What is it about a solo hike that brings with it such a sense of pleasure?

It’s difficult to put into words, but let us try.

First, each hike is a Tiny Adventure. You never know what will happen.

Will a new, beautiful lavender flower (with shimmery, bright blue stamens) welcome you, suddenly popping out from the edge of a familiar trail? Without introduction or fanfare, these tiny, brilliant creations simply volunteer their charm, bringing a touch of joy to your sweaty, hardworking trudge up a hill.

Will a gigantic, fluffy, orange bee decide to ignore you— so you can view it up close— as it leaps and dips between giant stalks of foxglove blooms?

I have long since given up trying to photograph or record these charming beauties. They snatch their pollen too quickly and are apparently programmed to leap toward distant blooms rather than efficiently flying to the closest— truly, a photographer’s nightmare.

For all my trouble, I have a multitude of orange blurs in my photo files, 99% of which have been moved to the dust bin. There are some things I must learn to imprint upon my mind, as they are not to be “captured” any other way, it seems.

And so it is.

Will a farmer decide his eucalyptus trees have reached a good height for harvesting? I round a corner and observe that my much-beloved trail has— shockingly— been rendered a faceless, shadeless hill of stumps, bereft of all dark and beautiful corners, where flowers once bloomed abundantly because tree shade offered protection from the harsh sun.

Yes, I know this last one sounds like a terrible kind of “adventure” - but this, too, creates an experience that can never be perfectly predicted. And adventures, if they are to be true adventures, must sometimes involve crushing disappointment (as any fiction writer can attest to).

To appreciate a friendship, you must know loneliness. To appreciate a car, you must know what the lack of one feels like.

Likewise, the removal of a forest you have grown deeply accustomed to may leave you stunned as you come around a corner— “Whoaaaaa….” Nothing by empty, dry ground.

Incredible— a forest stood here a mere four days ago!

And there are surprises I find more difficult to recover from— because they feel like a direct insult to nature: a discarded beer bottle, an empty McDonalds bag, a dirty face mask, a giant post-construction pile of bricks... especially this last one, as I cannot pick up and carry them away to remedy my pristine forest trail.

A fellow hiker is a rare event— but occasionally another human comes toward me on the trail. I nod and offer a lyrical “Bom dia” or “Boa tarde.” (Greeting strangers is hardwired into my brain; blame my California country upringing.)

A return greeting brings me a little bolt of happiness. But silence— usually accompanied by a sober stare— is strangely disorienting, even surreal.

And I should certainly not be surprised at silence when a hiker wears earbuds. Why should that bother me?

Oh, but it does.

On occasional, I am rapidly approached by a helmeted mountain biker in colorful cycling attire. In this case, I hop off the trail to avoid a collision or sudden braking for the cyclist. Sometimes I receive an “Obrigada!” (thank you) for my trouble. But normally it all happens too quickly.

I once yelled a chipper “Bom dia!” to the elderly gentleman. He was stooped over, slowly shuffling along a trail one level above me (eucalyptus groves sometimes offer multiple trails in near-parallel lines). He straightened his spine, looked up, and removed his hat with chivalrous flair as he bowed deeply in my direction.

I couldn’t help thinking of Don Quixote.

“Bom diiiiia, Senoriiita!” with a broad smile.

It made me day. Imagine calling me— a mother of teenagers— “Miss”! I will never forget it. My children heard all about it. I see him now and again, and he always grants me the same glorious greeting.

When I was eight, my family took a camping trip. We stopped en route to stretch our legs and use a restroom. It was foggy and cold. I noticed a little path extending into the trees, bordered on its sides by grass, rocks, and little dunes of sand.

I simply couldn’t resist this. Without asking a soul, I tiptoed into the thick mist, following the path wherever it wound, half expecting miniature fairies to peek out from behind a clump of grass at any moment.

What would appear around this corner? Behind this little bush? The anticipation made me delirious— the ever-present fog covering whatever was more than six feet in front of me.

Eventually, someone called my name from far, far away. I turned and raced back, knowing I would be in trouble if I didn’t appear quickly.

But I never forgot it— always wondering why such a thing could stir my imagination so powerfully. That trail wasn’t just mysterious; it felt as though it had been created just for me, and the surprises I was sure to find if I kept going were nothing to be feared, and only to be anticipated with supreme confidence.

For me, the “surprise” element of a solo hike draws me in. A solo hike contains something of the other-worldly— a modern-day adventure, albeit of small proportions. It makes the trail ahead of me so very, very beautiful. The more it curves and hides and fades into a secret, the more beautiful it appears.

