As I jetted towards the Oregon border, I had my day as polished as a Petosky stone. While every section of trail presents unique challenges, most of my daily decision making had been solved and optimized: what time to wake, how many miles to hike before taking a break, how often and when to snack, and generally, how to have fun while getting the miles done. I’d been hiking near the same people for around a month, and while we didn’t make decisions together, I considered their plans every day as I made my own. Dan, Jon, Osha, Sophia- you are the closest thing I had to a tramily this hike, thank you.

After nearly 1700 miles of walking in California, I finally made it to Oregon, where smooth trails and beautiful forests awaited.

“In Ashland I’m getting my sister and dog,” I’d been telling them for months. And suddenly, Ashland was upon us, and I had my sister and my dog on trail with me! Even with the months of mental preparation, I felt sad seeing my friends fly by, knowing I wouldn’t catch them in the next town this time or ever again.

As the resident PCT expert and guide, I felt responsible for the wellbeing of my sister and dog once they joined me. Both had conflicting needs. It was best to hike with Ladybug hike in the early morning before the heat of the day struck, while Nat needed rest in the morning to recover from the daily strain of hiking. After months of doing simply what was best for my hike, I found myself compromising a triangle of needs — not an easy adjustment.

Loaded up my new pack with dog supplies - our adventure begins!

In my final two days as a “solo” hiker, I sent a big 8000’ vertical day out of Seiad Valley and followed it with a maximum frolic day, ending at a cabin with the boys. Cozy cabins and lush meadows populated the California/Oregon border, the state border marked by the much better maintained trail on the Oregon side and the appearance of the Oregon grape. It was a time for change: July to August, California to Oregon, hiking solo to hiking all day every day with my family.

My last night hiking past sundown for a while!

I got extremely lucky with the Ashland hitch. As I pulled up to Callahan’s Lodge, a trail angel named Chanterelle was already loading up some hikers into his car and asked if I wanted to come along. Once again, I didn’t even have to raise my thumb to get where I needed to go!

I’d been having some back pain since running down the backside of Lassen, about a month before. I’d realized that waist belt had gotten too loose due to some damage to the back mesh, putting more weight on my shoulders and back (and the injury). In Ashland, the amazing outdoor store got me a new pack for free on the Osprey warranty! I was on the phone with the warranty lady, talking to the store manager out of the other ear, when Ladybug, Natalie and Weston walked in. It was a chaotic reunion to be sure, but a happy one. While I’d seen my sister several times since starting trail, I really missed my dog. She jumped up and licked and nibbled my face happily, and I let her.

We got on trail and hiked a few miles to a grassy camp, where Ladybug immediately got soaked with mud. Perfect timing for getting in my tent, not. The girl was so excited that she kept barking at all the bumps in the night. Growing pains of hiking.

Mount Shasta from the Oregon side; some things never change.

The hiking itself was mellow: rolling hills, flat, wide trail, the last views of Mount Shasta. Southern Oregon has some sneaky long water carries, and I was carrying not only my own food and water, but Ladybug’s too. Luckily the new pack distributed the weight to my hips, but they were sore and chafed by the end of each day. Ladybug terrorized the chipmunks at camp each night. We got root beer float trail magic— they set up a freezer attached to their truck battery and had cold ice cream and soda, which was a treat. Nat sampled all the backpacking meals I’d premade for us both, and we agreed that Mac n Beans is supreme.

Our third day brought us to a lake where we basked at the picnic table and took a siesta. Many friends I’d met on trail and hadn’t seen for a while started to catch up, and some hiked and chatted with us for a bit. It was a lovely summer day, still cool enough for hiking in the forest. Nat was crushing miles, Ladybug was happy, and I felt that we were landing on a good rhythm as a group.

Great spot for a midday siesta: lunch and a nap in the shade.

But on our fourth day together, everything went south. Crossing a blowdown on the trail, I felt the familiar prickle and telltale rush of histamines that I’ve come to recognize as bad news. One of the worst case scenarios for me on trail — yellow jacket stings — meant I’d have to take a slurry of drugs that would render me dopey and sluggish. The following day was hot. We laughed and praised Ladybug as she learned to wear her booties. There was a section of lava rocks upcoming, and we would hit it in the afternoon- the hottest point in the day. Ladybug was so good, wearing her booties and trotting from shade to shade. But it was too hot, and she was close to the ground, getting all the reflected heat. We gave her breaks and sprinkled water on her head, but by the time we made it out of that section she was showing signs of heat stress. My mom met us at Fish Lake campground and we tried to get her cooled off. Nat was exhausted from that day of pushing to meet our mom, Ladybug was completely out of it, I was drugged up with a balloon-sized leg, and things had begun to unravel…

Such a good girl in her cute booties.

My mom planned to hike with us for the next section until Crater Lake. She had trained all spring for it, and we all wanted to make it work, but suddenly the 16 mi/day plan seemed dubious for everyone else involved. We decided to make our plan in the morning after assessing everyone’s health after a good night’s sleep.

Apologies for the cliffhanger ending. You’ll soon hear what happened in the next episode.

Love,

Landshark 🩷⛰️

In recent weeks I’ve noticed a distinct shift in the trail culture, that people are less invested in their surroundings and more self absorbed in their outputs. I’m talking miles, baby. In the far reaches of Northern California, I started to hear murmurs of preposterous 30, 33, 35 mile days. Everyone seems to have mileage on their mind, and I’ll admit it is a bit contagious.

I chalk this up to a few reasons: first, as the crowds around me thin for one reason or another, only the most hardened hikers forge forward on their continuous footpaths to Canada. It makes sense that these hikers are trained up for long days. Second, a few days in NorCal have been less varied, dusty trails through oak forests up and down the sides of river valleys. Less technical terrain, less elevation, softer on the feet, and less stop-in-your-tracks beautiful. Finally, I blame the male ego. Men (mostly) are obsessed with how light their packs can be and how far they can go. I’d be lying to say my competitive flames aren’t stoked by these people, but my personal challenge is keeping up with them with all of the awesome things I still have in my pack while still swimming in lakes and stopping to paint watercolors. There’s a real satisfaction in that: my capable legs carry me forth to all the adventures my heart seeks.

Marble Mountain Wilderness: a curious composition of marble amidst meadows and forests.

The trail legs I have gained make the trail more pleasant, as I can walk for longer stretches without pain. I do worry that herd mentality might get to me, if I spend too much time with these people I might start taking 15 minute lunch breaks and skipping lake swims. But, keeping my goals out here in focus, I know that long days without joy aren’t mine. I doubt I’ll lose the sparkling moments of my days. Against the current, I’m pushing smiles over miles.

This week brought me through the dense forests of NorCal in an orthogonal arc to northward progress. I could see the creamy peak of Mount Shasta for about 300 miles - indeed, my watercolors from mi 1500 and 1700 feature the same mountain from a different side. In the meantime, I climbed through Castle Crags and spent a few days in the beautiful Trinity Alps. Those days reaffirmed my love of the trail: sprawling wildflower fields nestled among red lava rock, mountains looming in the background.

I also had a bit of a timeline. Following Katie’s visit, I had the opportunity to catch up to my master schedule. I’d been operating 2 days behind schedule, give or take, since my post-office-induced zero in Bishop. The only issue: I had already scheduled 28 mile days through Seiad Valley. Pushing miles wasn’t an option, but flexing my zero was. I hiked hard into the night and arrived in Shasta mid-afternoon, just in time to catch the second half of the World Cup final. A confluence of hikers I’d seen along the trail gathered on sweaty stools at a dive bar, cheering when the only goal was scored in the game’s final moments.

Watching the World Cup final with my hiker fam.

I’d gotten a trail angel, Karen, to take me in last minute; extraordinarily generous with her farm and her pup Juney, I bunked in a tiny house in her backyard. A live music connoisseur, she took me to the free concert in the nearby park. With Mount Shasta as the backdrop, I ate a vegan bowl from a food truck and listened to the blare of banjo and mandolin. In the encore everyone danced, and then the sky erupted into an encore of its own! The ensuing ocean of fuchsia was one of the most beautiful sunsets I’d seen on trail.

In the morning I bumped my food stocks with $30 of pastries from the local bakery before rejoining the trail in Castella. The day’s hike was a long, steep climb up under and above Castle Crags National Monument. Fueled by my Nero the previous day, I charged up the mountain until I felt an angry pop in my ankle. Between that potential damage and the beating my feet were taking on the lava rocks, I tread much more carefully and called the day after 24 miles, hiking onto a knoll above camp to absorb yet another stunning sunset. (One of my friends called me a “sunset connoisseur” due to my willingness to stretch and shrink my plans for excellent sunset spots, which I routinely obtain.)

Two back-to-back amazing sunsets I witnessed this week.

The next day may have been one of my favorite days on trail. A cool breeze brought with it rainclouds, which struck around a lake I had timed for lunch. In the drizzle which evacuated the other hikers, I swam in the lake, then trailran on reddish sand through fields of wildflowers. I drank directly from a seep of water surrounded by blooms, which felt like where fairies lived. I ran most of the cool afternoon, enjoying the gentle grade and the red-black lava rocks. And out of pattern for me, I arrived at camp before 8pm! It was like a small army camp: around 10 tents clustered in an open field, many of them friends. Even more rolled in late, having sent a 36 mile day to catch us. I set up my tent and had finished my dinner — usually tasks I do in the dark — before climbing the nearby hill to watch the glowy sunset once again.

A big group gathered at my tentsite on Tuesday night.

