Secrets of Successful Bootwearing

Mulak Reader - Secrets of Successful Bootwearing

Here’s an article I wrote and sold to Outdoor Life. If they ever used it, they kept it a secret from me. Like everything else I write, it is full of humor and opinion, with a few facts thrown in just to make things credible.

SECRETS OF SUCCESSFUL BOOTWEARING

Meanwhile one of A. P. Hill's divisions

                learned of a reported supply of shoes at
                Gettysburg... Since Lee intended to reunite
                his army near Gettysburg, Hill authorized
                this division to go there on July 1 to "get
                those shoes."

James M. McPherson
Battle Cry of Freedom

          My father sat heavily on the truck's tailgate. He untied his boots. "These damn shoe-pacs." He began and ended.
          "What's the trouble?"
          He paused a moment before answering, then blurted out, "Don't get me wrong... I know you like 'em and all, and I don't mean to seem ungrateful," (I had bought the boots for him as a Fathers' day gift.) "But I just don't think they're meant for me. I can't seem to get these rubber bottoms tight, and my feet roll around inside when I walk across a slope." As he unlaced his boots it became apparent that his problems were further complicated by slinkyitis—the tops of his socks had migrated somewhere south of his ankles.
          Now, I swear by "shoe-pacs" (as Dad calls them) for the bird hunting I do in New England's hilly-swampy-thorny-rocky uplands. The shoes in mention, of course, are the famous rubber-bottomed leather boots who's name is synonymous with the mail-order house that introduced them. ("L. L. Bean boots" for those of you who can't read between the lines.) I was on my 7th pair.
          Dad was putting on a fresh pair of socks. "I even put in those innersoles that you paid extra for, but if it's all the same to you, I'm not going to put 'em on again."
          "How are you tying them, Dad?"
          "Good and tight." He answered as though I'd accused him of not knowing how to tie his shoes.
          "Let me show you a trick." I laced the foot part of his boot tightly and tied a square knot at the top of the instep, then eased-off on the tension and completed lacing to the top. When I finished, Dad got up and walked around. "It feels good now..." He left the rest unspoken.
          "Hey, try it." I said. "The foot stays tight, but the rest of the boot is allowed to flex a little."
          "We'll see..." He said. My father was never one to be easily convinced.
          Later, I asked how he was doing. "It's okay now, but we'll see." Still later, his answer was the same. And the next time out. And the time after that. He would give you the same answer today if you ask him how he likes those boots. You see, he knew all along he didn't like shoe-pacs in the first place, and though he now wears them whenever we go afield, he can't bring himself to admit that they're any good. The best I can hope for is a definite "We'll see."

          There is a grave risk involved in telling a man how to do something he's been doing all his life. From the time he is just a tiny boot wearer, he hears two things: "Change your socks every day." and "Tie your shoes tight."
          It is time to take another look at that second item.
          Your boots are most comfortable when they are tied tightly where they need to be, and laced loosely where they don't. Pull the laces tight around the foot (where they need to be tight) and isolate that section of the lacing with a square knot. If you don't separate the two areas with a knot, then everything will even-out as you walk, and the foot-part that started out feeling "just snug enough" will soon become "a little too loose". This method works especially well with boots that don't exactly fit like Cinderella's slipper—My Dad's rubber shoe-pacs, for instance, and those whose sizing is along the lines of "small, medium, large, & XL".

