The subtle finesse of the slog

There was a day back in December when I found myself in unsafe footwear.

I’d packed for a fall in mainland Canada and a Mediterranean winter, but right now I was facing a two-week window of December in Ottawa before I would take off for warmer destinations. I’d packed an old pair of hikers that I didn’t expect to make the homeward journey.

I like to lose myself when I’m walking. Find a route out of the way of traffic, hit a good stride, and go. You can’t do that in the freeze-thaw cycles of mid-December in Ottawa if your boots don’t have ice cleats. Although the trail by the house was worn down and hardened into icy bootprints, I found I could trudge through the deeper snow alongside the worn path.

Trudge, what a good word for that slow-motion going: break the snow crust and plant one foot, then haul the other foot up and do the same, over and over. What a slog, just to take a walk.

And then, the realization: what’s the rush to get anywhere? I’m getting the fresh air and exercise. I’m getting the beautiful surroundings. Who needs to be fleet of foot?