The Shoe Saga

Before setting out on Tasmania's notoriously rugged Overland Track, a wave of gear anxiety hit me. Worried that my trusty, Camino-worn trail shoes wouldn't survive the terrain, I stepped into a Melbourne sports shop for a second opinion. The staff smoothly convinced me to upgrade to a pricey pair of waterproof La Sportivas, even generously offering to take my old ones off my hands for donation.

It was a classic mistake. At the very first encounter with Tasmanian water, the "waterproof" magic vanished, and my feet were instantly soaked from the inside out. I realized too late that my broken-in old shoes would have handled the waterlogged track perfectly fine. Instead, I was stuck for six days nursing brand-new, swampy boots, spending every evening huddled in front of the park hut heaters just to make the next morning's slog bearable.

Back in Melbourne after the trek, I marched into the store to lodge a complaint. The staff agreed it looked like a warranty flaw, but there was a catch: Andy, the warranty manager, was out. They told me to call him later, so I kept moving and boarded a flight to Adelaide for a short side trip.

From Adelaide, I finally tracked Andy down. Learning that I was visiting from the US and couldn't endure a weeks-long international warranty process, he agreed to a full refund. But there was another catch: I had to return to the Melbourne store in person, with the exact same credit card.

The day before my flight out of Australia, I was back at the counter. The refund manager was perfectly polite and ready to process the transaction, but the payment terminal demanded a PIN. Because US credit cards typically don’t require a PIN for standard retail purchases, I didn't have one. The terminal, and the manager, insisted.

Hoping for a quick fix, I called my credit card company right there at the counter with Andy watching. The representative confirmed the lack of a PIN but offered to help me set one up through their automated system. I followed the prompts, verified my identity, and waited for a digital resolution. Instead, the automated voice cheerfully informed me that my new PIN would arrive via snail mail to my US address in ten days, and promptly hung up.

The only other alternative was opening an Australian bank account on the spot for a wire transfer—an absurd hurdle for someone leaving the country in twenty-four hours.

Defeated by international banking logistics, I listened as the manager suggested an exchange instead, pointing me toward a pair of Asolos. I was hesitant; if these failed too, I’d have zero recourse from across the Pacific. But I remembered a fellow hiker on the Overland Track who had worn Asolos and raved about them the entire time.

I took the trade. I just hope these Asolos turn out to be better than the La Sportivas. But honestly, even if they aren’t, one thing is certain: I am not flying back to Melbourne to return them.