The following morning our little military encampment had gone to war without me. Even though I got hiking before 7:30, I woke to a deserted camp. The day was marvelous blue, much hotter than the previous, the clouds having dissipated along with my friends. After a morning climb, the trail followed a mountain ridge, views of lakes with lime green banks all around. The afternoon brought a burn scar, strewing the trail with ashy blowdowns. I made slow time dipping through the steep valley in the loose dust, emerging on the other side wishing for a lake to bathe in.

The so called “Man Eaten Lake” was a glimpse of the Sierra - and just out of reach on a slow and treacherous day.

After a few 28 mile days, I had just 18 miles to go down to the town of Etna. While I had originally planned to skip up to Seiad Valley, my appetite had significantly increased since packing my resupply boxes, and I’d eaten through all of my snacks. I hit 12 before 12 and swam in Paynes Lake at lunch, the water warm and cleansing. A huge conglomerate of fellow hiking friends gathered in Etna: everyone I’d been hiking with for the past week since Shasta. My first stop in town was the bakery, where I spent $50 on sourdough bread, sorbet, and cinnamon rolls (I spent so much money here that I earned enough reward points for a free latte.) I had already decided to “hero” this town, meaning I arrived and departed on the same day, so all the money I saved from not booking the hostel went to my pastry fund!

It was in Etna that I conducted my first full resupply on trail. Luckily it was only for two days, because the options left something to be desired. I headed to the Dollar General, which was grim: pop tarts, chips, Oreos and candy were all their options. Luckily I still had two dinners left with some semblance of health. I stopped at the other store for an apple, a zucchini, and a block of tofu which I ate raw before leaving town, with soy sauce and chili flakes. Before catching a ride out, I stopped in at the brewery where everyone gathered with a wonderful camaraderie. It was hard to wrench myself away, and I spent an hour laughing and chatting before hitching back to trail; otherwise I’d have 59 miles to cover in the following two days, which would be rough with the hitching logistics the next morning.

My hitch back to trail in a truck bed — a PCT bucket list item for me.

I was glad I’d managed to get back on trail that night. The following day ended up being some of the steepest, rockiest and most rugged terrain I’d seen since the Sierra. Behind schedule, I gazed longingly at Man Eaten Lake, a perfect blue pool which was a steep scramble down from trail. I resolved to get to Paradise Lake before dark, passing through Marble Mountain wilderness, streaked with striped marble and endless tumbles of wildflowers. Paradise Lake ended up being not quite what I expected; the entire lake was an arm’s length deep, but I got in anyway, and trawled through the dense algae muck propelled by my hands. Corey and CP had caught up to me and we had a bonfire over which I roasted my zucchini!

Paradise Lake might have been shallow and weedy, but it was still nice to soak in a view after a long rocky day.

Though the final day into Seiad Valley seemed relaxed from its elevation profile, it was anything but. The descent featured thick bramble banks bridged over by even thicker singed trunks. It was the most difficult blowdown section of trail yet, the NorCal final boss. Painstakingly picking my way through, I was glad for the relatively small amount of food and water I had left. After hiking 20 miles with only one break for lunch, I dipped into Grider Creek. Apparently we’d gotten lucky with the weather since it was not in the 100s. That should tell you something about how hot it was.

The week concluded with the incredible hospitality of Erika and Amber, who opened their Seiad Valley porch to hikers. I’d met Erika through my TikTok account, which I was still slowly posting vlogs on from my days in the desert. To my surprise, another one of my mutuals was also camping there! It was a fun reunion of online connection which never would have happened 10 years ago.

After a few weeks in burned, hot NorCal lowlands, The Trinity Alps made me appreciate the slowness and beauty of trail again.

This week was my scheduled opportunity to see how hard I could push myself. I rose to the challenges and quickly realized that a steady, joyful, wilderness-first style of hiking works much better for me than hiking in bursts and rests as others do. As an added bonus, I was able to keep up with the same tramily (The Boys minus Phil) for the last three weeks under this strategy. Even though they are mildly obsessed with mileage, those guys are the closest thing I’ve had to a trail family. And ultimately, I respect the hell out of it. We all have our own hikes, and we are hiking them. (hyoh!)

All that is about to change. In next episode, I cross the border to Oregon where my hike will take a turn: I’ll be gaining my real life Tramily. My sister and dog are joining me in Ashland to hike all of Oregon. After seeing how hard I could hike this week, I’m looking forward to shorter days and more time for frolicking, to sharing this experience with two of the beings I love most in the world.

Love,

Landshark 🩷⛰️🦈

After leaving the beautiful Sierra, many hikers begin to experience what is known as the “NorCal blues,” whereby the trail loses some of its magic. The trail itself transforms: overgrown in places, peppered with burn scars and blowdowns. Realizing the mileage required to finish before October, some people skip swaths of trail. Many hikers consider quitting altogether. Only the fiercest and fastest hikers continue on through the adversity, and I found myself in a bubble of baddies.

For me, NorCal blues come in many shades: the underside of a mountain bluebird, blue packaging of Oreos, pop tarts, and Jif peanut butter, the pale blue of lake reflecting sky, tiny wild forget me nots… and the deep sadness that hit when I reached the Dixie fire, a blaze that devastated nearly 100,000 acres in 2021. Traveling through this area was not fun, but I don’t believe it was meant to be. It’s important to confront what we — humans — have done, irreparably damaging the places we feel most alive. To sit with the sadness, to move through it, to reflect on our power to destroy and cultivate the desire to heal.

Peak wildflower bloom in a burn scar at golden hour: resilience in the face of destruction.

After we spent the night barely sleeping due to fear of being woken by a bear and/or lion, Lindsey and Jaya headed back to the trailhead and I forged onward into the burn scar. The climb out of Belden had some of the worst overgrowth of the trip so far: the trail completely missing in sections. Amidst the charred toothpick remains of once-lush forest I left the Sierra behind and entered the Cascades. Surveying the damage, clambering over blowdown and brambles, I experienced some of the lowest lows of trail so far, and it was all in my mind! I’d hiked nearly 17 miles before I reached Humboldt Summit, where I planned to take a late lunch. There, the most amazing group of trail angels showered me in homemade baked goods, fruit, salad, drinks, and even a literal shower. Refreshed and loaded up with celebratory cake and champagne for my midway point celebration, I hiked into a vibrant, pink, 360 degree sunset. I climbed atop a knoll to get a good view. Over the crispy tips of the trees I got my first glimpse of Mt Lassen, which I’d reach in the next few days.

The following day was more of the same moroseness, made slower by the presence of overgrown Silverthorn, a brambly bush that often grows after fire. The silver (ha) lining was my celebration at the midway point! I drank my champagne, ate my cake, and danced to a playlist including “Livin’ on a Prayer,” “Meet me Halfway,” and “The Middle,” to name a few. The afternoon was even more slow-going, full of tricky blowdowns, and after 11 hiking hours I rolled into camp right before Lassen NP.

The Humboldt Summit trail angels gave me cake and champagne to celebrate my monumental achievement— halfway!

Though Lassen was affected by the Dixie burn, the day I spent in the park felt vibrant. I awoke to the sounds and sights of some of my favorite birds: red breasted sapsucker and western tanager among them. While I didn’t get close to the peak, the trail passed several thermal features and many lakes. I ate lunch at the Drakesbad ranch, an awesome little oasis tucked into the backside of Lassen, and swam in Lower Twin Lake. I decided to side quest it on the Cluster Lakes trail to reconnect to the PCT.

While the trail was an exercise in pathfinding, the Cluster Lakes were beautiful, especially Silver Lake with Lassen Peak looming behind.

Having frolicked a bit too close to the sun, I wouldn’t make it the planned 25 miles for the day before dark… unless I ran. The trail down from the park to Old Station was a trailrunner’s dream: a gentle downward slope coated in soft pine needle duff. With my back bouncing along my back, I broke into a full out run, splitting 12 min miles for about 5 miles. I got to my planned campsite at 8:45, 15 minutes before dark, cooked up the butter boletes I’d found that day into a delicious dinner, soaked my feet in the stream while I journaled, and let the sounds of Hat Creek lull me to sleep.

The town of Old Station consists of only campground and gas station, but features a “Hiker Scoop” ice cream — a 16oz cup mountained up with scoops. I was delighted to see sorbet among the options and downed this massive convection for breakfast. Hot and muggy air made for lazy hiking, and thunder rumbled as I made my way along the Hat Creek Rim, stopping in at the Subway Cave. The long lava tube had a jagged floor and smooth ceiling, and was about 25 degrees cooler than the surface. After a rendezvous with a friend from my early days of trail (who had hiked 40 miles in a day to catch me!) I camped out on the Hat Creek Rim a bit earlier than planned, when I spied a spot that had views of Lassen, Shasta and a salmon sunset. My trail friends call me a sunset fiend because I prioritize sunset viewing when choosing mileage and campsites.

I stopped my day 4 miles early to enjoy the sunset on Lassen and Shasta simultaneously!

The final days had a slight change of pace: my wonderful friend Katie joined me on trail to hike the section near Burney. We faced some of the hottest temps yet: over 90 degrees for most of the day. The one reprieve was the beautiful Burney Falls, where the mist of the waterfall kept the surrounding chasm cool. Katie brings out the best of my girlhood, and we played and frolicked into the night under an expanse of cowgirl stars.

Feeling grounded in my IRL friends who have joined me out here. Love you all.

This landscape teaches me of resilience, and I find myself drawing on it to get through the hardest days. Lassen NP exemplified how a landscape can restore itself when left alone to heal. But it’s only in partnership with nature that we will be able to find a sustained path forward: one where hikers can continue to enjoy the PCT for years to come.

I relish the opportunity to reflect on our impact, and resolve to continue to symbiotically serve our amazing trail.

