In the dimly-lit toilets of a popular trail town diner, a bible lays open on a small wooden table. Someone has helpfully highlighted the following passage:

“If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.”

I take a picture with my phone, show it to my friends – they laugh, and I laugh with them, brushing it off. A joke, nothing more.

Some weeks later, already in another state, I receive a message from a friend back in London: Have you seen the news? A journalist and LGBTQ rights activist was shot in Northern Ireland. She’s dead. That day, I find myself trembling on the trail, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with how many miles I’ve covered. It does not occur to me to reach out to Hufflepuff for comfort; after six weeks on the trail, I have already lost the reflex to grab their hand, to casually touch their back as I walk by, to give them a quick kiss in the mornings. Instead my body has become rigid, as if by tensing my muscles I could keep the world out.   

***

I have written a lot about the amazing community on the AT, and I’m grateful to all the friends and strangers we’ve met, the countless small acts of kindness scattered along our path. In writing this, I’m aware that most people, both on the AT and in the towns it passes through, are good and caring people – the problems I’m addressing are less about individuals and more about those systems, norms and processes that make the trail a less safe space for some of us. The AT, of course, is not only one community but a set of diverse trail cultures and experiences. But the truth is that the trail is permeated by a culture of toxic masculinity and heteronormativity, which can make it a complicated matter to be a queer hiker in the woods.

It’s still the early days of spring and the temperature drops below zero nearly every night. At a shelter, a young woman and two older men are huddled around a fire pit, leaning in to catch the last heat of the dying flames. They are immersed into a discussion about camping stoves – a popular topic during those first weeks in Georgia. We join in, more for the warmth than the conversation, and as usual, our accents spark a series of questions. “Oh, Finland and France”, the young woman exclaims, surprised. “So how do you two know each other?” “Oh, we are actually married”, I respond and instantly regret my words as everyone around us freezes. Skilfully avoiding eye contact, the young woman steers the conversation back to camping stoves.

It requires no particular effort to recognize prejudice through the most direct cases – those that involve a threat to one’s physical safety or explicit verbal abuse. But by focusing only on the most extreme cases, we risk missing the wider dynamics of marginalizing queer people; more typically, homo- and transphobia lives in the subtext: the unspoken assumptions, the silences in between words, the sudden hardening of someone’s expression. The uncertainty, always questioning: Should we come out or not? Is this person likely to be queerphobic? If yes, do they seem threatening, or will it just be awkward? If they are ‘gay-friendly’, does it mean they are also trans-friendly? Are they acting strange because they noticed we’re sharing a tent? Privilege, my friend, is never having to ask these questions.

As a queer person, visibility is rarely a simple question of yes/no but rather a constant process of negotiation, a source of anxiety, and at times, a matter of survival. As a queer, non-binary couple, however, these dynamics could get even more complicated. Quickly learning to present by default as two ‘very good friends’, the pairing of two perceived ‘females’ seemed to nevertheless invoke in fellow hikers an unabating need to clarify the exact nature of our relationship. If I had gotten a penny for each time someone asked if we’re sisters, I’d had no trouble financing my thru-hike (hint: sisters are usually from the same country!) On those occasions when we did present openly as a couple, people would sometimes go to amusing lengths to avoid seeing the obvious (once, after talking exhaustively about the different countries we had lived in together, and our shared future plans, a man seemingly confused asked if we worked in the same professional field).

It was going to rain that night, and we briefly hesitate in front of the half full shelter. Eventually, we walk further down the trail to pitch up our tent on a small clearing– it had kept storms out before. Once inside, the soft thudding of the rain drowns out every other sound, as if the forest was completely still. Lying there, I look back to the countless nights spent in our tiny, over-priced London apartment months earlier. An hour upon hour of googling about sleeping bags – synthetic or down? minimum R ratings? – finally settling on a 10 degree Enlightened Equipment double down quilt specifically designed for couples – one of our most expensive items of gear. It did not occur to either of us that this purchase would effectively out us every time we slept in shelters. I remember the first storm arriving, and tentatively laying the quilt on the cold shelter floor, both of us crawling inside. I remember the looks and the whispers, and I shudder.

It was only to a select few – our closest friends – that we came out as non-binary. The trail community is extremely gendered, and even “LGBTIQ friendly” people usually read us as a lesbian couple. It didn’t feel like it was worth the effort and the risk to correct them. In a way, on this front we didn’t even exist on the AT. Gender dysphoria affects most non-binary/trans people, and can range from a vague sense of discomfort to extreme anxiety. For Huffle, who already experiences frequent dysphoria in their normal life, being repeatedly misgendered could get particularly overwhelming with few chances of relief. In our everyday lives, we tend to surround ourselves with people and spaces where we can be ourselves, allowing a momentary break from a cisnormative world. On the trail, we ultimately learnt to find those spaces in nature; in the end, the trees and the bears care very little about gender indeed. But it’s not worth pretending the AT is not ultimately a social experience – after all, it is the vivid stories of comradery and friendship that people still remember years after their hike.

***

I don’t think that most people who are not part of a marginalized group, including those who are allies, realize the mental and emotional effort it can take just to exist in a world that is inherently violent towards you. Day after day of convincing myself that it’s just a joke, all of it – if I just try hard enough, it will bear no impact on me. Because to get upset is to be weak of character. I used to envy the ease with which some people, white men mostly, carried themselves through the woods, never questioning if they belonged, and, always taking up exactly as much space as they wanted.

At the campsite, I notice a man looking at us weirdly and I feel the hair at the back of my neck stand up. We pack up, hike on and do our first 20+ day. That night, my sleep is dreamless and heavy.

I hope my hiker friends won’t get defensive. This is not an attack against you. I loved my time on the trail and in the US – rarely have we experienced so much kindness, and met so many great, smart, surprising people. It is a wonderful community – and yet the issues I and many others are talking about are real. A part of the problem is that a common reaction among those who have no personal experience of the issue, is to deny what does not correspond to their personal perspective. Perhaps, it is because of the need to cling on to the idea of a good community, made of good people. But why is pointing out problems perceived as an attack against the community itself, rather than a call to make it better? What happens when entire societies refuse to listen, instead choosing to villify those who choose to share their struggles?

***

If you are queer person considering hiking the AT and concerned about your well-being, all I can say is, be prepared, for the trail is not the inclusive utopia it is sometimes made out to be. But know there are others out there; what I ultimately found was that we shared a sense of solidarity and belonging that enabled friendships to emerge, growing deeper with each step as we made our way towards Maine. I found that we strived to build our own communities, carving out safe spaces in the mountains we all loved so much. And somewhere along the way, my body became viscerally free and newly mine in a way it had not been before. Treading a narrow footpath covered by roots and dead leaves, we leave ourselves behind and momentarily glimpse beyond what we thought we knew. Don’t let fear stop you from trying – there is so much more out there than what can be described in words. But don’t allow pride to take precedence over your safety and well-being either – it is equally important to know when it’s time to take a break, when the trail no longer serves you.

***

Yes, it was often tiring to be queer on the AT, and undoubtedly, the same holds true for other marginalized groups. Yet, I still cherish those moments several months after finishing the trail, and I would not exchange my experience on the AT for anything in the world. By getting out there, whether it’s for a thru-hike or a quick overnighter, you are constructing an alternative narrative, redefining the outdoors and what it means to be a hiker. I’m immensely proud of every one of you who despite the odds finds themselves in the woods. Wishing you all the best of luck for your adventures!