My Ötzi Flaker. Cedar handle (Ötzi's was Lime wood) with an elk antler bit.

Among Ötzi’s belongings was a well preserved composite pressure flaker- a tool used to carefully remove small flakes from a stone tool. Tim Rast, over at Elfshot, put up a very interesting post a while back documenting his production of a replica of Ötzi’s pressure flaker. The tool is basically a lime wood handle with an antler spike in the end. Tim’s analogy of a fat pencil with antler instead of graphite fits well, and it was that analogy that got me thinking about the advantages of an Ötzi-style flaker over the basic antler tine pressure flakers that I generally use. I figured that I would be best off whipping up an Ötzi Flaker and trying it out myself.

First, the size of the wooden handle helps my knapping a great deal. I’ve got pretty big mitts and I lose a lot of power struggling with small-diameter antler tines. The little tines are handy for precise flaking, but I always go back to my big, hefty moose antler tine when I want nice, long, regular flakes. With the amount of microblade flaking I do, and some of the horribly tough stone I use, the big flaker sees a lot of action. The Ötzi Flaker gives a suitably thick handle but also a consistently slim point. My moose tine becomes quite blunted relatively quickly, so the Ötzi design maintains a better point without compromising power.

Second, like a pencil (that analogy triggers the “aha” moment), the Ötzi Flaker can be quickly and easily sharpened. By “sharpened”, I mean that as the antler tip gets worn down, the surrounding wood can be cut back using a stone flake, revealing more antler. The antler maintains its slimness (as I mentioned above), and the maintenance is a breeze.

Sharpened Ötzi Flaker. Note the tip. 30 seconds with a chert flake makes it like new.

Third, the Otzi flaker eliminates “handedness” from the tool. I often find that slightly curved tines really only lend themselves to use at one particular angle. Rotating the flaker at all results in a tool that is uncomfortable for use by a right-hander. The Otzi Flaker is a straight cylinder, which can be rotated a bit now and then in order to change up the wear pattern on the tip, and essentially self-sharpen the antler bit.

Finally, raw material economization can be achieved to some extent. Rather than being restricted to using tines, almost any part of an antler may be stuck into an Otzi Flaker. Tim noted that a bit made from the palmate section of a moose antler was too soft to use effectively, but I had no such issues with a segment from the beam of an elk antler (and I would assume that the beam of a moose antler- rather than the palmate portion- would be similarly sound). Also, like a collection of golf clubs or drawing pencils, a knapper may have a collection of flakers of varying hardness or softness. Sometimes it’s nice to have a little extra bite with a softer flaker when doing delicate edgework on a small obsidian point. And then you can switch to a hard one for some power flaking or harder stone.

In all, it’s a very nifty design and features prominently in my quiver of pressure flakers. Now if only I had a decent Ishi stick…

My pseudo-barefoot running experiment has been going quite well… sort of. As reported earlier, switching from my standby trail runners (I avoid running on pavement whenever possible- boring and crowded) to VFF KSO Treksports reinvigorated my running. Initial observations included a lower heartrate for comparable time/distance, a much higher degree of engagement with my surroundings, and generally a greater desire to run more. I’ve kept it up, too. After an overly enthusiastic first outing that left me sort for a week I gradually built up my distance and am running the same distance in my VFFs as I was earlier in my regular shoes (~8-10km unless I’m feeling sluggish). In the process I have made a few additional observations.

1) ‘Burlier’ does not always mean ‘better’

I am already on my second pair of VFFs. The KSO Treksport boasts a number of very clever features, such as the knobblies on the sole (for hiking, scrambling over rocks, etc.) and some sort of tough rubberized patch on the topside of the toes to guard against abrasion if/when you trip on things or drag your feet. While these are both nice, they come at a cost. First, in order to prevent the lugs from feeling like little perma-pebbles underneath your foot, the KSO Treksport has a somewhat beefed up sole compared to the regular KSO; there is more padding, more rubber, and more stiffness. Not necessarily bad, but certainly counterproductive if you are trying to get as close as possible to the barefoot feel. The rubberized sections, on the other hand, are necessarily bad. I have only ever tripped once while wearing VFFs, and that was due to tall grass obscuring a largish root. That trip was pure end-on toe impact and did not result in significant abrasion to the tops of my toes; just a smashed up toenail and a little blood in the shoe. As such, the patch is functionless. But it has not been effectless. Because the patch does not stretch, and all of the fabric around it does, a bit of a tear developed at the edge of the patch, and grew fairly steadily over the next two runs. Yup: the feature specifically designed to prevent the toes from tearing tore the toes. Oh well. Normally I would just patch the sucker up, but I decided for once to take advantage of MEC’s absurd customer service (they REALLY stand behind everything they sell) and swap for the regular KSOs.

