Let’s set the scene: Early May, sun already melting the asphalt, and I’m in Dark Canyon, Utah, rethinking every life choice that led me to lug a small boulder disguised as a backpack up a 1,500-foot wall of misery. My eyes are stinging from sweat and I’m halfway up the slope, doing my best impression of a dehydrated sloth, when it occurs to me—“Hey, maybe there should be a little class, like ‘Backpacking 101: How Not to Pack Your Apartment.’” Of course, this thought would have been a lot more useful several days ago, but hindsight’s like that annoying outdoorsy friend—it only joins you after the hard work is done.
Over the years, I’ve collected “adventure buddies” like some people collect refrigerator magnets. It always starts innocently: “I had so much fun! My neighbor’s yoga instructor’s old roommate saw our Instagram posts and now she and her book club want in. You’re cool with a group of strangers, right?” And because I’m allergic to saying no to fun (and apparently, to common sense), I agree. Passion, as it turns out, is a terrible bodyguard for judgment. If the trip goes sideways? Congratulations, you’ve just upgraded from standard “bad decision” to “interesting story.”
This trip started, as so many disasters—I mean, adventures—do: a posse of eager first-timers ready to trade mall lighting for daylight. These were friends from my past life, when our natural habitat was more “dance floor” than “forest floor.” Still, they assured me they’d caught the hiking bug. (It turns out actually catching a bug isn’t quite as Instagrammable.) But hey, they seemed serious enough, and my enthusiasm had already dropkicked my suspicion out the door.
Predictably, the hike in involved a lot of glances at phone screens that had long ago lost service, a few “what’s a blister?”, and enough complaining about packs that my eardrums developed calluses. But the canyon floor, all golden-lit trees and splash-worthy creeks, worked its magic. Glorious waterfalls, discovery around every corner, and enough fun in cataract pools to make you forget the looming hike out. It was all rainbows—until Sunday.
Here’s where things got spicy. One hiker, a petite glamazon, suddenly lagged—her pack apparently weighed somewhere between “five gallons of water” and “my entire sense of well-being.” I, ever the skeptic, swing by to lift her pack and nearly bust a disc. Her cheeks matched the shade of her lipstick—a clue, in retrospect, that maybe Maybelline wasn’t the only unnecessary thing in that pack.
So what did I find? A hair dryer. Yes, a hair dryer, IN THE CANYON. Its best friend, a curling iron, was snuggled beside it, and together they perched atop a deluxe makeup kit and a stereo—none of which, to my knowledge, are on the canonical list of “10 Essentials for Surviving the Wilderness.” (One can only assume an extension cord to the Colorado River outlet was next.)
Sure, I’d sent out a packing list. But apparently I should’ve included a second email titled, “What Not to Bring, Because We’re Not Filming a Shampoo Commercial.” In the end, I redistributed the pack contents, suffered through my impromptu CrossFit session up the canyon wall, and chanted “one foot in front of the other” to ward off my inevitable existential crisis.
Here’s the pro move, folks: The Pre-Trip Gear Check. Now, whenever new blood joins, we have a ritual. Everyone brings their packed bags to my place, and I gently encourage them to leave anything that requires an electrical outlet—or a Sephora rewards card—at home. It’s been a game changer. Enthusiasm and judgment now coexist in a fragile, slightly sarcastic truce.
So, pack light, laugh often, and—for the love of sanity—leave the hair dryer in civilization. Dark Canyon will judge you enough.