Dear Future PCT Hiker…

Dear Future PCT Hiker,

So, you’re thinking of embarking on a hike. A 2,650+ mile hike spanning deserts, plains, and high mountain ranges. To attempt this hike you have to be pretty persistent, not mind getting dirty, but mostly you just have to be crazy. Crazy enough to give up your current life of comforts in favor of living in the backcountry, pooping in a hole every day, and having seldom material comforts. I was one of the crazy ones. I started this journey alone, had a pack that was a bit to heavy, and my feet were uncalloused. With loads of good luck, the help of unlikely friends, and heaps of stubbornness I completed the PCT. Starting this hike was the best decision I’ve ever made. A crazy decision, but the best decision. I want to convey the spirit of the PCT to you, but my true desire is to convince you to do something crazy as well.

I think every person hits a point in their life where they look around at their accomplishments and think to themselves, is this what I want? For me, the question came in my mid-20s. Working in healthcare during COVID and caring deeply for the changing climate threw me into a bit of an existential crisis. I didn’t have an answer to any of my big questions anymore, in fact, I didn’t even know myself well at all. I decided to go on a walk, a walk on the PCT, to ponder the mounting questions in my head. Early into this walk, I stumbled upon some of the goofiest, inquisitive, and kind-hearted people I’ve ever met. I ate, walked, laughed, and cried with these folks and what started as an unlikely friendship grew into a bonded tramily. For me, embarking on this journey put me in a state of vulnerability by default. I was figuring out my worldview, who I was, and how to walk from one side of a country to the other side. I needed a community to walk by my side and support me in this vulnerability. I found my community in these goofy fellow hikers.

Community is put to the test in extreme situations. Long stretches with limited water sources, volatile weather, and the general breakdown of our bodies took an emotional toll. After a long day of hiking, we would talk about the highs and lows of our day. Without fail, one of us was always having a difficult day. Ankles would swell to the size of softballs, there was a persistent fear of foot fractures or shin splints, and someone always had a new red gash on their body. Sustained pain and exhaustion can drive you insane. Luckily, we had each other to lighten the mood. For months, whenever I would get up to walk the first few miles I would balance on my trekking poles and slowly shuffle across the trail due to the pain in my feet. After a while, I learned to laugh at it, calling it my ‘old lady’ walk and attempting to make it a comedy bit for my friends. We didn’t just learn to live with pain, we learned to thrive in pain. Our group became stronger because of pain and we individually became stronger because of pain’s consistency.

I found, that where there is steady pain, lasting hope is around the corner. The most symbolic example of this was the large swatches of burn zone. In burn zones the few standing trees would be dark and eerie, the sun would beat down without relent, and even the soil seemed to wither beneath my feet into a fine black dust. It’s hard to live in these areas for days on end and not be affected by their power. However, each burn scar carried glimpses of hope. There would be patches where the soil would stiffen again and give way to flowers. A small stream would run through these sections, painting the landscape green wherever it went. Pain is powerful, but not final.