My Challenges and Powers as an Outdoorswoman
This essay was written and published for Aspire Adventure Running’s Women’s Adventure Scholarship. I thank them for providing wilderness running experiences that support the stewardship of wild spaces and the amazing trail running community!
To be a woman moving through wild spaces is to carry a backpack of items you didn’t ask for.
Sure, we squeeze in our Ten Essentials, anti-chafe salve and the best of the best snacks (cheese and chocolate, duh). But, stuffed in the gaps between all our tangible gear, you’ll find the invisible items that weigh our pack down more than you’d notice.
You know what you’ll find in my pack?
The echoing words of the man who took my parking fee and scolded, “I worry about seeing girls like you outdoors alone.” (Even though girls like me are more competent on the trails than boys like him.)
The glaring label of a “tease,” because I just wanted to be friends with the male guides.
The ache from the time a customer on my raft pulled me by my ponytail to dunk me in the water, after he told his group of boys that they didn’t actually have to listen to my safety rules.
The self-consciousness when I wonder whether a climber will see my hot pink nail polish and not trust me to hold the rope.
The jaded sigh of explaining, for the hundredth time, that a menstrual cup isn’t gross.
The silent fuming of attending a search and rescue meeting-- indoors, in a classroom-- and getting a lengthy explanation from a man about why I couldn't wear those jeans if I ever went hiking.
The disappointment during a swiftwater rescue course scenario when, being the only woman, my higher-pitched commands were drowned out by the chatter of the men who decided we didn’t need a group briefing, after all.
Finally, there’s the worst weight of all that I carry in a male-dominated wild space: The pressure to represent all women. That if I mess up, it’s proof women don’t belong here. That if I have an off day, it’s just evidence that women and girls can’t be as strong, fast or worthy of the sport.
But you know what? All of those undesired items that I carry in my pack were created and put there by society. They’re not who I really am-- who we really are, as women. The integrity of a woman in the outdoors is about what’s underneath the tanned (okay, burnt) skin and dirty fingernails. When I finally shrug off my dusty pack at the end of a long day, those burdens are cast aside and what I’m left with is my raw biology.
It’s a biology that holds nature’s secrets and whispers them to a select half of the population (shhh, don’t tell). A body whose rhythms and cycles parallel those of Mother Earth; just as the earth has four seasons, so does my hormonal ebb and flow. (And if that isn’t the coolest thing since zero-drop trail shoes, I don’t know what is.)
My innate nature gives me the superpower to tune so deeply into my connection with the planet that sometimes, I can’t tell where my body ends and the trail begins.
As a woman, when you shake out your well-worn pack and let the gear tumble to the floor, you discover the wild elements that you’re left with and can’t separate from yourself:
To be a woman in the outdoors is to be the outdoors.
It took me far too long to realize that magic. I grew up thinking in terms of black and white as I attempted to learn my place in the world. In my naïve eyes, you were girly, or you were a tomboy. You were tough, or you were weak. You could be shy or brave. You’d become an expert or never be good enough.
The comments and media I absorbed as a girl fueled the false dichotomies my brain forged. I came to believe that I could either be bossy and powerful, or quiet and submissive. Dresses and mascara, or jeans and bare face. Either/or, no Option C. So, I ignored my womanhood altogether, and for a while, I lost my path.
What brought me back to my inner wild was being in the literal wild. Through trail running, paddling and mountaineering, I reconnected with the part of me that I had stifled in my attempt to be taken seriously.
Now? I thrive in the beautiful in-between. I adore the feminine, intuitive, creative side of myself who pairs up with the masculine, direct, goal-driven side of myself when I head into the wild.
I wear sparkly earrings as my shoes pound single-track and my sweat soaks my tank top. I bleed on my period as I tighten my crampons and grab my ice axe. I carry knives and matches alongside flowy skirts and that weird all-natural bright red lipstick I love. This in-between is my Happy Place.
When I’m outdoors, I feel a delicate ferocity in my soul. It's to be a kaleidoscope of contradictions, a fluid collection of traits that changes daily, seasonally, and at times unpredictably. A shifting spectrum of all kinds of wonderful things that can't be qualified, quantified or tamed, as much as 9-year-old me had thought otherwise.
So yeah, moving outdoors as a woman might mean that my pack is more cumbersome than expected. But the extra work for the glorious payoff? It’s worth it to me. I’ll carry this heavy pack for five thousand miles if it means future generations will bear a lighter load.
