The Unexpected Rewards of Hiking With an Older Friend

I distinctly remember when I met Gloria for the first time. After a few emotionally draining hiking trips, where everyone else's moods and problems dominated the day's conversation, I knew I needed a break.

The last few years living through the pandemic had left me restless and strung out, and I craved companionship with people who shared my need for quiet contemplation out in nature. I didn't want to be unkind to my friends, but there are only so many hours I could talk about someone's job hunt or annoying brother-in-law.

In desperation, I joined a local hiking group to tackle a section of the Appalachian Trail. On the morning of the trip, a small eclectic group gathered on Manhattan's Upper West Side in a colorful parade of backpacks and stout hiking boots. The guide checked off our names and introduced everyone, and it was heartwarming to see enthusiastic hugs and high-fives between people who knew each other.

"Gloria!" someone shouted as an elegant woman in her 70s approached us with a broad grin. She was tall, with close-cropped hair, and was rocking a large pair of silver hoop earrings. With her chic sunglasses and puffer vest, Gloria looked too glamorous for someone up at dawn and about to hike the Appalachian Trail. She was generous with her hellos and made everyone feel welcome as we stowed our backpacks and hiking poles in the van and chatted about the weather forecast.

During the drive upstate, it was obvious that she was well known among the group. She teased the guide, asked after someone's mother, offered her opinion on the best hiking boots, and was interested in other people's recent hiking trips. She had a gregarious personality and a warm laugh, and her enthusiasm was contagious in the small van.

When we arrived at the trailhead, everyone fidgeted with their backpack's straps and checked their water bladders as we listened to the safety briefing. The group set off in an excited gaggle of chatting and laughing and I stood at the back with Gloria as she made the final adjustments to her knee braces and tightened her lumbar support.

Hiking amongst everyone made me overstimulated and grouchy, so I counted to ten and slid onto the trail a few yards behind her. In the cool of the early morning, the two of us followed the trail's blazes with only the muffled sounds of our boots hitting the dirt and bright chirps from the birds perched in the branches above us.

Gloria wasn't a fast hiker, but she kept a steady and even pace. I was happy to wait while she got a better grip on a tree during a challenging climb or contemplated the best way to navigate a slick rock shelf. She sometimes got uneasy at water crossings or rocky descents and counted, "One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three." under her breath to focus and settle her nerves while she got a solid footing.

I knew older people could be unfairly judged and treated like incompetent children or fragile vases, so I didn't want to offer to help unless she asked me. She reminded me of my own fit and active mom, who was also in her 70s, and I knew she'd be mortified if someone thought she couldn't do something simply because of her age.

After an hour or so, Gloria turned around to me with a kind smile and said, "Sorry, Kate, I hope you don't mind but I don't like talking much when I'm hiking." She gestured to the dense green forest around us, "My husband recently passed away after being sick for a long time. Hiking out here is my time to have some moments to myself."

It reminded me of Ralph Waldo Emerson's quote, "In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows," as she explained that she was new to hiking and took it up to work through her grief. I appreciated her candor and told her it suited me perfectly because I didn't like talking much either. We joked that we were the perfect hiking team and passed the day in an easy and companionable quiet as we enjoyed the woods together at the back of the group.

Since our first meeting that day, I've followed Gloria up and down mountains, survived sweltering heat waves and slogged through deep snow drifts. We've passed each other sun hats, thick gloves, and spare water bottles and checked that waterproofs were intact during a long day of unrelenting rain. We've swapped snacks on top of high ridges and kept watch for each other during bathroom breaks. We've shared ice packs for our sore knees and exchanged restaurant recommendations on the long drives in the van back to Manhattan.

For me, hiking in her company is like being wrapped in a warm blanket as I feel my shoulders slide from my ears and my breaths grow slower and deeper. I'm at ease without pressure to maintain social niceties or mindlessly chitchat, and this gives me the opportunity to fully recharge and reconnect with nature.

I think because of where she's at in her life, trivial things don't matter. There's no competitiveness or comparison, mid-life dramas, or existential angst, and we don't have to spend the day discussing someone's divorce, mercurial boss, or debating whether it's time to buy a house in the suburbs.

Instead, this quiet friendship of ours has allowed me to marvel at fluorescent yellow and orange mushrooms poking out of moss-covered tree stumps. I've watched red-spotted newts languishing in shallow pockets of water and listened to the call of eagles as they soared over us. I've processed the grief I carried from losing my grandmother and a million other things that living in the frantic mess of New York City had forced me to bury deep inside my brain.

Sometimes, we talk quietly about Gloria's childhood and family, or her experience of living in New York City for the past forty years. She's told me stories of her husband, Junior, a well-known jazz pianist and composer, and the life they built together. We've bonded over our love of dogs, our wide feet and often laugh about the time I had to push her trapped hips through two gigantic boulders.

Outside of our group hikes, I still hoped to find someone to hike with regularly to have more freedom to decide on our route and when to have lunch. One day, as I scrolled through maps of potential hikes, it hit me that the person I'd been looking for had been right in front of me the whole time. I immediately texted Gloria, who'd spent the last few months recovering from a broken leg after tripping in her apartment, to see if she wanted to join me. I sent her the planned route and received a "Yes!" text within a few minutes.

On a balmy weekend in March, we set out together to hike an eleven-mile section of the Appalachian Trail. We fell easily into our familiar, quiet rhythm, this time with me navigating out in front. We hiked within yelling distance, and I'd sometimes wait an extra beat or two until she turned a corner and waved to let me know she was ok. It was soothing and comfortable, and I tilted my face to catch the spring sun as I listened to the croaks of frogs and the wind whistling through the treetops. I was ecstatic to spend the day in happy contemplation, and on the train ride home, my heart was overflowing with gratitude from our day together.

That afternoon, after I hugged Gloria goodbye in Grand Central Station, I thought about how two people, thirty-plus years apart in age, can have such a lovely and uncomplicated friendship. The differences in our ages and life experiences don't matter. Honestly, I don't even notice them. Instead, this friendship of ours has enriched my life in countless ways. Gloria's zest for life and new experiences, and her ability to find joy in the simplest things are inspiring and a welcome reminder to savor life's small pleasures.

Her no-nonsense attitude inspires me to be more upfront and assertive without apologizing. Her kindness and warmth are really something to behold, and you can tell everyone feels better in her company. I'm so grateful that I had the chance to meet and spend time with someone like Gloria, and I'm beyond thrilled to finally have found my perfect hiking companion

Kate Ramsay-Scott is an Australian writer who loves eavesdropping on the subway and lurking amongst the shelves of a good bookstore. She has an M.A. in Creative Writing and lives in NYC with her husband and their cheese-obsessed dachshund. Reach her at kateramsayscott.com
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