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Howe, Parkman

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2008: Adventures Near 
Home 
Article 6 
2024 
Under Water: Cranberry Bogs Near Concord 
Parkman Howe 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
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Howe, Parkman (2024) "Under Water: Cranberry Bogs Near Concord," Appalachia: Vol. 59: No. 2, Article 6. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss2/6 
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24   APPALACHIA
Under Water
Cranberry bogs near Concord, Massachusetts
Parkman Howe 
Appalachia_June_2008_v6.indd   24 5/9/08   9:40:37 AM
SUMMER/FALL 2008   25
WE LIVE A MILE AND A HALF FROM ONE OF THE LAST WORKING cranberry bogs in Middlesex County, Massachusetts. We can walk, 
run, bike, and even on occasion ski down narrow country lanes, past swamps, 
one or two housing developments, and open fields that lead to the bog’s park-
ing lot. A four-story bog house, built in the early 20th century to wash and 
store the berries, sits by the roadside overlooking some 40 acres of cranberry 
bogs surrounded and divided by gravel dikes with two vehicle ruts along the 
top. The sky suddenly opens up above the bog and its ponds. The western half 
of the bog has been restored, weeded, and groomed by a local dairy farmer 
looking to diversify his crop. The drainage ditches along the edges have been 
dredged, and the uniform berry plants have a purple tinge in summer that 
speaks their vigorous, new growth. A sluiceway in the western dike allows the 
dark, reedy waters of the holding pond beyond to flood the low-lying bog in 
late september, in preparation for the mid-october harvest. 
 in the eastern half of the bog, new dikes have been added so the release 
of water will not flood the road at the near end while plants at the far end 
remain above water. one of the plots has been scraped clean of weeds and 
old vines; a layer of pale sand awaits new cranberry vines when the price 
recovers sufficiently.
 Temporary human traffic trickles along the tops of the dikes and into 
the woodland paths during the week’s daylight hours. on weekends, families 
stroll along the twin ruts of the dikes with their dogs; cyclists occasionally 
emerge from the woods; runners gauge their strides along the mile perimeter 
of the dikes. Like a promenade along a seawall, the scene suits itself to an 
hour’s walk and talk in this woodland, waterland garden.
Floating Berries During Harvest Time
For sheer splendor, nothing beats the october cranberry harvest. The western 
working bogs have been submerged for several weeks, the purple plants giving 
way to black water on cloudy days, blue water on sunny days. Maples along 
the edge of the dikes flare and reflect in the floodwaters. Then harvesters 
suddenly appear, driving beaters across the bog fields, small rigs reminiscent 
of miniature Mississippi sternwheelers. Freed from their stems, the berries 
rise to the surface, buoyed up by a small bubble lodged in the socket of their 
stems. Hundreds of thousands of red-flecked, white-flecked berries bob, an 
Thin yellow floats corral the berries at harvest time. PARKMAN HOWE
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26   APPALACHIA
impressionist’s pointillist tide, in the lee of the prevailing winds. Thin yellow 
floats corral the berries onto a conveyor belt that lifts them through high-pres-
sure spray and spills them into a truck. When the harvest is over and the flood - 
waters have receded, the banks of the dikes are ringed with a red stain. We 
The “Impressionist’s pointillist tide” of cranberries. PARKMAN HOWE
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SUMMER/FALL 2008   27
glean these berries for muffins, breads, and the Thanksgiving bird. Then, the 
winter winds shake and scour the withered cranberry leaves for four months.
 The rest of the year, water meets land at the bogs. Lilies and cattails grow 
among the black stumps of the ponds. Asters, goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace, 
and trilliums thrive in the weedy ditches of the unreclaimed bogs, along with 
a rare lady slipper. Turtles and snakes sun themselves on hidden rocks among 
the long grasses. A fox lopes out of the pinewoods, a brief shimmer of red, 
then disappears in green shadow. Fishermen sit beside their tackle boxes and 
lift their poles over mysterious, impenetrable water.
 But chiefly the bog belongs to birds. songbirds return each spring to the 
safety of the stumps still protruding from the shallow bays of the holding 
ponds: red-winged blackbirds, warblers, thrushes, sparrows. Hawks, princi-
pally red-tailed and harrier, soar and hover over the wide, clear acres. A great 
blue heron wades carefully at the marshy pond edges. Great horned owls hoot 
at the start of each hunt, late in the evening. They call again, once or twice, at 
the conclusion, just before the heaviness of the night begins to lift.
 We walk the bog in all weathers and all seasons, but the mallards and 
geese know the bog best, especially the geese that reside here year round. in 
the winter, they fly in from nearby ponds on powerful wings, clearing the 
bare branch tips, flight feathers whistling. on sunny days, they drift serenely 
in the black pools of open water beside the ice and snow. in late spring, little 
lines of grey goslings march along the tops of the dikes and file down to the 
pond water when walkers approach. Parents answer the high-pitched peeping 
with a single, guttural yahonk. 
 in september, when the bog fields are flooded once again, the geese flock 
in over the pines and oaks, black outlines of wing and neck against the lumi-
nous afterglow of sunset at the edge of the cerulean skyscape. They approach 
with guiding cries, wheel, approach again with more cries, then dip into the 
dark shadows of the forest trees and the black floodwaters of the bogs. A faint 
white tear slits the darkness, directly followed by an equally faint rush of bro-
ken water. A succinct silence intervenes. Then, somewhere in the obscurity, a 
steady thrumming commences. 
PARKMAn HoWE is the poetry editor of Appalachia.
Appalachia_June_2008_v6.indd   27 5/9/08   9:40:39 AM



