Confessions of a Hiking Hussy: A Trail-Tangled Tale

So, I need to come clean.

I've been living a double (ok, triple...maybe quadruple) life. An act of betrayal so deep, so scandalous, that it could shake the very roots of my hiking boots.

I’m a hiking hussy. There. I said it.

I will shamelessly sell my soul and all remaining toenails for the promise of a good hike.....or any hike really.

If there’s a trail, I’m on it. If there’s a group, I’ve joined it. If there’s a WhatsApp hiking chat, I’m in it twice, under different aliases.

It started innocently enough. I could sense that my children, Salt and Pepper, were not going to be my forever hiking partners. Which was rude, obviously—but fine. I accepted that they’d rather rot indoors than ascend majestic peaks, or, you know… get a life. Preferably one that didn’t involve waking up at 5 a.m. to willingly walk uphill for hours.

But me? I had trails to climb. Peaks to conquer. An outdoorsy flame to fan with reckless, boot-stomping abandon... and also.... absolutely no life.

So I had to cast my net wider in search of hiking companions. That’s when the universe delivered two Hiking Clubs —the first two groups that popped up in my feed.

Naturally, I joined both. Because desperation knows no loyalty. I wasn’t looking for exclusivity—I was looking for guaranteed Saturdays and Sundays with dirt under my boots and strangers with a shared willingness to pee behind bushes.

And they’ve been amazing. I’ve had some spectacular hikes, met gloriously weird and wonderful humans, and honestly felt genuinely embraced. And yes—100%—they’ve either encouraged me or pressured me (same thing, really) into stepping way further out of my comfort zone than I ever would’ve on my own.

But a creeping problem had emerged. These clubs—stable, well-adjusted, functioning members of society—didn't hike every single weekend. Can you believe that? Apparently, they think things like “rest,” “recovery,” and “a life” are important.

Meanwhile, I was sitting at home on a Sunday morning, boots at the door, water bladder filled, staring into the void like a sun-deprived houseplant choking on artificial air and broken dreams.

I didn’t sign up for casual hiking. I signed up for full-blown, schedule-destroying, soul-reviving hiking chaos.

So naturally, I did what any slightly unhinged lunatic would do—I created a little rogue hiking squad to fill in the cracks left by the clubs' suspiciously “balanced” calendars. Because if they weren’t going to hike every weekend, I would simply manifest a group that would.

I began hoarding hikers. No questions asked—if you had boots and a questionable sense of self-preservation, you were in. I assembled my tribe—TrailTribe, if you will. (Oh look at that... the name of my Discord group—yet another group—where I shamelessly beg, borrow, and emotionally bribe my way into a hike.)

Anyway, back to my collection of hikers. These people are willing to show up at 6 a.m. for a sunrise hike with no clear route, no solid plan, and definitely no expectations. Rain or shine. Lost or... more lost. All in.

And then, just as I’d hit peak independence—guess who started crawling back? Yep. My little trail traitors. The same children who once acted like hiking was a form of medieval torture.

Apparently, watching me disappear every weekend with suspiciously high spirits made hiking look fun again. Or maybe they missed me. Or maybe they realized I had all the biltong.

Either way, they’re back now—rejoining the movement like prodigal hikers. And here I am, trying to balance club hikes, rogue hikes, and “mom hikes” without losing my sanity, my schedule, or any more toenails.

So, in my feverish quest to conquer every hill, trail, ridge, gorge, kloof, and faintly walkable dirt path within a 200 km radius, I’ve double-booked myself out of some legendary group hikes. I am missing out on some amazing things.

And where am I? On a completely different mountain, scrolling through their photos like a jealous ex.

And the worst part? I miss those crazy people.

See, I thought I was building myself a "blue zone". The magical life-extending communities Netflix won’t shut up about? People with strong communities live longer, apparently.

So naturally, I thought: “Find a community = immortality, basically.” What could go wrong?

Well… turns out, everything. I’ve diluted my hiking soul into so many communities that I may have accidentally created...a beige zone. Less longevity. More calendar chaos.  I may have actually shaved years OFF my life. But hey—if I die, at least it’ll be with boots on.

And so, here I am. Spread thin across trails. Emotionally dehydrated. Spiritually over-caffeinated. Still hiking. Still thriving-ish. Still totally, unapologetically addicted.

And yes, I get it—belonging to two different clubs might look like some kind of betrayal. But why, though? Why must my love be exclusive?

Just don’t—don’t—ask me to choose between my two clubs. Between my actual children? Maybe. On a bad day. After a really long hike. But my hiking clubs? Never. That’s a line I won’t cross—not even as a certified, GPS-confused, loyalty-flexible trail floozy with a full calendar and a hiking addiction.