Howard's wife Dolly told me that the stick hardly prehistoric once belonged to her grandfather. She's very

matter-of-fact about such things, and shrugged when I asked if he had carved it, and when. All she knew was that it had been in

her house for years, and when Howard needed a walking stick, it served very well.

Well, consider: Dolly is in her early 80s. Her grandfather was probably born around 1860, might have reached for a

walking stick at about the turn of the century. Was the stick new when its rounded top first came to his palm, or did he acquire

it from an elderly relative?

Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

I've been for years an aficionado of the companionable staff, striking out for woodsy walks as a child with one of

my father's tomato stakes in hand. Later I became an admirer of the stout sticks for sale in souvenir shops, but their absurd

price tags put me off. I'd rather pick up a fallen branch when the path underfoot turns uneven, or do without, muttering sulkily

and grasping Dave's arm for assistance.

In Bavaria I came across a bin of small dark canes priced remarkably low and ideal for our treks on Alpine paths. For 10

D-Marks, around $6 then, I had exactly what I needed to help pull myself up grades and stabilize myself on descents. I

could even decorate it with the small pressed-metal emblems the Germans sell to signify the completion of specific hikes.

My Mittenwald cane was somehow left home when we went to Alaska and the Canadian Rockies in the summer of

1997, so again I scouted the racks of hand-carved staves in the shops. Wondrous they were, with the wizened faces of old

men seeming to emerge from the soul of the wood itself, or adorned with feathers and beads, or simply polished with a glossy wax.

But prices were still outrageous and I resolved to march on unaided by the reassuring contact of hand on staff and staff

firm against the earth.

And that's how my walking stick found me.

We were visiting Mendenhall Glacier, just north of our daughter's home in Juneau, when we noticed that the Forest

Service, custodian of that natural splendor, was clearing alder thickets near the interpretive center.

The bent trunks of the slender trees, considered scrub in the far north, lay helter-skelter along the sometimes uneven

path. They were already cut and were of no use to anyone except, perhaps, connoisseurs of alder-smoked salmon. I chose

the straightest 40-inch staff I could find and Dave cut it with his trusty Swiss army saw blade.

For the next several days, I amused myself peeling off the loose gray-and-brown mottled bark and sanding the edges of

it, as well as the knots where I cut off small branches. The top is beveled slightly, the rich yellow wood there smooth to the hand.

The stick has a slight bow to it, and in my grip turns naturally so that the end that strikes the ground seems to reach

eagerly forward. As we traveled, I accumulated a few trinkets: wooden beads, a tiny deerskin pouch, a piece of clear white

shell. Strung on leather thongs, with a loop to slip over my wrist, they make a pleasing clatter as I walk.

The stick is every bit as fine as any I've seen in a gift shop, and cost almost nothing. It has saved me several times

when loose gravel rolled underfoot, has helped pull me up steep embankments, and gives me a wonderful confidence when

walking on boulders or soft sand.

When back muscles were in inexplicable and excruciating spasm recently, only my staff made walking possible.

I read somewhere that using one can increase walking efficiency as much as 30 percent, actually taking that much weight

off the legs on each stride.

On the flat, my staff swings in an easy rhythm: a-thud, step, step, step, a-thud, step, step, step. Not acceptable to

my walking mates on paved Peachtree City cart paths where thud becomes THUNK it is perfect for dirt byways and

high grasses. Its length becomes a pointer, or allows probing for an unseen snake that might be offended should my foot find

him first.

A friendly companion and connection to the earth, our sticks are, Howard's and mine, and a comfort on life's often

uncertain road.

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