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I found my hiking boots at the REI on 6th street in Austin. The place was packed with families getting last-minute supplies for trips all over America. My dad insisted on Vasque boots. I had my eye set on a grey pair with “African Violet” peppered about (their name, not mine). I had to bargain with the girl next to me to try on my size (6) because she was hoarding every 6 in hiking boots trying to decide on a pair. Turns out a 6 is not what I needed. I’ve never been a 7 in shoes in my life. A solid 6. Sometimes I can squeeze into a 5.5 when it really comes down to it. I’ll slide around in a 6.5 when it’s cute and on sale. I always luck out in the sale department with a size 6 foot. Being petite has a few advantages.

I order my boots and had them sent home so they were on my bed upon my arrival home from Austin. Beautiful. New. Bound to give me blisters. I had a weird thought cross my mind the other day. I borrowed a day pack from my friend from high school who happened to start dating my best friend and next-door-neighbor. Hannah warned me that

“It looks REALLY bad but Ryan said it’s one of the best packs he’s used.”

My something borrowed. My shoes being something new. I always think of the new places I visit being something like a marriage of my heart to something tangible. To the land, or to a house, or to a stretch of a particular street. A swingset or a picnic table. I have a feeling Glacier will be another one of those marriages.


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