Life on the Pacific Crest Trail pairs indescribable beauty with relentless discomfort.

You soak your bruised and broken feet in a crystal blue lake at 10,000 feet. You eat jiggling cubes of grey Spam while surveying a valley of forests carved by ancient glaciers. You dodge fluid squirting out of another hiker’s popped blister while watching bear cubs play in a meadow of sunflowers and butterflies.

On the PCT, awe and agony come as twins.

Some days it’s almost too much to take in. Some days all these majestic mountain passes feel so commonplace that you wonder if you’ll ever feel true awe again.

But you do. And you will. So you take one last look at the valley below, have another bite of your 3,000th Slim Jim, and keep it moving.

Always. Keep. Moving.

 

– SHOP TRAIL ESSENTIALS –

 

The PCT isn’t just a nature walk. It’s a logistical, physical, emotional, and gastrointestinal feat. It’s 2,650 miles of some of the most remote terrain in the country – beginning southeast of San Diego at the Mexican border, running through the entirety of California, Oregon, and Washington, and straight to the doorstep of Canada.

And I walked the entire thing.

In 2022, over the course of six months, I hiked through stifling deserts, waded into mosquito-plagued bogs, stumbled across endless snow fields, coughed through charred forests still smoking from fire, and crossed jagged, other-worldly stretches of volcanic wilderness.

I still don’t know how the hell I did it.

 

OK But … WHY Did You Do it? 

I don’t know. To see if I could? Why else do we try impossible things?

With zero thru-hiking experience and no idea what I was doing, I snagged a permit. Then I quit my job, rented out my apartment, stuffed a backpack full of half-studied gear, and flew south. My plan was to figure out a plan when I got there… and then just start walking.

That first step turned into five million. Before I knew it I was limping to the Canadian border 20 pounds lighter with a lifetime of stories I still haven’t fully processed.

 

Every Day Was a Fresh Hell. Or Heaven.

Most mornings began with sore ankles and a breakfast of bottom-of-the-bag M&Ms seasoned with trail dust. I’d roll out of my sleeping bag hoping my water filter hadn’t frozen overnight, that my spider bites hadn’t become infected, and that today there’d be more shade. Or less lightning. Or that maybe I could hike faster than a forest fire could burn. I was usually wrong on all accounts.

Some days I rationed peanut butter. Some days I slept face first in the dirt, too exhausted to set up camp. And other days I pooped on a mountain high above the clouds while deer winked at me from across a meadow. The duality of man?

 

It’s Not the Years. It’s The Mileage.

My first day was 11 miles. It nearly killed me.

That evening in my tent, alone and sore and questioning my idiocy, I considered there might be something seriously wrong with me. What unresolved childhood trauma had made me think I could do something like this?

Then it occurred to me: if it hurt this much on the FIRST NIGHT … what sort of permanent disability would my stubbornness push me to over the coming months?

But slowly, surely, inevitably, my body got stronger. Soon it was not uncommon to do a marathon’s worth of hiking every day. By the end of the trail, 25-30 milers were routine. Some days, depending on elevation gain, pack weight, health, the weather, my bowels, and a myriad of other factors, I really felt I could walk without limit.

It became increasingly clear that I wasn’t hiking because I had to. I was hiking because I didn’t know how to stop.

I’d still be walking to this day if Canada hadn’t turned me around.

Are There Other People This Dumb?

Yes, it turns out. Lots. Some even DUMBER.

Is it trite to confess that the most profound experiences I had on trail were with other humans? Because I forged bonds out there that I can’t imagine forming anywhere else.

Walking side by side through heat, hunger, and pain – trembling together in the dark while something huge rustles in the bushes – it all has a way of stripping away small talk. It’s hard to complain about your job over the sound of blood squelching in your socks.

So what do you do when you want to psychologically unravel with strangers? You join a trail family. Because if you’re gonna lose your mind, you might as well lose it with other people.

Over thousands of miles we trauma bonded, shared food and diarrhea adventures, and generally found our humanity together. Plus we gave each other some kickass trail names:

• Turbo (his farts propelled him uphill)

• Twizzler (with long, red, sunburnt legs)

• Mixtape (a music nerd with colorful crisscrosses of leg tape)

• Didi Hot Stumps (her feet were on fire)

• Hummingbird (always singing and never without something sweet in her pocket)

• Sweeper (hero who cleared campsites of trash)

• Poppins (had a tiny parasol but also happened to be a lovely human)

• Tex (you’ll never guess where he was from)

• Jello (my name – I shook out my limbs every morning, and I’m artificially sweet)

• And countless others

The Tip of the Iceberg

This is all, of course, just a fraction of our PCT story. Talk to any thru-hiker and they’ll regale you with stories from the trail, tips for maintaining your sanity on long pushes, and SO much more.

Some day we’ll dive into gear recommendations or favorite trail recipes. Maybe we’ll even partner with a long-distance hiker and help them stay fresh on trail. Until then, enjoy some choice moments from my own hike.

Happy trails!

 

 

Select PCT Highlights

• Drank from a cattle trough of rotten water full of dead insects. It was only after chugging several bottles from this trough that someone mentioned they found a drowned rat in there too.

• Stalked by a mountain lion in Northern California. Woke up to paw prints circling my tent.

• Sat in another human’s poop in the middle of the desert, and had to completely strip down and “bathe” in a tiny trickle of water while other hikers passed.

 

 

MY PCT HIKE, BY THE NUMBERS

• Elevation gained: 450,000 ft

• Mountain passes: 57

• Steps Taken: 5 million

• Longest water carry: 30 miles

• Bear encounters: 4

• Rattlesnake encounters: 12

• Achilles inflamed: 2

• Mud butt disasters: 1

• National Forests: 26

• National Parks: 7

• State Parks: 5

• Fed. Mandated Wildernesses: 33

 

 

EMJ Products I Wish I Had On Trail

SPF 30 Mineral Face Lotion

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48HR Pro Deodorant

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– SHOP MORE TRAIL ESSENTIALS –