The regular KSO‘s have a very different feel to them. The soles are much more flexible (I especially notice it when moving my toes around- I can almost pick things up with my feet as though I were barefoot) and much thinner; you feel everything. These shoes still allow me to run over gravel more easily than I can barefoot, but certainly force me to be even more selective regarding foot placement. I recently suffered my first VFF-related injury (that sort of overstates it, but “VFF-related boo-boo” doesn’t sound as good) when I stepped hard on a sharp stone while coming down the hill on my usual circuit. While only a minor irritant, it caused some foot tenderness for a couple days. Nonetheless, running is just as much fun (if not more) in these as in the Treksports, and the trail engagement factor is even higher.

2) Going backwards is difficult

Running backwards is not difficult in these shoes. However, taking a footwear step backwards is. After nearly two months of running exclusively in VFFs I dusted off the old runners and gave them a couple goes around the lake. The results were interesting. First, my running form has certainly changed. Where I used to be a heel-striker, I now land forefoot or midfoot first, but with a thick-soled runner with a significant (12mm+) heel-toe drop, this puts my ankles in a more awkward position and seems to result in an overall feeling of less stability underfoot. One might argue that the soft sole accentuates this instability, but since I run largely on trails, and this feeling persists even over bark mulch (where the compression or displacement of the mulch likely outweighs the compression of my shoes), I am unconvinced. In any case, it feels icky.

Reverting to heel-striking has similarly undesirable effects, as I feel like I am working a harder to go the same distance. My heartrate monitor concurs. The specifics of why this is are beyond me, though a quick browse online suggests (to me at least) that muscle vibration may be a factor. A recent study by Friesenbechler et al. looks at how extended periods of running affects muscle tissue vibration (which in turn is supposed to affect fatigue). It looks as though as one runs, tissue vibration increases in intensity. This should result in an increasing fatigue positive feedback loop -hence why compression garments are supposed to help reduce fatigue. That said, chances are that the fatigue onset from increased tissue vibration  due to heelstriking rather than mid/forefoot striking in a single decidedly non-elite runner (over <10km distance) is probably so minimal that it could be compensated for by eating a sugar cube, napping for 20 minutes, listening to upbeat music or something before going out. This is sort of like self-diagnosing an illness using google and a list of vague symptoms. “Holy moly! Nagging cough, general malaise… I’ve totally got alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency!”

“But Nick,” you say, “why are you looking up articles in the Journal of Biomechanics when you should be writing your damn thesis?” That brings us to #3.

3) I like to be semi-informed (but not too informed) about things.

During a recent procrastination session study break I recently came across this debate (in the comments section) regarding the barefoot/minimalist trend, wherein a fella who is head of research for Asics (but claims to speak as an individual and not as an Asics representative) argues that the science behind BF/Min running is somewhere between non-existent and bogus, and that the whole movement is just a fad. He challenges the blogger to cite any relevant studies supporting the notion that running barefoot is better than running shod. This brought up an interesting question for me: have I guzzled the barefoot Kool-aid? Have I suitably questioned the veracity of the claims behind the BF/Min movement, or am I just doing what’s cool? Well, I figured that if there’s one thing I can do quickly it’s find a bunch of articles online and skim their abstracts. Done. It turns out that there’s a pile of research. A big interesting pile, none of which seems to support the pro-shoes/anti-barefoot claims. Two abstracts were of particular interest (full disclosure: I didn’t read the articles- just the abstracts. I had work to do after all.):

