While waiting a few days to confirm any plans in Tahoe, I kept myself in a holding pattern in Mammoth—trying to come to terms with one of the harder parts of a long trip like this: the in-between.

The “in-between” wasn’t so bad though. I got to winch out a crew of environmental workers stuck deep in the Mammoth backcountry. I had a solid conversation with a group of Tasmanian park rangers at Hilltop Hot Springs. I even caught up with a friend’s new boyfriend and his crew for a day of spring skiing and après at Neils Francis. Those pockets of connection were refreshing. But, as expected, the downtime between them hit differently.

Just like my time on the North Shore of Oahu, I was reminded that my support system wasn’t going to be co-located with me on this trip. Most of the people I’d meet wouldn’t share any history with me. And that meant a lot of surface-level introductions—over and over again. That kind of social reset gets exhausting fast.

The only choice was to isolate—or to lean into the social muscle I mentioned earlier, the one I hadn’t used in a while. That muscle was rusty. And the discomfort of working it again stared back at me through every small talk exchange and awkward reintroduction.

Compared to other challenges I’ve faced—the military, injuries, recovery—this discomfort might not sound like much. But it’s real. And it’s relentless in a way that chips at you slowly, if you don’t pay attention.

A lot of my past time surrounded doing activities with others. Some like surfing I was comfortable doing alone. That thought process immediately made me regret my choice to drive up along the Eastern side of the Sierra’s when I could have ventured into new territory up the coast.

Thinking “I should have done that” is not a healthy way to think but sometimes it's hard not to. Especially during a symbolic trip like this. The weight of every decision you make seems like a larger magnitude than it actually is, and time not well spent feels like time wasted.

Then right when I needed some guidance in the absence of my mentors back home, I got a text from Dalton Johnson, a photographer and friend of a connection I had made back in San Diego.