One angler's journey, fly fishing through life

Tag: wading boots

The Last Studs

Mama always said there’s an awful lot you can tell about a person by their shoes. Where they’ going, where they been. I’ve worn lots of shoes. I bet if I think about it real hard, I could remember my first pair of shoes. Mama said they’d take me anywhere. She said they was my magic shoes.

Forrest Gump

I got out of the river that evening, happily tired, and made my way back to my car with an 18″ smallmouth and channel cats that pushed the 30″ mark fresh in memory. The wading had been precarious in the run I had chosen to fish, but it was all well worth it. My boots had taken me there, as they had so many other beautiful and productive places and safely got me out.

I had been wading wet for the last few weeks now that summer was in the fore and I liked the fact that I didn’t have to mess with waders. As I pulled my boots off, I noticed for the first time that I had finally broken through the toe of my left boot. These old Simms boots had taken me fishing for 7 years and were finally about done. I had enjoyed them as much as I did the places they carried me and I didn’t want to say goodbye to a pair of old friends just yet. Then I remembered the cobbler down on Main Street. Perhaps he could work the magic he once did for me on an old pair of Hodgeman’s.

My old Hodgeman wading boots.

I hadn’t visited the cobbler for a long while. One of the great quality conundrums is that exceptional quality can sometimes backfire on a business, particularly a small one. Long lasting shoes, for one, are a thing of the past in today’s throw-away society. My last pair of boots were brought back from extinction thanks to true craftsmanship and those visits to my cobbler saved me the cost or replacement several times over for a very small sum of cash handed, almost with guilt, over the counter.

So one fall evening I drove down to Main Street in Vestal, another Main Street largely bypassed and forgotten and mostly barren now save a nail salon, an antiques dealer, a Chinese food takeout, and what I thought would be my cobbler. But sadly, it wasn’t so. The old shoe-shaped sign was now worn, weathered, and somberly saying “out of business”. The door still listed the hours but taped to it was a sign stating, “thanks for your business, it’s time to move on.”

I left the place disappointed. My boots were truly gonners unless I could find another cobbler. I searched online over the next few days to no avail, leaving me no choice but to purchase new.

I settled on Korkers, which in general I liked, but they didn’t quite feel the same. Oh, they were certainly innovative and I wondered what the cobbler would have said about the technology they offered – the Boa “no lace” system, the quick-change soles, the modern look and use of plastics, and even the rear-entry style of their most advanced offering. There were others too, offering soles of high-tech rubber made by Michelin, no less. And then I stumbled on a new joint offering by Patagonia – their line of boots made by Danner. Danner’s take?

What lasts a lifetime? The best wading boots need to be ultra-comfortable and supportive for long days in heavy water. They should grip subsurface terrain, muddy trails and the occasional cross-stream log. They must drain quickly and avoid holding excess water. And on top of being tough as nails, they need a lifetime measured in decades. When Patagonia approached us to partner on the Foot Tractor and River Salt wading boots, we knew it was the start to something good.

The Patagonia / Danner Foot Tractor

Launched in 2019, this was to be Patagonia’s first-ever brand collaboration with Portland, Oregon-based Danner, producing two wading boots built in the USA: the Foot Tractor designed with a heavy-duty aluminum bar sole for big rocky rivers, and the much lighter River Salt, designed for saltwater flats. Both featured stitch-down construction, full-grain leather, a number of small holes to drain water from inside, a variable lacing system with traditional eyelets on the forefoot and an additional quick lacing system in the ankle area, and best of all, they were resole-able — a rare, sustainability-focused feature in wading boots.

They are widely considered among the best wading boots ever made for durability and repairability. Fly fishing forums note these boots were still holding up after 5–6 seasons of hard use for owners who bought them. They were not cheap, however, fetching a price of $450 to $500.

Apparently, the price was too much for most anglers and Patagonia quietly moved on from the Danner partnership and launched a new collaboration in 2023 — the Forra wading boot, built with Italian bootmaker Fitwell. The Forra is lighter, more hike-oriented, and runs $299, signaling Patagonia shifted focus toward a more versatile, less expensive lighter-weight boot.

So, in my own nonsensical way to honor the cobbler, I researched whether any of these Danner boots were still available. To my surprise and delight, I found some at Backcountry.com. There were a few “foot tractors” in my size discounted 30% from the original price of $499. Most would still cringe at the discounted price, but I thought, what the heck for a boot that could last me the rest of my wading days on this good earth.

