The Walking Stick

By Peter Bowden


The old man leaned against the counter of the outfitter’s shop, his eyes drifting over the rows of walking sticks, each one a testament to the craft of hands that had known the shape and grain of wood for decades. He reached out, feeling the cool, polished length of a hickory staff, its grain tight and strong, marked by the faint scars of seasons spent bending in mountain winds. It was sturdy, made to bear the weight of years and miles, its grain running straight and true, a promise whispered in the creak of timber and the whisper of pine needles.

Near the end of the row, his fingers brushed against something different, a staff topped with a handle of polished elk horn, the curve of it smoothed by the passage of time, each ridge and line a record of its life. It fit his hand with a comfort that felt earned, the cold bone warming quickly to his touch. He imagined the animal it once belonged to, the great rack held high, velvet peeling in the sharp air of autumn, the crack of branches beneath its hooves as it moved through the timberline, a ghost of strength now resting in his grasp.

He lifted it from the stand, testing its weight, feeling the solid thrum of the hardwood in his palm. It reached to his waist, perfect in height, the horn curved just enough for his fingers to find their place. He smiled, thinking of the miles yet to walk, the trails still unseen, and the stories still to be told. The shopkeeper, watching from behind the counter, nodded, recognizing the look – a quiet understanding between those who walk the wild places alone but never truly alone.

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