It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. Nothing too wild — just a little nature, some fresh air, and that feeling of “yes, I’m totally the kind of person who hikes.” I had no idea I was signing up for what felt like a slow-motion disaster movie where the villain was elevation and my only line was, “Wait… this is the trail?”
I packed light — water, snacks, a questionable sense of direction, and some overconfidence. The kind of overconfidence that tells you, “You don’t need to check how steep it is. It’s probably fine.” Spoiler: it was not fine.
The first part of the trail lulled me into false security. Birds were singing. The breeze was perfect. I thought, “Wow. I should do this more often.” And then the trail turned — upward, inward, cruelly twisting like it was designed by someone who hated knees and joy.
It didn’t take long before I was breathing like a broken vacuum, hunched over, hands on thighs, pretending to “enjoy the view” just to rest without shame. And the noises? Let’s just say if anyone was nearby, they might’ve been concerned… or slightly entertained. Every step came with a sound effect — groans, grunts, soft whimpers, the occasional “ow” directed at no one in particular.
And yes — I moaned. Not the elegant kind you hear in spa commercials. No, these were raw, exhausted, “is this how I die?” moans. The kind of noises that make you wonder if your legs are still on your side or have officially started rebelling.
Halfway through, I started negotiating with the trail.
“If I get to that tree, I’ll rest.”
“Okay, now just that rock.”
“Maybe I don’t need to finish this? Maybe turning back isn’t failure — it’s self-care?”
But pride is a loud voice — especially when you’re alone and no one can rescue you from your own poor life choices. So I kept climbing, groaning, and occasionally yelling “WHY?” into the trees like some kind of dramatic forest poet.
Eventually — somehow — I made it to the top. No angels. No applause. Just me, covered in sweat, heart pounding, hair sticking to places it shouldn’t, and a view that I was honestly too tired to appreciate. But even in that moment of breathless chaos, I felt something strange: gladness. Not peace, not joy — just the quiet, ridiculous satisfaction of pushing through something that very nearly broke me (and probably my knees).
There was no photo-worthy pose, no dramatic music swelling in the background. Just a shaky exhale, a slightly dazed smile, and one very clear thought:
“Well… that was something.”
And yes — I still had to walk back down.
A Few Things I Learned:
- You will make weird noises. Embrace them.
- The trail never looks as bad on a map. That’s a trap.
- Always overpack snacks. You’re not stronger than your hunger.
- If someone invites you on a “quick hike,” interrogate them like you’re applying for a loan.
- You might question every life choice halfway through, but reaching the top feels like you survived something epic — even if you just walked uphill and complained the whole way.
Hiking is strange. You go into the woods, get destroyed by nature, leave sweaty and sore… and somehow, you want to do it again.
That’s the real mystery. Not the trail. Not the incline. Not the burning calves or questionable noises.
It’s the fact that once you come down, you’re already thinking,
“Maybe next time I’ll try the longer route.”
Crazy, right?
But that’s hiking.