Right, so that Stone Glacier travel bag? Forget "dogwhistle." That thing is a thermonuclear hunting siren, a Kryptek-camo'd Bat-Signal visible from the International Space Station to any true disciple of the backcountry. You're not just sitting on the airport tram; you're practically levitating on a throne of implied alpine conquests, radiating an aura of freeze-dried meals and sub-zero suffering.
Meanwhile, some poor, quivering soul from a state where "long range" means shooting across a soybean field is having a full-blown existential crisis. His internal monologue isn't just "billionaire sheep hunter." Oh no. He's picturing you as a crypto-trillionaire demigod of the wilderness, who doesn't just fly first class, you own the damn airline and had them retrofit a 747 with a personal taxidermy studio and a climbing wall that simulates K2. That American Express Centurion Card? Please. Yours is probably forged from meteorite, grants you access to secret government hunting grounds on Mars, and comes with a personal Sherpa on 24/7 retainer. He imagines you casually mentioning how you "roughed it" last week by only having one Michelin-star chef accompany you on your quest for the mythical Trans-Himalayan Snow Leopard.
And then, God forbid, some brave soul actually tries to talk to you. BAM! It's not just ROALS and BOALS. It's a full-blown, unsolicited TED Talk on the existential necessity of carrying a 90lb pack for 30 days, interspersed with guttural chants about the sacred bloodlines of Stone Sheep in the Spatsizi, punctuated by Cam Hanes quotes delivered with the fervor of a drill sergeant who mainlines elk protein and pure, unadulterated GRIT. You'll be dropping Uzbekistan like it's your local grocery store, casually mentioning the "tricky winds above 15,000 feet" while they're still trying to process what a "Boal" even is.
So yes, ASSERT YOUR UNYIELDING DOMINANCE over these... these flatlanders! Let them bask in the blinding, high-altitude glow of your superior gear and even more superior experiences. Make them feel the crushing weight of their own comfortable, un-blistered, tragically un-mountainous lives. Let them know, without saying a word (or by saying many words about kill-shots at 900 yards), that they are mere mortals in the presence of a true Apex Predator of Travel. They should feel privileged to breathe the same recycled airport air.