Word of the week: “aqua-blazing”

Bypassing a part of a trail by way of watercraft instead of hiking.

Zero Day & Prep

After a wonderful evening watching the fireworks, everyone slept in before a day full of errands. First stop was the Tahoe Gear Exchange, an awesome outdoor consignment shop that also sells a few regular items new, like fuel cans and water filters. They have become my first stop whenever I need new gear or a sun hoodie, as their prices are great and I feel a lot better buying used when I can.

I had finally accepted that my water filter was done for, but they were out of my filter, so we headed further into town to our favorite “proper” gear shop, Sports Ltd. We slowly made our way back, stopping at a few different grocery stores so everyone in our group could get fully re-supplied before we headed out the next day.

Shortly after arriving home and enjoying a bit of lunch, Red Velvet and Sluggy returned from their hike. Red Velvet showered and freshened up before her drive back to the Bay Area. It had been such a delightful few days together that tears were nearly shed when we finally stopped hugging and released her to drive home.

For dinner, we made our way down to the local BBQ joint. Sluggy, who hails from London, was preemptively mourning the upcoming World Cup match between England and Mexico in Mexico City! As we stepped inside the restaurant, we suddenly realized that, of course, Mexico fans were going to far outnumber any England ones for nearly any given place in California. We found our way to a bar further back in the restaurant and watched with bated breath for the whole match.

England’s win over Mexico was the perfect send-off before we began hiking the next day.

Echo Lake

We were to begin at Echo Lake, a trailhead familiar to us from many a day hike, as well as for taking and dropping off hikers. This was also the trailhead where Shawn joined me for my last night out on the PCT in 2023.

For this start, however, I was excited to do something a bit different that I’ve never tried before: taking the Echo Lake water taxi. I’ve done the three miles that it skips many times and figured it would be a fun and unique way to start this adventure.

Aqua-blazing is common on the Appalachian Trail given how often it is near low waterways, but not so much on a trail that follows the crest of the west coast. As far as I know, this could very well be one of the only spots you actually could aqua-blaze on the PCT - I welcome corrections in the comments! Shake, Hummingbird, Sluggy, and I all piled into a boat along with probably 10 other hikers all out for summer adventures of their own in the gorgeous Desolation Wilderness.

It was great to see the scenery from this new perspective and have fresh legs as we began the climb up to Lake Aloha.

Within a couple of miles, we were stopped to have our permit checked by a ranger who used a fun pink gel pen. As it happens, it was the first time Hummingbird had ever had his permit checked on the PCT!

We made our way out on one of the peninsulas on Lake Aloha to enjoy the burritos that we packed out for lunch. Before that, I finally got to take a swim I had been wanting to take since I last camped here in 2023 (it was too late in the season and much too cold). Hummingbird and Sluggy opted for a simple foot dip.

I excitedly told of some of the stories from the hike I did with Shawn that year, and as we set a plan for our next break spot, opted for the trail junction that Shawn and I used to turn off to hike home years ago.

Unexpected Goodbyes

We passed lovely lake after lovely lake before soon enough we saw Shake again (he had said his goodbyes to us at the dock and started off to enjoy the rest of his thru-hike), taking a break next to Susie Lake. He was sitting lakeside with Bullfrog, who hails from Yorkshire. He and Sluggy had an exchange of words about all kinds of different places in the UK that none of the rest of us had any familiarity with, but what a delight to see them chat so excitedly!

During their flurry of an exchange, Shake checked in with Hummingbird to ask how his hike was going. Hummingbird had made the decision a day or two earlier to go home a bit early and catch a ride with Shawn partway through this section where he was planning to meet us for a mini re-supply at Barker Pass. Hummingbird had also had the misfortune of having to be woken up just ten minutes before our scheduled departure as we all realized that none of us had seen him yet that morning. He rushed to get ready while the rest of us went to grab burritos and then came back to get him.

In response to Shake, Hummingbird replied that he had been considering taking the turn off we were stopping for a break at and having Shawn pick him up to go back to our house that night. This was news to me, as he had said nothing of the sort yet to Sluggy and me. He went on to say he had been considering it since I mentioned that it was how Shawn and I hiked home in 2023, adding that it was more appealing to stop for a meal at the Fallen Leaf Lake marina en route and spend the night in a bed instead of in his tent. I opted to say nothing and just listen, figuring the next half mile or so to the junction he’d want to himself to mull it over further.

When we arrived at the junction, Hummingbird announced that he did want to peel off, citing that he didn’t want to hold us back. Sluggy and I were confused, as he’d been doing fine. We gently said as much, but also didn’t want to force him to keep hiking if that’s not what he wanted to do. After saying goodbyes, we solemnly watched Hummingbird head downhill to Fallen Leaf Lake and then were almost immediately distracted by a young puppy with his parents on trail.

Sluggy has a dog, Monty, back home and, like most of us who leave pets behind for a bit to go hiking, is delighted to see those animals during travel. As you can imagine, I don’t get to see many cats to ease the longing temporarily, but dogs abound. It was a welcome distraction to ease the transition of the change in our hiking party size.

And then there were two

Somehow the topic of Antarctica had come up before Hummingbird’s departure, so we continued that chat as we began a climb. I had been in 2018 to run the Antarctica Marathon with my best friend, Conrad, and it turned out that Sluggy had also been, but without subjecting himself to a 26-mile run!

This brought up my very “hot take” opinion that it is silly for the South Pole base to be named after both Amundsen and Scott, when Amundsen was the first to arrive there by a long shot. History typically names the first explorer.

In my extremely uneducated opinion, I feel that Scott only gets a place because he was British. I believe that had the roles been reversed (with Scott “winning” the first arrival and Amundsen just as far behind), Amundsen, a Norwegian, would not have been part of the naming. It feels like a conveniently inconsistent naming scheme that benefits British colonialism! Sluggy, a much more civilized human and a Brit at that, was appropriately a bit appalled by this opinion, especially given Scott’s contributions to Antarctic exploration and that he and his entire crew died as part of the endeavor.

This kept us conversing through a hot climb as he enlightened me on the knowledge he also had of both expeditions. My own knowledge was limited to mostly the Shackleton expeditions, not even Scott or Amundsen’s! I told you it was an uneducated opinion.

He did not convince me, but raised the question that “wasn’t it the Americans that named the station anyway?” My reply: “what a bunch of bootlickers.”

A swim a day

Soon enough, we arrived at the junction for Gilmore Lake, a swim I always make when Shawn and I hike up to Mount Tallac. It was less than a tenth of a mile detour from the PCT and one I convinced Sluggy was worth it. From this junction, we would be entering territory that was completely new to me. I had heard such great things about Desolation Wilderness and all its beautiful lakes. I shared with Sluggy that I hoped to swim at least once per day. This inspired him to do the same, so he joined me for a dip.

It also turned out to be the perfect decision to give some cooling relief as the rest of the 1,000-foot climb to Dicks Pass was exposed to the afternoon heat. We passed the time by discussing the concept of micro adventures. I knew of the concept and had heard of it, but had never read the book that introduced it, as Sluggy had. The idea is that we should not focus entirely on big adventures (like, say, thru-hiking the PCT or even a section hike such as this one), but also remember to introduce smaller ones into our day-to-day life, even, dare I say, on a weeknight in the middle of the workweek. Sluggy went on to share how he had organized a few of these himself at his work to hike after work during long daylight hours of the summer.

I think the loss of my ability to do much of what I love last summer as I recovered from surgery, combined with the intensity and stress of introducing AI at work, had set me on a path where I was especially susceptible to feeling forced to have each workday be a twelve-hour one for the last year. As I write this on the eve of returning to work after a few weeks, I have to admit I’m anxious. I’m scared that I’ll fall back into those same demands, draining myself to the point where I seriously consider canceling permits just to sleep and watch YouTube for a few days before just going back to work early instead of expending more effort. As we arrived at Dicks Pass, I felt ashamed that I had come so close to opting out of all of these fulfilling efforts over the last week.

The expansive views we were rewarded with as we climbed inspired me even more. There were so many gorgeous lakes in sight that I knew were accessible from the junctions we had been passing all day. I dared to consider adding “swim in every lake in Desolation Wilderness” to my bucket list.

As we looked south from Dicks Pass, we could see miles of the Sierra Nevada behind us, miles that, save for a short section, I could piece together what each chunk of terrain felt and looked like between the mountains that the PCT passed through. Looking north, the feeling shifted to the excitement of the unknown ahead and the prospect of spending the next few days finding out and filling in our mental map.

Camping in Desolation Wilderness

The sun’s rays turned to a darker orange, casting brilliant shadows on the terrain as we made our descent. We came upon our first option for camping, near Dicks Lake, and chatted a bit with the thru-hikers that were setting up their tents in those spots. The sites were not especially close to the lake, so we had to decide in advance whether or not we wanted to camp there and would need to fill up all our water containers to prep for dry camping: enough to cook dinner, brush teeth, and also enough to make it to the next water source the following morning (for me, this also included enough to drink the electrolytes that had enough Vitamin C to be the carrier for me to take my iron supplement in the morning).

The last water source was a few hundred feet shy of our final ascent to Dicks Pass, and we felt we were doing well enough that we could push on another mile or so to campsites that were closer to the next lake. After concluding a brief chat with them, we pressed on to Fontanillis Lake.

The few sites that existed at the lake were just past its outlet, the last water source for a few miles. We dropped our packs, and I offered to hike the short distance ahead to check the availability of the campsite while Sluggy began filtering a bit of water as he was nearly out anyway.

Unfortunately, the sites had already been claimed by others, so we filtered enough water to prepare for a dry camp. We were quickly losing daylight, so we were likely to need to find a campsite before the next sites that had water nearby.

It’s funny how you start to build a sense of familiarity with a trail and the behavior around it the more you hike on it. We hiked past an area that simply “felt” like it would have some already established tent pads (you never want to create new damage by adding new tent pads) in the trees just above the trail, even though none were marked on the app we used. Sure enough, 2-3 pads existed up there and we set about making camp. We talked about wishing we had brought the cards so that we could play some Cribbage. Well, mostly Sluggy continuing to help me learn the game!

As I always do, I turned off the map tracking on the inReach (it pushes to a map that Shawn can access to see where I am) for the night and sent a message through it to let him know we were at camp. As part of that, I also requested a deck of cards for Shawn to bring as part of tomorrow evening’s resupply.

Slow drip life

We awoke and were cruising on trail by 7:00. Sluggy typically had his full brekkie at camp before starting, but had opted to swap to enjoying it at the first break stop when I also had mine and simply starting with eating a bar at camp that he would have normally had at the first break stop.

As we made our way to the break stop, we discussed the chapter of a book on meditations that he had been reading each night. I loved that he had chosen this type of book to read on trail, especially one that was meant to be read a single chapter at a time so you could digest the learning. Sluggy had brought a host gift of a short book of poems about cats, mentioning how he owned the sibling book focused on dogs. He and his wife would read a poem each night instead of reading through the whole thing at once.

There have been so many books that I’ve rushed through in my life only to leave me hardly remembering many of them. I had spent the days since receiving the cat poem book wondering whether I should orient some of my consumption habits toward these “small drip” patterns instead, much like incorporating more “micro adventures” as a kind of ongoing immunity to falling into the robotic trap of a singular focus on work productivity.

As it happens, the previous night’s chapter in the meditation book was focused on having never-ending “to do” lists. It gave the example of a “to read” list on a site like Goodreads or something. As someone who feels a lot of low-lying dread for all the books I’ve still yet to read and adding more to that “to read” pile faster than I take them off, I felt uncomfortably seen!

I’ve even felt a lot of shame having delayed writing this post until over two weeks after I was hiking this section. I think I have one part of perfectionism that delays me, but there’s also the element of knowing that I like to really sit in writing these. These posts are a huge part of processing all the lessons that come from the trail, and I know once I sit down at the computer, I do prefer to be left alone for a few hours to sit in the feeling fully.

What would it look like if I tried out more of a “slow drip” habit for writing these posts, though? On trail, I do personal “hand” journaling in a journal I carry as part of a sort of morning-pages brain dump while I continue to lie in my sleeping bag, giving time for the iron supplement to absorb. This helps to expel any anxieties I have for the day, and I always feel so much better after. I regret that I’ve never managed to bring this back to my off-trail “normal” life again - I’ve done it in spurts but never managed to keep the habit.

Strangely, I wonder if it is okay to allow myself to simply start paying more attention to allow myself the space to find ways to have more of these slow drip habits in my life. I’ve found myself wanting to rush into adding a new chore to my daily routine, but that’s the exact mindset I’m trying to fight against anyway. What if a slow consideration is part of how you get to a more realistic set of habits that enrich your life in all the ways that the big epic swings like section hikes can’t?

Goodbye Desolation Wilderness

We continued from our brekkie break at Phipps Creek towards our lunch swim at Richardson Lake, sometimes engaging in conversation and other times just hiking quietly along.

On the way, shortly after officially leaving the Desolation Wilderness behind, we came upon a woman with a knife out, her sons and husband watching her. My fears that I was about to witness a murder were quickly diminished as she took the blade to her shoes! The family had begun their journey at Echo Lake just as we had, but she had unfortunately started with a brand new pair of a model of shoes she had never hiked in before. The toe box was crushing her outer toes enough that with the several days remaining on their own section hike, she was opting for opening them up a bit more by force.

This family, coming in from outside Sacramento, would be mainstays on the rest of our hike as we leapfrogged each other on and off. It is always a bit of fun to keep passing and being passed by the same people. There’s a small sense of camaraderie as you continue on the same journey together, occasionally seeing and checking in on each other as you build more rapport with each encounter.

They caught us again at Richardson Lake, also stopping for lunch. They had arrived just as we were finishing up our lunch, drying ourselves in the sun as we ate after a dip in the lake. The lake was a muddy-bottom one with no rocks to hop from under the surface to get you deep enough to keep your feet off the bottom, so I didn’t swim for long. This also made the case for bringing them into the “swim a day” club a bit difficult, but we did manage to convince the dad to go for it.

We packed up and headed onward, excited that we only had a few miles to go before Barker Pass. Those few miles were hard-earned ones, though. The peak of afternoon heat was upon us just as our time in the shade of the trees became shorter and shorter. I felt drained, opting to reward both of us more and more frequently from my candy stash supply as we got closer. The sugar hits helped just as much as dropping that infinitesimal amount of weight from my carry.

As I stumbled into the Barker Pass trailhead parking lot, I was so grateful to see not only Shawn, but a ring of chairs he had brought and set up. I partially collapsed into him with a hug and then fully collapsed into one of those chairs, never more grateful for a proper chair in my life.

We still had more miles ahead of us that day and still another few days to go in this section, but for now, all that mattered was rest…and snacks.

Media Share

After all that, it felt appropriate to share one that I need to read myself (as mentioned above), so I just put in a request for it at the library!

Alastair Humphreys’ Microadventures: Local Discoveries for Great Escapes

Here’s hoping this can be a bit of an immunity boost to keep me from spending too much time in my office as I integrate back into the “real world”

Ebbetts Pass

Within the last two miles of the climb to Ebbetts Pass, I took a swig of my water and nearly spit all of it out.

Had I somehow not filtered it, or was my filter broken?

Surely this wasn’t safe to drink, so I just…didn’t.

By the time I arrived at the road, my head was cloudy, and my body was absolutely broken.

Shawn had thrown together a medley of snacks and drinks, but I could hardly stomach the idea of any of them as I fought the effects of dehydration during the winding descent down Highway 4 and onwards to home.

We were just barely going to beat some guests that would be arriving, so I didn’t want to delay at all for me to get more of a breather.

Thankfully, just before we would pass the grocery store, they sent an updated ETA that would give us enough time to stop for saltines and ginger ale.

Unfortunately, everyone and their mom had descended upon the store at the same time. With only two registers open and the self-checkout already closed, our guests beat us to the house by about five minutes.

The excitement of seeing them as we pulled in the drive drained the last of my willpower. Just after greeting them, I had to rush inside to the bathroom to, well, “spill protein” as we used to say at Disney.

After a shower to cleanse myself of that as well as all the trail dirt, I promptly collapsed into bed as Shawn graciously stepped up to welcoming our guests alone.

Change of Plans

The next morning, still properly worn out from getting sick the night before, I couldn’t muster enough energy to get back on trail as planned. At first, I felt so frustrated. I’ve worked so hard for this time off, to get out there to “do the thing” and knock out some of these missed sections while getting some much-needed disconnect time from the “real world.”

I tried to reassure myself by remembering that it was still easy enough for me to get back out there to do another time. At just 28 miles, that section could be done in a weekend with ease.

That thought transitioned into a sudden realization: I’d just managed to hike over 20 miles in the Sierra Nevada on a knee I wasn’t sure could manage the expected average of 15!

From there I wondered: should I lean into exactly what Shake had been going on about and be open to whatever the trail brought, even if it meant not hiking it for a bit? After all, I had two wonderful people in town, one of whom I probably wouldn’t have gotten to see if things had gone “to plan” as they should.

2023

Back in my thru-hike year, I had bounced around the desert with a lovely hiker from the Bay Area: Red Velvet. As it happened, we ended up hosting a member of her trail family, Bugs Bunny, as he finished his hike in Tahoe before heading back home to Alaska. Philosopher, whom I finished my hike with that year, was also finishing at the same time.

I fondly remember all of us (plus Red Velvet’s partner, David) congregating as one last trail group outing at our favorite local brewery. It was a wonderful evening that made for a perfectly appropriate send-off for the season.

2024

The following year, weeks after hosting Hummingbird, we hosted two more hikers: Sluggy from the UK & Lilly from Michigan. They had met on the Camino and were section-hiking south from here through part of the Sierra Nevada.

The bad weather they were retreating from wouldn’t be fully past until after we were out on a trail crew project. We were a bit hesitant about leaving them at the house on their own until the person on the other side of a video call Sluggy was taking suddenly said, “Wait a minute, I know that cat wall, are you at Buffer’s house?”

I took a look at the phone, and there was Red Velvet with her classic bright and smiling face!

The two had met when Sluggy did a section starting in Oregon in 2023, while Red Velvet was going through that section as well. They had become such good friends that they kept in touch and had seen each other for hikes every summer since.

Sluggy and Lilly took excellent care of the cats while we took some much-needed care of the trail further north in a burn scar area. This was the first year we began to dip our toes into giving back beyond rides to/from trail and the occasional hosting of hikers.

It all started with a promise I made to myself to spend at least one day contributing to the trail after I finished that thru-hike season. I signed up for the waitlist for an intro class at the PCTA’s annual Trail Skills College in Tahoe (Shawn & I are in that main photo!) and managed to make it off the waitlist the day before it started that year. From there, I managed to convince Shawn it was actually a lot of fun before that season’s work project ended.

2025

As cool as it is to hike the trail, Shawn and I found that we were actually becoming more interested in working on it instead. Once I got him on a project, he was even more hooked than I was and put in more volunteer hours than I did in 2025. Granted, it helped that he was “funemployed” while I had been back to work since 2024.

We covered the full gamut of trail crew projects that year: logging out blowdowns with crosscut saws, clearing away plants that were overtaking the trail, and learning rock work to build staircases to a “100-year standard.”

It is amazing to learn from so many people who have spent decades paying attention to their work on trails and learning from each other, as well as from those who came before them. You can’t have a “100-year standard” without a few generations of folks sharing information with each other and caring enough to pass along knowledge they may never benefit from.

In a world where one can be easily overwhelmed by everything going wrong and unsure of how to right them, there’s a lot of good to be had in putting in an honest day’s work to improve something you could never possibly enjoy enough to “earn” the time spent back. There’s a lot of value in planting the seeds of trees whose shade you will never live to enjoy, so to speak.

2026

On the flip side, many volunteers in all kinds of “industries” are aging out. Most volunteers are those who have the time and capacity to work without pay. As you can imagine, that’s mostly retired folks.

Then there’s also the problem of experts in “dying arts,” like sharpening crosscut saws, aging out without having passed along all their knowledge to another generation. Shawn has taken this seriously enough that he went to one of Dolly Chapman’s famous classes in March.

It isn’t just the art of sharpening them that is dying; the tools themselves are disappearing as well. You can hear more about why they matter in this podcast episode from 99% Invisible.

Think of us next time you see one hanging above a bar or in some Cracker Barrel - sometimes painted, sometimes not.

Definitely let us know if you see one that you could possibly procure for us!

While Shawn was 90 minutes north at his class in the spring, Sluggy was planning this year’s section hike and began asking what time would be to start from Tahoe and go north through most of Oregon. “July!” I excitedly responded, having already had a long-distance permit on my mind and absolutely stoked at the idea of hiking with this wonderful soul.

The plans settled on him arriving at SFO and spending a bit of time with Red Velvet in the Bay before they headed up to Tahoe. Red Velvet secured a single night’s permit for the nearby Desolation Wilderness so they could have a bit of backpacking together before Sluggy began his trek north.

The original plans meant I would only have this one night between sections to see them. Relieved of the pressure to go back out for the next 2-day section, I could now freely enjoy the day with them: a staycation side quest of sorts.

Side quest: Lake Tahoe Edition

We enjoyed a slow morning together, drinking coffees and catching up before Shawn headed off to Ebbetts Pass again to pick up Hummingbird and do a bit of trail magic while he was up there.

First, Chores

After his departure, we set to task on admin items. Sluggy began to go through all the supplies that had been shipped to the house to start packing his resupply boxes. Shawn, ever the expert in his “man in the chair” role, had already set out the USPS boxes along with several tables in the sitting room from which he could work.

Red Velvet sat up there with him to help keep him on task as a sort of body doubling. Sluggy and I both suffer from being easily distracted away from the tasks at hand, and having someone nearby actually helps quite a bit with this.

She was also able to give a bit of insight, as he was also prepping for the following evening they would spend together at Lake Schmidell in Desolation Wilderness. This was a fairly chill 8-mile hike that started from a lesser-known trailhead. It is so much less known that it was actually viable for them to wait to arrive until noon on the 4th of July and still have parking - absolutely unheard of for Tahoe on Independence Day!

My first order of business was to prep things for Humminbird’s return. As the original plans only had us staying a single night while both Red Velvet and Sluggy were in town, we had rearranged guest quarters accordingly. Red Velvet and her partner, David (who ended up being unable to come up), had the guest room, with its larger space that could more easily accommodate two folks. Sluggy was setup in the bed in my office. Shawn had already blown up the camp mattress in the gear room for the one night that Hummingbird and I were expected to be back while the house was full. Obviously, I was to be in my own room with Shawn.

With some help from Red Velvet, I finished putting together Hummingbird’s room. Once the bed was made up, towels were set out for his shower, and a laundry bag was left behind, I went to prep the laundry machine with my own trail clothes and set it up so it was immediately ready to go once he was out of the shower and had brought his clothes down. I then began going through my own pack, discarding trash, setting up my water filter bag to dry out, and moving my camp dishes (pot and spork) to the dishwasher.

Next, Play

A few hours later, all tasks complete and humans freshly cleaned, we popped over to one of our favorite breakfast spots for brunch. Bellies full, unburdened by chores, and exhausted by the prior day and late night for all parties (hiking for Hummingbird and me, all the traveling about for the others), we all settled in for a nap.

Realizing it was Friday, we opted to ride bikes down to one of two farmer’s markets we have in town each week. Hummingbird, feeling he needed more rest, opted to stay behind for the evening. As we’ve only got one extra bike, Red Velvet hopped on a Lime Scooter for our little tour through town. From there, we wandered into a new Thai restaurant and eventually meandered our way back home, stopping to appreciate the stars above the lake.

A Slackpacking We Shall Go

Our original plan had us completing Ebbetts Pass to Carson Pass (roughly 28 miles) over 2 days, ideally finishing in time to get to town, shower, and head out on bikes to see the 4th of July fireworks on the lake. Hummingbird and I would slackpack the 16 miles between Carson Pass and Echo Summit the next day while Red Velvet and Sluggy meandered out from Lake Schmidell on the 5th. This would set Hummingbird, Sluggy, and me to begin the 4-day section from Echo to Donner Summit the following day.

After pushing myself through that 20-mile day to get to Ebbetts and wanting a bit more time with Red Velvet before she headed back home, I proposed we simply enjoy a zero day first, slackpack on the 4th, and then another zero day just before beginning the next section. We all enjoyed another round of morning coffees and tea lattes before Shawn, Hummingbird, and I set off for the local burrito shop that opens at 8AM for the exact reason we were there: packing out deliciously massive burritos as a trail lunch - and often with leftovers, so it is my trail dinner as well!

Carson Pass

After a 45-minute drive, we arrived at Carson Pass, where the parking lot was in a flurry of activity. A group had set up a camp kitchen to prep pancakes and offer up other items as trail magic for hikers passing through. I headed to make use of a pit toilet and awkwardly arrived at the same time as one of the women running the trail magic area; she graciously let me go first.

When I got out, she asked: “Are you Buffer?” I let out a chuckle with my affirmation, as this certainly wasn’t a question I expected from someone running trail magic. She went on to say her son, known as “Bugs,” had hiked with me in 2023. Confused, I asked if it was “Jake” who Red Velvet had just told me was coming down from Alaska to hike the John Muir Trail with her next month.

Nope, his “government name” was not “Jake,” and after clarifying it, I realized this was a totally different “Bugs” that I had met once in the desert, and he actually grew up in Lake Tahoe. She went on to say that he was over at the circle of hikers surrounding the pancake griddle, talking with Shake, our new friend who had camped with us the first night out and had told Bugs about us!

A giddy reunion quickly formed between hiking friends old and new as we all caught up and then discussed the day’s plans. Shake agreed to join us and dump any gear he wouldn’t need for the day in our car to grab from Echo Summit later. Bugs happened to have the gear for a day hike and opted to join us as well. He only lived a few blocks away from us, so we chatted with his wife, Crystal, to confirm we’d drop him off that afternoon on our way home.

As Shake was a thru-hiker with thoroughly built-out trail legs by now, we knew he would be much speedier than us. He stayed back to enjoy a bit more trail magic and socializing, knowing that he would catch up to us quickly.

Project Check Up

Within a few hundred yards of setting out, we came upon a trail-crew project from that first year when Shawn and I started volunteering with the PCTA. This was a staircase we had built over 5 beautiful September days for Public Lands Day. Originally, the trail simply ascended a granite slab; it was a common issue for both equestrian users, as horses’ ankles struggled with the angle, and for humans who slipped down it.

Rock work projects are unique in that they’re the only projects we’ve been on where there’s an explicit thing you could show someone that you built. Brushing simply reveals the trail again. Drainage and tread maintenance are somewhat similar, where it can be difficult to see the thing done, which actually is kind of the point - you want to preserve the experience of wild. This is elegantly expressed in the legal definition of wilderness, as defined in the 1964 Wilderness Act:

generally appear to have been affected primarily by the forces of nature, with the imprint of man’s work substantially unnoticeable.

The more “man-made” looking a trail is, the less it puts you in a headspace of being “out there” in the natural space. Consider the paved trails of a local park or even some that you may find in a busy area of a national park like Yosemite’s main valley. That feels entirely different from a trail that runs through a wilderness area with few man-made structures in sight.

We delight in the opportunity to take friends and family up to see the staircases we’ve built around Carson Pass over the years. Should you be up for a visit, we’d love to take you as well. Even better, if you happen to come around the end of September, join us for what has become an annual tradition to continue building staircases out there in honor of Public Lands Day.

Surprisingly, this was the first time I have ever walked through an area I’ve worked on as a recreational user of the trail. It felt surreal to ascend those steps, knowing exactly what it took to put each one in and recalling the memories associated with each step.

Public Lands Inheritance

As we made our way up the first climb, I could see out to Kirkwood, our favorite local ski resort. The trail leveled out and turned a corner to reveal an incredible view of Lake Tahoe ahead. This inspired a return to a discussion Hummingbird and I had been having, in which we talked about different elements of Ken Burns’s wonderful documentary series on our national parks. If you haven’t seen it, I strongly recommend it. I’ve seen it multiple times and have seriously considered getting the DVD set a few times.

As we descended with the wonderful view ahead of us, Hummingbird opted to share a quote from one of the writers (as well as a co-producer) on the project, Dayton Duncan. This was one that he had told me he had been saving for the right moment, and this was finally the time:

Like the vision of liberty expressed in our Declaration of Independence, the idea behind the national parks is both a promise–a lofty goal that we are still pursuing–and an obligation. It is a covenant that says it doesn’t matter whether your ancestors came over on the Mayflower or your parents just arrived in this country, whether you’re from a big city or a tiny town, whether your father owns a factory or your mother is a maid.

You are the owner of some of the best seafront property this nation’s got, from magnificent waterfalls to stunning views of awesome mountains and breathtaking canyons.

They belong to you.

And all that’s required of you in return is that you put it in your will, for your children, so that they can have it too.

Hopefully, you won’t let it be sold off, you won’t let it be despoiled. Hopefully, you’ll take some time to go out and inspect this property that is yours and encourage Congress to provide for its proper maintenance.

But that’s all you’ve got to do.

We truly have been given a gift. If you haven’t ever explored the lands that you, as an American, actually own, I strongly encourage you to do so. Please do make sure you Leave No Trace, of course.

Bonus points if you help improve them. Even if you aren’t as close to the PCT as Shawn and I are, we’d be happy to host you for a project near us. There are also many projects that cover multiple days and include camping nearby. Sometimes the PCTA even provides meals. Then there are the truly epic ones where you hike into the backcountry, with pack animals carrying all the gear, and a full volunteer kitchen crew provides meals each day. We’ve yet to manage to get on one of those - they are popular and fill up fast!

Even if you aren’t near the PCT, there are wilderness trails all over the country, each with its own association where you can volunteer. If you still aren’t near one of those, every national park and many local parks have their own nonprofit you can volunteer with in some capacity.

Tahoe Rim Trail

Within a few miles, we came to a very busy junction with the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT). This is a 170-mile trail that travels around, well, the rim of Lake Tahoe! Many thru-hikers, looking for another thru-hike, but a shorter option that pairs well with the return to full-time work they’ve often gone back to by the next hiking season, opt for this as a “next trail” to do. The trail is also popular as a first thru-hike, with a much higher chance of getting a permit than the nearby, nearly equal-in-length John Muir Trail.

It is also similar to the John Muir Trail in that the PCT shares the same trail for a notable segment. From this junction onward, for nearly 50 miles, as the PCT heads north along the west side of Lake Tahoe, it follows the TRT. Because the Tahoe Rim Trail Association (see, I told you they all have their own non-profit) has far fewer miles to maintain and, as a result, has more capacity to pull from in both their volunteer base as well as funding, they are essentially the section adopters of their segment of the PCT.

Similar things happen when the trail goes through national parks. Those sections are not available for adoption because the national park is responsible for trail maintenance within its boundaries. Assuming the national parks are properly funded, this eases the heavy burden the PCTA faces for its 2,650 miles of trail across three states.

This junction was a flurry of activity given it was the 4th of July. Groups out on a section hike of the TRT passed through along with day hikers. Shortly after the junction, another thru-hiker, Two Speed, chatted us up from a shady spot under a tree. As Two Speed had been discussing the wonders of the snowy passes she had just gone through in the deeper sections of the Sierras, she began to showcase some incredible pictures.

My stomach growled in response, a gentle nudge that this break spot of Two Speed’s would be a great place to crack into that burrito. Shortly after, the three of us settled into the shade next to Two Speed and began to look through her gorgeous photos; Shake caught up and joined us for a shady sit.

Showers Lake

We continued a gentle ascent, seeing more of the wildflowers we had been blessed with all morning. After a few minutes, Shake pulled ahead, and we all said our temporary goodbyes, noting that we’d see him later at Echo Summit.

As the trail leveled out again, a popular lake I had heard so much about came into view. Showers Lake is a common camping spot for weekend backpackers in the area, and I could now see why. Just a few miles from a trailhead and the absolutely idyllic setting made it a perfect little escape.

I had yet to jump in a lake on any of the hiking so far, so I eagerly asked Bugs where the best spot was. If possible, I do try to avoid muddy bottom entries. I may go out for days to be a dirty hiker, but I’m still properly “icked out” by stepping in muddy lake water.

As a former ranger in this area, Bugs had a deep familiarity and knowledge base to draw on. We would take advantage of this for the rest of the day, peppering him with questions about the ecology and being gifted with random tidbits of information about secret lakes and such that we could explore later. For now, he suggested waiting until the trail circled around the other side of the lake, just before veering away from it. We went off trail to find our way to the water’s edge from over there and, as promised, there were some rocks underneath the water where I could hop across several before getting deep enough to just float.

A few years ago, I cut my foot on a rock as I waded into an alpine lake on a day hike, then had to endure the long hike back to the car. Now I swap into my camp shoes, which double as water shoes, to go for a swim and avoid the same fate. I also traditionally jump in fully clothed. Not out of modesty (I wear black undergarments while hiking that essentially look like a swimsuit anyway), but to freshen my clothes a bit and to keep me cooler for a bit longer as I continue hiking.

Neither Bugs nor Hummingbird joined me, but graciously waited and chatted as I took a quick dip before we headed on.

Echo Summit

We had a short climb through an overwhelming amount of wildflowers as we left Shower Lake. This last week on trail has just been absolutely incredible for wildflowers. I’ve never seen them in such vast quantities before. There was diversity among them as well, showcasing a world of color as if they were a natural ready-made bouquet there for the taking. I struggled to focus my eyes between the colorful landscape immediately before me and the distant view of yet another great look at Lake Tahoe that had just appeared.