Another benefit of the “solo hike”: A Removal of Distractions.

Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, “distractions” must also be subjectively defined.

When I am home, whatever I am doing is bound to be interrupted by a husband, my children, our cats, the neighbor’s dog, a phone ringing, the door buzzer buzzing, incoming texts I must answer.

Besides this, and more disturbingly, my mind is reminding me of things I am responsible for: What’s for dinner? Who’s coming for tutoring? Did I send them lessons? Did I clean the table? Did the cats get fed? Whose birthday is it today? Did I make an appointment for that tooth problem?

Normal things, everyday things.

But they all disappear in the most glorious way when I am out on a trail.

I am free. No one can tell me what I’m doing— right or wrong. I get to decide. I go where I wantat and at the speed I like.

Sometimes rush up a hill and make myself breathless. Sometimes I stop to study a baby fern or giant batch of mushrooms. I might make a photo— which can naturally take forever.

*Velvet foot mushrooms, also called “wild enoki.” Can be confused with “Galerina marginata,” a poisonous look-alike. A velvety foot, or “stipe” identifies the safe-to-consume variety.*

I realize my good fortune. I know how spoiled I am.

I have the time to do long hikes; many do not. Just as importantly, my family does not complain. (I think they have observed my mood is much improved following these little forays into the woods. Also, I cook more adventurously since beginning this habit.)

We live in Northern Portugal, where trails are plentiful— if often poorly maintained. This, too, can lead to yet more extreme “adventures,” as some trails dead-end in gigantic boulders, which must be surveyed and criss-crossed to determine whether there is a way out somewhere.

This can be tricky and confusing; perhaps there was a trail once, but now the gorse bushes have taken over the only way out with such diligence that I am fearful of tackling them with my little pruning shears. In the end, no matter how successful I am in carving out a path (Am I on the right path? Was this ever a path??), I am aware I will endure six days of painful piercings and unidentified splinters from both the gorse and brambles.

Gorse somehow never sounded so terrible when Winnie the Pooh described them. Oh, but I have learned the hard truth about this terrible, beastly plant. Baptism by fire, as it were.

Yes, I am delighted to have contributed to a better hiking trail for those that might follow.

Then again, I might find myself weeping pitifully instead— returning to the giant rock from whence I came, resigning myself to hiking down the hill I had only recently hiked up— all because the gorse or brambles were so dense along the “path” I’d chosen that I was simply unable to hack them back far enough to pass.

I generally understood these realities as proof that my “path” had never been a path at all— else I had diverged from it somewhere, with no hope of recognizing it for all the branches that had taken over. (I even began to despise the lovely giant ferns that grace these spaces, as they provide the perfect bridges for brambles that could otherwise never grow so far or so tall, ready to snatch your hair or scrape your arms and legs as you pass by.)

Hiking down such a hill is far more treacherous than climbing up it, as the loose dirt (or mud, if winter), large stones, and dry eucalyptus leaves make for a slippery ride.

In these cases, I am so grateful for any trees or shrubs, dead or alive, that I pass. I reach out and grab any root or branch that might stabilize the slipping and sliding downward of my now filthy hiking boots.

But most days, I am no longer in the mood for that wild of an adventure, and I have enough prior adventures under my belt to yield a plethora of “safe” choices. And so I normally travel paths I have already cleared, or that someone else has cleared for the rest us.

And in these private, lonely spaces, the scenery can take my breath away. The earth is so rich here that two days of rain can bring weeks of new flowers, mushrooms, and sprouts.

*Wall Pennywort (umbilicus rupestris) is a perennial, edible, flowering plant that grows in damp rock crevices across southwest Europe.*

Is a eucalyptus grove (70% of my hiking area) really natural? Not really.

But the capacity a grove offers in providing a home for plants, animals, and insects can, in the end, be similar to what a “natural” forest or meadow offers.

And the effect it has on humans that enter those spaces can still be profound.

*On the right, ferns have quickly taken over the space once inhabited by a eucalyptus grove (remaining trees still visible on the left).*

Meanwhile, should I ever feel like leaving my quiet forest trails to enter The Land of Mankind, I am rewarded by charming cobblestone streets; pedestrian-only footpaths that wind between backyards and gardens, offering a peek of overflowing grape vines supported by gigantic trellises; tiny herds of goats and sheep grazing in miniature fields (these are passed around from garden to field and field to garden, and so I have learned to recognize specific livestock groups by their sizes and coloring); giant square basins (called “lavadouros” in Portuguese) designed so that neighbors can clean laundry and socialize; plentiful cafes that quietly invite me to sit down and enjoy a cappuccino.

