I was dating this guy and we’d just gotten a permit to float the Rogue River in Oregon with a few friends. I was from the East Coast and had a pair of Keens, which are acceptable footwear on the East Coast. But in the West, Keens scream “dad shoes” — or worse, “East Coast tourist” — so when I saw a pair of Chacos in my size for 50 percent off at the river outfitter the day before we launched, I bought them. They were classic Chacos, with a red-and-orange diamond pattern on the webbing.
I wore them down the Rogue. I wore them to California, pounding the San Francisco pavement, and on a plane to Central America. I wore them in the Costa Rican rainforest and on the beaches of Panama. I wore them back home, in Vermont and Massachusetts and Maine. I wore them in New Zealand, along the “tramping” tracks where everyone else was in ankle-high boots and gaiters. When I moved West, I wore them down the Animas, Arkansas, Colorado, Crystal, Flathead, Green, Gunnison, Roaring Fork, San Juan and Yampa rivers. Desert grit wore into the webbing, the sun faded it; the soles wore smooth from countless footsteps on countless rocks.
Throughout it all, the guy I was dating when I bought the Chacos stuck around. When I stopped to think about it, this was incredible. No other relationship had withstood my restlessness; my sudden decisions to leave the place I was in to chase down another dream in another destination. When he proposed to me, on the Flathead River in Montana, I was wearing the Chacos. I wore them again on our wedding day in the Grand Canyon. After a barefoot ceremony, they stuck out like clown shoes from under my white dress as I hiked from Deer Creek Falls back down to the river.
By this point they were more than a pair of shoes. They marked me as part of a tribe. When I saw another pair of beat-up Chacos among the thousands of shiny wingtips at the airport, I caught the person’s eye and smiled. In the rushing, faceless crowd, that tiny connection made me feel less alone.
The Chacos were also emblematic of my lifestyle at the time. I moved constantly, carrying only what would fit in my car or backpack. I could carry, at most, a few pairs of shoes, which was fine because I couldn’t afford more than that. I never made more than $25,000 — most years, I made a lot less — but I lived so richly that people making two or four times my income would comment wistfully on the pictures I posted on Facebook, telling me how lucky I was, how they wished they could see all the places I was seeing. In most of the pictures, my feet are strapped into Chacos.
I live in Colorado now. In a house. I’ve been here two whole years. A few months ago, I noticed one of the straps on my Chacos starting to fray. I thought about sending the shoes in to get repaired, but the soles, too, were coming unglued and had lost their tread. Why not treat myself to a new pair of shoes? I had a few last adventures with my Chacos, but the trips were brief punctuations in a more stable life, a life in which I spend most of my time sitting in front of a computer, trying to write words that someone will pay me money for. I love this life, too, in a different way: a cup of coffee in bed in the morning, a walk with my dog through falling aspen leaves, Friday nights staying in and playing Scrabble. It doesn’t make for sexy Facebook posts, but it’s deeply satisfying.
My new Chacos came in the mail today. They’re a little lighter — new technology — and they’re orange and yellow instead of orange and red. I unwrapped them from the brown paper and laid them on the floor next to my old ones. In comparison, the old ones are filthy, the kind of shoes a normal person might look at and decline to touch because they could be carrying some kind of disease. The new ones are shiny and bright.
Usually buying new gear stokes my imagination for all the adventures to come. But looking at my new Chacos twists my heart a little too tight, pricks the corners of my eyes with tears. I wonder if they’ll ever get as dirty as my old ones. I wonder if they’ll ever mean as much.
Photos by Krista Langlois
I can relate to this. After hiking half-dome, cables and all, in my Chacos and stopping to soak my feet in the river, I noticed one of the straps was broken. (I had one of the thinner double strap styles) I sat and thought of all the places they’d taken me. I bought them for a rafting trip down Cataract Canyon with my brother that he’d invited me on as a way to overcome and heal from my recent divorce. That was just the beginning. Argentina, Peru, Squamish, The Narrows through hike (bad idea), and countless other hikes, climbing approaches, solo hikes, summits, places that healed and rebuilt my life after losing my old one. A new life that I loved and made me happier than I’d ever been before. One of those facebook enviable lives. I cried over my Chacos on that riverbank. I kept them, but replaced them. After years in my new pair, I have failed to make the same bond I had with that first pair.
Thank you for you article. I’m glad I’m not the only one who considers my shoes such a dear adventure partner.
isn’t it weird how we become so attached to and assign a relationship to our gear
Just had mine re-strapped for the second time. Labs love Chaco’s also.
I totally understand, I live in Grants Pass, OR where the Rogue River runs. I’ve had my Chacos for over 10 years. I bought my first pair at Never A Bum Steer on G Street. I’ve had them re-soled and re-strapped. And love, love, love these shoes!! Wore them for my first trip down the Lower Rogue last summer.
After avoiding Chacos for years in favor of other brands (whatever was on sale in 10E width), I got a pair for my daighter’s wedding in Spokane. After the bedding, I camped out a week in YNP fly fishing and then dropped down to Jackson for 11 days to stay with friends. I bonded with the Chavos and my Z tan lasted through Christmas. Would never buy anything else now.
Not sure where you are in CO. I used to buy the original Geckos ( now called Chacos) from Mark Pagan as he made them in his garage above Paonia. Test out the new glues, the treads, …. as only a River Guide could. Had a pair that lasted countless river miles and adventures. The world, and we change. I now have newer Chacos, but, they are just utility vehicles ubiquitous throughout the West. I miss my old ones, almost as much as I miss the CO of my youth.
Assuming you have tried them on? The footbed has changed!! Travesty!! Just don’t like the new ones ~ I have to keep repairing the originals 🙂
Love, love, love my Chacos. They have been my “soul”mate for years now, not only here in Colorado but all over Greece, Italy, Spain, Ireland and Scotland. I know that feeling when you spy another Chaco-head in an airport, only they would understand. Just had them resoled as I couldn’t stand the thought of giving up on them, they have yet to give up on me. Two generations now of Chaco fans now that my daughter wears them in college in Illinois. Still kind of an anomaly there though occasionally she gets a heads up from someone who wears them and acknowledges the brotherhood. Thanks for this post.