base of the pass. 
     I made a decision. 
     I released the shoulder straps on my pack, slung it around in front of me and threw it as hard as I could. 
     My pack first flew, then bounced down to the bottom of the pass. 
     "Interesting plan," observed Mike. 
     "The only thing I might have damaged is my stove.  The rest is crush-proof."
     Mike nodded. 
     The descent was finally beginning to moderate and I was just about to proclaim victory when I looked at my shoes.  The sole of my left shoe was almost completely severed from the rest of the shoe.  I waved my foot and my sole flapped against the shoe. 
    What am I going to do?  I'm fifteen miles from the car.  I can't walk without shoes. 
     I sighed. 
    Well, first things first. 
     Mike and I thankfully finished the last of the pass and turned to look up at it. 
     It looked treacherous and steep.
     "How did we do that?" I asked. 
     "I don't know."
     "We have a problem."
     I showed Mike my shoes and he laughed. 
     The day was mostly gone, so we decided to find a flat spot and camp.  We had faced enough hassles for one day; we'd get to the shoes tomorrow.

     Splash.  Plessh.  Splash. 
     "What is that?"  I asked Mike at first light.  "It's not raining is it?"
     "Nope," Mike answered as he opened up the tent flap and looked outside.
     "Hey, Martin.  Check this out." 
      I squirmed over to the opening and looked where he pointed. 
     Two chocolate black moose were browsing in a wet meadow some 50 yards away, their feet splashing as they walked.  They were impressive animals. 
     Mike and I ate breakfast in their fine company.

     "What are you going to do about your shoes?"  Mike asked. 
     "I have a plan!"  I grinned and unwrapped my Ace bandage from my aching knee and wrapped it around my shoe so that the sole was "bandaged" to the rest of the shoe. 
     I took a few uncomfortable steps.  Ace bandage doesn't make a great sole.  But it was better than going barefoot.  Much better. 
     We packed up and started the walk back to the car. 
     The Uintas, however, weren't through with us.  The skies clouded up and rain fell.  My feet were soon soaked. 
     About seven miles from the car, Mike and I stopped for a short break.  I unwrapped my shoe and took it off.  A line of blisters about 4 inches long covered the edge of my foot. 
     Mike looked at my foot and winced. 
     The rain kept falling.  We needed to get out of the Uintas. 
     "OK, let's walk for 55 minutes, rest for 5 and not stop until we get back to the car," I suggested. 
     For several hours we walked in steady rain.  The canyon broadened suddenly and we arrived at the parking lot. 
     When I took my shoe off, I left my sock on.  I did not want to see my foot.  I threw both of my tattered shoes in the back seat. 
     We were both exhausted.  The drive home was long. 

     The next day, as Mike and I cleaned our gear out of the car, I threw my shoes out by a tree in his front yard, intending to throw them in the trash later. 
     Mike appeared with a camera and took a picture of the shoes next to a tree trunk. 
     "You need something to remember your 'cruel shoes' by."
     A framed picture of the "Cruel Shoes" came in the mail a few days after I returned home. 

     When Publish America asked me for cover suggestions for Walk With Me, I went straight for this photo.  It is both beautiful and dirty; painful and adventurous:  everything I wanted for the cover of a book about the glory and grit of walking.