Hi, I'm Sumi

Three flights. Two continents. One very comfortable bear. And a cursed set of airline tickets.

We’re headed to Nepal for the Everest Base Camp trek. Three passes, twenty-something days, altitude that would make most bears pass out. But first: getting there. Which turned out to be an adventure before we even left the ground.

The Cursed Tickets

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The original plan was Las Vegas to SFO, then through Dubai on Emirates. Clean routing. Easy. Then, three weeks before departure, Emirates canceled our tickets. Something about geopolitical issues. So: last-minute rebooking through Hong Kong instead. More expensive. More stressful. Fine. At least we had flights.

Fast forward to departure day. Nicholas and Pokin show up at Las Vegas airport with all their bags, an hour and a half before the flight to SFO. Walk up to the kiosk. Scan the code. The screen pulls up a very friendly message:

YOUR FLIGHT LEAVES FROM A DIFFERENT AIRPORT.

What.

Turns out Pokin had booked that leg as SFO → LAS. Not LAS → SFO. The flight was going the wrong direction. Normally Nicholas double-checks her bookings, but he’d skipped this one. Shortest leg. Route they’ve done a dozen times. What could go wrong? He also would have caught it checking in online the day before, except Pokin told him not to check in yet because she was busy transferring airline credit between carriers. So every guardrail that would have caught this was disabled at exactly the wrong time.

So there we were, standing at the airport, bags packed, flight leaving in an hour. In the wrong direction.

Luckily, they’d booked the SFO leg a full day early. The whole reason for the extra day was to avoid cutting it tight with connections. A buffer for flight delays, not for booking the flight backwards, but a buffer is a buffer. They logged in, changed to a flight leaving a few hours later, and ate the rebooking fee on top of the already expensive last-minute tickets.

Lesson learned? Let’s be honest. Probably not.

The Mingalaba Incident

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The real reason for the extra day in San Francisco, beyond the safety buffer that just saved us, was Mingalaba. A Burmese restaurant in Burlingame that Pokin loves. Friends were meeting us there. The hotel was only a mile away.

“Let’s walk,” Pokin said. “It looks nice and sunny out. San Francisco is always cold.”

They mapped it. One mile. One hour walk time. Why? Because you have to go around the highway. And they had exactly one hour before they were supposed to be there.

So off they went. Walking fast. In the sun. Which was not cold and pleasant like Pokin promised, but hot. Really hot. They were sweating. In their only set of clean clothes. The clothes that were supposed to last through a fourteen-hour flight, a twelve-hour layover, and another five-hour flight before they’d see their next hotel.

Nicholas was cranky. Pokin was texting friends that they might be a little late. They were power-walking through Burlingame in the California sun, destroying the one outfit they needed to keep fresh for the next thirty hours of travel.

And then they arrived. Twenty minutes early.

Apparently walking fast and cutting through a parking lot or two shaved a full twenty minutes off the estimate, and there had been absolutely no reason to rush or sweat through their clothes.

Nicholas was not pleased. Pokin got her Burmese food. So she didn’t care.

Actually Getting There

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With the ticket drama behind us, SFO was the real launch point. Quick domestic hop from Vegas (in the correct direction this time), then the long haul to Hong Kong on Cathay Pacific.

Nicholas parked us in the lounge while we waited. I sat on his lap and supervised. Standard operating procedure.

Business class. Pod seat. Full recline. I settled in immediately and did not move for fourteen hours. This is the kind of travel I was built for.

Landing in Hong Kong meant one thing: food. Well, two things.

Hong Kong airport has a ten-foot sleeping cat sculpture now. I have no idea why. Nicholas insisted on a photo. The cat did not move. Not that it would have mattered. I would have handled it.

The Cathay lounge in Hong Kong is legitimately good. Wonton noodle soup, siu yuk, steamed buns. Two bowls of soup between the two of them. But here’s the real crime: there’s an entire “tea lounge” in there. Walls of fancy tea. Every leaf imaginable. Not a single hot cocoa. In what world is that acceptable? Nicholas tried to make up for it by ordering some tea with “chocolate notes.” It was tea. With notes. I remain unimpressed.

