It’s a crowded trail but the stranger decides to follow me anyways, which is unusual. Alarming.
How do you know the stranger was following you Maddy?
I know.
He sees me coming down the hill and pauses, making small talk with an older couple, who are keen to get away from him. He watches me walk down. My spine prickles, but it seems silly to turn around and walk back to my car just a hundred yards into a hike so I don’t. Maybe I’m overreacting. He talks loud to the couple who shift uncomfortably and walk away as he’s still speaking.
He talks loud. He wants me to notice. I nod politely, but don’t make eye contact.
I pass him and immediately he starts following, ten paces behind. To be clear, I know he is following because he waited for me to walk down the hill, pass him, spoke loudly to get my attention but not directly to me, and then began to walk behind me far enough for plausible deniability but closer than most people would find polite.1
For clarity’s sake, I’m not scared. I’ve been solo hiking now for years and this man will not be able to get anywhere near me. But I am annoyed.
I stop hiking, turn and face him making eye contact. He looks at me, surprised, but says nothing.
“Excuse me,” I say, and step off the trail to tie my shoe. I don’t smile.
“Jesus,” he mutters and hikes past me. I watch him now, and he glances over his shoulder at me twice, before he disappears on the trail. I could’ve turned around then but I don’t.
I linger and play with my shoelaces while another group of hikers comes up. I smile and they make small talk with me— a retired group of couples from Canada. I take a picture for them, and we chat for probably 10 minutes total before we continue down the trail. Them first, than me.
I fall behind, stalling. It feels like my body is digging it’s heels in don’t go to the top, don’t go near the edge. I climb anyhow, just a few hundred yards behind the Canadians, but I’ve already decided I am not walking out on the arch. I just want to see if he’s waiting up there, I want the proof that I’m not overreacting and that I can indeed trust my gut. I linger on the steps up when one of the Canadians, a woman in her 60s comes walking back down.
“Oh good you’re still here,” she says to me. “Don’t go up there.”
“Oh?”
“It’s probably nothing… it’s just… I’m a mother you know. And there’s this man up there just… something is off.”
“Thank you,” I say, emphatic. “I saw him earlier on the trail I think he followed me.”
“I think he’s waiting for you,” she says.
“I believe you. I’ll go back the way I came.”
“We’ll go with you,” she says. And they do.
Nothing happened, not really
When this happens, it’s day six of a solo road trip, and I’m in the Red River Gorge, Kentucky. In Perrot State Park I hiked in the sun and the cold and read a book half the night. In Wyalusing State Park, Wisconsin I hiked to a cave and camped on a ridge and it poured so hard I thought I’d never dry out. I drove to southern Illinois to the Shawnee National Forest and watched the sunset from a beautiful place, and hiked through strange, blocky caves and to waterfalls. In Clifty Falls State Park, Illinois, I camped basically in a soccer field in the heat and needed to get my tires replaced.
Clifty Falls was bad. Sweat sliding down my back, nearly impossible to sleep in the car. The waterfalls were okay, but my tires weren’t. The campground was mostly RVs, not really my scene. I was happy to leave, happy to get my tires replaced, happy to be back on the road.
Comparatively, the Red River Gorge is a breath of fresh air. I stayed here before and it feels familiar. There was so much hiking I didn’t get to do then. I was excited to read by the river. It’s my first day there when the stranger follows me and waits for me at the top of the arch.
Nothing happened. I walked with the Canadians back to my car and I left. I never saw man again. I don’t know how long he waited for me. I don’t know what would have happened had I stood on that arch with him still up there— probably nothing.
Probably he would have just tried to talk to me, and I would have politely engaged for just a moment before telling him my husband was waiting in the car, he didn’t want to hike and I can’t leave him too long. It would be a lie, but it would work.
I’ve told this story before, and men have told me he was probably just interested and you could’ve at least talked to him and interest isn’t a crime. Following someone is always threatening. Waiting for someone, visibly altering your path several times, raising your voice to be heard and most notably getting angry when someone makes it harder for you to talk to them or expresses disinterest is not a good way to approach someone.
I tried not to let it ruin my trip. I went to a different place, a more secluded trail, less popular but still short, and hiked again that afternoon. After that crowded trail I wanted something closer to true wilderness. Over six years of solo hiking and that had never happened before—I’d never been followed while hiking alone.
I didn’t want to let one jarring experience ruin something that has brought me so much joy.
I bail on the road trip, but not because I’m afraid. I’m angry
Is that safe for you? I get asked before every hiking trip, before backpacking alone, before driving anywhere alone, before travelling, when I moved abroad, since I was 14 maybe 13 reiterated over and over that there is something about me and my body that is not safe to exist in alone without the protection of a man.
Protection from what exactly, I want to spit back.
I’m in my late 20s now, and I’m tired of hearing the world isn’t safe for me. In some ways sure, maybe it isn’t. But that’s for me to decide for myself now.
And back at my campsite, alone in the Red River Gorge, I am bitter about it.
I make dinner by the river, alone. A couple walks by on the path at the campsite and I think of how much more fun it is to camp and travel with someone else. I read while it gets dark out, then sleep in my tent. I spend a lot of time lying awake, trying to decide if I feel scared or not and I decide I don’t. Not scared, just frustrated with myself. Like it or not, I have let a stranger who I exchanged all of three words with ruin my day.
In the morning I wake up and work on my laptop from a coffee shop. In the next few days, I planned to head down to Cumberland Gap National Historic Park and camp for a few nights, then to Hocking Hills. Storms are on the radar for the next few nights, and it’s been over a week of solo travel now. I am lonely.
I’ve been rained on and freezing, and slept in a puddle of my own sweat, and needed car repairs, and followed by a stranger. At noon in the coffee shop I do the math— if I leave here in the next half hour, I could be at my parents place in Michigan by dinner.
So I do that instead.
I pack up camp, happily, and drive back to Michigan on a sunny day and stay with my parents for a few extra days. I get work done and chat with my family and catch the Northern Lights from a kayak on the local lake.
I chalked my solo Midwest road trip up to a soft failure, but what is a failure anyhow?
If the purpose of the trip was to flesh out new articles and collect new photos for my Midwest travel writing, it was successful in that. If the purpose of the trip was to prove that I can still camp alone, it was successful too in that— for over a week I did it. I didn’t do the whole route I set out do, but sometimes a successful trip is choosing to have a fun time and not just toughing it out for the sake of being tough.
This article was originally published in April 2025, and has been updated with minor edits for clarity.
More from Hello Stranger:
If you’re reading this and like “yeah that’s not creepy I do that all the time”, as many commenters shared the last time I shared this, I have bad news for you.
Walk softly and carry a big(walking)stick
As an older woman, I say, please don't ever tough it out just to show yourself that you're tough. I've made it to 81. And think I'm pretty damn tough, but there are some situations that your gut tells you to avoid, and I'm glad your gut spoke to you. Also, relieved the Canadian woman sensed it, too.