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.
A Gift of Granola
The unsolicited help began to diversify. It was no longer just about carrying my water. Barry appointed himself my personal trail steward and nutritionist.
“You’re not eating enough,” he declared one afternoon, watching me eat a handful of almonds. “You’ll bonk out. A woman’s metabolism is different.” He unzipped a pouch on his hip belt and produced a granola bar with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. It was some monstrosity loaded with chocolate, caramel, and a thousand calories of processed sugar. “Here. On me.”
“I’m fine, Barry. I have my own food.”
“Just take it,” he insisted, shoving it into my hand. “Protector’s gotta protect.”
It was easier to just take the damn thing than to argue. I stuffed it into my pack, the crinkle of the wrapper a soundtrack of my own mounting annoyance. This became a ritual. He’d bring me beef jerky he’d “smoked himself,” electrolyte gels in flavors like “volcano burst,” and bags of trail mix that were ninety percent M&Ms. My pack, once a perfectly calibrated machine of efficiency, was now a repository for his unwanted, heavy kindness.
I’d get home and unload the junk onto the kitchen counter. Mark would see it and say, “See? He’s just trying to be nice.” Leo, my sixteen-year-old son, was more perceptive. He picked up a fluorescent green energy gel, read the ingredients, and said, “Mom, this dude is trying to kill you with high-fructose corn syrup.” It was the first time I’d laughed about the situation in weeks.
The Twin Bottles
The idea sparked on a Tuesday evening, born of pure, unadulterated frustration. I was cleaning my gear after a weekend hike, my pack feeling heavier than it should. I pulled out my two Nalgene bottles, the ones Barry always insisted on carrying. Next to them, I pulled out the two granola bars and the bag of trail mix he’d forced on me that day. The weight of his “gifts” was substantial.
I looked at the water bottles. They were standard issue, wide-mouthed, one-liter Nalgenes, identical to the ones used by half the hikers on any given trail. An image flashed in my mind: me, at a summit, handing Barry my bottles. Him, puffing out his chest and putting them in his pack.
What if they weren’t my water bottles?
A slow smile spread across my face. It felt devious, subversive, and utterly, wonderfully justified. Was it deceptive? Absolutely. But his “help” was a deception, too—a lie he told himself and everyone else that I was weak and he was strong. This wouldn’t be a lie. It would be a correction. An equalization.
I went online and ordered two brand-new, one-liter Nalgene bottles, identical in every way to my old ones. Blue, with a black cap. They arrived two days later. The plan began to solidify, a beautiful, sharp-edged thing taking shape in my mind. The ethical debate was a brief one. You can’t play by the rules when the other person has rewritten the rulebook to suit himself. This was my game now.
The First Exchange
The following Saturday, I met the group to hike Mount Pierce. Barry was there, of course, his orange jacket visible from a quarter-mile away. As we got our gear on in the parking lot, he ambled over.
“Ready for the big day, Sarah? Don’t worry, I’m here. Let me grab your water.” It was a statement, not a question.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. I reached into the side pockets of my pack and pulled out the two Nalgene bottles. They were empty. Inside each, I had carefully packed the items he’d given me over the last week: two granola bars, a bag of his salty, candy-filled trail mix, and a pack of that awful beef jerky. The bottles weighed roughly the same as if they were full of water.
“Thanks, Barry,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I handed them over.
He took them without a second glance, slid them into the side pockets of his own pack, and patted one ceremoniously. “There we go. Lightened your load. Now you can keep up.” He winked at Kevin, who just gave a noncommittal smile.
Meanwhile, tucked deep inside my own pack, nestled next to my rain jacket, were my two *new* Nalgene bottles, filled to the brim with my own water. The pack felt lighter than it had in months. I felt lighter. For the first time, the weight he was imposing on me was his own. The silent switch had been made, and as I took my first step onto the trail, a sense of giddy, rebellious power surged through me. It was the best I’d felt in a long, long time.
