First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
When I was quite young, my father often took my brother, sister and me on hikes. For each of us including himself, Dad found branches with a Y-shaped fork and whittled it into what we called our hiking sticks. We placed our thumbs into the Y and off we strode thinking how much the sticks, barely an inch in diameter, helped our ability to hike on the rough terrain.
No doubt these frequent forays into nature were designed by tired parents to burn off some of our energy and to give Mum a break. Dad also took the opportunity to teach us the names of trees, birds and wildflowers. At the end of each hike, Dad allowed us to use his pocket knife to chip away a small nick on one side of the stick and in that way, we kept track of the number of hikes we took.
As we grew older and taller, the hiking sticks were replaced with longer ones. Unknown to us, Dad kept the old ones and I found them when clearing out the family home more than six decades later. What a delight to discover the sticks and to relive the good times we enjoyed with our Dad. Obviously, our outings had meant a lot to him as well.
When we three kids reached the age when we thought that hiking and hiking sticks weren’t cool, we replaced them with ski poles and hockey sticks.
As a parent myself, I hadn’t forgotten what pleasure the simple hiking sticks gave us. My husband and I whittled Y-shaped hiking sticks for our daughter and later our granddaughter, and chipped out little nicks to remember nature hikes we enjoyed together. And, like Dad, we saved them as they became too short or were put aside for more grown-up activities.
In later years, my early morning walks included aluminum Nordic walking sticks. Touted to give a full-body workout, they also made me look energetic, in shape, and dare I say it, pretty cool, as I strode along in our community and ended my 45 minute workout on the town’s riverside trail. Admittedly, there were times in winter when I was happy to have the sharp ends of my walking sticks to help with balancing on slippery roads and sidewalks.
I remember when I started thinking that my Nordic sticks weren’t cool. It was in the early throes of the pandemic. Everyone was out walking. I hadn’t used my sticks for some time but following a back injury in the garden – later diagnosed as spinal stenosis – I really needed them for balance. Reluctantly, I took them out of storage and was the only one in our neighbourhood of mainly seniors using them. I felt, well, old. I definitely stood out in the crowd but certainly not as being cool.
As I awaited the operation to relieve pressure on the nerves in my lower back, the Nordic walking sticks no longer provided me with the stability and balance I needed and one day I collapsed into a snowbank. It was then that I graduated from the walking sticks to a walker. That was a tough switch, but at least it meant that I could move. As much as I resented using the walker, it gave me the opportunity to get exercise and fresh air.
I began to walk farther afield. Finally one day I left the smoothness of the sidewalks and the relative boredom of a suburban housing development and started to bump along on the more challenging old railroad trail near our home. There I saw and savoured the wild flowers and trees and birds of my childhood hikes with Dad. I was flooded with memories and a glorious sense of well-being. Oddly, I began to actually appreciate my walker.
Like many others during the pandemic, I had to wait for my operation. The operation was a success but the 14-month delay caused nerve damage in my right leg. Still able to walk with a walker, I found a physiotherapist to help me work on balance and gait.
Within months, I was able to park my walker in the garage and use either my now-vintage Nordic walking sticks or a cane. Both sport my favourite colour – turquoise – and my cane is even decorated with little diamond-shaped nicks that gleam in the sunshine – pretty snazzy hiking sticks, I think!
Now as I walk along the trails or around the neighbourhood pond, the flowers and trees and birds delight me as they did when I was with Dad. I hold my head erect, take in all the beauty around me, and almost stride in the manner of my childhood. And I think that’s pretty cool.
Wendy LeBlanc lives in Picton, Ont.