Brief essay from a fellow thru-hiker. I can relate to it, but also pull back a little. Thoughts?

Long distance hikers use the term on trail with the kind of significance that a lawyer uses on trial, the kind of anticipation that a sports announcer uses on base, or the kind of trepidation that an actor uses on tenterhooks. To be on trail is to put one’s ego on trial, to load the bases for a grand adventure, and to embrace a state of continual, albeit blissful, agitation.
Except that it’s not. To be on trail is to go for a walk, on a footpath, through towns and fields and forests. To be on trail is to acknowledge all the times one is off trail, romanticizing the former and subjugating the latter. Just as we change our clothes, shedding cotton in favor of nylons, so too do we shed our civilized mindsets in favor of wilder ones. Or we pretend to. We hype ourselves up. And if we do so successfully, is there really any difference between the pretending and the palpable, between the real and the hyper-real?
Before my Appalachian Trail thru-hike, I shaved my head for the first time. I bought new clothes. I sold my car. These were all practical decisions, in my mind. I hardly gave them any thought. But was I even aware, on some level, that they were also part of playing pretend, of hyping myself up for a grand adventure? I was not. And that’s precisely what made those rituals all the more effective.
More than nylon and wool, I cloaked myself in a fabric made of dreams, stitched with threads of significance, anticipation, and trepidation. Soon, I would be on trail, and that cloak would soften the edges of my mind during my first night alone, during my first moment of doubt, during my first clash with danger. That cloak would become the most essential piece of gear in my pack. It was indestructible, intoxicating, and comforting. Those who started the trail threadbare, who couldn’t play pretend in earnest, or who couldn’t place themselves inside the myth, those people failed.
Johnny No Ropes failed.
Sailor failed.
Gandalf, Two Weeks, Homer, and Caboose failed.
Footsie, Strider, Skid Mark, Brillo, Ahab, Magnito, Marlboro Red, Refried, and Santa all failed.
75 percent fail. But the 25 percent who succeed might seem like a statistical anomaly at first. They have nothing in common. They aren’t necessarily the fittest. They aren’t necessarily the most experienced. They aren’t categorized by a certain age range, gender, or tax bracket. They include sober hikers and hikers who weren’t sober for a single step of the two thousand miles. They include first time hikers and forty year veterans. They include Christains who preach at shelters each night and hedonists who shamelessly feast on every worldly pleasure they can find along the way, including having pizzas delivered on trail and booking prostitutes in small town hotels. But they aren’t an anomaly, are they? Sure, they’re a motley crew, those successful few, but they also have one less obvious trait in common. They all know damn well how to make pretend.