Living in a woman’s skin means moving through the world constantly aware of your vulnerabilities. Living in a woman’s skin means looking over your shoulder. It means going to the bathroom in pairs, and ‘text me when you get home.’ A woman’s skin can be a terrifying place to live, but in my world, I’m lucky to have found a space where all that worry falls away and being inside this body actually feels powerful as hell.
Contrary to conventional wisdom, I feel safer 40 miles into the backcountry – all by my lonesome, with nothing but a tent for shelter and some layers for warmth- than I do in any crowded city walking the streets after sunset. I don’t fear the threat of bears and mountain lions. I don’t worry about getting lost. What I fear most in this world is the threat of violence all around me.
Chatting with an older female co-worker while she rang up my backpacking groceries, I was told, straight up, “You can’t go out there alone!” I was irritated instantly, but tried to keep the exchange light, so with a chuckle and a grin I responded, “Yeah, I sure as shit can!”
“No you can’t! What if you get hurt, WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO THEN??”
With exasperation in my voice and frustration on my face, I tried my best to level with her.
“Look, if I get hurt I don’t really know what I’ll do, I guess it would depend entirely on the situation. But I won’t let that stop me from living my life. You and I could literally be having this same conversation on any given day…”
She softened and started to come around, “I suppose that’s right. You could get hurt getting in your car and driving to work today.”
With that concession I felt validated and seen, I felt relieved to be finished justifying myself and my trip for the umpteenth time since I planned it months ago. She scanned the final item in my basket – a pint of whiskey— and sighed,
“Now why don’t you just bring him along with you?”
“Who? Jim Beam!?” I quipped, “Don’t worry, he’s definitely coming along with me.”
Why don’t you just bring him along with you?
[Why don’t you just bring Daniel along with you?]
[Why don’t you just bring a man along with you?]
Out in the woods without a male partner to depend on for his sense of direction or his prowess for topography, I am stripped of every crutch. There is no room for insecurity. So out of sheer necessity, while backpacking alone, I feel more capable than ever. I read my map more carefully. I listen to my body more closely. I choose campsites most wisely, and I consider all the possibilities. After seven years in the National Parks, I am proud to have grown into a competent outdoorswoman. Out there alone, I get a chance to put that truth to the test and be really good at something I love.
My co-worker was well intentioned. She was only worried for me and my safety, I know this. But I can’t help but notice that when my male friends head out into the wilderness alone no one force feeds them spoonfuls of cautionary tales. No dude friend of mine who’s spent their entire adult life hiking is made to constantly defend his authority in the sport. Outdoor communities don’t discourage male solitude, we celebrate it! We hoist it up as sexy and admirable, and Instagram rains down praise on these “SeNdErZzZ” of the other gender. We make idols out of men who get out there and “get after it” and we make victims out of women who do the same.
On my last day of hiking, with only four miles to go, I had dragged my juicy ass over 50 miles down the High Sierra Trail, when one giant motherfucker of an overnight backpacker watched me barreling down trail from his campsite below. He gave me weird vibes. He persisted when I sent signals asking him to do otherwise. I felt his eyes on me but didn’t want to talk, so I pretended not to notice him until I heard, “HEY! Where did you come from?”
…. God damn it.
“The pass,” I was short with him.
His eyes inspected the scree hill I had just descended, then landed back on me.
“You came down the pass??”
“Yes.”
“By yourself??” he asked in disbelief, eyes wide, staring at me like I was a crazy person.
“Yeah, man…” scanning his campsite, I noticed only one tent, “Are YOU by YOURSELF?”
“Yeah!”
He seemed genuinely and gleefully oblivious as to the hypocrisy radiating off of him.
“WELL, GOOD ON YOU THEN!!!” I snapped, hurling every inch of sarcasm I had in my body.
I really don’t think he got my point.
There is an inherent double standard within the narrative that suggests the outdoors is a space for grizzly men to be alone with their truest selves by getting in touch with nature, while telling women that these same spaces are dark dangerous places, not to be ventured into alone. The subtext of this narrative is that women must stay inside and remain delicate. We need be protected, we must not kick up dirt or get sand under our fingernails. We need not concern ourselves with doing things that are difficult.
I say fuck that.
Fuck all of that.
For me, going into the woods is taking back a piece of my power. It’s doing the thing that I love on nobody’s terms other than my own. I’m not the bravest or the strongest or the most badass woman alive. But these days, I am the bravest, strongest, most badass version of myself. And I got that way by doing things by myself. By putting myself through college, taking myself on trips abroad, by going out to eat by myself, or taking a hike by myself I learned that I am the only thing that I could ever need. And when you realize that you are more than enough exactly as you are, that’s the moment you realize that you can do any fucking thing you please.