Love,

Landshark 💕⛰️🦈

This week brought the whiplash of being with loved ones to without, of slow to fast, and of beautiful alpine lake outlets to dry NorCal forests. I hit my highest mileage day so far excluding my 48 mile overnight hike, and tied my lowest mileage so far (zero).

On the Fourth of July, in Lake Tahoe, I took my third trail zero. With bellies full of focaccia and fancy San Francisco pastries, Yifei and I ventured to Sand Point Beach and to see the South Lake fireworks. The following two days he accompanied me into the wilderness! The 41 miles from Truckee to Sierra City were some of the rockiest yet: my feet screamed with every step, and even Yifei was in pain on fresh feet.

Yifei hiked the 41-mile section between Truckee and Sierra City.

Our first day, we visited the Peter Grubb hut, one of only 3 rentable mountain huts on the PCT. Inside was a huge stockpile of wood for the winter, two picnic tables, and to our delight, a guitar and songbook! Someone had clearly played recently; the guitar was tuned. A few other hikers joined us, and we sang “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Landslide,” and other classics. The joys of that day were not limited to auditory: we found a massive flush of butter boletes and harvested all that could fit in our packs. Due to our late start that morning and dawdling at the cabin, we ended our day at just 16 miles to a glorious sunset.

While the descent to Sierra City was a bit of a slog, the lovely Sierra Pines resort made up for the long day. On a breakfast of lavender and strawberry toast, I set out alone, and started the 8 mile, 3000’ climb up to Sierra Buttes. The reward was a good drinkable spring with ice cold water, and a ridgeline that looked down onto tens of lakes. I ventured down to Deer Lake and had it to myself. It was a markedly solo day in stark contrast to my time with Yifei, and I missed him deeply. The loneliness of getting back on trail after loved ones visit is one of the hardest emotions to wrest.

A sunset spot I cowboy camped in after a late night of hiking, the morning after.

After hiking into the night and cowboy camping under the last golden glow of sunset on a steep ridge, I cooked my porcini into the night. The Milky Way was out full force, and several shooting stars darted across the sky. I slept in, and though I didn’t get hiking until 8:15, at 10:15 having already surpassed 6.5 miles, I decided that it was time to try my luck at a 30-mile day.

Toward the end of the previous day, an energized, chatty, and all around fun 60 year old man caught up to me. I had to push pace to walk with him a few miles. He raved about his tramily, comprised of himself and three 20-something men. Enter the tramily I’ve been calling “The Boys”. Of all tramily dynamics I’ve observed, they have one of the best: obsessed with each other in a tender, affirming way. I immediately gravitated towards that energy, and felt a strong sense of longing to hike with them for a time. Would this be my tramily, after so many weeks alone? The Boys turned out to be all very fast hikers, which was motivational.

Bath in the Middle Fork Feather River before pushing to 30mi for the day.

Speedwalking and chatting with them, I had 15 miles under my belt before lunch. It was a similarly speedy afternoon, and I made it down to the Middle Fork Feather River by 7pm, 28 miles into the day and early enough to bathe. A combination of too long a linger and a dastardly section of steep blowdown meant I had to hike further than planned, bringing me up to 31.5 miles for the day and pitch black night hiking for the last couple.

The following day introduced me to The Girls: a group of women hiking together with awesome positive energy. I had a similarly great time hanging out with them, but lost them when I made a side quest to Bucks Lake to rendezvous with The Boys for lunch. Years before, I took my first SF roommate on her first ever backpacking trip on a small section of the PCT in Bucks Lake. The town was as I remembered: podunk. As I filled up on beverages and sweet potato fries, I reminisced, and that night I camped near a viewpoint we’d had on that trip and watched the sun set.

The wildflowers in Bucks Lake Wilderness were some of the best!

The last day of the section brought me along a ridge which steeply dropped to the tiny town of Belden. The landscape was transformed from what I remembered: first with wildflowers, then with burn. A huge fire had ravaged the surrounding area after we’d been there last, rendering it unrecognizable. The once-squishy earth was ashy and dry, the trees charred, the sun unrelenting. The silver lining of a burn is how far you can see, the surrounding hills dramatically cut by the river far below. I could see the town of Belden about four trail miles before I reached it — straight down. It’s a small miracle that a trail crew once managed to cut a relatively well-graded trail into the cliffside.

In town, I met my friends Lindsey and Jaya met up to hike the next section. After $5 mimosas at the Caribou Crossing, we hiked up the steep, overgrown Belden climb into the night. The plan was to go nine miles to a tentsite by a creek. A few minutes after we’d pulled on our headlamps, Lindsey asked me what kinds of animals I’d expect to see around the area. I told her mountain lions and bears. A few minutes later, we stopped to discuss the eyes she’d been seeing trailing us. They were decidedly feline, she said, and she’d seen them a few times. Since they were perpendicular to the trail, we decided to forge on noisily. That came to a stop when the mountain lion leapt into a bush just ahead of us, revealing itself in our headlamps and blocking off the trail. It was probably 30ft away.

Night hiking in the burn scar moments before facing down a lion.

“Hey buddy!” I yelled, trying to remember what to do in this situation. The answer came: back up slowly, make noise, don’t run. We backed down the trail singing Taylor Swift and clacking our trekking poles together. The lyric, “all there’s left to do is run,” from Love Story, hit a little too close to home. The lion did not seem to be following us, his cat-and-mouse game up. We got back to where others had set up and shakily made our own camp. A few minutes later, a girl who’d gone to pee surprised a bear. Needless to say, it was not a restful night.

Lindsey and Jaya were troopers about the situation, and I’m very glad that I wasn’t alone when the stalking occurred. I’ll need to rethink my strategy of hiking alone into the night. For now, I am safe and have a very exciting response to the question “so what wildlife have you seen on trail?”

While I tried on several tramilies this week, they pale in comparison to having my real life people on trail. I appreciate you all so much, and thank you for being part of this dream.

Love,

Landshark 🩷⛰️

I’ve written before about the trade-offs of linking up with a group on trail versus going it solo. This week, I had the privilege of hiking exclusively with one other person: my friend Josh, who had signed up with no hesitation for a 140-mile stretch of trail from Sonora Pass to Truckee. This arrangement had all the positives of companionship and none of the negative scheduling side effects, and was therefore a great success.

We fell into a comfortable companionship while hiking, nearly always in each other’s view. I was impressed with his grit and ability to complete 20+ mile days straight off the couch. He dove into the deep end and somehow floated flawlessly. As per usual, I made it harder than it had to be, adding a side quest to Mount Tallac which meant we had a 26 mile day to keep us on schedule. He rolled with it and we managed to get to camp before dark every night — which I don’t even do on my own!

The stretch of trail from Sonora Pass to South Lake Tahoe must be one of the most underrated, considering I’d never heard much about it. Reddish and dark brown lava rock formed abstract statues, contrasted with bright green meadows full of wildflowers. Water was plentiful. While the first day was a bit steep, much like Yosemite, complete with granite features, the trail mellowed out and though the elevation gain per day stayed at 5k, the mileage felt easier to complete.

Vertical columns of granite differentiated this landscape from its Yosemite counterpart.

Our second day was a planned Nero: my friends Anita and Gloria came out from SF to resupply me, taking us to the nearby tiny town of Markleeville. On a Sunday, almost nothing was open, but they had a coconut based ice cream at the general store which I inhaled.

Josh’s “rose” of the trip was hiking through this meadow.

The third day took us through a stunning open meadow with beautiful rock formations. After a sunny lunch by a lake, the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in, just in time for our most exposed section yet. That made for dramatic views tinged with a sprinkle of fear. Luckily the main storm moved away from us, but a surprise dark cloud came over the mob and we got rained on, though it wasn’t thick enough to produce lightning.

Dramatic clouds made the views over this pass even more theatrical.

Then, in the distance, a huge blue expanse came into view. I’d made it to Lake Tahoe! Full of fond winter and summer memories from when I’d lived in SF, it was a surreal feeling knowing I’d walked there from Mexico. The trail took us alongside the back of many familiar ski areas. For the first time since the desert, the water carries surpassed 10 miles. The lack of moisture didn’t stop the wildflowers from thriving, waving pink, orange, and purple in the wind.

At Echo Lake Resort, a trail angel picked us up and took us to stay with him for the night, providing a shower, laundry, and kitchen. Although I’d showered in Reds Meadow a week prior, I hadn’t done my laundry (except in my bear can) since Bishop. Cleanliness has become a foreign concept, to the point where if my hands look too clean they don’t seem like my hands. In the morning, we left the “Sierra” section of the PCT and entered Desolation Wilderness. In contrast to its name, Desolation is a paradise, a mini slice of the Sierra. Lake Aloha was reminiscent of Thousand Islands Lake, dotted with islands and an impossible shade of pale blue.

The summit view from Mount Tallac at nearly 10,000’.

After a lunchtime lake swim in Susie Lake, we side quested to the top of Mount Tallac. Rounding the bend near the peak, the full length of Tahoe came into view, spectacular and blue. The summit offered a 360 degree view of the surrounding area. We could see the distant peak of Sonora Pass where we’d come from and the mountain range along Tahoe where we would go next.

The remaining days followed many ridgelines with sweeping views and AT&T service. On our final day together, we hiked under the Granite Chief chair and passed Lake Mary, where the Dartmouth Outing Club of Northern California (DOCNC) cabin is! The Dartmouth 13s who had it reserved for the weekend welcomed us with open arms and Mezcal margaritas. It felt celebratory, and the final three miles to Josh’s car flew by. At the parking lot, my partner Yifei awaited us as well. It was the first time I’d seen him since I embarked on this journey two months ago. It was a joyous reunion and a hot shower and bed never felt better.

