I suppose it’s the human thing on a hiking trail to acknowledge one another when passing. But on a well-used trail, the same comments come up time and time again.

“Good Morning.” As an introvert I don’t understand why I have to say Good Morning to every member of a 30-person group. Nor does Good Afternoon roll of the tongue as nicely. Too many plosives and fricatives. Yesterday I got yelled at for not saying a cheery enough “Good Morning” to a passing hiker. I did not realize I was at a Downtown Abbey garden party.

Then there’s the consoling “You’re Almost There” hello. For one thing, I am almost never almost there when assured that I am. Volunteers at 10ks or marathons are warned to never, ever, tell someone they are almost there. Almost there is when you can see the parking lot.

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An annoying question is “Everything OK”? Why are they asking this? Admittedly I have more gray hair than brown, but do I look so decrepit that they are concerned about my well being?  What would they do if I said, “It would really be 0K if you took my pack!”

“How you doing?” Do they really want to know that my trick hip is acting up, and my pack irritates that weird spot on my scapula? Probably not. 

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“Good Luck.” Again, why? Is the only thing that will assure my success a whim of fate? I used to answer, “In the words of the immortal solo climber of Mount Everest, Reinhold Messner, ‘I do not believe in luck.'” That usually gets me a blank look.

“Where did you start and how long did it take you?” People usually ask me this while hiking in the Grand Canyon. But why ask a random stranger how they did? I’m not racing. One woman asked me this at Bryce Canyon National Park because she and her boyfriend were attempting a loop. She thought they were on the wrong trail, but her boyfriend thought she was wrong. Turned out he was the one who was wrong, and he wasn’t happy about finding that out.

“Is it really harder hiking uphill?” Is this a trick question?

“Where are you going?” That seems a deep philosophical question to pose to a complete stranger. 

“How was it?” I guess I could answer on a scale of one to ten …

“Was it worth it?”  I’m always tempted to reply, “No, turn around now.” 

“Does this trail go anywhere?” “No,” I want to say, “it just kind of sits there.”

“If I hike down this trail, is there another way out?”  Not really: Walk in, walk out, is usually the case. 

Sometimes a joker will ask, “Are we there yet?”  “I sometimes answer, ‘Buddha would say, ‘We are always there.’ That gets me a laugh now and then.”

Several times I have been asked where the next shuttle bus stop is. If this is asked while on a trail in the Grand Canyon, the answer is “A mile back and a thousand feet up the way you came.” Poleaxed stare. “The bus doesn’t come down here?”  “No,” I want to say, “they tend to stick to the paved road.”

One young man told me, “I hope I can do this.”  I said, “It looks as though you are.”  “No, I mean when I am as old as you.” I guess I can take that as a compliment. Then there is the compliment: “I hope I’m as fit as you when I’m your age.” I want to reply: “I might be as fit as your age!”

A friend who let her hair go grey during COVID told me that she gets a lot more positive comments than she used to: “Young hikers used to mutter under their breath when I passed them. Now they tend to do a thumbs up and say, ‘Good for you.'”

I was hiking one day with a group of women who have hiked the West on trails for years, when a man stepped to the side to let us pass. He beamed at us as he said, “You ladies look radiant.”  Now that is the kind of trail talk I like.

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an educator at the bottom of Grand Canyon.