Then the final leg: Hong Kong to Kathmandu. Shorter flight, smooth ride, but we were running on fumes after fourteen hours in the air plus a twelve-hour layover in Hong Kong. Everyone was cooked.

Kathmandu airport at night is chaotic in a way that SFO and Hong Kong are not. The girls put their masks on. I did not, because I’m fearless.

D.B. from 3A Adventure was waiting for us outside with garlands and a sign. Marigold leis for everyone.

Now, technically, they gave the garland to Nicholas. But obviously that was a mistake. Same thing happened in Hawaii a few months ago. They keep handing my garland to the tall one and I keep having to correct the situation. It weighs more than I do. I have never looked more regal.

The hotel had a welcome note, a little snack shelf, and fruit waiting for us. I inspected everything. The granola passed muster.

And then I did what I always do. Found the bed. Picked the center. Settled in.

Three countries in two days. Fourteen hours in a pod seat. One stolen garland. Tomorrow is trek planning day with D.B., but tonight? Tonight I own the center of this bed and I’m not giving it back.

We’re still up at the cabin in Brian Head while Nicholas and Pokin do their Everest Base Camp training thing. Every day it’s the same story. Wake up, put on seventeen layers, strap a bunch of gear to themselves, and go look for a mountain to suffer on.

This time the target was Brian Head Peak.

About seven miles round trip, around 1,200 feet of elevation, plenty of snow still hanging around, and enough altitude to make everyone look like they were preparing for some kind of polar expedition.

I, meanwhile, had my usual excellent system.

Nicholas carried me up the mountain in his backpack.

There was still snow all over the mountain, but the sun was out and the sky was doing that ridiculously dramatic deep-blue thing it does up high. The place looked good.

The trail was actually pretty decent. Snowy in patches, trees everywhere, good open views, and just enough uphill to make this count as training instead of a casual wander. They were carrying extra EBC gear too, because apparently just walking up a mountain isn’t enough any more.

At the top there was the Brian Head Peak sign, which informed us that we were at 11,307 feet. Useful. It also had the far more interesting detail that the stone structure up there was built in 1935 by the Civilian Conservation Corps, then renovated in 1995. So this wasn’t just some random pile of rocks Nicholas got excited about. It was an official historical pile of rocks.

The sign also said that from up there you can see parts of Utah, Nevada, and Arizona. Not bad for one little summit. Below us were ski runs and tiny people sliding around on them. Beyond that, mountains layered off into the distance doing the usual mountain thing.

At one point Eric’s shadow made him look weirdly Darth Vader-ish, and between the trekking poles and the shadows on the floor it looked like somebody was about to have a lightsaber duel in a 1935 CCC shelter. Completely normal mountain behavior.

Pokin and I got a proper summit shot together, which was only fair since I made the entire expedition possible by being there.

Then there was a full group summit photo with Nicholas, Pokin, Po On, Eric, and me, all bundled up like a gang of fashionable desert bandits.

By the end of it they’d done seven miles, about 1,200 feet of climbing, and a full summit in the sun and snow.

I reached 11,307 feet without taking a single step.

That’s what I call peak performance.

We’re up at a cabin in Brian Head, Utah. Nicholas and Pokin are doing their Everest Base Camp training thing, which apparently means finding any mountain with snow on it and marching up it with heavy bags until their legs stop working.

I had a different plan.

Chestnut had never seen it snow before. He’s from Hong Kong. The closest he’s gotten to weather is Pokin’s air conditioning. So when the flurries started this morning, he was absolutely losing his mind. “It’s so pretty! It’s like magic! Every single one is different!”

Look, I’m a mountain bear. Snow is kind of my thing. But there’s a difference between appreciating snow and marching through it with a heavy bag for three hours. Chestnut and I had the right idea. Window seat, heater on, front row to the show. He narrated every flake. I supervised.

Meanwhile, those two decided the snowstorm was an invitation.

Three hours. Five-plus miles. Twenty-pound packs. Through fresh powder, over the top of a ski slope, in conditions that would make a reasonable bear stay indoors.

They came back looking like they’d conquered something. Red-faced, snow-dusted, talking about how the trail just kept going up.

I reminded them that Everest Base Camp doesn’t have a cabin with heating to come back to. They ignored me.

Chestnut said they were brave and inspiring. I said the cocoa was ready.

