Right now, I couldn’t be further from the trail. I’m in pajamas living at my mum’s house & currently putting together a CV to send out to recruiters and potential employers.
The fact I just walked over 4000 km from the border with Mexico up to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail seems oddly surreal. My dirty backpack sits empty and forlorn in the corner of my room – the only remnant of five months hiking every day in the American wilderness.
The only person who understands this strange predicament, my trail wing man and husband Jez, is still tikki touring around his homeland of England. As of this morning, he’s making a mad dash up to Scotland to visit friends and relatives we missed on our post-walk UK ‘holiday’.
Just before I left, we were in a Costa coffee shop in the small village of Walton engaged in a post walk debrief when I came out with a bold confession. While I loved the Pacific Crest Trail, I didn’t really enjoy hiking the PCT, as it’s commonly referred to. It’s the equivalent of loving to travel but you hate flying to each destination.
Jez wasn’t surprised. While on trail he’d done a full 180 degrees from loving hiking and hating camping to the opposite.
Thru-hiking, a term used to describe an end-to-end trail with continuous footsteps, wasn’t for us. Think of it like running events – we’d been happy with 5km, even 10km races but this hike was the equivalent of taking on a very long distance endurance race… in the desert.
But while I was wallowing in my post-trail suburban cage of emotion and struggling with how best to move on with my 52 year old life, many of my fellow PCT peers were either still walking or planning their next trail.
Scrolling through social media, all I see are their posts of beautiful memories on trail. They miss it terribly. I do not. What I miss and what I got out of walking this enormously long trail I am trying to figure out in this article, so bear with. It might possibly come by a process of elimination.
So why did I commit five months, $20,000NZD and a lot of tears to walking the damn thing? It’s simple actually: Because I could.
Probably best I say now to anyone reading this who intends to walk a thru-hike, and might seek inspiration and a shred of encouragement – stop right now or not I guess. If you want the journey of discovery then you should read Cheryl Strayed’s Wild or A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson. My journey is really just discovering that I don’t like long distance hiking.
Actually maybe I’ve never really liked hiking or tramping as us Kiwis commonly refer to it. I’ve had quite a bit of time to mull this over in the past five months. Lol. I guess I reached diminishing margins of return on hiking enjoyment at some point on the PCT.
It’s not like I was new to hiking before we started. Jez and I have been out seriously experiencing the wilderness of our homeland in New Zealand since 2007. We’ve ticked off almost all the Great Walks of New Zealand, tackled dozens of backcountry trails, climbed Kilimanjaro , tackled the Everest Three Passes in Nepal and walked across the Swiss Alps on the Haute Route. We have a fridge full of tackey magnets to reflect all our walking adventures.
It was one of these fridge magnets that started our latest epic journey. Every time I reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine, there was a DIY magnet scrawled with Walk the Pacific Crest Trail 2020 on it. The global pandemic thankfully pushed that out until one day husband announced that if we were going to do this thing then we needed to apply for permits very soon.
Apart from reading about the trail in one of those Lonely Planet bucket list books and watching the 2014 movie Wild, starring Reese Witherspoon, I didn’t really know much about this hike before we decided to apply.
We had a loose timeline in place to pack up our lives in Auckland and head offshore once the Government decided to let Kiwis out into the big bad world and more importantly, back in again without going through quarantine.
You must have a permit to walk the Pacific Crest Trail. A number of permits drop on a date in November each year at a specified time and everyone around the world sits patiently in front of their computers waiting to join the online queue.
We did not get permits. Cool, so Fiji for a two-week laze about then?
Actually, not entirely true. I got a permit for a date in mid-May, a time of the year that’s not desirable among hikers. The reason why will become obvious soon enough.
Unfortunately, by the time husband got to the front of the online queue all the permits were gone.
He just got a vague note from the governing body pcta.org telling us to check back in late January the following year and apply for discarded permits or some they hold back.
