When I was ten years old, I read 听and decided I would thru-hike the entire Appalachian Trail听one day. I put that dream on hold听as a teenager听when I learned about the in Shenandoah National Park, an hour from where I grew up in Virginia. It made me feel that being LGBTQ in the outdoors put me at risk鈥攅specially as a very visible LGBTQ person.
After a while, I returned to my dream.听I didn鈥檛 want to let my fear win.听On September 12, 2019, I completed a northbound thru-hike of听the AT.听I鈥檓 infinitely grateful I didn鈥檛 let myself give up. But being LGBTQ听made my time on the trail harder.
I am nonbinary and transgender, which for me means I鈥檓 not a man or a woman, and prefer that others use the pronouns they, them, and theirs when referring to me.听I am also queer, which in my case听means being attracted to听women and other nonbinary people听but not men. I present as butch and am usually perceived as a lesbian. My specific identity has very much shaped my听life.听
My thru-hiking experience was different from that of cisgender听hikers,听even before I hit the trail. It started with selecting my gear: I wear men鈥檚 clothing, but I don鈥檛 have what鈥檚 generally听assumed to be听man鈥檚 body. While prepping for my hike,听I had to choose between gear that made me feel comfortable and gear that fit my body best.听I was terrified about heaping my concerns on some unsuspecting REI employee who wouldn鈥檛 necessarily know how to respond. Ultimately, I bought mostly men鈥檚 gear and clothing online and asked a friend who works at REI to help me pick out everything else.
I have gender听dysphoria, so my body doesn鈥檛 match my听gender identity and that gives me intense discomfort. Usually I wear a binder, which straps my chest down and helps听to听ease those feelings, but I couldn鈥檛 do that while hiking because binders can听hurt your back. My hair can also be a source of dysphoria for me, so I usually keep it very short; several times on the AT, I found myself stressed about where I might next find a barber (particularly one that wouldn鈥檛 turn me away for not being a man) so my outward presentation would match my identity as much as possible. I had to accept that there would be days on the trail when my听dysphoria would arise听and make me miserable鈥攁nd to keep hiking through them.
There were still other challenges: throughout my hike, I sensed discomfort from others, although no one said anything outright homophobic to me.听The most common way that it manifested听was听a shocked, terrified, or uneasy look that many people had听when I talked about anything LGBTQ related, or when I referenced myself as being LGBTQ.听As all thru-hikers know, the trail can get very lonely. We rely on other hikers to be supportive and welcoming to relieve our isolation.听When you鈥檙e out in the woods with no cell service, it really helps to have people around to ground you and make you feel less alone. But when you can tell that other hikers are uncomfortable with you, the trail feels even lonelier.
Having a nonnormative gender identity and preferring the use of nonstandard pronouns听means that I am often misgendered by people who have just met me. This posed a special on-trail challenge: the AT is a very social environment, yet people fade in and out of your bubble frequently. With each new person I met, I needed to decide whether or not to tell them who I was.
I usually based my decision on whether I thought they would be supportive听and whether I thought I would see them again. Unfortunately, many of the people I decided to tell didn鈥檛 make an effort to respect my identity: around half of those听I came out to initially seemed supportive, but then they didn鈥檛 follow up by using听correct pronouns or language. (It鈥檚 easy to tell the difference between someone who is doing their best听and messes up sometimes听and someone who鈥檚 not making an effort.)听But other people did try. One wonderful buddy I hiked with from Georgia through Pennsylvania had never heard of听nonbinary identity before she met me, but she worked harder than anyone I鈥檇 ever met to get it right. She was proof that anyone can understand if they care to.
The trail also brought me a lot of joy, especially when I had the opportunity to bond with other queer hikers. A few times, I reached a campsite听or a lunch spot听with only other LGBTQ people, and it felt like everyone听relaxed a little bit. Those rare instances gave us the chance to talk about our lives and our thru-hiking experience without fear of making anyone uncomfortable or having to explain ourselves. It reminded me that although getting to simply exist outdoors is beneficial for everyone, it can be especially important for LGBTQ people. It can be healing for us to just be in the woods,听away from painful societal constraints. The wildlife doesn鈥檛 care what your gender is听or who you love. In daily life, we experience constant stress about how we鈥檙e perceived and how we鈥檒l be treated. Many of us can鈥檛 enter a gender-divided bathroom without听trepidation. In the woods, of course, you can pee wherever you want.听
The Appalachian Trail鈥攁nd all trails鈥攕hould ideally feel听supportive听and social for everyone.听To that end, I hope that the outdoors community engages in education and difficult conversations about how to better include LGBTQ people on trails. That鈥檚 true for individuals as well as bigger outdoor organizations.听If you want to be a better ally in the outdoors, I encourage you to take some time to research LGBTQ identities as well as issues faced by other marginalized groups. Don鈥檛 make assumptions about your fellow outdoorspeople. Ask them about themselves, and be willing to listen. Be sensitive to challenges others might face that you don鈥檛. If we can teach ourselves to be welcoming and accepting on the trail, that鈥檚 a step toward being better to each other in everyday life.