A Trail to Friendship

Hi, my name is Zosia. I’m part of the Polish Girl Scout organization in the UK. Many would call me crazy for my love of the wild, but I simply crave that connection with nature—the rustling leaves, the scent of pine, the thrill of adventure. This year, I embarked on an unforgettable journey: the X Polish Scouting Jamboree in North Carolina, USA. Imagine a gathering of Polish scouts from across the globe—Canada, Australia, the USA, Great Britain, Ireland, Belgium, Lithuania, Sweden, and a handful from Poland itself. Truly, it was a microcosm of our scouting world.

Now, I could regale you with tales from start to finish—the campfires, the camaraderie, the bug bites—but let’s focus on my favorite part.

At the jamboree, we were divided into Sections, each to embark on a four-day hike. Each section was made up of two patrols, each from a different country, and always a mix of girls and boys. Our patrol, however, was initially crestfallen. Why? Because we were assigned an all-girl Section. And to make matters worse, the other patrol was from the States. Now, let me explain. We’d heard rumors—the Polish Girl Scouts in the USA were supposedly lazy, terrible walkers. But as we say, rumors often crumble in the face of reality.

Me and Alex— two girls from distant corners of the world, brought together by rugged trails and a shared reluctance. The Appalachian Trail (AT) stretched before us, a winding ribbon of earth that promised both of us challenge and revelation. I, with my unruly curls, just about holding in a set of braids and a penchant for adventure, hailed from the UK. Alex, with her fierce determination and a love for the Windy City, called Chicago home. Our first encounter was less than auspicious. Adjusting my backpack straps, I shot Alex a skeptical glance. “Four days on this trail? Are you kidding me?” Alex, wiping sweat from her brow, raised an eyebrow. But I could tell so clearly what she was thinking, written all over her face — “You think I’m thrilled about it? But here we are.”

And so, our Appalachian adventure began—a trail of skepticism and blisters, but also of unexpected friendship. Me and Alex, side by side, navigating rocky terrain and stubborn inclines, leading the section of girls. Two girls who couldn’t be more alike—both headstrong, both fiercely independent. We bickered about the best way to filter water from a mountain stream and argued over the proper way to pitch a tent. When I first laid eyes on her, it was like looking into a mirror. Same freckles, same mischievous glint in our eyes, and the same stubborn set to our jaws. We clashed instantly, sparks flying over the campfire. But beneath it all, a shared determination simmered.

On that first day, the sun peeked through the leaves, dappling the forest floor. The air smelled of pine and anticipation. But as the group gathered, excitement gave way to concern. One of the instructors—a seasoned hiker from Ireland with a perpetual twinkle in her eye—winced as she adjusted her backpack. Her bad back had flared up, and she grimaced with each step. Alex and I had noticed.  Without hesitation, I stepped forward. “Here,” I said, my British accent soft but determined. “Let me take some of your load.”

And just like that, the instructor’s heavy backpack found a new home—strapped to my chest. I adjusted the straps, her eyes meeting Alex’s. This time, Alex, with her Chicago grit, nodded in approval. We exchanged a silent understanding—the kind that forms between kindred spirits.

As we set off, Alex and I steamed ahead. Our legs moved in sync, our breaths matching the rhythm of the trail. The rest of the group—the slow section, as they were affectionately called—lagged behind. They took breaks, complained about blisters, and adjusted our packs. But Alex and I? We pushed forward, fueled by determination and an unspoken challenge.

It was during those uphill stretches, when sweat dripped into our eyes and our calves burned, that we truly recognized our similarity. Both stubborn. Both fiercely independent. Both unwilling to let obstacles slow them down. We didn’t just hike; we danced along the trail, our laughter echoing through the trees.

At the first campsite, as we all sat by the fire, I peeled off my backpack and shoes ready to pitch the tent. The instructor, now resting on a log, smiled gratefully. “You two are a force,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone tackle the trail like that.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the tree canopy, something shifted. Alex and I sat by the campfire, nursing blisters and sore muscles. Tentatively at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, we began to talk. We laughed about our shared love for terrible jokes and for gossiping about others. 

But one night, as the moon hung low and the forest held its breath, our cozy peace was shattered. A rustling—a furtive, insistent sound—pierced the darkness. My eyes widened. Alex’s hand clamped over her mouth.

“It’s a skunk,” I whispered.

And there it was—a striped bandit, its white stripe glowing eerily in the moonlight. The skunk had found the only rubbish bag left out by accident, the one not properly tied up with the bear bags. It rummaged through discarded wrappers and half-eaten granola bars, blissfully unaware of us watching from our tarp next to the fire.

“What do we do?” Alex whispered.

I nodded. “We need to secure that bag.”

In the dark, we re-tied the bag, hearts pounding. The skunk waddled off, its tail raised in mild annoyance.

Late nights became our sanctuary. Under a sky sprinkled with stars, we whispered secrets—the kind you only share with someone who truly understands. I confessed my fear of growing up and not having people to love me, and Alex admitted her stubbornness and fear of being in pain. We stargazed, traced constellations, and dreamed of distant lands where it could just be the two of them, best friends for life. And when the campfire died down, we huddled in our sleeping bags, giggling like schoolgirls, gossiping about the quirks of our fellow scouts.

By the end of those four days, Alex and I had become inseparable. The Appalachian Trail had woven its magic—a trail of friendship that wound through forests — across borders, and straight into our hearts.

The last day of camp arrived— our journey was etched in stardust, but now it was time to say goodbye. Me and Alex stood back at camp, our backpacks lighter but our hearts heavy. The sun peeked through the leaves, casting a bittersweet glow on our faces.

“We did it,” I said, my voice a mix of triumph and sorrow.

Alex nodded, her eyes misty. “Yeah, but now what?”

We hugged—the kind of hug that holds a thousand unspoken words. The instructor joined us, her bad back forgotten in the moment. “You two,” she said, “are trailblazers.” And we were indeed, both figuratively and literally. 

Eventually, we had to part ways. I boarded a plane back to the from Washington DC to the UK, and Alex got a coach to Chicago. Tears were shed—tears for the trail, for the midnight skunk, and for a friendship that had bloomed in the wild.

As the plane ascended, I looked out the window. The forest below blurred into green and brown, and I whispered a promise to the wind: “We’ll meet again, Alex. Maybe on another trail, maybe under different stars.”

The Appalachian Trail became more than a physical journey. It was a trail of friendship—a winding path that led us not only through forests and mountains but straight into each other’s hearts. It had given each of us—a shared journey, a shared laughter, and a shared understanding of what it meant to be unstoppable.