There’s something oddly poetic about the way humans cling to small comforts in the face of vast, unrelenting wilderness. I’ve watched hikers hoard trail mix like it’s gold, and now I’m here to say: soda is the real MVP of long-distance trekking. While most opt for beer—because what better way to numb the ache of 1,100 miles than a cold can of cheap alcohol?—I’ve always found that fizzy, sugary liquid to be the true elixir of survival. It’s not just fuel; it’s a psychological anchor. When I left Target with that Dr. Pepper in hand, I wasn’t just grabbing a snack—I was buying a little piece of normalcy. And honestly? That’s the kind of mental fortitude that keeps you going when the trail feels like it’s trying to swallow you whole.
Now, let’s talk about breakfast. There’s a certain ritual to these moments, isn’t there? The shared vulnerability of being stranded at a table full of strangers, waiting for your friends to arrive. I’ve been in that situation before, and it’s always a reminder of how much of a community this trail really is. But what struck me this time was the waiter—the guy who didn’t just serve food but became a temporary confidant. He was from Fuquay-Varina, NC, working in Tahoe for the summer. That’s the kind of detail that makes you realize how transient we all are, how easily we could be swapping stories in a different town, a different state, a different life. And yet, here we were, bonding over coffee and trail talk like we’d known each other for years. It’s a weirdly beautiful thing about this journey: the way it forces you to connect with people you’d never otherwise meet.
Then there’s the gear shopping incident. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit it: I panicked. I was trying on a merino base layer, and the moment I heard the curtain rustle, I froze. It’s not like I was doing anything scandalous—just checking the fit of a shirt. But the reality is, in a world where privacy is increasingly scarce, even the smallest breach feels like a violation. And yet, the woman didn’t even need to see my face. A foot of visibility through a curtain is all it takes for someone to make a judgment. It’s a humbling reminder of how much we expose ourselves to others, even in the most mundane moments. I left without that base layer, but I left with something more valuable: a renewed appreciation for the absurdity of human interactions.
And then there’s Ice Axe. His last day of the LASH was a bittersweet milestone, a celebration of grit and determination. I’ve seen people break down on trails, but Ice Axe? He just kept moving, mile after mile, until he reached the end. It’s not just about the distance—it’s about the mental endurance, the refusal to quit when every step feels like a battle. And yet, even in those final moments, there was a sense of camaraderie. We all sat around, sharing stories, reminiscing about the desert, planning for the future. It’s a strange paradox: the more you push yourself to the edge of your limits, the more you realize how much you need the people around you.
But here’s what really gets me: the age guessing game. I’m 25, and yet I’m being mistaken for someone in their late 20s or early 30s. It’s not just about looking older—it’s about the assumptions people make. I date men in their 30s, and somehow that’s enough to make strangers think I’m a millennial. It’s a reminder of how much of our identity is shaped by others’ perceptions, how easily we’re labeled and categorized. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the trail is a place where those labels fade, where you’re just another person trying to survive, trying to find your way. And in that space, maybe we’re all just a little bit younger than we think.
