2020 cast a strange spell on so many of us. I was lost in the grooves of my music workflow when my phone rang, pulling me back to reality. A friend was calling, just to break up the awkward monotony of lockdown life. By then, a few months in, the endless news cycle had us trapped in a prison of drama, fear creeping into every corner of our minds like cobwebs in an abandoned attic.

The call was welcome. Our conversation drifted to the California coast, specifically Big Sur, and I launched into the story of my first drive there. I’d rented the tiniest economy car in San Francisco to show a friend from Texas why California had stolen my heart. With Bixby Bridge closed, our only option was the long way in—down the 101, cutting through Fort Hunter Liggett, and climbing over the mountains.

The road was a single-lane strip of cracked pavement clinging to the cliffs, scattered with loose rocks. Only later would I learn the common advice: “Don’t drive that road unless you’ve got a 4×4.” We didn’t know any better, and ignorance can be a beautiful thing.

The weather felt familiar for life in San Francisco—gray skies, patches of drizzle, mist weaving in and out. Nothing was going to stop us. Not even when we found ourselves in the middle of a military caravan, tucked between Humvees and utility trucks like some absurdly protected Nissan Versa.

As we climbed higher, the fog thickened, then thinned, then swallowed us again. My knuckles whitened on the wheel—one wrong move meant a sheer drop into nothingness. The radio sputtered static and fragments of gospel songs, only adding to the strangeness.

Then, at the peak, the mist transformed into snow. Instead of panic, we felt wonder. Snow in Big Sur, in April—it felt like a gift.

From there, the drive down was effortless. When the fog lifted, the Pacific appeared, rugged ridgelines cascading into the sea. We were struck silent by the view.

At the bottom, unsure of what to do, we cruised through town, turned around, and eventually parked at a turnout. That’s when it hit me—the weight lifted, the sea air in my lungs, the horizon stretching endlessly west. We were on top of the world, even though we’d just descended.

The coast was blanketed in gray until, suddenly, the clouds broke. Shafts of sunlight pierced through, igniting the hills in vibrant green. White-capped peaks revealed themselves, ridgelines running like rivers into the ocean. The entire scene shifted from muted to high-definition in a matter of minutes.

After telling that story, I couldn’t remember the name of the road, so I Googled it. Strangely, nothing came up. Instead, I landed on images of lush cliffs and tropical trails. I clicked through and discovered Kauai’s Kalalau Trail—listed as one of the most dangerous hikes in the U.S.

I laughed. Dangerous? It’s just walking. How bad could it be?

But the idea stuck. With all the energy I had from reliving Big Sur, I decided: I’m going to get the gear and hike the Kalalau Trail.

As a kid, I lived for National Geographic and dreamed of wild places. Somewhere along the way, adulthood buried that part of me. COVID, for all its chaos, gave me the space to remember.

So, I set a new mission: backpack the Kalalau Trail. I’d use Catalina Island as my training ground.