I’ve called myself a hiker. The paths (paved & unpaved) of Inwood Hill Park saved my life & brought me back to myself after my brother died ten years ago. I’ve found trails wherever I’ve lived & ventured to—Riverdale Park (which runs parallel to the Hudson River) and Van Cortlandt Park in northwest section of the Bronx; the forests of Orchard Beach and Fort Tryon; the deep woods of Portland; hidden paths in Decatur, Georgia; this past winter 96 miles of trails in Western Massachusetts where I communed with huge laurel bushes and enormous pine, spruce, hemlock and cypress trees. I discovered a newfound love for conifers.
Most recently I’ve been hiking local trails in old growth forests of Orange County, upstate NY. Last week I did the hardest trail I’ve ever done, a steady, steep climb up to 1,445 elevation. I didn’t really know what “1445 elevation” meant or what it would look like until I was at the top of the trail, on the ridge of the mountain, sweaty and out of breath, staring down at several towns, multiple roads I drive regularly, the other side of the mountain I live at the foot of, the stone quarry whose blasts make my house tremor, numerous streams and ponds. I could have turned around once I realized the uphill battle I’d embarked on (which was pretty early on the trail), but if you know me, you know I’m stubborn and I don’t quit.
I’m relentless and once I start something, I will do my damndest to see it through, so I kept climbing, for hours and miles, stopping a few times to stretch and look around. I reached such high altitude I felt the winds the vultures, eagles & hawks soar on, and watched as they flew and dipped parallel to me over the valley.
When I finally reached the top and climbed onto the ridge, I thought: now you’re a real hiker, V.
Later, when I told my sister friend how powerful and free I felt after a few emotionally draining days, she said: It made you feel the truth of yourself.
I started thinking about the lessons I’ve learned from my years of hiking. So far, I have twelve:
Keep your eyes on the path. You could step on a stone & roll. You could trip over a jutting root, a rock, your own feet. You could slip on wet leaves.
Sure, take in the scenery. Stop if you have to, in fact, please do stop. What’s the use of being in the forest if you’re not going stop to gawk at the wonder of it all?
The stone pines when you reach the top & cross the ridge (be careful, those needles are sharp!), the various stone & rock formations, the fallen trees in their various stages of disintegration & the new life that springs forward from them, the birds and insects, that butterfly that seems to be following you. Take selfies of yourself, your glow. Once you’ve taken your pics, get your eyes back on the path, because if you don’t, you will inevitably trip and maybe even fall. It’s happened so many times. Life lesson: Stay present. Pay attention. Look around, look back (sankofa and all of that), but remember not to stay there. Bring yourself back to the here and now.
The passage of time is markedly different in the forest. Trees usually take 20-30 years to reach full maturity. Their growth rate depends on the species, where it’s growing, and other factors. When a tree falls, fungi communities flourish on dead wood, animals like salamanders create breeding grounds, and saplings grow on the nutrient-rich bark. But it can take up to a hundred years or more for wood to decompose, depending on the species and the type of forest. Life lesson: Take all the time you need. Your pace may be different from others—you may go faster, slower, your path may be circuitous, but it is yours.
Don’t take the word of hiking apps when they rank trails: easy, moderate, difficult. Check the comments for what actual humans have to say. I’ve visited trails that were labeled easy that were so not, & would have prepared differently if I had this information in advance. I probably should have done more research on the path I did last week because I was not prepared for the miles of steady, steep incline. I confess: part of me is grateful I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, because I probably would have talked myself out of it: “Nah, we ain’t ready for that.” Life lesson: Be wary of advice you’re given. I’m not saying to stubbornly ignore everyone. I’ve done that and sometimes it’s worked out for me and sometimes it hasn’t. Look & listen to what others say (not everyone though, just the people you know love you), pick and choose what you consider useful. Trust yourself to do what’s right for you. And remember not to talk yourself out of doing something challenging. Reaching the top has its own rewards.
When you hit a patch that looks super precarious—maybe it’s rocky, wet or steep—look around and you’ll most certainly find evidence of how another human found a way around or through. This one is connected to #3… Life Lesson: Explore, investigate how others have done what you are trying to do. Take what you can learn from them, what you find useful, and be prepared to make your own way when the path gets challenging.