And so, with the ease of a click that is our modern-day buying experience, I purchased a pair with a nod to the Main Street cobbler. They’ll arrive soon enough and ooze the aroma of genuine leather and fresh Vibram rubber. I think a baptism in the Salmon River this fall is fitting, hopefully the first of many, many more to come…

The Cobbler

“Remember, cobbler, to keep to your leather.”

Michel de Montaigne, French philosopher, on staying true to one’s craft.


By all accounts, it had been a great year of fishing. My logbook listed just shy of 50 trips the previous year, excluding many half hour jaunts on my backyard pond to unwind after work. So, during my early spring gear tune-up and overhaul, it didn’t surprise me that my boots were in pretty sad shape.

I contemplated, dare I say, putting them out to pasture. After all, I’d owned them since I started fly fishing some 10 years earlier. I bought them mainly for bass fishing in the rivers – a relatively inexpensive but classic design – and Hodgeman’s no less – still made in America back then. They’d served their master well, and the mantra of this throw-away society hummed away in my head as I looked them over. Those glossy catalogs of the big brand fly fishing purveyors sell a compelling story – faster, lighter, better, tougher…

Oh, the places they took me…

The fly rod may be the heart and soul of a fly fisherman, but its his boots – the workhorse – that get him where he needs to be. They take the most abuse – the lion’s share of wear and tear of all a fly fisher carries. They are rarely in the picture of the beaming fisherman holding up the bounty of the day’s trip. And at the end of the day the weary fisherman unceremoniously sheds them, and stows them out of the light, beneath his waders, the Rodney Dangerfield’s of the angler’s gear – not getting a whole lot of respect. But like the weathered hands of a farmer, a well-used pair of boots has a story. To anyone who sees them, they speak experience astream. And they get better with age – fit better and somehow feel better. So, for these reasons, and the outright economic prudishness these times demand, I reconsidered the death sentence I was about to hand down…

There’s an old shoe repair store on the mostly bypassed main street of my town. The stores that surround it are largely what you’d call mom and pop businesses. Some storefronts are shuttered looking for new owners, the victims of the big box retailers that now line the parkway to the east. This little place sits among them – a classic sign marking its existence. It is busier than one may think.

You won’t find Gucci here, but he could repair them…

So, I went there one day on lunch break, boots in one hand, new Hodgeman’s felts in the other. Inside, the place breathed leather, shoe polish, and glue. Behind the counter was a doorway, a window into the lonely world of the cobbler. In the back of the shop was a long workbench, shoe anvils, all types of tools – awls, picks, and mallets – and racks of laces, shoemakers stitching, and leather. To the left of the counter were the fruits of true craftsmanship – neatly set in racks, tags hanging with names of owners. Every shoe, boot, belt, and handbag was polished. I began to feel good.

Inside that door waits a true cobbler…

The cobbler soon emerged from the back, clad in a heavy leather apron, workshirt, and brimmed hat. His whole appearance, including the neatly trimmed beard covering his jaw, seemed Amish, though I couldn’t be sure, and his hands testified to his work ethic – rough, calloused, and black with polish. His demeanor was pleasant. He studied my boots, turning them in his big hands – pulling the tongue back, examining the sides.

That my boots needed to be re-soled was apparent. The felt was worn thin and, in some places, de-laminated from the boot bottoms. But it’s what I didn’t tell him that he seemed to focus on. “I can re-glue the inside sole”, he said. He continued examining my boots, noting how the stitching on the outer sides was frayed and, in some cases, parted. “I’ll re-stitch these here”, he added. We settled the particulars – I could pick them up in a week. He marked a tag with my name and phone number and set them in a rack of accumulating work. He asked where I fished. The Susquehanna he was not too familiar with – he had canoed a few local lakes, but not the rivers of the Southern Tier. So, for the next half hour I told him about the fishing – the big smallmouth bass, walleyes, channel cats, carp, and musky that could be caught, and then about the wildlife that could be seen – mergansers that flew like sea-skimming missiles up the river and the osprey that dove straight into the river like a rock dropped from the clouds and the eagles that cast big shadows where they flew, and the great blue herons that at a distance in the early morning mist looked like hunched old fisherman working a pool. All these things I had seen because of my boots.

A week later I returned – a sunny spring day full of promise. I picked up my boots, newly clad with bright white felts, neater in appearance, restitched, all put together, and ready for work. The fee was so nominal I can’t recall it now, but for the memories they’d bring me, I should have paid a hell of a lot more.