Academic literature on the topic 'SHOE LEATHER COST'

Winter at the Shack was always a great time, and some weekends it was a big challenge just to get in. After a good snowfall we would park near Mr. Lewis’s farmhouse and ski in the mile and a half, carrying our grub. We have a picture I especially love of Mother skiing through the woods, wearing her denim skirt and winter coat. What a great sport she was! And she would holler “Whoopeee!” while sliding down a short terrace in the woods. We were proud of her. Skis were not much in those days—just two waxed boards with a leather strap. But they were better than walking, and fun too. Passing through the snowy winter landscape was always, in Dad’s words, a “search for scats, tracks, feathers, dens, roostings, rubbings, dustings, diggings, feedings, fightings, or preyings collectively known to woodsmen as ‘reading sign.’ ” We could often see many of these signs on the snow. I can remember skiing through the woods with Nina one morning after a heavy snowfall and seeing little “bursts,” places where a partridge or two had spent the night in a snowbank and then burst out in the morning to feed. If one wonders how our songbirds survive a cold snowy winter, the answers are revealed on a fresh snow surface: the prairie plants hold their seed pods up away from the snow, and the songbirds land on these dark stalks and remove the seeds. Their dear little tracks show where they were picking up seeds. A way to make a living in winter. For our wood-gathering efforts, our tools were the two-man saw, a double-bit ax with an extra-long handle, two regular axes, a heavy sledgehammer, and two iron wedges. Some of the logs we cut in the woods, though of fireplace length, were too big to carry, so we would split them right there before loading them on the sled. Our favorite place for the cutting operation was west of the Shack, down the slough and bearing south at what we called the “branch slough” and “the fallen bee tree.” Our dog (then Flicky) was always running along with us.

The trail along the eastern shore of the Holy Nose south of our campsite is maybe a foot wide, just a narrow track of compacted leaves and dirt, a path that could just as easily have been made by centuries of hooves and paws as by shod human feet. And perhaps it was. I’ve walked such trails in the Arctic, etched into the tundra by caribou and wolves and musk oxen. It’s a humbling and exhilarating experience, the trails a simple but stark reminder that you are in someone else’s habitat and that humans are not the only species to have left their mark on the planet. This one weaves between thick-barked evergreens and leathery aspens, clinging precariously to a slope that could easily throw a clumsy hominid to the waves fifty or more feet below. Andrei is lost in the thickets ahead, charging on to the next clearing, at which he’ll wait for us, again. James, Elisa, Chanda, and I keep to a more leisurely pace, in no more of a hurry to see the next sparkling facet of Baikal than this one, or to catch a toe on the next stone or gnarled root than the previous one. Igor stayed behind with our stuff at the campsite, to be picked up by the Lonesome Boatman. We’ll rendezvous with them farther down the coast this afternoon. Yesterday’s ragged clouds blew out in the evening, and the sky over Baikal today has the clarity of vodka and carries a cool, yellowish luminescence, as if after their ninety-three million mile dash the sun’s photons have slowed down to admire the little corner of the solar system that they’ve been lucky enough to have been sent to. There is no sign that any of the billions of humans who have ever lived have set foot in this place. We walk mostly in silence. From high above the lake, the trail drops down to the water, the steep slope giving way ahead to a thin, gracefully arcing beach dividing the lake from a narrow stand of wispy wetland trees and a soft amber field beyond.