In Praise of Slow Hiking

On July 12, 2015 ultramarathoner Scott Jurek broke the speed record for running the Appalachian Trail. He ran from Georgia to Maine (2,189 miles) in 46 days, 8 hours, and 7 minutes. To accomplish this feat, he relied on the following technology and devices: lightweight, waterproof, and heatproof clothing, “air-mesh” running shoes, a GPS satellite tracker, a GPS watch, an iPhone, hydration systems, electrolyte tablets, aluminum foldable trekking poles,”industrial water sprayers to simulate misting,” “an ice cooler to cool my core down,” 6,000-7,000 calories a day, and a pneumatic compression leg-massaging machine powered by solar panels on top of his support van, driven by his wife and crew.

Dr. Anna Lembke in Dopamine Nation

I have never been a fast hiker, even without a heavy pack. I have never seen any reason to aim for speed on the trail. I am on the trail because I want to be in that beautiful place on that beautiful day, and I want to take my time to savor the experience, breathing deeply of the mountain air, taking in the expansive vistas, examining wildflowers, pausing to rest when I am tired and hungry. By maintaining this leisurely pace I can hike all day and typically arrive in camp by late afternoon, even when I have completed a twenty mile day, and with time remaining to set up camp and enjoy a cup of tea.

It puzzles me then when I read about hikers like Scott Jurek, described above, and when I encounter them on the trail. The first time that happened was many years ago, before I had ever heard the term, trail running. I was on a long trek in the Olympics and had just reached Gray Wolf Pass, a remote corner of that mountain range where the trail crosses from the Gray Wolf watershed to the Dosewallips. Even then that trail got little use and therefore was a wonderful route for hikers like myself who go into the mountains to seek solitude. I had just reached the pass and was sitting down to rest after the long climb and to eat some lunch. I heard a ruckus of voices coming up the trail towards me from the Dosewallips side. Three men appeared, stopping briefly to chat, continuing to run in place as they did so. They were wearing shorts and T-shirts and had only a small fanny pack with them, each one carrying a water bottle in one hand. I was surprised to see that they carried no overnight pack, for at this point on the trail it was a long way from the nearest trailhead, and they obviously would not be spending the night. The men explained that they were doing a thirty mile loop and expected to be back to their vehicles by nightfall at the same trailhead where I had started three days ago. I was amazed by these men who would not even stop to rest at a mountain pass and chat with a friendly hiker. Instead they ran off down the trail, shouting back at me, “See you later alligator!”

I now frequently encounter trail runners, especially on the popular trails. They often rush by me as I climb steadily towards a pass, nearly knocking me over on more than one occasion. The sport seems to have gotten a lot more complicated than it was when I first encountered those three runners on the Gray Wolf Trail, requiring industrial water sprayers and ice coolers to complete the rapid journey. It has about as much to do with hiking as ski racing has with building a snowman.

Many years ago, on a long backpacking trip from White Pass to Timberline on Mt. Adams, I was hiking east on the south slope of that mountain, not far from the trailhead where my parents would be picking me up soon. I glanced at my watch and noted that I was well ahead of schedule, so I followed a small stream uphill some distance from the trail, and took off my pack and rested there. It was late August, and thus most of the flowers were spent by that time. Still there were a few faded yellow monkey flowers blooming among the dense moss by the stream, and a perfectly shaped rock invited me to linger, leaning against my pack. I watched while a dragonfly flitted back and forth across the water, finally landing on my knee and resting there while I watched its delicate wings lift rhythmically. I had nothing to do, nothing more important than watching that dragonfly. 

The following day I would return to my demanding job. My girls would be starting school in a couple of weeks, and I would be transporting them back and forth to soccer practice after a busy work day. All of that would begin soon enough, but at that moment, sitting quietly on a rock by a mountain stream I had just the right moment to take home with me, as I re-entered that busy life.

Over the years I have made it a priority to take a long rest like that one on the last day of a trip. I reflect on the trip I am about to complete, think about what awaits me at home, and mostly just sit quietly, trying to take in every detail of the stream, the dragonfly, the fading flowers. These moments are the ones I return to often, as I get caught up in the demands of daily life. These moments are the reason I am not a trail runner.