“Let’s Go Take a Look”

“How much higher do you think that outcropping is from where we’re sitting right now?”

Justin was faded, nauseous, and swaying in the mid-day heat of the Eastern Sierra when he the words fell out of his mouth. My head felt like an over-inflated balloon. Dumbstruck, I tried my best at a civil response, “Fuck. I don’t know… Maybe 50 feet? Is this not the summit?!”

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Motivational Posters for Manic Pixie Dream Hikers

Let’s face it, you’re on the trail so many weekends out of the year that you have a pet honeybee named Myrtle who lives behind your right ear and a heart with John Muir’s name on it tattooed across your left tricep. You knit sweaters from the leg hair you shave once a year before your family’s Christmas party, and you know how to create a fierce smoky eye out of nothing but a spoonful of mushroom spores you found in the forest. You are ethereal. You are muddy. Your favorite Beatle is George’s sitar, and you legally changed your middle name to Moab when you were 17. This one’s for you, sugarplum.

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A Toast to the Odd Jobs!

On this fine June evening, I’d like to raise a glass (of champagne, PBR, kombucha, cherry limeade, or whatever else is in your merry cup) to the odd jobs. To the jobs that got us through and the jobs we barely got through. To the kettle-clanging coffee mavens and the primped and pastied pole goddesses: this one’s for you.

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The End of an Adventure

It is Sunday night, and you have left me sore.

After the laughter and the naked shock of lake thaw turning my skin to goosepimples, after you have left my hair a bedded mess of red, and after three moonless nights with trees tall as cathedral spires, I have spun my key and dropped my pack, a sagging slump at the foot of the bed in a dingy apartment behind a cheap sushi joint and a 7-Eleven in west Los Angeles.

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The 21-Day No Complaint Experiment

“Look! My hip has a weird, reptilian scab from this backpack’s belt.”
“Pumping water from these plastic bags takes SO LONG.”
“Dude. I hate marmots.”

We’ve all been that person – the one with the sweat dripping into our eye sockets or the wrong shoes on when it starts to rain. It’s inevitable, it’s annoying, and, usually, it really fucking sucks. The more I go outdoors, the more I become aware of the myriad of weird discomforts and things that can go wrong while tramping through the woods with your house on your back. I’ve also noticed that some people seem to be significantly better at keeping their troubled assertions to themselves and making light of the situation instead, laughing off blisters like some sort of high-octane mutants. I call them Bodacious Backpackers, and they are the superhero mind-ninjas that everyone wants on their thru-hike or climbing expedition. I wanted to become one of them.

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The Girl Who Murdered Small Things

On a cool Thursday night in suburban Texas, I smothered my first soul. I remember the florescent glow from the garage as my mother approached me holding a clear glass jar, beaming. Inside it, a large moth with a wingspan of over three inches and a lunar imprint along the fuzzy husk of her abdomen fluttered wildly, incandescent eyes darting along the seams and praying for an escape.

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What Is Packed in Your Small Car?

Three years ago, in a tucked away corner of Van Nuys, California, lodged between a golf course, a church, and an AutoZone, I walked into a yoga class that I haven’t been able to shake. The studio was no different than most, lacquered maple floors greeting my toes as I shuffled to find a space near the front left corner of the room. Looking around at the imperfections in the wood, I waited. It was five minutes past 10am. Class should have already started. When the teacher finally arrived, my stomach sank, and my brain flickered to contain a few deliriously judgmental thoughts. Toe to tuft, I eyed him like a cat. “This is not what I had in mind.”

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Cactus to Clouds: A Trail Diary

4:00am
I awake to fuzzy hipster garage rock reverberating off the tin can that is my unfinished Ford Transit in the wee hours of dawn, downing a Clif Bar and a caffeine gel while praying for an extra 8 minutes to snooze in the comfort of my luxurious sleeping bag. I think I was having a sex dream about Alex Honnold. Ugh… Such strong hands.

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What Is at the Root of Your Discomfort?

The thing that I fear most isn’t taking a whipper on a towering rock face or an unexpected mountain lion attack; it’s complacency. You’ve seen the pattern – we all have – somewhere around the age of 27-35, we pair off, move into a domicile of some type, have children, and somewhere along the way, we stop trying. We cruise through comfortable jobs that don’t challenge us, we stop working out, and, what hurts my heart the most, is that most of us stop putting effort into the most important romantic relationship of our lives. It’s a sobering reality when you think about how finite the blip of time we get on this cloud-strewn marble is.

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Bros before “Woahs”

About a month ago, I gathered a makeshift team of oddballs together to celebrate my birthday in the Alabama Hills. It was a Tetris game of wildly different personalities from nearly every one of my friend groups – the photographer, the mountain guide, the dude I met once from Facebook, the couple that picked me up at a goth club 6 years ago, and the weird kids in the back who really wanted to stay up late and do too much acid. We were a junkshow.

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