Not Without My Father: One Woman's 444-Mile Walk of the Natchez Trace by Andra Watkins

by intrigue and hypothesis to notice the door crash. I stood in the hallway and tallied the cost of our remaining stops against the number of books we already sold. Desperate, I fantasized about buying my own room.
    At another hotel.
    But as I gimped to the elevator, sneakers in hand, I knew another room wasn’t the answer. A couple hundred dollars in book sales would never cancel out the thousands I committed to the trip. Money bled from our savings for months, finite funds I feared I’d never recover. Expenses for sturdy outdoor wear and the right backpack. Supplies to train for an endurance walk. Publicity. Advertising. Free print copies for reviews. Every time I uttered the words ‘Natchez Trace,’ money evaporated.
    I couldn’t afford a pair of hiking sandals, but as I took in my decaying feet, I realized I didn’t have a choice. Seven days of walking caused my toes to swell beyond the bounds of my sneakers. Every morning, I winced as I applied blister band-aids and layers of duct tape. Chunks of skin tore away each night. I expected raw bone to poke through remaining patches of flesh.
    “At least, some open-toed Keens might give my abused toes a break. I’ll just put them on my credit card.” I maneuvered the car into traffic, determined to have something productive from failing to rest on a rest day.
    I scraped my feet into every pair of hiking sandals in Jackson’s paltry collection, but three stops later, I still didn’t own new sandals. Salesperson after salesperson delivered the same news. “Too early in the season for those, but if you come back in a few weeks—”
    “I don’t have a few weeks.” I fought to keep my voice light when I wanted to choke them with my smelly sock. “I’m walking the Trace, and—”
    “The whole thing?”
    “Uh-huh, and—”
    “Well, no shoe’s gonna cushion crazy.”
    I hobbled to the car, pounded the steering wheel and screamed. “Why can’t freaking Meriwether Lewis be here to make me some blasted shoes?”
    It was better than telling the salesperson to screw himself.
    At my last stop, I settled on a clearance pair of Tevas with open toes. I tried not to notice red welts and oozing blisters in the floor mirror. “All this after seven days of walking.”
    “That’s how you tore your feet up like that, just walking?”
    I turned to find another salesperson standing next to me. His name tag read Brad .
    “Yeah.” I undid the velcro, determined not to talk about my Natchez Trace walk with another person who wouldn’t care.
    “Where’re you walking?” He took the box and waited while I tried to pry my feet into sneakers. After watching me struggle for a few beats, he said, “You know. Maybe you should give me those things and wear these sandals out of here.”
    I whisked water from my eyes. Kindness. I forgot what it was in a slog of unkindness to self. Smiling, I traded shoes with him. “I’m walking the Trace.”
    “The Parkway?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How far?”
    “Natchez to Nashville.”
    “Wow. So you still got a ways to go, huh.”
    I tried to avoid nicking open skin with velcro and laughed. “Don’t remind me.”
    “I’ve known some people who walked parts of it, but never the whole thing.”
    I stood and followed him to the register. “Well, now you know someone. Maybe. If I finish.”
    “Alternate sides of the highway every mile. It’ll help with crowning.” He put my old shoes in a bag and handed it to me. “Good luck. And be careful out there. Paltry ranger patrols between here and Tupelo. The feds don’t give the Trace money for anything. Let us know if you make it to Nashville.”
    Why didn’t I think of that strategy to deal with crowning? No wonder my left foot was pulpier than my right. I drove back to the hotel, stalked past Dad and fell asleep, convinced that sandals and my discovery would make my second week easier on my feet.
    If I learned anything from my study of Meriwether Lewis, it should have been this: Ignorant