Aaron Jones, 32, Chicago

A few years ago, a white friend suggested we go on a hike. All the fears I had about being in nature hit me in the face. It’s a very real fear for black people, especially those from urban communities, that bad things happen to black people in the woods, like lynching. It’s something that you see again and again when you look at the history of the civil rights movement and slavery: black people going into the woods and not coming back.

My friend had grown up hiking. I talked to her about my fears and she respected my apprehension. I said to myself: “You’ve got to do this now or it will never happen.”

I grew up in kind of a rough neighborhood on the south side of Chicago, so my mother kept us in a lot. Our house was across the street from a public park but it was rife with gang violence so we never went there.



I always knew about hiking and camping from commercials and magazines. But the people doing it didn’t look like me

I always knew about hiking and camping from commercials and magazines. But the people doing it didn’t look like me. They were white, athletic and attractive. I’d never, ever seen anybody of color doing it, let alone a black male; I associated the outdoors with whiteness. Nobody around me even thought about it. My mother grew up in the backwoods down south, but she never encouraged us to have a connection with nature.

My friend and I headed to Starved Rock state park, two hours south of Chicago. We had to drive through this very wooded area and I remember thinking: “I hope nothing happens. I hope I don’t have to get out of the car.”

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When we started the hike, I had to let go of a lot of what I was feeling. An hour into it, we stopped to take in this view and I was amazed by everything I was experiencing. I loved not hearing the commotion of the city. No cars, no yelling, no arguments on the corner. Just the water, the birds and the wind. It was like a reset button. I remember thinking, “Why haven’t I been doing this all along? Everybody should be doing this. There’s nobody that shouldn’t be hiking!” It was overwhelming to realize that something I’ve always believed isn’t for me actually is. I had spent so much time being nervous about it when it was what I needed.

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I now go seven to eight times a month. Five days a week I work in sales, spending my time in ginormous condo buildings and busy infrastructure. As soon as I hop in the car to get out of town, the weight of the week lifts. I take my six-year-old daughter so that she knows earlier than I did that this is something beneficial. I let her lead the way on our path and allow her to make decisions for what she’s doing in nature. My mom’s proud of me but I’m still working on getting her out for a hike.

Follow Aaron at @MidwestColorCamp

Marjorie Leach-Parker, 68, Virginia Beach, Virginia

I grew up in a small town in North Carolina where most of the white people were farm owners and the black people were hired hands. My family farmed and as a child, I spent a lot of time topping tobacco and picking cucumbers, peppers and squash. We’d go out fishing and hang out on the rivers as a family but we were never encouraged to go far from the house. The feeling was that if you went out into the woods by yourself – and you’re black – if no one’s around, you might not end up coming back.



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Marjorie Leach-Parker at Stumpy Lake natural area in Virginia Beach. Photograph: Julia Rendleman/The Guardian

The world has changed but that thought pattern is still there. Today, I’m the first African American chapter chair for the Sierra Club in the state of Virginia. It started because a friend took me to a local meeting and I walked in and there were all these old white people. I said, “OK, there has to be some other representation here.” Some people might have walked away but I think my background makes me a little different. Thirty-nine years ago I became a software developer when there were no black people, let alone women, in that industry, so I’ve always had to go a step above. Back then, all the guys smoked in the office and I didn’t, so I went home and practiced how to do it without coughing.

The feeling was that if you went out into the woods by yourself – and you’re black – you might not end up coming back

But even now in my position as chair, I will still only go on hikes when I’m with a group of people I know. I live within walking distance of a nature trail and I would never go there by myself. It’s not the younger generation but the older generation that you see that look at you like you have no business there. Like you don’t belong. It’s like: “Get out. Get away.” Even though it’s public land, some people are like, “I’m white and therefore I have more rights and I’m better than you.” And some black people still think, “I’m black and if I’m out there, I’m supposed to be cleaning up or waiting on you.” Sometimes when I introduce myself to groups across the state, I have to take a deep breath because I’ll think: “Are these people going to respect me?”

What I love about hiking and the outdoors is breathing that clean air and seeing the greenery around me and not hearing cars. Fresh air really energizes me. Part of that is probably because I was born and raised in the country. I don’t even want to think about my three-year-old great-grandson growing up in a world where he doesn’t know what a real river or real group of trees look like. I hate to think of him never ever seeing a live rabbit or squirrel or deer. I spend a lot of time talking to people about the future and keeping the planet livable.

Within the Sierra Club, everyone is seriously nice, but understanding things from a different perspective is missing sometimes. I mean, why would a guy living in a $500,000 house know what it feels like to live in a place that you rent for $500 a month and the environmental issues that go with that? That people are just dumping trash in your neighborhood? A lot of older white people don’t know how to communicate with a black person of the street and the same the other way around. The older generation needs to be more embracing and think about how other people feel.

Tiffany Tharpe, 26, Los Angeles

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Tiffany Tharpe in Temescal Canyon, Los Angeles. Photograph: Dan Tuffs/The Guardian

My first trip to a national park was life-changing. It was four years ago and I went with some friends to Yosemite. I was getting over a breakup at the time. While there, I met Shelton Johnson, a black park ranger and writer. We got into a discussion about how there aren’t a lot of African American families visiting national parks. It made me sad because as a kid I would have loved to have seen Yosemite.



When I was young I would have loved to have had someone encouraging me to get outside. To not be afraid

That first trip, I pushed myself and my friends to do a strenuous hike; I wasn’t expecting us to complete it but we did and when we got to the top, standing above a waterfall, just looking out on the valley, it made the whole breakup seem so small in comparison to everything that’s out there to explore.

After Trump became president, I became a little nervous about traveling in the US. Racism became more overt. Just after the inauguration I went with a couple of friends to western Arizona. On the way, we passed lots of gun stores, some with Confederate flags, and I felt very uncomfortable. When we got there I mostly felt OK because I was with friends who blended in, but there was this one old man who stared at me from the other side of the street. He was eating an ice cream and wearing a Make America Great Again hat. I felt challenged and stared back until he looked away.

My boyfriend and I have been together for two and a half years. This January, to celebrate our anniversary, we went on our first official road trip as a couple. He’s white and I’m black, and when we’re hiking in the LA area, I don’t even think about that. But this trip we were heading to Death Valley national park, in a relatively conservative area.

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On the trails we received nothing but stares. People just wouldn’t stop. They weren’t mean or evil but at some point I said to my boyfriend: “I don’t want to hold your hand any more.” I felt bad because he was being affectionate and wanted to hug and kiss my cheek but I was like: “No, not here.” I didn’t want to make anyone else uncomfortable, even though I was.

I feel like it’s important for black girls to hike. When I was young I would have loved to have had someone encouraging me to get outside. To not be afraid. I’ve decided to apply for a master’s degree in parks and recreation management, and a friend and I set up a hiking group for women of color in LA called Black Girls Trekkin’. I want to be a model to other young girls.

If you have an outdoors experience you’d like to share with the Guardian, please write to us at publiclands@theguardian.com