The Case for Hiking Alone

I was hiking alone in Boulder this past spring when a man came toward me on the trail, a jagged, baseball-sized rock in each hand. He was in his sixties, I guessed, the same age as me, and he wore street clothes, rather than the Prana or Lululemon shorts and T-shirts favored by the uber-fit locals I normally see. I was 90 percent sure the rocks were improvised weights he carried for exercise and 10 percent worried he intended to bash my head in with them. I looked around but the trail was otherwise empty. I considered brandishing my pepper spray, but clutched it in my pocket instead. It was a beautiful day. The early-morning sun lasered through pine trees, setting aglow pasqueflower and golden banner. The man passed without incident. 

Hiking alone is more dangerous than hiking with friends, yet I prefer it. Alone, I walk at a leisurely pace without holding back a companion. Alone, I pay attention to the forest, to hummingbirds darting among pines, and wild apple and plum trees blossoming. Each week of the summer, new wildflowers parade their lemon yellows, magentas and lavenders. I snap photos endlessly and later look up their names: false lupine, fireweed, wild bergamot. The calm of the woods steadies my forever-jangled nerves. 

I must look an awkward, vertical creature to the deer who regard me without fleeing, or the hummingbird who buzzes me from behind, searching for pollen. The creek, not yet swollen, pipes like a flute as it drops over rocks. Later in the spring, as the water rushes nearly reaching its banks, it bellows like an orchestra. Pines and water and dead and dying organic matter create a sweet, airy perfume. I’m aware of all of these sensations because I’m alone. If I hike with friends, I barely notice my surroundings as we clomp along in our hiking boots, laughing and chatting. 

I start out early, a time when the trails are cooler and empty, and wildlife is out looking for food, though my isolation compounds the danger. A man camping in the woods recently gave me a scare, but that encounter, too, passed innocently, as he likely headed for the outhouse at the base of the trail. As a woman, I’m always conscious of threats. If I should cross paths with a mountain lion, I know the advice: make eye contact, raise your arms, back away slowly. Whether the recommendations are sound, happily I can’t say. A ranger once told me the lions sometimes hide their catch next to the trail, camouflaging it under leaves and sticks. It’s best to leave them alone when they’re guarding it. As for human attackers, I hope pepper spray and carbide-tipped hiking poles dissuade them. I occasionally remind myself of the self-defense I learned years ago: thumbs to eyes, heel of palm to throat, knee to groin.

I’m not religious, but awestruck by a sun-drenched meadow, some Crayola fall foliage or a marmot scurrying over rocks, I might sing Hebrew songs of praise I learned as a child. Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, a Hassidic rebbe at the turn of the nineteenth century, was said to go into the woods alone to pray. Perhaps his spirit has found me in these Rocky Mountain foothills. I thank the universe that I’m alive to witness the wonder. Aside from occasionally belting out “the hills are alive,” I’ve never been moved to sing while hiking with friends. 

There’s nowhere I hear my thoughts as clearly as alone in the woods without cell service, carrying a backpack crammed with a first-aid kit, bug repellent, sunscreen, a snac, and an extra snack should I get lost or a meet a stranger who’s hungry. A generous hiker once gave me his protein bar when my blood sugar was low and I mean to pay it forward. I drop an extra phone battery in the pack, too, plenty of wate, and a rolled-up rain jacket when the weather calls for it and I remember to check. It makes a too-heavy load for a simple four-mile hike, but I like it. The weight does my 63-year-old bones good. I keep my phone in my pocket for photos and to follow a map on the screen.

Decades ago, when my ex-husband and I first moved to Boulder, we hiked together. Les had gone to school at the University of Colorado and knew all the best trails, the ones in Chautauqua Park and around Brainard Lake. I loved the unfamiliar flowers that weren’t the tulips my mother had knelt to plant in front of our Far Rockaway, Queens, home or the puffy pink and blue hydrangeas that sprouted from our bushes every spring. I hadn’t grown up hiking. My father’s idea of exercise was a five-minute walk after dinner, a shpatzir, as he called it in the Yiddish that was his first language. When you’re used to hiding from the Nazis in forests, you don’t spend time in one for recreation. With Les as my guide, I never worried about getting lost, but I never learned my way, either. 

Attempting to hike alone after our divorce, I got horribly turned around just driving to the trailhead and ended up on an unpaved road out of cell phone and Google Maps range. Holding back tears, I begged a local for help. Shaking his head — I wondered how many technology-dependent people turned up at his property — he directed me to a main avenue, and I managed to find the trail. I celebrated briefly. Halfway up, though, I couldn’t spot the route forward and turned around. Still, I felt triumphant. Attempting a trail solo boosted my confidence back then, and still does now. Over time, technology has made it easier to discover trails and to keep from getting lost. My hiking app barks at me if I wander as few as five steps off the path. I am now the person friends turn to for advice on which trail to do, and I can confidently describe how far it is back to the parking lot to hikers from out of town.

By all means, hike with friends as a way of spending time with them. I do. But hike alone to spend time with yourself and the forest, to enjoy a thought uninterrupted by email, social media or a companion’s reaction. When modern life and the current news cycle pummel your nervous system, there’s no better therapy. At least, there isn’t for me.