Craig and I have an ongoing debate about whose footwear is better. He maintains the general superiority of his Chaco sandals (“the best sandals in the world,” in his opinion), which he wears on almost all occasions. He has a pair for hiking, some for everyday use, and even a pair for Sunday best. On muddy hikes, he points out with a hint of smugness, wearing sandals means that you don’t end up with wet socks — plus, you get that delightfully cool, squishy sensation between your toes. (Okay, he might not phrase it exactly this way.)

I, on the other hand, love hiking in my Hokas and flowery gaiters. They’re sturdy and comfortable, and I don’t get sticks or pebbles in my shoes. And if I wear my wool socks, damp feet don’t bother me… much.

On this hike, though, where much of the trail was deep in slippery mud, the choice between shoes and sandals was mainly a question of aesthetics. After slogging and squelching up yet another slippery slope, we finally gave up the battle, discretion being the better part of valor. Better to save this hike for a drier day.

The Water Nixie

We’ve had such a lot of rain this year that whenever we hike we invariably find ourselves picking our way up or down a muddy hill. And when our feet slip and slide as we try valiantly to climb a steep and slickery slope, I think of “The Water Nixie,” a folk tale in rhyming couplets read by Danny Kaye. My sisters and I listened to this record ad infinitum when were young (this might be where I developed my taste for audiobooks) — so that I knew most of these stories by heart.

In this particular tale, a brother and sister are enslaved by a wily water nixie after they fall into her well. She gives them tedious and nigh-impossible tasks to accomplish:

She gave the girl some tangled flax and made her sit and spin it
and carry water in a can that had no bottom in it.
She gave the boy a heavy axe, as dull as it could be
and made him chop her kindling from the very hardest tree.

The children decide to run away. When the nixie chases them, they drop magical objects to impede her passage — a brush and a comb and finally a mirror. This is the passage that comes to my mind on our hikes:

Then the sister dropped a mirror, the most magical of all,
and it grew into a mountain range so shiny, smooth, and tall —
and so slippery that the nixie couldn’t climb the glassy side,
for she slipped each time she tried to take her giant nixie stride.
Then the mountains grew much steeper — really, quite remarkable —
and for every forward step she took, the nixie slid back three…

Some years ago, my sister Shannon tracked down MP3 files of these stories. I lost my copies at some point, doubtless in the transfer from one computer to a newer one. But, of course, everything can now be found on YouTube, so you can listen to the whole story for yourself!

Here’s to the words we’ve learned by heart: those poems, songs, and stories that emerge from memory to color our impressions and texture our experiences.