What we were trying to get to start our hike were NOBO permits. Northbound from Mexico to Canada, covering 2650 miles or 4265 kilometres starting at the Southern Terminus in Campo, Southern California.
Most hikers want to do it this way, but you can apply for a SOBO permit – starting in Canada at the Northern Terminus and heading southbound. This is the less desirable route owing to a later start time because of snow and with a few more logistical challenges.
We sat on my one permit then recruited every friend or family member we knew to help us out for the final drop in January the following year. We had around 20 people in our corner, poised online waiting for the permit portal to open up. In the end, it was my tired old MacBook Air I’m writing this on that helped push us through to the front of the queue and boom, husband got the same start date permit for May. We were doing this thing.
But first there was gear to source – not easy being at the bottom of the world and getting what you want. We had to get US Visas, we had to get US Visa interviews and Covid threatened to stop us getting either of these. Things really started getting real when we handed back the keys for our rental home & quit our jobs – putting everything into storage.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, we don’t have kids. We have the ability to undertake these adventures because we’re child-free – not that that stops some hikers. An Oregon couple & their six year old son were among this year’s 4500 or so permitted hikers who set off from the southern terminus bound for Canada between April 1 to the end of May.
The beginning of the PCT is marked by a simple monument, about an hour’s drive from San Diego in Southern California and a mere seven metres from the eerie steel border fence with Mexico. You can sometimes see homeland security here, they patrol in vans and in helicopters occasionally buzzing overhead.
We thankfully arrived legally in a shuttle bus one afternoon in mid-May in a cloud of dust and heat – it was very hot – it was 5pm. Our driver, a former thru-hiker, Just Paul, gave us some trail tips that we quickly forgot about, thrust a PCT hiker badge in our hands then quickly got back into his air conditioned van bound for a soft bed and a hot meal.
Starting this late in the day, let alone in the season has its pros and mostly cons. By the time you reach the High Sierras, and any high mountain passes, the snows should have melted but temperatures in the desert are already in the 80s Fahrenheit or mid to late 20s Celcius and there is little to no rain. Water is a real issue as it is beginning to dry up in the 700 mile desert section of the PCT.
We were carrying a full six litres of water each – that’s an extra six kilograms of water which would need to last until we found water the next day. We began meeting other hikers, mostly fresh-faced American college students who had just graduated. They, like us in the first day or two of walking, were happy and all chatty boomsticks.
They, unlike us, were buoyed by hope, possibly their parents’ money and the sense that at their young age – they were indestructible. We were all glad to be living our best lives in those early days but we were all shitting bricks.
Husband and I began to wonder where the ‘older’ hikers were. An amazing website, Halfway Anywhere conducts an annual survey every year of the PCT class and drills down on specifics. Turns out that if you identify yourself as white, American, in your 20s, and college educated then you are by far the majority. Actually nearly 60% of the 2021 PCT Class were aged 20 – 34 years.
The first desert section of this hike is brutal – no matter how old you are. It’s also in my opinion the most important. Think of it like the formative years in your schooling life. The desert is where friendships emerge and you start finding your feet, feet that are beginning to blister and are always black with dirt.
We met a good number of trail mates in the small town of Julian. It was the first place where we bundled into a busy cafe one Sunday morning, unloaded all our electronics to recharge and took up way too much space with our backpacks in a booth usually earmarked for four.
While bemused weekend punters were trying to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, we made spectacles of ourselves hoeing into pancakes, eggs and hash browns like….well like we hadn’t eaten for days. Once that was finished, we dashed across the road to the bakery and got our ‘free to PCT hikers’ piece of pie with ice cream. All consumed before 9am.
It’s here in this small popular weekend town that we met Jess & Paul, aka Fruity Hat and Choco Bun, Glider and Moran, British couple Apples & Ali and reconnected with Army Mike and his support crew consisting of wife Cathy and sheep dog Merf.
