While hiking up to an overnight “refugio”(hiker’s lodge) in Torres del Paine, Chile, anyone I encountered was equipped with trekking poles. (On at least one occasion, in a crowded boat, my proximity to these devices, irresponsibly packed-pointy end up and threatening the well being of my eyes, prompted me to suggest to the offending owner a safer way of stowing them in her pack-pointy end down. My suggestion was met with an icy glare.) I rued leaving my set at home.
Within a short time a man came striding toward me, a beautiful, natural, wooden walking stick in hand. Suddenly, I recalled the days before the metallic poles were ubiquitous. One would arrive at a trail, look for a suitable fallen branch to use as a walking stick, and if the stick had been of particular merit, perhaps leave it at the trailhead for another. Somehow all this had slipped my mind, but I immediately set out in hopes of finding one of my own. After a few trials I found it. The height, width and weight were perfect. The stick helped me navigate across streams, manage steep inclines, and maneuver on rocky paths. When I arrived at the lodge that evening I brought it in as a trusted friend. The following day it proved equally invaluable, giving me leverage against gale force winds.
Returning to base I left it for another, hoping it’s fine use would carry on.