Desolation Wilderness

Jeremi and Luca backpack part of the Pacific Crest Trail

The idea for this newsletter was born during a late-night walk as we tried to catch a glimpse of the northern lights above our hometown.

As high-school friends now attending separate colleges, we don’t have a lot of chances to catch up. This was the first time we’d seen each other in months. Even worse, we’d be spending the summer on opposite coasts, each pursuing our own internships.

Those few hours spent brainstorming a summer newsletter were filled with meaningful conversation. We supported each other through various challenges, pushed each other to grow, and shared recent insights we’d gained.

How could we have more of this?

The initial plan was to write this newsletter over the summer to stay connected with friends and family while we were away. It would be an extension of the conversations we were already having, sharing whatever was on our minds each week.

This edition marks the end of our summer. We’ve completed our internships and are headed back to Santa Barbara and Berkeley for school. We achieved what we set out to do: one newsletter every Sunday.

But this newsletter has become more than just a way to stay in touch over the summer. It has sharpened our writing skills, solidified our thoughts, and held us accountable for making the most of every week. So, why stop now?

We won’t. The end date has been postponed indefinitely. We hope you enjoy reading this newsletter as much as we enjoy writing it — because it’s here to stay.

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Luca: Seeking Challenge

The last time I saw Jeremi was back in May when he came up to the Bay Area for his godsister’s graduation. We were able to meet briefly one evening to complete the “My First Muscle” challenge—100 burpees, 100 pushups, and 100 squats—as laid out in My First Million, a podcast we both enjoy listening to.

Our video submission did not win us anything, and our arms felt like limp noodles for the following week. But we completed the challenge.

I went to Washington, D.C. for the summer and Jeremi interned in Livermore, CA. We called frequently, wrote this newsletter weekly, and stayed in shape daily—morning runs across the National Mall for me and long bike rides for him.

This past week was the first time we saw each other since that “My First Muscle” challenge and this time, we were backpacking in Desolation Wilderness.

It was Jeremi’s first time backpacking and my first time being solely responsible for the outcome of a trip. Fortunately, I’ve gotten to backpack in Desolation Wilderness a few times with my dad, so the trail, lakes, and other details were all familiar to me.

After a full first day of hiking, we jumped into the icy alpine lake water and cooked ourselves freeze-dried pad thai. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, we climbed Cracked Crag, a nearby peak, to watch the sunset over Lake Tahoe (picture below).

The backpacking trip was tough and tiring, but it was a perfect way to catch up in person. And on our last day, we noticed a pattern: our intellectual conversations keep us connected, but it’s physical challenge that often brings us together.

It’s not just about pushing ourselves physically—there’s a larger purpose in the way these challenges force us to step out of our comfort zones together. Just like co-writing this newsletter pushes us intellectually, these shared experiences drive us to grow in ways we might not achieve alone.

Whether it's a grueling workout or a backpacking trip in the Sierras, these challenges have become milestones in our friendship—something to strive for, accomplish together, and reflect on with a sense of pride and shared growth.

Our view on the first night from Cracked Crag

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Jeremi: Responsibility

Standing at the top of Crag’s peak, I was transported back in time. There was nothing but mountains and trees surrounding me as far as I could see; rugged wilderness untouched by humans. We were explorers in one of the fantasy worlds I would always read about as a child.

We made our way back down the mountain as the sun set, and I couldn’t shake that feeling. Later that night I was wrapped in my sleeping bag in our tiny tent, looking up at the stars as coyotes howled in the distance. This is real, I told myself.

I have always been very good at escaping this world. I have an active imagination. I can treat my life as though it were a dream or a movie that I’m simply watching from afar. I couldn’t do that in Desolation Wilderness. It might have felt like a fantasy world — but I was actually living in it.

Everything felt much more real. Maybe it was because our lives were in our own hands. We needed to filter our water, find our own shelter, and take measures to protect against possible bears.

In a sense, it was the culmination of a feeling that has been building for me this entire summer: my life is in my own hands.

I moved down to Livermore alone. I learned how to cook and grew accustomed to the 9-5 lifestyle. I backpacked with Luca, and realized that there might be five people who knew where I was right now — and none in a position to help me. I’m going down to Santa Barbara, where I’ll see an entirely different set of friends that don’t know what any of those experiences were like.

I’ll try to explain my experiences this summer as best I can. But I can only show people a sliver of what it has been like. At a certain point, I’m the only one with the full purview of my life.

I think my path has fully separated from anyone else in terms of what I’ve experienced and where I’m going. It’s a strange feeling, and maybe one that you’ve already grown well-accustomed to.

There’s no one to fully rely on anymore. I can look to people for inspiration, and for guidance. But it is up to me to create the life that I want. When I go down to Santa Barbara, no one from home is coming with me.

I will achieve what I want. Or maybe I won’t. None will be the wiser unless I tell them. It is my path to carve out and my responsibility to follow it. Every piece of progress towards my goals needs to be earned. My survival was in my own hands at Desolation Wilderness. From here on out, my life is.