Hiking alone

Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

Those are the parting words on a sign just before the trailhead to the Crags, Devil’s Playground and, ultimately, Pike’s Peak in Divide, Colorado.

Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

• Sudden changes in weather may create high winds, lightning, rain, hail, snow, freezing temperatures and ice covered rock at any time.
• Do not depend on services, shelter or transportation at the summit.
• Be willing to turn around at any time.
• Your life depends on your ability to hike back down.

Your life depends on it. You are your own rescuer.

But that is exactly how I like it. I prefer to hike alone.

I love the disciplined solitude.

No AirPod-piped music or podcast—because when you hike alone, you must always be aware and alert to the wildlife and hazardous people and changing conditions that could, for real, kill you if you’re not paying attention. So it’s just the songs and mantras that play in my head, pacing my footsteps, moving me forward. The free flow of my thoughts keeping me company.

The personal test of self-propelled endurance.

No coach or chatty hiking partner diversion. Just my own mental gymnastics motivating my own body beyond pain and fatigue and toward a summit. 50 more steps. One more mile. Just one more. Just a little further to see what’s around the next corner. Just one more climb. Keep going. Just. One. More.

The hyper-connection of my senses to surroundings.

My eyes, my ears, my nose, my pores absorbing it all, so that it becomes a part of my soul, a part of who I am. The crisp smell of pine and the yellow-fire scent of sunshine-warmed granite and earth; the acrid warning-odor of big cat urine. The bone-chilling shriek of a marmot. The stark sapphire of a Colorado sky against the brown-dry Armageddon landscape above the tree line.

I greedily take it all in and let it become authentically part of me, these unique senses and experiences unadulterated by other peoples’ voices and opinions, unstained by someone else’s color commentary.

The challenge, accepted and accomplished.

Will I hike with you? Yes, of course. And we will have a lovely time. We’ll make memories and laugh and swap stories.

But for me, the payoff is a little more delicious, the endorphins a little more potent, when I know the accomplishment is mine and mine alone.  

For this, I am unapologetically selfish.

I don’t go into a solo hike blind—I plan my routes and calculate my risks, the timing and the tests I’ll encounter. I carry my gear, my weight, my fears on my own back. I step willingly onto a trail knowing that whatever distance I go forward or up, whatever hardships I face, my own feet will need to bring me back.

There’s a thrill in all of it; a slow-earned adrenaline rush.

I love that it’s never easy.

I was about a third of the way into the steep descent on the Pike’s Peak trail back to the trailhead when I slid on the slick granite pebbles, fell and crashed my already aching knee into a rock. I was hot and exhausted. I wanted to cry. In that moment, I thought about how good it would feel to lie back on the grass, close my eyes and just sleep. I knew I was almost tapped out of core strength, let alone the balance I’d need to navigate the miles yet ahead.

I also knew I had to get back down the trail before the sun set, and I was running out of time.

Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

Your life depends on it.

You are your own rescuer.

I had accepted the challenge.

I had gotten myself up the mountain, and it was up to me to get myself back down.

And I did it. I pulled myself up. I limped along until my knee and cramped muscles loosened again. I sang some Tracy Chapman songs to the wildlife and to soothe my beating heart. I grabbed the outstretched hands of evergreen saplings when I needed an assist on a few daunting steep areas. I gradually picked up my pace, my balance and my confidence. I rejoiced in the car with abundant water and an apple and an overwhelming sense of pride and power.

And though my legs ached, I got up the next morning, and I hiked another summit.

Blissfully alone.