Illusions of Invincibility

Day 6, Midweek

I can’t recall which year I bought these rubber boots. It was one of the wet festivals, or at least the first week was wet. Javier called from camp before I left Austin and told me I’d better come prepared. My co-worker Kristi, who lives in the country near Geronimo Creek, knew what I needed. A pair of basic black rubbers like the ones her whole family keeps in their mud room. “They have shelves of them at Academy right now,” she told me. I picked up a pair on my way out of town. Best $12 I ever spent.

Rubber boots are quite the style at this year’s fest. Everybody’s wearing them. Amazin’ Walter’s are red. Laurie has a yellow pair. Some people have pink, striped or patterned. My plain black ones are fine with me. They’re way better than the duck boots I used to have, the ones I got cheap at some yard sale, which never really fit. They were a pain to walk in, always sucking socks down past my heel. The bottom part was indeed waterproof, but if it rained hard enough, the lace holes leaked.

My current boots don’t have those problems. No laces, you just pull 'em on. They’re comfortable if I wear hiking socks. When I’m ready to sleep, I just slip them off and tuck comparatively clean feet into bed. If I have to go out during the night -- I nearly always do -- I quickly slip them on again. Yeah, they’re a little extra weight to drag around, and kind of sweaty. I do get tired of wearing them when the rain goes on for days, as it has this week. But oh, the advantages! With my boots on, I can stride right through those muddy ruts in the road, not stopping to pick my path. I can tromp across a swampy Meadow without worrying about where I step, what I’m not seeing in the dark, or what flows downhill. I can even go wading in Sudden Creek, which I did two mornings ago. The boots come almost to my knees. I splashed around in the water and came out with dry socks.

With my boots on, I don’t need to worry about the fire ants that keep building new mounds on the surface of the saturated ground. Step on an ant mound wearing sandals, or stand still within two feet of one for a minute or two, and they’ll be all over you. I’m not saying fire ants couldn’t climb the slippery sides of these knee-high boots, crawl over the edge and down inside and bite me on the leg. I wouldn’t put it past them. But hopefully before they got that far, I would notice I was standing in an ant mound and take evasive measures.

So it was that last Friday, when I felt a twinge of pain in my left boot, I shrugged my shoulders and told myself it wasn’t happening.
I was tending to online business at Camp Inertia, and probably munching on a snack. My hands were clean. I didn’t want to mess with my feet just then. It kind of felt like an ant was in my boot, but I thought over my recent travels and didn’t see how one could have gotten there. So it was most likely a piece of speargrass, or a beggar’s-lice burr left in my sock from a previous washing, or nothing at all, just a case of aging neurons. I’d check it out later. At the moment, I had better things to do.

An hour or so after that, I walked up to the sink to wash a plate and knife. I was headed back to camp when I felt it on my shin. A sting too intense to ignore; it stopped me in my tracks. No more procrastinating, I had to deal with this right now. I pulled off my boot, right there in the muddy road, and looked at my leg. Not an ant. Not a wasp. It was a brown, many-legged thing about an inch across, and IT WAS STILL ON ME. I screamed.

Before the shriek was all the way out, I saw the curled tail. Not a spider, as I’d first thought, but a scorpion. Not good, but better than it might be. I’d been stung by scorpions before, and knew it wouldn’t kill me.

Peter and Debbie, whose RVs face each other across a shared social area, were coming to get me. “Come here and sit down,” Debbie said, getting an arm around and pulling me along as I protested that I’d be fine, really. Somebody got my plate and knife, and I must have flicked the scorpion off with my hand, because my index finger was hurting, too. I peeled back my sock -- yes, the critter stung me through a wool sock! Peter applied a venom extractor and gave me some painkilling ointment to put on the spot. They thouroughly examined both my boots. I felt silly.

A while back, I was talking with a person who moved here from some other part of the country. She commented on the way Texans always turn their boots upside down and shake them before we put them on. Well, of course we do, I told her. I thought it was funny that she found it funny. This state is full of things, as they say, that stick, stab and sting. You never know what might be lurking in a boot, and it’s best to find out before you put your foot in.

I know this. I was born and reared in Texas. Reviewing my day, I remember I took a nap that afternoon and left the boots standing by the bed. I know to shake out my boots, expecially when I’m camping, but I guess I thought an hour in mid-afternoon didn’t count. Or maybe I just thought those rubber boots made me invincible.