That’s what people say before they go hiking.
Walking is what you do in a grocery store. Walking is what happens when you park too far away. Walking is casual. Walking allows opinions. Walking permits conversation.
Hiking, by mile seven, has stripped you of all non-essential functions.
At mile one, hiking feels like walking. You’re upright. You’re optimistic. You’re commenting on the weather like a professional meteorologist. You’ve already announced—out loud—that you should do this more often.
At mile two, you’re still walking, but now with purpose. Your stride lengthens. You start passing people and pretending it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself this pace is “sustainable,” which is hiker language for I will regret this shortly.
By mile three, the trail subtly changes character. Rocks appear—not enough to warn you, just enough to demand attention. The incline increases in a way that’s technically legal but morally questionable. You stop talking about the scenery and start talking about snacks.
Mile four introduces silence.
Not peaceful silence. Tactical silence. The kind where every word must justify its caloric cost. Conversation is replaced by breathing strategies you invent on the spot. Your calves send messages to your brain that sound like complaints filed in triplicate.
By mile five, walking has left the building.
This is now movement under negotiation.
You begin making deals with yourself:
Just get to that tree.
Okay, just past that bend.
Fine, just until your watch buzzes.
Your posture changes. Your arms are no longer decorative—they are now load-bearing. Your water bottle becomes both lifeline and emotional support object.
Mile six is where hiking becomes philosophical.
You start questioning earlier versions of yourself.
The trailhead version of you was reckless.
The mile-two version was arrogant.
The current version would like a quiet word with whoever suggested this route.
And then comes mile seven.
Mile seven is where the lie collapses.
Walking implies choice. Walking implies you could stop and still be okay. Walking implies dignity.
Mile seven does not.
At mile seven, you are not walking—you are continuing. Forward motion is no longer about progress; it’s about honor. Turning around would mean admitting that a dirt path defeated you, and that simply cannot be entered into the historical record.
Your thoughts narrow. The world becomes a sequence of footsteps and breath. You are acutely aware of every inch of your body and deeply suspicious of all of it. Muscles you’ve never met before introduce themselves aggressively.
Somewhere around here, someone will say, “We’re almost there,” which is a phrase that means absolutely nothing in the wilderness and should be regulated.
Eventually—through stubbornness, momentum, or sheer refusal to be embarrassed—you arrive.
You stop. You sit. You stare into the distance with the hollow confidence of someone who survived something unnecessary.
And later, when someone asks how the hike was, you’ll say:
“It was great. Just a nice walk.”
Because the final rule of hiking is this:
the suffering fades, the story improves, and the lie gets passed on to the next person.
Hiking is just walking—
until mile seven.
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