What happens on the hike, stays on the hike.
Because what happens on the hike is not for everyone, and that’s the point.
It’s a sacred place her and I carved out nearly two years ago in a world swirling with irreverent nosiness and gossip. Everybody wants to know everything and for no damn good reason. Intel recon is masked in generosity until you discover your vulnerability is fodder at the water cooler. It’s disappointing, but human nature, I suppose.
We needed a safe place to disappear into, where we couldn’t be overheard and where we could spill our guts with no repercussion or fear of it leaking beyond our tree canvas. So we hike.
When we disappear into the woods, we’re often throwing a middle finger to things we *should* say, and we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty. Even when we’re hiking in circles because both of us suck at reading our GPS maps. (OK, mainly I’m terrible at it, but somehow I end up in charge of directions. Circles, commence.)
Our hours-long conversations are left where we have them and even we rarely speak of them again. It’s not important that we find solutions, or that we even offer feedback on what the other says.
Sometimes we just need to hear the sound of our own voices, the vibrations of our inner thoughts, and then leave them where they fall – beside a creek, in a pile of rocks, in the woods, on a trail, up a mountain.
More people need more safe places.
I say: create one.
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