Views on the ridge behind KT-22 at Palisades Tahoe.

Next week, Yifei joins for a couple days and I take a zero to enjoy fireworks in South Lake Tahoe before pushing big NorCal miles. (Yes, I can see into the future, and I’m definitely not a week behind schedule)

Love,

Landshark 🩷🗻🦈

One of the things I love about thru hiking is that it is a multiscale, multidimensional optimization problem. Every hiker has a different objective function: a different weighting of speed, fun, adventure, comfort, cost, or simply minimizing how much the day sucks. Everyone is also working within their own constraints: fitness, budget, weather, injuries, schedule, risk tolerance, inventory. One can imagine that this problem is non convex, so the optimizer (in this case the hiker) must take a lot of steps (pun intended!) before reaching the optimum solution.

If you are not a math person and you’re still reading this, what I mean by the above: every hiker has different priorities, different goals, and it takes some trial and error to discover the approach that works best for those priorities and goals.

Swimming in alpine lakes is a big part of my objective function. This lake just after Silver Pass hit the spot.

This week I placed a hard schedule constraint on my objective function: my friend Josh would be meeting me at Sonora Pass on the night of the 26th, 127 miles from VVR. You might be thinking that doesn’t sound so tough- only 21 miles a day, on the lower end of the mileage I normally complete. I’ll remind you that this is the Sierra, so mileage doesn’t go so fast. The other challenge, self imposed: a huge part of my optimization function involves fun side quests. In particular, I wanted to swim in hot springs, and planned to leave the PCT to scramble through the Minarets just after leaving Red’s Meadow.

From VVR, I’d only planned to go 20 miles, so I took it easy in the morning and ate their $21 avocado toast. This came back to bite me with a vengeance. I’ve mentioned before how difficult it is to eat 5000 calories a day. One of the biggest issues for me has been gnarly stomachaches as a result of eating this way, crippling my walk speed. Seeming to strike at random, they kill both my appetite and energy. One such stomachache struck right as I started the climb up Silver Pass, and bent over in pain, I made predictably slow time. I reached the top at 6pm and did my best to get to Lake Virginia, rolling in at nightfall.

The view from Lake Virginia.

The next day was relatively easier: I planned to go the 15 miles to Red’s Meadow, get myself a cold drink and some fries, and start into the Minarets. Motivated by a sighting of Aurelion (the supported FKT attempt), I made great time down to Red’s. I decided to side quest to Rainbow Falls, a 3 mi detour which was beautiful and worthwhile. 18 mi into the day, I got my lemonade, and promptly got “vortexed”. Someone gave me free shower tokens. I got several popsicles. Then a hiker mentioned the hot spring at the nearby campground, and I was done for. It was a perfect pool, and a perfect night for a soak. I decided to stay there for the night and push more miles the next day.

Thinking this way is a trap. Getting a nice early start on my side quest, I made it up to Minaret Lake before lunchtime. Then the trouble began. Colibrí, a 2025 PCT hiker and the friend who’d convinced me of the side quest, had gone through the area in July, but I was attempting it in June. What she described as a series of steep scrambles was in fact one steep scramble followed by steep snow chutes. Completely alone except one other foot track, I assessed the risk and cost of attempting the chutes. I felt confident I could make it across, but kicking in steps would take hours. Ultimately I decided it would still be faster than backtracking, and down the chute I went, kicking in each step 5 times before trusting my weight on it. The slush gave way to a snowpack that was perfectly solid and grippy, and as I predicted I had no trouble. I glissaded the last 200 feet down to the aptly named Iceberg Lake, one of the most thrilling glissades of my life. Down to Lake Ediza, I bushwhacked through wet brush and waterfall cliffs, the trail indiscernible under the snow and water.

As a reward, I took a dip in Ediza, to show Avicii I was cool.

The rest of that day through the JMT section of Garnet, Emerald, and Ruby Lakes. Exhausted and enchanted (both emotional states slowing me down), I kept moving at a snail pace, just needing to clear the area to sleep back on the PCT. In spite of an early start, I got to Thousand Islands lake just as the sun set and had to get creative to find a camp spot—there were around 40 people already camped on its shores. In addition to my human neighbors, I also had some insect ones; a thick cloud of mosquitos descended at dusk and returned at dawn, projecting a spot beyond imagination back to the real plane.

Garnet Lake was the most impressive alpine lake I visited: massive and dotted with islands.

In case you can’t tell, I miss doing math.

Here’s a math problem: even though I’d gone nearly 20 miles the previous day, it had only amounted to 14.7 PCT miles. If it was originally 41 PCT miles to clear the no-camp zone in Yosemite, plus a one mile detour to the post office, how many miles did I have to do the following day?

Dropping over the final 11000’ pass of the Sierra, the trail followed the Tuolomne River from its glaciated source through the lush Tuolomne River Valley. I swam in its cold, rushing water, surprised by its force and frigidity. The mellow, soft dirt of the valley trail was a welcome relief after the rocky descent from the High Sierra, and I thought I’d be able to push more miles in the coming days. I was mistaken. The two days after Tuolomne Meadows were some of the steepest, rockiest, most cry-inducing slogs of the entire trail. The trail shot straight north, regardless of what granite features were in its path. The only redeeming factors were swimmable temperatures in the alpine lakes and the beautiful wildflowers.

The source of the Tuolumne River, just over Donohue Pass.

The third day in Yosemite, I’d planned to do 24 miles, but the first three miles of the day took me 30 minutes each. I decided to let go of my expectations and do what I needed to do to have a good day. I tucked wildflowers behind my ears, soaked my feet in every river, swam in a beautiful golden hour lake, and thought about the musical composition of my favorite songs. In the end I only made it 22 miles, but I was proud to have turned my suffering into a fond memory.

In its final miles, the Yosemite section mellowed out a bit, following a river along its granite slides up to Sonora Pass. There you could see the gradual changing of the landscape, as volcanic peaks rose out of the glacier valley. A few miles into the day, I noticed a girl hiking about my speed with the craziest legs I’d ever witnessed on another person — her calves were nearly larger than her quads. Chatting with her, eventually it came out that she was on the self supported fastest known time (FKT) attempt for the PCT! Her name was Raven, and I made it my personal mission to stick with her the 26 miles I had to go to meet Josh at Sonora Pass.

At the top of the exposed pass, a surprise snowstorm blew in, with 50 mph gusts blowing the precipitation up the mountain. Raven’s tactic? Just keep hiking. From 3am to 9pm every day, she hikes, without breaks. We took a 10 min break to dry out her sleeping bag, a 2 min bathroom break, and that was it. I stopped to put on or take off layers; she masterfully slid them on under her pack without taking it off. It was a grand day in which I pushed my limits, and it was only half of her day of hiking! It’s mind boggling to conceive that she will be in Canada in the amount of time it took me to reach here. (I’m on Day 56; the FKT time is 55 days.) But I’m cheering for her all the same!

My last look at the Sierra from the beginning of Sonora Pass.

This week, I took a lot of steps, and I’m pretty sure I was close to the optimum. The next section is the last of the “Sierra,” and I’ll be accompanied by a good adventure buddy. I’m curious to see how different it will be to hike with a partner for an extended time, especially one on fresh legs. I imagine it will be a good practice run for Nat joining me next month.

Love,

Landshark 💕⛰️🦈

Apologies for the late letter, as I have been without service for the last few weeks. Traveling this week through the High Sierra, the PCT crests and dips over the notches and valleys of Kings Canyon and Sequoia national parks, and I found myself in a series of macOS landscapes. Words cannot describe the immense beauty of these wild lands, but I’ll try: water pours down granite slides into lush green valleys, immense peaks stand stoic in granite and lava rock, white capped passes melt into lakes which flow into each other. It has been my favorite week so far, but the technicality of the terrain also made it one of the hardest, not to mention the whole section took place above 10,000’.

The timing of the High Sierra is a logistics puzzle itself. Each pass presents its own technical challenges, and most have snow. To avoid postholing, passes are best done in the morning, when the snow is still firm; however, the passes are spaced such that always doing them in the morning would slow one’s schedule considerably. For the most part, my strategy for this section involved completing one pass a day, camping just below the snow level of the following pass so I could wake up and complete it in the morning. My mileage dropped to 20-21 a day, but took considerably longer to complete than my 24 mile desert days!

I’ve been swimming in alpine lakes every day to stay clean!

After my package mishap — I had to spend an extra day in Bishop due to the post office closure on weekends — I wasn’t keen to repeat in Mammoth, where I’d planned to next resupply, but would now arrive on a weekend. Instead, I decided to pack 9 days of food to get me all the way to Tuolumne Meadows. This meant I was back to the trail mid Monday with a very heavy pack. If you’ll recall, my pack weight was nearly 60 lbs leaving KMS. Loaded up with pumpkin bread, brownies, and nine days of sustenance, my new pack was significantly heavier. While we’ll never know how heavy it truly was, it was at least 70 lb, and probably closer to 75.

Back over Kearsarge Pass I trudged with my monstrosity. The conditions were completely different from the previous venture— not a cloud in sight. Due to the spacing of passes, I’d also be completing Glen Pass that day. While not the tallest pass, Glen was, as one FarOut user commented, a“steep little bitch”. The backside coupled snow with scary fields of scree where hikers had made a makeshift trail between switchbacks. But the views were spectacular: rugged mountain ridges layered back to Forester Pass, and lakes spooled out in the direction I’d be heading. I ended up camped at one of those lakes, having traveled only 13 miles for the day, but completely spent. The site also had a bear locker, which gave me peace of mind with my extra food that wouldn’t fit in my bear can.

