After hiking almost 50 miles in Yosemite National Forest last week, I’ve learned to doubt all advice from hikers when you are out on the trail.

Some people are genuinely trying to help you, but they just don’t have their facts straight. They get confused about how far it is between here and there. Trails bend, wind, go up and down. You pass by 100s of rocks, trees, and it all becomes a blur. They get caught in conversation and can tuned-out a mile of the trail during a debate over authentic Mexican food.

There are other hikers who aren’t as innocent. They are high on themselves for mastering their mountain, and they are glad to advise wide-eyed novices on their way down from the summit. Although they speak from recent experience, they are more confident than they are reasonable. If you are hiking with a hot wife (as I did), the males always like boasting of their superior knowledge.  “It’s not that hard” really means, “It’s so steep you might fall over backwards, but I’d prefer that you get worn out and think I’m a legend because it wasn’t hard for me.”

Males Being Males

It’s not always easy trying to separate the two groups: those who try to pass onto you solid, wise guidance, or is those who want to be admired for their knowledge. Let’s be real here: males love authority. It’s in our DNA to take control, survey an enemy, or explore the unknown. (Incidentally, these can also lead us to death.) So even the most discrimination male will help the most pitiful fool find his way from A to B.

It’s also in our DNA to be the hero. If a helpless group of tourists asks for help at a busy intersection, males love to stand apart from our group and put them on their way. It’s a bizarre satisfaction I felt many time in New York City. I won’t deny it. It’s a fantastic feeling to turn back to my group and continue on our way. I don’t have to tell them I saved the day. My guy friends know it, they just wish they could’ve saved the day first.

This complex doesn’t just exist on city streets and mountain trails. It happens in almost every realm where males can take authority. What’s the best bar in town? The best local beer? The coolest car? Males will always, always have an answer for those three questions. This complex isn’t reserved just for local jock straps. Seemingly well-traveled men have given some of the worst advice. Hipsters from New York have sent me to some lame night clubs.

Lessons from Eddie Van Halen

The most glaring examples was from two summers ago when Candyce and I were in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. We were on the sandy beach trying to figure out which direction to walk to get to our lunch spot. After turning up empty with folks who didn’t speak English, we found a rugged, roady-type American dude in his 40s. He pointed the way, but then told us we were making a mistake. (Dramatic!)

If we really wanted authentic Mexican food where the locals go, he knew of a sweet spot that was off the beaten path. He delivered his appraisal of the restaurant with confidence. How can you argue with that?

I should’ve doubted him because one, he was standing by himself on the beach. A lone wolf. Two, he was wearing iridescent wrap-around sunglasses, circa 1990. And three, he was also wearing a black golf shirt with Hard Rock Cancun embroidered on the chest pocket. This shirt brings up a lot of questions:

  1. Why would you go to the Hard Rock Cafe while you were in Cancun?
  2. Why would you buy a golf shirt to commemorate that experience?
  3. Why wear said golf shirt on the beach of Cabo?
  4. Did I mention it was a black shirt? …under the Mexican summer sun.

But I believed him because he had the deep but shaky voice who’d partied hard and knew a wild time. He looked like he could’ve been in a hair band that I loved when I was in elementary school. For all I know, I was actually talking to Eddie Van Halen. Eddie knows what the hell he’s talking about.

We went to that restaurant the next day, and it was the most outrageous tourist trap in all of Baja Mexico. To get in and out of the restaurant, you had to pass through a gift shop, shelves stocked like an airport gift shop. Before we even got a table, Candyce’s 10-year-old brother announced to the whole family: “This place is dumb.” But I figured there was something in the food that convinced this guy. Wrong! Not only was the food as predictable as a chain restaurant in suburban America, it was irrationally expensive. Prices that you would only expect misguided tourists to pay: $35 for an entree. I mean, they even charged for refills of tap water. Mexican tap water. The tap water that makes your butt explode.

Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let it Begin with Me

I understand that in the end, these are minor problems we inflict upon one another. If the worst thing that happened to me that day was ending up at an over-priced tourist trap, then I am very fortunate. I am just amused about how unreliable the advice is that I receive from other adults. And I don’t want to add to the misinformation out there. So I’m making a habit out of questioning whether or not I have my facts straight. I don’t want to give bad guidance and end up as a case study of stupidity on some other guy’s blog. Yes, beware of he who wields the pen.