The bunkroom is a maelstrom of plucky femininity: boisterous chatter, battered backpacks, lip gloss. 

"My calves hurt!"

"Watch the butt bumping!"

"You all like my panties?" exclaims one of my cabinmates, holding up the largest, most unfortunate-looking unmentionables I've ever seen. I consider a dash for the door. But where would I go?

I've stumbled into Dorm 15 after a solo hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It's one of four rooms for hikers at Phantom Ranch, the only lodging in the depths of the canyon. I've been hiking alone to ponder a major life decision: Should I quit my job in Los Angeles and move back East? But sharing a room slightly bigger than a freight elevator with a pack of rowdy Canadian dental hygienists ("Amy, your gums are a periodontal tragedy!") on a hiking holiday doesn't seem conducive to contemplation.

I start unpacking. The hygienist in the next bunk turns and looks at me with one of those judgmental once-overs that could poison you against womankind forever. With God as my witness, I am not going to show her my gums. 

"Are you hiking alone?" she asks, with a tiny sad face. (What I hear: Don't you have any friends, loser?) I nod, defensive. "I'm a writer. Just working on some story ideas." She nods, loosening. "Cool." At least I am no longer that creepy, friendless loner in the corner—I am a creepy, friendless writer.

I decide to ignore my bunkmates—which is impossible, because everyone is freaking out about the strenuous 10-mile climb out of the canyon, starting before sunrise. We try to sleep, tossing, turning, snoring, stumbling to the bathroom, and then, finally, drifting off to slee . . .

BANG-BANG-BANG! "IT'S 4 O'CLOCK! BREAKFAST WILL BE SERVED IN AN HOUR!" 

To hear 10 women curse in unison, stand outside Dorm 15 at 4 A.M. 

Everyone else heads to the canteen to feast on eggs, bacon, and pancakes. I start packing. Not only did I fail to make breakfast reservations, but I also arrived too late to reserve provisions for the hike out. The chattering hygienists return, each carrying a lunch bag. 

"Where's yours?" one asks.

"They ran out."

The chattering stops. "So what are you going to eat?" 

"I've got a bagel or something," I reply.

It's as if I've said I'm Tiny Tim and I'll be dining alone on the streets of London on Christmas Eve. Compartments unzip; snacks tumble from backpacks: nuts, energy bars, weird Canadian chocolate. In seconds, I am loaded up with rations. 

One reason I'm considering leaving L.A. is my feeling that few there have my back. Now a handful of strangers have been unhesitatingly generous, even after I shunned them. I don't need a long hike to work through my dilemma: What I've been missing in Los Angeles is community. It's time to move.