Since I’d camped just over Glen Pass, I’d be heading down into the valley in the morning and completing Pinchot Pass in the heat of the day. Longer and more grueling than Glen had been, Pinchot was probably my least favorite pass for this reason. Its climb had many Big Steps, large stones in the path that required quite a bit of muscle to ascend. My pack was still bulging with all the food I’d brought in, so every step felt like a weighted single leg squat. I hiked all day, made it only 21 miles, and got to camp at nearly 9pm. Mountain standard time is considerably slower than other time on the PCT.

The coldest lake I swam in: a nameless glacier lake right after Pinchot Pass.

The sounds of a mountain stream lulled me to sleep at my excellent camp on the way up Mather Pass.

Compared to the Big Steps on Pinchot Pass, Mather was a gentle dream on the way up— but with a surprise rocky scramble/snow chute on the back! I enjoy these type of mountaineering skills, but some hikers I know were not having a good time. On the section after Mather Pass, however, anyone would be hard pressed to have a bad day. The trail traversed a gargantuan granite slab directly next to the chain of Palisades Lakes before dropping dramatically into a waterfall that led to Kings Canyon River valley. Although it was a 3000’ decline, rock-hopping down was almost as slow as the climb up. The valley felt like Yosemite Valley, only higher in the alpine, with waterfalls cascading all around to join a forceful river that carved out a wide meadow. Once again I put in a 9.5 hour day to go 21 miles, dragging the last few miles to make it halfway up Muir Pass for the night.

The view from the top of Kings Canyon River valley.

Muir Pass was the snowiest pass, with around 3 miles covered — beautiful, but once again slow-going. As I crested the top, I was surprised to see a little slice of Alberobello: a town I had visited in Puglia, Italy. Sure enough, the mountain cabin was modeled after the Trullo huts they build there. The climate inside was much more comfortable than the exposed, frigid air on the pass, and I spent some time there warming up before making my slippery descent on snow.

The hut on top of Muir Pass, modeled after the Trullo.

Cold conditions on Muir Pass; I couldn’t feel my feet for a few hours!

The one downside of all the beautiful water features: mosquitoes. After attempting to watercolor and getting swarmed, I spent the afternoon cosplaying as prey. If I kept moving, they weren’t biting, but as soon as I stopped I would feel the telltale pinprick feeling that would mean a sleepless night of scratching later on. After a slow morning crossing snow, I made good time down the valley and camped beside a river. My first camp below 10,000’, I gleefully noted the fire ring and had myself a campfire! I journaled by its light and roasted the half zucchini I somehow still had from town.

My final day this week was a massive one. I decided to push an extra 12 miles to Vermillion Valley Resort, an area most PCT hikers resupply at, and due to FOMO I decided it was worth at least seeing. After a 27 mile day, I rolled up to a bonfire and a live streamed World Cup game on their projector. While I wasn’t the most impressed by their jacked up pricing, I did get a $21 avocado toast, which was a treat.

This week reaffirmed that I prefer trail time over town time, that it’s completely acceptable to skip experiences other hikers have for the purpose of hiking my own hike. As a result, I’m skipping towns as I make my way toward Yosemite and Lake Tahoe, stopping in only when I need to charge my devices. It’s been fun being on the wild road in an uninterrupted way — and civilization is a bit of a treat, even when the town population is 200.

Until next time: See you down the wild road.

Love,

Landshark 🩷🗻

The Sierra, considered to be the best of the PCT by many hikers, tests one’s stamina, grit, and technical decision making. Arriving at Kennedy Meadows brought a mixture of emotion: relief at completing the desert, considered to be the “worst” section (I loved it anyway), excitement at the adventure that awaited, and apprehension at the new, challenging trail conditions ahead.

Everyone’s body handles the Sierra differently. Turns out that the prior 5 weeks of training were insufficient for the rocky, rugged, at times snow covered passes. Coupled with a 6 day food carry, microspikes and a bear can, my pack weighed in just a hair short of 60 pounds at KMS. “That’s the heaviest I’ve seen yet,” remarked one of the servers there. “At least it isn’t 60 pounds,” I said, laughing.

The squad at KMS, an amazing lenticular sunset as backdrop.

But first: since my foot had not entirely recovered, I decided to take a zero at Kennedy Meadows South. The town, population 200, has two main hiker locations, the touristic General Store and small-town friendly Grumpy Bear’s. It was the first calendar day since beginning the trail that I had not hiked at all. I put away two of the giant pancakes at the all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast, a feat few hikers manage.

The dream of the Sonics

Since Wrightwood, I’ve been traveling with two hikers both named Sonic. The catchphrase is very fitting for both. They go fast. Their group had an idea to get to Kearsarge Pass in 5 days, averaging ~23 miles a day, which is something I’ve been able to achieve for the past few weeks. It would be three days to Mount Whitney, where we would attempt a sunrise summit, then head to Forester Pass, the highest point on the PCT, crossing that and Kearsarge on our final day down to resupply.

Heading in the first day with my not-quite-60-lb pack, I climbed about 4500 feet in 19 miles. The way the desert melted into high Sierra was beautiful; the meadows unfurling with silvery rivers slicing through, the gray behemoths of the 14ers ahead. I then had to pull off a 23 and 24 mile day respectively to get to Crabtree Meadow, where most hikers begin the Whitney ascent. These were not normal miles either - all above 9000’. My breathwork suffered from the thinness of the air, my foot suffered from the steepness of the pitch. But descending down to Whitney Creek, my worries melted as my mind took in the most stunning view I’d seen all trip. I’d made it.

Whitney Creek at golden hour— photos don’t do it justice.

A 16 mile diversion from the main PCT and the tallest peak in the lower 48, Whitney is a popular side quest for hikers. I had a personal history with this mountain: in 2023, a record snow year, a couple of friends and I attempted to climb it in July. That year, the snow was omnipresent and slushy, and we had to respect the turn around time before it got dangerous. This time, I did everything I could to ensure I made it to the summit. Since I’d gotten to camp so late the previous night, I decided not to do the midnight wake-up for a sunrise summit and instead aim for the saddle by sunrise. I left camp at around 2am. It was five miles to the saddle, and taking it as slowly as I could so as to not induce altitude sickness, I got there at 5am, just as the sun was rising. I enjoyed the golden glow in the beautiful rock formations and the distant mountains as I traversed the backside, and I reached the summit at 6:20 am. It was freezing cold there, but that did not dissuade me from making a morning coffee at the top.

Sunrise on the backside of Whitney.

On the way down, the altitude and lack of sleep hit me like a ton of bricks. I was somehow almost as slow going down the mountain as going up! I had to stop at Guitar Lake to take a quick dirt nap, the marmots bounding around me. It was thrilling to be among the lakes, meadows, and mountains is only seen from afar on that first Whitney attempt, like stepping into a painting.

Mt Whitney Summit!

I reached my camp at Crabtree meadow at 11am and promptly fell asleep. My body felt nearly as destroyed as when I’d hiked through the night to Tehachapi.

Letting go of the dream

After pushing so hard for the past few days, I had to confront reality. The original plan was to pack up and hike 8-10 miles that same day, and push 20 over two passes the next day. The other hitch (pun intended): after the 20 miles, I would need to get down to the Independence post office before 4pm to receive my box. If I didn’t make it, the post office would be closed Saturday and Sunday, and I’d be forced to take zeroes in town waiting for it to reopen.

With this new information, I readjusted the plan. I rested up for the rest of Thursday, and took an alpine nero the next day, ending my day at 12200 ft just shy of Forester Pass. It was a day of frolicking in meadows, watercolors, and reading with my feet in the brook. I got to camp by 6pm, and it was the most beautiful site perhaps of my life. I watched the sun set for hours.

Camping at 12,200’.

The final day, I went up and over the highest point on the PCT, Forester Pass, at 13120’. As with many of the high Sierra passes, it was important to hit the pass early in the day so the descent wouldn’t be a postholing nightmare. I got to the top at 8 am and glissaded down the backside on my backside!

It was a double-pass day as Kearsarge Pass served as the access point to my resupply. Luckily the latter was well graded, and beautiful. Kearsarge Pass stitches together lakes and mountains in a way that boggles the brain. I swam in Bullfrog Lake, with mountains all around. A thunderstorm nearly cut my day short, but luckily the pass stayed clear as I sailed through. I was able to stretch my food enough to stay at one of the Kearsarge lakes just a mile up trail for the night, and had one bar of AT&T, the first sliver of contact I’d had to the outside world all week.

The snowy descent of Forester Pass.

While I’d lost the Sonics, I met many lovely new hikers this week who shared one of the most fantastic weeks on trail with me. Whether our paths cross again or not, these memories will stay!

See you next week, where I’ll attempt most of the rest of the high passes of the Sierra. I can’t wait!

Love,

Landshark 🩷⛰️

Dear Extended Tramily,

So sings Yoshi 2.0 in his song “Pain of Discipline,” a self-help anthem in its own right. In most circumstances, the pain of discipline entails showing up every day: going to the gym, eating well, pushing oneself to be the best version possible. But trail has a way of flipping the script.

I had just completed a 48 mile hike from Hiker Town to Tehachapi. My recovery program: 3 hour dirt nap, followed by hitching to town and spending $50 eating everything that sounded good at a smoothie cafe. My friend Mitchell (huge shout out!) drove down to meet me in Tehachapi, and we took a much needed relaxation day. We soaked in a questionably colored hot tub, ate huge plates of pasta, and went to go see the Tehachapi Loop, a railway innovation where the track circles to climb the mountain pass.

The Tehachapi Loop passes under itself to maintain less than a 2.2% grade up the mountain pass.

