Backpacking, for me, has become the ideal way to bring my world back to baseline. While I know it’s not for everyone, those who are open to it can discover a lot about themselves and the world around us. After four years of diving into this pursuit, I want to share some of the lessons I’ve carried home.
The first one is obvious: we need far less in life than we think. Each trip makes me question every ounce in my pack. When ounces turn into pounds, overpacking can quickly sour your backcountry experience. Clothes can be washed and dried overnight, so it becomes clear fast when you’ve brought too much.
I’ve also learned to appreciate the power of a quick rinse in a river, lake, or waterfall. Since others rely on that same water downstream, you skip the soap. It always makes me reflect on how many unnecessary toiletries we use, and how much plastic waste that creates. Yes, staying clean matters—but our idea of “clean” often feels excessive, even unnatural.
Waste in general is another big wake-up call. Following Leave No Trace means packing out all of your trash, and after a few days you realize how much we humans generate. Plastic, especially, is baffling—it doesn’t break down, yet it’s everywhere. Multiply one person’s daily trash by 8 billion and the scale becomes terrifying. Our planet can’t sustain this rate of consumption forever. I wish we relied more on biodegradable materials and less on what will outlive us.
Another lesson is decompression. It usually takes me two nights and three days to fully shed the noise of technology and the city. At some point, I second-guess why I’m even out there, but that’s part of the urban detox. Once I break through, clarity arrives. Coming home actually starts to feel dreadful. Out there, I just sink into the rhythm of nature.
Solo trips may sound lonely, but I’ve found them deeply rewarding. The solitude gives space for thoughts to rise and pass, while the trail itself forces me to breathe through the hard stretches. Worries that seemed big in daily life shrink under the weight of the wilderness.
My sleep cycle also shifts. Alone on the trail, there’s little reason to stay up long after the sun sets, so I’ve gone to bed as early as 7 p.m., exhausted but content. In the dark, it feels natural. At home, I’ve kept the habit—sleeping 9 to 5, dimming bright lights after sunset. My body thanks me every morning.
Backpacking has also pushed me to put myself first, something I’ve struggled with as a people pleaser. Out there, your survival can depend on it. Everyone must carry their own weight. Nature allows for danger, and you need the confidence to pull yourself through hard moments. That mindset carries into daily life—it builds presence and quiet confidence.
On my last trip into the Yosemite Wilderness, I was preparing for the possibility of a black bear encounter. My bear canister, packed with everything scented, sat 30 feet from my tent each night. I was ready to scare away any curious visitor. The bears never showed, but something else did.
On my final night, camped by Bernice Lake at 10,000 feet, I had the alpine water to myself. The sun was setting, birds chirping—it was pure stillness. Then the calls shifted. These weren’t just birds. It was the chirping of a mother cougar and her young, closing in about 75 yards away. My heart rate spiked—partly from the altitude, partly from adrenaline. I clapped and shouted “Riiiiiiicooooollllllaaaaaaa!” into the fading light, hoping to signal that I was a harmless, clunky human. The last thing you want is to surprise a cougar with her cubs. I stayed on high alert the rest of the night, sleepless but aware. Cougar attacks are rare, but nature isn’t tame—you can’t run, only embrace where you are. Thankfully, they kept their distance, or at least never revealed themselves again.
That final night carried the most profound lesson. We’re here now, and that’s all we get. Everything we think we’re holding onto in life will eventually slip away. Most of the stress we carry isn’t worth it. If we have our health, that alone is reason for gratitude. Backpacking reminds me, over and over, that life—imperfect as it is—is already beautiful.