We entered the trees for a few miles before being dumped into a rocky landscape that became progressively more barren as we got closer to the road at Echo Summit. It is hard to imagine now, but five years ago the Caldor Fire swept through this area, mere minutes from our home. By the time the fire reached this point, CalFire changed their tactic of slowly expanding the evacuation borders and called for the immediate evacuation of our entire town. We live on the west side of town. As the only exit was the one highway that goes east, we sat in traffic for nearly three hours.

By “sit in traffic,” I mean to say that the car was parked and actually off nearly that whole time. We even managed to make the S.F. Chronicle while waiting! We were graciously welcomed by Shawn’s Uncle Larry & Aunt Jody in Modesto, CA, as a place to shelter. A drive that normally takes about 3 hours took over 12 hours that day, as we had to drive east to Carson City, then north to Reno, and west to Sacramento before we could finally head south to Modesto. We spent a week there trying to do anything to avoid dwelling on whether or not we would have a home to return to.

We were so lucky to be able to keep our home and even luckier that we had somewhere to shelter- I later learned that a number of folks were forced to camp in the Carson City Wal-Mart parking lot! On this day, I felt especially lucky that I hardly think about it anymore. I don’t think it would have been as easy to move on if we’d actually lost our home, let alone lost it while being forced to sleep in a car with two cats!

As we tumbled out of the trailhead, beat from the last few miles’ heat, Shawn and Shake were there, happy to dispense snacks and even face wipes that Shawn had been keeping in the cooler as something of a cooling facial. Five stars, would recommend Shawn’s Trailside Spa.

Back Home

We bid adieu to our new local friend, Bugs, first. Sluggy and Red Velvet were already out in Desolation Wilderness by the time we would arrive home, not returning until the following afternoon. Given this and the fact that I already had clean sheets that fit the bed in my office, we had space for Shake to come and crash as well.

A few hours later, Shawn, Hummingbird, and I hopped on bikes for our annual Independence Day tradition to watch the fireworks from our closest beach, a ten-minute ride away. Shake wanted to stay back to rest more, so when there were just 20 minutes until the show started, we set off into the night and down the bike paths. Just as we settled into a spot on the beach, the show began. The fireworks themselves are always great, but they’re made even better with the glittering reflection of the lake’s surface below and the starry sky above.

Watching the brilliant lights dancing above the water, I felt so incredibly grateful. I’m so happy to have my health back this summer. I had no idea how deprived I really felt losing my normal chock-full summer like I did last year. It felt amazing to relax on a beach after days of hard hiking, freshly showered, exfoliating my feet in the sand, and, probably best of all, looking around at everyone as they packed up their things to try to beat the traffic that would last for hours before they finally got home.

For me, all that traffic on the bike paths would add maybe all of five minutes to my ride home.

After another zero day the following day, it would take me a whopping fifteen minutes to get to a trailhead that many of the others had driven for hours to reach.

And on top of all that, I’d be stepping off with a bunch of new friends that the trail had brought into my life simply because I pushed myself to be more open to people. Christopher McCandless, whose life inspired the book and film Into the Wild, summed it up quite nicely in his final journal entry, written from the Alaskan wilderness:

Happiness only real when shared

-Christopher McCandless

Media Share

I’ve got two media shares for this post for you!

Trail Crew Stories

While looking for the link to the the podcast episode from 99% Invisible I mentioned earlier, I stumbled upon this really cool project focused on trail work and the people that do it. They’ve also got an Instagram: trailcrewstories

Hummingbird’s Content

Hummingbird maintains a blog where you can follow along on all his hiking updates.

After finishing the 2023 hiking season, I expected to start filling in all my unfinished sections piece by piece, starting the next summer. By the time spring arrived, though, I just didn’t feel like backpacking again.

I’ll admit I’d suffered through a mild post-hike depression, one greatly diminished because I hadn’t finished the trail. I had so much to look forward to, and many chunks near my house that were short enough to do with visiting friends and family.

My body felt a bit broken for a few months after in ways I can’t recall specifically now, beyond the plantar fasciitis that I definitely remember lasting for a few months. I also felt generally motivated to get back into my pre-hike workout routine (2-3 days of HIIT, 2-3 days of strength, play day of hiking or whatever, Sunday yoga) but struggled to make it a reality.

I certainly missed the trail to some degree. I wanted to be connected to it without being on it.

2024

Remembering the trail angel groups (one for each section of trail), I opened up Facebook and joined the one for Tahoe. Almost immediately, Shawn & I started giving rides to and from Echo Lake a couple times a week. It was roughly 20 minutes out of our day that we’d do before my first work meeting at 8AM and was a great window into how the trail was going for folks. Plus, we love living in South Lake Tahoe and were so happy to share our favorite places in town as guides for whatever they may need.

I had seen hikers come through Tahoe for years, so I had no shortage of connection to the trail, but now it was different. Taking the time to jump in and be part of it, beyond just seeing them in stores or hitching rides, made me realize how precious the “bubble window” really was.

For Tahoe, on basically any year besides my hiking year1, they start trickling in the week before the 4th of July and drop off a couple of weeks after. Many hikers, especially international ones interested in the spectacle of American Independence Day, aim to be in town on that day to enjoy the holiday in full force.

If the vibes were right, we were going to be in town, and weren’t too busy with work stuff, we’d also offer to host those hikers. As the bubble is only a few weeks, it wasn’t often, and so I believe we hosted roughly half a dozen hikers, if my memory serves me correctly. We’re within walking distance to a grocery store, several outdoors stores, and the free bus that goes throughout town for anything else.

They came from all over, delighting us with tales from their lives and their hike, occasionally taking advantage of the opportunity to use a kitchen, and graced us with a favorite meal of theirs. As a non-cook myself, I’ve always been impressed at how comfortable some folks can be in a kitchen, especially one that isn’t their own!

2026

As our guest room is upstairs and my physical capabilities were fairly limited, we took the summer of 2025 off from trail angel duties. Come this spring, I was abound with pent-up energy to put to good use.

In full transparency, I was pretty severely burnt out at work, so I grabbed a long-distance permit to start in the Sierras and dreamt of simply going off for a walk for a few months come summer. In the event I found a slightly better work-life balance, I opted to take 10 days off preemptively and simply not use the full 500+ miles allotted by a long-distance permit.

Last week (as of the time of writing), Hummingbird, one of the hikers we hosted in 2024, flew in from Austin, TX to join me. As Austin is not known for its elevation, he arrived a few days before my permit start date to begin acclimatizing. He can work remotely as needed, so he spent those first couple of days keeping similar working hours as me.

Sonora Pass

Hummingbird had done a section in Oregon in 2025 that did not end well for his hip after a 14-mile day, so he was a bit nervous to start out at our planned 15 miles. Like me, he tends to feel a bit odd, maybe even bored, when he arrives at camp too early and simply pushes on until the sun is lower in the sky. I agreed to do a bit lower mileage on the first day, as there was an opportunity to make up the miles by adding them to days that would originally have been less than 15 miles.

Since our starting point at Sonora Pass was roughly 2 hours from the house, we opted to sleep in a bit and start later to limit the daylight we had for hiking. This naturally limited the miles we could even squeeze in before the sun was “appropriately low” in the sky for stopping to camp.

I was a bit queasy as we approached the trailhead for a number of reasons beyond the winding roads. It seems no matter how many times Shawn drops me off for a hike, I always dread walking away from him, so unsure and anxious about the mile ahead. Sonora Pass was a bit of a traumatic place for me historically already; what if something similar happened again?

What if my knee acted up and I had to push through, damaging it for good?

What if a bear woke me up in the night!? You’d think the bears wouldn’t bother me at this point given how regular of an occurrence they are in town and in our lives in general - ask about the time I accidentally let one in the house next time you see us in person! For some reason, this is a stable fear of mine on these trips.

Goodbyes

We arrived at the parking lot just as a thru-hiker was walking up. Shawn agreed to take her down to Kennedy Meadows North. As Hummingbird and I prepped our packs and bodies (applying sunblock and stretching muscles), Shawn chatted up this hiker. I looked over in amazement every once in a while as he slowly revealed a number of snacks he had procured to share with hikers as trail magic at all the trailheads he was planning to meet me at for this little adventure. Not only that, he whipped out a giant trash bag to lighten the load of anyone passing through, having learned what a valuable gift it is just to offer to take trash!

Finally, it was time to get walking, and I nervously hugged him “goodbye” before quickly turning around to start heading north. As we began our ascent, I watched the car slowly leave the lot and noticed another group of hikers arriving. I stopped and watched as Shawn parked the car again, offering the additional seats. It makes me so oddly proud of how killer a trail angel Shawn has become, and excited to see him open up to help out any hikers he comes across.

As we began our ascent to the highest point on our section, I was reminded of just how gorgeous this area was. Sure, it held so much weight in terms of painfully heavy memories where hikes had not gone as planned out here or, as a result of carrying that mental burden, I had been the one who failed to meet the hike’s challenge, but today, the wind was calm and the sun was shining in an utter brilliance with the clouds to create such a dramatically gorgeous view.

With these views and wonderful conversations to accompany them, we suddenly hit the high point, the only time we would be over 10K feet in elevation, and began our descent. While my affected knee far and away struggles more with descents than with ascents, making it to 10K with relative ease still shocked me enough to make me think I could actually do this.

In the groove again

We kept a steady clip of just under 2 miles an hour, so we agreed to stop roughly every 4 miles for a break. This would give me a window to reapply my sunblock every 2 hours, as my dermatologist instructed, while also allowing us both to stretch the weaker areas of our bodies.

I’m terrible about planning for snacks I’ll enjoy, thinking I should just stick to standard bars and avoid all the processed sugar. Thankfully for me, Shawn knows this and almost always has better snacks on hand that he either sneaks into my pack or publicly shoves into it. At that first break, I was so happy to indulge in one of the candies I discovered in my pack while grabbing my sunblock.

Feeling loved with the hidden gift of candy and great in my body thanks to the short stretch, I stepped away from that break confidently. It only increased as we continued our descent into a granite canyon that was both so familiar to many I had since throughout the Sierras yet also unique in its own geology, almost making it appear as if its walls were actually stacked houses on a hill, straight out of Greece or something. I noticed I was leaning into my stronger knee for the bigger step-downs, but overall my affected knee was handling the challenge really well.

Even better, by the time we arrived at our next break, I was actually hungry! Usually, I struggle to get myself to eat, especially on the first day or so. There’s something about working my body that much in the heat that makes me just feel averse to food. Thankfully, the temps had been mild, and maybe the long descent had made my body think it was okay to eat something even with a clip around my torso that often made anything more than a snack uncomfortable.

This could have all been the result of having a late breakfast/early lunch on the way down (and no other notable meal since), but feeling like I could eat dinner at roughly 5PM was really encouraging. We opted to have dinner during that break, not feeling the need to eat dinner at camp itself. As the boiling water cooked my mac and cheese for 10 minutes, I stretched with a scenic view of the East Fork of the Carson River. Departing that camp, we began an ascent up the canyon wall as those views opened even more.

Rebuilding Home

Hummingbird called it for camp at roughly 11 miles from Sonora Pass. I nervously began pulling things out of my pack, unsure if I could remember the efficient process I had so perfectly honed three years prior for setting up my camp. I had always had difficulty with my tent, especially feeling that I had never quite perfected the pitch of my trekking-pole tent. I had done nothing to practice in the time since, so I had no idea how this would go.

In that moment, I realized I had forgotten the tent stakes! My tent does not have its own poles. This saves me at least a full pound in the weight of my pack by using a combination of my trekking poles and lines pulled tight with stakes to give it structure.

I had been so busy with work in the days leading up to departing for the trail that there had barely been time to get any sleep, and I was confident that I was going to end up forgetting something. I figured out a way to run a small stick through the loops on the tent lines and hold them back with a heavy rock, pulling the material into something resembling a tent’s structure. It would work well enough until the next meetup with Shawn, where he could get me my stakes. My irresponsibility had a price that wasn’t so bad to have to pay after all!

Shortly after the success of raising the walls of my home for the night, a thru-hiker named Shake rolled into camp. He had first done the PCT ten years ago with a younger fraternity brother that had jumped onto his planned adventure. He was excited to be back, doing the trail for himself without feeling the need to look out for someone else and make decisions that considered their well-being first. This time, he was able to start the trail immediately, with the mindset of being open to whatever it brings.

I think that lesson was essential for me in 2023. A portion of it came somewhat early, given that the massive snow year almost immediately dashed any expectations of a continuous thru-hike. Several other hikers I’ve met since I finished have echoed a similar sentiment: it was almost freeing to have that opportunity squashed so early. As the trail unfolded, I still resisted letting go of plans in some ways before eventually releasing them and being so unbelievably happy that I did.

Ten years was a lifetime ago in terms of PCT culture, so I asked him how he felt like things were different this time, and he had such an interesting answer: “This year’s hiking class feels so rigid about how to experience the trail, less open to side quests and what the trail brings.” For him to still be seeing that this far into the trail for this year’s class made me a bit sad.

I truly do think the biggest lesson the trail brings to most thru-hikers, the one most of us need, is that willingness to take whatever comes, to let go of our tendency to over-plan and control things. Walking and sleeping outside for 5-6 months is, in itself, an acceptance that you can’t control most of what happens in that environment. It almost feels part of the definition of “adventure” in that you’re going down a path you don’t control with no idea of how it will go - that’s part of the fun even if it is scary, too.

How many miles you walk in a day and how you cover those miles (northbound, southbound, burdened with a full pack, or going for a slackpack) are among the few control points we have. I think this means we tend to over-index on that, pushing ourselves to the point where this “adventure” has become the same as a job we would have in normal life: optimizing for efficiency at all costs.

As it turns out, Shake spent years at a meditation retreat center and now guides retreats there in Georgia. I felt unbelievably lucky that he strolled into our camp that night to give the gift of these thoughtful conversations before climbing into our tents for a rest.

Carson-Iceberg Wilderness

I didn’t sleep great, but I usually never do, especially the first night out. My alarm went off at 5:15, so I had time to take my iron and let it settle before stepping out on the trail. I quickly fell into the familiar routine of my thru-hiking life as I journaled for a bit right after ingesting that little tablet so it could settle before I even moved much at all.2 Soon, I was packed up and ready to head out before Hummingbird was finished with his breakfast. We agreed to meet up at the first break point, since that would be a bit longer for me, serving as both a break and a breakfast stop (I needed to wait to eat thanks to the iron supplement).

Familiar Cruising

As I headed north, I remembered how wonderful hiking in the morning hours was as I listened to the birds, took in the streaks of light through the trees, or caught the golden glow ablaze on the canyon walls. I loved having this part of the day to myself, in such a calm peace as I almost floated to the creek where I would wait for Hummingbird.

I enjoyed my standard breakfast, a peanut butter mocha3, as I lightly stretched. Soon, a group of thru-hikers stopped to fill their own waters as they strategized their mileage over the next couple of days, aiming to get to Tahoe by Independence Day (practically a tradition for most thru-hikers). I chuckled as I remembered Shawn joking that he was tired of listening to thru-hikers drone on about mileage. While I think we certainly shouldn’t over-index on mileage to turn it into yet another job, there is also a balance to strike when strategizing to hit your goals.

Hummingbird arrived shortly after I finished my mocha and was ready to filter water myself. He looked on at the pathetic trickle from my water filter and warned me, with a laugh, that its flow rate was similar to his just before it finally died. I chuckled and made it clear I would not tolerate judgment of my flow rate! When I finally finished filtering water, we settled on our next break spot and were off again.

Despite a filter that probably was failing and forgetting my tent stakes, I felt shockingly dialed in. For once, I didn’t feel an undue burden by my pack weight. To be fair, I was only carrying supplies for roughly two days before the next meeting point with Shawn.

Planning & Seeing

In 2023, I found a lot of joy through the act of intentional ignorance. I had already relieved myself of the burden of social media for years by that point. That practice made it easy to notice when I was dreading climbs and obsessing over exactly how many feet I would gain. I would constantly check the altimeter on my watch to see how much more I had. After a few days of this, I experimented with banning myself from checking watch data, allowing myself to look only when it alerted that another mile had finished. Not only was I happier, but I also found myself moving faster because I could only look at the data every 20-30 minutes.

After a few weeks of that, I realized I had also built up anxiety around deciding on a camp and setting up an afternoon/evening death march to meet the plans of morning Madison, who had far more energy and, frankly, unrealistic expectations. I started experimenting with not allowing myself to look ahead to camps until lunch at the earliest, but ideally, not until my afternoon break.

When we arrived at our next stop, Hummingbird dove into looking into camp sites for the night and let out a few hints of worries for upcoming climbs. The elevation had seemed to be wearing on him a bit as he struggled on the ascents. I had to set the boundary up front that I couldn’t have the details of climbs shared with me, but his worries leaked the secret. Instead of agreeing to a campsite, I suggested we focus on the next break stop.

I wasn’t hungry for lunch now, but he was, so he dove into part of his lunch, agreeing to finish the rest with me at the next stop. I needed 30 minutes for my cold-soak lunch to rehydrate, so I suggested a slightly earlier stop so I could rehydrate, then we could continue for another mile before our longer break.

As it turns out, that spot had a creek with great pools for dipping tired feet. We took advantage after I poured a bit of water into my lunch bag and ended up enjoying it long enough that my lunch was ready to eat right then and there.

When it was time for our next break spot, Hummingbird filled his water to full capacity. I was a bit surprised, as I didn’t desire to carry the weight of more than a liter in the water-abundant Sierras. His response was to ask if he could tell me something. Assuming this was a personal matter, I agreed, and he then said the upcoming climb would be both steep and long.

My water intake doesn’t change enough on climbs to change my carry, so I checked for the next water source to confirm it was still close enough for me to stay light at just a liter. Thankfully it was, and so we continued on. We fell into our own paces, and I kept my momentum as he began to stop for breaks.

Easy choices, hard life; Hard choices, easy life

I took in the expansive views the climb rewarded while balancing the discomfort of thinking through the conversation I knew we would need to have soon. I’m extremely uncomfortable with even the slightest form of conflict. And what I feel is conflict doesn’t meet that mark for most folks, either. I knew I needed to push through that discomfort to think through the things I needed to say and ask of Hummingbird, which was proving to be harder than this tough climb!

Then, suddenly, I was at the top, relaxing with that same group of thru-hikers from earlier in the day as they enjoyed a rest and a brief moment of cell reception. Happy to leave my phone in airplane mode, I pulled out more candy to share as we fell into lighthearted conversation that, even though the topics are always different, they always have a familiar sense of levity and ease. After a few minutes, Hummingbird arrived, and I tossed a fun-size package of his favorite trail treat, Sour Patch Kids, his way as a summit treat (a favorite tradition of mine, started by my friend Jeremy on the John Muir Trail).

He opted to press on and begin the descent to get ahead of me, as I’d been keeping a quicker pace. By the time I arrived at the pond where he had first suggested we camp hours earlier, he had decided to camp there for the night. He graciously praised how well I had been doing, given my knee, and suggested that I continue on to Ebbett’s Pass to meet Shawn as originally planned if I still had energy.

This section was roughly 30 miles, and I had accepted that we wouldn’t be meeting Shawn as planned on the second evening, since we’d only made it 11 miles the first day. I had originally been excited by the idea of camping only one night and going home to my own shower, bed, and recovery tools as a safe option for this first excursion. While I was okay with giving those up and simply continuing on to the next section without a break at home the next day, Hummingbird continued on to say that he was worried about his hip and keeping up this mileage over the next few days. He said he could skip the next section and, after a zero day, consider rejoining me, but was waiting to make that decision until Ebbett’s Pass the next day.

Initially, I agreed to this and began setting up my tent. Hilariously, I found two forgotten tent stakes in the process!

Given how the day had gone, I felt that Hummingbird’s heart just wasn’t in this and he was unlikely to decide to continue on to the next section tomorrow. Staring down the reality of camping by myself in the next section, something I so very dread, I changed my mind and began deconstructing my tent.

It was 4.4 miles to Ebbett’s Pass, and if I got moving now, I could make it before sunset. I could have a shower, a bed, and recovery tools to help me get into a better headspace to tackle the next section of solo hiking. We exchanged understanding words for each other’s own needed experiences and differing hiking styles right now, given where we were before I headed out.

Just as the day had begun, I was in the glow of another gorgeous canyon, left to my own thoughts for how things were going. I was proud of how well my body was doing, and especially proud that I could talk through something so difficult for me, and that we both agreed and were okay with having different hiking styles.

This is so incredibly common. Hiking styles, preferences, and capabilities are so unique to each person that it is actually incredibly difficult to find others that can overlap with yourself.

Even still, it was hard to keep the unreasonably negative thoughts from creeping in from time to time. The ones that tell you that you’ll never find folks that hike in a similar way as you or, even if they did, they probably wouldn’t want to hike with someone like you. Look at all those who stopped hiking with you before; these are obviously signs that you just generally suck, and no one likes you.

It can get pretty negative in these tougher moments, but I was thankfully pulled out of them whenever they got especially painful by the environment. A day hiker with an adorably distracting dog would come by, showering me with licks. Or a sudden geographic feature would appear, simply demanding my attention. Finally, I heard the familiar “cheeseburger” call of a mountain chickadee that felt a little specific to a certain call I thought I recognized a bit too well.

After the second or third one, I saw Shawn through the trees, hiking towards me and letting out his familiar whistle to imitate the chickadees. I broke a smile and nearly cried.

When Shawn and I came back the next morning, I’d hopefully be ready to confidently set out alone while he enjoyed giving out trail magic as he waited for Hummingbird.

Media Share

Shake creates gorgeous art through woodworking and, like some of the coolest hikers I know, also creates music. You can follow him and his adventures as he continues his second thru-hike: @brotherbradleyjames

By the time this lands in your inbox or feed, I expect to be out on the Pacific Crest Trail again after three years. Except, it hasn’t really been that long since I’ve been on the trail, but we’ll get to that later.

A lot has happened in that time, both in the world at large and for me as a little human navigating through it. Enough that how can you even be so sure that this isn’t just an A.I. projection of Madison Sites!?

I guess you’ll have to take my written word for it, paired with the faith that I’ve got reasonable login management in place to prevent getting hacked.

Still, I’m not the same person who wrote that last update, as I doubt you’re the same person who read it. I hope you’ve grown and changed as well, maybe even to the degree that the “you” of 2023 also feels like somewhat of a stranger.

That said, I do hope your changes have been a bit less dramatic than mine. I won’t get into everything that’s happened, but we’ll tackle the big ones as they come up along the way.

Probably the biggest thing to know is that I won’t have the same knee I hiked with back in 2023, and I mean that quite literally.

In February of 2025, I fell while skiing and had to be taken down the mountain by ski patrol. By the end of the month, with the expertise of my wonderful surgeon and his incredible team, I had surgery to repair my meniscus and, thanks to the wonderful gift of a family I’ll likely never know, received a donor ACL to replace my absolutely shredded OEM one.

By the end of the year, I was also diagnosed with melanoma. After three back surgeries, I was declared cancer-free. I’ve had just as many skin checks since the last surgery under a much more frequent protocol for at least the next few years, and I’m happy to report that things have stayed that way so far.

I swear that good things happened in the years since I last wrote, but those felt like the most important to share for now, as they’re taking up a lot of my headspace as I prep things. Anticipating that I’ll be stopping more frequently to reapply sunblock and entirely unsure how well my knee will do, I have no idea what pace I’ll be maintaining.

Shawn, more than ever, has truly owned his “man in the chair” role, ready to be on call for pickup should things not go as “planned” (the plans are extremely loose given all these unknowns in my physical capability). He was such an essential saint through the first journey and then again through all my medical drama that I truly can’t believe he agreed to go through it all again.1

If you’re new around here, this Substack was originally private, open only to known friends and family, plus those I met along the way on the trail, via manually approved e-mail addresses. This was primarily a safety mechanism. It can be weird to be a woman posting your exact location to the internet for everyone to see.

I opened this Substack to the public shortly after I finished, so others could hopefully benefit from some of the stories. I have neither the time nor the energy to figure out whether I can temporarily lock this down to a subset of the known e-mail addresses, so you’ll all just have to find out where I’m going, who is joining, and how long I’ll be gone as the information comes in. You can assume that info will be delayed by a random amount of time.

Here’s hoping I have some interesting stories to share, but I’m also fully prepared to admit if things don’t go well (you probably know that by now given how open other posts have been) and I have to accept that my body just wasn’t quite ready.

Donner Pass

A few days after Shawn and I hiked home from the PCT, we were driving north with Philosopher to Donner Pass. As he had done back in June, Shawn would be leaving me at the oddly placed trailhead that began at a highway rest stop. Then, this was the starting point of my journey north, beginning over a month of hiking through the Northern California section solo. This time, I would be joined by Philosopher as we slack-packed south for a few hours.

I hugged Shawn goodbye and set off to hike towards the massive I-80 interstate. The trail dropped down to enter a tunnel. We ventured in, crossing underneath hundreds of cars speeding above us, bound for either Reno, NV or Sacramento, CA - or beyond in either direction!

As the noise of the highway dropped away behind us, it opened up more room for us to reminisce. This was the last drop-off for both of us, after all. I had decided that I would finish the miles between here and South Lake Tahoe in a future year, opting to get started on all the “life admin” things that had piled up in my absence and very little time remaining to get them done before other commitments arose. For Philosopher, he would could continue the journey south and enjoy a few more nights out on trail.

Our reminiscing intertwined with talks of the future, things we were looking forward to (mostly food) and even the things we weren’t so stoked about (mostly life chores). As if on cue, a day hiker would pass by and remind us of the glory of what we had done this year. Starting a hike from an interstate wasn’t ideal for us, but it was what everyone we passed had the time for today. We had spent months outside, taking in gorgeous views every day with no concern for needing to get anywhere other than to the next town before running out of food or trying to beat weather. It made me quite the snob when it came to being required to walk so close to the smell and noises of cars for any part of the day.

The trail wound through forest, before opening up on expansive views before us. Below, we could see a road winding through the trees. As we descended toward it, I couldn’t help but look up from my feet every few minutes to follow the road’s path. Eventually, we turned a corner where we found a medley of rock climbers attempting ascents up the granite that rose above us on our right. To our left, we could see the parking lot.

There it was, my last trailhead of the PCT this year. Over five months and nearly 1,500 miles of hiking led to this moment. Philosopher and I headed down the road to make our way to Donner Ski Ranch. We were meeting Shawn there to celebrate my last miles on the trail this year and imbibe in a highlight of the PCT for many a thru-hiker: a free 40-ounce beer! After presenting our PCT permits and our government IDs, the giant bottles landed on our tables ready for the undertaking.

I’m not a beer-drinker myself, but I stepped up to the challenge as a point to honor everything else I’d pushed myself through this year. Once I was halfway through, everything else was a blur. Before heading home, we dropped Philosopher back at the trailhead. In a few days, we’d fetch him from the same trailhead that Shawn and I had hiked north from just a few days prior.

As for me, I promptly fell asleep for the rest of the drive home. Upon entering the house, I collapsed on the couch and slept again. And that’s been the steady part of my grand re-entry into society: a lot of time resting.

It has been over a month and I’ve nearly got all the feeling back in my toes. There’s still some pain in my foot that I’m fairly certain is plantar fasciitis. The fresh pain in my foot each morning is a lovely reminder of what I’ve put my body through three seasons this year. In response, my workouts to have been limited to short walks, pilates, yoga, and swimming.

Now what?

Well, I’ve been a bit busy since finishing my hike. We hosted several sets of my hiking friends at the house which certainly helped keep the post-trail depression at bay. In the time between that and having Shawn’s mom out, I struggled. It really is hard to go from spending all day outside and exercising to, well, withdrawing from all that dopamine. I can’t imagine how tough it would have been if I had also actually finished the trail. At least I still have more gorgeous miles to look forward to.

We’re staying busy from now through early next year with travels or hosting family. I’ll probably get to job hunting at some point in January, so if you know anyone looking for a software engineer in the new year, let me know!

In hindsight, I maybe would have allocated more “open time” after ending my hike. I don’t know how I would have managed it if I had kept hiking for as long as I had initially planned. I desperately needed the extra time to get through all the life admin stuff, though I wonder if having less free time post-trail has helped to be a bit of a distraction. It has forced me to get out of bed and attend to things with the limited time.

For this newsletter, I won’t be sending out anymore posts until I return to finish the rest of my hike. Feel free to stay subscribed if you’re interested in that. If you’re curious to see how much I’ve hiked and how much I have left (meaning where you could join for future hikes!), Shawn claimed an awesome domain and created a map from all my GPS data: https://madison.rocks/

Shawn Note: The website is a work-in-progress. I’ll continue adding cool features like photos and zoom-to-neat-locations when life settles down a bit.

If you’re interested in more goings on besides hiking, I send out an annual letter as part of a New Year’s Card. Many of you I met this year, so I don’t have your address. Reply to this with your mailing address and I’ll put you on the list!

Media Share

There’s no way I would have been able to share these selfie videos so soon without Shawn’s incredible efforts. As he is much more familiar with video editing, he dug into and created a script to put them together and display both the date of each photo (fairly simple) as well as the location (way less simple). After extensive nagging on my part (you’re welcome), he produced a blog post to share how he helped bring these videos to life. It is a relatively technical post, so it is probably only of interest to my fellow software engineers on this newsletter list.

Much to my surprise, I woke up the next day confident in my decision not to continue hiking north from Sonora Pass with Philosopher. As the storm raged up in the mountains, he decided to stay and take a zero before continuing. With no need for a bear can in the next section, we collected his to store at our house until he arrived a few days later. As for us, we’d be there in a few short hours.

Highway 50

Much to their dismay, I gave the cats a hearty squeeze as soon as I walked in the door before going about my typical town chores: wash clothes (and self), charge things, and pack food. I was determined that the rough go of the last section would not be how I would end this year’s PCT hike. Shawn agreed to one night out on the PCT in Desolation Wilderness, allowing us to hike home the second day.

While my PCT permit was still valid for travel through Desolation Wilderness, it didn’t cover Shawn. I secured a permit for him, but the first available date was still a few days away. I snagged it and busied myself with some life admin tasks, but mostly, I slept a lot. Like 12 hours a day a lot.

When the day finally arrived, we slept in and took our time packing. We were only traveling 6 or 7 miles, so leaving early was unnecessary. Around noon, we requested a ride up to the trailhead, a whopping 10-minute drive. It was exciting to finally be hiking on from where we had picked up and dropped off so many of our hiking friends this summer.

As we set out on the trail, I quickly realized that I could have easily left my headphones at home. Shawn and I had so much to catch up on that we’d spend nearly every minute of those two days talking as we hiked. Within a mile or so, we arrived at the edge of Echo Lake. The views and nearby picnic tables warranted a stop for lunch.

We’ve hiked the next few miles of the PCT before, and I knew we had the option of a water shuttle to the other end of the lake. As far as I know, Echo Lake is the only option to aqua blaze on the PCT, forgoing about three miles of hiking in favor of boating it. Unfortunately, the chalet stopped running the shuttle on Labor Day, so we missed it by a few days.

Echo Lakes has a handful of homes along its shore, each with its own dock. While all of these are accessible through the PCT, owners use their boats to get to and from their cabins. I asked Shawn if any local owners would give us a ride. He was clearly embarrassed by the very idea of it. If the PCT has taught me anything this year, I now have far fewer qualms about asking for rides.

Taking the hint, I opted for small talk with the hikers nearby. We would pass a few folks out for a day hike, but most of the other hikers heading in our direction were hiking the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT). I attempted to hike the 200-mile trail that circles Lake Tahoe last year, but a wildfire ruined that the day before I was set to start. Much like the John Muir Trail, the PCT and the TRT also share a trail, with the PCT covering nearly all of the TRT on the west shore of Lake Tahoe.

While the Echo Lake Chalet was no longer offering the water taxi, their store remained open while winding down the dock operations. Having seen the ice creams in their freezer, Shawn refused to continue without an afternoon treat. Who was I to deny him lunch dessert?

The hike along Echo Lake was as gorgeous as always. We hadn’t done this hike since the Caldor Fire had graced the hillsides with a burn scar, which was a bit of a bummer. A few of the cabins had clearly had some work done since then, practically requiring us to pick out new favorites as we walked along.

When we reached the turn-off for the water taxi, our usual turn-around point, I felt a surge of excitement. We were finally walking trail that we hadn't before. As much as I love to hike the same trails near our house, seeing them change throughout the seasons, there's something invigorating about exploring areas we have yet to see. As we pressed forward, we began to pass the first thru-hikers that day, heading southbound. After each group, Shawn couldn't help but jokingly ask, "Do you know them?"

Lake Aloha

The late afternoon was stretching into the early evening when we arrived at Lake Aloha, our destination for the night. A medley of campers were already set up at different spots along the shore, some TRT hikers and some folks out just for a night or two, with no PCT thru-hikers to be found.

While no PCT hiker would stop as early as 5 p.m. at this point in the season, almost none would be stopping in Desolation Wilderness anyway. Last year, the Forest Service enacted a bear can requirement (much like Yosemite), requiring thru-hikers to carry a bear can for the 23 miles that the PCT passed through the Desolation Wilderness. For northbound hikers who wanted to camp, that meant heaving the bear can for an extra 23 miles plus the 80-mile section between Sonora Pass and Lake Tahoe.

Like the other bear can requirements, the northern border of this requirement zone was in the wilderness, so in reality, you carry it for nearly 160 miles when you are only required to have it for 23 of them. Most thru-hikers have some heavy-duty trail legs by this point, so virtually everyone chooses to hike through Desolation Wilderness in a single day to avoid the requirement. It's a real bummer as it is such a gorgeous area to rush through.