I had been given the trail name Gameshow because I had the habit of peppering people with random quiz questions to while away the time on trail while husband got dubbed Manana. This is not because he speaks Spanish but because he puts everything off until later, tomorrow or some time in the future.
America sings about the desert in Horse With No Name and the lyrics are mostly all true except for one thing – it certainly did not feel good to be out of the rain.
In the desert, your day is marked by how early you get walking. Manana was not an early riser and needed a punch in the face most days to wake up. Fortunately, he did not have a watch so I told him it was 5am when in fact it was only 4.30am. Each day I took five minutes off so eventually we were getting up around 4am. He wondered why he had to keep his headlight on so long in the mornings.
He also threw a mild hissy fit when I informed him several days into the trail that coffee was now off the menu. In fact breakfast was off too. Grab a Clif bar and eat it while you walk, I told him. I love my husband to bits, but his movements in the manana are painfully slow. I would be up, dressed and trying to take down the tent and he was still working on his sleeping bag zip to get up.
He’s the quintessential British faffer and in denial of this particular trait. I would sit sullenly as fellow hikers bid me a ‘happy trails’ as they passed by. Manana, meanwhile, was hiding behind a tree engaged in his morning ablutions. I calculated that I probably would have reached Washington a full two weeks earlier if we’d eliminated the faffery. But we were a team so I had to bite my sunburnt lip.
Actually, worse things were to slow us down. A large, unpredicted snow storm took everyone by complete surprise one June morning in the Sierra Nevada section. The night before we had reluctantly thrown ourselves into Chicken Spring Lake in blazing hot sunshine then not 12 hours later we awoke to snow falling.
It was, at first, pleasant and a bit fun. When I trailed behind Manana, and if my power bank had enough juice – I would listen to music or podcasts. As the snow fell, I was sliding along the trail mimicking Christopher Walken from the Fatboy Slim Weapon of Choice video.
However, the snow began to get a lot heavier. We stopped. We piled layers on. I packed away my poles so I could stuff my hands in my pockets. We only had shorts and our trail shoes did not take long to get wet.
Wet feet, cold hands equals emergency action. We were at around 11,000ft and in need of water. That day was supposed to be a simple 16 mile stretch to reach Crabtree Meadows. From there we would take the side route up Mt Whitney, the highest mountain in continental USA at 14,505ft.
But only four miles in and we couldn’t see the trail any more. It was time to put up the tent before our fingers froze. My Weapon of Choice turned out to be crawling into my sleeping bag and hunkering down for the afternoon. We just lay there watching huge splotches of snow splatter down on our fly from the pine tree we were sheltering under.
Occasionally, hikers would walk past us in both directions, some bailing out and some persevering on – we’d share any weather knowledge, which turned out to be none. Everyone was mildly panicking that this would last for a few days. Thankfully it was just one day. The blazing sunshine returned and Mt Whitney was conquered.
The high mountains brought both new challenges and a ferocious enemy. Mosquitoes. They wage psychological warfare from morning to night. Whoever said that they don’t exist over 10,000ft above sea level needs to be trapped in a tent with thousands of skeeters while trying to eat ramen through a head net.
A lot of friends asked me how our marriage survived enduring five months practically joined at the hip belt. We are in fact still happily married but one day in the Sierras, the mosquitoes caused us to both snap and the hills were alive with the sound of expletives.
Tired and unable to even stop on trail for a snack because of the trailing mosquito posse, we attempted to walk around in a small circle fast in a bid to keep a step ahead of them while quickly shoving pieces of beef jerky in our mouths via our head nets.
To give you an idea of how bad it is to walk with masses of mosquitos, take your right hand and wave it frantically in front of your face in a continuous motion, now with your left hand do the same. Now imagine this with a backpack on and poles secured to your hands.
Happy fu*ken trails!
When you are at your lowest on the PCT – you’ve thought of quitting for umpteenth time that day – sometimes, something amazing happens.
