I Lost My Walking Stick

It seems I have lost my walking stick.

I had come to depend on it in the way that only a walking stick can be depended on—leaned on, trusted, held, appreciated, loved. It was as faithful to me as a good dog, but more useful and less needy.

I’ll tell you the story of how I found it.

It was the summer of 2018. I traveled the dirt road across the desert basin of Utah from Lehi to Gold Hill, then south along the Deep Creek Mountains before forking west into Granite Canyon, toward Nevada. I winded my way up a rocky road in four-wheel drive, crossing a small creek a time or two, before parking near a metal gate. The trailhead to Ibapah Peak.

There was little evidence of human traffic. Instead of setting a camp, I folded down the rear seat in the Jeep, popped the rear hatch, and lay my bedroll in the back of it. I then built a fire pit about fifteen feet from my rear bumper, gathered and chopped wood. I would light a fire at nightfall—not for heat, but company.

I was surrounded by aspen, rocky mountain juniper, and birch. I thumbed through the NatGeo’s field guide to trees and smoked a cigar. The aspen leaves trembled in a soft mountain breeze. Granite Creek rippled not a hundred feet away. It was July and the sun was shining, but it was comfortably warm in the cool mountain air. Just hours earlier I was sweating in my un-air-conditioned Jeep—hot tin can on Goodyear radials—as I crossed 100 miles of sand and sage.

I felt confident I could summit Ibapah Peak in a day, but I didn’t want to. I don’t care to “bag peaks,” to notch my belt for having hiked a well-worn trail to some known elevation. I prefer to wander, to get away, to disappear if I can, to exist freely if possible, which seems achievable for me only when free from the confines of culture and the expectations of others, and sometimes I wander my way toward mountain peaks. Perhaps hiking a peak is an excuse to get outside, to do something—not that I need an excuse—but hey! What’s up there? Guess I’ll go see.

But not in one day.

The next morning I loaded a backpack with sleeping bag, pad, camp stove, mess kit, coffee, tea, tobacco, food, and I set out walking. At the metal gate, I noticed two walking sticks leaned against it. I inspected them, hefted them. Then I selected one to aid my journey and began walking again. I walked not thirty yards before I saw on the ground what appeared to be an even better walking stick. I checked. It was. So I returned the original to the gate, and resumed my hike.

I drank from the creek as I made my way up. I stopped for lunch. The mountain mahogany was in full bloom. I enjoyed for a few hours all that which you encounter on any mountain tramp, and my new stick was proving to be utilitarian.

It was white as a bone, and dry as one too. It was quite light, and yet strong. It was about six feet long and had a small knot right where I grasped it, which affixed the rod to my palm like a woodworking joint. I’ve no idea what kind of wood it was.

I arrived at the saddle between Ibapah and Red Mountain by early afternoon, or just below it, on a large seep the size of a football field, the mouth of Granite Creek. Since I would need water for the night, I spent the next hour setting camp—there wouldn’t be any at higher elevation. Though moss and grass plentiful, rocks were scarce, so it took some time to construct a small fire ring. The flies were humming. Hoof prints of elk and deer abounded in the alpine swamp.

I pitched my tent, laid my bag, brewed some tea. It was a pleasant sunny mountain day, 75°, the air thin, the sky blue. As far as I could tell, I had the mountain to myself. I lit a cigar.

I quickly discovered I couldn’t enjoy it—the flies were too thick! To avoid them I crawled into my tent, but then the smoke was too thick! The breathable mesh roof wasn’t that breathable.

To avoid inhaling my own secondhand smoke, I lay down on on my bag—Get low! Get low!—as though I were caught in a house fire. But then I grew anxious I would burn a cigar-sized hole in my 800-fill down Western Mountaineering sleeping bag. I sat up. Then I lay back down. Nothing was suitable.

But I couldn’t douse the fucking cigar—it was a Padron Family Reserve! So I finished it, undesirable conditions though they were.

It was now mid-afternoon. The sun was lower in the sky, raising the temperature. The grassy seep was respiring, humidifying the whole scene. I was now sweating, and the flies were swarming. What to do? I had intended to camp, but instead I got up and began walking toward the summit of Ibapah, now short on breath given all the secondhand smoke I’d inhaled.

Great time to summit 12,000 feet, I thought, late in the day and with enough nicotine in my bloodstream that my plasma would make for good vaping.

I had to lean on my stick a time or two to keep from falling over, not because of unstable footing but lightheadedness.

I scrambled to the top, having lost the trail, and a few misty, gray clouds floated by at a good clip, blinking electrically as they did. I put on my jacket, waited, received a refreshing shower. Little alpine flowers clung to lichen and stone in the gale, flecks of blue and violet and yellow. Tiny acts of rebellion. Defiance comes in multifarious formations.

