Footloose and delightfully shoe-free
Gerda, my friend from Germany, and I hiked barefoot up to Deer Hill Spring last summer. "Do you want to?" I asked her, unlacing one shoe after opening the car door. "Do you want to hike barefoot?"
Her face brightened. "Yes!" she replied with genuine enthusiasm. So together we removed our shoes and socks, reminiscing about the thrill of being allowed to go barefoot as children. We stepped from the car onto the tawny, sun-warmed soil of the unpaved road opposite the entrance to the Deer Hill Spring trail.
"Oooh, this feels good," said Gerda, walking around in circles like a child. "I haven't done this for so long." We crossed to the trail entrance, stepping from the dusty road onto the cool, black earth of the shaded forest path.
The hard-packed trail was ridged with a network of tree roots and a generous number of rocks, not the kind you step on, but the kind you step around. The dark, damp earth felt good to our warm feet, as our soles made contact with the ground's firm curvatures, to the rhythm of our walking sticks. Going barefoot opens up a world of new sensations. Every step, whether on dry leaves, soft mosses, moist earth, or pebbles, conveys an abridged message of tactile delight.
As we climbed, I thought of other barefoot walks I'd taken. When I'd walked around Trout Pond with my friend Joyce, I wasn't concerned when we came to a bridgeless brook. I just waded in, glad for the liquid refreshment on my calloused feet. The marshy area on the other side of the brook cushioned my feet until I reached firm ground once again.
The barefoot climb with my well-shod cousins up the dusty, rock-strewn road to the old Coat Farm was more of a challenge. I had to pay close attention to keep my balance when walking on stones that rolled from underfoot. Still, if I had it to do again, I would rather climb to the Coat Farm barefoot than with shoes between me and the ground.
Over the barely audible pad pad of our feet and tap tap of our walking sticks, Gerda and I heard the distant veery's crystal call, spiraling downward. Our almost silent steps didn't startle the chipmunk we noticed peering at us from his rock perch. As we made our way up the steady grade, our breathing grew quicker, bringing to our nostrils the familiar fragrance of the warmed hemlock forest surrounding us. All senses were on alert, heightened by our unobstructed contact with the trail beneath our feet.
When we reached the point in our climb where the trail sloped downward toward the spring, our brief descent on the well-worn trail was an easy one, even barefoot. Our steps quickened as we saw below us the spring - not the typical small, bubbling spring, but rather one the size of a farm pond, feeding a small stream that tumbled down the side of the hill.
"Look!" Gerda said in awe, pointing to water churning upward, as though propelled by a subterranean force, then curling over in ripples, spreading the silty water in concentric circles. We hurried the last few steps to the spring, where we counted half-a-dozen of these gurgling dimples breaking the otherwise placid surface. Venturing out onto a miniature peninsula, testing its firmness with each step, we knelt down.
Gerda gingerly reached out and put her arm into a mini-geyser. I did, too, feeling only space and the eternal upward thrust of the icy water. How deep did the funnels go that produced these surges? We imagined they were bottomless, but neither of us was willing to test their depth with our feet. Instead, we backtracked to the clear pool where the spring water collected before spilling over into the brook. There we filled cupped hands with the refreshing water and drank until our thirst had been quenched.
Then we let the icy water at the head of the brook purl over our feet, exulting in the sheer delight of its coldness, as we wiggled our toes in the pebbly soil. Gerda bent down and splashed her face in the cooling water. The pebbles underfoot were smooth to our feet, and the water soothing.
I looked at Gerda's flushed face, shiny with moisture, and splashed mine, too. The call of the veery cascaded over the warm forest air again. We flexed our toes among the pebbles, working them to make room for our bare feet on the sandy bottom. I thought that of all the pleasures of childhood, going barefoot was one of the most enjoyable - and to think my home in the country permitted me this delight in adulthood. Did Gerda agree?
As if she'd caught the happiness I was feeling, she said pensively, "You know, you have given me a gift I had forgotten - the gift of going barefoot again." It was the perfect gift for both of us on a trail just made for bare feet to a destination where, had our feet been shod in hiking boots and socks, we'd have surely doffed them by now.
