Sequoia National Park and Sandwich Theft
We started the day with breakfast at the Grand Central Market, where navigating the homeless population has unfortunately become part of the city’s fabric.
We started the day with breakfast at the Grand Central Market, where navigating the homeless population has unfortunately become part of the city’s fabric. I can’t help but notice it every time. As we walked, I turned to Carlos and said, “The U.S. loves to boast about the American Dream, but if you’re ignoring your most vulnerable, what kind of dream is that? They’re so proud of it, but they’ve completely failed when they treat people like this because it’s not profitable to give a shit.”
It’s not that I don’t enjoy life. I do. But seeing this every day and knowing how easily people turn a blind eye? I just can’t. And people tell me my writing depresses them, but how can I write about anything else? I lived in fight mode when I was younger. I know what it’s like to survive, and I just want everyone to have the chance to live without being stuck in that survival loop.
In lighter news, I stole Carlos’s egg sandwich because, clearly, he made the better choice. He’s used to it by now.
We checked out of the hotel (this time WITH our suitcases, which was a small victory) and grabbed coffee to go before hitting the road. I turned into my usual awkward self when the valet opened my door. I don’t know why, but any formal interaction turns me into a complete idiot. Carlos just laughed it off.
As we drove, Carlos looked out at the endless highway and said, “OMG, the roads are huge. They’re literally the ones from the movies!” And he was right. These roads seem to stretch on forever, like something out of a scene we’ve all seen a million times.
Then we passed a truck with a portrait of a Sikh man and a quote beside it that said, “Physical death I do not fear; death of conscience is the real death.” It was attributed to Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, and it hit me hard. Not because of fear, but because of the truth in it. The real tragedy isn’t dying—it’s letting your conscience die, letting yourself stop caring about the things that matter. And that’s something I can’t allow in myself. No matter how much easier it would be to just look away, I won’t.
As we got further from the city, we drove through golden fields of fruit trees, dotted with signs about Jesus and oil fields in the distance. The contrast was stark—ripe orchards stretching out like something out of a postcard, then a hard turn into the industrial world of oil pumps, mechanical arms moving up and down in slow, constant rhythm. There’s something about California that feels like a constant tug-of-war between nature and industry, between the things that grow and the things that are drilled from the earth.
As we moved closer to Sequoia, I started noticing small houses tucked away in the mountains. It got me thinking about living off the land, about what it must feel like to rely on nothing but the earth beneath your feet. It would be a different kind of survival, one where you’re connected to the land, not disconnected from everything around you.
Our first real stop was at the Foothill Visitor Center, the gateway to Sequoia National Park. It felt good to be heading into nature after the chaos of the city. Sequoia National Park, which sits on land that once belonged to the Yokuts and Mono tribes, is a place of deep history, much older than any park. There’s something humbling about knowing the land you’re walking on holds stories far older than you could imagine. I bought a little art book with all the National Parks in them, having little to do lists and stamp collection spots and I felt like I was back on the camino to Santiago again.
Next, we headed to Hospital Rock, or 'Ayékwee' as it was once called. The spot is sacred, with petroglyphs carved into the rock by the native people who lived here long before us. We stopped to make sandwiches and found a peaceful spot to sit. The river nearby was cold and clear, too tempting to resist. We waded in, the shock of cold giving way to a soothing calm. Nature does that for me—it takes all the noise away and lets me just be. The water had a way of washing off the city.
After we dried off, we drove to see General Sherman, the largest tree by volume on Earth. As we parked, Carlos grabbed his backpack, closed the car door, and then burst out laughing. My bra had gotten caught on his pack and was now flapping in the breeze like some kind of crazy feminist flag. A proud moment, obviously.
Standing in front of General Sherman, you realize just how small you are. The tree has been here for thousands of years, surviving countless storms and changes while the world below it shifts. We read about John Muir, who dedicated his life to protecting these lands. His words about nature being our home echoed in my head, especially in a place that has stood witness to so much history.
As dusk settled, we took a short walk along the Big Trees Trail. The air had cooled, and the scent of pine and earth filled the evening air. With no one else around, I let my inner tree hugger loose. I pressed my cheek against the bark of one of the ancient giants, feeling the rough texture against my skin. It was grounding, like leaning into a parent for comfort. These trees have been here for millennia, and in that moment, I felt connected to something much bigger than myself.
By the time we left, darkness was closing in. Nature was reclaiming the park, and we let it be. The drive back to Exeter was quiet, the stars slowly emerging, a few at a time, as we wound through the mountain roads. We made a quick stop at a small supermarket to pick up steaks, planning to cook them in the Airstream that would be home for the night. There’s something grounding about cooking outside under a sky full of stars—the simplicity of it all making the day feel complete.
As we pulled into the Airstream site, the stars were out in full force. We grilled our steaks, laughing and chatting under the night sky, feeling like everything was exactly as it should be. No chaos, no distractions—just us, the trees, and the stars.