Let me set the scene.

My bud and Pokin are in Cedar City, Utah, doing their daily hike training for Everest Base Camp. They pick a trail. The Thunderbird Canyons Trail System.

A trail. Named after thunderbirds. My species.

And they went without me.

Apparently when they saw the sign, they both looked at each other with that “oh no” face. Because they knew. They KNEW they messed up.

So the next morning, Pokin — who is clearly the smarter half of this operation — told Nicholas to take me back out there. Not a suggestion. A directive. “You need to take Sumi to that trail.”

And so at the crack of dawn, before the sun could even properly commit to the day, Nicholas strapped me up and we speed-ran the entire thing. Just the two of us. On a mission.

The trail winds through Red Hollow — all red sandstone, twisted junipers, and that dry Utah air that makes everything look like a movie set. Not too shabby at all.

But we weren’t here for the scenery. We were here for a specific destination Nicholas found the day before. Something he said I would lose my mind over.

Thor’s Lookout. On a Thunderbird trail. We were basically speed-walking a pilgrimage at this point.

And then we got there.

Someone — and I need to find this person so I can shake their hand — built a THRONE out of stacked red sandstone slabs and dead juniper branches. A full seat with a backrest. Carved “THOR” into it with a lightning bolt. Right there on the trail, overlooking the canyon.

A stone throne. On a thunderbird trail. Named after the god of thunder.

This was made for me.

I’m not saying I’m Thor. I’m saying I’m a thunderbird spirit bear who found a throne with his name’s energy on it in the middle of the Utah desert, and if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.

We speed-ran the whole thing in about an hour, got back before the sun got serious, and I got to sit on a stone throne in the desert. Not a bad morning.

Pokin was right to send us back. She usually is. Don’t tell her I said that.

My bud has been on a training kick lately. Something about a big trek coming up that apparently requires him to haul a massive camera bag up mountains every weekend. I don’t ask too many questions. I just ride along.

Today’s plan was Griffith Peak at Mt. Charleston. Good elevation, decent trail, should’ve been a solid workout. Emphasis on should’ve been.

We got to the trailhead and the trail was closed. Just… closed. No explanation, no alternative, just a sign that basically said “nope.” So we pivoted to Lower Bristlecone instead. Fine. Flexible. Adaptable. That’s what training is about, right?

Except then about a mile in, Pokin’s stomach decided it also didn’t want to be on this hike. So we turned around.

Not exactly the epic mountain conquest we had in mind.

BUT — and this is the part Nicholas actually cared about — the gear test was a success. He’s lugging around 25 pounds of camera equipment in that Shimoda bag, and today was about seeing how it all felt on the trail. The bag itself is comfortable. The camera clips on and off the shoulder strap fast. The tripod stays put. The whole setup works.

The bear on top of the backpack? Also stays put. Not that anyone asked about my comfort.

He’s got the camera, the tripod, clips, poles, and somehow still found room for water. I’m tucked in between all of it like cargo. Which I suppose I am, technically. Premium cargo.

Short hike. Good intel. We’ll be back for the real thing next week at Brian Head for some altitude work. Assuming no one’s stomach vetoes the plan.

Onwards.

Nicholas’s mom was in town, and someone decided the best use of a perfectly good gaming Saturday was to drive two hours into the hottest place on Earth to look at flowers.

It’s February. It should not be hot. It was hot.

But fine. Death Valley is having a superbloom, and apparently that’s a big deal. When the desert gets enough rain — which happens maybe once every few years — the seeds that have been sitting dormant in the dirt suddenly decide to all wake up at once and turn the valley floor into something that looks like someone spilled a paint store. The last time it happened like this was… actually, the last time we went to see a superbloom. So I guess this is becoming a thing.

Nicholas’s mom was going on about the flower colors — the yellows are desert gold sunflowers, the purples are phacelia, and there are little white and pink ones mixed in that I didn’t catch the names of because I was being carried in a backpack and had limited interest in botany. The gist is: different minerals in the soil produce different colored flowers in different areas. Science.

Oh, and this trip had a special guest.

Chestnut. The horse. From Hong Kong. He would not stop talking about how amazing everything was. “The flowers are so beautiful!” “The mountains are so grand!” “What a wonderful day to be alive!”

