Coming back to hiking after hip surgery is not a triumphant movie moment. There is no soundtrack. No dramatic summit shot. Just gravel under your feet and a dull ache behind every step. The trail does not care that your femur was sawed off and replaced. It just waits. Silent. Steady. Like it always has.
I started with Physical Therapy. Not the fake kind where you lie on a table and pretend to stretch. The real stuff. Bands, steps, holds, sweat. The slow-burning kind that tests your patience more than your strength. Every movement had a purpose. Every small gain had a cost. It was humbling. It was frustrating. It was necessary.
When the therapists gave me the green light, I moved to short walks. Even terrain only. Sidewalks. Parks. The kind of walking that looks easy from the outside, but still made me grit my teeth. I carried soreness like a shadow. My body was still figuring out what normal meant now. The pain was new. It came in flashes. Not the bone-on-bone grind I used to know. This one burned deeper. It felt like healing. Or maybe like a warning. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
A few weeks later, I stretched the walks a little longer. Still flat. Still cautious. I wanted to feel strong again. I wanted the kind of tired that comes after a good push, not the kind that crawls out of pain. But even progress has a way of feeling like failure when it moves slowly. Some days, I came home proud. Other days, I came home angry. That’s the trade.
Eventually, I picked a trail. Short. Uneven. Familiar. The kind of place I used to hike before everything fell apart. I told myself I would take it easy. I lied. Not out loud. Just that quiet lie you whisper in your head when you want something too bad to wait for it. I stepped carefully. I stumbled once or twice. My hip reminded me who was in charge.
The pain came and went. Like a tide pulling under the surface. Sometimes it was sharp. Other times, it was just a heaviness. A stiffness. Like the joint was still deciding if it liked me. And I get it. I do not like myself some days either. I kept walking. Not because it felt good. But because I had to know if I still could.
There is a kind of stubbornness that sits deep in your bones. A refusal to quit even when quitting would be easier. I carry that with me on every trail now. I do not hike fast. I do not hike far. But I hike. And every uneven step is a step I thought I might never take again. That matters more than speed.
Recovery is not a straight line. It is a winding trail with loose rocks, good days, and days that knock the wind out of you. But if you keep moving, even slow, you are still going forward.
Follow along if you want more stories from the trail and the flame. Stay curious. Stay kind. And if you can, get out and walk. Even if it’s just to the end of the driveway.
—Kevin
