The rage one human can feel toward 1.5 pounds of dual-density polyurethane and rubber compound, it turns out, can be all-consuming. When I so much as glance at my old hiking sandals, all I feel is contempt, vitriol and an increased heart rate. It’s embarrassing, really, the effect this footwear has on me.
But when I glance at my new hiking sandals—technically, a secondhand pair I almost didn’t buy—I feel eagerness and joy. Before them, I thought hiking sandals weren’t for me; that I wasn’t hard-core or skilled enough to sport them; that I somehow lacked the grit and intelligence to figure out single-strap webbing.
For seven blistery years, hikers and sales clerks—always men—would tell me to give that first pair of hiking sandals a chance. To wear them in. That they’re an acquired taste, like beer or coffee, and they’ll eventually open up a world of delight. These men all seemed to relish the chance to display their knowledge: “Mine took some time too,” they said. “You just haven’t given them enough of a shot.” Looking back, maybe they never meant that the sandals would wear in. Maybe they meant the sandals would eventually wear me down.
In my naivete, I listened to that advice. I didn’t know any better. I would spend 10 minutes putting them on, the “adjustable” straps as easy as getting Mike Tyson successfully knocked off his feet. Once I accomplished that miracle—which required yanking, stretching and calibrating—the toe strap would tighten infinitesimally with every step, eventually restricting blood flow to my big toes and turning them purplish-white.
The next bit’s on me—I kept breaking that first pair of hiking sandals out even though they never broke in. At one point, on a hiking trip somewhere in South Dakota, after losing circulation in my toes and accumulating tiny pebbles under my arches, I simply carried them. Barefoot on a dusty Badlands trail was preferable. Rattlesnakes? Please, come and get me. How do people do this?
One unremarkable day last fall, I was browsing the REI Re/Supply page of gently used gear, certainly not looking for hiking sandals. But I saw a deal: a pair of Original Universal Sandals from Teva for about $20. They’re “‘90s-colored” à la Saved By the Bell, part of the Teva Pride collection and in good condition. Could I spare the cash for the possibility that not all hiking sandals have a 10-year wear-in period? Maybe. Could I open my mind and see if a toe-strap-less style worked for me? Perhaps. Could I put rainbows on my feet and feel damn good about it? I sure could.
I made the leap. A few days later, a box arrived with the rainbow Tevas: the “original,” the “universal,” clearly worn but with care. The hook-and-loop closures let me strap them on in seconds (a ha!), and I braced myself walking across my living room—where’s the pain? Surely something would rub the wrong way immediately. The textured EVA-foam footbed felt a bit ticklish initially, but the sensation faded within a few dozen paces. I didn’t immediately detect any other pain points. No other pain points were immediately detected.
I remained skeptical.
Baby steps were next: trips to the grocery store, walks around my local park—I’m battling trauma, remember? Check, check and check. The straps sat correctly on my in-step; nothing seemed to adjust or move with time. The lack of ultra-restrictive toe strap felt incredible. But the true test lay ahead: How would they handle mountain terrain?
In a strange display of hope, I brought my Tevas with me to Southern California. I wore them to my favorite Orange County canyons, relishing the warmth of the sunshine on my feet, counting scrub jays and even scrambling around a few coyotes. They can traverse slickrock; they can handle mud—this winter, there was rain, and I felt it. (The REPREVE® recycled polyester webbing uppers dry quickly, too; they’re made from recycled plastic bottles.) There was no need to break them in. I could just … go.
This was the hiking experience I had been so envious of: feeling like you’re on the trail, hunting and gathering nearly barefoot, traipsing about with a primate-like ease. I started wearing them everywhere the weather would allow, from dusty Trabuco Canyon to the rolling woods of my home, Wisconsin. Barring the Dairy State’s winter days (which were rare this year), they’re universal, indeed.
So, to whoever tossed these sandals from their closet: thank you, thank you. After seven long years, I have places to go—and I’ll be there with rainbows on.