I’ll Give You Fifteen Thousand Dollars to Stop Asking Me to Go Hiking

Hey, Maya —

First off, congratulations on becoming an “outdoors person.” Three years ago, you thought mosquitoes were government drones. Now you own boots with names like “Expedition Carbon Ultra GTX.” People change.

I’m happy for you.

Which is why I’d like to offer you fifteen thousand dollars to pretend you never invited me.

Seriously.

Take it.

Use it for backpacks, trekking poles, tiny titanium spoons, or whatever mysterious economy hikers have built among themselves.

I simply cannot spend my Saturday voluntarily climbing a mountain whose greatest achievement is being taller than the parking lot.

You keep saying the view is “worth it.”

The view is Earth.

I’ve seen Earth.

It was available from the ground.

You insist hiking is about “the journey.”

That’s exactly what worries me.

Any activity whose fans tell you the destination doesn’t matter is admitting something they don’t want to admit.

And every photo you post is the same picture.

You’re standing on a rock.

Your arms are out.

You’re facing away from the camera.

Apparently reaching a summit immediately makes everyone allergic to eye contact.

Then come the captions.

“Nature heals.”

“Disconnect to reconnect.”

You disconnected because there isn’t any signal.

That isn’t enlightenment.

That’s geography.

I know you’ll tell me it’s only six miles.

Every miserable experience is “only” something.

The Titanic was only one iceberg.

You also said it’s an “easy trail.”

I’ve learned that hikers use “easy” the way restaurants use “family style.”

It means someone is lying.

Last time you took me on an “easy walk,” we crossed three rivers, climbed a wall made entirely of roots, and celebrated reaching a place called False Summit.

False Summit.

A location whose entire purpose is disappointing people.

Imagine opening a restaurant called “Almost Food.”

Besides, I already have plans.

They’re called “indoors.”

I’ve invested thousands of dollars into this apartment.

I’d like to experience it.

The couch has never once asked me to ascend it before sunrise.

The refrigerator has never described itself as “challenging but rewarding.”

My bathroom has astonishing accessibility.

Nature could learn a thing or two.

Please understand this isn’t personal.

If your hobby were competitive cheese tasting, I’d be there.

If you wanted to spend eight hours ranking grocery carts by steering quality, I’d bring a clipboard.

But hiking asks me to pay money, wake up before birds, and become sweaty for scenery.

That’s a difficult sales pitch.

You’re one of my favorite people.

I want you to reach every summit you’ve ever dreamed of.

I simply don’t need to accompany you to prove it.

Take the fifteen thousand dollars.

Buy a better camera.

Hire someone to say “wow” every few minutes while you climb.

Commission an eagle to circle overhead.

Whatever makes the experience complete.

Just let me admire your adventure the way civilization intended:

Through Instagram.

Love you,
Anavel

(Please confirm receipt of payment before Saturday morning, because if I hear “We’re leaving at 4:30” one more time, I’m moving somewhere completely flat.)

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