Trail stats are as follows: I drank twelve milkshakes and many beers. I recorded 48 snakes, 16 of which were rattlers. I went through eight pairs of socks and five pairs of shoes. I swam in over 40 bodies of water, from milky blue glacial rivers to crystal clear alpine lakes to squishy-bottomed ponds teeming with baby frogs. I hiked 147 days.
At mile 2,655.8, I stood at the northern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail… and realized I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Okay, maybe a bit longer to rest would be nice. After a long bath and a boatload of fresh fruit, say. But you get the point: I’m hungry for more.
I’m blown away by the joy I found in this journey. I feel wildly empowered and more capable than I ever could have imagined. I’m captivated by the culture and nature (pun intended) of thru hiking. I’m in love with this version of myself that I’m meeting for the first time.
If I could go back to the start, I’d give that girl a big bear hug and tell her to be on her way – that she already has everything in her that’s necessary to succeed.
It would be a lie, of course; I didn’t have everything I needed at the start. I didn’t have the confidence or the know-how or the comfort with pain that I would ultimately need to finish this trail. I certainly didn’t have the downright grit that comes with becoming what we so lovingly call ‘hiker trash’. All that came later, along the way.
But there’s a saying: the trail provides.
And provide it did, every time we needed a difficult hitch or an extra meal or a ride around the very, very few fire closures we faced this year. It provided when I got sick and needed to go to urgent care, and it provided when we decided to hitch across Oregon for a wholly unnecessary (and very fun) trail gathering.
It also provided all the opportunity and guidance I needed to become who I am now: a hiker who walked from Mexico to Canada with optimism and grace and tenacity.
When I reflect on the trail’s consistent provision, I am blown away. I feel honored to have received its abundance and still hungry its serendipity. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there; my hike is over and it’s time to walk the walk after all that “I love making memories” talk.
The thing is, I hardly remember the desert. More accurately, I remember the desert like it’s some long-lost fever dream. Canada was far away, every new pain a fear and every ridge line a novelty. Individual moments pop into mind: crying myself to sleep that first night, blisters throbbing; watching in awe as mist rolled over chaparral hills near Julian; marveling at miniature waterfalls along Deep Creek as I made my way toward an oasis of hot springs nestled deep within the San Bernardino Mountains; waiting outside the Inyokern Dollar General in 104 degree heat; noticing as the desert hills transitioned, suddenly, into the granite mountains of the Sierra Nevadas. I remember my first rattlesnake, and my second, and the slinky, strawberry blonde belly of a fox who had come down to a nearby creek in search of water.
Past the desert, the Sierras come back to me in visceral, bursting color and goosebumps. I remember the celebration of walking into Kennedy Meadows South, the glory of a sunrise summit on Mt. Whitney, the full-chested power of a silent day hiking through Evolution Valley. I can bring to mind detailed pictures of a hundred new and familiar wildflowers: lupin and paintbrush, prettyface and tiger lilies, orchids and larkspur and carpets of heather. I remember the joys of hiking with my mom, us swapping stories from my childhood and me practicing patience in the hours it took us to break down camp. I remember the first and only time it snowed, flurries shooting in diagonals around us as we approached Glen Pass.
I remember spreading my dad’s ashes in a quiet morning just past Tuolumne Meadows, promising to come back. I remember later, when I realized that promise was to myself, not to him.
Then the granite peaks dropped away and the hillsides dawned open fields of fireweed and woolly mule's ears. Northern California was a burn scar and a new beginning. People had cautioned me about the “NorCal blues” that often plagued hikers, a sort of come-down from the wild high of the Sierras. I felt aimless after passing Truckee, like I had forgotten my larger goal in the pursuit of walking home. I mentally battled to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I remember the pains and panic of Norovirus and the comfort of having Drew in those low, low days. I remember the itch to get back on trail, and the excited buzz as we approached the Oregon-California border. (While other major thru hikes have the progress marker of a border every several hundred miles, the PCT has only two borders over the entire 2,655 miles. This makes for long-anticipated celebrations when these crossings come – and celebrate we did!)
Oregon passed in a blur. The beginning was slow and forested, even as we pumped out big miles. I finally fell in love with silence, with solitary hiking. I spent much of my days hiking alone. I also struggled; it was dark and the colors muted. When the forest relented, big mountains and huckleberry bushes swollen with fruit brought us back to life. Lava fields spilled in burgundy paths across the mountainsides, and we relished the flat(ish) winding trails alongside spectacular waterfalls. We pushed our bodies, cranking out day after day of 30-plus miles. Then, all of a sudden, I really understood: I was going to finish this trail. I was going to hike from Mexico to Canada.
And then came Washington.
We hiked across the Bridge of the Gods, which is longer and higher and more spectacular than you may believe. After several weeks of rolling Oregon climbs, our muscles were launched into high gear from the mountainous explosion on the far bank of the Columbia River. It was the first border I’ve ever crossed where the land seemed to notice it was there.
The days became harder and the wild blueberries sweeter. We wound our way around glacier-topped peaks and massive boulder fields streaked with rainbow mineral deposits. Herds of mountain goats peppered the hillsides, and patches of yellow and orange and red leaves signaled the end of our endless northern pursuit of summer. Mount Rainier peeked out from clouds like some floating castle or remote island in the North, then the West, then the South. Sunrise became frostier and sunsets more picturesque. Lakes got colder and clearer. Mile markers got bigger, the countdown got shorter, and then, we arrived.
Mile 2,655.8. The U.S. Canadian border. The end of this hike.
When we arrived, I waited minutes to touch the terminus. It didn’t feel real, and I wasn’t entirely convinced I wanted it to be. I realized then that, although this hike was the hardest thing I’d ever done, it was also the easiest choice I’d ever made; there was not a day I considered not finishing.
What felt like a solitary bucket list item now seems more like the tip of the iceberg. I hunger for more, for the next adventure.
It’s been just under a week since that moment, and my reintegration into the comforts of off-trail life has been eerily easy. Filling up a glass of water, wearing jeans, flushing the toilet – already I hardly notice these everyday comforts I swore to relish.
There are other changes I do notice, though. I like black coffee, for one. I have a new tattoo and a mullet. My feet have calluses that may never go away, and my heart has new loves that I hope never fade. I am more self assured than ever before, and filled with greater gratitude. I am more present and more phone-adverse (hence a delayed final blog). My knees have a faint, deep ache and there’s still dirt under my fingernails.
I’m happier with less. I’m happy, period.
That’s not to say I wasn’t happy before, but now it’s deeper. Happiness feels like a deep-chested knowing rather than a pleasant smile. I giggle out loud for no reason. I feel like a kid again.
Bigger than all the joy and self efficacy, I have a full-bodied hunger for a full life. I want rich community, I want adventure. I want to write more.
I’m hungry. I’ve written that over and over in this blog and I refuse to edit it out.
I don’t think this hunger is what people are referencing when they say ‘hiker hunger’. (Speaking of which, a milkshake and fries do sound real good right now…) But it’s a hiker hunger just the same. It’s the desire to fill up on moments, on memories, on people, on stories. To take the unconventional path and realize how deeply it feels like home. To do more with less. To protect these spaces, to cherish this land. To love, and to know, deeper. To work harder to greater ends.
We all have a little of that hunger in us, don’t we? Let’s go get satiated!
