As we stood there on that dusty New Mexican trail, the scent of piñon smoke hanging low in the air, he squinted at me like he was trying to figure out if I had accidentally wandered in from another century. “Let me guess,” the stranger said, his lips curling into a bemused half-smile. “You’re looking for the meaning of life.”

I wasn’t. I was looking for cell service—preferably the kind that would let me order a pizza, maybe check my Instagram. But instead, I was faced with this weathered man in cargo shorts, leaning lazily on a walking stick as though he were auditioning for a Southwestern remake of The Lord of the Rings.

Little did I know, this brief encounter would stick with me—not because of his Gandalfian wisdom (or lack thereof), but because of what it revealed about a blind spot I didn’t even know I had.

Chasing Horizons (and Maybe a Good Pizza)

Let’s rewind a bit. I was hiking a trail I’d been avoiding for years. It wasn’t the kind of Instagram-friendly path lined with flattering golden-hour light and wildflowers begging to be turned into inspirational captions. This trail was different—rocky, uneven, and proudly difficult, much like my past relationships.

I was there partly out of guilt (a friend convinced me the views were “life-changing”) and partly out of stubbornness. Add in a recent breakup that I’d been trying to convince myself I was already over, and there you have it: a recipe for seeking distraction, clarity—anything but sitting at home with my feelings.

Somewhere around mile three, mildly dehydrated and trying to negotiate with a cactus for some shade, I saw him: a lone figure perched by the overlook, sipping from a battered canteen as though he were posing for the cover of “Desert Survival for Dummies.”

“Some climb, huh?” he said, nodding to the ridge behind me.

I nodded, hating how obvious my labored breathing was. “Yep. Views are worth it, though.”

He laughed and leaned in slightly like I’d just said something unreasonably naïve. “Ah, but you’re not looking at the view.” He gestured behind me with the kind of slow hand movement reserved for documentaries about majestic bald eagles.

When I turned, I realized he was right. I’d been so focused on reaching the summit ahead that I hadn’t noticed the expansive valley unfurling behind me, its smooth red rocks glowing in the fading sunlight like something carved especially for a Wes Anderson film.

Cue the guilt—and not just because I had to admit a stranger was right.

What This Stranger Revealed (No, It Wasn’t Pizza)

What’s remarkable about meeting a complete stranger in the wild—as opposed to at a networking event or, heaven forbid, a mandatory bridal shower—is the freedom you feel. There’s no social contract, no business card exchange, no carefully timed chuckle at bad jokes. Just people happening to exist in the same space, without pretense.

At some point, our conversation drifted (as conversations often do in places like this) to why we were there. What made him hike a six-mile loop solo? Why didn’t I quit halfway up when my calves were staging a silent revolt? Somewhere between the obligatory weather chat and me half-joking about my ill-advised new sandals, he said something that resonated:

“You can’t always fix what’s broken, but you can wear it out differently.”

He described how his years backpacking in the Southwest had taught him this lesson: much like rocks and trails, people are shaped—smoothed, even—by the ways they’re worn over time. It wasn’t the kind of self-help talk I’d expected from someone who looked like he lived out of his Jeep (and maybe hadn’t charged his phone since 2013). But there it was: a nugget of truth that would circle back to me weeks later, unbidden, like a melody I couldn’t stop humming.

Lessons from the Trail (and the Stranger)

So what do you do with wisdom like that? You ruin perfectly folded paper napkins scribbling thoughts about it. You half-laugh at the absurdity of learning life lessons from a man wearing socks and sandals. And eventually, you take stock.

Here are three things I took home from that day—muddy shoes and near-sprained ankles included:

  1. Pause for the View Behind You
    It’s easy to think of life in terms of forward motion—the next goal, the next milestone, the next person who isn’t your ex shouting at a bar TV about fantasy football. But sometimes, the most important moments are behind you, quietly shaping the ground you’re standing on. Take a breath. Try gratitude. Let the bruises teach you something before you chase the next summit.

  2. There’s Strength in Change
    “Wearing it out differently”—what does that even mean? For me, it became a mantra for rejecting the idea that I had to “fix” everything about myself before I could move forward. Maybe your breakup didn’t crush you in the way you thought it would, but it left a hairline fracture. Maybe you're at an age where you realize your parents weren’t perfect, and you never needed them to be. Whatever the crack, maybe the solution isn’t spackling it shut. Maybe it’s letting it be part of your story.

  3. Be Open to Unexpected Teachers
    That stranger? I never got his name, though I’m dying to believe it was something rugged and vaguely philosophical, like “Forest” or “Canyon.” Point is, wisdom comes from unexpected places: the guy waiting in line at Trader Joe’s, a scene in a movie you meant to turn off, or someone you meet simply because you forgot to pack enough water. Be ready to notice it.

Parting Thoughts on Trails and Truths

When I finally limped down that trail, dustier and only slightly wiser than I went up, cargo-short Gandalf was long gone. No business cards exchanged, no Instagram follow-backs, no neat narrative closure. Just a lingering sense of having been nudged—redirected, even—toward something better.

In relationships, as in life, it’s easy to get so focused on reaching the arbitrary “finish line” that you forget the value of standing still for a moment. There’s no formula to it, no universal map leading you to your soulmate (despite what the rom-coms or dating apps may claim). Some of your most lasting lessons may not come from your partner, friends, or therapist—but from chance encounters, fleeting moments that remind you to reevaluate where you’re going and why.

And if not? There’s always pizza.