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.
“Yeah, Sarah’s a tough cookie,” he was saying, his voice oozing with condescending pride. “But these mountains don’t play around. She likes to push herself, you know? Good thing she has me to keep an eye on her. I’m her protector on the trail.”
My fingers froze on my laces. *Her protector.* The phrase hung in the air, slimy and possessive. It wasn’t about safety. It wasn’t about kindness. It was about ownership. He was framing my competence as recklessness, my self-reliance as a cute hobby that required his masculine oversight.
I stood up, my face hot. He saw me and gave me that same oily wink. “Just telling these folks how you and I are a team,” he said loudly.
I just stared at him, my throat too tight to speak. I looked at the other hikers. They were smiling, nodding, buying into his narrative. To them, he was a sweet, old-fashioned guy looking out for a friend. They couldn’t see the subtle theft happening right in front of them, the way he was chipping away at my identity with every patronizing word.
Just Some Awkward Guy
That night, I slammed the cabinet doors while making dinner. My husband, Mark, looked up from his laptop, his brow furrowed. “Rough day at the digital office?”
“Rough day on the actual mountain,” I snapped, chopping a bell pepper with more force than necessary. I told him everything. About Barry’s constant presence, the unsolicited “help,” and the final, galling “protector” comment. I expected outrage, or at least some shared indignation.
Mark leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Honey, he’s probably just lonely. You know, a socially awkward guy who doesn’t know how to make friends. He sees you, a confident, experienced hiker, and wants to be a part of that.”
“He’s not trying to be my friend, Mark. He’s trying to be my keeper. He literally told people he’s my protector.”
“It’s a clumsy way of saying he looks out for you. Some guys are just like that. Old school. Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”
The knife stopped mid-chop. Overreacting. The word hung in the air between us, more dismissive than any of Barry’s condescending remarks. Mark didn’t get it. He saw a harmless buffoon. I saw a man who was systematically erasing me and writing his own name over the top.
“He took my water bottles, Mark. He insisted on carrying them for me, like I’m a child.”
“So? He was trying to be nice. It’s a bit weird, sure, but it’s not malicious.” He shrugged and turned back to his screen, a gesture that said, *case closed*.
I was completely, utterly on my own in this. The frustration was a physical thing, a pressure building behind my eyes. Fine. If no one else could see the weight of what Barry was doing, I would have to find a way to make it visible. I would have to make it undeniable.
The Counterweight: An Audience of Strangers
My hiking group was my sanctuary, a loose collection of people who understood the unspoken rules of the trail: you hike your own hike, you offer help when asked, and you respect the silence. Barry’s integration into this world was like a bull in a china shop.
He found out about our planned traverse of the Franconia Ridge through the group’s public page. The morning of the hike, he was there at the trailhead, decked out in a new hydration vest that looked like it was designed for an ultramarathoner, not a man who audibly wheezed on moderate inclines.
“Morning, team!” he announced to my friends, Brenda and Kevin. “Sarah told me all about you guys. Figured I’d tag along and provide some extra muscle.”
I hadn’t told him a thing. My smile was a thin, brittle line. “Barry. What a surprise.”
He just beamed, oblivious. Throughout the day, he elbowed his way into every conversation, turning anecdotes about my past hikes into stories starring himself as the hero. “Oh yeah, I remember that time on Willard,” he’d interrupt. “Sarah almost took a wrong turn, but I got her back on track.” I had been leading, using a map I’d drawn myself.
He stuck to me like a burr, always positioning himself between me and the rest of the group. His “protection” had evolved. It was now a performance for an audience, and with every person who nodded along, his narrative grew stronger and my own presence seemed to shrink. He wasn’t just my shadow anymore; he was trying to become the sun.
About the Author
