Ultralight hikers are the biggest joke on the mountain. They roll up bragging like they’re the elite of the outdoors because they shaved 200 grams off their kit at the cost of thousands of dollars, but really, they’re just trust-fund babies playing wilderness cosplay. Every sentence out of their mouth starts with “my base weight is…” as if anyone cares. They obsess over spreadsheets and gram counts like they’re planning a moon landing, but then forget the basics: no first aid kit, no proper knife, not even a damn multi-tool. They’re the ones asking to borrow your lighter, your tape, your stove, basically turning everyone else into their personal gear supplier while pretending they’re hardcore minimalists.

And let’s be real: these people don’t actually hike. They wander just far enough to snap a staged Instagram pic of their titanium spork and their $600 ultralight tarp pitched at a bad angle, then head back to town to sip craft beer and write a self-congratulatory blog post about how they’re “living simply.” They’re allergic to actual dirt, rain, or effort. The only thing ultralight about them is their personality.

The worst part? They’re always the ones Search and Rescue has to haul out because they thought a space blanket, two protein bars, and a selfie stick counted as survival gear. Meanwhile, the people with “heavy” packs are the ones who have to hand over their food, tent pegs, rope etc. Ultralight hikers aren’t minimalist pioneers they’re freeloading disasters waiting to happen, more concerned with clout than competence. Strip away the Instagram filters and the $500 shoes, and you’re left with what they really are: clueless posers cosplaying adventurers, desperate for likes while everyone else carries their dead weight.