But starting the 6-day hike to Kennedy Meadows the following afternoon, it became clear something was wrong. Putting any weight on my small toes in my left foot had a cracking pain effect. Immediately my mind went to the worst — a stress fracture could end my hike.

The pain of discipline took on a new meaning: adequate rest would be discipline, and pushing too hard might end up in regret. Progress has a double meaning as well — progress on the trail, or progress toward recovery. Regress would be stalling or hiking back to town, but regress is also putting myself in a position where I would not be able to hike anymore.

The Joshua Trees cheered me on as I limped up the mountain.

Should I hike back to Tehachapi? Should I instead come off trail in Walker Pass, 70 miles ahead? Or should I push forward as planned and “embrace the suck”? This was my first taste of uh-oh pain, and it scared me. After waffling for a day and Googling every symptom, I decided to drop my mileage a bit, take it easy, and reassess after getting to Walker Pass.

The first two days of this section were excruciating as I navigated pain almost every step. My pack weighed heavy on my feet, too; I had 6 days of food, and the water carries were 15 miles or more. The third day out, a slight improvement had me hopeful. My foot would flare in the morning, but exercise would warm it up and I could usually hike pain free after 4 miles or so. The next day was a treat to the feet: soft sand, beautiful shade under Joshua trees. It was also the day I reached Walker Pass.

I hiked .25 off trail to get this amazing 360 night sky view as a cowboy camp.

At the crossing, a vegan trail angel was cheffing up amazing trail magic: plant based quesadillas and tacos. Boosted by a happy morning and a great hot meal, I decided I could push. This meant producing an extra day of food from my 6 days’ supply, since I’d reach Kennedy Meadows a day late. I had about 60 miles left of the desert, and it was only getting hotter every day: 110s in Onyx, where I would have taken the day off. I rationed carefully, but I ate every last bit. I rolled into Kennedy Meadows ravenous and relieved. The final day had a sandy descent which didn’t aggravate the foot, and I even managed to trail run a bit before dipping in the glorious Kern river.

Joshua trees provide excellent shade for a siesta. Can you tell I like Joshua trees?

This week’s section had high alpine sliced by deep valleys - lots of elevation gain and loss. Kennedy Meadows ended the trend of desert valleys and thus concluded the desert section of the PCT. As a high meadow, it was verdant; but dotted with desert plants, pine and sagebrush. Deep rivers cut through the valley, and the distant mountains called me.

Sun setting on a mountain ridge above the Mojave.

It’s the perfect chapter end to the desert, which surprised me both with the beauty and challenges it presented. I plan to rest a day in KMS, before reassessing whether my foot and I are ready to tackle the strenuous Sierra.

I am still nursing foot pain, but it hasn’t worsened. I choose which discipline I need every day: keep going, or take time to rest? It’s a constant conversation between brain and body. I suppose this experience is putting me more in tune with myself.

Love,

Landshark 🩷 ⛰️

There is a satisfaction to this pilgrimage; sharing the trail with thousands who came before, knowing my footsteps make the trail a little smoother for those to come. Hikers are like water molecules in a river, making our progress in different spurts and gurgles. Today, you might see someone who surged past a few weeks ago swirling around behind you in an eddy. But there is still the mutual progress of the river. This week brought a confluence of hikers I’ve met over weeks past, which I really appreciated!

Starting on the later side of hikers, I’ve now reached “the bubble”: the peak of hiker density. Instead of spending every other night alone, it’s now expected to share an established site with up to 20 others. Solitude is possible only when venturing off the beaten path - which I still manage plenty of.

Highway 2 is closed for the time being, making for a peaceful trek alongside it.

This week, I have found myself pushing more to maximize my PCT experience. I organized my week around destinations and visits, trying to spend as much quality time as I could with both; I had three friends and family visits this week! To make it all work, I had a few massive days, one of which was a destination in and of itself: the Hiker Town-Tehachapi challenge, in which I hiked 48 miles into the night before sleeping.

The week began with the most magical of trail magic. Leaving Little Jimmy Camp just west of Wrightwood, I spotted a morel. Then another. All along the trail in this section were over 20 morels in total, and I didn’t even have to drop my pack to find them! A couple slow miles later, with a bulging handkerchief, I set off to my first of the week’s destinations: Christian camp.

A large morel found just inches from trail.

Way back on day 2, a Trail Angel told me to go to the Christian camp at mile 404 because “they take real good care of you there”. Needless to say, if I was a Christian kid I’d be sold on my religion for life. The camp had everything you could ever want: a zip line, paintball, laser tag, archery tag, BB guns, a climbing wall, and a pool. Shockingly, I was the only guest for the night. In a retro fish 2 piece pajama set, I cooked my morels in a clean kitchen, while the kind family who owns the place did my laundry for me. Papa Bear was right: It was epic.

The stretch from Wrightwood to Elizabeth Lake, where I’d meet my dad, is 104 miles, but I’d spent two days doing 35 to make it to the camp, so had to up the pace for the rest of the week. I dropped my biggest day yet: 27 miles, on Monday, hiking through Vasquez Rocks just as the sun set. I had the option of sleeping in the strip mall parking lot outside of a Mexican restaurant; it was that or pay $30 to set up my tent. I’ll let you take a guess which I chose. It was the first time I felt I embodied the tag “hiker trash.”

Vasquez Rocks just before sundown. Star Trek was filmed here.

The following day I discovered I had a “Christmas toe,” a comical way to describe a numb toe that would supposedly return for Christmas. I decided to give my feet a break and pulled off another 25 mile day in my Rugged Shark crocs. This feat (feet) earned me my official trail name, Landshark!

A storm started to blow in, and I had to layer up as I dipped in and out of a dense bank of high wind clouds. My poor dad had planned to meet me a bit earlier in the day, and did successfully deliver me some chocolate cake, but then managed to get his rental car stuck on a rutted out dirt road. About 6 hours later he was free with a story to tell, and we sped gratefully toward Lancaster for a proper hotel night. Given the freezing conditions on the mountain, and my state of exhaustion, there was no better time for a hot shower and a warm bed. The following day we started leisurely, picking up Trader Joe’s trail magic to distribute to other hikers. Right back on trail I ran into a friend of a friend I had been messaging with! We gave him a TJ’s muffin.

Braving the dirt road to deliver chocolate cake.

I enjoyed having a slower day after pushing to make it happen. At our lunch rendezvous we played Harmonies and did trail magic for a few hours before facilitating the next friend visit: one of my closest friends in SF, Katie, parked her car at the campground I’d end the day at, and we picked her up so she could hike the rest of the day with me. It was a terrible day out: immediate downpour, but she was a great sport. We saw a gorgeous rainbow, I fried tofu for hours, and we played Boggle in the tent.

In the morning, I’d intended to follow the “blue line” out of camp- a PCT alternate route- but spiky desert brush overwhelmed the trail. After two miles of bushwhacking I gave up and backtracked, putting my day a bit behind schedule. The low pressure system had settled on the mountains, bringing more wind and low clouds. I kept moving to stay warm, even as it started to rain, bringing yet another stunning rainbow in its wake. Hitting the 500 mile marker was my reward for big efforts this week.

I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more…

Whisperings of an aqueduct rave were being conjured by the hikers around me. It’s tradition to hike the LA Aqueduct at night due to temperatures reaching the 110s. With the cold we’d been experiencing, it wasn’t necessary to hike entirely in the night, but I had a different plan brewing. Many hikers attempt the “one shot” from Hiker Town to Tehachapi, ie hiking the 41 miles in a single go. I had 7 miles to go before Hiker Town, but figured I should try anyway.

After a leisurely afternoon spent in the strange Hiker Town, loaded up with energy drinks and face painted like a shark, I rolled out around 4pm. One other hiker, Sonic (he goes fast), had the same crazy aspirations and committed to hiking the night with me, which was much better than going it alone. Hiking on the LA aqueduct was stunning, and true to his name, we made excellent time. As the sun set, the wind picked up, spraying sand into every orifice. It continued through the night on the long climb up Mt Tehachapi, which we summitted around 4:30am. At one point we lost the trail and had to traverse a steep sandy cliff. After hiking all night, the red glow of the sun on the horizon was a welcome sight. We found a sheltered spot to watch the sunrise and have a celebratory summit pop tart and beer.

Watching the sun rise after hiking all night is a memory I’ll have forever.

After the sun rose, I had 9 miles to go to Willow Springs Road. Sonic took off at 4 miles per hour, while I hobbled in powered by Spotify and sheer will, and immediately took a dirt nap at the trailhead. Hiking 48 continuous miles might not have been the smartest choice health wise, but moments like these are standouts on trail I’ll be able to reminisce on forever. Don’t worry, I won’t be trying it again any time soon.

Since I’ve just gotten service this week, expect the next installation soon!

Love,

Anna/ Landshark 🦈

There’s a board game my family plays called Tokaido. It’s modeled after the Tokaido Road in Japan. The player that wins is not the one who makes it to the end first; rather, to do well you must stop at many waypoints to taste delicious food, paint landscapes, and soak in onsen pools. Between painting watercolors, visiting Deep Creek hot springs, and a stop and Cajon Pass McDonald’s this week, I’m feeling like I won that game.

This week, my northward progress halted as the trail took me due west along the backside of the San Bernardino mountains. Along the way, I crested the ridge of Big Bear Lake, visited scenic Deep Creek, and spent a night in the town of Wrightwood before summitting Mount Baden Powell.

Some of the trees near the summit of Mt Baden Powell are 1500 years old.

