Why Did I Think I Could Hike With People Born After Wi-Fi?

How I look in my head....

In a moment of delusion, I decided to go hiking with young people. Yes — young people. The ones with factory-fresh joints, indestructible cartilage, and zero fear of dying on a loose rock.

Gliding through the trail like mountain goats with yoga certifications and the audacity of youth.

Now, I hike. A lot. I sweat. I survive. But watching these human gazelles — who’ve maybe hiked twice and still showed up in spotless sneakers — bound up the trail like it’s Olympic parkour? I was emotionally offended and physically betrayed.

I’ve previously ranted about what these spry little creatures do on a trail — effortlessly, infuriatingly, like they were born on a boulder. But now, for those of you younger than me (aka: 98% of humanity and the entire internet), let me offer you a sneak peek of what’s coming....If you're lucky...If your warranty holds....Kind of. Sort of. Assuming the joints hold.

Here’s the thing — it’s not even about fitness. I’m in decent-ish shape. When I’m scrambling up a rock face, I feel like an action movie hero. In my head, I’m all gangsta: Black Panther meets Tomb Raider, with just a hint of Rihanna.

What the camera ALLEGES I look like...😡🥵

Then I see the footage. And oh, the betrayal. The camera doesn’t lie — it serves cold, unedited truth. What it captures is not a superhero, but an old woman desperately leveraging every functional body part just to get up a rock... or, you know, walk. Quietly entering high-stakes negotiations with her joints, digits, and dignity.

Me "heroically teetering" 🙄

In fact, one of my so-called Facebook “friends” pointed out that a photo of me heroically teetering (okay, fine, mildly dramatic) on the ledge of a waterfall looked less like Lara Croft and more like someone about to attempt their very first ride on a skateboard.

And dammit... she was right. Not “cool skater chick” energy either — more like “concerned aunt at a skate park wondering if her medical aid covers dental.”

And my thumbs? Oh, they’ve unionized. Filing passive-aggressive complaints to HR with every grip. These painful little traitors now require surgical-level precision just to grab a branch without sparking a riot in my nervous system.

But the thing you least expect — and the one that truly makes you look like a walking liability — is your balance. Balance becomes an old person’s disease. It’s not something you expect to vanish — like collagen or inhibitions. But one day, it’s there… and the next, you’re hunched over on a trail, planning every foot placement like you’re defusing a bomb in hiking boots.

Not that I can’t do it. I can. Just... slower. With a plan. Possibly a spreadsheet.

Every step is a full-body assessment: which foot, which rock, what angle, how much weight, and what’s my exit strategy if this all goes sideways (literally)?

Meanwhile, the youthful ones are out here stepping up, down, sideways — straight as a damn arrow. Occasionally pausing to look back at me: half-on, half-off a boulder, bent over like I just dropped my last shred of dignity in the dirt.

But — we do it. We climb. We curse. We survive. And then we treat ourselves to something smothered in cheese and carbs.

Because we’ve earned it.

One careful, creaky, calculated step at a time.