Welcome to Another Chapter of This Magnificent Adventure: A Uruguayan in the American Mountains. My previous post, Guardians of the Legacy: Never Give Up, carried a deep emotional weight for me. It marked a turning point, as my journey began to take shape, I met incredible people, and thrilling adventures awaited just around the corner. This Uruguayan is now stepping into the most renowned section of the PCT: the Sierra Nevada.

Kennedy Meadows (KM)

In my last post, I received a heartfelt comment from Nephi, a loyal reader whose words always brighten my day. He shared how he follows my journey on Google Maps, tracking the places I mention in my blog posts. Inspired by her idea, I decided to create a map to illustrate my progress along the trail, along with details of the next steps in this adventure. I hope this map helps you all follow my footsteps more closely and enjoy the journey with me.

Forty days have flown by in what feels like an instant. During my first few weeks on the trail, time seemed to move slower—probably because everything was so new. Those early weeks were tough, especially as I struggled with food issues. But after 40 days of walking through these incredible lands, I finally reached this iconic milestone in my journey.

Why Is KM So important?

You might wonder why hikers always speak of KM as such a key point on the PCT. Let me share my interpretation.

The Beginning of the Sierra Nevada

KM is the transition point between the desert and the High Sierra. It marks the end of the dry, dusty landscapes and opens the door to lush forests and snow-capped peaks. This new chapter brings greater challenges—altitude, snow, river crossings, and high mountain passes.

It was May 20th, an early start for entering the Sierra, as there was still significant snow accumulation. According to forecasts, the snowpack was at 110% of the average, which meant a bit more snow than usual but nothing compared to the extreme conditions of 2023, when it surpassed 200%.

A Great Resupply Stop

Kennedy Meadows offers two major resupply options: the KM General Store and a hostel called Grumpy Bear’s Retreat.

Next to the hostel is the renowned Triple Crown Outfitters, owned by Yogi—a true expert on the PCT and what it takes to be a thru-hiker. Yogi provides advice, gear, and supplies to hikers, making her an invaluable resource, especially as we prepare to face the trail’s toughest section. Here, I rented my bear canister, an essential and mandatory item for entering the Sierra Nevada.

It’s a “Brainlestone”

Reaching KM is a significant achievement. By this point, hikers have walked over 700 miles and completed Southern California, the first major section of the PCT.

The pride of reaching this milestone fills your heart. You realize that all the hard work and perseverance have brought you here. There’s also a sense of relief—you’ve proven to yourself that you can endure these challenges for such a long time.

But above all, there’s the excitement for what lies ahead. Everyone talks about the Sierra’s breathtaking beauty, and now, I’m about to set foot in it.

The Impact of Cheryl Strayed’s Wild

Another remarkable aspect of Kennedy Meadows is the impact of Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild. Although this is one of her first stops on the PCT, it marked the beginning of her journey on a trail that was far more challenging back then than it is for hikers today.

For Cheryl, reaching Kennedy Meadows was a monumental achievement. She had no prior hiking experience, let alone self-sufficient backpacking. As I mentioned before, there weren’t as many resources available back then—no detailed water reports, fewer Trail Angels, and limited information about the trail itself. Her section from Tehachapi to Kennedy Meadows was brutally hard.

But as I always remind myself, if this were easy, it wouldn’t be worth doing. If you’re searching for a change in your life, the path you take must be a difficult one.

Transformative changes require walking long, challenging roads.

Entering the Wilderness

After Kennedy Meadows, the PCT dives into some of the most remote and awe-inspiring landscapes you can imagine. The trail takes you through legendary national parks like Sequoia, Yosemite, and Kings Canyon. You’ll encounter spectacular sights, including Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States, and Forester Pass, one of the trail’s most iconic mountain crossings.

For all these reasons, reaching Kennedy Meadows is an emotional moment for every hiker. It’s not just a place on the map—it’s a gateway to adventure, beauty, and the wild heart of the Sierra Nevada.

Walking to Grumpy

I chose to stay at Grumpy Bear’s Retreat, even though it was quite far from the PCT connection point. The reviews were appealing, and it was conveniently located near Triple Crown Outfitters, where I planned to resupply for the next stretch.

The walk to the hostel was long, and I was already worn out after averaging 42 km per day for the past five days with my patched-up backpack. They had a phone number listed for hikers to request a ride via InReach, but when I sent a message, there was no reply. So, I continued my walk along Kennedy Meadows Road.

The breathtaking colors of the Kennedy Meadows valley kept me motivated during the journey. The road was eerily quiet—no cars, no pedestrians, just me. The only person I saw was a cyclist, likely another hiker commuting between the KM Store and Grumpy Bear’s.

I quickly realized I had made a rookie mistake. It was getting late, and in such a remote area, businesses were starting to shut down. When I finally arrived at the hostel, they apologized and told me they had stopped serving food for the night. Thankfully, I found a hiker box outside and managed to scrounge up some food to cook for dinner.

The campsite

As night fell, the lights around the property began to flicker on. In the background, I noticed a sound that felt oddly familiar. It reminded me of my childhood visits to my grandmother’s house in the countryside, a place so remote it had no access to electricity. At night, she’d fire up what she called “the motor,” a generator that brought light to those quiet, rustic evenings.

