Take extra caution when crossing streams, especially after a recent rain. Check for depth (below thigh-deep on the shortest person), speed (water no faster than a walking pace), and color (avoid turbulent, frothy whitewater) before entering. Remember the old adage: if in doubt, stay out.
—Henry Herrington,Backpacking the Sierras: A Beginner’s Handbook(Fourth Edition)
VIDEOS > FAVORITES > VLOG FOOTAGE
SADIE: Hey, everyone—I made it through the night!
Sadie squints into the camera, then sweeps a hand through her hair before wiping some sleep from her eyes. The first rays of sunlight pierce through the nylon fabric of her tent walls.
SADIE: Sorry I look rough. But y’all—I did it! Was it comfortable? No. Was it fun? Also no. Does my entire body feel like death? You bet it does. I’m going to be very, very real right now: My legs hurt. My butt hurts. My feetreallyhurt. My back—actually, my back isn’t too bad. The heating pad I brought worked pretty well, so I’ll link to that when I get a chance. But, yeah. This is already the hardest thing I’ve ever put myself through on purpose, and it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours yet. My reward for surviving? I get to do it all over again today! And tomorrow. And the next day. And a lot of days after that.
Sadie’s smile falters, almost imperceptibly, for a split second.
SADIE: But you know what? I’m here. I’m fighting—I’mdoingit. So to everyone out there who has a Caden O’Connor in their life telling them they’lldieafter one day of trying something outside of their comfort zone, I’m living proof that you can do it. You can do anything for a day, right?
6SADIE
The full force of the pain doesn’t hit until I’ve unfolded myself from my tent and taken my first steps.
If I had to guess, my body is approximately 85 percent fire right now, 10 percent determination, and 5 percent Advil. I don’t spot any blisters—yet—but it’s only a matter of time. I’m already dreading my inevitable loss to Thorn, the bet we both knew he’d win. Maybe I should make a cup of coffee for him this morning: He won’t want to take my setup away if he gets hooked, right?
It’s my best (and only) idea right now.
In the meantime, I’m determined to push through with a smile. No complaints—not out loud—because even if Caden’s not here to witness this misery, I feel like he’d still sense it somehow. Thorn feels almost like a Caden proxy, anyway: I can read it all over his face, how he took one look at me and thought,Seriously?Thisgirl? She won’t make it a day.
I kind of need to prove something to him, too—especially after how he called meprincess.
So, no. I will not be admitting, to Thorn or to anyone, that I feltevery single jagged rock underneath me last night, even through my cushion and my sleeping bag and my heating pad.
The kettle is already in use when I reach the fire. I didn’t bring my own—believe me, I considered it—since Abby pointed out that a kettle was on the list of supplies the tour group would be providing.
What I didn’t count on were three other guys who were as into coffee as me. I wait patiently as Trey, Silas, and Hunter prep their AeroPresses. All the water is gone by the time they’re through with it, so I have to wait even longer for my own to come to a boil.
I’ve just finished setting up everything I need—my favorite ceramic mug, a foldable filter that functions the same way my V60 does at home, and my premeasured coffee grounds—when I hear a throat clear behind me. I turn and see Trey, his hat with the Mark Rober logo turned backward.
“Onyx Coffee Lab!” he says, delighted, pointing at the box I set down with my gear. “You’ve got good taste.”
I laugh. “I’m just glad I’m not the only one who brought fancy coffee on a wilderness hike.”
“They said to pack only the essentials, right?”
This guy is buzzing so hard he probably had three fully caffeinated cups before seven a.m.
“Anyway,” he goes on, talking just a little too fast, “I was just gonna offer some of ours if you want it? Unless you’d rather make your own, which I’d totally get. But if you want some, we’ve got enough. If you like Onyx, you’ll like ours.”
“Oh, right—you all own a coffee shop together, right?” I overheard snippets on our hike yesterday.
He points to an octopus tattoo on his forearm, its sucker-laden limbs curled and winding around to the other side. “Cephalopod Coffee out of Portland,” he says. “That’s our logo.”
Anyone committed enough to get their brand’s logo tattooed on their forearm is probably also committed to making sure said brand is of good quality—that it won’t go out of business within two years, rendering said tattoo pointless and regrettable. Then again, he has a lot of tattoos, so maybe he just liked the way it looked.
“I’m good for today,” I say, gesturing to my filter full of grounds, “but thanks—I’ll totally take you up on that tomorrow.”
Between waiting forever on the kettle and the time required to actually prepare my coffee, it’ll be another ten minutes before I’m able to drink it. Back home, the slowness of this routine is one of the best parts: the smell of the coffee, the heat of the swirling steam, the soothing sounds as it drips into the mug—it’s calming, and helps me start the day off right before I ever take a single sip.
Now, though, I’m increasingly aware of how long the process is. Instead of relieving stress, it’s adding to it—everyone else has finished breakfast already, and I’m the only one still trying to wrap up. Matteo put the fire out the instant my water finished boiling, and the coffee bros headed back to their tents to pack up a little while ago. The others around camp are already doing the same. Zoe is the exception: she’s off on her own, working her way through a complicated yoga routine while Joshua takes care of their tent.
Suffice it to say, I’m a little self-conscious.
