The afternoon sun beat down upon the herd, the late summer wind had died, leaving a mist of evaporated water low to the ground. The stillness saturated the ground, the field of grass, the herd of cattle. Not even the insects made a noise.

The cattle’s skin still shivered automatically, but not because of bites. They shivered because they always had. The farmer’s teenage daughter had given names to nearly all in the herd, particularly those with unusual markings.

For the next few weeks it was the best of times. There was no awareness of the coming process. Even the daughter pushed the knowledge to the edge of knowledge. At the season’s end there was butchering.

It’s such an ugly term for something natural and important. Cattle were meant for food and leather, and the region excelled in industries that needed to be supplied. High-quality leather from Veneto was used in furniture, automobiles, and shoes.

Italian beef was popular in traditional restaurants, served with pasta and vegetables. Hundreds of unique dishes, prepared by specially trained chefs, delighted natives and tourists.

The herd made it all happen.

On one morning, near the onset of winter, something lingered. A hide had been scraped, soaked in tanning solution, and stretched on a rack. The skin had millions of cells embedded within it that had once functioned as nerve sensors. No longer active, but still there in stasis.

Perhaps in the frozen DNA there was a memory of having a name, another memory of shivering in unison, wave after wave of automatic motion. But now there was only the loss of the sun and the smell of chemistry.

The hide was removed from the frame, then cut carefully into patterned shapes. Artisans came in from the cold and damp to spend days indoors assembling shapes into new objects. Objects to extend the use of the herd. It was a season of making.

There was a shaping, a forming. A pattern was sewn together, soaked, placed on a form, and pressed into shape. More stitching, more forming. Additional material that smelled of rubber was applied, glued, and sewn.

In the end, after hours of real work, it was a shoe.

Paired with another, the shoe was placed in a box, never exposed to sunshine, then placed on racks for spring shipment to regional and international distributors. Mountain boots crafted in the shadow of the Italian Alps and made from Italian leather was the perfect marketing plan.

In Berkeley, California, there was a ski shop on University Avenue that had expanded its inventory to include hiking gear. They had a new line of Pivetta Eigers, a simple leather hiking boot.

It didn’t have special hooks or buckles. It just had holes. It didn’t have a wide welt for the sole. In fact, it had no visible welt at all. It was constructed in such a way that the foot was directly above the edge of the sole.

This meant that when the boot hit the earth it was almost perfectly the same size as the foot. It also meant that the boot was perfect for the edges encountered while climbing cliff faces. It was slightly heavy, but rigid, with great ankle protection in scree.

A veteran backpacker had finally gotten a seasonal job that allowed for some discretionary spending. The boots were an entire week’s pay.

He bought them with a shrug.

The hiker had tried the boots on in the shop, but the real test would be a short hike in North Berkeley at Indian Rock Park. This well-known free-climbing rock sat in the middle of a residential area. The rock was the size of several buildings, both high and wide. It provided difficult climbs and magnificent views of the East Bay, San Francisco, and the waters in between.

The hiker went there directly after purchasing them and laced up the boots.

The leather creaked. The laces tightened. He stood.

For the first time since the hide had left the pasture, sunlight touched it again.

The warmth spread slowly through the leather.

If anything remained, it might have remembered the sun.

Years passed. The shoe experienced cold mountain streams, snow-covered trails, and Army parade grounds. It followed the hiker, providing support and steadfastness.

One day, after years in the mountains and years in the military, the hiker was applying fresh protection to the leather.

There was nothing ceremonial about it. No audience. No speech.

He simply honored the shoe.

The ‘what’ of a shoe had become a ‘who’.