When my friends booked a 7-day trip with a meat-only menu, I reminded them I’m vegan. We were planning a deep-woods camping excursion in the rugged terrain of North Wales, miles away from the nearest supermarket or gastropub. My group of friends—Marcus, Simon, and Callum—are the kind of guys who think a vegetable is just a garnish for a steak. They laughed and told me to “just eat the sides,” implying that I could survive on the scraps of potato and corn they planned to throw on the grill.
I said nothing, even though it hurt more than I expected. We had been close since university, and I thought they respected my choices more than that. But as we packed the heavy-duty coolers into the back of Marcus’s Land Rover, I realized I was going to be the butt of the joke for the next week. I saw them loading up packs of thick-cut bacon, brisket, and dry-aged ribeyes like they were preparing for a medieval feast. I quietly packed my own supplies in a separate, smaller bag, not wanting to cause a scene before we even left the driveway.
The first two days were exactly what I feared. Every meal was a spectacle of grease and smoke, with the guys cracking jokes about how “sad” my plate of grilled peppers looked. They constantly offered me “a little bit of chicken” as if I’d simply forgotten what it tasted like. I kept my cool, focusing on the hiking and the stunning views of the Snowdonia peaks. I realized they weren’t trying to be cruel; they were just stuck in that “lad culture” mindset where being different is an invitation for teasing.
By the third day, the atmosphere started to change, though not in the way I expected. The heat had been unusually intense for Wales, and our trek was much more physically demanding than the brochures suggested. We were hiking five to six miles a day over steep, rocky inclines with heavy packs. I noticed that Marcus and Simon were starting to move a lot slower than they did on day one. They were sweating profusely, and their faces had a permanent flush that wasn’t just from the sun.
Simon was the first to complain about his stomach. He blamed it on the “mountain air,” but I could see the way he winced every time he stood up. Marcus wasn’t doing much better, complaining of lethargy and a strange heaviness in his limbs. They were consuming a diet of almost pure animal protein and saturated fat while exerting massive amounts of energy. Their bodies were screaming for fiber, complex carbohydrates, and the micronutrients you only get from plants.
I, on the other hand, felt fantastic. My bag was filled with high-calorie dense vegan staples: quinoa mixes, dried lentils, nuts, seeds, and several jars of almond butter. I had also brought a stash of electrolyte powders and dehydrated greens that I mixed into my water bottle every morning. While they were “crashing” after their heavy breakfast burritos, I was fueled by slow-release energy that kept me moving steadily up the trails. I didn’t gloat, but I definitely noticed the envious looks they gave my colorful, vibrant grain bowls.
But a few days into the trip, I got my revenge when I woke up to find the “meat-only” menu had become a massive liability. During the night, a small animal—likely a badger or a very determined fox—had managed to claw its way into their main cooler. Because they hadn’t secured the latch properly after a few late-night beers, the animal had dragged half their raw steaks into the woods. What was left had been sitting in warm, melted ice water for hours, making it a playground for bacteria in the summer heat.
“It’s all gone, or it’s spoiled,” Callum groaned, looking into the murky water of the cooler. They were four days away from the car, exhausted, and now, completely out of the only food they considered “real.” They looked at their remaining supplies: a few bags of white rolls, some butter, and a single packet of limp celery. The bravado from the beginning of the trip vanished instantly, replaced by the grim reality of being stranded in the wilderness with no fuel.
This was the moment I could have said “I told you so.” I could have sat there and eaten my nutrient-dense meals while they chewed on plain bread rolls for the next ninety-six hours. But revenge is a dish best served with a side of compassion. I reached into my pack and pulled out the secret stash I had prepared before we left. I hadn’t just packed for myself; I had packed enough dehydrated vegan chili and lentil stew to feed a small army.
I knew they would overpack the meat, I knew they would get lazy with the cooler, and I knew their bodies would eventually crave something light and nourishing. I started boiling water on the portable stove and rehydrating a massive pot of spicy bean chili. The smell was incredible, and within minutes, the three of them were hovering around the stove like hungry wolves. I didn’t say a word as I handed them each a bowl filled with fiber, protein, and actual vitamins.
“This is… actually amazing, Arthur,” Marcus muttered, scraping his bowl clean within seconds. They spent the next three days eating the “sides” I had prepared, and the transformation was almost immediate. Their energy levels bounced back, the digestive complaints disappeared, and they actually started to enjoy the hikes again. They realized that my “weak” diet was actually the thing that was keeping us all mobile and healthy in the wild.
On our final night, while we were sitting around the campfire, Callum reached into his personal bag to pull out a small gift. It was a high-end, professional-grade vegan cookbook he had bought weeks ago. He admitted that they hadn’t mocked me because they hated veganism; they mocked me because they were intimidated by it. They didn’t know how to cook for me, so they turned it into a joke to hide their own lack of knowledge.
They had planned the “meat-only” trip as a sort of final hurrah before they all promised to try “Meatless Mondays” with me when we got home. They just didn’t want to admit they were actually interested in my lifestyle because it didn’t fit their “tough guy” image. By the end of the trip, the jokes were gone, replaced by genuine questions about how to cook lentils and where to find the best plant-based proteins. We walked back to the Land Rover on day seven as a much tighter, healthier group of friends.
The rewarding conclusion wasn’t that I “won” the argument or proved them wrong. It was seeing my friends realize that food isn’t just about taste or tradition; it’s about respect—respect for your body and respect for the people you call your brothers. I realized that my silence at the beginning of the trip wasn’t a sign of weakness, but a sign of patience. Sometimes, you don’t need to win an argument with words when you can let the results speak for themselves.
I learned that true friendship means being prepared for your friends even when they aren’t being prepared for you. It’s about looking past the jokes and the bravado to see what the people you love actually need. We often get so caught up in defending our own labels that we forget to just be helpful human beings. I’m glad I packed the extra chili, and I’m glad I didn’t let my hurt feelings stop me from being the “anchor” they needed.
Now, every time we go camping, the cooler is a lot lighter and a lot more colorful. We still have the occasional burger, but the “sides” have become the main event. Being the only vegan in a group of meat-eaters used to feel like a burden, but now it feels like a superpower. I’m just the guy who knows how to keep the engine running when the “tough guys” start to sputter.
If this story reminded you that kindness and preparation are the best ways to handle a disagreement, please share and like this post. We could all use a little more patience with the people who don’t quite “get us” yet. Would you like me to help you find a great vegan recipe that even your most skeptical friends will love?
