Our most dangerous hike

Mon, 21 May 2012 01:00:00 +0000

At 6 years old, I reluctantly joined my Brownie troop on an all-day hike into the woods, and two days later, my appendix burst. I blamed the woods. Maybe it was the grit at the bottom of my Thermos, which my troop leader had told me to ignore. Maybe my appendix was allergic to the outdoors. (“Maybe it’s because you suck on your hair,” my mom said, a habit she regularly predicted would lead to my ruin.) Soon after, I quit Brownies and never went hiking again.

Until age 26. I was in a faltering relationship with a man who loved hiking and camping, and who sincerely believed that I would love these activities too, if he could be my guide.

V was the first Indian-American I’d ever met who actually liked to camp. I’d always associated camping with white people, along with sunbathing and being grounded, but here was V at REI — testing compasses, lusting after tents — with a thrilled, drifting look in his eye. I kept thinking about a term that a friend and hiking enthusiast had once taught me — “poop trowel” — two words that returned to me now with great foreboding.

Salon.com > Tania James

Our most dangerous hike