He announced it to the whole summit, his voice booming over the wind, that I wouldn’t have made it up the mountain if he hadn’t been there to carry my weight for me.
For months, this man, Barry, had appointed himself my shadow on the trails I hiked for solitude.
He called himself my protector.
Every single hike, he’d insist on carrying my water bottles, a public performance of my supposed weakness. My own husband told me I was overreacting.
He thought he was the gentleman lightening my load; he had no idea the only weight he’d be carrying was the crushing burden of his own condescension.
The Uninvited Guardian: The Scent of Pine and Patronage
The air was sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of my boots on the trail. This was my church, my therapy, my escape. Mount Monadnock wasn’t the tallest peak in New Hampshire, but it was mine. I knew its every granite scar, every deceptive twist in the path. An hour in, and the familiar burn in my thighs was a welcome friend, a sign that the noise of my life as a freelance cartographer—the deadlines, the emails, the endless screen time—was finally fading.
That’s when I heard it. Not a squirrel or a chipmunk, but a heavy, labored breathing that didn’t belong. A man, round and red-faced in a brand-new, painfully bright orange windbreaker, was closing the distance behind me.
“Morning!” he boomed, as if we were in a crowded bar. I gave a tight-lipped smile and a nod, picking up my pace. The universal sign for “I’m here for the solitude.” He didn’t take the hint. He chugged along, his trekking poles clacking against the rocks with amateur enthusiasm, and fell into step right beside me.
“Quite the climb, huh?” he wheezed. “Good thing you’ve got a man around, just in case. Name’s Barry.”
I didn’t offer my name back. “I’ve been hiking this trail for twenty years,” I said, my tone as flat as the map I’d just finished digitizing for the county. “I know my way around.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do, I’m sure you do,” he said, patting his belly. “But you can never be too careful. A little lady like you. All alone out here.” He winked, a greasy, conspiratorial gesture that made my skin crawl. The looming issue wasn’t a bear or a twisted ankle; it was the man in the orange jacket.
The Weight of Water
From that day on, Barry was a fixture. It was uncanny. If I posted in the local hiking forum about hitting a trail, he’d be there at the trailhead, grinning like he’d been invited. If I kept my plans quiet, he’d somehow materialize halfway up the mountain, as if summoned by the very act of my independence.
His self-appointed role as my protector quickly escalated. It started with unsolicited advice on my gear (“You know, those boots are okay for day hikes, but for real trekking…”) and graduated to him trying to clear branches from my path as if I were a delicate princess who might snag her gown. Each time, I’d offer a curt “I’ve got it,” and push past him, my frustration a hot coal in my stomach.
The breaking point, or what I thought was the breaking point, came a month into this unwanted partnership. We were at the base of a steep scramble up Mount Chocorua. He eyed my pack, a sleek, well-worn Osprey that had been with me to Katahdin and back. “That looks heavy for you,” he grunted. “Here, let me lighten your load. Give me your water bottles.”
“Barry, no. I’m fine.”
“Nonsense! A gentleman always helps a lady. It’s what we do. I insist.” He held out his hands, his expression a bizarre mix of command and pleading. A few other hikers were nearby, and I could feel their eyes on us. Making a scene felt worse, somehow, than just giving in. The social pressure was a vise.
With a sigh that felt like I was exhaling a piece of my soul, I unclipped the two Nalgene bottles from my side pockets and handed them over. He slid them into his own pack with a grunt of satisfaction, his chest puffing out. The simple act felt like a profound defeat. He wasn’t just carrying my water; he was carrying my agency, and it felt impossibly heavy.
Her Protector
The story started to spread. Barry, it turned out, was a prolific talker. At trailheads, at scenic overlooks, in the parking lots at the end of a long day, he’d hold court. I became a character in his personal epic.
I first overheard it properly on a group hike to Mount Lafayette. I’d hoped that being with my regular crew would deter him, but it only gave him a bigger audience. I was retieing my bootlace a little off the trail when I heard his booming voice drift over from where he stood with a couple of newcomers.
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