I’m talking about trail magic. Trail magic is delivered by trail angels. These are selfless amazing humans who trek, mule, drive either on trail or to a trailhead from the road and bring food, drinks and sometimes booze.
It brings tears to the eyes, somehow they just know you are weak, vulnerable and in need of a simple act of human kindness. It’s mostly likely to happen on the weekends, and it’s most likely from either former PCT hikers, parents of hikers or locals who just know how rough it is out there. Trail magic ranges from a random driver at a carpark offloading cold sodas, day hikers slicing you up fresh juicy watermelon (and taking away the peels) right through to a group in Sierra Nevada who trekked in with three days worth of food on mules to feed hungry hikers breakfast, lunch and dinner. They were all dressed as Canadian Mounties operating a humorous border check.
But many times we called on trail angels for transport or rides to and from trailheads. Some hikers get sick on trail and need to get to hospital – these lovely people step up and drive you, often taking nothing in return.
The PCT would not exist without them. This is obvious in the desert section where many trail angels fill up water caches or let hikers use water tanks near their property – without them – well it could be fatal.
Because dehydration is more likely to affect you on the PCT than obvious things like the wildlife. Animals will more than likely see you well before you spot them. Rattlesnakes were common, snakes generally were often slithering past us on trail. Manana happened to sit on a large log by our tent one night when a fellow hiker alerted us to the fact that mere inches away a large Rattler was just sitting there watching us.
It looked dead, but it turned out the snake had just eaten. We ended up spending the night together. While we were lulled to sleep by the gurgles of our empty bellies, he was happily digesting a large rodent.
I say he, because the trail is best for blokes of any species. Take peeing for example. Men can happily keep their backpacks on and wee standing up wherever. Us ladies aren’t so lucky.
Yes there are all sorts of products out there to help, contain, wipe etc etc but when it comes down to the fifth loo stop of the day, because you have to drink so much, then the body isn’t ready to sink into a deep squat with a pack on.
Timing is everything too. You don’t see anyone for hours and then right when you decide to take a leak, inevitably a group of young male hikers will be right behind you. As an older female hiker I adopted the stop, drop and roll method.
You look both ways, stop & drop your pack quickly, roll down your pants, pee quickly then pull up your pants up in one quick fluid motion. But generally what ACTUALLY happens is as you are in mid flow, a hiker approaches and while you try and pull your pants up they get all twisted and tangled and you end up almost tripping over. It’s in this disheveled state with drips of wee running down your leg that you utter a casual ‘hey ya’ to the passing hiker.
Anything else other than weeing is a whole different story no matter what gender.
Actually, I suspect I may have been responsible for killing some of the cast from Watership Down on trail. Digging a hole to poop in is hard, I mean you are using a small piece of thin aluminum to dig six inches into ground that hasn’t seen rain since before Reagan was in office.
One morning before dawn I was seconds away from a Bridesmaids moment running from the tent when I spied a custom made hole already burrowed deep in the ground. I’m not too proud to say I pooped in it. Some cute fluffy animal had made a nice cozy home for itself in there with its offspring. They were probably about to settle down to a hearty breakfast of foraged pine nuts and bam, hiker trash comes along and just literally shits in its nest then buries the family in dirt. So if they didn’t die of a fecal infectious disease then it was definitely suffocation.
I’m pretty sure it was a vacant den. Well at least I kept telling myself that as I walked off.
Preserving the delicate ecosystem is important, I read the PCT terms and conditions of my permit.
Before I started the trail, I was in menopause. Or so I thought because I hadn’t had a period in six months. Sweet, that’s one thing I didn’t have to deal with on trail – literally the only advantage to being an older female hiker.
However, just incase, I decided to buy a menopausal cup while I was out getting last minute previsions in San Diego. I would do my bit for the environment plus no need to carry tampons.
Having never used one, I thought I would try it before we left the sanctuary of our hotel.
