When a Woman Goes Wild
“And you’re doing it all by yourself??”
That was the most frequently asked question by far when I first told people about my intended thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. That, and whether I’d have my boyfriend and/or a firearm with me.
The answer was yes, technically, I’d be going at it alone. But it’s hard to believe you're ever totally by yourself on the PCT. Thousands of people set out each year to hike the whole thing through in a season. Hundreds succeed. Thousands more go out for day hikes, weekend trips, long section hikes, and trail maintenance—and it’s not like there’s a separate trail for those people. If you’re walking this trail, you’re crossing paths with others multiple times per day, most days.
Most aspiring thru-hikers embark on the journey for personal reasons, and so they begin alone. But solitude is not what you get on the PCT, at least not anymore. Thirty, twenty, even ten years ago, the people setting out for a long-distance trek of the PCT would have been stepping into an ocean of isolation, punctuated with islands of togetherness. Today, you can glimpse trickling creeks of solitude here and there, but if you really want to be alone, you have to work at it.
"Yeah, I'll be starting alone, but I mean it's not exactly a solo expedition. The trail is very well marked and tons of people attempt this thing, it's a well-established community. Dozens of people start from the southern terminus each day, so I'll be crossing paths and meeting people all the time. I expect to make lots of friends!"
"Plus, you know, it's not exactly in the middle of nowhere. The trail goes right through some towns and really close by others, and the people who live out there are mostly aware and supportive of hikers. I'll have a ton of support along the way from kind strangers. It'll be awesome!"
"And, like, if you think about it, it's actually super safe. I'll be out in the woods, far from the constant dangers of cities. I mean, statistically speaking I'm more likely to get attacked while walking from my car to my apartment than I am to get into trouble while hiking. Don't worry, I'll be safe!"
I immediately move to assuage, assure, coddle, in the face of this question, overcompensating to try and control people’s worry, but I also know it’s warranted. It’s risky to go out into the wilderness, and it’s even riskier if you aren’t a man. For many of us, the most threatening element of wilderness activities isn’t rock slide or avalanche, not wildlife or poisonous plants, it's not wind or rain or heat. It's human men. Just like it is everywhere else.
So I tell people I'll be careful, I tell them I'll find a group and stick with them. But I know myself, and I know I’m likely to spend more hours alone than with friends. I know there are times I’ll hike for miles and days on end with a group, just as well as I know there are times I'll end up standing alone on the side of the road, thumb out, ready to take a ride from the first stranger who pulls over and seems nice enough. I know I'm an easy mark.
I've heard what can happen, read the stories, seen the posts. People sharing their journey on social media, approached on trail by stalkers who already knew they were gonna be there. Women kidnapped from near the trail. A woman waking in the middle of the night to the sound of the guy she was hiking with that day unzipping her tent door.
So I get it. I know where the fears come from. I understand. And I do still get scared every time I'm out there. Those first few moments right after someone picks you up for a hitch, trying to sound casual while probing for some information you can use to convince yourself they’re definitely not a serial killer. The unknowable middle-of-the-night darkness that keeps you in your tent until you simply cannot hold your pee any longer. The unsettling feeling of night-hiking with a headlamp, your body a moving target that can’t see further than 12 feet ahead of itself, much less anything in the periphery.
Bad things do happen to people who leave the safety of their walls, their home, their role. But then again, bad things happen to people who stay put, too. I'm not dumb enough to think nothing terrible will happen to me in the wild, but I'm smart enough to tell myself it won't. I’m smart enough to try and keep fear from guiding my decisions.
Even if I die out there, at least I’ll have lived.