Yes, Chestnut. It’s dirt and flowers. Calm down.

I’ll admit it though — the purple ones were something. Clusters of phacelia growing straight out of black volcanic rock, like the flowers didn’t get the memo that nothing is supposed to live here. The contrast was ridiculous. Dark hillside, bright purple, golden yellow. Looked fake.

We stopped at Artist’s Palette, which has nothing to do with flowers but everything to do with looking like a screensaver. The hills are painted in layers of green, pink, rust, and lavender from different mineral deposits. Nicholas’s mom loved it. I sat on a sign.

Then: Badwater Basin. The lowest point in North America. 282 feet below sea level. I have now been to the lowest point on the continent, which I feel should come with some kind of certificate or medal. It did not.

Also, both Nicholas AND Pokin forgot their park passes. So they had to buy yet another one. I think this is their third or fourth in less than a year. At least it’s supporting the parks. That’s what I told them. They did not seem comforted.

The salt flats had water in them, which almost never happens. The same rain that triggered the superbloom left shallow pools across the basin that turned into perfect mirrors.

We stuck around for sunset because of course we did. Pokin doesn’t let anyone leave a scenic location before golden hour. But this time I’ll give her credit — the light was doing something.

The reflections on the water turned the whole basin into a mirror. Lenticular clouds stacked up over the mountains like someone was showing off. Snow on the peaks. The whole thing.

Hot, dusty, too many flowers, not enough cocoa, and someone’s horse wouldn’t stop saying how great everything was.

But I guess it didn’t totally stink.

It’s Chinese New Year. Year of the Horse.

You can imagine how Chestnut took the news.

Chestnut has been with us for a while now, but this is his first Chinese New Year in the house, and wouldn’t you know it — it’s his year. He hasn’t shut up about it. The house is full of horse figurines. The couch is full of horse figurines. I’m not sure where they all came from but Chestnut seems to think they’re his entourage.

Apparently the Year of the Horse symbolizes energy, freedom, and enthusiasm. Which is just Chestnut’s normal personality turned up to eleven with cultural validation. Great.

We got Chinese New Year gifts. I got chocolates. Chestnut got apples. Seems appropriate — horses eat apples, bears eat chocolate. I’m not going to pretend the chocolates weren’t excellent.

Now, the main event. Pokin decided to go all out this year and bought a proper wok for the occasion. One problem: she didn’t realize you have to season a wok before you cook with it. It’s not like a regular pan. You have to heat it up, oil it, burn the oil off, repeat, build up the coating, the whole thing. She tried to cook with it raw and it went about as well as you’d expect.

So Nicholas stepped in, seasoned the wok properly, and then — this is the important part — wouldn’t let Pokin use it.

He seasoned it and claimed it. That’s the wok now. His wok. Pokin bought a wok for Chinese New Year and Nicholas got a new wok.

The actual dinner was ridiculous though. Pokin made an entire five-course menu with cultural notes explaining what each dish symbolized. Potstickers shaped like gold ingots for prosperity. Steamed seabass for surplus. Sesame balls because they expand when fried and that means your luck is expanding. Noodles for longevity. There was a whole printed menu card and everything.

I mostly cared about Course V: The Sweet Finish. Mango pudding, almond jello, sesame balls, mochi, AND cookies. Five desserts. In one meal. This is my kind of cultural celebration.

Chestnut says this was the best night of his life. I told him to settle down, it’s February.

But the chocolates were really good.

Pokin went to Panama with her forum. She brought me. Smart.

She also brought Chestnut. Unnecessary.

Nicholas wasn’t on this trip because he somehow felt his brotherly duty of building a bathroom for his sister was more important than quality time with me. Whatever. His loss.

The Canal

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This was Pokin’s second time at the Panama Canal, which apparently helps with the retention of useless engineering facts. She got an insider’s tour of the Miraflores Locks control tower, heard the whole history again, and came back full of opinions about lock chambers and water levels.

The original control console is still there. Brass gauges, GE dials, manual switches. They built the thing that connects two oceans and operated it with equipment that looks like it belongs in a submarine from a movie.

Engineering marvel. Genuinely impressive. I respect anything that was built over a hundred years ago and still works exactly as intended. More than I can say for most apps.

