Trail Etiquette

Every Sunday, the multi-use trails in Colorado are clogged with all sorts of weekend adventurers, from bird watchers to horseback riders, and each group simply tolerates the others. Horseback riders don't much like dog walkers. Fly-fishers and bird watchers dislike anyone who talks. And everyone wishes the mountain bikers were on some other course, including all the mountain bikers. Over the years I've flirted with membership in most of these tribes (except fly-fishing), and I can vouch that each has it's own rationale for why it should own the right of way, yet somehow we all manage to share the trails, and sometimes even a couple of beers back at the parking lot.

Because I hike all over the state, often by myself, I've made a lot of amateur psychographic observations about these user groups. In terms of general sociability, horseback riders rank up at the top. They are way chattier and kinder-spirited than all other trail users. Possibly this is because the horse is doing all the work, leaving riders free to socialize. The more physically demanding sports like mountain biking are at the anti-social end of the scale. But I give bikers a pass on the friendliness test, since most of them are riding at the extreme edge of their own abilities (regardless of skill level) and therefore are just barely in control of what they are doing. They've got both eyes glued to a spot about three feet ahead of their front tire, and may not even notice that you've pasted yourself uncomfortably against a rock wall in order to let them by. They rarely say hello, but they always thank you if they notice you scurrying off the trail to get out of their way.

By far, the most anti-social group I've ever encountered are the trail runners. I'm talking the "elite athlete" kind. The wild-eyed, sweat-glazed, barely-dressed men and women training for Iron Man type competitions. The kind that don't wear earbuds because they stopped needing workout mixes years ago. You might wonder how many of these people there can be out there. Well, I can tell you that their numbers are way over-represented in and around Boulder on any given Sunday.

I've tried trail running a few times and know it is grueling and that the last thing you need is to keep running into people and dogs and kids shambling around ahead of you on the trail, especially the chatty inattentive ones. Trail runners are focused on staying in the zone, which means keeping their heart-rates up and their brains basted in endorphins, all the while dodging roots and rocks. It's serious business. The "thousand yard stare" on their faces isn't the same kind you use on a city street when you pass a stranger but feel obliged not to interact, instead pretending there is something impossibly interesting just up ahead. The trail runner stare is ghostly and unselfconscious. If these athletes pass you without responding to your "good morning," and it makes you feel crappy and invisible, it isn't personal. The "F-U" they seem to radiate isn't for you specifically. Far from it, they are just trying to be alone, while going fast, in public, and you are simply an obstacle.

Usually when you meet someone on a trail there's a neutral moment of interpersonal positioning where each of you has to quickly decide whether or not to say hello. First you smile. If the other person smiles back, you're safe to venture a "good morning" or a simple "hey there." Whoever is more outgoing or socially dominant usually makes this move first. It's not a conversation. It's simply a kind way of acknowledging the other person, putting them at ease, and letting them know you think they're okay. Even dogs do it. When dogs meet on the trail, one will often raise its tail and begin wagging. Seeing this signal, the other dog will do the same (if all goes well). Even if they pass each other quickly with little subsequent interaction, the message was sent, received, and responded to in-kind. A simple dog hello.

After the first couple of trail runners passed me today without returning my morning salutations, I decided to do a little experiment. I greeted each person I met in exactly the same way. I looked them in the eye and simply said hello, in a friendly, but not unctuous manner. Even if they passed me from behind I did this. Then I inventoried the reactions. 14 of 20 trail runners did not respond. The six who did were surprisingly enthusiastic. I passed an additional 11 hikers, all responded in-kind. I even lucked out and saw three horseback riders, and as if to prove my point, all three launched into some story about seeing a bear cross the highway way up ahead and how one of the horses stopped in its tracks and refused to go any further so they had to turn around and ride this here trail we were on and did I know where it came out…? 

At the end of the day, my gripe about trail etiquette may be entirely inconsequential. I know this. I know it's everybody's right to not reciprocate social niceties, and to practice one's chosen sport interaction-free. If that's your choice, hooray for you. But I can't help thinking that each infinitesimal act of kindness (or its inverse) has to amount to something bigger. The same way the moon's pull on individual water molecules is immeasurable, but add up a few quadrillion, and you've got a tide.

On the way to the trailhead this morning some guy was tailgating me. I was going 52 in a 50 mph zone, so I figured he should pass me or just back off. Finally I stuck my arm out the window and waved him back with as much force as I could put into the gesture. It worked. He dropped back 3 car lengths, then 5, then 10. A few minutes later when I turned into the South Mesa Trail parking lot I noticed him take the turn also. As he got out of his car I made a mental note of what he looked like. Bald 40-ish white guy. Backpack. Hiking alone. Inevitably, an hour later we came upon each other from two separate trails that intersected. I gave him a wave. The friendly kind this time. He stuck his hand up in response. His wave said "sorry I tailgated you," mine said "no worries dude." His wave quickly added, "Enjoy your hike." Mine seconded, "You too." Our waves did all this in about one second, without aid of spoken language, and with neither of us breaking stride. I was already enjoying my hike, but just then it got a little bit better. Enough that I could feel the difference.