          Waterproof leather boots have become very popular, and not just with outdoorsmen: They are part of the "uniform" for high school kids, albeit unlaced. They don't come cheap: A lot of otherwise frugal people end up shelling out a hundred dollars or more for boots that are supposed to keep water on the outside. This is how most are sold: The bootwearer is hunting. He feels water seeping into his boots. He begins to hop from hummock to hummock, trying without a good deal of success to keep out of the wet. After 15 minutes or so, the bootwearer finally concludes that since his feet are soaked anyway he might as well walk in the water. He has reached what is known as the point of reptilian regression.
          From that point, the sale of boots that promise to keep his feet dry is a piece of cake.
          When you're looking to buy boots, be aware that there is a difference between "waterproof" and "water resistant", and the difference is much wider than an adjective. Water resistant, as far as I can tell, means that in a rain shower some of the water will stay outside. (If this helps, I once owned a pair of sandals that were water resistant.) Waterproof means that water cannot get inside, even if it's trying to. To prove their watertight integrity, boots in shoe stores are sometimes displayed standing in a pan of water.
          Proof?
          Well... The water in the pan isn't trying very hard to get inside. The real test comes after they're "broken in", when the leather begins to crease and break down from repeated flexions. Walking creates stresses on the boot's seams, with the sealed stitching holes alternately stretching and compressing with each step. And more significantly, the dynamics of brushing through rain-laden brush and grass involves an action that forces the water into the seams and cracks and the very pores of the leather. It is a process that simply standing in a bucket of water can never hope to reproduce.
          Under stresses like these, sooner or later every pair of leather boots is going to leak, and the only difference quality makes is a matter of just how much later.
          This is not to say that leather boots cannot be waterproof, for they most certainly can be. Almost all are—when new. Keeping them that way takes some effort on the part of the bootwearer.
          The leather itself is easy: It started off being waterproof when it still belonged to the animal that used to wear it. There are dozens of waterproofing compounds on the market, all good. But none of them work while they are still in the can—They must be spread on your boots to be effective, if you get my drift. Like a knife that is easy to keep sharp but difficult to return to a keen edge once it is permitted to become dull, boots must be treated just about every time they're worn.
          Stitching creates the biggest problem. You can melt wax into a leaking seam, but the only real fix for poorly sealed stitching is not to buy it in the first place. Quality boots will have quality sealed seams that will stay tight even after years of wear.

          At first glance, rubber seems to be the ideal waterproof boot material—tough, resilient, and, of course, absolutely waterproof. Rubber is, after all, the stuff that other things are "almost as waterproof as". But the problem with rubber is and always has been a matter of fit: Where leather will eventually conform to the shape of the foot that's wearing it, rubber never will. Unless the bootwearer's foot is a perfect replica of the model from which the mold was made, (and it never is), a rubber boot is going to fit him inexactly. (Mold makers for rubber boots have their own set of priorities. Do I have to tell you where "fit of final product to consumer" finishes on their list? When I finally figured this out, it was the same sort of disappointment as when I discovered that Mr. Ed's lines were dubbed.) The further from "standard" the bootwearer's particular foot is, the greater the degree of non-fit he can expect from rubber boots. The effort his foot and toes go through, trying to "hang on" to a shoe that wants to slip with each step, makes for fatigue and the inevitable blisters.
          Ah, but all the news is not bad. There seems to be a relationship between the height of a boot and the amount of inexactness of fit that the bootwearer can tolerate. It's a difficult concept to express, but if the boot is high enough to hold onto a good portion of his leg, the bootwearer's foot doesn't have to do all the work of lifting each time he takes a step. The leg lifts the boot off the ground, so the foot can take it easy inside until the next step. A 12-inch pair of shoe-pacs will be much easier to walk in than an 8-inch boot of the same design, even though the taller boots might weigh a half-pound more: There's more upper to hang onto the bootwearer's leg in the taller boot, so he can afford more inexactness of fit without being uncomfortable.
          There can be no substitute for a perfect fit, but that's not the point. The point is that there is an acceptable way around the basic problem that rubber boots don't fit well. I've seen folks wearing short-topped shoe-pacs and slip-on rubber boots, so they evidently fit some people—the lucky few. But the rest of us weird-footed bootwearers can stay comfortable and still enjoy the advantages of rubber-bottomed boots by opting for the taller styles.

Rubber boots are famous for "drawing", which is another term for slinkyitis—that terrible debilitating condition that occurs when your socks begin to work their way down as you walk. Tighter elastic tops don't seem to do much good. Bulky socks seem to be less effected by this dread phenomenon, but only postpone the inevitable. Once slinkyitis gets a toehold, there is no stopping it.
When I was still a kid, I came up with a cure that works. It's a secret, and wild horses couldn't drag it out of me. But I'll tell you: The answer involves a roll of duct tape—That's that 2-inch wide silver colored vinyl stuff. After your boots are laced and tied, finish off the whole business with a turn of tape. Be sure it is half way on your boot top and half on your socks. Your laces will stayed tied, trash won't work it's way into your boots, and most importantly, your socks won't slip down. And when your hunting buddies tell you how silly you look with your boots taped to your socks, you can blame me.