English

Under Water: Cranberry Bogs Near Concord

Alpina

Davis, Todd

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2008: The Wilderness: 
Is It Real? 
Article 22 
2024 
Early Death 
Todd Davis 
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 Part of the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Davis, Todd (2024) "Early Death," Appalachia: Vol. 59: No. 1, Article 22. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss1/22 
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37 APPALACHIA
Early Death
A fawn only days old—(better to count this life by the hour)—
lies crumpled in the ditch: shoulder wrecked and wide open. 
May apples spread their white flowers along the streambed,
and daisy asters that scatter the hillside extend their petals’ lashes. 
This deer’s eyes remain open as well. I imagine his mother
stood at the edge of the woods, waited for him to follow. 
It’s the first truly hot day. Flies enter and exit the wound:
shoulder bone splintered like a tree cracked by wind or lightning. 
Clearly he hadn’t learned to leap, to understand most mountain roads
aren’t safe. And although the smell of what comes after rises,
turkey vultures haven’t yet discovered this new chore, carrion beetles
beginning the work. A week from now not much will remain:
a bit of fur, ragged white spots easily mistaken for strawberry
blossoms, and small pale bones that disappear into the growing arms
of spring’s green grasses.
—Todd Davis 
TODD DAVIS teaches English and Environment Studies at Penn State Altoona. He is 
the author of two books of poetry—Ripe (Bottom Dog Press, 2002) and Some Heaven 
(Michigan State University Press, 2006). Recent poems have appeared in Poetry East, 
Gray’s Sporting Journal, Arts & Letters, Image, Quarterly West, and Blueline. 
WINTER/SPRING 2008 37



