Fresh air and exercise (or movement) is always a good idea. I’m of the mindset that there’s very little that can’t be at least slightly improved by a walk—or, put differently, I never regret getting outside. If that means a three minute stroll down to the end of the street to stand on the dock and watch the seagulls toss razor clam shells onto the beach, that’s better than nothing.
If it means getting in the car to go park at the trailhead in the next town over (where miles of soft grassy trail are hidden behind the marshes along the narrowest part of the coastline, just before the tip of the island tapers into the sea), and hiking for a solid hour, even better.
When we were little, my mom would stop the car at the top of our driveway, which is a third of a mile long and gently slopes down past the cornfields and alongside an old millstone where it curves around to the house. Every single day after school—barring major illness—she let us out and we would run gleefully or amble slowly down the driveway. There were no exceptions to this, because it was considered an antidote to the jittery energy that we’d built up all day. Usually we loved it, but I can remember more than a few days where one of us would sulkily stomp all the way home. Even then, the walk probably helped our mood, much as I hate to admit it.
Of all the places I’ve lived, most of my favorites share a single quality: ease of getting outside and exploring. On the farm where I grew up, taking a three hour hike is as easy as stepping out the back door and slipping on your Bean Boots. I spent a semester in high school living out on Chewonki Neck in Wiscasset, Maine—a tiny spit of land shaped like a mitten with five rounded fingers. It’s surrounded by the waters of the Back River, which meet the Kennebec River before passing Popham Beach and joining with Casco Bay.
At Chewonki, everywhere you walk is a hike of sorts. You’d have to get in the car to find civilization, rather than the opposite. Trudging up to the bathrooms to take a shower was an outdoor adventure in and of itself in the depths of winter, and when we had a free period from classes, we’d wander down to sit on the roots of big pine trees that overlooked the water. (And talk about who had a crush on whom and when we’d next watch an episode of our contraband DVD of One Tree Hill—so don’t worry, it wasn’t entirely heady and wholesome and Patagonia-catalog-esque.)
Walking (or hiking or running) is one of the best ways to really get to know a place. You observe differently when you’re on the move, breathing quickly and watching for roots and rocks, and checking in with your surroundings to make sure you’re going in the right direction.
A friend of mine wrote a great piece recently about re-discovering walking during these lockdown pandemic months. It wasn’t all beautiful Annie Dillard relevations; in fact, she specifically points out: “This isn’t a Walden story. I’m deeply grateful to live in a community with others.” She goes on to write this line, which I found arresting: “This is the year I let myself learn to love my home more deeply. For the here in my where.”
The here in my where. That says so much in one tiny, concise package of words.
I've hiked hundreds and hundreds of miles over the same ground at home on the farm—some with our dog, some alone, some with our pet Yorkshire pig who thought he was a dog. Some alone, some together. Sometimes as a foursome, no parents, with a picnic basket in hand and our little lamb (named Timothy) following close behind. Some in boots and mittens, tromping over snowy cornfields. Some stream-walking in bare feet. Some in shorts and t-shirts with a bag of chocolate chips for sustenance.
I’ve hiked on European glaciers and Hawaiian volcanoes. I’ve hiked through the Catskills and the Adirondacks and on much of Vermont’s Long Trail. I’ve trudged over truly dull hiking terrain in the Black Forest of Philadelphia, distracting myself from the rainy days and miserable company (a story for another day) with thoughts of an actual Black Forest cake and eating it in a warm room in clean clothes and a real bed.
I’ve hiked through the high alpine meadows of the Swiss Alps and up sandy trails in the British Virgin Islands. I’ve hiked across the English moors and down the steep sandy dunes on Nantucket and threaded my way—toting a canoe overhead—around wet, sodden woods in northern Maine. I’ve hiked up the rocky headlands of the Cape of Good Hope, peering down to watch colonies of tiny African Blackfoot penguins toddling about in the crashing surf. I’ve hiked the 90-minute trail up Lion’s Head in Cape Town in the late evening, arriving at the top just in time to watch the sun setting over Table Mountain and white swath of beach at Camps Bay.
And now all of those places are in me, in at least some small way.
There are hiking essentials (water, map, food, broken-in footwear) and there are near essentials (good-tasting food, good companions, hiking poles, knowledge of excellent trail games, knowledge of jaunty songs to sing at high volume, towel for impromptu dips should you happen upon a river).
On the food topic: you need fuel, obviously. Most hiking food teeters right on the edge of pleasant—the goal is less about flavor and more about sustenance. You want to get plenty of calories in a small package. That means a lot of trail mix, a lot of Nutella spread on tortillas, and a lot of instant oatmeal and noodles.
But you don’t have to adhere to the commonly accepted practice of eating what is, frankly, not very exciting food for days upon days. (Granted, everything tastes good when you’re ravenous and exhausted and sweaty from a 12-hour-day—that’s the magic of it all.)
I always crave something raw and crunchy or cool and fresh—lettuce! Sliced strawberries! A cold peach!—or something warm and substantial but wholly impractical—buttered toast or a slice of quiche. Basically, I want what I can’t have, HELLO METAPHOR.
Hiking food has to hold up well to being mushed on the side of a pack. It might be banged about a bit, so delicate foods won’t do. It also, obviously, can’t require refrigeration ALTHOUGH there is (sort of) a way around this. Here are two thoughts:
The crisp, fresh solution: I like sandwiching a big wedge of iceberg lettuce between two sturdy rice cakes (Lundberg brown rice cakes are good for this)—iceberg is so crisp that it doesn't wilt easily, meaning it’ll still give you that salad vibe a few hours into your hike and the rice cakes will protect it.
The cold, cool solution: The freezer is woefully underrated in general, in my opinion, and that holds here as well. You can freeze a lottaaaa stuff and it’ll slowly melt; by the time you’re ready to eat it, it’ll be thawed but cool. For example: a cup (or tube) of yogurt, a thermos of coffee ice cubes, frozen grapes, and so on. And…wait for it…waffles.
I know, I know. You’re thinking, “waffles don’t need to be cold, you nut.” But see, they shouldn’t be all warm and floppy and soggy either. If you freeze them and pack them up, they won’t get all mushed on the go. (Also, if they stay a little frozen, even better. Frozen waffles are a bizarrely wonderful delicacy; trust me on this.)
You could make basic buttermilk waffles or cornmeal waffles, but for crisp and chilly autumn hikes, I would recommend upping the ante with almond paste waffle. (Oh, and if you plan on not hiking and instead snuggling up in your pajamas all morning, you may still make and eat all of these waffles. I salute you.)
**Note: A great move, if you’re feeling particularly cozy and seasonal, is to add 1/4 cup of boiled cider (which you can buy here or make yourself by reducing apple cider down until syrupy and thick) to the batter.
Almond Paste Waffles
2/3 cup (151g) buttermilk
4 tablespoons (56g) unsalted butter
80g almond paste, cut into chunks
1 cup (120g) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
Warm the buttermilk and butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat until the butter melts. Remove from the heat and add the almond paste, stirring until mostly dissolved (use a spatula to smoosh it around to help it dissolve). It’s fine if it doesn’t completely dissolve.
Whisk in the flour, baking powder, salt, and eggs until evenly combined, then set the batter aside for 10 minutes to rest while you heat your waffle iron.
Cook the waffles according to the instructions for your waffle iron.
If freezing for a NICE LONG HIKE, let them cool fully first before wrapping and freezing. If you freeze them but plan to eat them at home rather than in the great outdoors, just heat them in a low preheated oven until toasty. You can also eat them warm right out of the waffle iron, obviously!