          The idea of lightweight boots sounds good—other than deep sea divers, no one wants heavy boots, after all. And it is difficult to disagree with the sort of ad campaign that argues that if a man takes so many steps in boots that are a half-pound lighter, his legs will have lifted so many tons less by the end of the day. Everybody who read that ad believed it. Even after they knew it was a misleading exaggeration, they still believed it. At least I did.
          But really, how desperate is the need of any of us for lightweight boots?
          Herb Stratemeyer is a gunsmith, but his wisdom is applicable to boot wearing as well as to guns: It had taken me less than 10 years to wear out my Bernardelli, and now I was searching for a replacement. I was sure I wanted a durable, lightweight gun, and one after the other I rejected his suggestions for a replacement: The durable guns were not lightweight, and vice versa. At length, exasperated, he put both hands on the counter top and addressed me in his thick German accent: "You're six feet tall, you're as strong as an ox, and you're still young: For God's sakes, if you can't carry a six-and-a-half pound shotgun, who can?"
          He had me there. (Although I believe he had "as strong as" confused with "got the brains of".) I ended up with a not-lightweight Winchester Model 21 and couldn't be happier.
          But where does "lightweight" end and "flimsy" begin? We are talking about boots here—things that are supposed to take a beating and still protect, support, and keep comfy feet. The bootwearer must be sure he understands what he's giving up to gain that extra half-pound: Lightweight leather boots wear out quickly, the thin leather uppers can give only minimal protection, and they usually cannot provide the sort of lasts and counters that weak arches (like mine) need. Be careful: As with shotguns, when weight reduction becomes the only consideration, often something else must be sacrificed.

          The brand-name "Vibram" has become synonymous with lug-type soles. Everybody wears Vibrams. They have a wonderful "outdoorsy" appeal to suburbanites and city folks alike. Their popularity is well founded—They actually work. In snow, on bare rock, or wherever the footing is less than ideal, lug soles will significantly improve the bootwearer's purchase.
          But I don't wear them.
          People often ask me why not. Actually, no one ever asked me that, but if they did, this would be my answer: Just as snow tires will hurt your car's gas mileage on dry pavement, the superb traction of lug soles will slow down a bootwearer who frequents farm fields or woodlands. Grouse hunters don't usually need Vibrams. Elk hunters do. On top of all that, my wife gets mad at me when I track mud into the house.
          Like 4-wheel drive and magnum shotgun shells, when the bootwearer needs Vibrams, there is no substitute. But 99 percent of the time they tend to be the sort of heavy-duty overkill item that looks wonderful in the store, but is a false economy in the everyday run of things.
          Crepe soles are one of many in-between choices that make good sense for the upland hunter and everyday bootwearer. There are a zillion varieties; chain tread, Gro-cord, wedge crepe, some even made by the Vibram company, all with their own qualities and varying degrees of traction. The successful bootwearer knows about moderation in all things—all the way down to the soles of his shoes.
          And remember to wipe your feet before you go inside.

