When I discuss anti-Blackness in the outdoors, it can sometimes feel like shifting the needle on someone else’s perspective is an impossible task—especially if they are shielded from racism and avoid responsibility for the ways they contribute to it. This article isn’t for them. It’s for people who are ready to examine their own racial biases, but don’t know where to start. If you’ve ever wondered what steps you can take to address anti-Black racism on the trail, here are eight easy things you can do right now.

8. Say hi first

There are many reasons why some Black hikers are no longer willing to say hello first. Some of us are frankly tired of warmly greeting strangers and not getting a ‘hello’ in return—so now we keep to ourselves. Others are tired of constantly being perceived as threatening—no matter how much we code switch and exaggerate our smile. Society has conditioned you to think of Black people—especially dark-skinned Black men—as menacing and aggressive. And that’s a problem.

I am a brown-skinned Black woman. In many ways, I benefit from colorism. Yet, even I feel exasperated by the ritual of greeting white people who either stare blankly or avoid eye contact in return. Non-Black People of Color seem just as suspicious of me—both on the trail and in my own neighborhood. It doesn’t feel good. So no, I may not say hello first—but you should.

Want to make a change? Try reaching out first to Black hikers. You don’t have to comment directly on our race, ask us if we’re new, or tell us we’re doing a good job. Just say ‘hello’.

7. Share the trail

Since childhood, I have stepped aside for older adults, parents pushing strollers, disabled folks using mobility aids and—of course, for white people. I don’t remember being taught this explicitly. I remember it as behavior my parents modeled for us. Then I got older and found out that this is a shared experience for Black people across the U.S.

White people expect me to step off the sidewalk or trail so they can get by—no not all, but far too many. They also expect me to hold doors for them although they rarely return the favor. This hasn’t changed even as I’ve navigated visible disabilities over the years while using a wheelchair, walker and now elbow crutches. I’m still expected to move aside. I almost always yield right-of-way.

Their refusal to share the trail isn’t just limited to adults. I frequently find myself dodging white children and teens while they walk or run headlong into my crutches. No, they haven’t been taught to share the sidewalk with non-whites. Yes, they fully expect me to move out of their way. You can absolutely argue that this is age appropriate behavior—but age appropriate for whom? For white children whose parents refuse to teach them about racism? Meanwhile Black kids are required to move through the world fully aware that racism exists. Black children don’t get to be carefree and oblivious—maybe at home, but not in public. You disagree? Shall I remind you of the white woman in Brooklyn who falsely accused a 9-year-old Black boy of groping her after his bookbag brushed up against her in a deli? 

So what is this phenomenon anyways? Why do white people expect everyone else to get out of their way? This learned behavior is rooted in Jim Crow segregation. According to California State University-Northridge historian Ronald L.F. Davis, Jim Crow etiquette required that “…blacks would step off the sidewalk when meeting whites or else walk on the outer street side of the walk thereby "giving whites the wall."

It’s strongly associated with the South but the concept of restricting the ways Black and Native people were permitted to move through public spaces was widely practiced in the North before the Civil War, according to author Steve Luxenberg. Racial segregation was legally contested in several high profile cases in the 1840s and eventually upheld by the 1896 Supreme Court ruling, Plessy vs. Ferguson. Most states already had their own segregation laws on the books but the Supreme Court ruling made legal challenges a non-starter.

Fast forward to today. If you are white, you’ve most likely never given this much thought, because you’ve never had to. This is something that has always been done for you without you having to expend the slightest mental energy. Today, I’m asking you to share the trail and to stop expecting Black people to move out of your way.

And if your response is, “Well, I’m ADHD/Autistic—it’s not that I don’t want to share the trail, I just never pay attention”, please understand that racism is systemic—not just personal. And this is a systemic issue. What’s at stake here isn’t whether or not you get to continue thinking of yourself as a good person. It’s whether or not you can listen to this uncomfortable truth and what you’re willing to do about it—something to consider before you try to Low Support Needs ADHD/Autism your way out of acknowledging racial privilege. Black people are also neurodivergent except we get murdered by cops for being Black and autistic in public. Your “Well, actually” feels like apathy and your apathy feels like violence. So please choose your response carefully.

Be anti-racist and share the trail—even if you have to work harder than others to accomplish this. I am making the same request of the non-Black People of Color who have assimilated into the societal expectation that Black and darker-skinned POC will automatically move out of your way. We won’t. Stop doing this.

6. Leash your dog

There are so many reasons to keep your dog on a leash or to leave your dog at home. Dogs in U.S. national parks are typically required to be on a 6 ft (or shorter) leash. Dogs in Parks Canada locations can be on 9 ft leashes but that’s because they’re better behaved. In all seriousness, please leash your dog.

Off-leash dogs increase your chance of encountering a bear, wolf or coyote. You love your pup but that doesn’t mean they won’t charge an animal that outweighs them by a few hundred pounds. Off-leash dogs trample vegetation and kill wildlife. And even though you insist that they’re “well behaved”, they may encounter other off-leash dogs that are easily frightened, more aggressive or not as well trained. 

