If my hiking boots could talk...
They would tell of the first time they slipped onto my feet and knew in that instant they were the perfect pair for my feet - flat feet, warts, and all.
They would tell of a four day tramp in the mountains of New Zealand, through red beech forest with leaves littering the ground, mountain beech forests with neon moss blanketing the intermittent boulders, and silver beech forests with straight trunks and limbs laden with old man's beard moss. 
They would tell of hours spent exploring the tide pools during low tide, discovering treasures such as cat's eyes, paua shells, sea glass, a crab claw, and a seahorse skeleton.
They would tell of dozens of different overnight stays at various locations - maraes, huts, hostels, hotels, campgrounds - while traveling from place to place and exploring as we went.
They would tell of blisters the size of US quarters on the heel and toes, forcing an awkward gait and a lesson painfully learned, a pain alleviated only through soaking in the river made frigid by the mountain snow melt.
They would tell of all the different species of flora and fauna seen throughout New Zealand and the US - rimu, totara, and kowhai to sequoia, oak, and maple; little blue penguins, fur seals, and eels to dairy cows, elk, and monarch butterflies.
They would tell of a morning spend planting a rain garden with a dozen high school volunteers in an effort to relieve the amount of water reaching the local creek and restoring the watershed to its natural state.
They would tell of the movie filming locations explored and the fantasy worlds these locations created, including Middle Earth and Narnia.
They would tell of long walks up and down the road, allowing a moment of solitude to clear the mind, the chance to breathe and the space to process discussions on difficult topics.
They would tell of the winds that howled through the mountain passes, the clouds that poured over the peak of Aoraki (Mt. Cook), and the opaque glacial water that dripped into a lake hundreds of meters below my feet.
They would tell of walking to and from class in snow up to the knees and single digit weather, on those crystal clear January days that prick the skin, all the while Jack Frost's gentle cackle dances on the breeze.
They would tell of the three hour InterIslander ferry ride on rough seas, the four meter swells jolting the vessel and churning the stomach.
They would tell of farming - the dirt caked to the treads, the cornstalks crumpled beneath the heel, the bees-wings and corn dust plastered to the boots, and the fresh but musty aroma that clings to anything that has visited the farm.
They would tell of the perilous trek over slushy and icy paths to see the giant sequoias, among the widest trees on earth.
They would tell of a day spent hiking through a thunderstorm without stopping for fear of avalanches and mudslides, only to freeze overnight and chill the feet once again the following morning.
They would tell of an odor that came, but never seemed to leave, after hiking through the rain then not drying out properly.
They would tell of long stretches of days spent in the closet, waiting to be worn once again and to take off on another adventure overseas, across the nation, or right next door.
They would tell of the friends made on journeys around the globe, friendships forged through trying experiences and challenging circumstances, and the moments shared with these people who will forever hold a place in my heart.