I viewed the logbook at the summit, watched the clouds blow by. The last signature was dated three days previous.

I arrived back to base camp at dusk, made dinner, smoked another cigar—this time with great pleasure, as the flies had gone to sleep—and then went to sleep myself.

It was while coming down the mountain the next morning when the virtues of my walking stick became even more apparent. I have endured hip and back problems for years now—mostly an inconvenience, and probably a bodily manifestation of my psychological rigidity—but the stout stick turned me from unstable biped to rock-solid tripod as I crawled down several thousand feet of stony terrain. The implement was becoming precious to me.

I camped another night in my vehicle, back at the gate. The next morning I sat lazily in the sun, then lazily in the creek, then back in the sun, and read and smoked and scrawled unfinished notes in my pocketbook.

I also decided to find the perfect walking stick. Might I fashion one better than this one I had plucked randomly from the trail? I began to look around with intention. I scouted the creek and nearby hills. I found or cut a half dozen sticks or so, hewed away small branches, and laid them all in a line along a downed aspen log. I grabbed the two sticks that were still leaning against the metal gate, and added them to the lot. Then I hefted each one, gripped them, walked a circle with each.

Some were too heavy, some too thin. One, however, was perfect in every way that Goldilocks’s porridge was perfect. It was the one I’d randomly picked up trailside. I tucked it away in my vehicle and didn’t think I would use it beyond the next tramp.

It ended up being my constant companion for the next six years.

That walking stick helped me lead my family across 30 miles of desert down Spring Canyon near Torrey, much as Moses’s staff helped him lead his. It accompanied me to the top of Mount Nebo, into the Uintas and over Bluebell Pass and beyond, and down into The Maze. It aided me on uncountable walks and hikes along the Wasatch Front and Wasatch Back, and numerous tramps into the crevices of the Colorado Plateau.

That walking stick had become my crutch—both physically and psychologically. I only realize the latter now that it is gone. I felt more grounded in the world because of it. With it I was able to stand a little taller. It was a companion.

If you haven’t the need for a third leg, a walking stick is simply extra weight. The cost outweighs the benefit. But if you are unstable on your feet, as I have been for some time now, that third leg is just that, especially when loaded with gear on your back or picking your way across, up, or down a mountain or desert stream.

Most people wouldn’t know a good walking stick if they were rectally examined with one, and they sure as hell don’t know how to carry one. This is my observation after having had an intimate relationship with one, and having tested and discarded a dozen others.

First, a good walking stick can’t be store-bought. If it’s a telescoping pole made of aluminum or woven graphene encased in some polymer resin, it’s practically useless unless it comes with a matching twin, and even then there’s a high chance it will buckle should you slip and put all your weight into it seeking support.

Store-bought wooden sticks are little better, but not much. They’re often too thin or too short. And besides that, they’re configured the wrong way, with stout end up top and the narrow end down low. If you had found the stick, you could simply flip it around. But because it’s store-bought, it will invariably have some gaudy leather tassel or strap attached at one end, and a rubber grommet at the other.

This is all backwards, which brings me to my second point: a walking stick should be hefted at the narrow end. Why? Two reasons. You get a pendulum effect, which reduces effort while walking. Instead of guiding your stick, it guides itself, back and forth, the weightier, gurthier end swinging effortlessly, almost of its own accord.

And should you encounter a bear, the stick can quickly double as a bat. Can you imagine trying to hit a home run with the thin end of a baseball bat? Exactly. Now imagine trying to hit a bear with the thin end of a stick. You want the weight away from the pivot point, which is you. Swing that fucker good now!

Finally, a good walking stick is well weighted, or balanced. How can you know? Stand on a slab of rock, lift the stick vertically above the ground about a foot, then toss the blunt end downward. If it makes a thud when it meets the earth, it’s solid and will support you well. If it vibrates or rattles, it’s a dud. Toss it. Physicists perhaps could tell you why some sticks are studs and some are duds, but as with most matters in life, you don’t need a degree in science, or a scientist for that matter, to discern what’s good and what isn’t.

In the end, a good walking stick must be found in the wild because it can’t be found or purchased elsewhere. Dead, dry wood works best—it’s lighter. It should be about the size of your wrist at the fore and fit comfortably in the palm of your hand at the aft. It should also be about as tall you are, but not taller, and you should grip it at about shoulder height. The rest will come naturally. Just don’t carry one needlessly, for visual effect. Save the decorating for your walls at home.

I’m sad that I lost my crutch, my staff, my stick.

Perhaps it’s silly that I should be so attached to just one. How many sticks are there in the world? How many would make good walking supports? An infinite number it seems, and yet I grew fond of just one. It’s almost as silly as being attached to one woman, or one man for that matter, as silly as being fond of one’s friends.

I guess when you find one that fits, you stick with it, or hope and try to anyway.