Trailhead
"Be careful out there. You'll be alone and we don't know how the people here will act. And you're cute," she said.
I had found a hiking trail on the campground map and wanted to check it out. Unable to walk with me as she was feeling sick, my fiancée was concerned for my safety. I felt safe enough to go it alone though. I had my phone on me, and the trail ran within earshot of other campers. Although, yelling for help could have proven to be awkward, to say the least.
Earlier that afternoon, an older fellow camper shrank away and groaned upon hearing my deep voice say "thank you", tainting the fact that they were nice to me just seconds earlier — seconds before realizing that I'm not a cis woman. I could have let that part of the interaction upset me, but I instead accepted it as a compliment about my appearance. I only had two bad interactions on the trip so far, that being the worst, so I wasn't very worried about the people there. And for the record, the front-office staff showed us nothing but goodwill and respect.
As I walked alone toward the trailhead, I passed by several people sitting in lawn chairs. If any of them had reacted to my presence, by waving or otherwise, I didn't notice as my fiancée's words from back at the cabin were floating in my mind. "And you're cute," she had said, expressing so much more than just concern with the addition of those three words. They were like a humble plea for my safe return, casting a protection spell over me.
"I cherish you, too," I thought.
The trailhead was located in an obscure spot barely marked by a small brown sign attached to an equally brown electrical pole. The trail itself was just one long path, muddy and overgrown, devoid of other hikers. I took photos of leaves and plants to identify later, and marveled at a large grey stone covered in moss. I made it most of the way before turning back; it was getting kind of buggy out.
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