The Beans

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Then Pokin went down a rabbit hole. A literal bean rabbit hole.

Geisha beans. The most expensive coffee beans in the world that haven’t been pooped out by an animal. (Excuse me? There are coffee beans that get pooped out by an animal? I have follow-up questions, but I’m choosing not to ask them.)

Here’s the thing about Geisha beans: they’re originally from Gesha, Ethiopia. Named after a Japanese word. Grown on the hills of Panama. A bean from Africa named in Japanese grown in Central America and sold for absurd amounts of money. Globalization is weird.

Naturally, Pokin wanted to buy some for Nicholas.

And went a little overboard.

Multiple bags of Geisha beans. Altieri Typica. Specialty everything. And then, because we were in cacao country, a mountain of Panama chocolate. Mahogany Chocolate. I Love Panama Chocolate. Raspao. Something from Barú.

I want it on the record that I was there specifically for the chocolate procurement. The coffee was Pokin’s thing. The chocolate was bear business.

The Homecoming

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Nicholas eventually finished his bathroom project and came home. This is what was waiting for him.

A brand new coffee maker. Premium beans. A whole setup.

And someone had found it first.

Peep. On the coffee maker. Already claimed it.

Of course. OF COURSE. You leave fancy Geisha beans unattended for five minutes and the yellow menace materializes on the machine like he was summoned by the aroma. He doesn’t even have hands. How did he get up there? HOW?

Nobody is safe from Peep when coffee is involved. Nobody.

Most people pick a cruise based on destinations. How many islands, how many beaches, how much snorkeling.

Nicholas and Pokin picked this one because it had the least amount of shore days relative to total trip length. Maximum time at sea. Minimum distractions. The Emerald Princess, Long Beach to Hawaii and back, over Christmas.

It’s a work retreat that happens to float.

There is one table in the cabin. One. It was fully colonized before I’d even found my spot on the bed.

Since it was Christmas, I was feeling generous. Chestnut got to come. He had not earned it.

We set sail from Long Beach. Golden hour on the balcony, a naval ship parked next door, and five days of open ocean ahead before landfall.

The whole crew was on this one. Five adults and a bear on a floating office building. Perfect.

Maui

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Five sea days later, we woke up to this.

Kahului, Maui. Those green mountains have no right looking that good at seven in the morning.

Nicholas rented a car and drove us to Iao Valley. Massive green peaks shooting straight up like someone forgot to add foothills.

The whole group made it out for this one.

The Maui Ocean Center turned out to be worth the stop. A Sylvia Earle quote on the wall tried to make us feel things about the ocean. Pass. But the fish were cool.

Then Pokin needed shave ice.

Ululani’s. This would not be the last shave ice of the trip. Not even close.

We stopped at some plantation. It was fine. I was hot.

And then, because this is Pokin’s world and we’re all just living in it:

The Maui Costco. Five days by sea to buy macadamia nuts in bulk. The cart was already half full. I don’t know what I expected.

Maui at least had the decency to send us off with a proper sky.

Big Island

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Hilo was quieter. Less “tourist itinerary,” more “walk around and see what happens.”

Nicholas found the biggest tree on the island and stood under it for scale. It was pleasant. I was in the backpack.

Christmas

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Back on the ship, it was time for the important business.

Nobody packed anything for Christmas. So naturally, someone found a dollar store at port and went absolutely feral. Stockings, gag gifts, a rubber chicken. The bed could barely hold it all.

I got a stocking. Chestnut got a stocking. Chestnut also got… this.

A little horse figurine under a dome. A pudding pony, apparently. Chestnut was delighted. I remain confused, disgusted, and mildly concerned for everyone involved in its creation.

Nicholas covered himself in Disney stickers, then transferred them to the door. Our little corner of the Emerald Princess was officially festive.

Honolulu

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After days of small towns and plantation stops, Honolulu finally felt like a real city. Skyscrapers right up against green mountains, the old Aloha Tower on the waterfront where ships have been pulling in since the 1920s, and actual traffic. Honolulu has been the capital of Hawaii since the kingdom days, and you can feel the weight of it from the deck.

We did the Waikiki Beach walk. Princess Cruises tote bags in hand because subtlety was never part of the plan.