While some spots were available amidst all the other tents, we decided to press our luck and see if we could find a more secluded spot. The comments on my app mentioned a lot of bear activity recently in that area. This tends to happen in locations with clusters of tent pads. You're bound to have some folks that have camped there who weren't "bear aware" with their food, creating a spot where bears know they can return to and possibly find food that is not secured.

To avoid being woken up in the middle of the night (and it's always the middle of the night), all you can do is play the numbers game. A spot that only fit one tent significantly reduced the odds of being woken up by a bear knocking our can over.1

We passed a few more empty spots, but they all had multiple tent pads within them, and I didn't want to risk it. It was only a few minutes longer before we spotted a small grove of trees amidst a sea of granite between the trail and the lake's edge, with just enough room for our tent. As we set up the tent, I couldn't believe how huge it was. I had spent the last five months or so sleeping in a one-person tent every night. A two-person tent felt palatial. 

When I climbed in to start setting up the sleeping gear, I couldn't stop talking about how roomy it was. Shawn was amused at my excitement until I declared I was finished. He suddenly got a look at how I'd been living and initiated quite the interrogation.

“Where’s your pillow?”

“I ball up my jacket inside of this stuff sack.”

“Where’s your pants?”

“By the time it is cold enough for pants or leggings, I’m already in my sleeping bag. I dehydrate myself a little at the end of the day so I don’t have to get up to pee in the middle of the night.”

Throughout this, ever aware of my limited daylight, I had gone about other chores, eventually dragging the conversation out to be finished on the shore of the lake as we filtered water and watched the sun descend behind the mountains. While he was impressed by my efficient routine, he felt my setup was laughably only a few steps removed from being unhoused. When I climbed into my sleeping gear, he decided it was more appropriate to compare it to "the spider scene from Lord of the Rings." I don't remember this scene and can't be bothered to Google it. I could infer enough to know that Shawn now had a clearer picture of what a "degenerate" I had become on the trail. Honestly, I was surprised at the change, but it had happened so slowly that I never gave it much thought.

Eventually, the conversation transitioned into talking about the surprise that it was over, that this was my last night out on the trail. We talked about that first day he dropped me off, how much things had changed since then, and how much we both grew. I cried quite a bit through a spectrum of emotions. There was a lot of sadness from it being over, fear as I revisited how I had felt up on that ridge when I decided to end the hike, and, most of all, overwhelming gratitude that I could have this experience and finish it on my own terms. It's been nearly a month since that day, and I've gone through all those feelings multiple times since getting home.

With the conversation raging until the wee hours of the morning, we slept in far later than I had on the trail at any point this year. There was no need to rush and get some miles in before we were "allowed" to stop for breakfast. We soaked up the slow morning, taking in the views as we shared one of my favorite breakfasts.

I felt free to stop as much as I wanted to take in the gorgeous views of Lake Aloha as the trail wound around its eastern shore. All the granite islands popping out from its depths looked perfect against the still waters. Over and over, I told Shawn we would return in the height of summer. I desperately wanted to succumb to the temptation to jump into the clear, beautiful waters, but it was simply too cold.

Today would be a series of "lasts" and leaving behind the last campsite was just the start. Knowing that, I felt a sad longing as the trail turned away from the lake. At least we were offered a lovely view of the next lake we'd pass by.

With it being the last day, there were several things I could skip from my regular hiking routine besides a "brekkie break." Generally, I only allow myself to use headphones after that break, preferring to take in the sounds of nature in the morning. The birds had been up and done with their morning chatter for hours. Still, I had no need for headphones anyway, with my favorite hiking companion by my side.

I tracked the miles but paid no attention to my watch telling me how long the last mile took me. It simply didn't matter. We could go as slow as one mile per hour and still make it home before dark. Even if we did end up hiking in the dark, we knew all those trails close to the house so well that it wouldn't matter.

We followed the trail along the shores of multiple lakes, stopping more than I ever had to take pictures. It felt more important to soak up and capture as much as possible than to be faster. We were deep in a conversation when suddenly I saw it come into view: the turn-off we would be taking to go home and, therefore, my last PCT sign.

I ran up to stand next to it for a photo-op. It wasn't the monument at the Canadian border like I had thought it would be when I started at the Mexico border. We've had a wild year to hike the PCT, making it far more unique than a standard hiking class has. Most years, one can expect to walk the standard Mexico to Canada route, though most in recent years (and probably years to come) are forced to skip around fires at some point. Between the record snowpack of the Sierras and the fires that shut down vast swaths of Washington, this simply wasn't the year for it.

For the PCT class of 2023, we were all given the chance to make the hike our own. Some brave souls hiked through the snow of the Sierras. Most skipped around it, choosing the best restart point for them. Some decided to go and hike another trail for roughly the same number of miles as the Sierra portion before returning to the PCT north of the snowpack. Some trail families even opted for an international trip! One group went to Costa Rica for a few weeks before returning to restart after the Sierras. After finishing the desert, another group traveled to southern Asia with their remaining budget and time, saving the rest of the PCT for another year.

Sure, this signpost in the middle of the Desolation Wilderness wasn't the "traditional" ending point, but this was by no means a "traditional" year to hike the PCT anyway. As the closest marker to our house, a mere day hike away, it felt even more meaningful than Canada.

From that post onward, we'd be done not just with the PCT but new trail for us. The next few miles to the trailhead followed a trail we've hiked several times to reach the summit of Mt. Tallac. With the trailhead near the Fallen Leaf Lake marina, it is a tradition for us to enjoy a post-hike lunch at the marina's grill. With stomachs grumbling louder, we picked up the pace for the rest of the descent towards the marina, eager to keep with tradition.

It was less than a mile of road-walking from the trailhead to the marina, but it felt like ages as our hunger had intensified over the last few miles. We practically ran into the store to order food, likely looking like a couple of fiends. With line and no orders ahead of us, the food was out fast and inhaled even faster.

A few more minutes of road walking landed us at another trailhead. The trail began to climb immediately, sending regrets from my very full stomach. It moved uncomfortably under the waist strap of my pack with every step. As we approached the top of the hill, I looked back at Fallen Leaf Lake, longing to swim in its beautiful waters. Sweat was pouring from our faces by the time we reached the top of the hill, but I couldn't help but smile as I realized this was another "last" thing done: the last big climb.

Reaching this spot, I felt even more at home than I had yet. I hiked out our front door to get to this spot and continued to Angora Lakes as a day hike. Shawn had met me there, and we enjoyed a beach day before heading home in the car. It felt weird to be this close to Angora Lakes and not be going there for a swim. The excitement of hiking in the opposite direction and with a companion this time far overpowered it.

We moved on, frequently stopping to take in the views from our ridgeline vantage: Fallen Leaf Lake to the west and a swath of forest to the east. A few miles later, we were road-walking again for a brief foray through a neighborhood. Everything felt unnervingly quiet until I realized this was the first time I had walked through on a weekday. Of course, it wasn't busy!

A brief ascent from the next trailhead brought us to a view we had seen many times before. It felt surreal to look down on not just Lake Tahoe but also our neighborhood. As we descended from the peak, I realized I hadn't been on this trail in nearly a year. We didn't hike up last winter, and I hadn't been here for spring or summer. For a trail I had seen through every season the last few years, it felt like a reunion to be back. As I noticed things that were different since I last saw it, I realized how long I had been away from home and how much I had missed out on since starting the trail nearly six months ago.

The closer we got to our last trailhead, the one to enter our neighborhood, the more we started to see folks out on their daily walks. Their odd glances brought to our attention how strange we must look to everyone. We were miles from any backpacking areas. No one would ever bother to park their car and hike out of our neighborhood when there were trailheads with parking much closer to those backpacking areas. We continued on, hoping we didn't run into any neighbors we actually knew.

Passing by our last trailhead, we collapsed our trekking poles for a final road walk, a mere ten minutes from the house. Everyone going about their day in their yard couldn't help but do a double-take as two backpackers walked down their road. We smiled and waved as if we were out on one of our regular neighborhood walks.

Philosopher had completed the Sonora Pass to Lake Tahoe section earlier that day. With the help of a hitch, he beat us home and was showered and enjoying the BBQ joint a block away. I was grateful for some alone time as I entered the house with a full backpack for the last time this year.

I would go out the door with my pack, bound for the PCT, one more time. While this had been my last day of backpacking on the PCT, I had some unfinished business to attend to on the trail that involve day hiking and a 40-ounce beer. I’ll save that, along with some post-hike reflections, for my next (and likely last) post.

That being said, if you have any lingering questions, send them my way! Whether they're about backpacking in general, the PCT, or whatever, leave a comment or reply to this e-mail. I'll answer them in the next post, so you've got about a week from when this is sent to send them over.

Media Share

I can’t believe we’re nearly done. Enjoy the Oregon scenery before we dive into the Sierras in the next (and last) one!

I had many expectations coming into this thru-hike, and one of them was to overwrite those memories with some better ones and have no one be any the wiser. In my more delusional moments, myself included. Looking back at how I experienced this section a second time around, it is clear that there are some remnants of PTSD squirreled away. I don’t know why, but it felt really uncomfortable to write that last sentence. Honestly, it feels really uncomfortable to share any of this, which is probably why it has taken me so long to write this (many avoidance strategies have been employed, I assure you). Maybe a fear that I’ll come across as dramatic for it?

I genuinely considered glossing over it as I wrote what happened this year. In some ways, I don't think I'll ever be able to fully convey the pain and terror of either year's experiences, verbally or written. That said, it felt wrong not to share as honestly as possible. I've been up-front with every up and down of the trail so far. Why stop now?

I can't just admit I had a meltdown on a mountaintop without the context of why it happened in a situation that was otherwise wholly safe (despite my brain protesting otherwise). Ultimately, it also felt like a slap in the face to Hammer's memory to try to write him out of a story he was clearly still a part of.

You don't need my permission to skip reading any of these newsletters, but you definitely have it if it sounds like this will be an upsetting read for you.

While I've worked hard to make it clear in the writing when I'm sharing a story from 2019 vs. the present, I'm still worried it may be confusing. If there's a notable chunk of text telling a storing from my 2019 hike, it will have dividers around it. They look like this line:

Tuolumne Meadows

While most of my brain wanted to go into a panicked, battle-planning mode, the crowds of day and section hikers congregated in Tuolumne Meadows were a valuable distraction. I enjoyed listening in on their conversations and looking at the landmarks they pointed out to each other. I could feel myself on the precipice of a meltdown, hastily thinking of excuses and ways to get out of continuing this. Being surrounded by people who had planned months or even years just to get a few days in a park I treated as casually as if it were my backyard helped to build up a thin layer between that brain and breakdown brain.

We started down the same trail I've hiked so many times before. In another effort to prevent a panic attack, I had myself convinced we were only going out for a few days for one of the many 2-3 day trips I had taken that started on this trail.1 I excitedly pointed out different landmarks, explaining what few historical tidbits I knew to Philosopher. There's a certain level of excitement in sharing a hike in one of your favorite places with someone who has never been there, like sharing your home with a friend.

We made the near-obligatory stop at Glen Aulin for our lunch break, where hikers who were only out for a several-day loop had already set up their camps for the day. As it is a relatively flat 6-mile hike from the trailhead and features bear lockers to store extra supplies that you couldn't fit in your bear can, this was the first night for many trips into northern Yosemite. If we had started in the late afternoon of the day before, it would have also been our first camp.

Glen Aulin is one of a handful of High Sierra Camps in Yosemite National Park that are pop-up lodging (canvas tents) and food services. They are all 6-10 miles apart, so doing them as a big loop is common. Think of it like going on a backpacking trip, but you have a cot and meals prepared at your destination, so you only have to carry a day pack. Unfortunately, they haven't been opened in years thanks to either COVID or a high snowpack (meaning an even shorter summer at these high elevations).

Even though they weren't open again this year (high snowpack this time), there's still an amenity worth stopping for: pit toilets. Rangers lock the bear lockers and the pit toilets for the winter, but the comments in our app confirmed that they were open and stocked - meaning toilet paper and hand sanitizer! Even if they weren't available, there's a great swimming spot to enjoy at the bottom of the nearby falls.

I had been holding out for this moment for the last few miles, so I dropped my pack and quickly headed over to take advantage of the pit toilets. Returning to the log where Philosopher was already at work on his lunch, I felt a pit in my stomach. I rummaged through my pack for my leftover breakfast burrito, hoping the effort would muster some hunger. I took a feeble bite and chewed for what seemed like forever before finally forcing a swallow. Something about forcing down that bite opened the floodgates, and tears started streaming down my face.

I had reached the limits of the magical thinking I had been inundating myself with for the last few hours. Once we finished lunch, we would turn at the junction and go down the trail I hadn't been down since that trip four years ago. I could no longer convince myself this was a different trip than it was. With similar weather threats on the horizon, my brain was convinced we were setting ourselves up for the same trip, ending in the same terrible way. Philosopher looked up after a few minutes of silence and, upon noticing my tears, immediately jumped into a generous pep talk.

A few moments later, a section hiker walked over with a question, which offered a nice distraction. I accepted defeat on my burrito and started packing up. Fortunately, Philosopher stayed close by and was generously chatty as we walked by the junction and made our way toward northern Yosemite.

Soon, we were walking through a meadow I distinctly remember from the previous trip. Our conversation had gone quiet as we took in the scene we were walking into. My mind drifted to remembering how panicked I had been last time as I watched the sun getting low in the sky from this meadow. Even though we started hours later in the day than I had years ago, we still made better time than I did the first time, and the sun was much higher in the sky. I made the mental note, reminding myself I was okay and had nothing to panic about. Not only would we make it past the first night's campsite from 2019, but well past it, and I wouldn't be camping alone this time.

Philosopher pulled me out of my thoughts with an excited "is that an animal?" and a pointed finger towards the treeline before us. As we neared, we realized it was a bunch of horses grazing. There were no wild horses in Yosemite that I knew of. I was beginning to wonder what they were doing here when Philosopher pointed out a mini festival's worth of tents tucked into the trees nearby. It was a big group of folks on a pack trip. My brain used this as inspiration for "things to dwell on that I wish I was doing instead."

When I reached a point where I felt like I was dwelling on that a bit too much, I decided to find some bright side thing to focus on and talk about out loud with Philosopher. As we started to drop down into a valley, where we soon passed that first campsite, I found myself sharing in the excitement of what we would be experiencing that night.

Instead of following the "tradition" of doing fewer miles the first day with our heavy packs, we opted to follow the flow of nature and enjoy the full blue moon that it would be giving us that night. Fortunately, it would rise within an hour or so of sunset, making for a perfect evening to do some night hiking. It was just beginning to rise, though mostly blocked from view by the forest of trees we were surrounded by, when we thought about stopping for dinner.

Thinking we had found a spot away from any campsites, we chatted aloud excitedly as we prepped our dinner. Within a few minutes, we were interrupted by the cough of another hiker before hearing the sounds of a sleeping bag moving against itself as they readjusted their sleeping position. We took our cue and spent the rest of dinner in silence.

Whispering to each other, we agreed to keep our headlamps in red mode and stay quiet for the first mile after dinner out of concern for waking anyone else who could be camped nearby. It wasn't long before the forest opened up again, and I knew we were coming up on a lake that I remembered jumping into last time. The temperature had dropped enough to force us into all our layers plus gloves, so I wouldn't indulge in a swim this time. Anticipating that folks may be camped near it, we started to switch our headlamps back to red mode before realizing that the moon was high enough and more than bright enough to light the way without them. We sat by the lake to soak in the scene: a quiet stillness on its surface with the vast night sky spread dramatically above it.

Heading out from there, we were both starting to feel the efforts we had put in that day. We briefly considered camping at the lake, especially after realizing no one else was there. It was still a few more miles to our planned campsite. I remembered it as a mini Yosemite Valley, with sites nestled in the trees on side of a meadow, all of which was surrounded by granite walls. As magical as these are at any time of the day, I had seen granite get even more dramatic in the light of a bright moon on other hikes. I desperately wanted to see it again and share it with someone who hadn't. We turned a corner just before the descent started and were immediately hit with a view so big we couldn't help but reflexively let out a revered "wow" in response.

After a few moments of taking it in, our exhaustion rose to the front of our minds again, nudging us to begin the descent to camp. Like our previous night hike adventures, our last obstacle was a river crossing requiring wet feet. It was even colder than before, given a noticeable drop in the air temperature. Still, my feet were grateful for the cold soak all the same.

While we try to go as lightweight as possible, eschewing all that isn't necessary to reduce the burden of your pack, every hiker has at least one or two "luxury" items. What is a luxury item? Well, for some, a pillow is a luxury, while others consider it a requirement.2 One of Philosopher's luxury items is a powered inflator that fills up his sleeping pad much faster than the manual route of blowing it up with your mouth. We set about making camp as quickly as possible and Philosopher generously offered to let me borrow it so I could crawl into my tent to warm up and get to sleep sooner.

Before heading to sleep, Philosopher reminded me that he required a minimum of seven hours of sleep. Normally, I would begrudge this, always wanting to be up and out before sunrise. Shivering, exhausted, and realizing it was after midnight already, I heartily agreed to set a later alarm.

The Northern Reaches

A tingling in my toes had awoken me in the middle of the night, forcing me to dig for something I hadn't used since those early freezing nights in the desert: my emergency space blanket. Handed out freely at marathon finishes, I've kept every one of these practically weightless blankets I've received, storing one in our day packs and backpacks. It is so great about maintaining warmth that I was woken up again after an earlier readjustment must have pushed one of my feet out from under its cover.

To ensure that we weren't up on a ridgeline when that weather hit in three days, we needed to find a way to shave miles off our last day, adding a couple miles to each of the next two days. That meant we needed to hike not just twenty miles again today but also add two or three more. On the downside, we also had two 1,700-foot climbs ahead of us.

On the upside, we had hiked nearly 20 miles the day before and didn't start until after 1 PM. We had no interest in hiking that late again tonight, though we agreed to still do a bit of night hiking to give us more time to hit our miles that day. We planned to slowly move back our hiking schedule to start and end earlier to be up extra early and hopefully avoid bad weather on that last day.

Seeing the granite valley in a different light as we climbed out that morning was lovely. My previous trip took me through it during the late afternoon, casting a golden glow with dramatic shadows as I rushed to complete the climb and get to my planned campsite before dark. This time, I could take in the views with, well, a bit less anxiety. I was worried about making our miles, but it didn't occupy as much of my thoughts as last time. My watch went off, signaling another mile down with an alert telling me how quickly I completed it. I felt a strong sense of comfort in how fast I was moving (especially compared to how long it would have taken me without trail legs) while still feeling like I wasn't rushing through the gorgeous views. Within a few hours, we were at the top of the first big climb, Benson Pass. I celebrated by taking my brekkie break there as I waited for Philosopher.

Noticing the time, he was feeling a sense of accomplishment, too. Our first big climb of the day was done, and we had miles of gorgeous views ahead of us to enjoy for the descent. I fell behind with a bathroom break and nearly hiked right by Philosopher taking a break next to Smedburg Lake, a true gem amongst the Sierra lakes.

Smedberg Lake was my second campsite for my 2019 trip. By the time I was rushing the descent from Benson Pass toward this planned spot, I had finally come to admit to myself that I was genuinely sick. Shawn had asked me multiple times before dropping me off if I was sure I still wanted to do this hike. He was convinced I had a cold.3 On the inside, I strongly hoped it was sinuses. Externally, I tried to convince him that I was sure it was. I spotted a campfire across the lake, a good sign there was a section hiker camped with it who hopefully wouldn't mind if I joined. Feeling unwell made me even less inclined than usual to camp alone.

The hiker, Hammer, welcomed me to camp with him and surprised me when he said he was a northbound thru-hiker who had started at the Mexican border months ago. The northbound bubble was long gone; most had already finished in Canada by now. Each day since starting at Tuolumne Meadows, I had been passing less and less of the only PCT thru-hikers out right now: southbounders. He had gotten off trail for some health issues and had been taking things slow since returning.

We chatted extensively as I slowly moved about to pitch my tent, cautiously avoiding sudden movements in fear they would trigger my stomach to expel its contents. I attempted a few bites of dinner before offering the rest to Hammer while I finished setting up camp. I nearly cried with joy when I discovered some cold meds that Shawn had snuck into my pack and painfully swallowed them down a swollen throat.

Hammer asked if it was okay that he watched a movie. I had very little energy left and was happy to end socializing for the night and go to bed. A few minutes later, I realized that his request wasn't about a polite exit from a conversation but was apparently a request to watch it without headphones. The sounds of nature were quickly overridden by those of Rambo on full blast. My nighttime cold meds kicked in, and soon, I was lulled to sleep with the sounds of machine guns going off in his tent.

I had secretly hoped we could pass by Smedberg Lake, stopping briefly for a few pictures and then moving on. Hammer played a big part in that 2019 trip, and I didn't want to stay in the place where I had met him for very long, desperate to avoid the painful emotions it would elicit. Philosopher was stretched out on his mat, indicating this would be a solid break stop.

I reluctantly joined him, breaking out some chocolate to share that Shawn had put as a surprise in my resupply box. As we sat there, taking in the view and the crystal clear water, we watched as a fish seemed to want to show off for us, flipping in the air a few times. It had been windy since we began our descent from Benson Pass, but all was suddenly still. Just as I convinced myself it was warm enough for a jump in the water, a gust of wind came through as Philosopher stood up, carrying his mat away and promptly dumping it in the lake.

The wind continued to whisk it along its surface and, at first, further from the shores. As Philosopher started to remove his shoes to jump in, it suddenly changed directions, pushing it towards a "field" of grasses in the lake. He rock-hopped toward it and, in one motion, lifted it from the water to wear it as a cape. For some reason, I found this hilarious. It was one of those things I wouldn't usually see as that funny, but I found myself laughing nonetheless. Maybe, in a way, my brain was desperate to lock in memories of this place that would shine brighter than the previous.

We still had a few miles of descent before our next 1,700-foot climb began. It was exposed, and the heat radiated off the granite. Knowing we would be coming up on more "Hammer Landmarks" throughout the rest of the day, I happily listened to Philosopher talk about the John Muir book he had been listening to the last few days. As we passed hikers heading towards Hetch Hetchy, I told him about the history that place shares with John Muir.

I never considered how close Hetch Hetchy was to these distant northern reaches of Yosemite until we passed trail junction signs with the mileages that indicated its proximity. With the strength of my trail legs, I could get there before the sunset if I wanted. My brain entertained itself with exit strategies again. Hetch Hetchy, another area I had hiked and backpacked many times, felt comfortable and safe.

We arrived at the beautifully wooded valley floor and stopped for a snack. In the quiet moments of eating, I sat with both the dread of the memory of this place and a longing for that time in my life. I mean, who doesn’t long for the life we had before “The Great Pause” came crashing in?

These two weeks were all that I had before starting work again. Shawn and I were due to go on a family vacation after this, and it was promptly back to full-time work life. I was excited to hike more of the PCT and didn't know when I would get another chance for two straight weeks off again.

I didn't have time to be sick, so I just hoped it was sinus issues. I couldn't bear the idea of canceling the whole thing just because of the chance it may snow. When I went to grab a walk-up permit from the Yosemite Backcountry office, the ranger checked in with me: "you know it is going to snow in a few days, you've got the gear, right?"

“Of course!”

I didn’t.

What I did have was the ability to be a magical thinker: “I’ll just hike faster than I planned and get to my resupply to wait out the snow there.”

Hammer, a thru-hiker who wasn't burdened with being sick, was packed up much quicker than I was the next day. While I was feeling better, it was only a marginal improvement. I wasn't out of camp until late morning, creating a flurry of anxiety about my timing and whether or not I would make it out of the wilderness before this weather hit.

While I was worried about timing, I didn't like rushing everything. The solution, I decided, was to take my lunch break at a lake that was a quarter of a mile off trail. I was going to force myself to hike the extra half mile and see a pretty lake and like it, damn it. That would show anxious me.

On the way, I found a single Croc I recognized and picked it up. Sure enough, I found Hammer relaxing beside Benson Lake. Happy to have his shoe returned, he attempted a different packing method while I jumped in the lake. The wind was picking up, so I wanted to jump in while still warm from hiking. This could be my last warm day and last chance for a dunk, so I needed to take it.

My guidebook was right. This lake was worth the detour. As one of the only Sierra lakes with a sandy beach, it looks like something out of a magazine. I dried in the sun as I ate my lunch in the warm sand, feeling as if I were at a resort. Hammer continued on, heading back into the woods and towards the PCT. For a brief moment, I let go of my mileage anxiety, relaxing in the comfort of big granite walls and a lake that seemed to stretch on for miles.

As I began the climb out of the valley, I realized that this section was teaching me something about the beauty of experiencing a trail for the first time. You are surprised by the views and live in ignorant bliss of challenging climbs. In 2019, Hammer and I had leapfrogged each other all the way to the top of this climb, finding each other out of breath on a log throughout an entire afternoon.

I started the climb before Philosopher, "plugging in" immediately to distract myself with an audiobook. Several sets of blowdowns made for interesting obstacles along the way. I couldn't remember any from my last hike and they looked relatively fresh. As I wondered whether they were casualties from this previous winter, a large snowfield appeared. I let out a reflexive gasp, shocked that there was still any snow left this late in the season. At this rate, it would soon be covered with next year's snow!

The elevation grade intensified as it climbed into more exposed granite areas. Fortunately, the sun had slipped behind a nearby mountain, giving us the gift of hiking in the shade. Tired of recognizing different spots where I had passed Hammer or he had passed me, I put my head down and switched to some dance music to encourage my legs to move faster. The album was a recommendation from one of my desert hiking buddies and brought an odd sense of comfort. It's as if it were grounding me to this year, not 2019. The grounding slipped away as I arrived at a lake at the top of the climb. I couldn't help but stop at a specific campsite beside it and sit with the painful memory.

Hammer had decided this pretty lake at the pass was where he would be ending his day. We were both worn out from the climb, but my mileage anxiety was back. There was too much daylight left, and I needed to use it to help me beat the coming weather. I had pulled a weather report on my satellite device, showing an increase in the likelihood of snow. I shared the information with Hammer in case it changed his mind. It didn't. I couldn't help but envy the ease the experience of all his miles of hiking that year had clearly given him. He was clearly better prepared than I was for this.

Philosopher's arrival pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts, and we prepared a late lunch together. Another thru-hiker was with him and was supplying plenty of conversation. I was grateful to be able to eat my lunch without feeling forced to contribute much. I was exhausted by these memories and the dread of the ones ahead. It would only sap more of my energy to verbalize any of them.

As we set off, Philosopher shared that he didn't think he could make it all the way to our planned campsite. Surprising myself, I wasn't angry. Thanks to our break activities, my anxieties had been quelled. A small part of me was bummed that we'd fall short of our goal by about five miles, but the rest of me was okay with stopping short. It felt like a sign from the universe that we were supposed to camp earlier.

As we started our descent, I grew increasingly thankful we were stopping sooner. The climb had worn me out, and my feet were feeling it. I looked to the scenery for distraction, though it was growing more wooded, reducing the views. Philosopher noticed folks camp high above us atop a granite cliff at one point. It was a fantastic distraction to look around as we continued hiking, trying to figure out how they had gotten up there. I’ve never been cool confident enough to go off-trail for epic campsites like that.

As the darkness increased and the moon refused to come out to join us, we quickly lost distractions like these. We tended to avoid headphones for our night hiking and stayed close so we could hear each other if something happened. This left us with one tool of distraction left: candy.

Even for those who weren't sugar fiends before the trail, candy quickly becomes a hot commodity for all within a week or two. The quick hits of sugar can do a lot to carry you through the last miles to camp. It even became a standing joke in our desert tramily to laugh about asking day or section hikers that passed us by while we were taking a break: "you got any candy?" We nearly perfected the art of voicing the question in a way that made us sound like a child and a drug addict simultaneously. I can't believe I just wrote that sentence.

Philosopher pulled out what I have come to find as the ultimate distraction candy for tough miles. There's candy you eat primarily for the sugar high it will give you (though, yes, the taste is a lot of it, too), and then there's candy that truly distracts. Jelly Belly jelly beans4 are the only candy I've found that can serve this dual purpose. I'll blindly eat a handful, one bean at a time, trying to guess what flavor I had just put in my mouth without knowing what it looked like. You'd be amazed at how much quicker miles go with this strategy.

We had been hiking high above Rancheria Creek, and I knew we would eventually cross it. As I had camped on the other side of it in 2019, I couldn't remember if there were also campsites on our side of the river. Suddenly, we arrived at the roaring river and began looking around, hoping we wouldn't have to cross tonight. Thankfully, we found some spots and noticed other tents just beyond us towards the trees. I was grateful to have the river's roar to mask any noise we would make as we set up camp and made plans for our wake-up time. Philosopher was too exhausted to cook dinner, opting for a bar instead. I had already started my meal rehydrating a few miles back and didn't want to waste it. As if it were waiting to join me for dinner, the moon rose, giving me enough light to eat in its company without a headlamp.

Embracing “HYOH”

As planned, we were up earlier than the day before, though still later than usual, given our late arrival at camp. A Yosemite backcountry ranger walked over just as we were nearly packed up to ask to see our permits. It was the first time I had my permit checked since Mom's Pies5 way back in the desert.

Our first climb of the day started immediately. The warm glow of the mid-morning sun showed off the valley we hadn't seen in the dark of the night before. At "just" 800 feet, it was our shortest climb of the day. I had planned to take my brekkie break at the top of our second climb, but we started to notice gray clouds as we descended into the valley that preceded it. Remembering that the top of the next climb was exposed, I knew hanging around wouldn't be wise if it turned into a storm. We took our break in the shelter of the wooded valley, shielded from the few raindrops that came and went throughout.

With every step we climbed out of that valley, I felt more confident with the decision. As we ascended, the clouds grew darker in our direction while the sun shone brightly behind us. Philosopher pointed out that it could get nasty if they started to look like a quilt.

A few minutes later, they started to look like a quilt.

The changing clouds had us moving quickly. I couldn't resist the temptation to look back occasionally and take in the views. I looked to the southwest, searching for granite outcrops I might recognize from my hikes in Hetch Hetchy. I searched the granite on the opposite side of the valley we were climbing out of, looking for where we had descended from, realizing how much I had missed this. Most of my hiking along the PCT this year didn't allow me to easily look back and see where I had come from like this. This was a gift that only the Sierras seemed to give.

When I found Philosopher at the top, he was taking a break just off trail on a rock where he could see the views. I had told him this would be our last big view of the Sierras until our last day of the section, so he wanted to soak it in before continuing. As we looked ahead, I realized at least one upside of hiking a trail you've already hiked before: I could point out which of the several granite valleys we would be walking into to begin our last climb of the day.

After our descent into the heavily wooded valley, I was soon in unfamiliar territory. It was oddly comforting to be hiking something I didn't know. On my last trip, I had taken a detour that rejoined the PCT after a few miles.

As part of another mission to "force" myself to go out of my way to see incredible things and "have fun," I opted to take my guidebook's advice and go off the beaten path for Tilden Lake. Before arriving at the junction, I realized I was low on water and asked a southbound PCT hiker when they last saw water. "Don't you have GutHooks?" they replied.6

“What?”

“The app. People leave comments on water icons to tell you if there is water or not. They also say if the campsites are good.”

Suddenly embarrassed of my paper map and the trail I downloaded from AllTrails on my phone, I exited the conversation and continued on my way. I stewed on the interaction as I took the turn off for the faded trail to Tilden Lake, occasionally having to stop and search out which direction it went.

I'm a software engineer; how did I miss that there was some app that I'm supposed to have? The idea that I was out here with less information that I could have ate at me. It felt like another item to throw on the pile of "you're not prepared for this, what were you thinking?" thoughts that filled my head.

There are many times in my life when I can look back at and point out a moment that, after charging forward with ignorant confidence, I’d find myself in deeper than I realized. It wasn't until those moments that I doubted myself, and when I doubt myself, I really pile it on.

It all compounded as the sun set over my gorgeous but lonely lakeside campsite. I had been so stubborn in my effort of "forced fun" that I decided I had to camp at the lake. The wind had started picking up before I even made camp that afternoon, preventing me from enjoying one last swim. That night, I dwelled on my regret of not simply enjoying the lake and then hiking on to use up all the available daylight. As I began planning for the next day, a terrible truth emerged: there was no way I could make it to hike out before the snow started the following evening.

The realization sent me into a sobbing meltdown that felt extra loud, as if to be heard over the wind's howling.

It's a good thing I was camping alone, I guess.

The best I could do was set myself up to be at the last protected campsite, eleven miles shy of the trailhead. With any luck, I would survive the night and get those last miles done the next day before any severe hypothermia took over.

Before I could worry about surviving the next night's snow, I had to hike more miles than I've ever done in a single day (up to that point): 18. Not only that, I needed to be done before the snow started so I wasn't camping on top of it. I needed to start early. Like 3:30 AM early.

We briefly considered taking the same route to see Tilden Lake again, but then I remembered how overgrown the trail had been in 2019. While backpacking has exploded thanks to the pandemic, the hoards of new backpackers wouldn't likely have hiked to these distant parts of Yosemite and kept that trail worn down. We had long passed our last Yosemite section hiker, out for a few days within commonly used trails of Yosemite. The only folks out this far were staying on the PCT.