I structured my days around beautiful sights and places. One day I pushed for the best sunset spot; another I chilled to ensure I’d camp at the hot spring. I let the trail dictate my pace rather than my own agenda — I would rather have a good time than make good time. (I’m also conscientious of my timeline, which I try to adhere to since many of my friends and family are planning on joining me at a certain day and time). It’s a delicate balance.

It was a rather social week punctuated with stretches of loneliness. So far, I’ve embodied the “hike your own hike” mindset on trail: doing what is best for my body and my hike. I started the week off with my sister hiking in and spending the night, which was followed by a day where I saw no other hikers. I then synced with a large group of 16 hikers and traveled with them to Deep Creek, Silverwood Lake and Cajon Pass. It was fun being part of such a tramily, for a few days, but it also exposed me to the dramas that unfold after a month of traveling with a self selected group of randoms. I am in the minority of hikers who don’t choose to hike with the same group for their entire time here, a choice I’ve reflected on often. For me, it makes sense from a convenience, independence and enjoyment perspective. I enjoy meeting many people, but don’t want to compromise my adventure to adhere to the needs of other hikers. (My own friends joining me out here not included!) I also have a penchant for fun side quests others might not have time for, like making watercolors, going up a ridge for sunset, or camping in a picturesque spot rather than meeting a certain mileage. By keeping myself solo, I maintain a degree of freedom I believe would be lost if I was constantly choosing a tramily.

For instance- my sister visited the first day out on trail this week! Hiking into the Big Bear area, we received the most generous trail magic I’ve experienced thus far: a couple in their van cooked up a hot breakfast, and later in the day, a group of volunteers provided a huge spread of drinks, snacks and fruit. The icing on the cake was that Nat herself had brought a whole buffet: berries, vegan treats, and a 1.25L bottle of Coke, which I ended up carrying for a few days.

Natalie backpacked with me for a day in Big Bear Lake!

Having Nat on trail was excellent. I couldn’t believe it had only been two weeks since she dropped me at the southern terminus. So much had happened, and finally I had someone to unload all my ruminations upon. I appreciated being cared for, heard, and known. We made camp with a man, Mountain Crab, 20 years my senior who had a similar recent life trajectory to me- lives in Seattle and even worked at Apple during the same time period. He had just returned from summitting San Gorgonio with a tale to tell: his tent had been raked and raided by a bear! It’s the kind of outlandish tale that I’d be pressed to believe if not for the evidence: parallel claw marks disemboweled his tent.

Mountain Crab was named such because he scuttles sideways up all the mountains that can be reached from the main PCT.

Natalie’s departure was like a sap on my momentum, and my energy swirled down. I went from constant yapping to seeing nobody for the entire day, except briefly at another trail magic stop. I considered going into town but decided to skip it due to a norovirus outbreak circulating the hiker community. On my own, I did get to pull some silly shenanigans, watercoloring the view of Big Bear Lake, and trailran with my pack to catch the sunset at a further tent site than I’d originally planned for the day.

The following day during my lunchtime siesta, a huge group of hikers joined me. The day involved a beautiful canyon wall hike through the Deep Creek area. I’d been wary of the Deep Creek hotsprings as a cautionary FarOut comment warned of a sausage fest, but the entire group planned to go there so I reasoned there would be safety in numbers. It was the best decision. The hotsprings were spectacular: deep green pools, light orange rock reflecting the late afternoon sun. We soaked until sundown, alternating the hotsprings and the cold river. In the morning, I got up early and dipped again.

Deep Creek was one of the most unexpected and best sections of the trail so far.

The next section was flat and mostly unremarkable. I stayed at the Silverwood Lake campground, but wasn’t brave enough to swim in its algal depths. The prairie leading out to Cajon Pass was hot and grassy, but once I created the ridge the landscape changed to oscillate, the hills tinted orange and green, the distant snow capped mountains marking where I’d go. Tucked into the valley was the famous PCT McDonald’s, where over 20 hikers sheltered from the heat of the day, myself included.

Cresting the ridge above Cajon Pass, I listened to the Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmaron soundtrack, the perfect companion to these views.

I traveled with the same large tramily until Cajon, but they decided to call it a day after McDonald’s and I wanted to make some headway up the mountain, so we parted there. It felt like a farewell and not a goodbye; we had similar paces and I’m sure to see them at some point soon. I climbed a gradual ridge into the sunset on the final push into Wrightwood. There was almost nowhere to camp, so I ended up solo cowboy camping in the elbow of a switchback. With 2 bars of AT&T I watched the penultimate episode of Survivor 50 to prepare for the finale the following day.

The following night, I had arranged to meet a trail angel in Wrightwood who I’d met through posting about my PCT prep on TikTok. I pushed the 18 miles into town and made it down by 3pm to meet her. She was one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. A PhD in statistics, she hiked the PCT in the 80s and now works for the fire service. She helps 50+ hikers during the season each year. There is a wall of wooden ornaments made by hikers who stay with her. We went out to dinner in Phalen, got groceries, and played Boggle. Then we watched the Survivor finale into the wee hours of the morning. It was an amazing (non-zero) rest day that restored me for the mountain climb the following day.

Getting a late start, I made surprising time up Baden Powell. A four mile climb with a 12% grade, the trail was soft, consistent dirt and gravel. Even with my resupply food I felt strong going up. Maybe my trail legs kicked in! The top of the mountain held ancient pines: the oldest around 1500 years old. To my surprise, I also found a morel mushroom. I didn’t know they grew this far south.

Morel near the top of Baden Powell.

After 15 miles for the day, with wind in my sails, I decided to hike up the nearby Mt Islip for the sunset with my watercolors. The smoke from the LA wildfires crept into all the crevices of the valleys, rendering them in yellow haze. From that vantage I could see all the terrain of the previous day, and previewed the next day. The burn scar, the old ski area, the Los Angeles highway snaking through the dry alpine and into the purple distance.

One of the biggest challenges this week was diet. I need to eat around 5000 calories per day to maintain my weight. Eating junk food is one way to go, but this week revealed that my tummy does not thrive when I eat fries, chips, candy, Oreos and soda all day. The volume of eating is unprecedented for me: four times a day, I eat a bag of Trader Joe’s snacks packing around 800 calories in one sitting. It also takes a surprising amount of time to eat this much. My holy grail has been trail mix: healthy fats, protein, and carbs, and caloric enough to support me. Surprisingly, this is one of my favorite snacks out here. I’m happy to have it in almost all my resupply boxes. I’ve gotten in the habit of buying a zucchini whenever I’m in town to boost my dinners as well.

Celebrating every hundred miles!

Letting the trail take me on its varied adventures, I’ve found myself more relaxed this week. It helps that my foot pain has all but subsided; without a constant low degree of pain I’m able to think more, do more, and enjoy more.

In honor of the Survivor 50 finale: got nothing more for you, head back to camp.

Love,

Anna

My second week on the PCT contained high highs and low lows, physically and emotionally. I had my first 25 mile day, and took my first zero - a day of no hiking. I left the desert for a few rugged alpine days, dipped back through an infernal wind tunnel, and emerged to hike a rugged creek bed. On the mountainside of San Jacinto, I lost a lifelong beloved family member, my childhood dog Stev.

The story continues where it left off: my feet one size bigger, my new shoes not yet arrived. Having spent the past two days trying to make my too-small hiking boots work, ultimately I caved to the (foot) pressure and decided to do an entire day in my knock-off Crocs. Soft, sandy terrain for most of the day meant my feet only hurt the normal amount. The trail drooped in the morning, and the sun beat down relentlessly. During a shade break, I loaded up pctwater.com and learned of DeBenedetti’s Place for PCT Hikers: a magical oasis run by trail angels just a mile or so off trail. Upon arrival, a trail angel handed me an ice cold coke and a Rice Krispie treat. Followed by a cold dunk in the pool, a nice refreshing lounge in the shade, I recharged my devices and myself here. I sped up the next ridge like a Croc-clad raptor and pushed for 24 miles for the day. As the sun set, all the creepy crawlers came out: I saw a camel spider, giant centipede, scorpion, and even a tarantula!

My umbrella hat is best for low-angle sun in the morning.

The following day, I sped along powered by my new shoes. I hiked the final 3 mi in my crocs and arrived at Paradise Valley Cafe just as it opened, a conglomerate of other hikers already gathered outside. PVC is a common place for thru hikers to catch a ride to Idyllwild, which is what the rest of my hiking group decided to do, but I had already booked an accommodation for the following night, intending to reach Idyllwild via Saddle Junction about 33 miles up trail. I continued on alone for my first true alpine day. A heat dome descended that day, with high temps reaching 94 degrees. As I ascended the 6400 feet of elevation gain on the backside of San Jacinto wilderness, a search and rescue chopper hovered, a sobering reminder of the heat exhaustion, altitude sickness, and dehydration that could befall me at any minute. I took plenty of shade breaks, and once, the SAR helicopter tried to rescue me!

A mini watercolor painted during a shade break on a very hot day.

The solo time in the alpine was memorable. While I’ve loved wandering the desert these past few weeks, the call of the mountains is what drew me to the trail in the first place. And as a solo traveler, I valued a somewhat technical day where I made all the decisions. I ended up at 25 mi on the day with 6400 feet of elevation gain and cowboy camped in a soft nest of branches for the night.

The next day, both I and my body were ready for our zero — only we had 11 miles to hike first! My wonderful Airbnb host, Ella, had arranged to pick me up at 11 am, which was quite a pace for sore legs. My blisters groaned in protest at every step I took. The lovely views did distract a bit from the pain.

One of the aforementioned lovely views.

