Why hiking the long trail is about so much more than putting one foot in front of the other
“Why?” That’s the question I always get asked when I reveal the reason I’m taking the week off. It’s a good question. Hiking 15 miles day after day, by myself, weighed down by everything I need on my back… as I said, good question.
During my first long-distance trail, things went wrong. It was 2015 and I’d taken on the 100-mile South Downs Way in the gently rolling hills of south England. There were fierce winds, driving rain and lightning storms. I suffered paralysing night terrors. My tent was almost mowed down by a combine-harvester. And, after not being able to get hold of me for days, my family registered me as a missing person. True story.
But despite all this, as I sat at Eastbourne station waiting for a train home, I wrote in my diary, “This has hands-down been the best experience of my life. I can’t wait to get home and plan the next one!”
Now I’ve got the hang of things (and my family have calmed down) things tend to run more smoothly. That’s not to say every long-distance hike is without its drama; the unpredictability is what makes it so appealing. It’s empowering to realise you’re able to cope with new situations and problems, to draw on resources or instincts you didn’t know you had. Crossing a fast-flowing, waist-deep river; coping with the ferocious Highland midge; finding your way across a pathless moor in thick fog; pitching a tent during a snowstorm; clambering over boulders; running out of gas; simply learning to find peace with being off-grid and not able to contact loved-ones.
Solo hikes are also an extraordinary example of enforced mindfulness. You can spend a lot of time and pay a small fortune to be taught how to be more “in the moment” – or you can hop on the trail, which is free, where you don’t even need to try to be mindful. It just happens.
Before I set off that very first time, I expected to have many lightbulb moments. Ah-ha, I’d think. That should be my next career move. That’s why I always date the wrong men. That’s how I’m going to afford to move out of my cramped London flatshare.
Instead, the opposite happened. Every day, from sunrise to sunset, was occupied exclusively with attending to my most basic needs. How do I get from A to B? Did I miss the path? Where’s my next water supply coming from? My ankle hurts, I need to stop and stretch it. Is this a sensible place to camp? It’s about to piss it down, I need my waterproofs. Are those cows chasing me? I need a poo.
I didn’t get anywhere near the tip of Maslow’s triangle. But, afterwards, I felt more restored than ever and it’s been the same story every time since. Stepping away from the ordinary mess of life is far more productive and useful than attempting to tidy the mess. When I’m on the trail, I’m completely present; I never feel happier, freer and safer, and that lasts long after I return home.
A friend once suggested, with the kindest intentions, that I should be wary of telling men I was dating about my solo escapades. She said they’d find it intimidating or a bit weird, that it would scare them off. I didn’t agree with that as a principle, but I did find it interesting. It hadn’t occurred to me that people might judge it that way.
I’ve since understood that it’s largely a gender thing. People find it hard to see why a woman would want to stray so far from comfort, to rely so heavily on practical skills and her own gumption. They say, “You’re so brave,” and I always wonder if they say the same to men. One guy even told me, “If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t let you do it.” The horror of being that man’s girlfriend!
I was lucky to meet a man who, although not wholly an outdoorsy sort, thought my solo treks were “cool”. He appreciates my need to escape and he’s never insecure about the fact that I’d often rather go alone than with him; he’s never questioned it. Because that’s the thing: it’s personal. It’s my own space where I keep my own timings and habits, make my own mistakes, sing my own strange versions of songs and, most importantly, where I don’t have to compromise. It’s a rare thing, that, and it’s absolute bliss.