I embraced the comfort of hiking miles with no memories of 2019 attached to them. There were a handful of pretty lakes surrounded by dramatic granite walls to take in along the way. We arrived to Falls Creek at a wide, slow-flowing section with no rock hops or logs to help us cross with dry feet. It felt like a sign from the universe that it was the perfect time for a lunch break while our feet dried on the other side.

Typically, my lunch is always a cold soak. I'll add water to my meal a few miles before a lunch break. This gives it time to rehydrate while I go a few more miles, ensuring it is rehydrated when I'm ready to stop. We stopped earlier than planned for lunch, so I had nothing prepared. As I dug through my bear can full of food, I realized I had two dinners remaining, with only one night of camping ahead of us for this section.

We had been under clouds all day, and the chill of the water crossing had me reaching for my puffy jacket and socks as soon as my feet were dry enough. I shared my declaration of "dinner for lunch," and Philosopher also joined me in cooking one of his. Something about the coziness of a warm lunch on a chilly hiking day lifts my soul in a way that I'll never be able to put into words.

As we ate, little bits of crackling in the distance distracted us from inhaling the contents of our cook pots. At that moment, I finally got the answer to a question I wondered every time I had to climb over a blowdown: "what did it sound like to hear that tree fall?"

I looked on in awe as I watched a tree that had been leaning against another begin the free fall to the ground. It landed with a roar that sent reverberations through the ground that we could feel from 50 yards away. We looked at each other in amazement at what we had witnessed. Again, it felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

Our last climb of the day was to begin right after lunch. Usually, I don't like climbing right after eating as it makes me feel nauseated. This climb, while 1,500 feet, was especially long, meaning it was also especially gradual. It was hard to believe we were climbing at all as we meandered alongside a creek and through meadows.

Even better, the quilting clouds had passed us by, leaving us with far less dramatic ones that initiated a light drizzle for the next hour or so. It was just enough to awaken the aromas of the forest and so little that I could have probably skipped digging out my rain jacket. 

I found myself deeply lost in thought that afternoon, spending a lot of time reflecting on my hike. I dwelled on all the sudden and surprising moments of acceptance I had encountered over the last few days. I had found myself releasing the mileage anxiety and accepting situations for what they were, not what my perfectionist self wished they would be. Was I actually hitting some personal goals that I wanted out of this hike?

Feeling as if I had already "won" the hike helped me release my "completionist" side. Being snowed out of the Sierras early in the hike helped to remove a lot of this months ago. As a section hiker told me back in the Northern California section: "a thru-hike is hiking all the miles that are available to you in the year you hike." That felt like it unlocked another level of release.

As much as I wanted to finish this year and be able to say I had finished all of California except the fire closure in the desert, in a moment of hiking in a random meadow of northern Yosemite, I suddenly let that go, too. I was tired, and my body felt like it was hitting its breaking point.

Philosopher and I had planned to hike to Tahoe twice. The first time would be at the end of the following section. From there, Philosopher would jump to his restart point in Chester, CA, and hike south. I would join him for two separate sections I hadn’t hiked, finishing the hike by hiking home.

What if hiking the following section to Tahoe and walking home from there was enough? There weren't any rules to how I did this except to "hike my own hike" (often shortened to HYOH in the hiking community). Since I flipped back south from the Oregon-Washington border, I felt a growing sense of ownership over my hike, as if I were fully embracing that adage.

I didn't want to make a decision just yet. I decided I would share the idea with Shawn but make the choice for myself during that next section to see if it felt right. Even if I chose to continue to tackle those remaining two sections, I felt really proud that I had the strength to even consider letting them go for now.

Realizing the time, I accepted that we would fall short of our mileage goal again. It wasn't ideal to hike over 20 miles on our last day. I especially didn't love that it meant we would be on the ridgeline that afternoon, but I felt like it was better to accept where we were and stop at an earlier camp rather than stress hike a few more miles into the dark and be forced to camp in a more exposed area. On the upside, it meant we could camp at Dorothy Lake, a spot that I had wished I had been able to camp at the last time I had passed through.

We arrived at camp right at sunset, earlier than we had the entire section. As we were in the middle of Labor Day weekend and a day's hike from the trailhead, there was a bit of a crowd already camped there. It was comforting to have plenty of folks camped around us. However, many were already retiring to bed, so we went about our setup and dinner rather quietly. With an alarm that would have us on the trail before sunrise, we finished things quickly so we could get to sleep ourselves.

Goodbye Yosemite

While we missed any serious rain from those dark clouds during the day, we were sprinkled on throughout the night, with the wind occasionally whipping through camp. In the moments when it woke me throughout the night, I was grateful that we had the protection of the trees around us. I knew how fiercely that wind was likely blowing in the rest of the valley.

I was awake before my alarm and decided to get a head start on the day. Climbing out of my tent to fetch the bear can, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the wind had blown any rain sprinklings off my tent. In the night, I feared that I would have to pack it up wet, knowing that I wouldn't have an opportunity to dry it out at any point the next day. Not only would we be pushed to make miles and limit breaks, but the incoming storm would bring a lot of wind, making it challenging to keep a tent from flying off if you set it out to dry.

For now, though, the wind was absent as I walked alongside Dorothy Lake, glowing in the beauty of the predawn light. Dramatic clouds continued to pass overhead, creating wild effects with the colors of the rising sun. The wind was generously light, a stark difference from the last time I had come through.

I was up before that 3:30 AM alarm, unable to sleep for much of the night between the bouts of panic and the howling wind. Tired of falling back into spiraling anxieties, I put myself to work getting a head start on the day; there was no need to wait on the alarm. Hiking alone in the dark, I silently cried as I dwelled on the day ahead. Putting in more miles than you ever had just so you can end the day to get snowed on is all worry, no fun.

When loneliness crept in again, and I realized it had been over 24 hours since I had last seen or spoken to anyone, the tears started again. I kept my head down as I trudged on until the crackling of breaking twigs nearby yanked my eyes up to see the source. A deer was crossing into a gorgeous meadow that I didn't realize was there. I looked back to see how long I had been hiking through this. Answer: quite a while.

The light filtered through gray clouds, casting strands of light in front of majestic granite walls. All this conspired to make the meadow appear even greener, made more idyllic with a deer passing through it.7 I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that I could see views like this. Almost no one I knew would ever see this meadow. As quickly as the appreciation had come on, it melted away as the feeling of loneliness from that thought came back to replace it.

I had hoped to have a long lunch break and a swim at Dorothy Lake. As soon as I left the cover of the trees on its south side, my hopes were dashed. The wind was ripping hard enough that I had to tighten my grip on my trekking poles. Looking along the lake's west shore where the trail hugged it, I'd be lucky to find enough shelter to get my stove to light for my lunch.

Eager to get over the pass, hoping the trail would drop me out of this wind tunnel, I quickly ate my lunch and moved along. At the top of the pass, I came to the sign indicating Yosemite's border. Between the last few days and the first day of my John Muir Trail hike the year before, I had now hiked across Yosemite on foot. I felt overwhelmingly proud as I snapped a picture.

Thankfully, the wind died down as the trail descended into a valley. Soon, I was passing a "1000" marker someone had made out of nearby rocks. For northbound hikers, this marked 1000 miles they had hiked from the Mexican border. For southbounders, it meant they had "only" 1000 miles left. I felt another wave of loneliness pass through me as I reflexively looked around for someone to share the moment with.

After passing the Yosemite border, I started looking for a quick break spot. The sunrise was still creating fantastical colors and patterns in the sky with the clouds, and I wanted to stop and enjoy them while I took a quick rest. Philosopher caught up and continued on, agreeing to stop for brekkie at a bridge in a few miles.

I found comfort as I started to pass more weekenders. While a small part of me wanted to push on to save time, the rest wanted to indulge in conversation. I remembered how lonely I had felt in this spot years ago. It felt like I was making it up to myself to share in the excitement of their weekend plans.

I passed by some folks just now getting out of bed, an odd feeling as I already had four miles done so far. There were also little base camps that others had set up and already left to go explore on a day hike. There were no southbounders, which was odd since we were passing several a day at that point. I would later find out that they were all couped up in town, waiting out the storm due to come in that day.

Soon, I came upon that "1000" mile marker. In the years since, though, someone had taken the time to have a "real" sign made and mounted to a post. Again, there was no one in my immediate vicinity to share in the moment with. Still, I didn't feel an ounce of loneliness this time. There was a friend up ahead waiting on me for brekkie, after all.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a "hello" behind me. The owner, a gentle soul named "Chuy," had said it calmly and relatively quietly. It had been so long since I had heard another human, and I certainly hadn't expected to hear one anytime soon. Embarrassed, I immediately stepped out of the way to let him pass, apologizing for my reaction.

As soon as he was gone, I regretted not engaging with him more. Why didn't I ask where he was headed? I had a chance to camp not alone tonight, and I blew it. It had been well over 24 hours since I had seen anyone, and this dude was clearly faster than me.

I arrived at a bridged river crossing to find him there waiting. He asked how much further I was planning on going before making camp. I (maybe too excitedly) shared where I was planning on camping, adding that I hoped to get there before 5 PM when the snow was expected to start as an effort to convince him to do the same. He asked if he could hike with me as his foot was bothering him, and it would be nice to have someone keep him at a slower pace. I laughed as he quickly tried to backtrack to avoid the possible offense of calling me a slow hiker.

The distraction of a conversation partner made the last few miles to camp fly by. We were delighted to discover that we were both ending our section at Lake Tahoe and would have each other to hike with the rest of the way. Knowing that the snow would start soon, we promptly set up tents. As I attached my rain fly, the first flakes began to fall. I'm not great when it comes to building fires, so I offered to filter water if he had a fire going by the time I got back with my freezing wet hands. It was roaring and ready to warm them upon my return as promised. We finished setting up camp, put on our remaining clothing layers, and settled in to make dinner by the fire.

I found Philosopher resting by a tree, enjoying his head start on the break. A large gap in the clouds allowed us to enjoy brekkie in a rare bout of sunlight. As I watched more clouds roll in, I felt the nudge to get a move on, though. Throughout the last few days, I wavered between a state of feeling ready to face this ridgeline and one of absolute terror, fighting to think of an alternate exit strategy. At this moment, it was a combination of both. From here, the only remaining exit point was the ridgeline itself. I was anxious but aware of my reality and needed to get up there before this worsened.

I moved along before Philosopher, knowing he would catch up quickly as always. He passed me within a mile. As the trail wound through scenes I recognized from moments when I was hiking with Chuy four years prior, I realized that my anxiety was likely also increasing from the subconscious realization that I was getting closer to the campsite we shared.

The snow continued to fall with increasing fury as Chuy and I finished preparing our dinners. The first southbound hiker I had seen in over a day came walking up to camp with us as we ate. He was bundled up in a plethora of new winter gear. I couldn't help but feel a swell of worry for my safety as I looked at how prepared he was for the night. As he shared his excitement of entering the Sierras with his freshly acquired winter gear, I felt a mix of excitement for him and even more anxiety for myself. I offered homemade hot cocoa to my new friends as both a distraction and a hope it would help keep me warmer through the night. I had precisely three servings left, after all.

After I served the warm drink to everyone, a figure appeared in the distant flurry of the snowstorm coming down outside the protection of our little tree grove.

“Hammer, is that you?”

I was surprised to hear his voice call back to confirm. At this point, I thought he was at least a full day behind me. He must have put in serious miles to get this far. He finally came close enough to the fire for us to see that he didn't look great. I pointed out some areas where he could pitch his tent and welcomed him to warm by the fire first.

To my absolute shock, he rejected both offers.

“I need to hike three more miles.”

I advised him there was nothing but exposed trail after this site for miles.

“There’s a campsite in three miles, I need to go there.”

Confused as to what he was talking about, I didn't have an immediate response. The SoBo hiker chimed in, completely aware of what he was talking about. Like Hammer, he also used the Guthooks app, so he knew about the "campsite" the app indicated was up there. He attempted a stronger argument to Hammer: "I know the site you're talking about. It is at the start of a ridgeline. I just came from there. It is very nasty up there and a bad idea for camp. You should stay here."

Insistent, Hammer responded that he wanted to get to town tomorrow so he could go home. He was eager to get out and come back to finish the following year.

I made another attempt, telling him we would also get to town tomorrow, and three miles tonight would make little difference. It would be better to camp in the protection of the trees and hike eleven miles tomorrow than to camp exposed and hike eight.

“No, I need to get these three miles done today. Which direction is the trail?”

Seeing it as my last opportunity to convince him, I offered, "If you don't know which direction the trail is, maybe that is a sign to stay with us?"

“If I can’t find it in a few minutes, I’ll come back.”

Turning to Chuy, I asked him if he thought Hammer seemed off-kilter. "It's Hammer," he replied, "he's a goofy dude." Not wanting to be overbearing, I let it go. Hammer is a thru-hiker, after all. He's got way more experience than me.

Before I knew it, the campsite had snuck up on me. Much like the experience with Smedburg Lake, it was as if Philosopher somehow knew I wanted to pass this by without stopping and chose it as his break spot. The wind was getting stronger and the clouds darker; I didn't feel we had the time for this break. I felt even stronger about not wanting to be overbearing, so I sat down beside him without a word.

I felt heavy with the emotional burden of this spot. I wasn't sure how much I wanted to talk about it, so I kept quiet. It bubbled up anyway, and, graciously, Philosopher didn't pry much. He already knew the story and gently helped me sit with it there. After a few minutes, it felt like perfect opportunity had arisen to share in some good old-fashioned coping mechanisms as we happily imbibed in some 420 relief together.

Between inadequate clothes, a far-too-thin sleeping pad, and a quilt that was only rated down to 30°F (-1°C)8, I never slept that evening. My body shook uncontrollably the entire night as I listened to the snow pitter-patter on my tent walls. Every once in a while, I'd jump when it piled up enough to loudly slide down from its perch atop the tent's roof. I'll never forget noticing the predawn light inside my tent and the thrill that came with it. Somehow, I survived the night.

Chuy had reminded me to put my water filter and reservoir inside my tent with me so they didn't freeze. Unfortunately, I forgot to include the hose that attaches to the reservoir, meaning I lost the use of the straw that brought water from the depths of my pack to my mouth. I didn't have a conventional bottle, so I'd have to wait until it thawed before I'd have access to drinking water while I hiked. Thankfully, Chuy was willing to share his as we walked along together.

With the anxiety of surviving the night behind me and town day just 11 miles away, I was ecstatic. We bumbled along in a winter wonderland together. The wind was gone, and the sun was shining bright. Having never experienced snow before, Chuy stopped to make his first snow angel as we took a break partway up the three-mile climb to the ridgeline. Still recovering from my cold, I needed more breaks than he did, but he graciously stopped with me every time.

Not far from the top of the climb, I stopped for what I promised him was one last break. As we chatted, a day hiker came running towards us, barreling down from the ridgeline.

“Help! There’s this guy who needs help, I don’t know what to do with him. He’s not okay!”

Chuy and I looked at each other with knowing looks. We were almost certain it was Hammer. It felt like we were being asked to fetch our friend who had maybe had too much at the bar and was getting rowdy. The elevation was wearing on my recovering body, so I told Chuy to go ahead of me and get to Hammer first. If they needed me to press the SOS button, they would be in my line of sight by that point and would signal.

I finished the climb alone, looking in wonder back at the freshly snow-covered mountain of the Sierras as I gasped for air. It was a gorgeous goodbye view to the peaks of Yosemite. Suddenly, a pile of green caught me out of the corner of my eye. Looking closer, I realized it was a heap of broken poles and tent fabric. This was Hammer's tent. Shouting pulled my gaze further up the trail.

"PUSH THE BUTTON!" Chuy screamed as the day hiker waved a pushing motion at me. I watched as Chuy scrambled off the trail and down a steep grade towards something that I could only assume was Hammer.

Feeling lighter thanks to the help of my 420 tools, I took off from break, ready to tackle the climb to the ridgeline. As soon as I exited the protection of the grove of trees that had kept me safe four years earlier, the wind pushed back. Every step was made with a notable amount of effort to move forward. There were a handful of tree clusters in that next mile that I tried to use to my advantage to make up some time and hike a bit faster.

We were granted one last cluster of trees a mile from the top of the climb. Philosopher had decided to use the protection for a break and an opportunity to add more layers. My extra clothes were deep in my pack, and I didn't want to put them on just yet for fear of getting hot soon after with all the climbing. Plus, I wanted to take advantage of the energizing effects of the sativa while I still had them.

“It is going to be gnarly up there, Buffer. Are you sure you don’t want to at least take a break here?” Philosopher remarked, with a slight sense of pleading in his voice.

“I’m feeling good, I want to use it and get up there.”

I felt a monumental sense of anticipation as I neared the top. It is as if I half-expected to find Hammer's tent still sitting there four years later. Maybe I would take a picture to capture the moment I made it back, to celebrate finally moving past it.

As I neared them, I realized we weren't just getting our goofy friend out of a slight bind. Chuy was working his way through CPR in a frenzy that grew stronger with each unsuccessful cycle. I stood in shock, unsure of what I was supposed to be doing.

“Have they responded to the SOS?” the day hiker asked me.

Right, I'm the only one with the emergency device here. That's my job, I guess. I opened my phone to check the app that connects to the beacon. Emergency services had messaged back, asking for basic information I didn't know, like Hammer's legal name and age.

I had no idea how to answer them. To me, his name was "Hammer," and his age never mattered. I could tell you a plethora of details about him: how he met his wife, how proud he is of his daughter who lives in Berkeley and runs a startup, some physical and even mental struggles he had been working through on the trail, how he knew he was going to hike this trail from the moment he learned about it while he was on duty as a cop in SoCal and responded to an incident that involved a trail angel down there.9

Noticing that it was suddenly quiet, I looked up and saw that Chuy had stopped. Exhausted, he had collapsed himself on Hammer’s chest and was quietly crying. When he defeatedly climbed back up to us on the trail, I didn't know how to process it or what to say. I didn't even know what I was supposed to relay to the emergency team. What was the protocol? Typing it out in a message to them would make it real.

Feeling the pressure of it being "my one job," I returned to my phone to reply to the emergency team. It took a few moments to consider how to say it in as few words as I could that didn't require the heaviness of elaboration: "He's gone."

The three of us sat in silence for, well, I have no idea how long. When he seemed ready, I gave Chuy the limited information I had on the interactions with the emergency team. One of them suggested we start looking through his stuff for his ID.

Of course, duh, that would have been more helpful than sitting there in a stupor, unable to give any valuable answers to anyone. Chuy offered to go back down and search his pockets while I searched his bag, which was still up on the trail. Some of his gear was strewn about the area around his bag, which the day hiker took on for searching.

Within minutes of digging, my hand hit something cold and metal. Looking in, I saw an unholstered gun had been haphazardly thrown into the middle of his pack. A wave of disbelief came over me. No one carries a gun out here. It is like a breach of trust, a breaking of an unspoken agreement. Unsure if it was loaded, I carefully lifted it and set it far from the rest of his things. I felt the best move was to keep it in sight but out of the way of anything else we were rummaging through.10

Someone, it could have even been me for as blurry as these moments were, found his ID. I felt happy for a moment of distraction, an explicit task to focus on and accomplish as I typed out the information to the emergency team.

A few minutes later, the day hiker shared that he needed to go as he had a long drive back home. He left his contact information and headed back down the trail, leaving us to wonder if we even had the gear to stay on this exposed ridgeline much longer. I asked the emergency team if there would be room for us in the rescue vehicle as our window to make it to town before dark was closing on us. 

“We’re not sure, there usually isn’t much room in the vehicles,” they responded.

I shared my concerns about our exposure, following up with a deeply uncomfortable question: "should we leave, then?"

The next 15 minutes were agonizing as I waited for a response. Oh, yeah, that's the thing about satellite messaging: it involves a lot of layers and traveling. Think back to the glacial pace at which SMS moved in the early 2000s. These are even slower.11 In a worst-case scenario where your phone is broken or won't connect to the device, you have to go back to the days of scrolling through the entire alphabet on the device to form a message.

The Bluetooth gods smiled upon us that day, so the message was successfully relayed to the device from an app on my phone. From there, the device has to wait until it finds a satellite and then send this little message-in-a-bottle off to space. Of course, emergency services aren't at the International Space Station, so the satellite has to connect with and send the message back to Earth for relay to the emergency center in Texas.

Every message between myself and the nearby search-and-rescue team went through the center in Texas, adding another layer of back-and-forth that increased the response time. I didn't want to tell Chuy anything until I had more solid answers, not wanting to worry or stress him out even more. I wasn't the one that exhausted myself trying to revive our friend.

A reply finally came through, stressing that we needed to stay if possible. As if it had overheard this silent conversation I was having with some emergency response center far away, the wind responded by taking it up a notch. All I could do was hope that my empty threat of leaving (come on, we weren't really going to leave Hammer out there) and very real concern for our own safety was enough to secure two spots with the rescue team.

The wind dashed my hopes of having a quiet moment of reflection at this momentous spot. It was exponentially more robust than anything it had thrown at us so far. Philosopher was right; it was gnarly up here. I pushed forward, gritting my teeth and focusing everything I had on the strength required to place every single step. The hurricane-force gusts pushed me aside, threatening to throw me to the ground.

A southbound hiker came upon me and attempted to say something. Despite his shouting within a foot of my ear, I couldn’t hear a thing he was saying over the wind. He got closer, holding my shoulder to brace himself and steady the direction of his voice.

“YOU’VE GOT 5 OR 6 MILES OF WIND LIKE THIS. GOOD LUCK!”

“OKAY, THANK YOU,” I shouted back with as much confidence as I could fake.

I relayed the bad news to Chuy that we may not get a ride out. As he debated whether we should ignore their request to stay, a helicopter appeared in the distance, heading in our direction. On the approach, it circled us a few times, looking for a place to land. Finding nothing, it departed into the distance again. We were probably going to be here for a while.

Engaging in conversations about life and death with someone you haven't even known for 24 hours is a strange feeling. Then again, I just witnessed death with him, so I guess it is to be expected. My emergency beacon rudely interrupted us with a cry of "low battery." I had forgotten that initiating the SOS kicked it into a battery-draining mode that pushed our location to the center every 5 minutes. I scrambled for my electronics bag only to find a dead battery pack. Remembering Hammer's nightly movie-watching habit, I figured he had to have a more impressive battery pack somewhere.

I started the uncomfortable task of digging through a dead man's belongings for the second time that day. Good news: he had a much bigger battery pack. Bad news: it was drained. I continued digging, hoping to find some better news in the mystery bag. A solar charger! There wasn't much sun, but anything would help at this point.

I returned to our sitting spot in the snow, unsuccessful in my attempts to keep worried thoughts at bay. We had been up here for hours and began the necessary discussion of how much longer we could make it up there. Chuy stopped mid-sentence to inform me that my lips looked slightly blue. It wasn't the first time since we had been up there that he suggested we set up a tent for protection. I had dismissed it every time, hoping that we would be rescued soon, and it would have been a waste of time to set it up just to take it right back down. This time, he didn't wait for me to respond and went about getting his tent out.

I helped him get it pitched directly on top of the trail. There was no other flat area around. The mountainside continuing steeply up to the east and steeply down, with Hammer just below us, to the west. Before climbing into the tent, I dug for my remaining food. Chuy was out of food, so it was our remaining food to share.

As I portioned out shares for now and shares for later, whenever we decided that needed to be, I lamented our situation. I had done my best to keep the anxiety from welling up in front of him, but I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. I started to cry as I shared my fears of surviving the previous night, knowing I couldn’t make it through the cold a second night. Now I was wet from the snow and sitting on an exposed ridgeline. What if they didn’t make it to us by nightfall?

Chuy interrupted my spiraling to exclaim that he could hear something. Dismally, I told him it was just the wind. It was always the effing wind. It never stops.

I was interrupted again by the roar of a motor and a man shouting commands at his team. Suddenly, the tent was hastily unzipped, and a face appeared asking if we were okay before thrusting hand warmers and snacks at us. It felt surreal. I thought I had fallen into a disoriented state. Had I actually survived not just the night but hours of terror on that ridgeline?

I continued pushing myself forward, quickly wearing down from the strength that every step was taking. Another few gusts nearly threw me down the mountain, down where Hammer was four years earlier, and I was suddenly on the precipice of an absolute meltdown. I looked ahead and found an outcropping of boulders to hide behind until Philosopher caught up.

Worried that he would walk by without noticing me, I positioned myself with a view of the trail behind me. As I watched and waited, I spiraled further into hyperventilating sobs at my situation.

I had found myself in another terrible weather predicament up here. Like Hammer, I was so deadset on getting to town that I was risking my life. I removed my pack and unclipped my emergency beacon to ready it for an SOS call.

I couldn't do five or six more miles of this, but I knew the consequences of pressing the button. The wind was even worse now than it was last time. The hours it would take to reach us would guarantee hypothermia, putting me in the same situation as Hammer if I stayed. The idea of turning back and the possibility that it was our only option also sent me into more sobs. I had even less food than I did last time. I didn't have the mental strength to survive a night of snow, only to face this ridge's physical and emotional pain again tomorrow.

Philosopher finally appeared and clearly spotted me as he began moving toward me, clearly working hard for every step forward. I can't imagine what I looked like from his perspective. He looked confused at my panicked state, then struggled to understand me between my sobs and held breaths. Getting enough of a grasp of what I was trying to communicate, he stopped me, bracing my shoulders with his hands in an effort to calm me down.

I couldn't stop sobbing, but I felt grateful that he seemed to understand enough that I didn't have to try to keep using what little breath it felt like I had left to keep explaining. After a few moments, he brought me in for a hug and walked me through a few rounds of breathing together. I still couldn't stop the tears, but I was at least in a calm enough state to listen. Recognizing this, he calmly explained, "It's okay, we don't have to turn back. You don't have to do it again. Does it make you feel better that I've been in situations like this before and I'm not worried?"

Unable to speak, I nodded in a manner that, in hindsight, was a bit aggressive but ultimately felt like an attempt to convince myself more than anything.

He continued, “We’re not wet, it isn’t raining, there’s no lightning. It’s just wind. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Cue more crying out of nowhere.

Looking back now, I realize it wasn't quite "out of nowhere," though. It was a moment where I recognized my version of reality wasn't lining up with actual reality. From inside my head, we were on a sure path to having a dead body at the end of this because I was convinced that everything was repeating itself all over again. He was right, though. There were no immediate threats, and no reason we couldn't continue. It's scary to realize that you can't trust what your brain tells you and must completely trust someone else's interpretation of reality. 

I began to shake, and my teeth started to chatter. As a result of my state of panic or the beginnings of hypothermia, it was as if I needed to be told what to do through every step. I had to be walked through opening my pack and finding my coat, which I needed help getting on. Well, the wind was ripping so hard I couldn't hold it steady enough to locate the sleeves.

“We can do this, we’ll take breaks whenever we have a wind break. We’re thru-hikers, five or six miles is nothing. This will all be done in a few hours. Remember, it’s just wind.”

Still crying but convinced enough to continue, I re-attached my emergency beacon to its perch and put my pack on. I nodded through tears when asked if I was ready.

We continued pushing our legs forward, with him looking back every few steps to check on me. I was so grateful to have someone there to help me through this that it brought on a whole new set of tears that he even cared enough to look back to check on me occasionally. Wow, what a bright and shiny example of low self-worth you've got there, Madison.

I started to fear any time that the trail wound around a corner. These were the bad spots where the wind came through with its strongest gusts. As we came upon one, Philosopher took such a strong hit from a gust of wind that he was flattened to the ground. I let out an uncontrolled blood-curdling scream as I attempted the same corner, unable to get low enough to feel sure I wasn't about to be ripped off the mountain.

Before my scream was finished, my tarp was yanked off the back of my pack and thrown against Philosopher's calf. I attempted to shout to alert him, but thankfully, my pointing was enough communication when he turned around. He grabbed it, called out that we needed to get out of this spot pronto, and continued on until we found a brief respite where he could shove the tarp deep into a pocket on my pack.

“It’s just wind,” he reminded me.

With that, my mantra was born. I repeated it to myself incessantly and proclaimed it out loud during extreme gusts that threatened to throw me off-kilter, both physically and emotionally. Even when we came upon the first of several snow traverses, all with high-risk fall opportunities down their steep edges, I repeated my mantra. Sure, it wasn't "just wind" in those moments, but they wouldn't have felt so scary without it.

We took full advantage of any windbreaks Mother Nature gave us. A few moments of rest in a cluster of trees worked wonders for easing my mind. A section of trail traveling on the ridge's protected side allowed us to stop, look around, and take in everything around us. This was a big reason I had been itching to get back to see these miles. Everything I had read was true - this was the most gorgeous ridge hiking I had experienced on the PCT yet.

These small wins added up, convincing my brain that it wasn't a mistake to believe that we were safe. When we encountered a snow traverse that required a glissade, I dreaded it as usual, fearing I would uncontrollably slide off the mountain. I watched as Philosopher gleefully stepped forward to be the first to go for a slide in the snow, laughing the whole way down the steep slope to the dry trail. Not wanting to rain on the parade, I attempted to hide as much of my hesitation as I could as I positioned myself at the top of the chute he had created in the snow, hoping my butt would stay on the course he had charted. I surprised myself as I began laughing uncontrollably partway down. Was I actually having fun? Philosopher made sure to capture video proof of the answer.

In our last mile or two of the ridgeline, we started to pass day hikers and weekenders out for an overnight. I wanted to shake all of them and tell them not to do it, but I wanted to avoid appearing like a crazed fear-mongerer even more. Thankfully, Philosopher stepped up to do the talking, ending every conversation with, "Just so you know, it is nasty up there. The wind is gnarly."

When we finally began the descent, our last mile or so to the trailhead, I almost immediately felt my body breaking down. The adrenaline of the previous few hours was wearing off, and the tense state it put my body in was starting to show its effects. With the wind gone, the walking was more manageable, but each step was brutally painful. I was exhausted and shaken. Even if I had any tears left, I had no energy to muster them.

I wondered aloud why it couldn't have come easily. Why had I gotten stuck with crappy weather up there again? I distracted myself with the pretty views all around and a sense of gratitude that I had survived another attempt at this brutal section.

A familiar voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to see Shawn, nearly crying for the billionth time that day, as I collapsed into his hug.

Philosopher had made a comment that feels even more true the further I get from that day: it was a day fully lived. It was by far the prettiest hiking I had seen on the trail, from the dramatic colors of the sunrise over Dorothy Lake to the most expansive ridge views made more extravagant by the cloudy skies overhead that transitioned into sunny ones in the distance. I had experienced the full spectrum of emotions, from excitement for the day, sadness for the painful memories, terror for my life, gratitude for my friend and body for helping me to survive it, and love towards a partner who had hiked up the trail to walk with me the last bit.

It felt like yesterday's musings of being okay with finishing sooner were preparing me for this moment. I had experienced strong signs that it was almost time to wrap up this year's hike. Not only from Mother Nature but some markers of my own mental health that clearly needed addressing. I wanted a night to sleep on it, but at the moment, I wasn’t sure I would continue with Philosopher to hike from Sonora Pass to Lake Tahoe. If I didn’t, I knew this wasn't how I wanted my hike to end. On the ride to town, in between snacking on all the treats Shawn had brought, we started planning for one last hurrah just in case.

Media Share

You know what’s more uplifting that reading about traumatic (but still incredible) hiking? Looking at fun selfies. Here’s all the ones I took while hiking Northern California set to another few songs that I played quite a bit while I hiked it. Be on the lookout for the town names I passed through in late July, I’m sure some of you will get a chuckle.

Lone Pine

Philosopher and I awoke the following day ready for a hearty breakfast across the street before our long journey north. This time, we wouldn’t be walking. If you recall from the last post, we had both already hiked the John Muir Trail, so we would skip those miles to give us more time to walk miles we hadn’t done before our weather window closed.

Our only public transit option was a bus that had left hours earlier. We had agreed the night before that we were far too exhausted to set an alarm and accepted that we would likely need to string together a few hitches the next day.

Knowing that we were at the mercy of strangers for rides to get two hours north, Philosopher and I had accepted that we would be taking a zero day to travel. Food first, then we’d figure out where to start hitching from.

As we sat down and nosily snuck looks at other diners’ dishes to help us make a decision of our own, we started a conversation with the couple next to us after they excitedly recommended their own dishes. Kenny had dropped Hattie (trail name for her affinity for wearing her hat all the time, even to bed on accident!) off at the Mexican border in early March for her to hike just the desert section of the trail. They live in the central valley of California and were returning to do some trail magic while giving rides to and from the trail for some of her previous trail family members who had also returned to hike the Sierra section.

Hattie was also scouting for hikes to take her sister on when she visited. As it happens, they were going to be heading up to Bishop, CA for her scouting mission and offered to give us a ride up. While Bishop wasn’t our final destination for the day, it was still a full hour’s drive north and landed us exactly halfway there.

To complicate matters, Philosopher and I both had resupply boxes at the post office the next town north (Independence, CA). Fortunately, it was 15 minutes into the drive to Bishop and was directly on the highway, so they didn’t mind the stop. Hattie was delightfully surprised to hear that Philosopher and I made our own meals, as she was also a rare hiker who did the same. We spent a lot of the ride chatting about backpacking meals, discovering that we both use a lot of recipes from Backcountry Foodie. I love my dehydrator, but I have to say, I was so ecstatic to learn that Hattie also has a freeze dryer1 that I asked a lot of questions and was excited to hear more.

