[pct-l] a boot tale

[Mike Chapman]

That might be the longest e-mail in my history,but well worth the read,thanks.

On 3/11/11, Ron Dye <chiefcowboy at verizon.net> wrote:
> Jason,  Well told.  I hiked with Yogi Beer from Echo Lake to Sierra City and
> remember the "tale of the boots" well.  Even more I remember his remarkable
> Yogiing skills as well.
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: pct-l-bounces at backcountry.net [mailto:pct-l-bounces at backcountry.net]
> On Behalf Of Jason Moores
> Sent: Friday, March 11, 2011 1:06 AM
> To: pct-l at backcountry.net
> Subject: [pct-l] a boot tale
>
> Now, Yogi Beer is a nice fella, good ol' Hikertrash in my book. If he
> flagged down a truck near Rodriguez Spring in 106 degree heat, he'd be sure
> to yogi a beer for you as well. If you might be feeling a bit peckish and
> low at Whitewater Hatchery, Yogi would slip away quietly to the parking lot
> where picnickers were loading Igloos into mini-vans while their porcine
> offspring texted siblings five feet away from them. He would return minutes
> later with three flavors of beer, two cokes and a big shit eatin' grin on
> his face.
>
> "What're you so happy bout dude?"
> " Got a woman back there's makin ya a footlong roast beef sand with cheddar!
> It's so fuckin big I couldn't carry it all!"
>
> Yogi is a frugal fella who couldn't be bothered by cubin fiber or carbon
> fiber for that matter. This included footwear; $40 Wal-Mart shit kickers
> were just fine for Yog'. After a long morning slogging through wet,
> decaying, postholey snow on Fuller Yog's boots began to show some distressed
> stitching around the edges. When I pointed out the frayed fibers Yogi
> shrugged, smiled broadly and chimed, "I've got duct tape."
>
> So on we pushed, down endless switchbacks, fighting overgrown brush for
> every step of trail. Down, down, down from the breathtaking highs of San
> Jacinto to it's roots at Snow Canyon. Fuller had taken it's toll on us. My
> gal, Molasses, had sustained a pulled thigh muscle postholeing earlier that
> day which had become more and more problematic throughout the afternoon. The
> repetitive stress of walking downhill all day had left my ankle swollen and
> unresponsive. Yogi's right ankle doesn't bend due to a metal pin holding it
> in place, a souvenir of a motorcycle accident, and shin splints had swollen
> his calf to almost twice it's original size. We had become the "walking
> wounded" in the matter of an afternoon.
>
> Our spirits were hangin low, belly of a stink bug low.
>
> After draining the last of my tepid spring water from my Gatoraid bottle, I
> limped over to the famed Snow Canyon drinking fountain for a refill. Hanging
> off of the fountain was an unusual sight. A brand new pair of Asolo boots.
> Scratching my head in wonder I began to think of the implications of this
> aberration. Who in his right mind would leave a pair of $250 boots just
> hanging around? I looked down at the state of my footwear and then over at
> Yogi's. Yog' was leaning back against a boulder, cig dangling from his lips,
> with an index finger poking through the hole that had developed in his right
> boot.
>
> I had heard before, "the tail will provide", but this was ridiculous.
>
> Still a bit befuddled, perplexed, confounded I sat down between Yogi and
> Molasses and began pondering the portent of such a boon. Were these boots up
> for grabs? Had some hapless hiker reached Snow Canyon, taken off their shiny
> new boots, tied them with a neat bow of laces and declaired, "...wont be
> needin these anymore..." and hung them on the fountain for a hiker down on
> his luck?  Hard to fathom...
>
> Lighting my own smoke I took a second glance at my footwear. I would need a
> new pair by Big Bear no doubt. And them Asolo's were some sexy footwear, all
> sparkly and supportive. My aching ankle could sure use the support...ah,
> hell.
>
> "Hey Yog', go check out the fountain."
> "I ain't gettin up man, might just sleep right here."
> "No, really dude. Ya gotta check it out."
>
> Groaning with the effort he rose and hobbled the five feet to the well.
> "I'll be damned!" Yogi stood still for a moment, wiped some sweat from his
> one good eye (he had lost an eye in an incident several years before - I
> always got a kick out of tellin him to "keep an eye out for the trail"..."I
> always do bro!"), shook his head and repeated, "I'll be damned!" He reached
> out for them tentatively but withdrew his hand. Instead he returned to his
> seat next to us.
>
> By now I had told Molasses about the trail magic before us and the three of
> us were in great debate of the boots providence. How had they come to be
> here? Who might be returning to find their wayward boots? The boots wern't
> just lying in the dirt, they were hangin from the fountain, surely they had
> been left there on purpose. And so forth.
>
> Now, Yogi is a nice fella, good ol' Hikertrash in my book. After our debate
> Yog' turned to me and said, "you found'em dude, there yers."
> "naw man, you need'em more'n me."
> That's when Molasses showed her true brilliance, "what size are they?"
>
> hmmm, good question. As it turned out, size 11, the same size that both Yogi
> and I wore. "You take'm bro." "Naw, you found'm" and so forth.
>
> Finally I convinced the man that if he didn't take them neither would I...so
> he took them, and damn did they look good on his feet. Real sexy boots I
> tell ya.
>
> The next day at Whitewater, beer in hand, roast beef sand on the way, Yogi