Hasegawa et al. 2007 show that footstrike patterns among 1/2 marathon runners show a relationship between speed and footstrike. Faster runners have a midfoot or forefoot strike while slower runners run with a heelstrike. To my mind, this can be broken down a few ways. First, elite runners will generally have worked with some sort of coach to optimize their form, which likely results in concentrating on forefoot striking and efficient running. Non-elites (ie. me) with no coach, guidance or intervention plod along with subpar form (heel strike). In this context, BF/Min running may act as a material intervention that effectively forces a runner to adopt a more efficient running form. Heelstriking hurts when you have no padding, so you stop doing it. And second, in order to run faster, your foot turnover should be faster, and by reducing the heelstrike segment one can reduce ground contact time and increase turnover. Sprinters don’t heelstrike and they go really fast. Of course, what would happen if one of the elites was stuck running for four hours (or whatever the elite runner’s ultra-maximum run duration is)? Would they revert to a heelstrike to conserve muscular energy? After all, an elite can cover 21km in about an hour(!). I can keep up my good running form for an hour or so. But to run 21km (about my maximum non-stop running distance), I’m looking at a lot more time on the road, and I’m not sure that my calves would hold out that long. Even barefoot we tend not to walk on our toes, so perhaps there’s an evolutionary connection to heelstrike striding at slower speeds. Humans can walk efficiently all day by heelstriking and not engaging all those extra foot muscles, and we can maintain a pace high enough to exhaust a sprint-adapted quadruped by getting up on our toes and running.

Second, Hanson et el. 2011 have shown that running barefoot is approximately 5% more efficient in terms of oxygen usage than running shod. Wow. That’s the very same difference I observed in my own running. I am an ultra low-budget one person biomechanics lab (albeit with very limited publications in the field).

Based on these abstracts I feel somewhat more confident that my choice to (continue to) run with less shoe is based at least somewhat on scientific evidence as well as my own personal experiences, rather than on the ravings of partisan enthusiasts on one side or the other.

My cake. Yes, that's a miniature excavation scene on top, complete with trowel, tarp, micro rite-in-the-rain notebook, flagging tape and marker flags indicating surface lithic scatters.

Today was my birthday. My folks came over for a visit from Vancouver and Chris (my wife) presented me with the cake to end all cakes. This thing, Chris’s first attempt at baking a cake, was a work of art: not only delicious, but thematic and just generally delightful.

Clearly, my wife is not only brilliant and creative (and archaeologically inclined), but is also as big a nerd (or close to it) as I am. As indicated above, the decorative topping included all of the equipment necessary to conduct a (very) small scale excavation. The only part that was not made by Chris is the screen- a souvenir I picked up at the CAA conference in Halifax. Of course, the hard candy lithics were made by me. I had an inkling that some sort of archaeo-culinary mash-up was in the works, but had no concept of how awesome the end result would be.

It must be noted that Chris is not one to simply make a regular cake and stick some cute archaeology doodads on top; this cake is archaeological to the core. She carefully crafted the cake’s internal stratigraphy using layers of chocolate cake, spice cake, icing, walnuts, coconut, Oreo crumbs, mint-chocolate squares, and hard candy lithics. The result was incredible! If you could control your appetite long enough to excavate the cake in a controlled manner, not only would the “lithics” be found, but also some postholes, remnant collapsed roof beams above the housefloor, and a small hearth feature(!). I was in archaeology-nerd/chocoholic heaven.

The sidewalls of the excavation unit sagged a little overnight. No mini plumbob was included, but since we expanded the 1x1 to a 6x3, it didn't matter too much.

Yup. Sure am.

A fun day. Back to the grind tomorrow.

A super-tiny quartz crystal microblade core? Think again!

The cores I had to work with looked like quartz crystal, chalcedony, and a beautiful, creamy flint, reminiscent of some gorgeous French stone I picked up years ago. However, they were also individually packaged in little, twisty wrappers and were delicious. Yup, I was candyknapping.

Whittaker (1994) describes a scale of knappable material, including “some hard candy” along with the normal obsidian, chert, jasper, rhyolite, etc. etc., and I had mentioned, once or twice, that biting Ricola cough drops results in flakes with the usual bulbs of percussion and other markers of conchoidal fracture, but I had never actually tried knapping candy in any sort of concerted way before. Now I was being asked to make formal tools out of it. Cool.

This challenges all of our existing models of raw material acquisition and tool curation strategies .

Knapping candy cores involves some considerations that don’t generally come into play for knapping more common lithic materials. The cores are tiny (not entirely unusual- I am a microblade-phile, after all) and tend to shatter horribly under any sort of percussion flaking. As such, trimming the rounded sides to set up platforms involves alternative strategies. Normally, I would just split the pebbles using bipolar percussion and then fire the core into my hand-vise for some blade production. However, bipolar percussion would basically reduce the candy to dust. As such, I hauled out my mini-leatherman and used it to shear or snap the rounded sections off. This done, I picked out my sharpest antler pressure flaker, braced the core on my desk, and applied some very gentle pressure to take off the flakes.

