What is a hiker?

Somewhere between tourist and explorer there occurs in human development a stage which is physically and psychosocially impossible. It is that unfathomable stage known as the hiker. A creature of undefined by psychologists, misunderstood by park rangers, either admired or doubted by tourists, and unheard of by the rest of society.

A hiker is a rare combination of doctor, lawyer, Indian and chief. She is a competent woods person with her copy of Desert Solitaire as proof. He is the example of manhood in worn-out hiking boots, a sweatshirt two sizes too large and a hat two sizes too small. She is a humorist in a crisis, a doctor in an emergency, a trailblazer, backpacking stove tender, and song leader. He is a comforter in a leaky tube tent on a cold night and a pal who has just loaned someone his last pair of dry socks.

A hiker dislikes 5:00 AM alarm clocks, waiting in line, taking the car to the mechanic (and being asked, “You drove it WHERE?”), and proofreading reports. She is fond of sunbathing in the Grand Canyon, exploring, rock climbing, a 1965 pick-up truck, and weekends. He is a dynamo on weekend hikes, exhausted the next Monday, but recuperated in time for the need weekend. She is good at finding lost trails, downhill hikes, and chasing scorpions out of sleeping bags. He is poor at crawling out of a sleeping bag on raining mornings, remembering salt, and getting to bed early. She is a lover of the out-of-doors, knee-deep in poison ivy.

Who but he can carry a wet sleeping bag, play sixteen games of Uno in succession, carry two packs, whistle “A Fistful of Dollars” through his fingers, speak pig Latin in Spanish, stand on his hands, sing 37 verses of Ging Gang Goolie, and eat four helpings of dinner.

She is expected to hike 25 miles in a weekend when during the week all the walking she does is from the car to the elevator. He is expected to take a 1989 VW over a jeep trail. He is expected to ride for 300 miles sharing the back of a panel truck with 16 other people and 23 packs. She is expected to hike energetically when all she has had to eat are pop tarts, rice and chicken soup, roll-ups made with stale tortillas and beef jerky, and 3 melted chocolate bars. He is expected to sleep warmly in the mountains in a sleeping bag so thin you can see the stars through it.

For all this, she gets blisters, a beat-up pack, sprained ankles, twisted knees, a sunburn on her nose, and a bad cold. All for the glory of seeing a place that the tourists never go. You wonder how he can stand the pace. You wonder why she doesn’t quit all the nonsense and press on to higher things. But on Saturday morning when the hiking group gathers in the parking lot to brandish road directions and trail maps, you know why.