Hey, it’s me, the closest trail to the metropolis, and I’m begging you to take your midlife crisis elsewhere.
Every week, a fresh crop of you forty-something corporate marauders comes on pilgrimage like I’m your personal Annapurna.
I’m a two-mile gravel slope with a play area, Carl.
You haul up to my “trailhead” (a.k.a. the Jiffy Lube parking lot) wearing six hundred dollars’ worth of tactical nylon, looking like you’re about to audition for Outward Bound: The Musical.
The sippy straw of your inevitable hydration bladder quivers next to your budding jowl.
What is it, can’t risk twisting off a bottle cap at this altitude?
There are ZARAs taller than me.
And put those hiking poles away. It’s a 5 percent incline. You could have done this in Crocs.
You inhale richly and muse aloud that you love being off-grid, as the lights of a 7-Eleven glitter in the near distance.
You’re about as off-grid as the Times Square T-Mobile.
Did you know Uber Eats delivers here?
Just last week, someone ordered tom yum soup not twenty feet from where you’re standing. It was still steaming when they popped the lid.
You pause a quarter mile in to take a selfie with a bush that was planted three weeks ago by a Deloitte employee on a volunteer day.
You’re able to share it immediately without issue, as we’re still well within 5G range. #callofthewild
How long before this trek ends up as a LinkedIn think piece, by the way?
“Five Things Mother Nature Taught Me About Payroll Automation.”
I give it ninety minutes, Carl. I know your kind.
You reach my eighty-foot summit with the satisfaction of someone who’s just scaled El Cap; hands on hips, wincing into the sun like you’re fucking Shackleton.
Shake Shackleton, more like.
Snap out of it, Carl. This isn’t expedition territory. I’ve had more feet on me than a tech bro in a shiatsu parlor.
If only I really were an untouched wilderness, teeming with grizzlies ready to deglove you for the bag of artisanal jerky balls in your Patagonia fanny pack (you know, the one that doubles as your day rave ketamine kit).
Sadly, the only predator up here is a former park ranger named Grizz who vapes behind the Honey Bucket.
I’m actually an introvert, Carl. Did you know that about me?
Of course you didn’t.
Did it even occur to you that I might want a weekend to myself?
Just a little peace and quiet without any wilderness LARPers snapping Helmut Newton–style upskirts of my ridgeline without consent?
Nuh-uh.
I used to cradle glaciers, Carl.
I spoke the language of geologic time.
Sediment, compressed into bedrock, carved by a million quiet winters.
Mastodons grazed my underbrush.
I heard the last whispered heartbeats of the dinosaurs.
Now, I endure the incessant footfall of dudes who think side-stepping a Labrador dump qualifies as a survival skill.
Frankly, I miss the Neanderthals.
Sure, they smelled like hot balls, but at least they didn’t own crampons, Carl.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: You don’t need me.
You need a treadmill, a BetterHelp subscription, and a lifetime ban from AllTrails.
Next time you hear the #callofthewild, for god’s sake, let it go to voicemail. It’s 100 percent a butt dial.
Now, go treat yourself to a victory Slurpee at the 7-Eleven—or, as you call it, “base camp.”