But seconds after it was in, I realised this was a big mistake. I could not get it out. I yelled out to Manana in panic. A full 20 minutes of rummaging around finally got the thing out and a $30US menstrual cup was thrown in the bin in disgust. Such was the post-trauma discomfort that I silently thanked God we were not attempting the PCT on horseback.
Luck was definitely not on my side. I ended up having four periods in about six weeks. Luckily there are these things called hiker boxes in most towns on or near the PCT. They contain everything hikers don’t want from discarded foot ointments, water bottles, socks, turkey stuffing through to unused single tampons.The latter probably from some poor schmuck that decided to use a menstrual cup instead. Their loss, my gain.
But all these things I’ve listed so far are but minor inconveniences. Let’s address the big red-hot burning elephant in the room. Fires. They ARE going to deviate you from the trail at some point. It could be past blazes where the burn sections are too brutal & dangerous, it might be an actual fire on trail up ahead or worse – smoke begins to fill your tent in the middle of the night.
This didn’t happen to us thankfully, but others we know got caught out in the McKinney fire in July 2022. We saw the storm rolling in that caused this devastating blaze.We were hiking across a high ridgeline at the time and could see lightning so we had to hightail it as fast as we could down the mountain. The devastation from these fires is enormous, you often walk through swathes of what was once trees but are now just blackened matchsticks. It’s hot with no cover, locusts bounce around your feet while you walk and the path is literally just ash.
On several sections we hiked in smoke from fires near the trail and it’s not pleasant. Smoke and no views doesn’t make for the best hiking conditions and it sends many people off trail for good.
When we arrived in Shasta, we’d heard on the hiking grapevine that the rest of NorCal and indeed Oregon were both burning. Our hassle-free continuous hike NOBO had come to an end as we ticked over 1500 miles or 2414 km.
In Shasta we sat eating pizza one night with hiking friends Warranty, Birthday Boy and Groot and contemplated our predicament. The rest of the Californian section to Oregon was shut for the time being & parts of the Oregon section were partly closed too. We had to look at alternative options to get north.
Flip flopping was discussed. It’s used not just for skipping fires but for moving further along the trail to avoid snow or even heat. Essentially you jump ahead, hike what you can then return to that starting point and redo a section of the trail southbound or northbound.
We weren’t overly keen on this option. We’re not walking purists, ensuring every single mile on the PCT is checked off – but we doubted our commitment with flip flopping. If we skipped way ahead up the trail, Manana and myself might struggle to return to redo sections we’d missed.
There was, however, another option for us to hike up through Oregon and it was without the threat of fires. This trail was mosquito free with PLENTY of water, food stops and showers. We were heading for the sea – walking the Oregon Coast Trail as PCT refugees.
Our complete departure from the PCT had its drawbacks. A podcast about the Oregon Coast Trail downplayed the road walking portion of this 362 mile or 582 km hike. But let’s be honest, walking on Highway 101 is grim.
First off the roadside trash isn’t fun to pick your way through. Strewn poopy tissue, nappies, car parts sit between the metal barrier and the highway right where you need to walk. I’m certain that one day I even saw actual skeletal remains on the side of the road.
There’s also the traffic itself. Some of the huge lorries drove so close to us that I swear I could smell the lack of deodorant on the driver. I know, I know – pot this is kettle calling.
We hitched a bit. We’ve come to realise that when you do this, drivers who are kind enough to stop and pick you up can generally be put into one category. They have old cars, not enough room in their vehicle but will almost always go out of their way to help get you where you need to go. Plus, when we offered money, they almost always never took it. BMW and Audi drivers never stop.
We encountered all manner of people giving us a ride from mushroom pickers, forestry workers, students, contractors and lost tourists. We even had a kindly old man whose son had recently been murdered pick us up and tell us his very sad story.
These trail angels generally stopped, opened the door, looked us over as hiker trash and stated: “You don’t look like serial killers”.