The trail angels who hosted me had decorated “The Honeybee Cabin” true to its name: everything was yellow and/or had bees. I spent my first three hours in Idyllwild horizontal. After recovering some battery and showering twice, I ventured into town, where I met the dog mayor Max, had an icy sweet treat, and discovered that my week 1 tramily was in town having hitch hiked from PVC! The rest of the day was a restorative session of doing very little on their back porch among massive pines. The night culminated in watching Survivor, apparently a common love among thru hikers.

On 28 hours of rest I climbed up San Jacinto in the cool evening hours of the following day. The summit was stunning, and I got sunset all to myself. I hiked down a bit to camp for the night and spent the rest of the next day also hiking down: 9000’ of elevation loss over one day.

Sunset on the summit of San Jacinto.

Grief, loss and the PCT

On the back side of San Jacinto I lost a lifelong companion. My parents texted a “call when you can,” and I knew it was going to be serious. Our dog, Stev, had been old forever, and it felt like every time I saw him might be the last. I’d gotten so used to saying goodbye that I’d held hope that I might see him again when I reached Oregon later this summer. At 18, he seemed to be the invincible dog.

I’d always said that when the time came, I’d be there. And suddenly, on a remote mountain with a single bar of AT&T, I couldn’t. I cried all afternoon. Held by the shoulder of the mountain, I was able to at least call in for his last moments on our mortal plane. I stared at the crumbling granite far above as a piece of my world crumbled. Then I got up, dusted off my pants, and walked on.

Having left my tramily in Idyllwild, I was glad to find that the campsite I’d planned for the night already had two women camped there. The energy was fierce, silly and feminine. Most importantly, I didn’t have to bear my pain alone.

San Jacinto is where Stev laid to rest for me. A piece of him lives on there. I watched the mountain fade into the distance in the following days and thought of him. Moving on physically helped me move through the grief of his death.

The place I laid Stev to rest.

Back to business, I solo camped atop the beautiful Whitewater Canyon after spending a hot day hiking up it with some power hikers. From that vantage I could see the next challenge: the infamous Mission Creek. Heavy storm damage had completely destroyed the trail in this section, leaving hikers to navigate the riverbed debris. Not one person online had a single positive thing to say about it, so I knew I was in for a difficult day. But the first few miles felt like a true rugged adventure. I learned that getting my feet wet was in my best interest, as the rocks were more tightly packed by the river. I splashed, leapt, and navigated the burly banks, making slow progress. After 5 hours of this, I’d gone 10 miles, and it seemed to let up. I took a siesta in the shade of a tributary creek, pleased with myself.

I was fooled. The revenge section of Mission Creek slammed me with treacherous sections of loose, steep silt. One wrong step and you’d plummet. The subsequent three miles tested every bit of wit and agility. When it was over, I treated myself to a wrap with rehydrated hummus and sautéed a fresh zucchini. Little things to get you through.

Being here has built my appreciation for the smallest luxuries: a cold drink. Solid ground to pitch your tent. Not having foot pain. Sharing a view or a story with someone else also on this journey.

I do not have a trail name yet, but one of my trail friends tried to name me Struggle on account of my foot issues. I rejected that and he then proposed Denial. Needless to say I am still nameless.

Happy trails, and see you next week.

Love,

Anna

This week I embarked on one of my lifelong dream adventures: walking the 2650-mi trail from Mexico to Canada known as the Pacific Crest Trail.

Although I’d done all I could to prepare, the trail has already surprised me on multiple accounts. First, untrue to its reputation as the most boring section, the diversity of beautiful flora and fauna in the desert has astonished me daily.

Somewhere above Kitchen Creek.

Furthermore, the PCT is more social than I’d expected; many people hike the entire time with others, and getting a solo campsite is a rare luxury. The final big surprise has to do with my feet: I’d heard they size up over the course of the trail, but to my astonishment they have already grown a whole size in just 5 days! This has damped my eager pace a bit. More on that later.

My journey had a gentle beginning. My sister Natalie lives in San Diego, and I spent the night before on her sofa trying to sleep over the ruckus of her two highly nocturnal cats. She drove me to the trailhead and hiked the first afternoon with me to a great campsite overlooking the path we’d taken that day, seven miles in.

Putting a hand through the border to officially start in Mexico.

Just moments after we parted ways the following morning, emotions landed: disbelief that I was actually doing this, trepidation that I was now on my own, anticipation of the long road ahead. Since I’d hiked a half day the first day, I saw almost nobody the second. I didn’t realize how rare that would be until a few days later! I wound my way through Hauser Creek Canyon and past Lake Morena, places I’d researched now come to life. Although I set low expectations for myself, I surprised myself with my sustained energy and was able to hike 21 miles that first day.

I caught up to some other hikers at the end of the third day, a very long and cold climb up Mount Laguna that tested my ability to pitch my tent properly against weather. Luckily I had these newfound friends to keep my spirits high through the (literal) storm of day 4. The wind blew sheets of rain sideways, the cloud bank obfuscating the great views that would have been. I ended up hiking 24 miles that day, mostly on account of it being too cold to stop for long. Luckily the cloud bank cleared as we dropped down into the valley where perched the town of Julian.

Mom’s Pies in Julian offers a free slice of pie to thru hikers. (I am “freegan” for the trail to experience the trail culture).

After the long day prior, I had my shortest day yet as I hiked the 6 miles into town, hitched a ride from the gear shop shuttle, and set out for my resupply. A one hour layover turned into four as the friends I’d met on trail all converged in Julian. I got a free slice of apple pie, the town’s specialty, which is offered to all PCT hikers. I received my first resupply box, which I’d mailed prior to beginning. I left my first superfluous item in a hiker box: a multitool made of aluminum that was more weight than it was worth. The wait was strategic as well — after the previous days’ cold weather, we had dropped elevation significantly and shifted biomes into the dry desert, which is a hot and unwelcoming place in the heat of the day. I enjoyed views of bulbous cacti as I ascended out of the valley around 4pm, after the heat of the day. I also got my first “trail magic”: a guy in a van was handing out bakery items and kombucha. Even though I’d pigged out in town, I couldn’t pass that up!

Beginning on the fifth day, my feet ached unbearably by the time we dropped into camp. The next day, just around mile 100, I hobbled into our midday siesta with a horrible rash and foot pain like no other. It was then that I coined the “shero”: shoe zero, in which you take the day off of wearing shoes. I wore my camp shoes, a pair of ripoff crocs, for the next 8 miles. The lack of persistent cramped pain gave me newfound life and I soared past the beautiful and spiritual site of Eagle Rock. The same routine helped me on day 7, where I had another hot day of painful hiking boot wear before I gave into the pull of the crocs.

Eagle Rock looks incredibly like an eagle!

So, what happened? It turns out that with enough pressure on your feet, you flatten them out so they go up a size or two. My feet had grown at least a size in a matter of 5 days! I have now rush ordered new shoes, a whole size up, to a town a few days down the road. Hopefully those will treat me better. Until then, it’s croc hour. Part of trail is rolling with the punches and problem solving on the go!

After just seven days on the trail, it’s surprising how the mind adjusts to accept a new way of life: rising at dawn, sleeping at nightfall, and walking for 8-10 hours in between. On hot days, we set out early and rest midday to beat the heat. I’ve done my best to take care of my body each night, enjoying a hot meal, an alpine shower, changing into clean clothes and addressing any medical concerns of the day. I hope to sustain these habits and that they serve me well.

After the first week, I’ve gained 129 miles, 17k vertical feet, 20+ new friends/tramily members, and several important lessons about taking care of my body so it can take me all the way to Canada.

Love from the trail,

Anna

The PCT and I are already acquainted. I have met this beautiful, wily, wild trail many times, always with bookends of a warm bed and shower. I have never contiguously waded the grime.

Once, during a Washington PCT support leg for a friend, a thru-hiker told us that you have to “embrace the suck”: to keep going in the face of adversity.

What kind of “suck”?

Injury. Cold. Damp that never dries. Feet that ache, legs that throb so much you can’t sleep. The kind of fun generously labeled Type 2.

So, hiking the PCT is hard. Which raises a reasonable question: why choose this, when this is the first true time off I’ve had since the summer before college? While I know this is something I deeply desire in my core (it’s my dream) catching the pulse of why is not so simple.

Section I on the Washington PCT in August.

Part of it is place. California, Oregon, and Washington and their respective PCT sections carry many memories for me. These wild places have shaped me more than I can easily explain. While I’ve passed through these landscapes before, it’s only been in fragments. I want to know them fully, continuously, on foot, to see how one melds into the other, to orient myself on a symbolic odyssey from CA to WA (I moved 3 years ago).

Part of it is the way backpacking quiets me. On the trail, the world contracts to a simple pattern: walk, eat, sleep, repeat. Problem solving is imminent and resolves one way or another quickly. In contrast, among the noise of the city I tend to live a bit ahead of myself, always planning for the next thing without being fully present.

And the third part? I like doing hard things.

Last summer on another symbolic migration from Seattle to Portland by bike.

It should be noted that I am not confronting some large life change, uprooting myself, or processing trauma. My life pre-and post- trail will likely look quite similar… or will it? I am curious to know how I will change and grow via this novel and surreal experience.

At its core, this hike fits into one of my life’s driving instincts, which is to seek out new experiences. I would love to live a thousand lifetimes, but I have just the one. Thus I rely on others to share their lives with me, and look to do the same for them.

I’ll be walking the PCT solo, but not entirely alone. Some of the stretches I’m most looking forward to are the ones I’ll share with lifelong friends (too numerous to designate), my partner Yifei, my sister Nat, my mom, and my dog, Ladybug.

The best backpacking buddy there is.

So thank you for being part of this journey in whatever capacity - it’s an honor to share it with you.

Love,

Anna