(But that’s not why we’re here, so No, you just keep right on walking! Ha!)

The experience is infinitely more exotic and charming because after all, it is Portugal— which, as far as I’m concerned, lives up to any hype I have ever heard, and then some.

This collection of beautiful novelties lends itself to the experience of leaving my “normal life” behind with every adventure I embark on. There are no more distractions when I’m on the trail— or rather, I’m permitted to enter an infinitely more enjoyable kind of distraction— increasingly my favorite of these being the flowers.

Oh, the flowers!

Another bloom, for whenever IMG_20250711_090223664.jpg

In the end, I have grown to love solo hiking because it is among the top reasons I can think of to want to be alive.

Why is it so incredible to see a tiny white Kerry Lily peeking out of the grass as I walk past? If personal history is a guide, I will have no choice but to pause, lean over, and speak to the little flower: “Wow! What a gorgeous little thing YOU are!”

The Kerry Lily (simethis planifolia), whose petals literally sparkle in sunlight, is a protected species in Ireland. Some online encyclopedias state it only grows in Ireland, but thankfully, I can vouch for its happy existence in Northern Portugal as well.

Their volunteerism— the fact that no one planted them— is an integral part of their allure, in my view.

One day they simply spring up, witnessed or not, welcomed or not. I am utterly smitten.

Jesus Himself offers a wonderful quote about the mysterious existence of wildflowers:

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet… even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

Of course, He is making a point about how God cares for you more than for the wildflowers; how you should trust God to provide for your needs. But many of us take for granted a different aspect of this quote: Appreciate them or ignore them— they are, without effort or self-awareness, more stunning than anything humans seek to create.

In his diary-style book, Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain describes a restauranteur who states that each day, he only wishes to create dishes that compare favorably with the flavor of a good apple— and he is at peace with the fact that he normally fails.

Seek to create a piece of art that “compares favorably” with the extravagant Kerry Lily that pops up in the forest here every spring.

Not so easy!

But back to what makes this flower such a stunner: Its six white petals shimmer - with actual miniature sparkles— even in low light. And from its center protrude six furry, white filaments with bright yellow anthers. (I called them “pipe cleaner flowers” before I figured out what they were.

Imagine that— delicate, fluffy FUR— in the heart of a flower!

I was obsessed from the moment I saw my first. Astonishing.

But I am on a hike, and this hike will have a timeline. Unfortunately it will have an endpoint as well. So I must ask: Is this miniature flower a distraction?

Judging by stalled hiking progress, “Yes.” Especially as I will— of course— have no choice but to photograph it. (Ha!)

But viewed through the lens of “What is joyful about solo hiking,” the appearance of this novel flower is anything but. Increasingly, it is exactly that thing— a beautiful surprise— that makes the ordeal worthwhile.

Contrast this with my typical experience of hiking with others— even just one person. I know people who can “zone out” in the company of others, but I’m not built that way.

Fellow hikers, even the most pleasant, cause me serious distraction. Increasingly, I find I have become selfish and covetous of my precious time amongst trees and bushes— far from people, cars, and the expectations of others.

I used to be an extrovert (and bona fide people-pleaser)— but the combination of advancing age and solo hiking has— well, in truth, launched me toward a near “cure” of those two traits.

Back to the matter of fellow hikers— would I have even spotted this tiny little Kerry Lily, let alone be available to absorb the impact of its glorious detail? Maybe. Probably not.

Hiking alone, much like traveling alone, strips away the layers of buffer— the illusion of “activity” created by conversation and the inevitable “noise”— visual and auditory— that accompanies group hiking.

Distraction is such a normal part of our world that it’s become complicated to define.

I love the deep moments of clarity that have been created for us by people like Mireille Guiliano, infamous author of French Women Don’t Get Fat, who instructs us to “not watch television or read the paper” while eating.

“Think only about what you are eating, smelling, and savoring with every bite.”

Suddenly, you’re not just “eating,” but creating a kind of meditation—drawing every possible morsel of pleasure from the experience.

This can be applied to many other pleasant things.

Have you ever held a cat and— well— simply rested in the beauty of the experience? Soft, dense fur presses against your fingers. If you rest your ear against the ribs, deep vibrations rumble through your body. And oh— the new-kitten smell coming from its cheek!

Cuddling with your dog or other familiar animal, when you really listen to your senses, has the same effect.

When I find it hard to “rest in”— to truly focus— on something wonderful, I find expressing gratitude to God (as He has made all things, including my ability to sense them) allows the meditative, deep-pleasure aspect to return.

That, and closing my eyes. (Note: not useful when hiking. Ha!)

The Solo Hiker