Early Death

Woodside, Christine

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2007: Time In the 
Backcountry 
Article 2 
2006 
The Long Way Home: The Day the Trucker Held Open the Shower 
Door 
Christine Woodside 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Woodside, Christine (2006) "The Long Way Home: The Day the Trucker Held Open the Shower Door," 
Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 2, Article 2. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss2/2 
This Editor's Column is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been 
accepted for inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, 
please contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
The Long Way Home
The Day the Trucker Held 
Open the Shower Door
ON A HOT, JUNE AFTERNOON SEVERAL YEARS AGO, I FOUND MYSELF standing outside a pay shower unit at a truck stop in Duncannon, Penn-
sylvania. A hefty man in a ribbed undershirt and wet hair emerged. Seeing 
that I was waiting for the shower, he nodded and held the door open for me. I 
tried to act as if this was something I often did and nodded back to thank him 
for saving me the 50 cents that would unlock it. I was on level ground with a 
long-distance trucker in an undershirt. We were both nomads, even though 
his travel served a larger goal—the transport of American goods—than my 
odyssey—the transformation of a 28-year-old woman who would walk 2,00 
miles. Still, we had similar problems. We needed showers, for one.
I don’t know if all long-distance truckers are happy on the road, or if, 
during their stops at home between trips, some of them feel as strange as hik-
ers do when they go off the trail to stay in town. I imagine that surrounded 
by home’s comforts and distractions, they might feel out of place, the way 
long-distance hikers do. You might dream of its comforts, but the reality is 
that the bed is too soft, the air too quiet. Normal life has become the one 
on the move.
The truck-stop shower was clean. So was the attached restaurant. My com-
panions and I packed groceries in the parking lot and then turned our backs 
on the truckers, going on toward Maine for two more months. We finished 
the trail, and returned to town life.
I got away from the nomadic life for a few years, but I never forgot that 
feeling. Sometimes I would break away and walk back into the woods for two 
days, but it wasn’t the right time yet, and I didn’t have a chance to immerse 
myself until more years had passed. For these short jaunts, leaving town for 
the trails, and then emerging from the backcountry to go back home, requires 
an awkward process of exit and reentry. 
The exit requires a shaking-out experience to erase the tension of regular 
life. A proper exit requires getting wet or going in far enough so that you 
6 APPALACHIA
Appalachia_07exp.indd   6 5/10/07   11:10:19 PM
stop encountering people whose hair smells floral. Reentry to civilized life is 
harder. Quickly the jubilation of making it, getting the whole way, and 
out safely, fades into the distractions of finding keys, meeting up with 
someone, or making phone calls.
But the memory of the journey stays. Truckers and hikers both find pur-
pose in places that worry many people: in the lonely woods and the crowded 
asphalt. That year the trucker held open the shower door, my husband, our 
two friends, and I learned how similar those two places could be. While living 
in nature, we tighten our ties to the urban world—the food and supplies it 
delivers, not to mention community. I learned that certain kinds of nomads 
live with discomfort in order to deliver the goods people need. I appreciate 
that now, and hope that I think a little bit the way a trucker might, because I 
once lived on the move for months. It was on the road where I learned that I 
am not truly independent.
This is Steven D. Smith’s last issue as News and Notes editor. He has 
served on the Appalachia Committee since 990, turning in carefully re-
searched and clearly written dispatches of mountain news. He asked for a 
respite, which I reluctantly have given him. The journal owes a huge thank-
you to Steve, who will continue co-editing the AMC’s White Mountain 
Guide. I urge anyone heading to the White Mountains to visit him at his 
bookstore in Lincoln, New Hampshire—the Mountain Wanderer Map and 
Book Store. There you may buy one of his own books, including Wandering 
Through the White Mountains and (with Mike Dickerman) The 4000-Footers 
of the White Mountains.
—Christine Woodside
Editor-in-Chief
SUMMER/FALL 2007 7
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The Long Way Home: The Day the Trucker Held Open the Shower Door

The problem of time is not time itself, but how we fracture it and stuff it with distractions

Waterman, Laura

Giving Ourselves Time to Track Time

News and Notes

A Peace Corps volunteer bushwhacks up Ol Donyo Orok, or Black Mountain

Teschner, John

I, For a Moment, Was Somewhere

Adventurers do not talk much about religion, but this man finds a distinct spiritual experience in the mountains

