A Thirty Minute Friendship

Beads of sweat run down the back of my neck. I keep my gaze down to watch for roots and rocks on the trail. Each step is carefully considered, my feet performing a choreographed dance with the ground.

I’ve run hundreds of solitary miles on the road but I’ve never climbed a mountain alone. I take a swig from my water bottle and place it in my nearly empty backpack. There are two hours to sunset. I fear my one-bar of service phone, a half-eaten pack of sour patch kids, and a debit card, aren’t the appropriate wilderness tools for a woman hiking by herself in the forest.

I search for the best view from the summit and follow a brushy path toward a cliff edge where I find two women sitting on a bench, overlooking a large lake, nestled between the undulating peaks and valleys. I ask if they’d like their photo taken. They stand together, the mountains serving as the perfect backdrop. Politely, they ask where I’m from and I share that I live just a few hours away, but I travel north quite often. They tell me they drove several hours for a mother/daughter weekend away from the city. I say my husband and teen kids were not interested in a hike, choosing an afternoon of Netflix over flora and fauna. I hand them the phone, asking if the photos are to their liking. We exchange goodbyes.

Moments later, I find myself behind the couple as I begin my descent. I try to stay several paces behind them but the mother is moving cautiously and slowly. They exchange several words in Spanish before the daughter turns to me and asks if I’d like to join them. I accept the offer.

While the mother focuses on her footing, the daughter and I engage in the usual small talk. She tells me the online photos of their Airbnb didn’t quite match up in reality. We talk about rural poverty and the number of confederate flags waving outside many homes. We share our concerns over the upcoming Presidential election, learning that we both hope for change in the White House. As we continue, the conversation becomes personal. She tells me about her job and career goals, how she’s turning 40 and thought she’d be married by now. I confess that the year I turned 40 was terrible and I struggled with depression. Keep going, I tell her, things will get better. She smiles, saying I’m so easy to talk with.

The sun is closer to the horizon by the time we reach the trailhead. As we stand near our cars, I thank them for allowing me to interrupt their time together to share a great walk and good conversation. The daughter confides that her mother was relieved when I joined them, concerned about my safety as a woman alone in the woods. I watch them drive away, appreciating the opportunity to hike alone and to also experience a moment of impromptu, meaningful connection.

I recount my hike to my family over an outdoor dinner at a local brewery. As I eat tacos and sip craft beer, I notice the mother and daughter sitting at a nearby table. I walk over to their table, worrying about interrupting them again. The daughter lights up. “We had so much fun talking to you! We don’t even know your name!” We make formal introductions and give phone numbers, promising to keep in touch.

We exchange texts through the winter. I share a selfie wearing my “I Voted” sticker. She tells me she cried tears of relief when Biden’s win was announced. We send balloon emojis on Inauguration day, each hopeful for better days ahead. When I return to the mountains, I continue to hike alone, each time thinking of her.