Lastly, you don’t know how strangers will react to your dog. As writer Amath Diouf has pointed out, some of us come from backgrounds where dogs are strongly associated with police brutality and state violence. Maybe you don’t care. Maybe that’s the whole point—scary dog privileges so you can hike in peace without the fear of being attacked as a solo woman hiker. Okay, great. I am also a solo woman hiker and I also would like the privilege of not being assaulted by your off-leash animal. I don’t care if “they’re friendly” or “they don’t bite”. My ancestors did not survive centuries of chattel slavery for me to avoid the woods simply because white people insist on hiking with off-leash dogs.

Please keep your dogs on a leash.

5. Stop complaining about crowds

There is a certain demographic that gets upset when they venture out in public and the public is there. It may be a different experience than the solitary wilderness trek you had in mind, but why are you upset? Why is the outdoors only beautiful when there are no people present? Let’s discuss. Could your reaction be a product of the pristine wilderness myth? Instead of seeing people-made trails that have existed for millennia, or cultivated forests that have been expertly managed through controlled burns, do you look at a wilderness area and see…just trees? Could you possibly be…indoctrinated? Maybe it’s time to challenge the notion that The Great Outdoors is best enjoyed people-free.

If you claim you’re actually bothered by overuse, not crowds, don’t forget to start by holding municipal, state and federal governments accountable. Stop hating people for existing outside when you’d really prefer that they exist somewhere else.

4. Stop calling the police on Black hikers

Remember this is public land, not Lululemon. It is not a whites-only space. Spotting a Black hiker on the trail is not grounds for calling the police. No, we’re not exaggerating. A white woman on horseback called the cops on Portia Prescott and Jessica Newton, the founders of Vibe Tribe Adventures while they led a group of Black women hikers in Jefferson County, Colorado. This was after yelling, “Get that mob out of here! Get that mob out of here!” 

That same year, a Rocky Mountain National Park police officer with his hand on his holstered gun pulled over Vanessa Garrison, cofounder of GirlTrek while she was driving a van full of Black women and demanded to know what they were doing in the park. The experience was unsettling. “In the meantime we’ll be back to the park next year,” she wrote afterwards in a Facebook post. “Thinking we will bring 1,000 Black women this time…Because I have a right to be there. Because you won’t scare us off.”

A white woman in Ottawa called the police to falsely report that a 21-year-old Black cyclist was intimidating her and blocking her way after he stopped for a rest on a footbridge. His crime?—refusing to leave the bridge when ordered. 

Let’s not forget the time a white woman called park police to report “a suspicious man walking the bike path with a baby”. Not sure which part of a Black dad pushing his child in a stroller at Kingman and Heritage Islands Park was criminal. 

A white woman accused a Black man of trespassing and threatened to call the cops after she spotted him fishing in his own neighborhood. That same day he was accosted by three other residents.

That’s leaving off the criminal offenses of barbecuing in the park while Black, walking their dog by the lake while Black, and birdwatching while Black because I don’t feel like recapping them. And let's not forget that playing in a public park, walking home, going for a jog and walking back to your stepmom’s house can be a literal death sentence if you are a Black man or boy—and your killers may or may not be brought to justice.

There is a disturbing pattern of white women weaponizing the police against Black men and boys. This isn’t new. It’s as old as the lynching of Emmett Till (1955), as old as Birth of a Nation (1915), and as old as the country’s first anti-miscegenation law (1664). Just because you feel afraid doesn’t mean your fear is justified—especially when society has conditioned you to fear Black people. Yes, violence against women is a reality and something I also think about when solo hiking. However, if you’re looking for a bogeyman, it’s more likely to be your white partner at home than a Black stranger. Stop calling the police on us.

Native American and Alaska Native women are statistically the most vulnerable to interracial violence with 97% surveyed reporting at least one non-Native perpetrator. However, they don’t get nearly the same level of support from law enforcement as white women who falsify police reports about Black people. Please do better.

Black people belong on the trail. Don’t assume we’re doing something illegal just because you see us existing on public land. Don’t assume we’re doing something illegal because we are confidently taking up space. I don’t want to be murdered by police just because you’re scared. And if you’re a Non-Black Person of Color and you also do this, stop. White supremacy is not a flex.

3. Stop demanding silence

White people have an unwritten rule that Nature must be experienced in silence. I am convinced that long ago, this was one white guy’s personal preference—maybe Emerson or Thoreau—that somehow became the uncontested moral code for outdoorsy white people across North America. Even in bear country, where official signage advises hikers to make noise, white people will glare at you if you listen to music without headphones. Or if you talk too loudly.

I think the belief that the wilderness requires solitude and silence is closely tied to another White American institution: the church of the outdoors. In the U.S. where the religiously unaffiliated now make up the largest group, the church of the outdoors offers redemption through sweat, effort and elevation gain. It’s adherents are mostly white men who seek purification from the ills of modern society, like city living. Similar to Protestant Christianity, they must work out their own salvation—but through strenuous hikes, mountain sunrises and punishing switchbacks. It’s not meant to be fun, but it is rewarding on a spiritual level.

