Confessions of a Black Hiker

There are rare occasions that I run across other African American hikers. If I’m not the only Black hiker, that other Black hiker is my wife. We rarely run across other Black people. On a rare occasion that we do come across a Black couple, both parties are shocked. We smile at each other so wide we come just short of laughing out loud. Sometimes I think about exchanging numbers with them, thinking that maybe we can become friends. But thankfully, logic steps in and exchanging numbers with total strangers simply based on sharing a hiking trail seems to be a little too much, no matter how Black they are. So both parties continue on our path and still soaking in that rare occurrence.

So why is it so rare to see a Black person at a national park? An article by Joe Weber and Selima Sultana cited several reasons for the low Black turnout at national parks. It contained all of the usual suspects; “A number of theoretical perspectives have been proposed for the absence of minority visitors, including socioeconomic marginality, differing cultural norms, and the lingering legacy of discrimination.” Ok, I get it, but, blah, blah, blah, already. Those are actually the reason for all African American problems. At least that is what it seems like to me.

I was not always a hiker. I was born in the concrete jungle of the South Bronx. In the Bronx, we could barely see the North Star at night. The streets in my neighborhood were not tree-lined. I was lucky. I joined the Cub Scouts (and was kicked out: that’s another story), and when I was old enough, I joined the Boy Scouts. I did not experience any of the child abuse that now plagues the Boy Scouts. The most wondrous thing I discovered while in the Boy Scouts was that there were much more than a few dozen stars in the sky. In the Bronx, the stars don’t reveal themselves. But while camping at ice-cold Valley Forge on a very dark night, there were billions of stars in the sky, and I could not stop looking up from the opening of my tent and into the Milky-Way. I wondered what it would be like to see this every night. I knew that staring into the sky would never become boring. The jamboree was great, but nothing was more significant than a dark sky filled with glittering light, color, space, time, and energy.

Even though there was not a direct line from my Boy Scout days to loving the outdoors presently, the nature experiences from my childhood had a lasting and positive influence in my life. I am a hiker, but I am also a birder and photographer, which makes my love for the outdoors stronger. Many of my hikes are purposeful. I have a list of birds that I try to capture with my camera. To do that, I have to know what they eat, if they migrate, what type of vegetation grows in the area I visit. All of this makes me smarter. I can look for certain kinds of birds, not just a bird. When you find out the name of something, an entire universe of knowledge and wisdom opens up for you. Birding brings all of this together; environmental issues, land use, logging, development, water, and always the possibility of extinction for certain species. This brings me peace and ties me into the efforts to save environments through different groups and organizations.

But dammit! We are now living in a time of racial strife with a president determined to cause grief anywhere he can. Even wearing masks is politicized; science be damned! We are living in the Black Lives Matter, Pandemic, political, and economic dark days. And that shadow of racism darkens everything in our lives. And now it rears its ugly head in the world of hiking.

At this point, I know I am going to lose some people. I know this to be true. I will start with what I have been hearing. Ever since that Black birder had the cops called on him, because he was Black, there has come to light the many prejudices that Black birders, hikers, campers and nature lovers face. For a long time, the outdoors, particularly the woods, were places where black people did not want to venture. Stories of Blacks disappearing in the woods were part of American lore. This is where white people dwelled. If there were white people in the woods, that was a place where Blacks should not be. Many of us watched the movie Deliverance, so we know what the hell is out there.

I remember when I was in Georgia, both Black and white people warned me to be careful. These people were well-meaning, but they all annoyed me. The thought of me not going to a public place because bad white people may be lurking around seemed to be a silly way to think and a worse way of living. This is a free country. I belong here, and I am due to enjoy everything presented to the rest of the population. I will admit, this is not a very smart attitude in my part. The threat is real. I’m the type of guy a racist would love to shoot or choke-out. I am big, I am Black, I am bald, a little loud and not afraid to express my opinion. I do not own a gun and I have never owned a gun. So when I am in the woods, I could be vulnerable if someone decides to shoot me with anything; a bullet, crossbow, harpoon, or anything else. Hell, I may be in trouble if someone throws a rock at me. But I will take my chances. I refuse to live in fear.

So I am out in the woods with only a camera and goodwill. Of course, I could choose not to go hiking at all. That is not an option for me. I have been hiking for a few years now in Colorado, Mississippi, Oregon, and New Mexico. I sometimes receive stares. Other times, curious strangers will strike a conversation with me. When it comes to asking personal, or at least questions that borders on personal, white people are apt to do that. I assume they may want to know what kind of Black people love the outdoors. Many times I cross paths with other birders and photographers. We stop and exchange notes on what we have seen that day and trade camera tips. So far, these have all been white people. When two people meet and share a common passion, fear, and anxiety has a way shrinking from the encounter.

