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Sole Man 

For Jack Rowin, the cowboy boot is not just another shoe—it’s the ultimate American icon

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Photograph by Mark Compton
JACK ROWIN LIFTS HIMSELF UP SLOWLY FROM his cobbler’s chair, where he’s just plucked the last of a row of tacks from his mouth to hammer into some leather around the insole of a future boot. He ambles slowly to the woodstove, his halting gait a reminder of the time some 25 years ago when a horse fell and rolled on his knees, and feeds a few sticks to cut the November chill in his boot shop. With the fire stoked, Rowin threads his way back through the shop, a riotous jumble of boots, sewing machines, sanders, racks of lasts, and stacks of hides—all blanketed with dust and wood ash. Recovering his seat, he waves a meaty paw at the room, in half dismissal, half benediction: “I’m a bootmaker, not a housekeeper.”

From his ranch house in Northern California, tucked away in the rolling hills outside of Manton (population 450), Rowin, 75, is keeping the art of cowboy-boot making alive. And he’s not alone: Across the U.S., Canada, and Mexico, custom bootmakers continue to craft the utilitarian footwear popularized by post–Civil War herders who drove their cows along the Chisholm Trail. Even as the American Old West has faded into myth, the popularity of cowboy boots continues to grow. Inspired by western films, rodeos, and a sense that no other accoutrement is so quintessentially American, every year thousands from Manhattan to San Francisco continue to put their feet into calf-high, stack-heeled, pointy-toed boots—without a horse in sight.

An Oklahoma native, Rowin ended up in Roswell, New Mexico, with his family when their truck gave out en route to California in the Dust Bowl years. There, Rowin caught the rodeo bug during high school. “Seems like I spent most of my time getting healed up and haired over, and [after two years] I was pretty well satisfied with the damage I’d done to myself,” he says. He eventually moved to California and worked at several Santa Barbara County ranches until 1980, when his knees met that ton of falling horse. Unable to return to ranch life after the accident, Rowin spent a year at a boot shop in Bakersfield learning the trade before opening the business out of his garage. Fifteen years ago, the arrival of bulldozers clearing land for a crop of McMansions drove Rowin north to Manton.

Boots have come a long way since they debuted 150 years ago. Back then, cowboy boots had no fancy stitching, no inlays, and no exotic leathers. Even the de rigueur pointy toe—said to help a rider guide his boot into a stirrup—is a 20th-century fashion conceit. The boots’ price tags have evolved too. Rowin’s creations, like many of his peers’, range from $450 to $2,500. A custom pair by a chic Texas manufacturer like Tres Outlaws can easily top $10,000. And the Tony Lama Boot Company, which has been in business in El Paso since 1911, created El Rey III in 1981: black alligator boots inlaid with 218 diamonds and rubies (17 carats’ worth) and valued at $32,000.

Spending $850 on a custom pair of boots when the same amount could buy four pairs of ready-mades might seem like an extravagance. But Rowin believes getting a pair of boots that fits is well worth the money. And he uses a deceptively simple but labor-intensive fitting system to ensure slipperlike comfort in every pair.


 
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