Once I got the hang of the appropriate pressure (and figured out that using medical gloves prevented the candy from sticking to my fingers) I found that I could knap a few basic shapes. I started with a clear peppermint nodule and made a tiny biface, a conical microblade core and a half dozen tiny blades (micromicroblades?). Then the hard caramel was turned into the world’s smallest Levallois core (though taking off the Levallois flake proved very difficult- it crushed and was eaten). And finally the white “chalcedony” turned into a nice pile of detritus. It turns out that the white ones have a soft chocolate filling, and they break apart pretty completely when you squeeze ‘em with pliers. That one got eaten too.

How did early modern humans outcompete Neanderthals? By developing m&m-based tools that don't melt in your hands. My Ultra-micro Levallois-style core (and debitage).

All in all, it was a welcome distraction. And now I’m curious where I might get a (cheap) candy core large enough to knap something really fun out of.

Ballistics gel: the other... ummm... translucent meat.

As I mentioned in the last blog post, slotted points with inset microblades should provide a suite of benefits over their bifacial counterparts. The inset points should be more durable and more lethal, making them preferable in high-risk hunting situations. At this point, these seem like null hypotheses to me: how can the inset points be anything but better? Nonetheless, when I actually hafted a few of the points and prepared to impale a few proxy animals, I had a niggling lump of doubt sitting in the back of my mind.

There was no need to worry. The inset microblade points not only performed admirably, but exceeded all of my expectations!

I conducted two experiments, both using blocks of ballistics gel instead of live animal targets. The ballistics gel is basically a super-high-grade pork gelatin that, when mixed to very exacting specifications, mimics the density and structure of mammalian flesh and organs with a high degree of accuracy. The FBI, UN, RCMP and other such organizations use it to analyze ballistics data such as bullet trajectories, ammunition types, etc. etc. The Mythbusters also use it whenever they want to find out whether something is likely to produce deadly wounds. There are also a series of interesting posts on Elfshot , a fascinating archaeology/flintknapping blog frequent, where Tim Rast used gelatin to experiment with Dorset toggling harpoons. Like the Elfshot experiments, I would be hafting my points to a spear and stabbing the blocks, but rather than examining the holding power of the point (my slotted points are not harpoons and should not hold), I would be looking at the durability of the point and inset microblades, and the wound created by it.

A slotted point generating some serious gelatin carnage. How badass is that?

The first experiment addressed the wound channel. My basic hypothesis is that (1) because inset slotted points have very long cutting edges from the serial inset microblades and (2) because the antler could be shaped to make a broad point without sacrificing length or blade edge angle acuity, the inset slotted points would cause significantly greater internal damage to an animal than bifacially knapped points. To test this I set up a guide for my spear above a 20lb gel block, pointed a video camera at it, and briskly stabbed the block. The camera captured the point going in and the wound channel spreading out. Then the camera ran out of batteries, so I busted out the still camera.

I only made two blocks for this round of tests, but the results were still pretty compelling. The inset slotted points slice and tear through the (simulated) flesh, leaving a wide, ragged looking wound behind, a fair bit wider than the point itself. I was initially worried that this was the result of the block splitting because of the thickness of the haft and spear (3/4″ dowel), but a control test with a sharpened dowel showed that splitting gel follows a very different pattern. Also, the biface tests displayed a much more contained wound. The biface were sharp and penetrated at least as easily as the slotted point, but the wound never flared outwards, leaving a parallel-sided wound channel close in to the shaft of the spear.

Slotted point wound channel (top) vs. biface wound channel (bottom). One of these is gonna need a bigger band-aid.

The durability test also showed the awesomeness of the slotted points. I set a large bone (a beef metacarpal, I think- a big bone from the pet shop) in a gel block, placed it under the spear-o-matic, and attacked it vigorously. The biface snapped on the third impact with the bone. The slotted microblade points not only didn’t break, but only two microblades became dislodged from one of the points when it made a hard, glancing impact on the bone. The other slotted point kept all of its blades. Perhaps more impressive, the points and blades stayed intact for about 10-15 strikes each, and the weapon only failed when the spear foreshaft split lengthwise(!). I hafted the points in a 3/4″ hardwood dowel foreshaft with a spruce gum-filled socket, but next time I will likely try binding the points onto the foreshaft (a sort of side-haft) with sinew and hide glue. The gummy sockets were easy to set up and held the points well, but the splitting was suboptimal. A socketed bone or antler foreshaft would probably be ideal, but that will have to wait for a whole other round of experiments.