Sometimes racism or the seeds of racism is embedded in people with good intentions, even in the birding world, and perpetuated by people that I am sure consider themselves liberals. This problem comes in the form of anthropomorphism. Case in point — In Lyanda Lynn Haupt’s book, Rare Encounters with Ordinary Birds, the chapter titled Crow Stories was fascinating to me. In this chapter, crows are often described as loud, annoying, disconcerting, and for some reason, black. The color black is always mentioned. It is as if their blackness alone was part of the negative attributes of crows. I cannot imagine another color be described this way.

One woman complained that their beaks were too large, and she was afraid they might bloody her face and take her sandwich. When she was asked if she worried about other bird species doing the same, her reply was, “Why would they do that?” In another tale, a woman and her son were frightened by the presence of crows that were splashing in puddles in the parking lot at an urban nature center. Instead of walking past the crows as any logical person would do, they jumped back in their car and left the nature center. When she was asked what she thought the crows would do, she replied, “I don’t know. They might…I don’t know.” Another one of the author’s friends described crows this way, “I just love crows. They are gorgeous and smart, and they scare me.” Even if we reveal the cause of this fear, we still would have to ask ourselves, why? Haupt herself describes this fear as something that has lingered from some past encounter that never really happened.

I never really take it personally. This is the type of behavior that is baked already into American society. We’ve lived side-by-side with white people ever since the beginning of this country, yet to them, we are still an island of mystery. If they are ever in earshot of a Black conversation, they lean in. They are amazed at our vernacular, our hair texture, our skin tone, our music, our humor, our style, our athleticism, and it goes on a long way. When they actually meet real black people, they want to know more.

African Americans, on the other hand, do not have that same fascination with white people. One reason is that we know them much better than they know us. Society force-feeds us all of the things we ever need to know about white people. Television from the 40s to the late sixties was the primary source of information on whiteness. And the few black people on TV were performing some type of coonery (look it up), or they were urbanites like Sydney Poitier, with perfect diction, impeccable morals and would give their very life to save the life of their white co-stars. Those types of characters spring out of the imaginations of white writers. A character like John Coffey from the book, The Green Mile, could have only been written by a white person.

When Blacks take on an occupation such as golf, tennis, boating, car racing, hockey, hunting, mountain climbing, fly fishing, camping, and hiking, white people get so worked up with curiosity they can’t seem to help themselves. So, they stare. They ask questions. And my reply to all of that is, so fucking what?

I listened to a podcast about a Black woman who felt unwanted because of the stares that she and her son received whenever they hiked in Oregon. They stopped hiking. That does not seem like the smart thing to do. Maybe we should not be so sensitive. When I received those stares, it did not affect me. I continued to go to my favorite hiking areas. It came to a point where not many people paid attention to me because, like them, I was a regular, and they were also regulars. We silently nod to each other as we pass by, and it seemed we were both happy with the recognition that we had at least one thing in common that we both enjoyed. And that was good enough. We don’t want to become friends or buddies. I am never interested in explaining myself to those who think it is absolutely shocking to see a Black man and woman in the woods.

I am not trying to change the world. I just want to hike. If my presence itself helps change someone’s perception about Black people in nature, then so be it! But that is not my intention. Changing their mind about Black people hiking is not my goal for hiking. I could not care less about what white people think about me hiking. As long as I am not put in harm’s way of any kind, as long as I or anyone in my family is not disrespected, I am doing well. So far, after all these years, I have never encountered direct disrespect, and I certainly have not had any issues regarding my safety or the safety of my family.

The history of national parks reflects the rest of history America has experienced. There was a time when people like me were not just unwanted, we were not even allowed to be there at all, or we were segregated. I think nature and what we call wildness is buried in the DNA of humans. When we are out there, there is something deep in us that we know we are home. When we run across racism at national parks, it is not accurate to say that it is racist against Black hikers or birders. It is racism, period. And it is aimed at the color of skin, regardless if that person is buying a house, joining a country club or sitting on the bus or being choked out by a cop in broad daylight.

My advice to my Black brothers and sisters all over the world is to keep hiking. Do not give up what you love because you are being stared at or even if you feel unwelcomed. You do not need group approval to go on solitary hikes. Also, there are benefits to joining hiking groups, not only because there is strength in numbers but also because sharing a passion and love for nature with others is the first step in realizing the importance of conservation awareness. We can play a vital role in securing valuable land for our future generations. Do not put yourself in any dangerous situations, but don’t let your sensitivity to stares block you benefitting from the great outdoors. We belong here, and this is ours too.