The Joys of Hiking

 

The Joys of Hiking

by Mike Walk

Hiking, in its most innocent definition, is the act of walking through nature for pleasure, which sounds simple enough until you realize that “nature” is largely composed of things actively trying to kill you. I do not say this as a critic of the outdoors. On the contrary, I admire nature deeply, particularly when I am viewing it through a reinforced window while holding a cold beverage.

The experienced hiker—recognizable by a backpack roughly the size of a compact refrigerator—will tell you that hiking is “invigorating.” This is a polite term meaning “you will sweat in places you did not previously know contained sweat glands.” These individuals speak reverently of “the trail,” as though it were a benevolent entity, when in fact the trail is a narrow dirt suggestion that leads uphill at an angle normally associated with ladders.

Preparation for hiking is a ritual of great complexity. One must acquire specialized equipment, including boots designed to withstand tectonic activity, socks engineered by NASA, and a water bottle capable of sustaining a small village. There are also trekking poles, which are essentially sticks, except they cost $79.95 and come with instructions. The poles are useful for maintaining balance, particularly when you realize halfway up a mountain that you have made a series of life choices leading directly to this humiliating moment.

Once on the trail, the hiker encounters wildlife. This is often presented as a charming feature of the experience. “You might see deer!” enthusiasts say. What they do not emphasize is that you might also see creatures that regard you as either a threat or a potential meal. Even the less intimidating animals contribute to the general atmosphere of unease. Squirrels, for example, will stare at you with an expression that clearly communicates, “You are not from here, and we have discussed this.”

Then there are the insects. Insects do not merely inhabit the outdoors; they have formed a coalition. Mosquitoes, in particular, operate with military precision, locating exposed skin with technology that suggests significant research funding. The hiker, armed with repellent that smells like industrial solvent, applies it liberally, thereby ensuring that he will not be bitten, but also will not be welcomed in polite society for the foreseeable future.

Despite these challenges, hikers insist there are rewards. Chief among them is “the view,” which is indeed impressive, assuming you survive the ascent and can see clearly through the perspiration. At this point, you are encouraged to feel a profound connection with nature. This connection is typically interrupted by the realization that you must now descend, a process that involves persuading your knees to continue functioning despite their strong objections, and trying not to "descend" at 236 miles per hour.

In fairness, hiking does offer moments of genuine beauty. There is a quietness in the wilderness that is difficult to replicate elsewhere, a sense that the world is larger and older than one’s daily concerns. It is in these moments—usually just before tripping over a rock—that one understands why people are drawn to the experience.

I recall a trip to take a hike in Government Canyon Wilderness Area here in San Antonio Texas, which luckily is more rural and beautiful than the name suggests. This turned out to be pretty taxing as I managed to "hike" so much it felt like I was walking to Cleveland. The whole time I kept thinking that at any moment a mountain lion (puma, cougar, catamount) was going to attack me from behind and strip my scalp off, and dine on my entrails. I made it out. I was exhausted and glad. I need to return there someday, if I ever feel like cheating death.

It is important to approach hiking with a clear understanding of its fundamental nature. It is, at its core, a voluntary decision to go somewhere difficult to reach, become temporarily uncomfortable, and then return home with photographs intended to persuade people that you enjoyed yourself. And perhaps you did. Or perhaps, like many hikers, you are already planning your next excursion, having forgotten the mosquitoes entirely, which suggests that nature’s most powerful force is not its terrain or its wildlife, but its ability to make us believe, against all evidence, that this was a good idea.