Bishop

Hattie and Kenny pulled into the parking lot of a famed used gear store in Bishop, CA. When the rest of the car realized that I was the only one who hadn’t ever stopped by this shop, Hattie decided that this needed to be remedied. Thinking that the temperatures would be much cooler in town, I left my town dress at home and opted to carry town shorts and wear my rain jacket during laundry. It was well over 80°F (27°C), so I was happy for the chance to find a top of some sort. With everyone’s shopping complete, we said our goodbyes in the parking lot.

Philosopher and I began the long, hot walk along the highway that goes through town. There weren’t good areas for a driver to pull over to stop for us, so we needed to hike about a mile to get to the northern edge of town. As the heat flowed in waves against my face from the hot pavement, I was grateful that I wasn’t sweating into my clean hiking clothes. For as long as possible, I try to keep them clean, not donning them until the day I step back on the trail.

We found a gas station to set ourselves up for hitching on the edge of town, with plenty of pavement north of it for anyone to pull out. Ensuring you have a safe amount of room to stand and space after you for the driver to pull over is 80% of getting a hitch. The other 20%? Whenever possible, put the girl out first. We live in a sexist world, but I can't help it that we're seen as less threatening. Within 5-10 minutes, a man stepped away from his daughter as she filled her minivan at the gas station and asked Philosopher how far we were going. They were going to Carson City, NV2 to surprise his mother for her 80th birthday. Perfect! Our destination was an hour into their remaining three and an easy stop on the highway.

He asked us to wait a few minutes. His daughter had never picked up hitchhikers, and he wanted to ensure she was okay with the idea. She gave us a quick look and approved. We aren't particularly intimidating looking, especially as we were freshly cleaned. Honestly, her dad gave off strong biker vibes that were enough to make me initially cautious myself if I had been alone. Once we were situated in her van and on the way, he quickly warmed to us, excited that he was there for his daughter's first hitchhikers. He lamented that he didn't see people hitching much anymore, and it had been so long since he had picked up hitchhikers himself. I've heard a lot on the trail, but I never expected to hear someone share that the world needed more hitchhikers.

Lee Vining

By mid-afternoon, we stepped foot into Lee Vining, CA. If we had wanted, we could have gotten a ride up to the trailhead and at least knocked out a few miles. In reality, we were pretty beat. Once you tell yourself it will probably take all day to get somewhere, you've already committed to the zero-day. If you've already promised yourself a zero, convincing your brain to go back out there is nearly impossible.

Even if we were able to change our minds, I still had another package at the post office here in Lee Vining. We had arrived well within the regular hours of a post office. Unfortunately, USPS around these parts is under a severe staffing shortage. It was only open a couple hours each day, so the employee could drive an hour down the highway to open another town's location for just a few hours. We had just missed them.

Well, it was decided: we were staying the night.

Of course, we only realized that our room didn't have a fridge after we returned with a pack of ciders. I looked around the room, trying to think of a solution before my eyes landed on my bear can. With the motel's ice machine, we could transform my bear can into a beer can.

It felt incredible to spend a day soaking up views. Our hike was quickly coming to an end; it was in sight. We had hopes of how much more we could hike, but our weather window was not guaranteed. It felt really important to have an afternoon to slow down like this while we could.

Soon, the afternoon had slipped away, and darkness was enveloping us. Hunger was beginning to creep in, so we approached the local drive-in. After I finished ordering, I turned when I heard someone call out.

“Buffer?”

BIG GREEN!

Once we had planned to jump up to Lee Vining, he had crossed my mind a few times as I hiked through the last section. I knew it was possible that the stars would align and I could catch him on his way out of the Sierras before he headed north again to finish his hike in Washington. Not wanting to be disappointed if I didn't, I didn't allow myself to dwell on these thoughts.

Overcome with so much joy, I ran to throw my arms around him. I've been so delighted with the random people I've encountered from my time in the desert, but seeing someone I had grown so close with this year made it exponentially more awesome. We all enjoyed dinner together, sharing in our disbelief that this happened at all. Realizing that the one and only little mart would be closing soon, we rushed over to pick up more ciders to continue our celebration on our motel deck.

I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude in little moments throughout our conversations under the stars that night. The weather was perfect that night, and the stars shined even brighter when you have the company of good souls to watch them with. We had worried a bit about getting hitches for such a long stretch of driving (roughly 2 hours), but everything had fallen into place perfectly. I was even grateful that the post office had extremely limited hours we missed that day. Those limited hours granted permission to slow down that afternoon and to stay up as late as we wanted. We couldn't get on the trail early anyway, as we would have to wait for them to open.

Tuolumne Meadows

Before the post office restrictions, I didn't feel like we were "allowed" to slow down like this right now. We needed to save valuable time to make miles. I wanted the zero-day, but I knew that if we could progress on some miles that day, we should. As those "should" thoughts crept into my mind, I felt myself fighting them, wanting to stop treating it like a job and enjoy it as more of a vacation.

There's a debate in the hiking community as to whether or not a thru-hike is a vacation. Even though it is a long and challenging endeavor that, at many times, is quite boring, I'm firmly in the camp that it is a vacation. Sure, you have to treat a lot of it like a job to get it done, but it is just as important to slow things down when you can and remind yourself that it is a vacation, too.

We slept in without an alarm and went over to enjoy breakfast. While waiting for the post office to open, we lazily packed our things again. Our resupply boxes had been packed when we still planned to do more John Muir Trail miles. That would have been a longer section, requiring two extra days of meals. Instead of carrying extra meals, we packed some boxes to send to Shawn in Tahoe.

Since our next destination was close enough to the house, Shawn would make the drive down for a quick visit and personally deliver our resupplies. After that, we would hike to a trailhead just 15 minutes from the house. The remaining sections I aimed to finish were all relatively short and close to home. Considering all that, I realized this was my last post office resupply. It was my first "last" thing.

That thought swirled in my mind with a frenzy of other emotions as we stuck out our thumbs to get a ride to the trailhead. We would be going into Yosemite National Park and hiking on a trail I've done more than any other inside the park on various other little backpacking trips in Yosemite's high country. There was a part of it that felt like going home.

There was another part that felt like I was walking into a nightmare.

After completing the John Muir Trail in 2018, I was excited to start my journey of hiking the PCT in sections. I had so much fun in my three weeks on the trail that I loved the idea of doing different PCT sections at their best time of year. A thru-hike often compromises this in favor of avoiding trail sections during their worst times of year (the desert in summer, high elevation, and northern reaches in winter). With two weeks in between jobs in late September of the following year (2019), Shawn dropped me off at this trailhead for a solo hike on two sections of the PCT: Yosemite National Park to Sonora Pass and Sonora Pass to Lake Tahoe.

I never made it to Lake Tahoe. My hike was cut short 8 miles shy of Sonora pass that year with a press of the SOS button on my emergency beacon.

I had been dreading the return to this section, not wanting to relive any part of that 2019 trip. Over the last week or two, I had made several unsuccessful attempts to convince Philosopher to do this section himself. I would day-hike out to meet him to do those last eight miles. If I decided not to do it, he would change his plans to simply hike the John Muir Trail again and end with that. If I wanted to keep my hiking partner for the other sections I wanted to do, I had to face this section again.

Seeing that there was weather (with potential snow) coming in a few days from now, we needed to be mindful of putting down miles to get this section done. I suddenly realized that I would be pushing myself through this section to beat bad weather, just as I had in 2019. As I started to feel the panic well up inside me, a car pulled over to give us a ride.

We were picked up by two Ukrainian dancers who had just started with a dance company in the US a few weeks before Russia invaded their home. Hearing the tales of the whirlwind that they've been living through since then was a welcome distraction for the 30 minutes down the road and into Yosemite National Park. Their families were going through a real war while my brain kept busy creating a battle plan to get through these next 75 miles.

Media Share

On these long hikes, I take a selfie every time my watch goes off to signal I’ve hiked another mile. I love it as a way to capture the changing scenery as well as folks I may be hiking with at the moment. Shawn has helped me compile all the selfies from the desert, paired with a selection of songs I enjoyed during that section. If we hiked together in the desert, see if you can spot yourself!

In the days leading up to my arrival in Cascade Locks, OR, I began to excitedly wonder who all of my hiking friends from long ago I would run into. Almost immediately, I ran into Heater over breakfast. I had seen her on and off throughout the desert, first meeting her way back at the Deep Creek Hot Springs (~mile 300). We made plans to meet up after my town chores were done.

On my way to meet her, I ran into my primary desert tramily, whom I affectionately started referring to as “The Smoothies” (short for “smooth brains”), with another member, Shaggy. While I certainly expected to run into them at some point, it was a delightful surprise to see them before Trail Days even began the next day.

Heater had time to waste until the festival’s campground opened up, allowing us a whole afternoon doing something we don’t get to do as often as you may think: relaxing and soaking up the gorgeous views. For a rare few hours, we didn’t have to rush off to get in more miles; we just took in the sights and people-watching by the Columbia River.

I ran into my old tramily again as they headed into the same brewery for dinner, finally getting to see the other folks in the group I hadn’t seen earlier. It was a perfect evening to spend with all of them one last time, as I wouldn’t be continuing northward and, therefore, unable to catch up with them to hike together again.

With fires raging all across the state of Washington, closing chunks of the trail or smothering it in smoke, I had decided not to continue northward from here. Even before the Oregon fires, I’ve inhaled enough wildfire smoke that I’ve surely exceeded any lifetime limits that may be out there1. For the first summer in years, the Sierras weren’t on fire or filled with smoke, and I wanted to take advantage of it to fill in as many of the miles I was missing before my weather window closed.

This would allow me to save Washington, one of the favorite parts of the trail for many hikers, for a time when I could enjoy it without smoke hazing all the views. The more I thought about it, the more epic it felt to save it to be the last section I complete as I fill in other areas over the next few years. Canada will still be the final destination, crossing that border after I’ve truly hiked everything else. I’m lucky to still have an epic finish to a wild year of thru-hiking by walking home instead.

I spent much of the next day roaming the festival grounds and visiting the booths of some of my favorite gear companies, from big names like Outside Magazine and FarOut (the hiking app we use) to smaller ones like Senchi and Backcountry Foodie. As I boarded a bus to Portland that afternoon, I had a new tote bag full of free goodies that made me especially grateful I wasn’t hiking northward with all of it.

I arrived at the airport to board a flight to San Francisco, where I would meet Shawn, who was there for the wedding of our friends Anthony and Jason. This was a wedding that I wasn’t supposed to attend, as we expected that I would be hiking into Washington at the time when the RSVPs were due. With the plated dinner complete, I showed up to crash the wedding and imbibe with friends we hadn’t seen in years. It was a surreal experience to go from dirty hiker to wedding guest (that was, admittingly, maybe still a bit dirty after a couple of showers) in the span of a day or two.

Tahoe Transition

We returned home to Lake Tahoe with a few days to prep for the whirlwind of the next few weeks. Yes, there were supplies to pack for my next hiking section, but we also had to prepare the house for more guests! Big Green and his friend, Ryan, were returning to finish Big Green’s missing Sierra sections that he had to turn back from when the rivers were too high to cross earlier this summer. I’ll admit I had been a bit jealous that Shawn would see my buddies again while I would be out on the trail with the original plan. This itinerary change allowed me more time with them, even if it meant having to say goodbye again.

After dropping them off, we prepped the house again for another arrival that very night: Philosopher! This time, I would leave with our guest as Philosopher and I would tackle the Sierras together. In fact, he was the first to put the idea of returning to the Sierras in my head as he extended an invitation to join him a day or two before trail days. We excitedly prepped and packed for the long drive back down to Kennedy Meadows the following morning.

Kennedy Meadows (again)

We arrived at Kennedy Meadows, CA in the afternoon and it felt practically deserted compared to our last visit. Only a few other hikers roamed about, each having had the same idea to return to the Sierras instead of continuing northward. I hugged Shawn goodbye, grateful that he had been willing to make the long drive there and back home in a single day to not only drop us off but be able to prepare the guest room for the arrival of another hiker friend, Puff, the following evening.

It felt strange to suddenly be back in the high desert again. We didn’t plan to make many miles with the late afternoon start. In the few miles between starting and camp, we were already starting to feel the transition the land was driving between the desert and that of the High Sierras. Many plants were still similar to those we had become familiar with in the desert. Still, slowly, the views began to open up into what we had been accustomed to during other hiking trips we had each experienced on past visits to the High Sierras.

We had been accustomed to a sunset time of about 8:30, so we chose a campsite that we expected to hit roughly an hour sooner. By the time we arrived, the sun was already setting, pushing for a quick setup under the darkening sky. I checked my watch, which gives a more accurate sunset time based on my current coordinates rather than a phone’s weather app, which uses the coordinates of the nearest weather station (which could be quite a ways away from a wilderness location). Sunset had already passed us by with a time closer to 7:30! Coupled with the slight chill in the air that evening as we slept, it felt like fall was sneaking in on us.

It was unsettling to be brought to this reality so suddenly. We were approaching late August, which felt like the middle of summer in Oregon. Being in the High Sierra at elevations generally above 8,000 feet (often exceeding 10,000 feet), we weren’t in summer anymore. We were thrust into the middle of fall, sometimes feeling like the beginning of winter if the night got cold enough. The race to beat the weather window was on, making our expected 20-mile days feel more like a requirement than a hopeful goal.

High Sierra Climbs

I awoke the next morning feeling more well-rested than I had on trail in a long time. The slight chill of the night allowed me to cozily bundle up with my quilt with the sound of the nearby creek creating the perfect white noise to lull (and keep) me asleep. Within a few miles, the trail took us through a meadow shrouded in morning mist held in by the high hills surrounding it. By the time I had finally worked up enough hunger to stop for breakfast, we weren’t even halfway through it.

From my experiences hiking in the Sierras, I knew we would have some extensive climbing eventually and some that started at high elevations to take us even higher (making the task even more difficult with less oxygen to use). Generally, I avoided looking at the elevation profiles. It only gave me anxiety to know when and how much we would have to do. If we have to make the climbs anyway, I’d rather at least do them without the stress of knowing. As my watch went off a mile into a steep climb, I couldn’t help myself. I had to know.

“I’m checking the elly,” I told Philosopher, not knowing why I bothered to inform him since he had definitely been looking the whole time, graciously keeping the information to himself. He laughed at my shortened nickname for “elevation” and, from that point on, personified it as “Ellie.” No longer would he keep the elevation a secret, telling me things like “your friend, Ellie, is going to be really cruel to us today” or “looks like Ellie is going to give us a break this afternoon.” The things we do to ease the painful bits.

By the time we collapsed at our lunch spot, we had climbed nearly 4,000 feet. The only thing that motivated me to move again was the surprise of the sounds of Taylor Swift’s Midnights album coming from Philosopher’s phone and the delight of watching him dance and sing along. Hikers often ask each other what they are listening to, be it music, a podcast, or a book. I seemed to have responded with this album enough to inspire him to download it himself.

My afternoon slump hit hard that day as we hit even more of those Sierra climbs with none of the big views yet. Between chapters of my latest audiobook2, I alternated between “I don’t have much hiking left his year” and “my God, how will I ever finish?” I dwelled on an insightful thought that Philosopher had made over lunch as I expressed that I was having a rough day: he had only been hiking since May 8 while I’ve been out since March 27. Indeed, almost no one we met in the last few months had started as early as I did. Most of the people we knew were off trail, either for injury or postponing the rest of the hike for a better weather year.

I also recognized that it was only day 2 of a 4-day stretch, noticing that this tended to be my most challenging day. Generally, day one didn’t have many miles as I often waited to head out to trail after lunch, limiting the miles I carried my pack at its heaviest weight. Day two’s pack was only a meal or two lighter but required a full day of hiking. On top of this, we were pushing ourselves to 20-mile days in the dauntingly high elevation and challenging climbs of the Sierras.

Philosopher has been an excellent hiking partner for me. He has been a constant reminder to focus more on the day’s accomplishments, recognizing how they didn’t come easily and generating some self-pride for what my body has done instead of self-loathing for what it hasn’t. After we had settled into our sleeping bags for the evening, he played a calming bedtime meditation to solidify the lesson and ease my anxious mind into a deep sleep.

High Sierra Views

The next day had its fair share of climbs, starting first thing in the first few miles. Things were already feeling different, though. The trees were changing as more majestic alpine trees filled our views with exquisite bark patterns. I felt as if I was walking through an art gallery where they competed on the most dramatic displays.

The views grew even grander as we came to the top of our first climb. We were rewarded with the sight of the Owens Valley, where Owens Lake was an actual lake, something it hadn’t been in years. I’ll count it as another upside to the crazy snow year we had, though I’m sure the remnants of Hurricane Hilary helped, too. Hilary helped us out even more as we passed strong-flowing water sources daily that the comments in our app marked as “dry” only a week earlier.

Philosopher and I had hiked the John Muir Trail (JMT) years prior (he in 2014, myself in 2018). The JMT is the same as the PCT for most of its 200+ miles through the Sierras. We had both been excitedly talking about how much we had enjoyed that hike, with its views changing entirely after every mountain pass and often multiple times a day as the trail rounded a new corner. The last few days of wondering when we would get that experience again seemed to finally arrive as we climbed out of lush meadows and through what I called “sandy forests,” where gravel made up the floor instead of the dirt of a more typical forest.

Not long after lunch, we passed a junction for one of the few exit points out of the High Sierras. One of the beautiful things about a multi-day hike through this part of the Sierras is how deep you can get into some beautifully immersed wilderness. I’m talking about several hundred miles of the PCT that doesn’t cross a single road. Carrying enough supplies to go the whole stretch without an exit is impossible. These trails generally take a full day in each direction to get off and back onto the PCT.

This first junction was especially notable as it was one of three trails down to a single trailhead. It is a common entry point for backpackers looking to summit the tallest mountain in the Lower 48: Mt. Whitney. Almost instantly, we passed more section hikers on the trail, the number increasing as we passed the second junction to the trailhead. In contrast, we had gone nearly 24 hours without seeing another soul in our first two days.

The JMT’s southern terminus is atop Mt. Whitney, so Philosopher and I had already summited it. The newly heightened awareness of our closing weather window brought us to the decision that we didn’t want to waste time repeating any of our JMT miles. Still, I vividly remember when the JMT turned away from the PCT and headed east toward Mt. Whitney. I remember wondering what it would be like if I kept going south. What did the trail look like between that junction and the Mexican border? I wanted to stand in that spot again and look south, knowing what I know now: an intense familiarity and a lifetime’s worth of trail memories for the nearly 770 miles south of that point.

Philosopher graciously agreed to hike not only the 17 miles north to get there but also those exact miles back south so we could exit. The next exit trail was about 20 miles north of the JMT junction, but the road was still damaged and closed from Hurricane Hilary, so the backtrack was our only option. We set up camp a mile before the third and final junction down to our exit trailhead, excitedly working on a plan to tag the JMT junction the next day.

Tagging the John Muir Trail Junction

We were up and hiking earlier than most others on the trail the next day, as evident by the quiet tents we continued to pass even after we stopped for a brekkie break a couple of hours into the day. Again, most of the folks on the trail weren’t other thru-hikers but section-hikers taking their time to Mt. Whitney and beyond. Shortly after brekkie, we passed the border into our third and fourth (they’re often just combined as one) National Parks of the hike this year: Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Parks.

Arriving at our camp in time for a lunch break, Philosopher set up his tent while I started cold-soaking my lunch and attending to other camp setup chores. We weren’t stopping for the day. Nearly 7 miles south of the JMT junction, we were setting up our camp to lighten our packs so we could move quicker to tag the junction. As this would take the rest of the day and even require a few hours of hiking under the bright moon that night, we did as many camp chores as we could, allowing us to get to sleep quicker and with as little noise as possible if we ended up with any neighbors.

Unlike Philosopher’s tent, mine utilizes my trekking poles instead of tent poles. We used his as storage for our inflated sleeping pads and the rest of our gear, accepting that I’d have to set my tent up exhausted and in the dark when we returned. Just before we headed out, though, we noticed people crossing the river next to our campsite, one of them in a jacket we quickly recognized: Boss! And with her, Caveman!3

They had made the same decision as us, and we had no idea. How lucky we were to run into them down here before they continued further north into the section we would be skipping. As we leap-frogged around each other for the rest of the afternoon, slogging up hot and steep climbs, I felt guilty that those two had full packs. This was for the briefest moments until they flew past me, a stark reminder of the extra help that comes with energetic youth and longer legs.

Philosopher’s calf started acting up a mile south of the junction, and he decided to rest in a meadow while I pushed forward. Just before leaving him, Boss and Caveman caught up to us again, opting to take a break with him before continuing. Two junctions head toward Mt. Whitney. Boss and Caveman would likely take the first one to continue on and set themselves up for a sunrise summit the next day. My destination was the second one, so I would likely miss them on my way back. With the sun getting even lower, I hurriedly said my goodbyes to them and set off so I could see my destination while there was still daylight.

While I was sad that my companions wouldn’t be around, I was especially grateful to be alone when I reached the junction. I stepped up to the sign, turned around to look south as I did five years earlier, and instantly cried tears of joy. It felt like a moment of a promise fulfilled to my 28-year-old self. I remember standing there hoping that one day I could hike the PCT, but not quite believing I could ever manage it. Many things must come together to make this happen: money, the support of friends and family back home, time off, and the weather. Sure, that last one didn’t quite work out as hoped, but still, I’ve gotten to do a lot of the trail up to this point. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be standing at that point again in just five years as part of a wild and crazy thru-hike that I could have never expected would have turned out the way it did.

The lowering sun reminded me I didn’t have much time for sentimentality. We spent much of the afternoon catching up with our friends, slowly pushing back our ETA to camp even later in the night. Our first estimate when we arrived for lunch that day had us thinking that we may make it back as early as 6 or 7 PM - before the sun even set! We could probably get up early enough to make it to town for lunch at that rate! We were approaching a 9 or 10 PM arrival at this point, meaning we’d be lucky to make it to town for dinner the next day.

I hurriedly set off southbound, returning to Philosopher’s break spot. Within 5 minutes, I ran into Boss and Caveman one last time. The recent storm had raised river levels enough that the ranger had left a note on the junction they planned on taking recommending that hikers use the JMT junction instead to avoid crossing the river twice. I was grateful their plans were a bit wrecked, allowing me to indulge in one last group hug with them before we parted ways, both groups becoming increasingly aware of the decreasing sunlight.

It may be boring to backtrack on the same trail, especially on the same day. I usually agree and admit I wasn’t looking forward to it. The setting sun changed the entire color scheme of the landscapes we had already been through. Plus, we saw them with different mountainscapes in the background now that they were in front of us, not behind us. We stopped to have dinner trailside shortly after sunset, excitedly chatting about how it felt like we were somehow getting away with something being out in the middle of Sierras for a night slackpack hike.

Despite all the excitement, our every move as we prepared dinner elicited a groan. We had already passed our highest mileage day for the Sierras and still had four more miles to go. I pulled out a secret weapon I had picked up from a dispensary, handing a gummy to Philosopher and taking one myself. My joints ached loudly as we packed up to start moving again. I sent up a prayer to the universe that they would kick in quickly. While we didn’t feel the effects instantly, the universe seemed to answer the cry for help with the gorgeous distraction of the moon rising. It cast a magnificent glow across a valley of granite that we saw more of with every step we climbed.

As we continued, the exhaustion and altitude wore on me quickly. I had to stop frequently for breaks to catch my breath. As I couldn't easily combat the low energy levels that made the altitude more difficult, I drank as much water as possible to keep myself as hydrated as possible. The frequent stops I needed for pee breaks as the night went on felt like a whole ordeal. It started with hunting for a spot with a branch to lean my trekking poles, so I didn't have to bend down to get them. I also needed a place to rest my gloves close by (keeping them in sight reduces the chance of leaving them behind) before I could initiate the rest of the process of urinating. Of course, everything had to be reversed before we continued down the trail again.

When we arrived at the first of two river crossings, my joints were thankfully moving with far more ease. Fortunately, this was a crossing that we could still “rock hop” across. Generally, crossing rivers in the morning when they are at their lowest is better. They tend to get higher as the day progresses, with warmer temperatures melting more snow, contributing to the rise.

Our second river, with our camp on the other side, wouldn't be like this. It required wet feet as a sacrifice that afternoon, and would do so again as our last hurdle before camp. Philosopher had the bright idea of carrying our camp shoes (which double as water crossing shoes) across in the afternoon and hiding them in a log for our evening crossing. This would prevent us from having to soak our socks and shoes right before bed.

I am okay with getting my shoes wet in morning or afternoon crossings. Since I wear trail runners instead of boots, they dry quickly, but there's no way they would dry overnight. As I had no interest in putting on cold, wet shoes in the morning, I agreed to his plan, though I was still worried someone would take off with them.

We were pleased to find they were still there, but our energy levels quickly dropped down as we slowly switched our shoes. I nervously moved across the river, especially aware that these crossing (not bears) is where people get into trouble in the Sierras. When I reached the other side, I happily released the anxiety, and my joints seemed to feel extra relaxed with the cold soak after a long day.

With help from Philosopher, we constructed my tent quickly. It was about 11 PM before we were both finally ready to climb into our tents. We agreed on our latest alarm time yet: 7:30! It was well-deserved after our longest day in the Sierras. Checking my watch, I realized I had hiked nearly 25 miles! It definitely felt like it, too.

Lone Pine

Still exhausted, most of the next day's hike was a blur of climbing and beautiful scenery. We bid farewell to Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Park a few miles before finally returning to that third junction to our exit trailhead: Horseshoe Meadows. From there, we began a long descent to the parking lot. As the views became crowded with more trees, I'll admit that I distracted myself with an audiobook to pass the time and distract me from my aching body.

We had just arrived at the parking lot and were chatting with a father and his little girl when a Lone Pine local asked if we needed a ride to town. Quickly collapsing our trekking poles and throwing our packs in the back of his truck, we hopped inside the cab, where I had the honor of squeezing into a fold-down seat in the second "row."

It quickly became apparent that the 6,000 feet over twenty miles that we had to town would be along winding roads that, as a local, our driver opted to take very tightly around the curves. I was grateful to be relegated to the back, where he didn't have to see me with my head tucked down, avoiding the sight of the steep drop-offs that I was sure we would careen off at every turn. Thankfully, the old truck didn't have air conditioning. The wind rushing through the rolled-down windows left me free to hyperventilate as loudly as I wanted without his notice until we finally arrived at the restaurant he recommended for dinner.

We ate hungrily before checking into a nearby motel and showering. I set off to do laundry afterward before the local laundromat closed for the evening. With the bulk of my chores finished, I took advantage of the motel's hut tub as I caught up on my "phone chores":

• Sync my devices.

• Reply to messages.

• Upload photos for the next post.

• Catch up on the latest trail news.

I was saddened to see that the wildfires in Washington were still raging but grateful that we had been able to hike the last 80 miles without any smoke. Feeling my head dropping as I tried to keep reading, I hobbled toward the room. Collapsing into the bed, I settled in for a deep rest after feeling worn out by our re-entry into the Sierras.

Media Share

This was the last section with my third pair of shoes, so let’s send them off with our traditional goodbye. Here’s a moment of each day in the life of another pair of trail runners as they carried me roughly 500 miles through Northern California, parts of Oregon, and the southern Sierras.

I had fallen asleep in Sisters, OR with the hope that I would wake up the following morning instinctively knowing the answer to a question that had stumped me all day: hike the next section or skip it, opting to rest a few more days. When I stepped out of bed the next day, my feet were casting their vote: “rest.” Big Green had informed me that this was the one to skip if I wanted to skip another section in Oregon. The SoBos I had passed agreed as a lot of it was burn scar. We were right at the start of another heat wave, which would make that area even hotter. On top of that, taking the unexpected rest would force me to rush to make it to Cascade Locks in time for PCT Trail Days. I hate rushing.

Staying in town would mean I could enjoy a slow morning at my favorite coffee shop on trail so far (Sisters Coffee Company), take the time to explore more of the many art galleries and soak up the rest of the afternoon with the best tea I’ve had on trail (Suttle Tea). My ankles were grumpy enough that I took frequent sitting breaks between all this as if they were confirming that I had made the right decision.

By skipping the next section, I had just one remaining chunk that would only take me a couple days before it dropped me into Cascade Locks, OR. Instead of rushing if I hiked the skipped section, I now had a few days to kill. I could have happily spent those days in Sisters, but I had heard such good things about the larger town of Bend, OR, that I caught a bus that evening to spend the time there instead. Plus, I needed to go there anyway to catch a bus to start my next section.

Bend certainly lived up to its hype, though I’ll admit I spent a lot of time resting at my hotel. The room had such great blackout curtains that I could sleep until 9! This never happens to me. They had also upgraded my room to one with a kitchen, so I could enjoy eating in with fresher foods. I also took full advantage of the hot tub multiple times a day to ease the ankle pain the lava rocks had caused.

I didn’t spend all my time at the hotel, though. I made good use of the bikes they had available to check out to explore the town. First stop? The last Blockbuster on the planet!1 The wave of nostalgia as I entered those doors nearly knocked me on my feet.

I felt like a real tourist as I indulged in one of the better brunches I’ve had on trail (The Lemon Tree) before roaming through the downtown shops, stumbling into a local bath shop. Since I had used up my resupply bath soak in Sisters, I bought a soak from here, and it was by far the best I’ve ever had.2

Timberline Lodge

I reluctantly awoke early to catch the only bus from Bend to Mount Hood. As a nomad traveling without a car for the last 5 months, I judge a town based on its public transit options. Fortunately, the whole state of Oregon prioritizes public transit quite well. I could buy a ticket online or use an app to ride nearly all of them if the bus wasn’t already free.3 The worst kind of transit is cash only and requires exact change, which is exactly what my last bus from Government Camp, OR up to Timberline Lodge required. Forced to buy candy from the nearby gas station to get the change, I opted for a new favorite flavor of M&M’s: cold brew coffee. Leave them in the sun for a few minutes, and they’re amazing.

With thick wildfire smoke in the air and some extra time before trail days, I decided that if they had a room left at Timberline Lodge, I would use some of the gift cards from Shawn’s family to stay overnight. They had exactly one room left at this historic hotel; thank you, Hoffmans! With plenty of time before check-in, I hopped on one of the walking tours of the property that talked through the history and finer details of this impressive New Deal project.

Beyond this, the property is famous in two other realms. One for film fanatics and the other for us dirty hikers. You may have already picked up on the first one in the photo above if you recognized it from The Shining. Yep, this was the film’s Overlook Hotel.

Why is this lodge famous for hikers? Food. The Timberline Lodge has the most impressive breakfast buffet I’ve ever witnessed outside Las Vegas. From your standard fare of quiches and all varieties of pork items to deliciously thick smoothies and indulgent pastry options, it was well worth the price of admission. If you ever go, I’m sorry that the price has to factor in all of us passing through with extensive hiker hunger.

Mt. Hood

I stepped out onto the trail the next day with the spectacular views of Mt. Hood diminished by thick wildfire smoke. The trail followed the perimeter of Mt. Hood for a while, overlapping with The Timberline Trail quite a bit. While the views were great, I couldn’t help but wonder how much better they would be without the smoke burning my eyes and casting a haze on everything.

I was grateful to drop into the forested trail for a while, feeling the burden of smoke slightly lifted thanks to the trees. After a few hours, I ventured off the PCT for a popular detour that would serve as my lunch stop: Ramona Falls. This was one of a handful of options along the trail where, since the trail is intended for both hikers and horses, it is steered away from precious water sources to keep the animal poop out of it.

Crater Lake is one of these detours; most hikers also choose the “blue blaze” in that instance. The PCT on our map app is marked in red, while the side trails are marked as blue lines. A “blaze” is another name for a trail marker. This is how you get the term “blue blaze” for alternate trails. Most of the time, the blue blazes are short out-and-back detours to summit a peak. On occasion, they are a complete detour for a few PCT miles, offering another point to connect back to the PCT further down the trail.

I spent most of the rest of the day in the trees. Again, thankful to have their protection from the bulk of the smoke. They were also a welcome shelter from the sun’s heat as we were still in the midst of that heat wave.

I arrived at my camping spot for the night, grateful to find another hiker, Lost and Found (France), already there. It was next to a road, which made me extra nervous about camping alone. When a car rolled up after dark, we were both on edge until the driver came up to ask if we wanted any snacks. He had driven from Utah to be at Trail Days with his company, Ombraz. They had decided to set up a trail magic spot here to get some extra promotion. It was a perfect location: a road crossing point roughly a day’s worth of hiking from the festival. We watched as they set up their things to camp and got supplies out to make the day of every hiker that came through for the next few days before the festival started.

Eagle Creek

I awoke early the next day with excitement. I had a room booked in Cascade Locks for that night, setting me up to finally crank out a 30+ mile day. On top of that, I would be taking another popular alternative: the Eagle Creek trail.

The smoke had diminished quite a bit, allowing me to enjoy the colorful sunrise without watery eyes. The trail wound through a forest of trees that felt so symmetrical it was hard to believe they weren’t some planned attraction at a theme park. Occasionally, the trees would part to gift me with clear views of Mount Hood that I hadn’t gotten the day before.

When I turned onto the alternate trail, I felt nearly slapped in the face with “this isn’t the Pacific Crest Trail” indicators everywhere. The trail immediately narrowed and began dropping very steeply. As much as I’ve complained about some parts of the trail surely not being graded for horses (theoretically, the entire PCT is supposed to be), this was next-level elevation grade. Rocks of varying sizes frequently interrupted what would have otherwise been a dirt trail, ensuring I kept my eyes down and avoiding any views. I hit a burn scar in the heat of the day, sweating more than I had in a long time and realizing that I had underestimated my water needs.