Looking back we now think we got a hitch early one morning with sleeper agents – a young family who picked us up in Southern California. When pressed about their accents and where they were from they said they were from the Soviet Union. We got out at the trailhead and wished our friendly comrades a pleasant spasiba, slightly confused.
On the Oregon Coast Trail, we were not alone. Plenty of other PCT hikers opted for this trail and almost all of us were hiking it north. We were also joined by the cute Western Snowy Plover birds who nest in the sandy dunes.
And to ensure we weren’t enjoying the coast too much, we shared the trail with a lot of loud annoying ATVs or All Terrain Vehicles. Some days were like being on the set of Mad Max. Dozens of drivers with giant bellies spilling over the vehicle frame would tear past us on the beach blaring music, flying MAGA flags & showering us in sand. Ah the serenity.
We did spend most of our time on the Oregon Coast Trail hiking alone and saw Grey whales offshore, seals playing in the surf and swimmers braving the frigid Pacific waters amidst the rolling sea fog. We learnt a lot about the coast from curious locals wondering why there were suddenly so many hikers in the small seaside towns. However, finally our small vacay from the PCT had to come to an end. It was time to head back to the trail proper.
We joined the PCT a few days shy of the Oregon/Washington border. Our reunion was awkward at first. But we soon slipped back into coping with grimey feet, a lack of food and longing to finish this thing. In fact Manana and myself would often stare longingly up at the endless stream of aircraft flying 37,000 ft overhead and break down in detail what the passengers were eating, drinking and what movies they were watching in the comfort of their seats.
The beginning of the end of the trail was upon us. We crossed the famous Bridge of the Gods across the Columbia River in September with the official start of Fall. It’s where you dare to believe that you are going to finally finish this trail with approximately 500 miles left of the trail or just over 800km.
But, of course it’s never that simple. Someone did not want us getting to Canada.
First off, the Canadians themselves weren’t keen on stinky, Covid ridden PCT hikers coming across the remote border marked by the northern terminus monument sitting at 2650 miles from the Mexican border. They were NOT issuing visas to us. Not even Canadians could get back home that route.
What did that mean? We would have to get our photo at the northern border but instead of an easy nine mile jaunt into accommodation and food at Manning Park in Canada, we would instead have to hike back into the USA and try and get out at Hart’s Pass. That’s an extra 30 miles or nearly 50km.
Okay, we were willing to do that. However, more obstacles sprouted up as we began to walk further into Washington. There were landslides at Hart’s Pass making it impossible to get out from there by vehicle because the road was so dangerous. Sure, we could hike in but hitching out would be a fruitless task.
We kept hiking north in the hope that authorities would repair the damage by the time we knocked off another 400 odd miles. The weird part about approaching the pointy end of the PCT is how your body & mind wants to pack up and go home. This hike had become a mental game for me because while I was physically fine I began to long for getting off trail, the endless hours I spent in my head while walking were so tedious.
To make it worse, we weren’t hiking among people we knew anymore. We even came across groups of hikers we loathed – something new we had not encountered before. There is an awful sense of entitlement that PCT hikers develop the longer they are on trail. By the time we all get to Washington, many of us have become self-absorbed, self-centred and at times coldly indifferent to muggles. Muggles are anyone not walking the PCT – they are normal people, sometimes they are just out hiking for the day or simply hiking a section of the trail.
The last state for us went slow, very slow. Manana had developed a back injury from walking in sand on the Oregon Coast Trail and was limping his way through Washington. This frustrated me. I’m even ashamed to say that I would angrily storm ahead on trail, wait until Manana caught up and spend much of my walking time trying to figure out how he should get off-trail and let me walk alone unhindered.
But bigger problems were to come. I had always imagined the Washington wilderness to look like I’d stepped out of the Cullens house in the movie Twilight. Moody with towering Douglas Fir trees shrouded in mist. Instead it was warm and smokey.
