I work in a dull office. In the break room we have a TV mounted on the wall that’s constantly displaying one of those screensaver slideshows of mountains and lakes. Lately I’ve been lingering on my water breaks. I find myself receiving much more nourishment from the images on screen than I get from the water cooler.
8:30am. We arrived at the Glacier Gorge Trailhead, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. As one of the more popular regions in the park, we had set our sights high. Sky Pond.
Nestled between Taylor Peak, Powell Peak, and Thatchtop Mountain, Sky Pond couldn’t have attained a better moniker. At 10,900 ft. this jaw-dropping lake had become that of myth in the weeks leading up to our trip. I familiarized myself with the trail and day by day, fixated on reaching our goal. In my mind, the hike to Sky Pond had become a beast we were meant to conquer. I write this with sore, shaky hands to tell you how the beast kicked our ass.
Everyone and everything has a story.
Moby-Dick, 1984, The Cat in the Hat, Harry Potter, Batman comic books. All immersive tales that drop you into another world with nothing more than words (or drawings) on a page.
Citizen Kane, Forrest Gump, Rocky, The Godfather, Napoleon Dynamite. All staples of pop culture, with characters that will live far beyond their time on screen.
Apple, Nintendo, Pixar, LEGO, Old Spice, Nike. All successful companies with either extraordinary origins or with bafflingly effective, story-driven marketing campaigns.
Never! Everyone just pretends.
When you learn to think about other’s needs, not just your own.
When you are able to recognize that your emotions are getting the better of you. You can be rich, healthy, and old, but if you act like a child because your emotions overruled logic and responsibility, then you are no adult.
When your shit stinks up the bathroom as bad as your father’s.
When you stop wondering what you’re going to get from everybody for Christmas and start wondering what you’re going to get everybody for Christmas.
To say not knowing what to do with your life is scary, would be a disservice to the word “understatement”.
I often find myself in this weird, almost flirtatious relationship with my passions. I know what I’m attracted to, but I’m not always attracted to do it. The inspiration will come in waves, so strong that it’s all I can think about. It’s exciting and incredibly motivating. But then the light will turn green, the water in the shower will go cold, or my boss will tell me to get back to work. Passion has a nasty habit of striking at the most inconvenient times.
This cycle of capturing inspiration, then losing its direction is so frustrating. After enough of these “cycles”, you begin to question if it’s even worth pursuing.
Seven hours. Seven hours we drove from the comforting buzz of suburbia up the California coast. Two hours of which were spent slogging through Los Angeles freeways in the thick of rush hour. It was night time before we were able to leave the city.
Chatting passed the time, as there was little to look at beyond headlights behind us and the whale-like semi-trucks we passed. Eventually we exit the highway, wandering into unknown territory. A narrow, two-lane road through what seemed like endless rows of an orchard. It was somewhat eerie, only making out the passing lines of trees that the headlights illuminated, but knowing the labyrinth that laid beyond. There would be no charity for hitchhikers here.
Finally, we reached the coast. Backs sore, Spotify-exhausted, and out of politics to discuss, we began the treacherous drive along PCH, just south of Big Sur.