What We Talk About on Trail

Those weird and wonderful tangents that are so hard to explain

The best fish for a fish fry. Jokes about lichen. Halloween costume ideas for the park ranger who filled out my backcountry permit.¹ Conversations have a tendency to veer off in unexpected directions when I’m walking in the woods!

North Country Trail through Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore

The conversational shift doesn’t happen immediately. The first hours on any backpacking trip are infused with excitement about the upcoming adventure. My phone battery is fully charged and I haven’t yet realized that cell service is too spotty to use Google when I’m trying to remember the name of that movie with that actor from that other thing. My brain is still focused on logistics—did I lock the car, let’s get a photo at the trailhead sign, is this a comfortable pace?

Then the final hours are just a countdown until I get off trail and can enjoy a meal that was cooked, rather than merely rehydrated. The miles cruise by while I debate whether I want burgers or pizza and wonder if the kitchen of the nearest bar & grill will be able to make a halfway decent strawberry milkshake.

The middle days are where my mind wanders.

Scoville Loop at Isle Royale National Park

Some people go outside for silence, but even when I’m hiking alone, my relentless inner monologue harmonizes with the bird songs and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Sometimes seeing a weird fungus cues a childhood story to front of mind. Sometimes the wind through the leaves reminds me of a song melody that I hum for the rest of the day. Sometimes the warmth of a campfire makes me spill my guts about the anxious thoughts that swirl in my brain. I never know what memory will be sparked while I’m outside.

When I have a question on trail, there’s less of an impulse to grab for my phone and ask a search engine for the answer. I may not have cell service. I may be trying to ration my remaining phone battery. I probably have trekking poles in both hands. And most of the time, the actual answer matters less than the opportunity to bond with a friend through a meandering discussion.

I might also just be talking to distract myself from wet socks, sore muscles, and itchy bug bites. In those moments, the topics I bring up make complete sense because the only logic is that an idea popped into my head and I said it out loud. How else do I begin to explain why my friend and I vigorously compared the literary merits of (possibly defunct²) children’s magazines from the nineties for miles on a sweltering day?

Blackhawk segment of the Ice Age Trail

Those random thoughts then become connected to that place, but the connection sounds tenuous to anyone who wasn’t there. When I see a large fern, I’m reminded of the behemoths that stood as tall as my shoulder at Isle Royale National Park, which in turn reminds me of The Land Before Time, an animated movie from my childhood. And I can’t recall my slog on the Correction Line Trail³ without the song “Barrett’s Privateers” popping unbidden⁴ in my mind.

Then there are the nonsensical names given to people met on trail and locations of personal importance that will never show up on a map—no, the duck guy doesn’t have anything to do birds, he just happened to be wearing a yellow poncho and there wasn’t actually any quicksand, just a dry streambed to cross with a singular muddy spot I managed to step in. You wouldn’t get it, you had to be there.

Eagle Mountain Trail in the Superior National Forest

And perhaps that is the beauty of trail conversations. They are imperfect in the retelling, so we find ourselves drawn back to the woods again and again to recapture the magic. What we talk about on trail doesn’t matter, but creating those memories absolutely does.

1. When your name is Rick and you are a park ranger, obviously you should dress up as Ranger Rick, the raccoon mascot of the National Wildlife Foundation’s magazine for children.

2. We didn’t have cell service at the time and I never bothered to check whether any of the publications were still in print after our trip.

3.

4. Unbidden, but never unwelcome. “Barrett’s Privateers” was one of my favorite songs as a kid and it still retains that status in present day.