Among the stunning snowy peaks, I caught sight of his silhouette in the distance, only to watch him vanish around a bend framed by vibrant prayer flags. Back in our twenties, we embarked on a three-month trek through Nepal, pausing only to indulge in piping hot chai and comforting dal. After serving in the Peace Corps in the Central African Republic, I eagerly anticipated a romantic journey with my best friend turned boyfriend. However, as hiking partners, we were seldom side by side. I possessed strength as a backpacker, but his prowess far surpassed mine. Whenever I finally caught up to him, a sense of deflation washed over me as the gap between us widened once more. As much as I adored his sense of adventure, this divergence in pace urged me to ponder my commitment to someone who relished solitary hikes. I had often passed judgment on older men who strode ahead of their partners on city streets and nature trails, their torsos propelled forward as if by an invisible force. Yet I justified our approach by convincing myself that we were granting each other the freedom to “hike our own hike.” Solo walking strayed far from the way I was brought up by parents who regularly trekked and biked with their four children in Alabama. “Always keep an eye on the person behind you!” my mother would exclaim to her “ducklings,” as she lovingly referred to us, with a nine-year gap separating me from my younger sister. Once we reached adulthood, my parents prepared to conquer the 2,190-mile Appalachian Trail, the first of three thru-hikes that eventually included the Pacific Crest Trail and nearly the entirety of the Continental Divide Trail. These monumental expeditions within the United States called for extensive training, meticulous preparation, and at least five months to complete. During their journeys, I was taken aback to discover that my father assumed all cooking and cleaning responsibilities. In my younger years, the only meal he ever prepared was heating up a can of Brunswick stew when my mother fell ill. For thousands of miles, he carried additional weight in his backpack while she set the pace. As a teenager in the 1980s, I inevitably wished she resembled the feminist working mothers I aspired to be. However, long-distance hiking completely upended their conventional gender roles. She may have been part of a bridge group in the deep south, but on the trail, she transformed into a trail-blazing force with a partner eager to support her. “What changed?” I inquired once. With a grin, she explained, “He didn’t want to hike alone anymore. And after all these years, I’m content to let someone else handle the cooking!” In 1994, they triumphantly completed their first thru-hike from Georgia to Maine, adopting the trail names Annie and the Salesman, a nod to my dad’s former career selling IBM computers. Little did we know that his time alone would come too soon. “Backpacking feels right because it allows us to live in nature and carry everything we need,” my mother wrote in her journal. They frequently served as beacons of inspiration for younger couples seeking guidance on the trail, who later visited their home in Alabama. On the Pacific Crest Trail in 1999, two hikers in their twenties named Lara and Jason drew arrows in the snow to help guide my parents through the Mount Jefferson Wilderness after learning they had been lost for hours while searching for the trail. Walking together always provided them with a sense of security in the backcountry and even in their everyday biking adventures at home. ‘As a single mother, I relish moments of solitude. But as an environmental educator, I believe walking together may be a language of love and a lifeline.’ Illustration: Rita Liu/The Guardian However, during the winter of 2003, a teenage driver collided with my mother’s bicycle after she left my father to retrieve a pair of forgotten gloves from a local yoga class. At 58 years old, my mother, his eternal hiking partner, passed away instantly, leaving him to learn how to traverse the trails alone. “I hope to live for many more years,” he shared with us weeks after her passing, “but I have already prepared my final wishes for a burial without embalming or a vault, seeking to heal the Earth rather than harm it.” The ultimate planner, he wanted to provide us with clear instructions for his own funeral when the time came. “One of the most difficult things I faced after Ann’s death was hiking without her,” he confided in me, describing how he sobbed at the trailhead before immersing himself in a waterfall and finally donning his backpack. “I had to learn that she could still guide me.” Yet, two years later, in a tragically similar accident, he was killed by another teenage driver while cycling along the shoulder of the road in our hometown. In accordance with his wishes, we laid him to rest in a simple pine box, allowing his body to return to the earth alongside hers. As a mother and educator, I now find myself at the same age my mother was when she passed away, raising my two daughters on my own in a modest 900-square foot rental on a college campus nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. My marriage ended close to two decades ago, and while the differing paces during our Nepal journey weren’t the cause, they served as a stark contrast to the next time I would find love on the trail. Several years after my divorce, I began dating a dear friend from graduate school, embarking on a ten-year cross-country romance that was impractical but incredibly grounding. We initially hiked with my two young children, and I would entice them to keep pace by offering snacks. On one buggy summer trek, to encourage my older daughter to keep moving, I willingly swallowed a black fly while singing that song in a comical manner. However, he would bend down, take their hands, and walk alongside them. When we went backpacking without the children, we would hike together in serene companionship that felt like home to me. This summer, my youngest daughter, a rising high school senior, introduced me to a communication tool for hiking called “red light, green light,” which she learned during an Outward Bound scholarship course in western North Carolina. “I was the slowest one in our entire group,” shared Annie Sky, named after my mother. “At first, I felt self-conscious, but everyone was incredibly supportive. So, if I needed the group to stop, I would call out ‘red light,’ or if I wanted them to slow down, I would call out ‘yellow light.'” One of my daughter’s friends mentioned that her mother used to invite potential romantic partners on hikes. “If a guy walked far ahead, my mom couldn’t determine if he was being protective or too nervous to engage in conversation!” she said. In contrast, my sister has traversed numerous backpacking trails across the Pacific Northwest with her three teenage sons, and her husband often finds himself as the slowest member of the family (he also thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail in his twenties). For safety reasons, their rule is simple: wait at any intersection for the entire group. “We all have different paces,” my sister explained. “But the boys can’t charge ahead without considering others, like their dad.” She then added, “Besides, I can’t fathom a world where he would just leave me behind.” As a single mother, I certainly value my moments of solitude when I can find them. However, as an environmental educator amidst a climate crisis, I believe that walking together may be a love language and a lifeline for me. My father wrote, “Like most things in life, it’s the friends that make the journey.” The trail is a sacred space where I can pay tribute to the people and places I hold dear, carrying that love within me for eternity.
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