> was showing off his new kicks to Iceaxe, Socs, Birdman and Ido when a
> tuckered out John Deer poked his head up from his mat and said, "Ahhh, you
> found the boots." Have no fear dear reader, the boots were not John Deer's!
> Nope, John had found one of the boots on Fuller Ridge, picked it up in the
> hopes of returning it to it's owner, and shlepped it all the way to the
> bottom of the ridge were he found it's partner laying in the dust next to
> the fountain. Reuniting the lost soles he had hung them on the fountain in
> the hopes that someone would return for them. Good ol' Hikertrash that John
> Deer.
>
> The trail is a strange place, an amazing lane where information travels up
> and down the line with remarkable speed. Word had gotten back to us that a
> hiker, Snake, had realized that he had dropped one of his boots on Fuller,
> had retraced his steps for a mile or so, gave up on the boot and had left
> the second boot in the dirt in disgust and de-feet. By the time that we
> reached the Big Bear Hostel word had also gotten back to us that the
> previous owner of them boots, Snake, had heard that someone was walking his
> boots back to him. We were told by friends returning to the trail that Snake
> had bored many a hiker with drunken boasts of how he was going to get his
> boots back! They were HIS BOOTS! damn it. He had had every intention of
> returning to Fuller Ridge to retrieve HIS BOOTS! just as soon as he could
> arrange it. Hell, he'd even buy the guy a beer for returning his boots to
> him, but god as his witness, he'd get HIS BOOTS back. Paid 250 bucks for
> them fuckin boots, man...and so forth.
>
> Now I have a feeling that Snake expected some scrawny 150 pound, gram
> weenie, twenty-something college kid to hop out of the back of Gracin's
> Suburban when we pulled up. We could see this 6'2" fella, shirt off, chest
> puffed out, beer in hand, pacing back and forth on the porch, working
> himself up for his confrontation. I do believe that word had gotten back to
> him that Yogi had no intention of returning the boots...finder's keeper's
> and all that. Snake was flanked by two of his buddies, one a beefy fella
> that looked like he could hold his own and the other a hairy hiker who
> looked as though he'd just as soon spork ya than look twice at ya.
>
> I'm not a big guy but I've thrown and taken a few punches over the years so
> I whispered to Yog', " I got yer back, bro."
> "Me too," piped in our travel companion, Diamond Dave, who is a 6'4"
> ex-pro-football player for the Colts.
> And Yogi, well when I asked Yog' if he had trained before the trail he said,
> "Sure, I bought me two pigs. Named one Bacon an th'other Sausage!" He
> slapped his ample belly with a powerful hand, a gleam in his one good eye, a
> pucker mark where a bullet had removed the other. "That was some tasty
> trainin." Yogi was no stranger to violence.
>
> Now, as I've said, I doubt that Snake had expected the likes of us to
> disembark the white Suburban. Snake shrank back a bit as we stomped up the
> steps of the porch. We stood there tense with adrenaline in our veins,
> awaiting the confrontation. We were sizing each other up for the upcoming
> melee. Uncomfortable moments passed...and passed...finally Yogi stepped
> forward in his shinny new boots, smiled broadly, and offered his hand.
> "I'm Yogi Beer, how ya doin!"
> "Ahhh...those'r my boots, man..."
> "Can't be, I found these boots hangin from a fountain in the desert." There
> were a few more mumbled words exchanged and then Snake slithered away,
> without HIS BOOTS! An hour later Snake handed Yogi his cell phone saying,
> "Can ya tell my mom why your not gunna give me my boots back." No kiddin.
>
> In the end Yogi accompanied Snake to the local outfitter to see if they
> could buy Yogi a suitable replacement, but alas the outfitter's stores were
> bare. Snake was unwilling to return to where Yogi had left his boots to
> retreave them, and since he had repeatedly stated that he had always
> intended to go back for his boots, this seemed a fair exchange. No go. So
> two days later Yogi hiked out of town in some nice Asolos. A spring in his
> step.
>
> Fast forward a few hundred miles:
> Sitting under some shade trees near the water pipe at Mill Creek Ranger
> Station we were shaken from our repose by the loud blast of sirens and
> frantic voices over the loudspeaker. Rangers were running to and fro,
> vehicles sped from the compound at great speeds and a general sense of
> bedlum had errupted."Fire! Fire!" At that moment who should come walking up?
> Snake.
> Yogi rose from his mat and headed towards the main building. "Where ya
> headin, Yog'?"
> "Gunna see if these fellas have any beer to lend"
> "They're fightin a fuckin fire dude!"
> "I wont get in the way."
> Yogi sauntered up to the screen door of the main building, tapped twice on
> the door, and looked back at me with his broadest smile.
> "What'ya need man?" came the voice of a harried ranger.
> "Y'all got a few beers I could buy from ya?"
> "We're fightin a fire here!"
> "Whenever ya got the time."
> Yogi strolled back over and retruned to his mat. "Struck out, huh" says
> Snake.
> "We'll see..."
> Two minutes later the ranger emerged from his bunkhouse with three beers and
> two Cokes, handed them to Yogi and then hustled off to fight fire. Yogi got
> up, walked over to Snake, handed him a beer and said, "no hard feelings.
>
> Good ol' Hikertrash, that Yogi Beer...and damn did he look good in them
> boots.
>
> Jackass
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