Eiger Boots
I was thrilled with them. I tore up trails in the Sierras like I had off-road vehicles on my feet. I’d walk through rivers with my socks off, plant full weight on the narrowest rock ledges without a single twist. My ankles were completely protected from rockfall and debris. They were ugly, sure—looked a bit like Frankenstein’s shoes—but they were glorious.
When my first pair wore down, I was devastated. I had them resoled (only one person in California was trained to do it), and then bought another pair. And then a third. By then I was making a little more money, and they were expensive boots. I wasn’t taking chances.
The lug pattern on the sole was distinct, and that became important. Right in the center of the heel was a cross-shaped lug, perfectly molded for grip.
At the time, I had joined the Bay Area Mountain Rescue Unit—my way of giving back to the Sierras that had given so much to me. The unit was made up of kind, capable people dedicated to helping those lost or injured in the mountains. During the off-season, we trained. One month was dedicated to tracking, with instruction led by the Border Patrol.
By the end, I could track a person at a lope, reading the smallest shifts in grass, sand, or gravel ten to fifteen feet ahead. You have to move faster than a walk, or you’ll never catch up to a lost hiker—only find them if they stop.
One practical technique we learned: modify your heel lug. Trackers cut the side arms off the central cross lug, turning it into a capital ‘I’. It was a signal. If another tracker came along and saw your print, they knew the trail had already been followed—and they’d branch off to another. Elegant and simple.
The Monday after I finished tracker training, I was at my graphics office with an X-Acto knife, slicing my lugs. I figured I’d earned the mark (questionable, in retrospect, but I was committed).
In walked my paid intern. She had a tone of detached sarcasm for most things, and this was no exception.
“What are you doing?”
Not in the mood to explain tracking, I made something up.
“Well, these Vibram soles are regenerative,” I said flatly, “If you don’t trim them back, you can get problems—like in-grown toenails.”
Then I casually snipped the other boot.
Her look said it all. “Yeah right. You’re just plain nuts.”
And so, a seed was planted.
I had two more pairs of Eigers at home, just as ugly, just as bulletproof. Over the next three or four weeks, I timed my lug cutting to coincide precisely with her shift. Each time she walked in: there I was, boots in hand, knife in motion.
At first, more derision. She threatened to superglue the lugs back on. She examined the boots with disbelief.
By the third session, there was only silence. A stare—half-wonder, half-horror. It simply never occurred to her that anyone would own more than one pair of those beasts. And it certainly never occurred to her that I would schedule her confusion.
I never brought it up again. Not for years. Eventually I told the story, laughing at the slow-burn prank.
But now, looking back, I’m not sure I feel great about it. It was a clever trick, yes, but also just a quiet revenge for a sarcastic comment.
Now it feels like one of those stories you hold with a wince and a grin at the same time.