Learn the trails markers & follow them. Look for them on trees and on the ground, especially at the top where there are less trees & more rock.
If you lose your way or get disoriented, look around. You’ll find a marker. Life lesson: Follow the signs spirit gifts you. They’re different for everyone. For me they most often come via fauna and flora—hummingbirds when my brother died and for years on the anniversary after; the mourning cloak butterfly that circled then landed on me, and followed me for miles. Later, I wasn’t surprised to learn that the butterfly is considered a spiritual creature, seen as a guide for grieving people.
I’d had a rough few days and that morning I cried for my brother. All these years and the ache of his passing never completely leaves me.
Trust your feet. They know how to curl, grasp and hold onto the earth. And get yourself the right hiking sneakers to aid you in your trekking. Get hiking boots for more arduous climbs. Your ankles will thank you. Life lesson: Trust and listen to your body. It will tell you what it needs.
Consider a walking stick. For me this was necessary when ascending that steep trail last week. I’d never used one, never saw the need, though I’ve seen folks with walking sticks and have even seen them lined up at the beginning of trails, left their by good hiking samaritans. Now I understand why folks use them. Making my way down those steep trails, the walking stick I fashioned out of a fallen branch kept me from tumbling a few times. Life lesson: Sometimes you need help. Seek it.
What goes up, must come down. Meaning: When you’re taking on a steep hike, remember that you have to come back down. Be ready. Don’t only think about the climb up. The descent can be just as treacherous, if not more. Can you get down that steep wall you have to grapple up? Are you equipped, ready? Life lesson: Sometimes we’re so focused on a goal, we forget about the after—how we’ll feel when it’s all done, the joy of accomplishment, the sadness that may follow the completion of a big project (like a book) that’s been a part of your existence for so long. Sometimes/often we forget to celebrate our wins. We just move on to the next thing. You deserve to rest, to grieve, to be happy and sad. You are on a journey. There will be climbs, there will be descents. Prepare as much as you can. Give yourself grace. Enjoy the climb, navigate the descent. This is your path, your journey, look at you trekking it!
I came upon a group of older folks (in their 60s, I think) coming down the steep trail I was climbing up. One waved and asked: “You’re climbing alone?” When I nodded, she shook her head worriedly, “Be careful.” I like to (mostly prefer to) hike alone. I isolate, sometimes. Been doing it for years. Sometimes I cherish my solitude too much. Life lesson: That thing you told yourself “I don’t need nobody, I can do it alone” is a trauma response. You don’t have to do everything alone. It’s also healthy (and at times advantageous) to be comfortable with solitude, but we humans are hardwired to connect. This is not a weakness.
You won’t always want to hike, because you’re tired or you feel defeated/unmotivated/too fuckin sad to move. You never regret it when you make yourself do it, and somehow find the strength to push yourself. When you don’t, you beat yourself up, but you try again the next day. Life lesson: Give yourself grace. Be kind to yourself. And when you need a shove, remember that that too can be done with tenderness.
No matter how much you plan a hike, even if it’s one you’ve done before, unexpected things will happen. Surprises are good sometimes, & you get to enjoy them.
Like that bench you found overlooking the valley, and that ancient healing circle you found in a grove of trees whose energy called to you like a hawk’s screech through the canopy. Life lesson: Not everything has to be planned, studied, mapped out, before it is attempted. Enjoy the ride, the surprises, the missteps too. Getting lost can be magical.
Document your hikes. Take pictures. Write about them. Write about how you felt. About that time, just after your brother died, when you went into the forest crying, snot dripping, whispering over and over, like a prayer: “I’m gonna need you to hold me.” Write about how the birds started chirping around you: blue birds, cardinals, titmice, nuthatches, sparrows. Write about how they held you in birdsong. Life lesson: Self-explanatory.
Hiking has been hugely therapeutic in my life. After my divorce 10 years ago, I hiked the 100 highest peaks in New England, then went back and hiked them all again in winter. So many lessons, pushing through so many things I didn’t know if I’d survive. Moving the body and being in nature is the best therapy!
Amazing revelations and photos in every piece - went on a hike two weeks ago and saw two of those same moths. We were struck by their beauty. 🤍