I ran out of water just before coming across a stream that wasn’t marked on my app. Thankfully, it was in the shade of a few rare trees in this section. I sat in the precious little shaded spot, desperately drinking straight from my water filter as I waited for my body temperature to cool. Feeling heavy with all the water in my stomach, I filtered more water into my bottle, taking my time.

After another mile or two, I finally arrived at Eagle Creek. This gorgeous creek would be my companion for the rest of the day as the trail followed alongside it. Despite the comments in my app saying there were better swimming spots ahead, I couldn’t wait and jumped in right there. It was too hot, and I was too hungry to go another step. Swimming spots are my favorite lunch breaks on the trail. I jump in for a swim, eat lunch as I dry, and enjoy a round of stretching before moving on.

As I hiked on, I passed a medley of gorgeous swimming holes and waterfalls for miles. Countless day hikers were out taking in the sights and enjoying swims. If these spots were anywhere else, any of them would be the highlight of this trek. Unfortunately for them, they’re within a few miles of Tunnel Falls.

Tunnel Falls steals the spotlight for this PCT alternate and is precisely what you probably imagine: the trail darts into a tunnel behind a waterfall. Adorned with ferns that frame both sides, it truly feels like a manufactured attraction.

From there, the trail covered rocky cliffs far above beautiful gorges with the creek far below. After a bit of this, it would suddenly be nearly level with Eagle Creek again, allowing another opportunity for a swim. If I hadn’t been on a deadline, I could have easily enjoyed this 12-mile segment for at least two days. Judging how many people were out for just a couple of days, it seems that many people do just that.

Unfortunately, I was on a deadline. If I wanted a hot dinner, and I definitely did, I needed to make it to Cascade Locks before the last restaurant closed at 9 PM. I continued on, longingly watching other folks enjoying every swimming hole I passed.

I hoped to avoid the three miles of walking into town and get a ride from the trailhead parking lot. Unfortunately, no one was in the parking lot when I arrived. Sure, I could wait, and someone would probably come to fetch their car, but it felt like a considerable risk. If I hurried, I would make it with 15 minutes to spare. Well, I almost immediately took a wrong turn. Make that 10 minutes to spare now.

I was practically running by the time I was a block out from the restaurant, making it with precisely ten minutes to spare as expected. I’ve gotten pretty good at timing myself! Oh, and thanks to those extra miles, I finally had a day over 30 miles. 32 miles, to be exact!

Eagle Creek was undoubtedly a highlight of Oregon. I'll certainly repeat it when I return to finish the chunk I skipped right before. Maybe I'll get to have one of you along to introduce you to my favorite Oregon segment!

Media Share

While hanging out in Bend, OR, I met a group of awesome SoBos. If you want to see the trail from the perspective of a SoBo, give them a follow!

Nasty Elijah - @roo_be_

Alphapuss- @madsrags

Wonka- @mollyontrail

Shawn and I stopped by Shelter Cover to drop some extra snacks and supplies I wouldn't need into their hiker box. There was a huddle of hikers around the picnic table that had me optimistic. Maybe there really would be more folks around to hike with than I would have had if I had stayed back.

We then made our way to the trailhead, where Shawn and I said our goodbyes, and, for the first time, I managed not to cry! Sure, it was unlikely to feel like the social experience of the desert. The Sierra snow had flung people throughout the trail, removing any sense of a bubble. Not only that, many people have simply gone home, acknowledging that this wasn't turning out to be the experience they wanted for themselves and deciding to come back on a more "normal" year. I've considered it quite a bit myself, honestly. Still, my hopes were high that I could reclaim some of that feeling of community by restarting here.

The gloom of the cloudy sky made the forest walking magical. Every tree was decked out in a speckled coat of furry lichen, looking great under a gray sky. I passed by gorgeous lakes that, if the sun had been out making the world a bit warmer, I wouldn't have been able to skip a swim. A sucker for old cabins, I made a brief detour to one the local Nordic skiing club built. I opened the door to find I had run into Crumbs (Portland, OR), a buddy from aqueduct night, once again.

He had stayed overnight at the cabin and was getting a later start than usual. With only ten miles planned for that day, he didn't need to get out early anyway. Crumbs was taking on the 24-hour challenge, opting for a midnight start so he could finish and sleep for a good while before getting out again. The 24-hour challenge is exactly what you think it is, and he was hoping to get 65 miles behind him. Hopefully, I run into him at trail days to find out how he did.

Given the relatively flat terrain, Oregon is a common spot to take on the 24-hour challenge. I was just .3 shy of a 30-mile day in this stretch - and that day included a leisurely swim! Many hikers also use this challenge to help them succeed in "The Oregon Challenge": hike the whole state (492 miles) in two weeks or less. It will surprise none of you that I won't be taking on either of these challenges myself.

I continued, passing SoBo hiker after SoBo hiker. Where were all the NoBos? I knew a big bubble was already partway into Washington, but surely some were still back in Oregon. My worrying was brief, though, as I was soon distracted by the hope of trail magic. Within a few miles of the cabin, every SoBo hiker happily shared the news that I had excellent trail magic ahead, and it even happened to be where I planned to have lunch. Soon, the excitement grew with a series of beautifully homemade signs that the trail angels had set out along the trail just before their makeshift lounge.

"Ducky's Parents" hosted hikers with hot dogs, soda, chips, and cookies. Their son (trail name Ducky) had hiked the PCT a few years ago, and they caught the trail angel bug. They come out every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to put on trail magic from 9 am - 5 pm. They drive over an hour and a half to get here, bringing in not just all that food and the means to prep and share it but also a bunch of camp chairs and a wooden bench they have had hikers decorate with their signatures.

As we perused through their trail register, looking for the names of friends ahead of us, Ducky's parents shared that this was the first day they had more SoBo hikers than NoBos. It crushed my soul a little to hear it had been hours since they had last seen a NoBo hiker, meaning I was unlikely to start making any NoBo friends in this stretch of trail. I encountered a few, but they were the start of the "true" NoBo bubble: people that had hiked through the Sierras and kept a continuous footpath north. These are awesome humans that have accomplished an incredible feat. As a reward for their efforts, the Sierras gifted them with next-level trail legs. Translation: I can't keep up with these people.

Anticipating our questions, Ducky's dad even brought a newspaper clipping about a nasty burn section I was about to hike into. The sight was indeed the most desolate burn scar I had seen yet. He explained that the Cedar Creek Fire1 tore through shortly after another fire had already been there a few years earlier. It torched land that had already burned, setting aflame what little remained and leaving almost nothing. It felt like I was hiking on another planet as I wound through the soft, ashy earth.

Crossing through this desolate land, I noticed the sun getting lower in the sky and had to start looking ahead and planning for a place to camp. I used to excitedly look at the different camping options in my app, trying to find the best one the night before. Now, it just brings dread as I worry I'll end up alone. I found a few sites and decided to stop at whichever one already had someone camping at it. This could mean I end up camping much later than I wanted, but that beats eating dinner and camping alone. Fortunately, I came upon a SoBo already camped at the first lake I was considering.

Lake Hopping

With the sun rising one minute later each day, I pushed back my alarm to allow myself some extra sleep while still getting on the trail as early as possible without needing a headlamp to guide me. Now I get to sleep until 4:30am!

The sunrise, while different than the epic ones I had in Northern California, was beautiful in its own way. The colors reflected in the steaming lake, and the golden morning shown through the thick forest as I walked along. I passed scenic lake after scenic lake, never stopping at one for a break as it was still bug o'clock, meaning the mozzies would eat me alive if I even dared to slow my pace.

I have a growing "section hiker threshold" theory. There are areas where I've found a notable number of section hikers that aren't filling in missing patches from a thru-hike. Usually, this indicates that I'm hiking through an incredibly scenic trail segment. They wouldn't take limited time off work for just anything, only for the good stuff.

There were a growing number of these groups as the day went on. Dads out with their own dad and sons, groups of friends, all leaving camp at a leisurely 9 or 10 am. With only the deadline set by the supplies they could carry, they didn’t have to crush any miles.

I lost count of how many leisurely groups I passed. Through that day and the following ones, I felt my theory gaining stronger ground as the scenery continued to stun, both in its beauty and the frequency with which it changed.

As with every SoBo I passed, they shared the same disappointing news: they hadn’t seen a NoBo for hours.

My stomach pulled my attention away, demanding I attend to my most basic needs. Thinking back on the moment, I can't help but chuckle at my initial response: frustration.

Stomach: “Seriously, I’m starving. When are we going to eat?”

Brain: “You’re bringing us and our pace down! Why do we have to do stupid things like stop and eat?”

At least there was yet another gorgeous lake. Bug o'clock was long gone, and the weather had warmed enough to warrant getting in the water. I told myself I was only going in for a dip. The moment my head went under the water's surface, everything changed. I reflexively swam forward and then floated along. Funnily enough, this wasn't the first time I told myself I had time for just a quick dunk, only to change my mind entirely once submerged. You would think I'd learn.

I got out and ate my lunch with a far less bitter attitude than when I had put my pack down for the break. I stepped on the trail with a fed stomach and notably better spirits. Eventually, I stopped asking SoBos if there were any NoBos ahead. The answers were only making me sad.

I changed tactics with my questions to the SoBos and started simply asking if anyone was camped at the spots in the next few miles. As luck would have it, one finally gave me good news about a site I could reach just a few minutes after sunset if I hurried. I plugged in, turned on some EDM with a high BPM2, and set off.

Five minutes after sunset, with a half hour or so of daylight, I stumbled into camp. Two tents were set up, with room for me to squeeze between them. One was clearly that of a section hiking couple. No thru-hiker would carry a tent that heavy, even if the weight were shared between a couple. The other was clearly a thru-hiker who confirmed it when she popped her head out and greeted me.

Chaser (Portland, OR) had come down with a stress fracture in the desert, forcing her to skip to Oregon once she finally healed. There wasn't time to do more as she no longer had the benefit of trail legs that could carry her farther in a day. Chaser changed her goals, deciding that she at least wanted to finish Oregon and Washington this year.

Even though I likely wouldn't see her the next day, it still felt like progress. My resupply required me to put in at least 25 miles each day, which she certainly wasn't doing this early in her hike restart. I was so excited to finally be camping with a NoBo, even if it meant she would be a one-night friend like a SoBo.

Volcanic Gauntlet

I was up early for another colorful sunrise that completely changed the valley I camped in. As I filtered my water on the side of a scenic creek, I watched the colors change on the horizon as the sun climbed higher. Mornings are my favorite time of day, not just for the beautiful colors that change quickly but for the calm. I don't let myself start looking more than a mile ahead or setting goals until after lunch. From waking up until then, I just walk and enjoy things around me without any plans I've beholden myself to.

I climbed above it and into a burn scar, full of blowdowns that slowed my pace to a crawl. Near the top of the climb, I rested on one I had to sit on to get over, taking the opportunity to switch my phone off airplane mode in hopes of a cell signal. My Duolingo app wasn't loading any lessons, and I would drain my phone battery checking for service every mile if needed. I’m not going to lose that 500-day streak!

No signal. Rats.

I continued alternating between meadows full of wildflowers and forests shining like a disco ball with the rays of the morning sun poking through. Eventually, I turned a corner and felt nearly slapped in the face with an incredible view of the Sisters. They are a trio of mountains: North Sister, Middle Sister, and South Sister. A small one nearby is called "Brother" and a craggy spire further west from the group is deemed "Husband."

I soaked in the view for a few minutes before I noticed a man typing on his phone on a large stone. Could it be? Was there cell service?

I’m happy to report my Duolingo streak has been maintained.

I've been burning through audiobooks on the Libby app, so I also "shopped" for more to put in for a hold. On that note, have you downloaded the app and put in a request for The Comfort Crisis yet? Do it! Okay, I would also settle for a book recommendation. I've been listening to a lot of books where I've been learning, but I would love a lighter one that makes me laugh. Drop a comment if you've got a book that made you laugh, ideally with an audiobook version.

In seemingly an instant, the scenery changed. Suddenly, the greenery was replaced with a spectrum of red and black to gray in the form of lava rocks. Yes, the same things your neighbor puts in their flower beds. Have you ever tried walking on those?

Don’t.

I kept getting distracted from the otherworldly scene that was before me. I’ve never seen anything like these stretches of mountainous lava fields. Of course, the moment you glance away or even start to think about anything else, you feel your ankle give on a rock. It requires total focus to hike on these.

The world’s worst meditation.

At least the temperatures were relatively cool, and the wind was steady. When I reached a lakeside lunch spot where I also hoped to swim, the wind was more than steady. It was downright angry. I delayed my lunch to 3 pm for a lake that was too windy to swim at anyway. Bummer.

The trail entered another burn zone that had been recently cleared. The trail crew leader even commented about it on a junction in our hiking app, which time-stamped the work to just a week prior. How lucky to be behind everyone else for once!

From there, the ankle-crushing gauntlet returned for another mile to a highway. My ankles were practically begging me to reach out my thumb for a hitch.

"It probably gets better after this," I told myself, unwilling to actually check the app to confirm. Classic Schrödinger's Cat move3. As long as I don’t check, the lava field neither continued nor stopped. In a cruel twist of fate, the trail gave a break for about a mile of soft dirt before the lava field trekking returned, stretching on for two fricking miles.

The hiking required the face-down focus that an audiobook can only slightly ease the dullness of, but only slightly. Whenever my lungs needed a breather, it was a gift. It forced me to look up and take in the view all around. The Sisters Mountains to the south, lava field stretching around me as if I were in a space movie.

I honestly couldn't guess where the trail was going to take me. The app showed a campsite 4 miles into these fields, and the pictures had trees. Every forested bit I could see was far more than 4 miles away.

The trail crested a hill before revealing an oasis, a lush island of trees on a Mars ocean. Sometimes I wish I was hiking with a geologist who could tell me how things like this can exist. At this moment, I saw the trail bend toward and disappear into the island's trees. I practically ran. Well, insofar as one can even "run" on lava rocks.

I caved, checking my app for what I had ahead of me. Did I pass the gauntlet? Was it over?

No, it wasn't.

Well, the worst of it was. I had finished two miles of this brutality and received a one-mile break in return. There was only one mile of lava field after the trail kicked me off this island. Maybe I should get it over with now.

Then I heard the voices of a jolly-sounding group in the trees. They greeted me heartily as I walked up.

My penance could wait until tomorrow.

Big Lake Youth Camp

I was awake well before my alarm went off, the wind ensuring I never fell into too deep of a sleep. Eventually, I took it as a sign to get moving earlier than planned and just hiked by headlamp for a while. Plus, the earlier I got up, the sooner I got to town.

The air has been smelling of campfire very lightly through this section every morning, but today was much more potent. I kept my headlamp in red mode as I packed so I didn't wake my campmates. When I switched to white as I got on the trail again, I was alarmed at the thick smoke restricting my visibility to about 100 feet. With no service to check my wildfire app4, I sent a satellite message to Shawn to check for me. He wouldn't be up for a few hours, so I pressed on, eager to get my lava field hiking done.

I was learning how trees “talk” to each other5 when Shawn replied with good news. The fire was at least 15 miles away, and I was steadily hiking away from it. It would have to jump a highway to get to me, and the fire crews weren't concerned about it as a possibility.

I carried on my way with a bit more ease, eager to finally see what all the fuss was about with some religious youth camp in the woods. My next resupply had been shipped there, assuming I wouldn't bother going 15 miles off-trail into the next town. The camp has a "hiker hut" with a kitchen, showers, (new!) laundry machines, outlets galore to charge up, and even a standing invitation to join them in their cafeteria for any of the day's three meals.

They offer all this free to hikers, though they have a donation box. A number of churches in trail towns host hikers like this and are genuinely excellent representatives of their respective faiths. I'm not typically a fan of organized religion, a sucker for any documentary that shines a light on organizations that prey on people in its name. However, the welcoming spirit and openness to strangers these institutions have shown us smelly hikers have softened me. I'm still a happy agnostic but even happier now that I've had these opportunities to witness religion being used as a connector rather than pushing an "us versus them, all or nothing" narrative.

Big Lake Youth Camp accepts resupply packages, and as they are less than a mile off trail, with easy access to rejoin without any backtracking, this was an easy stop for me. Before I entered the ankle-crushing gauntlet, I had no intention to bother with getting a ride for the fifteen miles into town. I desperately needed a tub soak and a real bed, two of the few things the youth camp didn't offer.

I rolled in to get my package and move on to finish the last few miles before town. Well, that was the plan. I arrived in time for breakfast; I might as well join them.

Hikers eat where the staff eats and are asked to go the long way around to get to the cafeteria to avoid entering any areas where the campers stay. We must also camp off the property at a cove on the lake they happily direct us to with signage.

A bunch of minors that I'm not related to running around is also why I didn't get any pictures of this sweet camp. These kids have access to jet skis, water sports, and even water trampolines with all the jungle gym accessories floating around them!

If I went to breakfast, I could charge some things while I ate. I shouldn't hike until my stomach has settled that food, so I might as well brew some Earl Grey and organize everything out of my resupply box instead of just dumping it all in my pack. Well, I think I'll have to poo soon, and why dig a cat hole when I can use their toilet? It isn't ready yet, but I can go ahead and do my stretches to give it time.

Two hours after arriving, I finally escaped. Maybe it was a cult, after all. Documentary coming soon.

I was less than a mile away when a trail magic sign appeared. These Oregon trail angels really like their signs. When I stumbled into Magic Mike's setup, I was convinced they were all competing not just on signs but on giving out the best trail magic.

Magic Mike camps in this spot for 2-3 weeks every summer in his giant RV and builds out an impressive outdoor kitchen setup to give out trail magic in the form of three meals a day. He even sets up a massive event tent so people can camp under it without enduring dew from the lake on their own tents in the morning.

When I arrived, he offered me a couple of pancakes and the best homemade biscuit I’ve had in a very long time. There were sodas and beer in the cooler, too. Surprising myself, I opted for the orange soda.

Magic Mike is a true gem. His neighbor's daughter was there, telling stories of how he cooks up brunch for the neighborhood every month to bring everyone together. A number of the neighbors come out for brief stints to help with his trail magic operation.

I wish the world had more Magic Mikes in it. He was so engaging and a delight of a conversationalist that I could have hung out the whole day. Other hikers clearly had, happily sharing stories of the whiskey that he shared from the night before. My town chores started gnawing at the back of my mind, though.

I was stewing in the warm and fuzzy glow of a day filled with positive human connection when I passed by one last spirit-lifter before the highway that would take me into Sisters, OR: a makeshift 2,000-mile marker.

Were we really down to the final 650-ish miles already? Part of me couldn't believe it was here already. Another part felt like there was still so much left that it was almost overwhelming. I thought back to the Mexico border. I was a completely different person with absolutely no idea what lay ahead. Even with the desert behind me, I had no idea what I was getting into and how much I would change once I returned to the trail to hike Northern California. How much could happen in another 650 miles?

Media Share

The youth camp has an Instagram dedicated to sharing the stories of the hikers that pass through: @pctpeople

Everyone I had met along the trail was right about Ashland, OR. It is an awesome town and was a fantastic spot to enjoy a few days as a tourist with Shawn. Great eating abounds, and there’s even a Shakespeare festival that runs through the summer, though we didn’t end up going to see a show ourselves.

I had planned on taking just one zero-day and having Shawn help me slackpack for a few days of my northbound journey. Well, we had a bit too much fun at our Peerless dinner and opted to sleep in and spend another day relaxing instead. Plus, we had some errands to run to get ready for something our little hiking group had been looking forward to for many miles: celebrating Anew’s 70th birthday!

The rest of the group had rented an Airbnb together, so we met them at their place for some appetizers before heading out for a quick dinner. Boss (Estonia) and Cave Man (Czech Republic) joined us and returned to the house, where we all celebrated with some games, cake, and ice cream. What a joy to get to celebrate a trail birthday, but even better to be able to celebrate a 70th. If I’m doing half as well as Anew at that age and getting to do so with my friends, too, I’ll be happy.

I was up bright and early the next day, so excited to have Shawn joining me for a small section of hiking. We dropped the car at our endpoint and took an Uber to where I had left off a few days before. The 8-mile hike back was nearly all downhill and amidst the trees, making for a leisurely cruise in just a few hours.

We had initially planned on car camping at one of the many lake resorts that the PCT passes by in Oregon to make the slackpacking easier, but the temperatures were high enough that Shawn was quick to nix that, opting to make the drive in and out of town each day. Our hotel (The Peerless Hotel) was unavailable for another couple of nights, so we migrated to an adorable little spot (The Palm) with a pool. The stars aligned perfectly for an afternoon pool day after lunch, which my body needed. I had been feeling achy, unsure if hiking every day had just been masking it all.

My next slackpack section was long enough that Shawn wouldn’t be joining this time, so it would be a great trial of how my legs would do going back to bigger miles after my break. After a mile, my legs felt warmed up; the aches melted away. Or I was just really engulfed in my latest audiobook. Within a mile of our planned meeting point, Shawn popped out from behind a tree and hiked the last bit with me. We headed to a nearby resort for lunch and, realizing I was further behind schedule than I thought, devised a plan to get me back on track.

I initially thought I could get more miles in each day than I had expected when I created my planning spreadsheet in January. While I was indeed on track to ramp up my mileage beyond what I anticipated, I wasn’t confident I could get in enough miles each day to compensate without spending most of every day worried about feeding the mileage monster. This time crunch is the biggest thing I don’t like about thru-hiking.

The annual PCT Days event is on August 18, and it is important to me to make it to Cascade Locks, OR for the event. I could do all this stressing and still need to ask an Oregon trail angel for a ride up and skip some northern Oregon miles this year. Sure, I could also get a ride back and do those miles this year, but continuing north from PCT days puts me on track to finish within my weather window without spending every day stressing. If I was going to skip miles to return to section hike, it would be far easier to return to southern Oregon rather than make the trip to northern Oregon. Plus, maybe I could talk Shawn (or one of you!) into joining for that short trip.

In summation, there are two options. 

Option A:

• Keeping pushing miles, stressing every day that I’m not getting enough

• Feel more lonely as I fall further behind the bubble of hikers

• Likely still have to skip sections, but they would be sections that are more of a PITA to get to 

Option B:

• Jump ahead enough to take away the mileage stress and actually enjoy the hiking

• Hopefully jump ahead enough to be closer to the hiker bubble, enjoying more socializing

• Skip some sections now in more accessible places

• Come back to do them with friends (hopefully!)

The decision was obvious. Shawn and I left Ashland the next day, driving an hour and a half north to Crater Lake National Park.

Crater Lake

Shawn had already driven all this way, and we might as well enjoy some more tourist time and soak up an attraction that the PCT passes by: Crater Lake National Park. The trail avoids the lake itself because stock animals aren’t allowed near it. As human hikers are permitted, most of us take an alternate to the PCT to see the lake and join back with the trail after.

We arrived at our Airbnb with plenty of time to enjoy an afternoon by the creek, pushed inside as the air started to chill with the setting sun. I’ve never been great at relaxing, always wanting to cram in as much as possible into every minute of a vacation. Maybe the trail has taught me a thing or two about slowing down. Of course, it could also be that I’m just so dang exhausted. I could sleep for a month straight when I get home from this.

With much of the park areas closed for construction, we only made a half day of experiencing it. Okay, I was also in desperate need of a nap. The alarm is set to go off early tomorrow as Crater Lake is not where I will be jumping back on the trail. Shawn is bringing me further north to Shelter Cove (in Crescent, Oregon) and needs enough time to return home and fetch the kitties.

I'm excited to return to the trail in a much more relaxed state than I have been lately. Taking some time off has helped, but I didn't realize how much the stress of the mileage worries had weighed on me until Shawn practically insisted that he drive me ahead. Yes, it was his idea, and yes, it was because he was tired of hearing me worry about it.

There are many things to look forward to that I've always been excited to see in northern Oregon and beyond in Washington. Still, I get a bit teary-eyed thinking about tomorrow's goodbyes. I know this will all be over sooner than I'll realize, and I'll wish I was back out on the trail, living my more straightforward life.

An odd part of me is grateful that I've had to skip so much of the trail this year. Seeing all the happy section hikers returning to finish some patches from their thru-hikes has made me realize that this will give me something to look forward to when the post-trail depression hits.

Speaking of, who is interested in joining me for hiking a section of the PCT in the future? I won’t have my trail legs, so you won’t be obligated to 20+ mile days, I promise!

Media Share

Did you know that the Libby app also allows you to checkout audio books from your library? Thank you for the tip, Picnic! I’m not done with it yet, but The Comfort Crisis has been such a good read and really helping me to refocus the difficulty of this challenge and see how much it is benefitting my brain as much as my body. Of course, you don’t have to commit yourself to six months of hiking to get the benefits. I highly recommend you give it a read - or a listen!

The climb out of Seiad Valley, CA, is notoriously steep. It was the one climb I’d heard about from countless thru-hikers in their blogs and vlogs over the years of consuming them. The thought of tackling it would occasionally creep into the back of my mind, gnawing at me as far back as the start of the trail. Until the day of the climb, I didn’t realize that this anxiety had faded over the last few weeks.

I’ve been feeling strong enough that climbs aren’t near as miserable as they used to be. After researching during my zero in Mount Shasta, I thought I had a solid plan to attack it. There were a group of campsites halfway up the climb, meaning I could break it up just as I did with the enormous elevation gain out of Belden, CA.

Most of all, Shawn had saved many of the cards I’ve received from y’all for the later parts of Northern California, as I had told him about the NorCal blues before I even stepped foot at the southern terminus. There was a deep pool of strength to pull from between your kind words and the trio of other hikers who liked the idea enough to join me!

We spent the day relaxing and socializing until about 4:00 PM. With the temperatures finally dropping, we began the nearly 5,000-foot climb out of Seiad Valley, CA. Four miles in, we arrived at the campsite sticky with sweat. We were immensely grateful that our timing allowed most of the climb to be decently shaded. There wasn’t much room for all our tents, but we disassembled a fire ring of rocks to make enough space to squeeze in together.

I was giddy with joy as we prepared and ate our dinners in a circle together, so grateful for the company. Shawn had included more treats that my dad and his girlfriend, Kelly, had sent from a delicious confectionary back home in Memphis (Dinstuhl’s), which I was stoked to share. Happily fed, we all settled in to listen to a poem recording from a podcast that Picnic enjoys. The reflections on nature calmed me, sending away any remaining anxieties about the rest of the climb ahead the following day.

Finishing The Climb

Wanting to avoid as much heat as possible, we were up early enough to catch the sunrise as we hiked the next day. Fortunately, the temperature drops about 3.5°F (2°C) for every 1,000 feet gained in elevation. With the gains we had made the day before, we would enjoy temperatures already 10°F (about 6°C) cooler than Seiad Valley. Cool temperatures and morning energy helped us finish the climb before we stopped for our breakfast break.

The trail gifted us several miles downhill before another 1,000-foot climb. Indy suggested that we knock this one out before lunch, allowing us to cruise at rolling elevation for the rest of the day when it would be much hotter. We pushed through and made it to a generously shaded lunch spot. Indy gave us the gift of an “elevation revelation” upon arrival: we had accomplished more elevation gain in the last 24 hours than we had remaining in the next few days into Ashland, OR. My buddy, Old Faithful, was right: get through the forty miles around Seiad Valley, and it was a cruise from there on.

I had made the mistake of forgetting to sync my Garmin watch the last few times in town. My watch alerted me that it was running out of memory the first night of this section. Much to my dismay, the app requires an internet connection to pull the data off my watch and into my phone. Why Garmin, why?

Not wanting to lose my activity data, I anxiously checked for reception at every peak I passed. I was never surprised when it found no signal. Still, the worst was finding just enough to get notifications but not strong enough to do anything about them. As it happens, this is not enough to sync the stupid watch. Fortunately for me, Philosopher had fantastic reception and a willingness to let me use his phone as a hotspot at camp to upload the activities. You can bet I will never forget the “sync watch” item on my town to-do list again.

The Oregon Border

A lot of the NorCal blues stems from hikers spending so much time in California. It may seem silly, but ticking off major milestones does a lot to boost morale. The day had arrived that we would finally cross our first of just two state border crossings. Our energy was high as we left our breakfast spot, as the next time we would meet would be for lunch at the border.

I relished in the glow of the morning light in the trees and the meadows that broke them up, offering up views far into the distance. Excitedly, I wondered what of the hills in the distance were claimed by California and which were in Oregon.

Within a mile or two of the border, I dropped my pack and took a brief detour from the trail. Philosopher had already been at the Donomore Cabin for a few minutes, so I joined him to explore the artifact that local volunteers were contributing their time and money to rehabilitating. Excited for the more enormous milestone just ahead, we signed the trail register inside and hurried along.

I was surprised when I turned a corner and saw the signposts just down the trail. These markers I had only seen in the videos of past thru-hikers I followed on YouTube were before me. I’ve never even been to Oregon and was about to walk into it!

I gleefully took my last steps in California and posed with the border sign. As if it were a joke from the universe, I worked my way around yet another blowdown for my first steps into Oregon.

The universe jokes didn’t end there. We had been repeatedly told that Oregon was flat, with folks managing 30-mile days through the state. After lunch, the trail took us up a 1,000-foot climb for our first Oregonian miles. I had no complaints, though. It brought me to a tree-free peak that gave me enough reception to make a very important FaceTime call to wish my nephew, Charlie, a happy first birthday. Sharing the excitement that I was in a new state with my brother on his first child’s birthday felt awesome. The sun was getting lower, and I still had a lot of miles to make before camp, so I had to cut it shorter than I would have otherwise wanted.

There’s a “rule” that some hikers keep not to talk about town food too far out from town. Generally, “too far out” is more than 24 hours. We were now within that window, and Picnic and I giddily chatted about things we were excited to enjoy the next day in Ashland, OR.

The topic transitioned to what kind of trail magic we would love to find right then and there. I went on about how much I’ve found that I love and crave soda more than ever on this hike. All I wanted was to drink soda and have someone take my trash. My monologue on my soda desires was suddenly interrupted by the sound of Philosopher talking with Chew Toy (he got his name from a dog bite in the desert!) just below the trail at a water source that Picnic and I were going to skip. Seeing us, he said there was trail magic soda in the spring’s outlet. Thinking he had been hearing me go on about soda, I told him what a cruel joke this was if he was kidding. Much to our delighted surprise, he wasn’t! Cherry Pepsi and Mountain Dew rested in the cold waters of the piped spring!

The sugar rush practically carried me into camp. Our first camp in Oregon! Even better, the last one before town!

Waking up in Oregon

The night had been just cool enough to make me feel dread as my alarm went off the following day. I had slept so well and felt so cozy in my sleeping quilt that I got out of camp 15 minutes later than usual. The easy grade of the trail was a blessing as I felt groggier than usual despite the excitement of it being my favorite kind of day on the trail: hiking during my favorite half of the day but ending it with town food, a shower, and a bed.

The morning miles gave us several welcome gifts: gorgeous valleys filled with wildflowers and scenic shots of Mount Shasta to the south. Not only that, we came across another round of trail magic. Two coolers were marked for PCT hikers filled with sodas and a trail register in a plastic bag. As an added bonus, a camp chair was set up to soak in the valley views, and even trash bags to leave our empty cans.

The easy grade and beautiful views had been a delight from nature. Getting trail magic two days in a row was a wonderful delight to receive from the humans living in the area. Oregon was showing up California in a big way already.

Even the day hikers we had been passing enthusiastically welcomed us to their home state. They were stoked to offer an overwhelming amount of food suggestions whenever we asked, excited for us to soak up their local spots.

As excited as I was for all the everyday town things, I was most excited to open up the “creeper app” at the trailhead and see that Shawn was within a few hours. It is fun to experience all these new places, but it is even better to get the chance to share them with your partner. My spirits had lifted enough that I knew this wouldn’t be where my hike ended. I felt ready and strong enough, both emotionally and physically, to make it through the state of Oregon. More than ever, I felt like I may pull this off and make it all the way to Canada.

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You can view the trail from Philosopher’s perspective over on Instagram: @plantesandtrees

I begrudgingly packed my things and started the walk down the main road out of Etna, CA, hoping to catch a hitch while at the same time hoping one never came. I could stay in this adorable town forever. As I was chatting with a local, the postman drove up to ask her about the house she was selling and, as an aside, asked if I needed a ride up the hill. The best hitches are the ones you don’t have to stick your thumb out for.

I hit the trail at about noon, listening along to more podcast recommendations I had been given from other hikers. I listen to them as closely as possible when they are suggested. You never know when you’ll see people again, given how much mileage varies between everyone. Having something to talk to people about other than mileage or campsite planning is nice.

I arrived at a lake I hoped to swim at, too close to sunset to jump in, but it was a muddy bottom anyway, and I don’t mess with that. Instead, I set up my tent and enjoyed making dinner alongside Philosopher (MA), Indy (TX), and Picnic (Bay Area). We were visited in the night by those menacing deer again. I look forward to the day I reach areas where they start acting like prey again!

Blowdown Showdown

I continued my sunrise streak the next day thanks to a 4:30 alarm, beginning a climb over a valley made even more beautiful with the rising sun. Within a few miles, I started encountering the first of many blowdowns that I had to wrangle around in this section. Anew is a fan of counting them and reported that we crossed 430 in this section of the trail!

Not only are they generally, well, not fun, but they slow you down as you attempt to carefully hoist yourself around them. They're also dangerous. I'm approaching the point where the bruise patches outnumber the blemish-free skin on my legs! Beyond just bruises, an errant branch on these annoying logs can also impale, ending a hike.

