TRAILBLAZING
The first time Nixie Margiotta (they/them) told me they were starting a hiking group called Hikes and Dykes, I had two immediate thoughts.
First: That’s hilarious.
Second: Why didn’t I think of that?
The name alone feels like something dreamed up in a late-night conversation over cheap beer—cheeky, irreverent, and impossible to forget.
When I asked Margiotta where it came from, they didn’t overcomplicate it.
“It’s just funny,” they told me, laughing. “And it rhymes.”
Sometimes the best ideas really are that simple.
But beneath the tongue-in-cheek branding is a community built around the belief that queer people deserve to feel safe outdoors.
For a lot of LGBTQ-plus people, the great outdoors doesn’t automatically equal freedom. Sometimes it means vulnerability.
“I think a lot of people in the LGBTQ-plus community might feel unsafe going alone into outdoor spaces,” Margiotta told me over coffee in Estero Bay. “So I thought, if we go as one big group of queer people, and we’re all able to freely express ourselves however we want because we’re together, then it’s a lot more fun and safe.”
In recent years, anti-LGBTQ violence has continued to rise across the United States, with transgender and gender-nonconforming people disproportionately targeted.
According to a March 2026 report from the Williams Institute at UCLA School of Law, anti-trans hate crimes in the United States rose from 184 in 2018 to 527 in 2024.
A separate tracker from GLAAD (Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation) recorded 932 anti-LGBTQ hate crimes between May 2024 and May 2025 across 49 states and Washington, D.C.—about 2.5 incidents per day. More than half targeted transgender and gender-nonconforming people.
Those numbers ripple into ordinary life in subtle ways, shaping how safe—or unsafe—something like a solo hike can feel.
Being visibly queer, a woman, and roughly 110 pounds with rocks in my pockets, walking into the wilderness alone can feel like a major risk—not because danger is guaranteed, but because I’m aware it could exist.
Margiotta understands the feeling.
Part of the spark for Hikes and Dykes came while listening to the true crime and outdoors podcast National Parks After Dark, which explores stories of crime, safety, and community in outdoor spaces.
“I remember one episode,” Margiotta said. “They were talking about these two lesbian hikers who were camping on their own and were unfortunately killed. I was like, ‘Oh my gosh, that could be me.’”
It wasn’t the kind of inspiration most people associate with starting a community group. But it planted a question: What would it look like if queer people didn’t have to navigate outdoor spaces alone?
So in December 2025, Margiotta launched an Instagram account
(@hikesndykes) with a great name and the hope that other queer folks might want to show up.
They did.
The group’s first hike, held in January at Reservoir Canyon, drew roughly 20 people.
“It kind of came out of nowhere, and people were excited,” Margiotta said.
Like any grassroots project, there were growing pains. On that first hike, some hikers expected a leisurely stroll and a romp in the stream. Others approached the trail with the enthusiasm of a mountain goat.
Since then, the group has found its rhythm. Margiotta now posts detailed information before every outing, including mileage, elevation gain, and difficulty level, making it easier for newcomers to choose hikes that match their comfort level.
What started as a single meetup has quickly evolved into something larger. There have been potlucks. New friendships. Trail conversations that turned into text chains. People meeting people they otherwise might never have crossed paths with.
Hikes and Dykes is a reminder that queer community doesn’t only exist in nightlife, Pride festivals, or designated spaces. Sometimes it exists halfway up a steep incline while everyone collectively complains about elevation gain. Sometimes it looks like sweaty strangers becoming friends between switchbacks.
Sometimes community is just knowing you’re not the only one looking around and asking, “Where are the people like me?”
Margiotta also sees intention in the group’s name beyond the punchline.
The word “dyke” has long been used as a slur against lesbians and queer people. By reclaiming it, they’re transforming a word once weaponized against the community into something joyful, visible, and proud.
Marigotta has future visions for Hikes and Dykes including camping trips, birding walks, native plant excursions, naturalist-led adventures, and eventually something resembling a queer outdoor camp—a space where LGBTQ-plus people can connect with both nature and one another.
The next Hikes and Dykes outing is scheduled for July 18 on Black Hill Trail in Morro Bay. Bring water, good shoes, and maybe a willingness to make a few new friends. More information is available on Instagram at
@hikesndykes.