A Case For Chacos
Grand Canyon Sunrise in Chacos
The worlds best adventure-sandal (as I see it).
An old adventure-industry crusty, who I would characterize as predominantly dogmatic (don’t fret, I am plenty dogmatic myself— just keep reading for evidence), drew a line in the sand last summer and stood firmly in opposition of Guides wearing Chaco sandals.
I cannot quote the source verbatim, but the gist was something like: Guides wearing Chacos = hamburger feet. Obvious hyperbole, but if you read on you will see hyperbole is one of the few devices I keep in my argumentation tool kit (it’s parked next to sarcasm), so who am I to judge.
Disclosure: I am a semi-retired canoe guide. I wear Chaco sandals. I employ canoe guides who wear Chaco sandals. I have close friends who are sea kayak guides, who also wear Chacos. I do not own stock in Chaco. I believe in foot freedom.
For the uninitiated, the Chaco sandal is basically an ergonomically shaped rubber foot bed seated atop a grippy (even when wet) sole and bound with one continuous strap winding through the sandal and over your foot three times. Chacos were invented by a raft guide working on the Colorado River in the southwest of the United States, with the aim to “create the ultimate footwear for outdoor adventures in and out of water”. To that I say: mission accomplished.
A solid case should be built on evidence sampling both points of view, so here’s my attempt to steel-man my adversary’s malformed opinion: My very first trip as a canoe guide involved an incident occurring before the canoes even hit the water. While lapping between our transportation and the river’s edge I was jogging to grab another load when I heard a loud ‘snap’ from the vicinity of my feet. Funny thing, the ‘snap’coincided with an explosion of pain from my left foot. Yep. My watering eyes confirmed a rock had freshly adjusted my baby-toe about ninety-degrees from its usual location. Frig.
I wish this had only happened once, but no, unfortunately not the case. Whilst undertaking the same task, but in another province, I suffered the same injury. A fool might have been convinced there’s an interprovincial consortium of rocks with a common modus operandi— and I was feeling pretty foolish. This time it was my right foot, and my partner was there to witness my post-breakage chant. Ten years later she still reminds me of the nonsense I was repeating immediately following the break. In my defence, I firmly believe the portion of my brain normally occupied with keeping my syntax between-the-lines (of comprehension) had been fully and immediately diverted to discovering the source of the pain in my foot.
Finally, and perhaps most egregious of all, I present the only other downside I’ve experienced while wearing Chacos: the cheese stink. I have to caveat this, however, with the fact that ANY footwear with which you wear into and out of the water, throughout the entirety of a season (or longer if you play in multiple latitudes) will invariably generate a repellant and vulgar aroma. I retell the following with ample shame: I was visiting an REI in Las Vegas to replace the very Chacos in question when the incident occurred. You see, my Chacos were at the end of their lifespan. It had been some considerable time since their last scrubbing, too. A collection of foot grease, dead skin and bacteria, plus ambient grime in plenitude had congealed in a disgusting layer between my foot and sandal. And it stunk.
On my way to the Chaco display at the back of the REI store I was distracted by a pair of pants which warranted a side trip to the change room. Obviously it’s impossible try on pants without removing footwear, so off came the Chacos. My error became painfully obvious as my eyes watered and nostrils burned. Removing my Chacos unleashed the stench in its full insulting force. Too late- that genie wasn’t going back into its lamp. The change-room was completely polluted. Glancing over my shoulder while I tried to inconspicuously leave the vicinity I witnessed an REI employee shudder and convulse as they waded through my invisible noxious wake. They soon returned with their shirt pulled over their nose and deployed a can of Lysol spray in the change room— as if the delinquent was Ebola virus rather than Chaco Cheese! Overreaction, IMO.
But that’s it. Two decades of being a faithful Chaco supporter without so much as a philandering glance towards Keens, Tevas or Merrell, my tales above are the extent of evidence against these foot-borne gems.
My Chacos have hiked me up and down the Grand Canyon’s Bright Angel, North, and South Kaibab trails. They’ve taken me down Zion’s Virgin River, twice, and through the Paria Canyon, one of the longest slot canyons in the world. I have hiked in my Chacos over razor-sharp nascent lava fields to stand within meters of an active flow in Hawaii, and worn them to safely swim in charcos (yes, like Chaco, but with an ‘r’) formed in ancient lava flows in the Canaries. Heck, they’ve even re-emerged still on my feet after succumbing to a sucking mud-hole on an Algonquin portage. I think any other footwear would have resigned to a mucky grave in that instance, but not my Chacos. I’ve walked them over a 2000 year old Roman aqueduct, driven them through a 2400 year old Sequoia and paddled them over ancient Mi’kmaq eel weirs. They’ve stood on polished marble, stepped in dog-shit, run a 10k, and were permitted in a Michelin Star restaurant. I’ve even used them as a beacon to signal yet-to-be discovered kith! Really, if I see you wearing Chacos I already have my mind made up that we’ll be friends.
All that to say my feet have yet to turn into ground chuck. The miles have been many, and the terrain varied, but Chacos remain the best adventure sandal for canoe tripping, hiking, lounging in camp, swimming… You get the point— I believe in these sandals and I also believe everyone deserves happy feet. Don’t get me wrong— I’m not suggesting you immediately run out and engage in blind consumerism, but maybe next time you’re in the market for three-season footwear, try on a pair of Chacos. You’ll be glad you did.