It is a very White American pastime to look to Nature for a main character arc. This problematic narrative is analogous to white men seeing themselves as counterculture because of their outdoor pursuits. ‘Counter to what?’ asks outdoor culture critic Anaheed Saatchi. Their own racial privilege? I guess there’s nothing inherently wrong with transferring Protestant values onto the natural world, but please don’t assume everyone else lives this way. We don’t all go hiking to be physically tested and found worthy. We don’t all go hiking to suffer in silence at or above anaerobic threshold. And we don’t all believe that Nature must be experienced individually or in very small groups—without community. The reason why so many Black people venture outdoors in large, guided group hikes to begin with is racism. So, I don’t particularly care if this upsets you.

I don’t believe in being silent outdoors and I do not care for people who try to pass off white American culture as universal outdoor etiquette. It’s not.

Meanwhile, plenty of other cultures experience Nature differently—as a place to pass on traditions, hunt, forage, cultivate, sing, dance, pray, honor spirits and ancestors, enjoy a meal or spend time with family and friends. If you’ve ever hiked outside of the U.S. and Europe—especially in countries where most of the tourism is local, chances are you’ve experienced a different way to be in Nature.

So relax on the ‘demanding silence’ thing. You’re on public land. The public is also there. If you personally don’t like loud noises, wear headphones—I often do. However, it’s unreasonable to demand that everyone assimilate into white American outdoor etiquette for multiple reasons. The U.S. is on track to become a majority-minority country by 2044 and the fact that many white preferences are still being conflated with universal moral truths is extremely racist. There are a lot of outdoor traditions amongst us and not all of them mandate silence. But also, we’re all on Native land.

How are you the ‘granddaughters of the witches they couldn’t kill’ if you don’t dance on a blue blaze under a full moon while listening to Mitski every once in a while? I recommend it!

2. Stop making assumptions about experience or ability based on skin color

Sometimes white people attempt to make Black hikers feel welcome (okay, good) by going a little overboard (uh-oh, bad). It often sounds a little like this.

• “It’s so wonderful to see you people out here.”

• “We rarely get Black hikers out here.”

• “Just wanted to say you are so welcome here.”

• “You’re doing such a great job! You can do it.”

• “This must be your first time out here. Do you need directions?”

While you may want to find some way to make Black hikers feel welcome, you shouldn’t make assumptions about experience or ability based on skin color, size or use of mobility aids. Any attempt to selectively offer special encouragement may also cause hikers to feel excluded or othered. And even though encountering Black hikers on the trail might be an exciting moment for you, centering your own reaction—even if it’s a pleasantly surprised one—can cause us to feel alienated. We don’t need another reminder that we look ‘out of place’. So please don’t stare or get overly excited or make it weird. We’re just trying to forest bathe like everyone else.

Instead, say hello! Or ask us how far it is until the overlook? Or make conversation about the weather, the on-leash pup, or the improv sticker on the reusable water bottle, or the 90s R&B t-shirt, or the adorable toddler on the balance bike, or the South Georgia accent that you recognize even though you are both hundreds of miles from home. Black people are multifaceted. There are so many ways to connect with us that go beyond pointing out the obvious—that we stick out in an overwhelmingly white or thin or non-disabled space.

1. Be neighborly 

There are plenty of things you can do to be neighborly on the trail. Once on the Appalachian Trail, fellow day hikers passed along info about a bear cub sighting like a game of telephone, and that was super helpful! On a short hike to visit a limestone arch, an older hiker used a branch to casually remove a venomous snake from the trail and then struck up a 30-min conversation about snakes. I’ve had strangers offer to take photos of me at overlooks; I’ve had people ask about my hiking poles—which are actually carbon fiber elbow crutches; I’ve done map checks with other solo hikers; and I’ve made small talk with strangers while slipping and sliding my way through snow and ice below the Flatirons (That’s actually how I learned about microspikes).

I’ve had many positive interactions with white hikers that felt deeply humanizing. It may have been forgettable to them but it wasn’t to me. I live in a society where white people and many non-Black People of Color often see me as less than. So, when I meet people on the trail who treat me like a fellow human being, instead of a collection of racist stereotypes, it makes an impression. None of the strangers I mentioned above commented directly on my race, asked me if I was new or told me I was doing a ‘good job’. They were just neighborly.

Of course I have many negative stories—to include getting stranded for hours at a busy trailhead after my car battery died. I don’t think I’ve ever been more keenly aware of not belonging than the hours I spent asking for help while most of the white hikers wouldn’t even meet my eye. But eventually, one did and I made it home! Kindness is contagious. No, it’s not a cure for systemic racism but when you treat others kindly while also checking your own racial biases, you are building a more inclusive environment one step at a time.

Being neighborly and anti racist can be the difference between someone feeling included or not. It’s hard to define, but you’ll know it when you see it.