Yesterday, on a hike up in Topanga Canyon, I unsnapped the vest pocket that housed my phone for the last time—the snap ripped out rendering the pocket useless. My heart sank. This vest was no ordinary vest—it was my whatever vest, my journey vest, my guardian of snacks and phone and keys. This vest traveled on my back for over 16,000 miles (many were inside a camper van or car, of course), faithfully performing its duties, soaking up sweat and dust, schlepping whatever I needed and bringing back whatever I found (often Kevlar balloons tangled in bushes or discarded water bottles and wrappers on the trails). I’ve mended it many times, tying up torn pockets and stitching rips and tears, but I never washed it. Not once. Every time I put the vest on, I brought the previous miles with me and piled new ones on. Even the dogs understood the vest. The moment I reached for it, they knew a hike was afoot and jumped around in excitement—or maybe the smell emanating from the grubby garment unleashed something primal in them.

I am not terribly nostalgic about things—I tend to seek out collections of adventures and experiences rather than objects—but I was at a loss as to what to do about this particular thing, its usefulness expired. When I returned home, I hung it back on its hook out of habit and wondered vaguely about a replacement.

Today, I ran into town to a department store to buy some undergarments and pledged to go straight to the lingerie section and bypass any temptations along the way. I had almost successfully navigated the sea of racks when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a vest, which was out of place on a clearance rack full of t-shirts. I stopped dead and turned back. It was my vest—the same color, the same size, the same brand. I yanked it off the hanger and slipped my arms through. Despite its stiffness and that new-clothes smell, it was identical and fit like a glove. And it was only $24, on mark-down, clearly the last of its kind in the store.

I wore the vest while I shopped for my unmentionables, as if I were ensuring, and claiming, its existence, only taking it off at check-out. When I got back to the house, I threw on some sneakers and lovingly slid my phone into the new left pocket and snapped it shut—vest 2.0 was ready to roll.