Bronski, Peter

Appalachia 
Volume 57 
Number 1 Summer/Fall 2006: Bringing the 
Journey Home 
Article 5 
2006 
Climbing Toward God 
Peter Bronski 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Bronski, Peter (2006) "Climbing Toward God," Appalachia: Vol. 57: No. 1, Article 5. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol57/iss1/5 
This In This Issue is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been accepted 
for inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, please 
contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
2 appalaChia
Climbing toward God
Adventurers do not talk much about religion, but this man 
finds a distinct spiritual experience in the mountains
Peter Bronski
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summeR/Fall 200 2
EveRy noW anD then ClimBing puts a healthy FeaR oF GoD in me. not a scared-out-of-my-mind-never-going-climbing-again kind 
of fear. More of a forced-to-face-my-own-mortality kind of fear. it first hap-
pened about six years ago on El Pico de orizaba in Mexico. Descending 
after a summit bid, a softball-sized rock dislodged from an ice-choked gulley 
somewhere high above, plummeted downward, and slammed me squarely in 
the back. Thankfully, my half-filled day pack cushioned the blow. Point is, 
climbing has a way of reminding me that my time on this Earth will at some 
point come to an end, whether in the mountains or not. 
And when that time comes, i hope that i’ll meet my maker at the pearly 
gates of heaven and that he’ll smile out at me and say, “You climbed well. 
Welcome to the top!” But deep down i also wrestle with a concern that he 
might respond, “That climbing thing sure was foolish. i’m not at all pleased.” 
i’m keenly aware that to some outside observers (most notably, my in-laws), 
climbing may seem irresponsible with its risk and hazards and (i say false) 
reputation as a life-threatening extreme adventure sport. Personally, i’m 
much more worried about what the Big Man Upstairs thinks of my passion 
for peak-bagging.
i’m a fairly religious guy—a Christian—but you wouldn’t necessarily know 
it if you saw me climbing. i don’t kneel in prayer before starting a tough lead, 
or pull an idol from my day pack and place it at the base of the cliff, or burn 
incense atop mountain summits. Yet for me there’s always been a spiritual side 
to climbing. it is more than just upward mobility, vertical movement, or a 
physical and psychological challenge in an amazing setting. something about 
it transcends the act itself, though for a long time i couldn’t put my finger on 
precisely how it fits with my personal faith. 
A few months ago, everything fell into place as i sat in on a banquet in 
eastern Pennsylvania while researching another article. i listened in on a true 
story about an inuit guide and his client, a white Westerner with aspirations 
of traveling on foot to the north Pole. The pair was cresting a ridgeline, about 
to embark across Resolute Bay in the far north of Canada’s Arctic. suddenly, 
the inuit guide stopped and turned his companion to face back toward Fort 
Resolute, the northernmost human settlement in the Arctic and the last sign 
of civilization they would see for weeks.
The author’s solitary footsteps crossing the summit ice cap of Mount Adams, with Mount 
Rainier, also known as Tahoma—another mountain sacred to the Pacific Northwest’s 
Native Americans—in the background. Peter Bronski
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2 appalaChia
“Breathe deeply, and tell me what you smell.”
“i smell warmth, comfort, civilization,” replied the man.
Then, facing his client toward the white expanse of the Arctic, the inuit 
guide again asked the man to inhale deeply and say what he smells.
“i smell the wilderness,” replied the man.
“no,” countered the inuit. “You smell the breath of God.”
And there it is—the very thing i’ve never been able to put into words, per-
fectly articulated in the span of seven simple words. For me, there’s a distinct 
spiritual side to climbing mountains, very simply, because it immerses me 
in the breath of God. it’s something i can’t necessarily touch, or see, or even 
describe. But i can feel it, and maybe that’s what matters most.
Climbing mountains is more than just upward mobility, 
vertical movement, a physical and psychological challenge 
in an amazing setting. something about it transcends the 
act itself, though for a long time i couldn’t put my finger on 
precisely how it fits with my personal faith.