          When I was a kid, I spent winters as a cold-footed newspaper boy and a cold-footed hockey player and a similarly cold-footed snow-shoveler and doer-of-outside-chores. That boy, when last I was he, always had cold feet.
          They said, "Put on an extra pair of socks if your feet get cold." But as with so many other things, 'they' didn't know what they were talking about. Insulating fabric works by trapping air, so squashing an extra pair of socks into my boots didn't make it. I tried boots that several sizes too big in order to make room for the extra socks, but that didn't work either. I tried fleece-lined boots: They were a joke. I knew enough not to make the same mistake twice, but it seemed I spent my entire youth trying to make every mistake at least once. Finally, I figured it all out, but if I had all the time I spent with numb feet, I could have a law degree by now.
          I had no good idea how to keep my feet warm. But as clear as what I did not know was what I knew: Regardless of what I wore for boots, the only time my feet were half-way comfortable was when I had on a hat. (During my teen-age years, that wasn't very often.) It turns out that we all loose between 1/4 and 1/3 of our body heat from our head and neck. If a bootwearer's body is a central heating system, his feet are an apartment on the third floor. Running around in cold weather without a hat is a lot like leaving the windows open on the first floor—no matter how heavily insulated the walls might be upstairs, as long as those downstairs windows are open all the heat is going there. That's where the landlord lives, after all. The bootwearer's body isn't going to let his brain get cold if it can help it, so it cuts down on the heat flow to the extremities, the most extreme of which are his feet.
          And where does all this lead? It led, as I have told you already, to my finally figuring out the mystery of cold feet: Sensible boots and wool socks, to be sure, but more importantly the bootwearer must keep his body from resorting to desperate measures—wear a hat.

Keeping the bootwearer's feet warm when he's walking around is relatively easy. But it's an altogether different matter when he's sitting on his duff in the cold. Whether he's waiting for ducks or a buck, a fish to take his shiner or the Green Bay Packers to score a touchdown, his feet are not getting the same forced circulation as if he were in motion. Some people like insulated boots. I've got a negative opinion on them, but nothing I'd want to argue about.
Instead, if you're not walking on them very much, choose boots with those thick wool felt liners. There's not much support there, but whether they're used in conjunction with chest-high waders or rubber-bottomed pacs, they do what they're supposed to: They keep the inactive bootwearer's feet warm.

When the subject is bootwearing, staying warm is often a function of staying dry—not just from external sources, but from the chilling effects of perspiration as well. Cold feet are usually damp feet. Foot powder helps, but doesn't last long. A relatively new innovation are sock liners made of polypropylene: They continually wick away moisture and allow it to evaporate, and, most amazingly of all, they actually work. But to function as they should, the tops of the socks must be exposed to the air, and that's not possible with hip boots or waders. For cold weather duck hunting and spring fishing, the bootwearer might try spraying his feet with anti-perspirant. A good dousing can be worth more than an extra pair of wool socks. But he should be certain he uses the right stuff: anti-perspirant will keep his feet from sweating, while plain deodorant will just keep them from stinking.

Sooner or later, any pair of boots is going to get wet. (If you disagree with that statement, then you probably hunt in Arizona.) Drying them out can take a while, but the bootwearer can make up an inexpensive rig to speed-up the process. He will need a pair of portable light sockets on short cords—The rubber-coated kind with pigtails are ideal. Use small 15-watt bulbs, and suspend the lights inside the wet boots so that they don't actually touch the sides or bottoms. Clothespins are handy to hold the arrangement in position. The lights provide enough heat to insure air circulation, but not so much that leather or rubber is overheated. Total cost, not counting the clothespins, is under three bucks. Damp boots can be dried overnight, but those that are actually wet will take a full 24 hours.

          Things change, but people seldom do. Mike Sharik, a friend of mine from Vermont, once pointed out a deer hunting acquaintance. "That guy," Mike said, "Just bought another pair of the same boots that have been pinching his feet all his adult life. But he thinks he likes 'em. You want to start an argument? Go over there and tell him you own a pair of good boots. See what he says."
          Like Mike's pal, we all have a constitutional dislike of being told things we know already, or at least think we know. At first glance, it would seem that a story about how to wear boots would be right up there with "The Art of Eating with Knife, Fork, and Spoon" or "The Proper Use of Toilet Tissue." But new things are happening to boots all the time, and new ideas come down the pike faster than most of us can assimilate them.
            When you have size 14 feet (Yes. Me.) you endure jokes about putting out grass fires and being taller laying down than standing up—and you learn early to be good to those things with the toes down there below your ankles. (I could make an argument that cold size 14 feet are twice as uncomfortable as cold size 7 feet, but I won't.) Experience tends to stick to those who pay it the compliment of paying attention to it, and, as I have been a long time in telling you, that experience includes some of the secrets of successful bootwearing.

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This site was last updated 09/21/06