In any case, the results are looking pretty good at this point. More results will be reported when some of the deadline pressure has passed.

A beauty indeed. Photo: Nick Waber

Anyone who has talked shop with me has probably learned of my affinity for microblades. Microblades are tiny stone bladelets that made up the sharp parts of brilliant multi-component tools. This technology was prevalent on much of the Northwest Coast throughout the early Holocene (~10,000 BP-ish-4000 BP-ish), and is the focus of my thesis. Part of my thesis involves experimentation with microblade tools, and today’s post is devoted to one of these.

Biface envy? I think not. Photo: Nick Waber

The basic premise of inset microblade technology is that by lining up a series of microblades one may produce a cutting edge far longer than a single blade (my point is 27cm long, with 43cm of cutting edge), and potentially much sharper than a bifacially flaked projectile point. Furthermore, the slotted point made of bone or antler is somewhat elastic, and as such is more resilient and durable than its stone counterpart. As you can imagine, attacking a bear with a spear only to break the pointy bit off on the first thrust would make for a suboptimal situation to say the least. Additionally, once your bear has been dispatched and you have a little down-time, any missing or damaged microblades may be quickly and easily replaced, without reducing the overall size of the point (unlike a biface).

Behold the continuous cutting edge! Photo: Nick Waber

Sinuous microblade arrangement. Photo: Nick Waber

This hafting and replacement strategy is especially brilliant when compared with biface hafting and maintenance techniques. Bifaces are usually (as far as I have read) hafted by binding them to the end of a shaft or foreshaft, generally using sinew. Sinew is terrific because it is strong and flexible, and if you soak it in warm hide glue before binding, it will actually shrink and harden on the point/haft, cementing the point in very effectively. The down side is that to remove the point, one must re-boil the glue/sinew to loosen it. Consider the logistics of boiling water without a handy stovetop and metal pot. Not a convenient solution! Presumably, hunters would carry a collection of pre-hafted replacement points on foreshafts, but that does not seem practical for a thrusting spear or killing lance, where one may expect to make multiple strikes in quick succession with the same weapon.

The slotted antler point can be bound more or less permanently to the spear, and only have the cutting edges refreshed as necessary. To do this, no binding is required. Instead, microblades are temporarily ‘glued’ in. Researchers studying ice patch archaeology in the Yukon have recently recovered a slotted antler point with mastic residue in the slots(!). They managed to identify it as spruce resin. Fortunately for me, there are some spruce trees next to a local playground (this is doubly fortunate, since the kids climbing all over these trees have bruised the bark and limbs enough that there is no shortage of sap to harvest). I got the sap/resin home and started playing around with it. Some was relatively fresh and could be molded into the slots quite easily (this is the filthy looking stuff in the photos). This was relatively easy, though it was extremely sticky and made handling the tiny microblades quite awkward and frustrating. The better solution seems to be the less fresh stuff that has turned quite hard and crumbly. If figured I could soften it up by boiling, but I would rather see if there was a method that did not require fire or boiling water (neither convenient for ancient NWC hunters on the move). Chewing! Masticating the mastic! By chewing the resin until it is malleable I can not only shape it to fit the slots, but also circumvent the stickiness of the fresher sap.

Insetting a microblade into chewed spruce mastic. Photo: Nick Waber

The chewed spruce mastic re-hardens very quickly, so I found that the most effective method of hafting microblades was to chew a wad of spruce gum, pinch off a little bit (enough for about 2 or 3 cm of slot), press in the microblades, and repeat. The mastic actually has a texture comparable to commercial chewing gum, and a nice flavour, reminiscent of the forest. One important tip is that you must chew very slowly at first. Chomping on the hard resin will only shatter it and give you a mouthful of very strong tasting resin powder. Bring your teeth together slowly and steadily five or six times before you get to chewing normally. And enjoy your pine spruce-fresh breath.