it’s not just the inuit guide and i who think and feel this way. native 
peoples have understood the connection between God and mountains for a 
long time. There were the ancient Greeks beneath Mount olympus, home of 
Zeus and family; nepalese sherpas living in the shadow of Mount Everest, 
the Mountain Goddess; and Australian Aborigines near the sacred Uluru, 
or Ayers Rock. There’s a reason why the inca built stone altars atop 20,000-
foot Andean peaks, and why monks retreat to mountain hideaways like the 
Benedictine monastery atop spain’s Montserrat—there’s God in them there 
mountains.
You’d be right to point out that these varied cultural groups disagree over 
what exactly that means—for some, mountains are gods; for others, moun-
tains are the home of gods; and for others still, mountains are sacred places 
that play a more general, but just as integral, religious role. Yet through all 
the differences it seems that one fundamental truth emerges—there’s an un-
deniable spiritual side to mountains and mountaineering. You don’t have to 
take my word for it, though. Just in the last two weeks, i’ve stumbled into 
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summeR/Fall 200 2
two more references to experiencing God in the mountains, including one 
by a silverton, Colorado, resident who describes himself as a “non-religious 
atheist.” And maybe that says something more profound about spirituality 
and the mountains than i ever can—if a modern-day atheist finds God in the 
mountains, that must surely mean something.
More authoritative voices have weighed in on the subject, too. Henry David 
Thoreau and John Muir recognized it, and you can see it in their writing.
My writing is another story. When i told friends that i was writing an es-
say about climbing and religion, their reaction was one of surprise at hearing 
the two words in the same sentence. i can’t say i blame them. in today’s secu-
larized world, climbing and religion don’t really have much to say about one 
A self-portrait high on the North Ridge route during a solo climb of Mount Adams.  
Peter Bronski
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30 appalaChia
another. if you do happen to hear about them at all, it’s in terms of conflict 
between climbers and the religious beliefs of native Americans at places like 
Devil’s Tower and Cave Rock.
But then again, there’s another viewpoint—the Judeo-Christian tradi-
tion—which offers something of a divine blessing to go and climb and sing 
your praises unto the hills. Years ago i read somewhere in the Bible that “faith 
can move mountains.” Who would have thought that it can be part of climb-
ing them as well? Yet consider a quick tour of the old and new Testaments: 
noah’s ark came to rest atop Mount Ararat; Moses received the Ten Com-
mandments atop Mount sinai; Jesus gave his famous sermon atop the Mount 
of olives; and the Last supper took place atop Mount Zion. At least for 
Jews and Christians, the tops of mountains are good places to be. They are 
a proverbial stairway to heaven, so it seems best to get on climbing them. 
(side note: Catholics even have their own patron saint for mountain climb-
ers, saint Bernard of Montjoux, not to mention Pope John Paul ii, who dur-
ing his young days was known as a man of the mountains, in the Tatra Range 
of Poland’s Carpathian Mountains.)
i’m comforted to find that there does indeed seem to be a moral high 
ground among the peaks, and that my mountain climbing addiction is likely 
to meet with favor from the good Lord. But my own beliefs aside, whether 
you’re a religious climber, or one who climbs religiously, we can all learn a 
lesson from the Rev. F. T. Wethered, who wrote in a 1919 letter to the Alpine 
Journal: “The mountains have done the spiritual side of me more good reli-
giously, as well as in my body physically, than anything else in the world. no 
one knows who and what God is until he has seen some real mountaineering 
and climbing in the Alps.” Amen to that, i say. now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s 
time to get out and go climbing. it just might do my body, and my soul, some 
good.
Adventure writer PeteR BRonsKi, of Boulder, Colorado, tries to go to church as re-
ligiously as he climbs. His book, At the Mercy of the Mountains: True Stories of Tragedy 
and Survival in New York’s Adirondacks, will be released this fall by AMC Books. Visit 
him at www.peterbronski.com.
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Climbing Toward God