The Bolt Creek fire evacuated the town of Skykomish where we had been heading to meet a friend from Seattle and take a well-earned zero day. We had to abandon that plan and ended up diverting to the weird wannabe Bavarian town of Leavenworth.
It’s a popular weekend escape for Seattlites as evidenced by the enormous number of Teslas and designer dogs trooping around the small town. As a hungry hiker you look past the lederhosen, tacky signage and accordion music blaring out through speakers on the main street when there are plenty of bratwursts to be eaten.
It was here in this strange place that many PCT hikers were calling it quits for the season. Two fires that were up near the Canadian border had now closed the Northern Terminus – the monument where we would officially end our journey. It was one obstacle too far for many already fatigued hikers and a hastily constructed cardboard monument was put together with string and glue for hikers to mimic their final photo at the border.
I was envious. Finish now, jump in the warm Tesla of our Seattle friend who was heading back to the big smoke and be done with this thing. Instead we chose to keep going. I thought it was the right thing to do.
The next day Manana had to prise my fingers from the motel room’s door frame and drag me from the sanctum of Leavenworth. The payoff, just one more week on the trail to get to a bakery we had been hearing about for the past 400 miles in the very remote Washington town of Stehekin. It would also be our Northern Terminus – shy of the closed border but the easiest place to hop off trail and get transport to Seattle.
It was my WORST section of the trail. One day we encountered more than 70 blowdowns – trees blocking our path and causing diversions or major difficulty getting over or under them. Tired and annoyed, I inevitably fell over. I got up ugly crying that I ‘hated this fu*ken trail’ while snotsicles drooled down my chin. Manana, despite his injuries, was my rock and part of my team. He dusted me off and calmed me down.
I walked on thankful to have Manana. We had done this thing together – weathered so many storms. Why did I ever think of leaving him to walk alone?
With baked goods on my mind, I began counting down every last day and every last freeze-dried meal.
Finally, we climbed the last mountain on the trail before we descended steeply towards Stehekin. Manana and myself silently drifted apart in the final mile to come to terms with the enormity of this adventure that was about to end.
And then suddenly there we were, at the trailhead being picked up by a bus hurtling towards Stehekin. Beside us, dozens of excitable loud trail runners filled the bus. They began to drown out my five months of silence – the noise was a total annihilation of the senses.
We clambered off the bus and attacked the sugary treats at the Stehekin bakery and with every mouthful of my key lime pie, 2600 odd miles of trail melted away.
But it was bittersweet. I was glad to stop but we were so close to a border that we’d dreamt of hiking to and wondered what it would be like to touch the monument and celebrate this epic milestone.
Before we left Leavenworth, we were at the local McDonalds. It was a special store because it was almost entirely staffed by people with disabilities. I was waiting for Manana on a seat outside and an employee with Downs Syndrome came off his shift at the fast-food restaurant. He climbed aboard his bus to go home and I realised something. I was so very lucky to be given the chance to walk the Pacific Crest Trail where some people weren’t. I didn’t enjoy the actual hiking but god how I loved the adventure.
In the post-pandemic world, it was a chance to rebuild what I thought was a pretty static existence. My father had passed away during Covid, our family had some setbacks but this walk had given me the chance to spread my wings and abandon routine to live life in the wilderness.
The people we met and places we’d seen made up for me, what hiking didn’t. It was pure delight running into new/old friends you’d already met on the trail. It was that Christmas morning feeling of waking up on a ‘town day’ and knowing that you were going to hike a few miles then eat real food & wash away the trail in a shower to feel slightly human again.
These are the things I miss.
And I got to share it with someone special. I am forever grateful to him and all the amazing people we met on and off trail. But mostly, I’m thankful to that large black bear who early one morning while hiking in the mist, I unknowingly startled right beside the trail & instead of mauling me to death, chose to run as far away from me as he could.
Amazing read. Loved the hole and the poo 🤣