Photo: Nick Waber

I recently read Chris McDougall’s excellent book Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Super Athletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen. The book is a mash-up of a sports/travel memoir, ethnography-lite, and biomechanics-for-dummies. My thumbnail synopsis:

McDougall travels to a remote region of northern Mexico, following a story about the Tarahumara, an indigenous people whose social identity is effectively defined by running.While there, he meets an eccentric loner who wants to put on the ultimate long-distance trail race in the Tarahumara home region. The Tarahumara are known for running hideously long trail races, some lasting several days, covering hundreds of kilometres. A few Tarahumara runners were convinced to take part in the Leadville 100: a very serious Colorado ultramarathon. The envisioned race will see a small group of top American ultrarunners take on Tarahumara runners on their own turf.

That’s the sports/travel and (more or less) the ethnography bit. Perhaps more interesting than that was the topic of why the Tarahumara are such dominant runners, and how they can cover such grueling distances over rough terrain without suffering the standard sort of overuse injuries that most runners seem to be plagued with. The answer apparently lies to a large extent in their choice of footwear (though that is an extremely techno-deterministic idea, completely ignoring any ideas about human agency and people choosing to run well and adapting their footwear to it over generations, rather than the other way around). Running in minimalist sandals, the Tarahumara runners run with an extremely efficient stride, landing primarily on the mid/forefoot, rather than the heel. Most running shoes encourage the opposite, by raising and cushioning the heel, though several “barefoot” and minimalist options have been introduced of late (and in no small part due to the popularity of McDougall’s book).

The debate over barefoot/minimalist footwear is ongoing and very interesting, especially in the context of archaeology and our insights into past human behaviour. It is especially fascinating in light of Tim Ingold’s 2004 article: Culture on the Ground: the World Perceived Through the Feet (Journal of Material Culture, 9(3):315-340). Ingold discusses how the tactile sensation(s) we experience through our feet are fundamental forces in shaping our interactions with the world. On this basis, someone going barefoot (or in huarache sandals) will perceive and engage with their environments in ways entirely different from someone stomping through the world in hobnailed megaboots. Or bouncing through in air-cushioned moonshoes, for that matter. And as a result, their philosophies, awarenesses and attitudes would likely also be different. How can modern scientists from a Western industrialist background, feet firmly encased in caulk boots (or gum boots, here on the NWC), really begin to understand the thought processes and experiences of people with a significantly different footprint.

In this vein, I decided to have a go at “barefoot” running (a sort of pseudo-barefoot as opposed to actually baring my feet) and see if and how it changed anything. An unfortunate reality of living in a society devoted to sturdy footwear is that public infrastructure design and maintenance is applied under the assumption that users will  be shod. Unshod folks will quickly encounter monotonous cement pavements and pea gravel pathways “spiced up” by broken glass and other detritus- not much fun for a barefoot noob with tender, un-calloused soles. So I compromised my foray into barefoot running and opted to try out some kit I’ve been lusting after for quite a while: the Vibram Fivefingers KSO Treksport. I am aware of the irony of buying shoes to have the feeling of not wearing shoes (clearly the cheaper option), but I am also aware that gashing open my foot would be a big downer. Scoff all you like, though, because running in these things is pretty much the most fun you can have with bizarre shoes on!

First off, everything McDougall says about running barefoot (or “barefoot”) is true: you stop landing with a heel strike, there is significantly less impact, your stride turnover rate increases, and your running becomes much more efficient. Running on my usual route through the nature sanctuary near my domicile I was pleasantly surprised to see that even though my pace was the same (I passed landmarks at the usual time increments), my heartrate was 5-10 BPM lower than normal. Theoretically, once my muscles adapt to this “new” running technique, I should be able to go faster, further. Neato!

More importantly, however, Ingold hit the nail on the head too: you observe your environment differently when you don’t just tromp over or through everything. As a relatively robust runner, my regular running form may be described as “lumbering”. The din of my size 12 4E feet (stuck in correspondingly ark-like shoes) hitting the ground drowns out ambient noise quite effectively (my wheezing and snorting drowns out the rest). Now I cruise in comparative silence, conscious of birds chirping, brooks babbling, etc. Even better: the path has become interesting. My mind is constantly engaged in planning my route through mud, roots, rocks, etc. as I negotiate my way around the lake, up the hill and back home. As my speed picks up I must look further ahead, remembering the terrain and creating a cognitive topographic model with a time-delay for my feet to follow. The boredom of my usual plod has been obliterated by the necessity to be aware!

This, of course, gets me thinking about other aspects of footwear, the paradigms we adhere to in our booted society, and how technological strategies and tool/product design may be impacted by how we use and treat our feet. More on that another time.

PS. If you don’t click any other link, click the Ingold one and read the article!