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Walking sticks

Sallie Satterthwaite's picture

Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
I have for years been an aficionada of the companionable walking 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 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 that announced 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 spirits 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 prohibitive 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 Jean’s home in Juneau, when we noticed that the U.S. 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 loose 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 reaches 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 has given me a wonderful confidence when walking on boulders or soft sand.
Now my demon requires I carry either the little cane or the staff. When back muscles were in spasm recently, that staff made walking possible. I read somewhere that using a stick 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 Peachtree City’s paved 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.
I found a cane in the visitor’s center for the Okefenokee Swamp south of Valdosta, crafted by a disabled veteran in the area. I don’t recall what I paid for it, but it was less than $20.
And it’s nice to have a backup stick when I (inevitably) lose one.

A cane or walking stick can be a friendly companion and a connection to the earth. A comfort on life’s oft uncertain road.
Sallie Satterthwaite of Peachtree City has been writing for The Citizen since our first issue Feb. 10, 1993. Before that she had served as a city councilwoman and as a volunteer emergency medical technician. She is the only columnist we know who has a fire station named for her. Her email is

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