The Slow Ascent to a Reckoning: The Crown Jewel
The plan was ambitious: a one-day Presidential Traverse. It was the crown jewel of White Mountains hiking, a grueling twenty-mile trek across the highest peaks in the Northeast. It was a hike you trained for, a hike that demanded respect and self-sufficiency. For our group, it was the culmination of a summer of hard work.
When Brenda posted the final plan in our forum, Barry’s comment appeared within minutes. “Excellent! I’ll be there. Sarah and I will tackle the tricky parts together. She’ll need my help on the section over Mount Adams.”
My fingers tightened on my mouse. He was already framing the narrative, positioning himself as my co-pilot for a journey I was perfectly capable of navigating myself. The arrogance was breathtaking. He was a man who struggled on a three-thousand-footer, and here he was, appointing himself my guide over a range notorious for its brutal weather and terrain.
Mark looked over my shoulder at the screen. “A Presidential Traverse? Are you sure he can even handle that?”
“Oh, he thinks he can,” I said, a cold knot of certainty in my stomach. “He’ll show up. And he’ll expect to carry my water.”
I looked at the four identical Nalgene bottles sitting on my counter. Two were empty, waiting. The other two were full. The traverse was the perfect stage. It was long, it was public, and it was demanding. There would be no hiding, no excuses. The summit of Mount Washington, the final major peak, would be our theater.
The Weight of a Lie
The morning of the hike was a pre-dawn flurry of nervous energy at the trailhead. Headlamps cut cones of light through the dark, misty air. Barry was, predictably, the loudest person there, his voice echoing in the quiet woods as he demonstrated the features of his new GPS watch to anyone who would listen.
“This baby can call in a helicopter from space,” he bragged. “Good to have, especially when you’re responsible for someone else.” He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off.
My own pack felt almost weightless. I had my essentials: layers, first-aid, headlamp, map, compass. And my two full water bottles, safely stowed in the main compartment. My side pockets were empty, waiting for their cargo. The lie felt tangible, a physical absence of weight that was both liberating and deeply unsettling.
As the group prepared to set off, Barry made his move. “Alright, Sarah. You know the drill. Hand ‘em over.”
I pulled the empty bottles from their holsters. This time, they were packed with more than just his snacks. I had included two small, dense bags of gravel I’d collected from my driveway, carefully washed and dried. I needed the weight to be right. Water weighs about 2.2 pounds per liter. His snacks didn’t cut it. The gravel made it perfect.
He took the bottles, grunting at their heft. “See? Knew you were overpacking,” he said with a satisfied smirk, sliding them into his pack. He had no idea that the burden he was so proud of carrying was, for the first time, entirely his own invention. The weight was a lie, and he was the one carrying it.
The Long Grind Upward
The ascent was brutal. The trail rose unrelentingly, a staircase of rock and root. Within the first hour, Barry was a mess. His face was beet-red, and a dark stain of sweat spread across the back of his shirt. The sound of his breathing was a constant, rasping counterpoint to the chirping of the birds.
Yet, his commentary never ceased. “Careful on this section, Sarah!” he’d pant, as I easily navigated a rock scramble twenty feet ahead of him. “Watch your footing!”
I felt fantastic. Unburdened by the extra four and a half pounds of water, I moved with an efficiency I hadn’t felt in months. The rhythm of the trail was mine again. I was leading our little pack, setting a strong, steady pace. At one of our first breaks, I saw Barry struggling to get his pack off, his arms shaking with fatigue.
A wicked little thought popped into my head. I opened my own pack, pulled out one of his granola bars—the one I was supposed to be eating—and walked over to him. “You look like you’re hitting a wall, Barry,” I said, my voice dripping with faux concern. “Here. You need this more than I do.”
He looked at the granola bar in my hand, then at me. Confusion warred with his exhaustion. He was too tired to process the irony. He just snatched it from my hand, tore it open with his teeth, and shoved half of it into his mouth.
Brenda, a quiet, observant woman in her sixties, watched the exchange with a curious glint in her eye. She looked from my face to Barry’s heaving chest, and I saw a flicker of understanding. She didn’t know the whole story, but she could see the truth of the moment: the “protector” was the one who needed protecting.
About the Author