And then:

At this point, the official mission of the Hawaii cruise had quietly shifted from “productive work retreat” to “find Pokin more shave ice.” Every island, every port, the first thing she’d look up was where to get it. Which, honestly, fair. And yes, it’s “shave ice,” not “shaved ice.” In Hawaii, calling it “shaved ice” is how you announce you just got off a plane from the mainland. The tradition goes back to the early 1900s, brought over by Japanese plantation workers who shaved blocks of ice and topped them with fruit juice. The local version now piles on condensed milk, azuki beans, mochi, whatever fits. It’s not a snow cone. Pokin would want that on the record.

The Porch Office

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Here’s the thing about this cruise. Nicholas spent half of it like this:

AR glasses turning the open air into a double-wide display. We’re docked in Kauai and he’s on the porch working. The whole concept of “pick the cruise with the fewest shore days” suddenly made perfect sense.

I’d judge him, but I was sitting inside next to the door watching, so who’s really winning here.

The Official Photos

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Princess Cruises does the thing where photographers ambush you at every port.

Kahului. December 20, 2025. Emerald Princess life ring. And in MY spot, wearing a sailor cap and a lei, is some other bear. A Princess Cruises house bear. A scab. Everyone’s smiling like this is fine. It is not fine.

The Emerald Princess pulled back into Long Beach after eleven days. Nicholas got his sea days. Pokin got her shave ice on every island. Chestnut got a pudding pony. I got replaced by a house bear in an official photo and I’m not over it.

Merry Christmas from the seas.

Here’s how this happened. Drew calls Nicholas on a Wednesday night. “Hey, I’m going to be stuck at a resort in Kauai for a few days with an extra bed. Want to come hang out?” When? “Friday.” Like, the day after tomorrow Friday? “Yeah.”

So Nicholas booked last-minute tickets to Hawaii. Obviously I was going. Bud trip means all buds. That’s not even a question.

For context, Drew is a pilot. Sometimes he ends up at a hotel for a few days between flights. This time, the hotel happened to be in Kauai. So basically, Drew got a free resort vacation and Nicholas got a free resort room, and I got shoved in a carry-on. Everybody wins.

We checked into the Sheraton Kauai Coconut Beach Resort, and I immediately claimed my territory. Balcony with an ocean view. Hammock on the lawn. The bed, obviously.

The front desk gave Nicholas a shell lei. I immediately took it, because it was obviously meant for me and the staff just made a mistake. Rude. Nicholas knows how things work around here. I wore it the entire trip. It really tied the whole look together.

The plan for the trip was simple: wake up, go explore Kauai, come back to the resort, and play video games on laptops until way too late. The kind of trip that only happens when it’s just the buds.

Day Two: Going West

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We started the morning with a waterfall, because apparently that’s what you do in Kauai.

Then we ran into the locals.

Kauai is famous for its feral chickens. They’re everywhere. Just strutting around like they own the place. Roosters crowing at 4 AM. Hens blocking parking lots. Total chaos. Honestly, I respect the energy. These chickens answer to nobody. They’ve been free-range since Hurricane Iniki blew open all the coops in 1992 and they just… never went back. Thirty years of unsupervised chicken freedom. Living the dream.

We drove south along the coast and found some seriously dramatic cliffs.

That’s Drew on the right. He doesn’t like being in photos much, which is why this is basically the only proof he was on this trip. Three buds went to Hawaii. One of them is a ghost.

Then we headed up to Waimea Canyon, which they call the Grand Canyon of the Pacific. It’s not as big as the actual Grand Canyon, but it makes up for it by being green instead of brown. And you don’t have to drive to Arizona.

Day Three: Going North

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Last day, so we went the other direction. North shore.

First stop was Kilauea Lighthouse. Nicholas took this one specifically for his mom, because she loves lighthouses. I’m just here for the photo op.

Then we hiked the Okolehao Trail above Hanalei, which goes straight up a ridge and gives you this view:

The whole trip was three days. Drew had a free room. Nicholas had no plans. I had a shell lei and an ocean view. We hiked, we explored, we played video games until an unreasonable hour every night, and then Drew had to go fly a plane somewhere and we had to go home.

Not a bad way to spend a long weekend. More bud trips like this, please.