Despite the blowdown obstacle course, I still managed to eke out my usual 4-6 miles before my breakfast stop. Philosopher and Indy caught up and took a break, with a few other hikers in our little bubble stopping in, too. We hiked together, chatting along, for a good chunk of the miles between there and lunch. Along the way, we came across a Boy Scout troop out for a short trip, making this the most social day on the trail since the desert section.

I knew that the area we were coming into, the Marble Mountain Wilderness, was in several backpacking trip books I owned. Still, I'd never bothered to look into them as it was always such a far drive away. From our lunch spot, the trail passed through valleys that put the mountains themselves on a stunning display. They were worthy of the hype they received and the long drive it would have taken to get there.

Being out here has made me cry much more easily, both tears of joy and sadness. I had spent a lot of lunch tearfully talking through my latest thoughts on whether to exit the trail in Ashland, OR. Now I was tearing up from overwhelming gratitude that I could take in things most people in my life would never get the chance to see.

By the time I made it to our agreed-upon camp, I knew it was too late in the day for the rest of the group to get there. I hadn't seen them in hours, and they were unlikely to night-hike to get here. Realizing I would be camping alone kicked off the third crying session of the day. Despite this being the single thing I get most panicked about, it was the shortest.

I hate camping alone, but this was the ultimate challenge I needed to face on this hike. Even as I struggle with whether to continue past Ashland, I know in my gut that I'm meant to learn to be okay camping alone before I can, in good conscience, exit the trail. As if on cue, the deer start circling me, signaling their ritual is, in fact, definitely still on the schedule this evening.

I kicked off my own evening rituals, finding every upside I could manage to camping alone. I could take my time, not worrying about someone else getting to bed earlier than me nearby. I didn't have to go that far to pee; privacy abounded!

Well, I still went far enough so the deer didn't wake me as they slurped on it all night. As they started circling again, I defended my tiny territory by chucking sticks in their general direction. My aim could use improvement, but they got the idea.

The show of force kept them away long enough for my gummies to kick in and lull me to sleep. Sure, they came around through the night with their stomping, but I was just something to pass by on the way to my golden (pun intended) pee spot.

Seiad Valley

I've actually been enjoying my 4:30 alarm. It is the perfect amount of time for me to down my iron pill with a light snack, journal, and pack up to hit the trail just as there is enough dawn light in the sky to hike without a headlamp. As I wanted to be sure I knocked out my 24 miles to get into town before the store closed, I set my alarm half an hour earlier. I don't love having to stop to put my headlamp away, but seeing the stars instead of being busy putting things in my pack during that time is lovely.

The trail into town stayed along a creek, winding through a beautifully forested canyon. I was making such good time that I allowed myself to get distracted by perfectly ripe thimbleberries and blackberries, snacking as I went. Despite the snack breaks, I finally accomplished the "10 by 10" goal many thru-hikers aspire to: 10 miles by 10:00 AM. I've missed it by 10-15 minutes for the last few weeks, but I knocked it out with 10 minutes to spare. 

I arrived at the last bridge crossing the creek, checked my watch, and decided I had made enough time to warrant my first swim of this section. I've had a goal to swim at least once a section to ensure I'm not just feeding the mile monster but taking time out for the things I love about backpacking. I jump in fully clothed, not out of modesty but to refresh my clothes and soul. All my clothes were dry within a mile of my road walk in this heat.

I never enjoy road walks, but this one was lovely and reasonably shaded. Just as the trail turned onto a two-lane highway, with cars flying by, a truck pulled over. It was full of hikers already, but there was an extra seat so I could safely ride through the rest of these road miles.

The town (and "town" is a strong word here) of Seiad Valley, CA hosts a store, a cafe, and an RV park. They are all run by some of the most hiker-friendly folks on the trail.

The cafe uses only local blackberries, making for the most delicious milkshakes. Of course, you can opt for the pancake challenge: eat over 5 pounds of pancakes in an hour, and they're free! Even those with stronger hiker hunger than I can't finish it. The staff says they haven't seen someone finish it in 6 years!

Since there isn't anything open for dinner, the residents at the RV park put on a donation-based dinner every night for the hikers. There's nothing like having home-cooked food on the trail. They even brought out ice cream and pie after!

As it lies in an area known as the State of Jefferson, I wasn't sure if we'd be very welcome here. Given the number of dramatic "no trespassing" signs (stuff like "don't worry about the dog, worry about the owner" paired with a gun graphic) and angry dogs defending useless crap, I wasn't sure I would even stay the night. I figured I would simply start the massive climb out once the afternoon sun started to cool. The warmth of the people we interacted with made me feel welcomed (and safe) enough to stay the night. A few good apples sometimes make up for the rest of the bunch.

I didn't manage to escape Mount Shasta, CA, without succumbing to the new age vibes. First, a crystal shop got money from me when I finally admitted I needed a town dress. A town dress is a common thing to carry for the simple fact that it is lightweight and just one piece of clothing for a whole outfit. You may even see Marlee thru-hikers donning one to get around the “no shirt, no service” dilemma while their laundry is being done.

I've been using a pair of spandex shorts paired with my black rain jacket, but it was far too hot to keep the jacket. I scoured thrift stores first with no luck before walking by a rack of $12 dresses outside a crystal shop.

On my way out of the shop, I saw a flier for a singing bowl healing session that happened every night. Next time you're in a touristy shopping area and come upon a Himalayan shop, they're bound to have a giant singing bowl, and you should do your best to convince them to play it for you. The sound is incredible, and you feel such crazy sensations from it in your body.

I figured, "when in Mount Shasta…" and attended the session. It was an incredible experience that felt like enhanced meditation. I have always struggled to gently let thoughts go when meditating, and it came so easily as the guide was playing the bowls. Letting go of all my worrying "to do" thoughts left me in a state where I felt like I simply existed, breathing freely for the first time in a long time. After the session, the guide commented that I started breathing regularly halfway through, something I wasn't doing when I arrived at the studio. It turns out that this was an important lesson for my next section of the trail.

I made it out on trail mid-morning the next day, with the sun already blazing hot. I’ve gotten into a habit of asking the south-bounders that I pass if they’ve seen a lot of north-bounders. The answer has remained the same and one that makes me quite anxious: less and less every day. I had no idea how much I was looking forward to the social aspect of this hike until I found myself at the end of the bubble.

Any other year I would be in the middle of it for this time and place in the trail. Not this year, what with everyone flipping in all different directions depending on their priorities.

A few miles into my climb, a familiar voice called out from a sobo hiker: "Buffer?"

Fry Pocket!

Everyone I have been hiking around these days started in May. What a joy to see a friend from my own starting bubble. It felt like we were friends from, for me at least, a more unrestricted time when the end of a thru-hike's weather window was so far off that you never considered it. We were now (quickly) commiserating under the growing presence of deadlines, both weather and visa limits, in the case of his hiking buddy, No Tape. There have been many times since I started this trek when I have felt a connection to his group’s joke motto: “World War Thru Hike.” Today felt like I was seeing an old friend on the battlefield.

Much to my disappointment, he confirmed that NoBos were dwindling. Having collected our water and taken a sufficient break, the deadline monster crept to the front of our minds, pushing us to say our goodbyes and go our different directions.

I made it to a campsite on a bluff just in time to watch the sunset cast a gorgeous array of colors on Mt. Shasta and Castle Crags. I was happy to find a SoBo hiker and a section hiker camping there, so I wasn’t alone. Yet somehow, it made me feel lonelier without another NoBo there.

Crowded Trails

The loneliness weighed heavily on me the next day. I had gotten good sleep, and typically mornings were my favorite part of the day, but I wasn't feeling it. All I wanted to do was set a plan in place to exit the trail. Two bad days in a row weren't enough to justify an immediate decision. Still, I wanted to select a location where I would get off the trail if things didn't change by then. Shawn planned to visit me once I crossed the border into Oregon, so Ashland felt like the right spot.

I hated the idea of thinking about quitting, but I also hated the idea of continuing to walk through such gorgeous places and completely disregarding them. Is it better to practice grit and push through or save the sections of the trail for another time when I will appreciate them better? I wanted to wait until Oregon to take any action on the answer. Northern California is known to many hikers as the home for the dreaded “NorCal Blues” and I am hopeful that it will wash away at my first state line crossing.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of chainsaws and, soon enough, found horses blocking the trail. I had come upon a trail crew! There were murmurings that the trail had a lot of blowdowns (logs blocking the trail). It wasn't until this moment that I realized I hadn't encountered any, and the trail of fresh horse poop must be the reason. Volunteer crews come up, using horses to carry gear, and happily work through this heat to ensure the trail is kept up and hikers are safe as they travel. I can't tell you how many bruises and cuts I have from this trail, reminders of different blowdowns I attempted to cross.

At the peak of the day's heat, I realized I had reached a spot where Fry Pocket insisted I take a break and swim. You were right, Fry Pocket, Deadfall Lake was amazing and my favorite swim so far. Nothing renews a soul and turns a day around like a swim break.

Little groups of friends backpackers (including families with kids under 5!) were all around the lake. There are rarely these numbers of folks on or around the trail, so it could only mean the weekend had arrived, which my phone confirmed. It was nice to get to talk to people as I dried in the sun. A father-son backpacking duo offered me a tent spot in their area, assuming that I was ending my day at 4:30 PM. Ha! If only, but I needed to make more miles that day, so I pressed on to hike until my usual 7-8 PM end time.

There were 3 different campsites ahead, and I told myself I would stop at the first that had a space for me and already had folks camped there. At the first one, I was shocked to find Serpent and Anew setting up camp. Serpent's son had surprised her by walking a few miles into the trail towards Deadfall Lake with his girlfriend, dog, and fresh fruit. They hail from the east coast, so this was a fantastic surprise. Serpent and Anew had just left the lake but turned around so they could all enjoy it together for a bit. Miles be damned.

Trail Magic

I've been keeping my early schedule (waking at 4:30 AM, on the trail within the hour) as the days have been getting hot. Generally, I get in 4-6 miles before I stop for breakfast. Ideally, I have 15 miles or so done when I stop for lunch. The afternoon heat slows me down a lot, so it gives me the flexibility to only "need" 5-10 more miles afterward.

A nice upside of this schedule is that I've seen every sunrise on trail for a while. It has been a reminder of why I'm out here. When else can I consistently see the morning color in such gorgeous places?

As I witnessed another beautiful sunrise, my thoughts felt more optimistic. I even had a moment where I actually felt like a real thru-hiker for the first time as I realized that I would have thought it crazy to knock out 15 miles before lunch a month ago. It was the first time I knew I could physically make it to Canada. Emotionally? Well, that has yet to be determined.

Soon I passed more folks from Fry Pocket's group that I knew. Old Faithful admitted that there were fewer NoBos these days, but there was so much to look forward to in Oregon and Washington. He was also upfront that the 40 miles around the last town in California (Seiad Valley, CA) were not great, but it was cruising after that, especially after Ashland, OR. Things were conspiring to keep me on the trail past Ashland. If I could avoid being among the many people that drop out in Northern California, I could make it the whole way. 

My hunger pains for lunch were starting to kick in as I came upon Walkie-Talkie and Skyline. Skyline rewarded me with a Jolly Rancher when I guessed his trail name was related to the chili. Thank you, Elizabeth Klare, for bringing it into work all those years ago!

Skyline was a thru-hiker from last year and, like many, was here to finish his missing sections from a fire closure. Walkie-Talkie had met him on the trail at some point and they became fast friends. She lives near us in South Lake Tahoe and has a lot of family up here in the further reaches of Northern California. With these resources, she was able to put together an entire slackpack plan for them to hike together to fill in Skyline's missing trail.

They were both so generous with their encouragement as we discussed how the trail was going. I admitted I was considering getting off the trail soon. Skyline threw out ways for me to stay on the trail, like skipping ahead to where the bubble was. Without prompting, Skyline suggested cutting the miles around Seiad Valley, the town that Old Faithful had said was brutal. Walkie-Talkie excited me with all the ways to make filling in the patches more fun when I returned. I wasn’t ready to consider more skips just yet, though. They’re so difficult to plan logistically that it often feels just easier to hike through. Plus, those miles would be a lot harder in the future when I wouldn’t have the trail legs I have worked so hard for now.

I arrived at a highway crossing to find a group of people under a pop-up tent with empty chairs around. Could it be? I didn't think we would get any being so far behind in the bubble, but it was indeed trail magic!

This group of folks were all involved in the Outdoor Scouting Guides, a scouting group for all genders and ages. Yes, even adults. As in, they have adult-only trips!

Hailing from the 124 Redwood Rangers troop on the coast, they had traveled with their kids to camp at the nearby campground and share trail magic with the hikers. There were treats and soda galore, but also fresh fruit. 

They set up trash bags and encouraged us to dump the trash from our packs in, too. After another hiker commented about his low charging status, one guy even offered us his battery bank. These were all awesome, but the showstopper was popsicles. They bothered to get some dry ice so they could pass out the most elusive trail magic item ever.

Soon enough, a cluster of NoBos had gathered under the tent, and I felt far less alone. We were sucked into the trail magic vortex and only managed another six miles after that. It was a joy to cook my dinner in a big circle of people again. This is what I had been desperately missing.

Up and Away

Most of the next morning went through gorgeous ridgeline climbs as the sun rose, making for a great distraction. By mid-morning, though, we had entered another burn scar, quickly ramping up the heat (and the boredom) again. When I finally came out of the burn scar that afternoon, the climbs got steeper and were pretty exposed.

I had been working my way through some podcast recommendations from Serpent when one came through the queue at the perfect time. An episode from Outside Magazine's podcast focused on "awe" and what it means for us physiologically. Yes, people are out there studying how a state of wonder affects your body.

Getting semi-regular moments of awe and wonder apparently reduces your stress and increases your grit. Given the beauty I was surrounded by all the time, I hadn't felt any sense of "awe" lately. There were gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, but I had miles to make. The podcast mentioned the requirement to stop and soak in moments, to breathe through them. Maybe that singing bowl guide was on to something; breathing is kind of important.

As I huffed my way up this exposed climb, I decided that any time I needed to stop to breathe, I would pause and look around, too. Being sticky with sweat and walking on throbbing feet suddenly didn't matter anymore as I looked around and absorbed the scenery. This is what I was out here for, wasn't I?

Etna

Another colorful sunrise and morning of expansive views carried me to the trailhead, where I caught a ride from a local to my next resupply town: Etna, CA. I had always heard such good things about this place. The people are as friendly as promised, and the town is even more hospitable to hikers. They let us camp for free in the park and have built out nice showers that they charge just $5 to use. They even open the public pool to us from 1-5PM every day.

It is a town that I always thought I would take a zero in to soak up, but now I feel the pressure to continue on without taking a day off for fear of being left behind. This thru-hike has made me into a different backpacker, adjusting to the demands it requires. I'm putting down more miles than I ever have and taking fewer detours than usual. Still, I was okay with this as long as there was a community of other hikers to share it all with. Plus, Shawn had graciously gotten me a reservation at the local spa for a much-needed 2-hour “soak and sauna” session that was glorious enough to feel like I got a zero day out of it.

Before starting this hike, I considered myself highly independent, preferring to do things my way. That has remained true in several ways. Deciding to get back on the trail much further south (and two weeks later) than my trail family meant that I would be parting ways with them, but that's where I wanted to restart, so I stuck to it. Also, I was excited to meet more new people.

Getting back on the trail with fewer people has showcased that I'm a much more social hiker than I realized I was. I tried to dismiss these desires as silly and felt I should focus on the benefits of being solo. I'm not looking to the trail to fix a trauma of mine, à la Wild. I realize I'm here to instill confidence in myself and finally find my tribe and that’s okay. We’re all here to hike our own hike, after all.

Christopher McCandless words are ringing a strong theme for me right now: "Happiness is only real when shared."

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My feet and knees are ecstatic that I got my next pair of hiking shoes in Mount Shasta. Thank you to that second pair for serving me well. Let’s say our goodbyes to them with a look at what I put them through every day.

Burney Falls State Park

With my medley of town chores remaining, I finally escaped the town of Burney, CA, and arrived at the trailhead just after 3:00 PM. I’ll admit I dawdled more than I should have out of dread for a two-day heat wave that would hit in the middle of this next section. My hitch was a dad who passed the trailhead halfway through his commute and always aimed to get a hiker if he saw them. He said he was building up good trail karma as he and his son are planning on thru-hiking the PCT together next year!

My late departure almost guaranteed that I would be arriving at Burney Falls State Park too late to enjoy a swim in the pool of the chilly, snowmelt falls. The day's heat would be gone, and I knew I wouldn't be interested. To compensate for the loss, I took a side quest to a bridge from a famous movie (pictured above). Any guesses? Hint: the movie came out in the eighties.

I also arrived too late to indulge in the famed soft-serve of the park's store, so I called the day and told myself I would have ice cream for breakfast when they opened in the morning. I set up camp at the hike-and-bike sites within the park, tucked away from the business of the car camping areas. These sites cannot be reserved and are only open to those who hike or bike into the park. The park is very popular with car campers, so it is a bit of a treat to walk in and have a site when the car camping sites are sold out nearly every night of the summer.

After I had set up camp and began to wonder if I would be camping alone, a park ranger drove up, chauffeuring Serpent (VA) and Anew (MD) to the site. Serpent is an AT alum and was now hiking the PCT with her lifelong friend, Anew. In their sixties, they inspired a lot of hope in me that I can actually do this hiking thing for longer than I expected if I kept my health up. I hope I am lucky enough to have folks in my life willing to do it with me then, too!

Epic Sunsets Begin

This was the only morning I didn't set an alarm for this entire section. Even still, I was up and moving by 6:00 AM anyway, my brain refusing to allow me to return to sleep. The store opened at 9:00, so I took advantage of being up before almost everyone else in the campground and walked down to enjoy having Burney Falls all to myself. The roar before you even set eyes on it is just a tease of the wonder that your eyes feast upon as you descend the trail to view the falls. I had seen countless pictures over the years, but nothing compared to seeing it and feeling the chilly mist in person.

When the store opened, my stomach revolted at the idea of taking on any dairy in the heat that had already started. Disappointed at waiting around for nothing, I got a late start on a day that felt like it would be a brutally hot one already.

I pushed through the climbs that pulled me away from the falls, going from roasting in briefly exposed sections to the sweet relief of being in a forest cluster again. At one point, I felt a tickle on my leg that I thought was a bug. I went to swat it and was instantly met with moisture: sweat was pouring from my face and falling onto my legs! Within a few miles, I was practically running to escape the heat and finagle my body into a spot in Rock Creek that, at the right angle, was deep enough to submerge my body. I knew there was a lot of climbing ahead. What I didn't know was if it was going to be exposed or not. The uncertainty had me procrastinating quite a bit before lifting my heavy pack and moving on.

Again, my legs tickled from the sweat drops my face steadily gave away. It wasn't long before mosquitoes started gracing me with their presence. I was nearly at my wit's end when the exposed chunks seemed to finally end as I entered the shady cover of an extended forest. Looking back, I wish I had set my pack thermometer in the sun and the shade to accurately tell you the difference between the two. I didn't, so you'll have to trust me that it was highly noticeable and made all the difference in the world to be climbing in the shade again.

I arrived at a campsite that the comments promised was an epic one a bit earlier than I usually like to stop. The views were, as promised, seriously incredible and worthy of an early stop.

Snobo

The name we’ve given all the northbound folks that skipped the Sierra snow but decided to head far north and hike southbound

Boss (Estonia), who I was sure was far ahead of me by now, showed up at sunset. She didn't do well in the heat and spent nearly all day waiting in the shade of the trees.

We anxiously discussed our strategies for handling the two-day heat wave starting the next day. My only plan was to use my sole superpower: a willingness to set a very early alarm and take advantage of my innate ability to burn all my energy in the morning hours.

Heat Wave Day One

With a 4:00 AM alarm, I was stepping on the trail within the hour and walking in the glow of the pre-dawn blue skies. Most of the hiking was along a ridge where the trees were quite sporadic, allowing me to soak up the beauty of the colorful sunrise. At one point, a deer even joined in my hiking. Having no fear of me, it led the way down the trail for nearly 100 feet.

Much of the day felt like I was back in the desert again. Besides the heat, I was required to go off trail anywhere from .1 to .3 miles to fetch water. It doesn't seem like much, and, frankly, it really isn't. Still, any thru-hiker will tell you that it is an emotionally painful ordeal to hike any extra mileage that isn't on the trail. On the spectrum of carrying more weight in water versus taking less but hiking to get water more often, most opt to carry more weight when possible.

Soon enough, my intestines started speaking up with a request to step off the trail to, well, drop some weight. I'm sensitive enough to my pack weight to tell the difference when I pick up my pack after eating, feeling the lightness of one less meal to carry. It brings me even more joy to know I'm no longer carrying that meal in my body when it comes time for my daily #2!

The ridgeline walking made for an interesting dilemma in choosing a place to accomplish this. The steepness on both sides of the trail meant there wasn't an easy place to access off-trail to dig my cat hole. I came to a few flatter areas, but the wind wasn't blowing there, so mosquitoes were swarming. I wanted to avoid giving up my backside as a buffet.

Eventually, I came across a forest service road, which, given the nature of where they build these roads into the wilderness, the areas around them are flatter. Unfortunately, this was a Saturday. You never know how frequently forest service roads are used by recreational vehicles on the weekends, so I kept moving. Finally, I came to a logging road that certainly wouldn't be used on the weekends and was graced with enough of a breeze to free me from mosquitoes!

Walking a bit lighter, I continued and came across Serpent and Anew again at a water stop. They are stronger people than myself and lacked the temptation for ice cream at Burney Falls, so I figured they were well ahead of me. I can't tell you what a joy it is to come across people you thought you'd never see again, even if you only hung out with them for a night.

I set off again before them, getting information on the snow patch ahead from everyone heading south. I'll admit I was nervous. In Burney, I had been messaging with Indigo (from my first trail family in the desert). She had told me that she sprained her ankle in this snowy section, forcing her and Old-Fashioned off the trail for the year.

Surprisingly, every answer I got was different. From "it only took us ten minutes" to "expect to be bushwhacking for an hour." Shortly after a lunch break with Serpent, Anew, and Boss, I encountered the last SoBo we would see until the snow. She set the record straight, explaining how she witnessed two NoBos try to go down from the snow patch on the steep slopes instead of climbing up to a ridge to join a road (well, a road under at least five feet of snow) that would eventually meet the trail again.

I arrived at the giant snow wall and found Anew sitting and eating Cheetos. She had tried to go down from the snow patch, got frustrated with all the bushwhacking, and decided to turn around. She finished with a quote that I hope to never forget: "I didn't know what to do, so I thought I should just sit here and eat some Cheetos until someone came along or the answer presented itself."

When I grow up, I hope to have the patience and understanding to recognize when I should step back from a problem, eat some Cheeto's Cool Ranch Doritos, and allow the answer to present itself.

Lucky for her, I could immediately see what the SoBo had told me, and we found our way up the ridge, using trees that poked through the snow as grips and stabilizers. I did slip at one point and fell onto the snowy slope. The immediate relief, like the cool side of the pillow all over my body, was enough to keep me resting in my fallen position for a few extra moments. As we got to the top of the ridge, I craved the cooling sensation again. Inspired by the fall, I threw down my pack and set to work on the first snow angel I've ever made in 100°F (38°C) heat. Anew joined in, both of us laughing at the relieving sensation and the absurdity of it all. Video proof here.

A few miles later, as I hoped to be near the end of my day, my carelessness with my water awareness finally caught up with me. I came upon Serpent and Anew setting up camp right after realizing I needed more water to dry camp (camp without a water source). With miles until the next water source, I would have to keep going and hiking into the night before I got there. I moped along, saddened that I wouldn't be able to camp with them and fearful that I may be camping alone.

Half a mile later, I remembered I had another full liter tucked into the back of my pack. It had been a brutal half mile of hiking through a severely overgrown trail, so I didn't want to go through it again. I was glad I wouldn't have to walk into the night, but the only upcoming campsite was for just one tent pad. I arrived to find there was enough room to squeeze in another tent.

Hoping someone would come to camp with me, I wanted to wait as long as possible to set up my tent. I made my dinner and went through an extended stretching session. Two folks came by but were clearly interested in putting more miles in that night.

The only thing worse than camping alone is showing your desperation to not camp alone to others. I relented and began setting up my tent. In a last act of hope, I did it in a way that was tight to one side in case someone came by after I had finished.

No one came by.

Well, no person came by.

I had heard the deer were fearless (and loud) here, so I had squished everything inside my tiny tent to prevent them from walking off with anything. In anticipation of their obnoxiousness, I had also taken something legal in California but not every state to help me sleep.

No amount of these supplies would have drowned out the sound of the deer loudly walking around my tent site, each taking their turn as salt fiends to slurp where I had peed earlier. A few even approached my tent throughout the night to attempt to suck whatever salt they could from my gear, requiring me to yell and hit the tent to scare them off.

Heat Wave Day 2

I was wide awake when my 4:00 AM alarm went off the next day, sighing with relief that I could finally get the day started and away from these horrid deer. If the last few days had taught me anything, I needed to get in as many miles as possible before lunch. I would count any miles I managed afterward as a bonus. I braced myself for a lower-mileage day between the heat wave and exhaustion.

The first few miles were still plagued with wretched overgrowth as the trail continued gaining elevation. I moved as quickly as I could, wanting as much of the climb done before the sun hit the ridge. The morning's cooler temperatures meant that I was drinking less water and could skip the first water source, which was off-trail and down a path reported as terribly overgrown and steep. I arrived at the first on-trail water source before 8:00 AM (just a couple hours after sunrise), and my pack thermometer was already reading 90°F (32°F).

Luckily, the climb was nearly over, and the long descent was in the woods. Even better, it was filled with plenty of idyllic on-trail water sources, so I didn't have to carry the extra weight of so much water. The trail flattened out at a spot on a river that was supposed to have a swimming hole, perfect for a lunch stop. As the trail hit some exposed areas in the last mile, I decided this would be more than just a lunch stop. With the trail beginning a notable climb after, the temperatures were high enough that it would be a full-on siesta stop. My Tahoe blood was still too thick to handle that climb until the heat broke.

I arrived to find Wind (Germany), Sunflower (Netherlands), Andre, and Yann (Czech Republic) already there. We followed the directions left as a comment in our hiking app and came upon a beautiful swimming hole in the shade of the trees by the river. I quickly added water to my cold-soak lunch so it would be ready by the time I revived my soul in the water.

An hour or so later, they were all packing up to be on their way. There was a 16-mile water carry ahead, and they wanted to camp at the last water source before that to reduce how much they needed to bring. I knew that attempting the climb in the heat wasn't a good idea for me, but I couldn't help but feel panicked as I watched them leave.

Even this far into this hike, I've realized that I still struggle to have confidence in my decisions and what is best for me. I instinctively believe everyone else knows something I don't and are making better plans. Intellectually, I know they are making the best choices for them, not for me, but there's no use in getting my brain to believe facts in these moments.

I also feared camping alone again. I planned to go a few more miles to knock out part of the climb that evening, but the other four were camping far past that. I hadn't seen anyone else all day, so it was unlikely that anyone would be camped at that spot.

I knew that much of my spiraling was simply a lack of sleep, so the best option was to camp here and get extra rest. With 16 miles done before lunch, it wasn't a "waste" of a day. I had gotten some good mileage in already. The deer weren't supposed to be awful in this area, plus I had the white noise of the river.

It was the best option, but I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the anxiety of being alone again. When my alarm went off that morning, I knew I would probably have a spiraling session that ended with a cry. The moment had arrived, and I felt an odd sense of calm in accepting that this was the price I knew I would pay for my exhaustion.

Within five minutes, I watched Boss stroll down the hill toward camp. Always a fan of a good swim, I knew she would be interested in a dip. I welcomed another reason to get in again and felt my spirits lifted as we swam around together. Shortly after, Serpent and Anew arrived and agreed that it had been a decent enough day mileage-wise to stop short and enjoy this beautiful camp for the night. We would all get to bed early to rise ridiculously early again to beat the heat for our climbs the next day.

Cabin Creek Trail Magic

We set off early the following day with a frenzy of energy. Sure, a good bit of it was fear-based: race to get in as many miles before the heat as possible. The heat wave was technically over, but it would still get hot.

The only thing that could give us more energy than the fear of hiking in the heat was the allure of trail magic! There were comments on a trailhead up ahead that made mention of trail magic at a spot we would hit in time for lunch. Boss was so enticed by it that she blew past every water we passed, focused only on the promises of soda ahead.

Not only was there trail magic, but it was glorious at that. There were sodas (well, only for Boss, she got the last one, ha!) and Gatorades tied down in the river to keep them cool. On shore, in the shade of a bridge, were ammo boxes full of snacks: flavored pretzels and corn nuts, pop tarts, granola bars, and assortments of supplies like ibuprofen and safety pins. There were even soft cookies from a grocery store bakery! The canned pineapples were tempting, but no one wanted to carry the empty cans out. Pineapple cans can't be crushed like a soda can.

After indulging in the snacks and a dunk in the cold river, we set off for the biggest climb of the day, feeling renewed. Thankfully, it was in the trees, but I was dripping sweat onto my legs again. As I ran out of steam, I started to listen for my watch to go off with every mile I completed and rewarded myself with one of the fun-sized candies that Shawn had put in my resupply box. The little sugar boosts got me through until an occasional break in the trees rewarded me with the first views of Mount Shasta I had seen in over 24 hours. How she had grown in the time since I had seen her!

We settled into a campsite with majestic views of Mount Shasta and Castle Crags, beautifully colored as the sun began to set. Again, we arose with an early alarm. With only a few miles to the town of Mt. Shasta, there wasn't a fear of hiking in the heat but the excitement of getting to town for brekkie.

Shasta

With the heat and multiple days of mileage in the twenties, I took a zero day in Mount Shasta, CA. Even as we arrived in town, I wondered whether it was a good idea. Everyone hiking around me was going to be gone by the next day. We're within 200 miles of the California/Oregon border, and everyone is excited to finally be done with this state.

Though I still have hints of the anxiety of being "left behind" simmering in my mind, my feet and ankles are incredibly grateful for the break as I write this from the library on my zero day. There are plenty of adorable shops to wander through and far too many crystal shops. It is the most crystal shops per capita I've encountered. The only way a town of this size can be economically viable for this many is if half of them are fronts for money laundering.

Then again, maybe I'm underestimating the demand for crystals and new-age spirituality centers. I've been wrong before.

Plus, this town has so many incredible local restaurants that I've had to be thoughtful about how I can eat at all the places I want to before heading out again. YAKS was worth the hype it has gotten. They had the best burger and breakfast burrito I've had on the trail so far.

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You can see the PCT from the perspective of these two extraordinary ladies on their Instagrams.

Serpent: @lobllolly

Anew: @leeschreitz

Also, a Karel Sabbe update. He has made it to Hikertown in just 8 days! I arrived on day 50 😹

Upon arriving in Old Station, I turned my phone on to find a message from Big Green challenging me to be at a specific campsite for sunset. Even though this next section was known to be hot and waterless, it was also known to be a gorgeous walk with epic sunsets. Getting to this campsite, in particular, meant that I was in for a 25+ mile day, the longest day yet. The elevation profile was relatively flat, so I set the alarm for 4:30, hoping it was early enough to give me a shot at my goal with enough time not to stress the whole day.

Before I really got to work, though, I had one last detour at a tourist attraction to make: Subway Cave. At just half a mile, it felt silly to skip hiking through a lava tube far larger than any subway I’ve traveled. It was cool inside, almost making me wish I had hit it in the late afternoon when it would have felt more refreshing. Not wanting to wait on it to get hot, I was on my way to ensure I finished my one climb before it got any warmer.

At the top of the climb, I stumbled into a scenic rest stop and was instantly amazed at the views. With Mt. Lassen behind me and Mt. Shasta ahead, I was really in volcano land now. I ate up the sights and my breakfast at one of the picnic tables. Car tourists started to fill in the parking lot, which served as a gentle reminder that I had many miles to go and should be on my way.

The trail glided across the ridge, with Mt. Shasta in constant view ahead. It was easy to get distracted by the gorgeous views. The sound of a rattlesnake immediately jolted me back to focus as I watched it slither into the bushes.

Water was less plentiful than I had gotten used to, and I had to make use of a steep detour to hike down to fetch some. Between the heat and the efforts monitor and get to fetch water, I felt like I was in the desert again. I even ran into Glen (KY), who I first met in the desert! He is one of the few who actually hiked through the Sierras. I’ve been in the midst of a bubble of hikers I didn’t know, most of whom started in May and flipped north, so it was nice to see a familiar face.

The heat also brought back a suppressed appetite. At nearly 3:00, I found a rare cluster of trees and forced myself to eat despite lacking any hunger. I was not too fond of forcing myself to eat, but I needed the energy. Plus, I need to prioritize my stretching. I stepped out of the trees an hour later, feeling like a different, far more energized hiker.

Again, harkening back to desert days, my next water was a cache maintained by a local named Jim. He keeps a stock tank full of water for the hikers and maintains the steep trail down to the previous water source. Jim had a note in our hiking app asking hikers to prioritize the natural source to save him money on stocking the tank. I’m so grateful that trail angels like him take the time and their own money to help us out like this. Thankfully, he had a Venmo account posted on the tank if folks wanted to donate to help keep the cache going.

