Ammi Midstokke: Boys, girls and the great outdoors

Let me be clear: I do not consider myself a feminist. That being said, the definition seems to cover a spectrum of things from bra burning to equal pay, so I may land somewhere in there without intention.

Likely, I have been an unwitting victim of sexism on a number of occasions in the wilderness, though no one seems to offer to carry my pack as often as I’d like. Yet I am so blissfully unaware and naive about such behavior, it is probable that I merely offered the offender a piece of beef jerky and suggested they were experiencing low blood sugar and thus not being very rational.

I was shockingly befuddled recently while rafting the Grand Canyon with a pack of men and women where I observed a bizarre dynamic of “girls cannot do the things because they are girls.” Aside from peeing while standing, I was unaware of our gender limitations.

Thankfully, I had a handful of men around to explain these limitations to my pea-sized and lace-delicate brain.

I was so confused by the statements of “that is too far/steep/dangerous” that at first I took them as general warnings of safety that would apply to anyone. Until I realized they only applied to me. The other women had already understood their place and were busy baking pies over the fire.

One morning, our rafts had marooned on the shore as the water level dropped over night. We awoke to the task of pushing these loaded vessels across the sand and back into the murky Colorado waters. Four of the five rafts were moved with little fuss (and a lot of heave-ho) when one man called over another man and said to me, “Get out of the way.”

Surprisingly, he is still alive.

I stepped back to look over my replacement candidate: A twenty something, pale, malnourished and over-pampered college student who spent more time over a microscope than outdoors. I could beat him arm wrestling left-handed and I outweighed him by about thirty pounds of lean muscle and ego. However, he was a boy, and apparently the fifth raft would be significantly more challenging to move than the other four for reasons my girlish brain could not see.

I blinked. Was it just suggested that my girl muscles could not contribute effectively? I shook my head and wandered off to break down my tent, scramble around on some rocks, and pee while squatting.

Some days later I began to see a pattern: recommendations for campsites that were close to the fire, tasks that did not involve heavy lifting (PUH-lease), and a lot of “I’ll take that,” disguised as chivalry.

Don’t get me wrong, I love some chivalry. But if I just carried the table 50 yards without a problem, I can probably keep carrying it and you can head down to the boat to fetch your own man-sized load, thank you very much.

The reality of what was happening became clear as I prepared for my solo hike out of the canyon. I had a 20-ish mile trek on a questionably marked trail. The men suddenly became concerned. “That is too far,” they said. Then they added, “That is three-times what you hiked today,” because apparently girls cannot math very well in the great outdoors.

I explained, as I did not want them to worry, that I am not only a very competent outdoors woman, I am fully prepared, well-researched, and they can go suck eggs. The genuine concern shifted to fear-inducing: The desert terrain is different. The trail is not straight forward. The “law on the reservation” is not like “our” law. (Literally, some jackweed told me that, so racism and sexism kind of share the same ignorant bed.)

Interestingly enough, there was no effort to support my journey, no offers for maps or compasses, no snacks provided, no checks on what medical equipment I might need in my first aid (seeing as I had used all my band-aids patching up their beer-laden falls on the rocks).

It wasn’t until one said “You don’t understand,” that I realized the full weight of what was happening. Perhaps they had never seen a girl schlep a pack alone through the wilderness. I supposed it was time they should.

I had one of the best hikes of my life the next day. I swam up Havasu Creek with two friends and my pack. They adventured with me through water falls, up canyon walls, and down the maze of ladders that made the trail. And then I left them and wandered into the desert. All by my girly self.

To my surprise, I did not die, was not attacked by bands of Native Americans on painted ponies, did not get lost, run out of water, starve, get bit by a snake, collapse from fatigue because I don’t know how far 20 miles is, or faint when I saw a scorpion, spider, or coyote.

My guess is that such ignorance is not malicious, but I would like to make a suggestion to my male outdoorsy counterparts: Decipher the difference between sexism and support when you’re outside with the ladies. We can do the things you do. General acts of kindness are welcome. Assuming we cannot survive without them is not.