Appalachia 
Volume 57 
Number 1 Summer/Fall 2006: Bringing the 
Journey Home 
Article 12 
2006 
Letters 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
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(2006) "Letters," Appalachia: Vol. 57: No. 1, Article 12. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol57/iss1/12 
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2 appalaChia
Letters
Dear Editor,
Let me wax eloquent a bit about Limmer boots. A college roommate wore 
his pair of early Limmer shoes from the Boston shop in the 1930s. Upon their 
move to intervale, my friend urged us to try Limmer boots. our first chance 
came when we were at north Conway. We had wound up without my wife’s 
ski boots. so we rushed to Limmer in intervale, where she found a returned 
pair of the earliest, red, beautiful ladies’ ski boots, which was a perfect fit. We 
climbed up the fire path to the bottom of Tuckerman’s little headwall next 
day and enjoyed a memorable ski down the sherburne Trail.
Mrs. Hoke used those boots for years until fur-lined replacements made 
it possible for her to keep her feet warmer on the coldest winter days. At Mt. 
Tremblant’s ski school, her instructors often identified her to the others in 
class as “the lady in the Limmer boots.” That gave her a special or kind of 
undeserved élan at the time. 
Early in the Limmer intervale time, my father-in-law gave me a pair of 
Limmer boots as a superb Christmas present. i later learned that they had 
cost $35 then. What a buy! i still have them. They have walked me through 
the Whites and elsewhere. i’ve had them re-soled once. Mrs. Hoke did not 
like me to come in from working our small tree farm with the waffle-stamper 
soles full of woods stuff. so, i ordered and still have a second pair of Limmers 
without the lug soles.
i wanted to travel with my new Limmer hiking boots without lug soles, 
but they were too heavy for baggage on our numerous world tours. so, i 
always wore them en route. other passengers on the plane, as well as passing 
pedestrians in Wales, Katmandu, new Delhi, singapore, Kyoto, etc., would 
often start a conversation with, “Aren’t those Limmer boots?” or, “Where’d 
you get the Limmers?” once again, it was a dandy way to start a conversation 
on false premises. That is, i was a serious hiker but never a serious climber.
My youngest son wears Limmer shoes and boots. once, when we skied 
with his high school peers near intervale, he stopped at Limmer’s to order his 
first pair of boots. Mr. Limmer there, then, was most kind but said my son 
was too young. He should return in a couple of years to be measured for his 
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summeR/Fall 200 3
first boots. He is Howard Hoke, proud owner for many years of several pairs 
of Limmer boots and shoes. He wears them out faster than i.
i’m a life member of the AMC since about 1975 by reason of tenure, enjoy-
ing the Limmers for foot comfort the world around and to reach most all of 
the AMC huts afoot over time.
—Marshall P. Hoke, Elkins, New Hampshire
Dear Editor,
The article about Limmer boots sure brought back memories. one lovely 
day in the early 1950s, my wife and i climbed Katahdin, crossed the Knife 
Edge, and—after i had taken from my pocket a handy piece of cord and tied 
the flapping sole of one of her saddle shoes to its upper—slid down the trail, 
eventually reaching Roaring Brook campsite, ceremoniously buried both her 
shoes, and headed down and out.
it was also apparent, by then, that my Army boots, exhausted from life in 
the Texas Panhandle, india, and China, were no longer fit for anything more 
strenuous than taking out the garbage. somewhere—perhaps at Pinkham 
notch during the reign of Joe Dodge—the name of Peter Limmer had regis-
tered, so on our way back to new York we stopped at the intervale bootery.
There, outlines of my feet were traced and a few circumferential measure-
ments taken of both: 11aa, a tough size to find in a shoe store even then, and 
now impossible. The Limmers created molds from which to form my hiking 
boots, and in due time we returned and i had a pair of narrow brown boots that 
fit superbly. They had six pairs of hooks for leather laces and Vibram soles—
something new—and were astonishingly comfortable and firm on the trail.
over the years, with some effort on my part, the Limmer boots went 
up Katahdin again, up (and, let me add, down) Mt. Washington several 
times—at least four in winter—and on portages during canoe trips in the 
Adirondacks, ontario, new Hampshire, and Maine: including the Allagash 
and Black Rivers. sometimes the shoes were beaten up, and sometimes i was, 
but a touch of polish kept both of us going.
Finally, age caught up to me: My feet no longer fit into the boots. They 
sit quietly, with good shoetrees in them, in a place of honor, waiting, it still 
seems when i walk past, for another outing. They are patient but never jealous 
of larger but lesser boots i have since purchased in their stead.
My hiking days are almost over. Would anyone like a fine pair of boots, for 
use or for display? i can no longer use them, but i’ll miss them.
—Ed Rosenberg, Danbury, Connecticut
Appalachia_06SF.FINAL.indd   93 5/11/06   7:09:50 PM



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Under Water: Cranberry Bogs Near Concord

Alpina

Early Death

The Long Way Home: The Day the Trucker Held Open the Shower Door

Giving Ourselves Time to Track Time

News and Notes

I, For a Moment, Was Somewhere

Alpina

Climbing Toward God

Letters

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