Usually, I empty out my reservoir after I’m finished filling my bottles. I didn’t want to waste a drop of Jim’s efforts, so I drank the last water out of the bag. Pushing such little water through the filter is practically impossible, so drinking it is the best option.

Rested from the (thankfully) shady reprieve of the water cache, I moved on quickly, realizing I would be cutting it close on a sunset arrival. The long shadows made for absolutely lovely hiking in the frequent shade.

As the sun got lower, the views got even grander. The warm glow of golden hour colored the valley beautifully as I strolled along. I was working my way through another album that Big Green had suggested, and it was the perfect soundtrack to the gorgeous views.

5 minutes before sunset, I stumbled upon the campsite he recommended. I started unpacking quickly, wanting to avoid setting up my tent in the dark. The bright colors of the sunset kept distracting me, pulling me to stop and look up every few minutes. I did my best to take it all in, but it was so beautiful that it was almost overwhelming.

Not long after the sun was down and the valley filled with the colors of dusk, the light wind disappeared. I had been happily cooking outside my tent when the swarm of mosquitoes jumped in to take full advantage of the windless air. As soon as my dinner was cooked, I retreated to my tent, eating with their humming just in front of my face but safely on the other side of the netting.

Burney

The mosquitos stood watch through the night, ensuring I packed up as quickly as I could the following morning. They took full advantage if I stopped to appreciate the pastel colors of sunrise lighting up the sky. Suffice it to say, I took as few breaks as possible and moved as quickly as staying ahead of them required.

The trail alternated from rocky forests, with volcanic rocks making up most of the track, to feeling like I was on an African savannah. There were moments when I swore Mt. Shasta looked more like Mt. Kilimanjaro.

As is typical with an approaching town day, more hikers passed me on the trail than in days past. You try to get to town as early as you can manage to take full advantage of all the amenities. For this reason, many folks camp relatively close to town. They are usually up early, causing traffic as we all excitedly hiked toward hot food and showers.

As excited as I am to get back on the trail and hike away from the highway noises, I'm generally more excited to hear those noises again as I approach town. There are other tell-tale signs that you're approaching human centers, too. For this stretch, we came upon a power station with signage that practically screamed at us not to jump in its enticing waters as it could discharge mountains of water with only three seconds' notice.

Nearby, I noticed a truck driving by canals spraying something in them. I couldn't figure out what was happening as I captured a video to send to Shawn when I got service again. Foreshadowing: he thought it looked like a water treatment plant.

Besides human structures like power and water treatment plants, you can also start to find more actual non-thru-hiker humans as you get closer to town. Most of the time, it is day hikers, but the gorgeous lakes we passed by also brought out fishermen.

I stumbled onto the road just as two other hikers were climbing into a truck and raced over. It is great to hitch with others, but even better to wait no time and jump into their hitch to ride into Burney, CA.

With some time to kill while my room was finished, I headed to the local Mexican restaurant for a hot meal. Generally, I try to shower first so I don't burden the civilized public with my scent, but oh well.

After a shower, I headed to the library to get a library card and began writing my newsletter post. Most libraries on the trail don't require a library card to use their computer as they are well-accustomed to the hoards of out-of-state and international hikers hoping to use them. The Burney library was no different but had an incredible perk available only to cardholders: more availability.

This is a newsletter about hiking, but allow me a moment to geek out about library perks.

The door has a box attached to it that works like a gym door during certain hours outside the standard library operating times. You scan your library card, enter your pin, and the door unlocks! What a fantastic way to be available for the community for more hours than (presumably) the budget allows for a librarian to be there.

I arrived in town later than expected and knew I would need more computer time the following day. Even though the library officially opened at 11:00 that day, I could get in as early as 8:00, ensuring I wasn't starting out on the trail super late.

An hour into my computer session, I was interrupted by a local handing me a bottle of water. She said something to me as my music was still blasting through my headphones, but I gathered something about E. Coli from a comment that the librarian made to her. As I walked towards my motel, scoping out possible dinner options, I noticed that every restaurant was closed.

Arriving at the motel, I saw the staff knocking on every door and handing out bottled water with a notice. The city had found E. Coli in the water supply, and suddenly, the truck at the water treatment plan made sense. This immediately shuts down food establishments as the water can't be consumed or used to clean dishes. My backpacking pot and utensils had been soaking in the water since I got into my room hours earlier. 😂

I mourned the loss of a hot dinner and a relaxing evening as I re-washed my backpacking cookware with the bottled water and pulled my water reservoir from my pack to start filtering more tap water. At least the other backpackers and I were prepared to filter our water, unlike the other guests. Still, it was a bummer to lose the significant town amenity of unlimited water that I didn't have to filter.

The Safeway had been cleaned out of most of its pre-made sandwiches and such from others that had been counting on a meal out for dinner, too. For the first time in a long time, I had a feast of pure junk food; frankly, it was awesome. I felt like I had gone rogue as I grabbed Lunchables, Spaghetti-O's, and frozen White Castle burgers. It's never a wrong way to end a day feeling like a kid again.

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A few days ago (July 10), Karel Sabbe started his attempt to set a new FKT (fastest known time) for the Pacific Crest Trail. In 2016, he set an FKT of 52 days and 8 hours. Timothy Olsen had beaten his time two years ago, who managed it in 51 days and 16 hours. For context, I've been on trail for 109 days (as of July 13). Even crazier, he may pass me before I reach Canada!

Even if you aren't interested in ultra-running, this is an incredible feat with a super cool map you can follow at home. It tracks where he is and pins for the occasional photo. You can even see where his supporting crew is at right now. The map also shows where the previous record settings were at this point in the journey in the years that they set their FKTs, and he is already well ahead of all of them.

As I met more and more folks on the trail in the lead-up to arriving in Chester, CA, we all discussed one topic in particular: the anticipated crowds on the path going forward. Most folks on the trail had also flipped up from Kennedy Meadows, opting to return later or skip the section entirely this year. Of those who chose to flip, most opted for Chester as their starting point. In the days before arriving, we all agreed it would be nice to see more people on trail again, but we were curious to see just how many people would be joining us now.

I wavered between “this is going to be a crowded nightmare at the wrong place” and “it will work itself out.” As someone who worries about the future, my natural place is in the first mindset. Oddly enough, the longer I’ve been on trail, the more time I’ve spent on the other side of the spectrum. Everything has worked out fine up to this point; there’s no reason to worry that this trend won’t continue.

The reality of this mindset played out the most in my departure time from Chester. I worried that if I wasn’t out on trail early enough, I wouldn’t be able to find a campsite close to the border of Lassen National Park. A quirk of restrictions meant this was where everyone else would also be piling up.

Why camp at the border to a national park?

Bear cans.

Lassen National Park requires a bear canister for overnight camping like all the other tourist-heavy areas before it on trail. The bears there have become accustomed to using the carelessness of visitors to fill in their diet. Because of this, the national park has enacted this restriction to help to break the association between humans and food, encouraging them to adhere to their more natural diet.

We were hundreds of miles north of the string of bear canister requirements of the Sierras. By this point, most hikers have trail legs and, instead of carrying a canister, opt to hike through the park without camping. The trail takes a path of nearly 20 miles through Lassen, easily doable in a day for most hikers by this point in the journey.

That 20 miles includes no side trips to attractions like geysers or boiling lakes. It also doesn't consider the burn area of the Dixie fire that extends past its borders, ensuring that there isn't a safe camping spot for the first few miles after the boundary.

Sure, I had done nearly 20 miles the week prior, but I still wasn't sure I could manage it. To ensure I gave myself the best shot I could, I needed to be camped at that border the night before. With no idea how many other people were still descending upon Chester daily, I had no way of knowing what the competition would be like for those campsites.

Like Quincy, I had initially thought I would get up as early as possible.

Like Quincy, I changed my mind, choosing to believe it was going to be okay. I went to bed without an alarm, excited for a brunch spot nearby.

Setup for Lassen

The brunch spot (Cravings) was fantastic for not only its food but an incredibly awesome older patron by the name of Peter. Peter was enough of a staple at this café that he had his own table, which hosted a "Peter's Perch" sign. As I was on my way out to the road to start begging for a ride with my thumb, he stopped me and asked how my hike was going, emphasizing that I needed to stay safe out there. He wrapped up by asking when I was heading back to the trail and then insisted on driving me himself right then and there.

I was shocked as he asked his friend to wait a few minutes while he took me down the road. Any attempt I made to insist that he continue to enjoy his brunch and company was immediately dismissed. He firmly believes in "what goes around comes around" and was eager to earn some positive universe points by taking me.

I never thought I would say, "Well, it is a good thing I slept in, had a slow morning that involved a 45-minute yoga session and then enjoyed an equally slow brunch on my own," but here we are.

It was nearly noon when I stepped on the trail again, graced with dead trees surrounding me for miles. The heat was ramping up, so I took what few shade breaks the upright logs offered me. Sure, it could have been better scenery and made for very hot and dirty hiking, but it did have one upside: there weren't trees to block my cell phone reception. What a delight to chat with Shawn and share the lucky day I was having already.

The time amongst the dead (trees) seemed to fly by with the distraction of our chatting. I was sad when it finally dropped, but it was a fair trade: live trees were back for a bit. The temperatures were hitting their peak, so I was grateful to be in their shade.

Within a few miles, a familiar voice rang out from behind me. Jawohl (Vienna, Austria), a hiker I had met in Sierra City, shouted my name before introducing me to Magic Hobbit (Germany). Even though I skipped that next section, he caught me quickly with his long legs. My iron supplements have me feeling better than ever, but not enough to keep pace with him. I bid him farewell, not seeing him again until I caught him getting ready to swim at the next river we came upon.

I was cutting it too close on remaining daylight for a swim myself, so I used the opportunity to try to gain some distance between the two of them. With just an hour until sunset when they caught up to me, I started feeling frantic as I realized I wouldn't have much daylight to set up camp when I arrived at the boundary.

As if he was reading my mind, Jawohl casually commented to Magic Hobbit that he had no interest in hiking until sunset and they should stop at the next campsite they found. Always looking to avoid camping alone, this was the permission to let go of the requirement I had put on myself to camp at the border.

When I came upon them setting up at a camp with Pine Cone and Chair Bear (Truckee, CA) and Slow Burn (San Diego, CA), a trio I had met in the previous section and really liked, the decision felt like it had made itself. Plus, it would be easier for me to do the miles in the morning when I had more energy (and one less meal in my pack). Sure, it added two more miles to an already long day. Still, for some reason, I was feeling surprisingly confident in myself.

Who am I?

Fun fact: Slow Burn got his name from one of my favorite Kacey Musgraves songs. I never thought I would find another Kacey Musgraves fan out here, especially one big enough fan to have one of her songs as a trail name! The song itself reminded me to take it slow and enjoy it just when I needed to hear it most.

Lassen National Park

My brain woke me up at 4:30, and I began packing and stretching. I had been skipping my stretching for most of my hiking days on the trail, but if I was going to start hitting 20-mile days, I needed to be more consistent. I had struggled to prioritize what my body needed, feeling that I always needed 15 minutes to feed the mileage monster and would push through whatever pain I felt later. I stepped onto the trail feeling very unlike myself. Instead of feeling anxious about meeting this lofty goal, I felt…excited!?

It helped that the day was full of small side quests to different park attractions. I felt like a normal tourist going out for a day in a national park, not just a hiker quickly passing through. As I passed the park boundary, I joined what felt like a giant parade of hikers at the starting line to a race. Anxious energy was in the air as Jawohl, Magic Hobbit, and I joined in the shuffle. We had agreed to wait to have breakfast at the first detour so we could eat with a show: the Terminal Geyser!

Knowing they would catch up quickly, I headed off to Boiling Springs Lake first and arrived to find that they were already there. I had missed an alternate trail that was shorter! It wasn't long before they were ahead of me again, agreeing to see each other at a lake that we heard was great for swimming, making it a perfect lunch stop.

The trail passed by Drakesbad Guest Ranch, which, when coupled with the burn scars, made me feel sad for things I wouldn't experience that other hikers had in previous years. Before the ranch closed for the pandemic, many hikers stopped here for breakfast. They might have had a room for the night to break up your hike through Lassen if you were lucky enough. Now it was a sad, abandoned site amid a once lush valley that was now a graveyard of trees from the Dixie fire.

I had some climbs before me on the way that, instead of feeling anxious about, I felt excited to see how I would do. Finally, feeling like I had perfected the art of scheduling the iron supplements; they seemed to be working their magic. Each day I felt like I was actually getting stronger. Looking back, I never felt that way in the desert, just that I grew more accustomed to the suffering. I won't say that the climbs were easy, but I stopped for breathing breaks far less often than I usually did.

My one moment of anxiety came as I descended from the final climb and realized I hadn't seen anyone in hours. If hiking through Lassen was the race it felt like, I feared that the entirety of the pack was on pace and I had fallen behind. Instead of getting picked up by the SAG wagon, I would be hiking alone at night. I had done the math and estimated that, even with an extended lunch, I would arrive at my planned camp with an hour and a half to spare before sunset. For some reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that somehow I had miscalculated and everyone else knew something I didn't, which is why they were so far ahead.

As if on cue from the universe, I arrived at a creek where I met Runa (WI). We discussed what a challenge this was for both of us and how isolating it felt as everyone else was already doing 20-mile days regularly. She mentioned that others had recently passed through. If I was indeed "behind," well, at least I wasn't far. I was delighted to arrive at the lake to see my friends and some new folks. Picnic, Indy, and Philosopher happily shared that they were a solid 15-mile day group, laughing at how rare it is to find folks staying at that pace at this stage. As my lunch cold soaked, I jumped into the lake with a sense of refreshed lightness in my being, both inside and out.

Making the conscious decision to prioritize my stretches, I was one of the last remaining folks on the lakeshore when Slow Burn rolled up. I had forgotten that he often left camp at 9:00! It felt like another reminder from the universe that I had wasted that time worrying about being behind. He wasn't concerned and even went for an extended swim, not just a dip! Most other groups had been going 20+ miles a day. Given their capabilities, they were likely planning on camping much further than me.

I left lunch feeling confident in my judgment again, even if the burn scar the trail entered tried to drain it away with its life-sucking heat. The trail was flat or downhill from here on, giving me even more confidence that I would make it out just fine. I looked on at Mt Lassen, realizing that I awoke that morning looking at a completely different face of the mountain. We had spent the day getting 180 degrees' worth of perspective as the trail wound around it from afar.

I soaked up the views of the mountain as I reminisced on a visit here years ago with my friend and co-worker, Nina, and her family. We had come for the Dark Sky Festival and experienced an entirely different side of the park. This was likely the last time I would pass through a place I had been on the PCT, and I wanted to enjoy soaking up the relative familiarity. Before I knew it, I stumbled into camp with over an hour to spare before sunset.

Old Station

Six miles from camp, the trail passed Old Station, CA, a small town with a camping resort and deli. Unsure of how my longest day would go, I made a reservation at the resort’s tiny (and frequently sold-out) motel while still in Chester. Shawn graciously threw together a box to send to the post office next door filled with bath salts and other small things to ensure a relaxing evening.

The box was due to arrive that day, but the postmaster was closing an hour earlier for a meeting. She couldn't give me a straight answer on whether the truck would make it there in time. I couldn't get into my room yet, so I began the time-honored PCT tradition of realizing and accepting how much you're at the whim of things outside your control.

A ride into or out of town? Up to the kindness of a stranger driving by. Getting your mail? Up to the mailing system and, sometimes, the graciousness of a postmaster noticing a box with the wrong address and holding it anyway after seeing that it is labeled "PCT hiker." And don't get me started on the weather.

Ironically, Cheryl Strayed (of Wild fame) had a similar experience as us 2023 hikers back when she did her hike. The Old Station postmaster excitedly showed me an old trail register where she had signed in at this very spot, noting the crazy weather they had that year, warranting a jump up to Old Station, CA.

The truck arrived 15 minutes before close, and shortly after, my room was ready. I had plenty of time to do my chores and feel like a refreshed human again. For some reason, I fancied a walk about the grounds, so I roamed through the campsites watching families enjoy typical camping vacations.

There's a natural tension with time for thru-hikers, especially as you approach the end. Canada is still far enough away that you need to be considerate of making your miles before the weather window closes. Still, it is close enough that you can start to estimate a finish date, forcing you to face the reality of what every zero-day or shorter mileage day "costs" you in pushing that end date closer to the possibility of encountering early winter storms up north.

Walking around the RV resort, it felt nice to soak up the summer vacation energy. Taking the time to visit attractions and enjoy the relaxation of a campground, I felt like a regular tourist for a magical 24 hours.

Media Share

If you still need to see Wild, then it is high time to watch it. Based on the memoir of the same name, it follows Cheryl Strayed's journey along the Pacific Crest Trail back in the 90s. Think Eat, Pray, Love, but smelly hiker edition.

The trail passes through Belden and across the Feather River on a vehicle bridge. Across a two-lane highway, the trailhead marks the start of a brutally exposed climb that ascends over 5,500 feet in 14 miles.

We would enter the remnants of the Dixie Fire (2021) and spend our days in the burn scars for nearly 100 trail miles. Burn scars deprive an area of shade and make it even hotter with the blackened ground. It also makes camping difficult. You don’t want to be near burned trees that can fall at any moment for long, let alone camp amongst them.

Our last safe campsite on the climb was a mere six miles in and was the goal for the day. While not even half of the climb, I was happy to break up however much we could manage over two days instead of death-marching it all into one.

As I took a break to take in the view behind us (re: an excuse to gasp for some area), I realized I had driven past Belden 14 months ago. On the way to an offsite with the Hipcamp Engineering team at a Hipcamp just down the highway (The Town of Pulga), I recall seeing the resort and hoping I would one day get to check it out. I had no idea I would be hiking through it the next year. There wasn’t even an intention to hike the trail yet!

As I get further from home, there will be less and less of these flashback moments. For now, I’m incredibly grateful for them. They’re oddly comforting and have helped to keep the homesickness at bay.

Within two miles, we realized we had started too early and desperately needed an extended siesta. We took a lengthy lunch at a water source that knew what we were in for when it was named: Bring-it-on Creek.

Over lunch, I witnessed the rare occasion of another hiker eating even better than I was. Jordon heated up some pre-cooked sausage before he pulled out bagels, blue cheese, and even eggs he had hard-boiled himself before he left town to eat with it!

We hoped the heat had abated when we finally started again two hours later.

It hadn’t.

I stopped at every little shadow I could find for the next hour. Just a minute in the shade brought my heart rate down. Given the temperatures and exertion, I wasn’t surprised at the spike in my pulse. Still, I was happy to realize it wasn’t going hard enough to hurt my ears like in the desert and Tahoe before I started the supplements.

My expectations had been tempered to expect improvements only once I had been on the iron supplements for a month. Despite the misery of the hiking conditions, I was pleased with how my body was holding up. Yet another point in the direction of boosting my hiking confidence.

Thankfully, water sources were still plenty. Unfortunately, none of them had adequate shade. Most only had a bush that could protect us up to our shoulders. I started improvising by using my pack towel as a cooling shade barrier tucked into my hat on the sunny side of my face. Ultralight backpackers would never carry such a silly luxury item. I couldn’t be happier with the extra weight as it cooled my face.

Our campsite was nestled in the shade of (living!) trees with a cool stream flowing nearby. Even after dark, though, it was warm enough that I kicked my sleeping bag liner and quilt to the bottom of the tent when it was time to rest.

Goodbye Sierra Nevada

Knowing we would be exposed again for the rest of the climb, I made a point to be out on the trail early to do as much as possible before the temperatures ramped up. The morning was beautiful and pleasant as the morning light set aglow the recovery the forest was attempting with the ground cover surrounding all the dead trees. There was even a medley of wildflowers to be found if you were paying attention.

The beauty was a welcome distraction as it got hotter, but the anxiety of finishing the climb before afternoon temperatures hit simmered underneath every thought. I put in my headphones and started an album Big Green had recommended to help push me through. It was the boost I needed, keeping me strong until I suddenly hit a sign that lifted my spirits even higher: I was now exiting the Sierra Nevada.

The PCT's commonly known "sections" indicate that the Sierra Nevada ended in Lake Tahoe. Those who have lived in or just visited the area know that the Sierras extend beyond that. The sections are just an easy way to break up the trail into chunks that are easy to access. The geographic end of the Sierras in the middle of nowhere was challenging for someone to access by car or transit to attempt a section.

From here, the number of other hikers on the trail picked up significantly. I started getting passed by folks that decided to do the whole climb in one day and had begun that morning from Belden. It made me realize something that one of the hikers had mentioned in the last section when I made a joke about being alone: I was far from isolated; it was just that everyone was moving at the same pace and were already a certain distance apart. It is hard to know when you're going in the same direction. Someone going in the opposite direction has already seen all those people you've never caught or haven't caught you.

I reached the top of the climb and celebrated with a lunch break. I looked up from my meal and noticed a mountain in the distance. I wondered, and a bit later, a southbound hiker confirmed that it was indeed Mt. Lassen, the icon of the national park that bears its namesake.

It was exciting to see a mountain I would be passing by in just a few days. I missed this about my hikes in the Sierras: looking back and seeing the mountain pass I had climbed the day before or easily spotting the one coming up. It makes you feel so excited or accomplished, depending on the direction you're looking.

Sadly, the rest of the day was more of the same burn scar. I had already seen plenty and would spend most of the coming days seeing even more. I'm sad to say that I spent many of these miles lost in thought, tuning out my surroundings as I listened to more of Big Green's music suggestions. At least hikers were leaving funny messages on old trail markers. There have been a few empty ones in need of a message. Leave me a comment if you’ve got an idea for me to put on one!

I arrived at our agreed camp without seeing Jordon all day. He is a fan of taking random breaks whenever the view warrants, so I began to assume he had decided to camp somewhere sooner. As I was eating dinner and chatting with another couple that was already set up on my arrival, in strolls Jordon, looking exhausted. He insisted he wouldn't do more than 12 miles the next day. I was hoping we could do more miles the next day since we wouldn't have such a tough climb, but part of me felt like this was a sign from the universe to opt for less and ease my body into ramping up the exertion.

Turf Wars

The next day was more of the same burn scars, but at least we were getting more expansive views. Many sights were looking out onto forests that were supposed to be full of pine trees. In reality, they looked like deciduous forests in the middle of winter (all wood, no leaf). At least Mt. Lassen was popping up in its stunning beauty occasionally.

Like the day before, the number of other thru-hikers increased, too. We were meeting people who had later start dates and skipped the Sierras, but were finally meeting people who had made it through the Sierras and lived to tell the tale.

Every water source that day was off-trail, requiring anywhere from a .3 to .7 hike to a spring. We did not want to carry the packs to the water, so we left them near the trail. As we were in bear country, they couldn't be left alone. We took turns rotating through one person to fetch water and the other to watch packs, as did the other groups. This allowed plenty of time to socialize and hear about everyone's journeys.

With a crazy year such as this one, there is no such thing as a standard thru-hiker experience for 2023. Did you do the Sierras? Did you quit after the desert, deciding to come back to finish another year? Did you flip? If so, to where? Did you go to the Canadian border and start hiking south, or did you go to the southernmost spot you felt comfortable with and start walking north? Will you go back to do the Sierras after?

According to the hikers before us, bears weren’t a problem for our packs through here. Comments on the water source icons in our hiking app indicated that the deer were quite aggressive. They got close during a stop, but nothing more than that.

We stopped for camp earlier than I had wanted, hoping to have as few miles as possible to get into town the next day. I live for town breakfast, and if I can arrive early enough, that means two town breakfasts: one on arrival and one on departure. Hiking through burn scars, though, if you find a safe campsite and it is late enough in the day, it is best not to gamble.

As I fell asleep that night, I started to hear steps coming through our camp. Worried that it was a bear, I kept as still as possible to discern the noise and determine if I should start shouting at it. My answer came a few minutes later as Jordon screamed out in horror. He had been awakened by a nose against his tent!

When he had left his trekking poles out on the ground two nights earlier, a deer gave them a good munching through the night. He hadn't heard of this, so I had the honor of explaining that they crave salt strongly enough to lick fresh human urine, let alone the easy access to trekking pole handles steeped in the salt from our sweat. It seems he hadn't gotten into the habit of tucking his poles under his tent.

With the loud sound of a swarm of mosquitoes at my tent door, I refused to leave. I had already "washed up" (face wipe bath) for the night, so my bug spray protection was gone, and I wasn't interested in re-upping for the few minutes it would take to fend off Jordon's deer. After tucking his food bag into his tent, he began throwing rocks at it, which seemed to finally get rid of him.

Halfway There

Exhausted from the deer battle the night before, I was slow to get ready once my alarm went off the following day. I rarely set the alarm, but I had more miles to do than I wanted, and I really wanted breakfast. In the end, I'm glad we camped early. The sunrise was mesmerizing from the elevation we were camped at. I wouldn't have gotten such a grand view of it if I had started further down the trail (at a lower elevation).

I had more than the glorious sunrise and town breakfast to pull me forward, though. Today I was finally going to hit a marker that I was absolutely stoked for: the midpoint marker. Sure, it would mean less than it would if I had upheld a continuous footpath from Mexico. Nonetheless, I couldn't believe I was already hitting this waypoint.

Despite not being the midpoint for my journey this year, reaching out and touching that pillar felt huge. I have walked so much of California and am still far from being done with this state. Yet, crazily enough, the trail is halfway through before you're even close to that Oregon border.

Things are starting to stack up regarding realizing how little I have left. There may be 1,325 miles after that marker, but only five more resupply points in California. I'm excited to see things in California up ahead, but I'm suddenly noticing how few are left. What a hectic few days to go from feeling overwhelmed at how much I have left to suddenly feeling sad at how little remains.

Media Share

I usually save my 1 Second Everyday video to be from one birthday to the next, but I’m feeling sentimental and I thought it would be fun to compile one for just the dates I was in the desert. Have a watch and see if you find yourself in it!

Hot Deal and I were able to catch a hitch from none other than Larry, the owner of the only store in Sierra City, CA. He had already called ahead while turning around on the highway to ensure the staff stayed on site for a few minutes longer so we could make any purchases and order food. Not quite ready for dinner, we ordered milkshakes. Since neither of us had cell service, Larry called one of the few lodging spots in town (The Buttes Resort) to confirm they still had an open room on a busy 4th of July weekend. Luckily for us, they had a last-minute cancellation. We headed over to return to our human forms (showers!) before walking down the street to the only spot in town open for dinner: the adorable Sierra Pines Resort.

Our cabin was on the river, creating luxurious white noise for an incredible night’s sleep. Breakfast was an easy choice the next day as the Red Moose Cafe was the only open place in the tiny town! I packed up slowly after and then, knowing he wouldn’t have service in this town either, eagerly waited out front for his arrival.

There are a lot of solid suggestions related to whether or not it is time to quit a thru-hike beyond just “don’t quit on a bad day.” Another is to wait until you get to town and, if necessary, take a zero. This day was my best attempt at following that sage advice as I would not be getting on the trail at the next section with Hot Deal that afternoon, opting to stay the night with Shawn in the nearby town of Quincy, CA, instead.

We drove towards the small resort town of Bucks Lake, CA, where we planned to grab lunch before dropping off Hot Deal at the trailhead. A few minutes from the lake, a familiar face waved at our car flying by: Big Green!

I knew we might catch him at Bucks Lake, but I was curious if the timing would align. He was at the trailhead we would be returning to after lunch with his friend, Ryan, and Ryan's mom and grandpa. The time had come for Ryan to end his section with Big Green. Ryan's family was there to grab lunch with them before returning Big Green to trail and getting Ryan home.

I was elated to see my friend again as we exchanged stories about how the last sections had gone for both groups. It was almost enough to make me forget I had ever considered quitting.

Big Green and Hot Deal decided to let the day's heat pass before returning on the trail, opting to hang out on the restaurant's deck for drinks and getting a hitch later. As we said our goodbyes, Big Green pulled me aside to give me a pep talk that brought me to tears. It almost made me change my mind about my zero to join them that day, but I knew I needed a break. I gave him a giant squeeze goodbye and hurried into the car before the tears started pouring in front of everyone.

Quincy

The town of Quincy, CA was hosting its annual High Sierra Festival. This concentrated everyone into a single area just outside of downtown, making for a relatively quiet visit given that it was 4th of July weekend. A low-key day was what I needed as I went about my chores, intermittently crying as I started to feel overwhelmed at the thought of how much of the trail I still had left, coupled with how desperately homesick I felt.

Shawn stepped in to help throughout it all. He happily hopped on YouTube to learn how to sew up the hole in my sleeping bag liner as I washed my camp cookware and hung my freshly laundered clothes to dry. When the tears reappeared, he came over with a hug and words of encouragement. I'm feeling far less homesick now and much more excited about the rest of the trail, but reflecting on that evening makes me start crying again. Somewhat out of sadness but primarily out of gratitude that he dropped everything to be there for me.

There wasn't much time to simply be together in the anxious confusion of my last days at home before getting on the trail again. There were so many chores that needed to be done and even more that I forgot to do. We also didn't know if we were doing all these pre-trail tasks for nothing if the follow-up doctor's appointment didn't go well.

The chance to have a much calmer 24 hours together before I set off again was much more needed than I realized. It was lovely to sit together and aimlessly talk while we waited at the laundromat or casually discuss movies as we perused the DVD shelf of our motel. Yes, they had a giant wall of DVDs, as every room had a DVD player. I felt like I was in a Blockbuster again. Even though we didn't decide on a movie, it has become an oddly precious memory.

Given the heat wave that was hitting Northern California, we had initially planned on my getting to the trail bright and early. As we ate our dinner in the outside seating area of The Polka Dot, the sounds of the music festival in the distance, I decided it was far more worth it to get some extra time together. Sure, it would make for a hot hike, but this could be the last time I saw him for two months if the stars don't align to see him before the finish.

I packed slowly the following day before we moseyed over to Morning Thunder for the best breakfast I’ve had on the trail. The food was incredible as we soaked up the charming outdoor ambiance. We made a note to return when I returned to complete the section ending here.

As we began the drive back to the trailhead, I felt the homesickness well up inside. I didn't want to say goodbye but I knew it had to be done. I would forever regret quitting if I didn't give at least one more section a go. To keep myself from crying in front of him again, I made my goodbyes quick and started up the trail.

Belden

As it usually is, the trail from town was a notable climb. I took a few breaks to let myself cry out some of the homesickness but otherwise felt pretty good. Well, I did get a comment from a day hiker about how she was surprised I was going so slow and that she expected thru-hikers to be much faster by this point in the trail. As a "thank you" for her feedback, I kicked her.

Just kidding.

I was an hour or so into the climb when I got a satellite message from Big Green telling me I should get dropped off at the next trailhead spot instead. A different music festival (Sunset Campout) was wrapping up that day, and he arrived to enjoy some of the fun and the food vendors that were still set up. I was instantly bummed, but I knew this was my best decision. Even if I hadn't already been too far down the trail with Shawn far down the road, it would have been too out of the way for him to drive.

Still, I admit I was nervous that I would be all alone. Hot Deal and I hadn't seen another soul in our last section; what if that was the case again? The answer was provided by a day hiker going the opposite direction: I was the 6th northbound thru-hiker he had seen that day. Another southbound thru-hiker confirmed the same a few hours later, noting that a fun group just ahead of me was considering one of a few campsites up ahead. Knowing I wouldn't have to camp alone if I kept moving was the boost I needed!

I passed all three of the upcoming camps he mentioned with no soul around any of them. As I came to the last one, I realized it was the last option before Belden, CA. I could either accept my fate and camp alone on that ridge or keep going, knowing the last mile or so would be in the dark, and arrive at Belden that night. I felt pretty good, so I followed the trail towards the bumping beats from far below on the river.

Festival tent setups abounded as I reached the river. Given how dark it was, I couldn't discern where I was allowed to camp as an outsider to this festival. I sheepishly walked up to a canopy of folks who were finishing up tamales to ask where I could go. After offering me a tamale, they excitedly told me there were plenty of spots as most festival attendees had already left that day.

As I pitched my tent nearby, I realized I had just finished a 19-mile day that started at noon! Sure, most of it was downhill, but it gave me enough confidence to think that maybe I hadn't completely lost all the strength I had built up over the last few months. The warmth of this realization, plus the soft electronic music, lulled me to one of the deepest nights of sleep I've had on the trail.

I knew the Belden Town Resort was hit-or-miss with its restaurant hours, but I figured I would roll the dice to wait for lunch. There was a strenuous climb ahead of me. With temperatures hitting triple digits that day, the worst that could happen would be a siesta on the resort's riverfront before I knocked out a bit of the climb that afternoon.

The restaurant never opened, but I lucked out nonetheless. I happily spent the morning enjoying the company of all the staff that put the festival on, many of them excitedly encouraging me to attend next year and discussing ways they can ensure there is space for the hikers, too. The trail goes through the heart of their festival grounds, so they want to be sure they better accommodate us next year.

I also met the only other northbound hiker I had seen in the last 24 hours. Jordon (Paris, France) was the one to finally call it quits on waiting to see if they opened the restaurant, suggesting we go ahead with our brutal climb ahead. I agreed on one condition: I wanted to follow through on my promise to myself and go for a swim in the river. Lucky for us, floaties from the festival were everywhere but without any of the crowds.

Media Share

No social media accounts this week, but I’ll share an interesting article that followed one of the most beloved trail angels we have on the Pacific Crest Trail: Outside Jay. They also dive into all the ways that the trail angels across all three states have stepped up their game to help us on our way in this crazy year.