On a path in a remote area of West Papua, only accessible by aircraft, was a short aboriginal man with thick vascular arms, equally thick wide hands, and a deeply creased face. He was a Dani tribesman; a fearsome group known for headhunting and cannibalism. And he was walking closely behind me. Not a comfortable, western-standard, socially acceptable distance behind me, but merely a short thick vascular arm’s length away.

The Dani traded in headhunting and cannibalism around 40 years ago in favor of wood carving and tourism. Johnny, a Dani tribesman, and our guide and porter, wore a t-shirt, camouflage cargo shorts, and a knit cap. His attire was familiar but his large bare feet were something all together different. They were the widest, thickest, dirtiest feet I had ever seen. His toes were like round mallet heads which dug into the trail and pulled him forward with each steady step. He passed over mud, toothy jagged rock, and thorny brush all the same. Johnny’s feet were made for walking.

Although we all start out with the same soft, temptingly bitable, spongy little feet, Johnny’s feet have journeyed a very different path than most others, including and especially, my own. He has the rugged feet of a hobbit. I have the feet of a princess. If Johnny’s feet are like a pair of wolves moving easily through nature, my feet are toy poodles lounging on the living room couch. Johnny’s feet have adapted to walk trails and backroads, while mine are unsettlingly unchanged and best suited for a pair of comfy slippers. They’ve been domesticated and pampered into a state of disability, and require special shoes for running, for hiking, for working, and for most every possible activity short of going to bed. Outfitted with specialized trekking shoes and I was still no match for Johnny’s speed, agility, or traction. You should know that Johnny owns shoes, but chooses not to wear them because he doesn’t like to get them dirty. I understand. After the hike, it took me an hour to clean my shoes. Johnny stepped into a stream on our way back and was good to go.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m fairly fond of my feet and I have no intention of following in Johnny’s naked footsteps. I’m certainly not ready to become host to a hookworm, or any other list of foot invading parasites that likely live along the feces lined trails of West Papua. Johnny’s callused feet, which could be confused as grizzly paws, would scare the hell out of even the most seasoned reflexologist. But honestly, what the hell happened to my feet? How could the human foot be so capable, while in comparison, mine are apparently so fragile. Should I enroll them in some sort of sole-searching, strength and endurance boot camp? Should I take more barefoot walks in the park, or walk hot coals on a spiritual retreat?

Back on the trail I stumbled forward, slipped through the narrow mud track, and stopped cold at the site of each shoe-soaking stream in order to muster enough balance to step across the regular Papuan bridge; a fallen branch. My thighs were weak and unreliable after two days of hiking so Johnny offered his hand to help me across. I reluctantly took it and suddenly felt like a Victorian era damsel being helped out of a carriage. Johnny’s feet were quiet and sure on the trail. He moved barefoot and silent behind me, always present and always close. He was there watching out for me, to catch me as if I were taking my first wobbly steps. Maybe I just needed a different pair of shoes.

For more on West Papua see our photo essay, Naked, Fingerless, Serenading Hikes.