That memory came rushing back as I recognized the sound of a generator powering Grumpy’s. I hurried to finish my meal, knowing the power might not last long—and I was right. Suddenly, all the hikers’ charging devices on the communal table lost their glow. I switched on my headlamp to finish cooking, feeling both nostalgic and amused by the simplicity of the moment.

Exhausted, I debated whether to skip setting up my tent and crash on the beautiful wooden deck nearby. But seeing no one else camped there, I figured it was against the rules. I packed up my gear and trudged to the designated campsite at the back of the property.

The walk was short but felt endless with my tired legs. My excitement had dwindled, replaced by sheer fatigue. To my surprise, I didn’t need my headlamp; the path was lined with small solar-powered lights. They guided me to the campsite, where dozens of tents were pitched. I found a spot near some dirt mounds, set up my tent, and finally sank into a well-deserved rest.

Grumpy Pancakes

The next morning, I treated myself to breakfast. Rumor among hikers was that Grumpy’s pancakes were legendary—not just for their enormous size but also because it was an “All You Can Eat” deal. If you finished your pancake, you could order another at no extra cost.

Few dared to tackle more than one Grumpy pancake. I was feeling ambitious, though. The first pancake, larger than my hand, was delicious, and I couldn’t resist ordering a second. By then, other hikers were watching, egging me on to finish. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t do it. I wrapped up the leftovers to enjoy later.

This place felt surreal. I’d been to hiker-friendly stops before, but Grumpy’s was entirely geared toward PCT hikers. It was a little community of people united by the trail.

Frozen and the Dream Team 

The first friends I came across at Grumpy’s were Frozen and Big Foot. They had arrived earlier that morning, and we decided to share breakfast while chatting about the trail.

We had all started the PCT around the same time, which made us part of a rare group—most hikers at the hostel had set off in March. By this point, only a handful of us April starters remained.

The snow forecasts were on everyone’s mind. Hikers were weighing their options: staying in Kennedy Meadows, skipping the Sierra altogether and jumping to Oregon, or even heading back home. The predictions indicated that in two weeks, the snowpack would begin to melt, tempting many to take a break and resume the trail later.

But taking time off wasn’t an option for me. I didn’t just want to experience the Sierra; I wanted to embrace its challenges head-on. As an international hiker, I also felt pressured by time constraints—any delays could jeopardize my ability to complete the trail.

I shared my thoughts with Frozen and Big Foot, and to my relief, they were on the same page. They too wanted to press on into the Sierra. Together, we began strategizing our approach. I was in awe of them, especially Frozen. He wasn’t just an experienced hiker who had already conquered the Appalachian Trail—he was also a well-known influencer in the thru-hiking community. Meanwhile, Big Foot radiated the kind of strength that made it clear he was built for long, grueling days on the trail.

The offer

Then, out of nowhere, Frozen made an offer I didn’t see coming. He said, “I see a great team here. With Mark, we could be four strong hikers heading into the Sierra together.”

My mind was blown. Was this really happening? These two legends of the trail—these “beasts,” as I saw them—wanted me in their group. They saw me as their equal. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

I hesitated, almost reflexively downplaying myself. “You guys are way faster than me. Are you sure you want to hike with me?”

Big Foot looked at me with a knowing smile and replied, “What are you talking about, Roadrunner? We started the same day, and we got here the same day too. You even told us how your food issues in Idyllwild slowed you down for a while. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

It hit me like a wave. Once again, my self-doubt had crept in, making me underestimate myself and ignore my own capabilities. That voice in my head—the one that constantly belittles my achievements—had spoken up, but this time, I realized I didn’t have to listen to it.

Her trail name is Lupine, named after the flower. It made perfect sense—her outfit was a deep, vibrant purple, just like the lupine flowers I’d seen in the desert. The warmth and friendliness of her Latin roots radiated from her, making me feel closer to home.

There’s something about speaking your native language on the trail. It’s like a breath of fresh air, a reminder of who you are. It feels more natural, more spontaneous, and more authentic.

Saida had started the PCT in mid-March and was hiking with a group of people from various nationalities. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to meet her trail family, as they were already heading back to the trail when we met.

I felt a pang of sadness knowing I couldn’t keep talking with Saida, but she had to move on. Still, the thought lingered: perhaps further along the trail, I might get the chance to hike with her and her group.

The Decision

I had all the gear I needed. I was well-rested, clear-headed, and ready to continue this adventure. It was time to make the decision on how my journey along the Pacific Crest Trail would move forward.

The idea of teaming up with Mark, Frozen and Big Foot was tempting. They offered companionship, experience, and a solid bond we had built over the miles. Yet, following this plan strayed from my original vision.

The Huge Plus

The trail had taught me that no matter how well you plan, adaptability was key. You had to be willing to change course, and sometimes, even make sacrifices. Walking with them meant not only crossing the Sierra safely—a major concern of mine—but also increasing my chances of reaching that distant, elusive goal: the Canadian border.

But the trail had shown me other things, too. It revealed that I was capable of much more than I believed. It gave me confidence. It made me realize that I could take on difficult challenges and overcome them.

I’m Ready

My initial plan was to take my time through the Sierra. This was a short section of the PCT, but it was also the most difficult. Time was on my side—I had moved through the desert faster than I had expected. So, I asked myself:
Diego, does it make sense to rush through here? Does it make sense to skip Mt. Whitney? Do you really want to push past Yosemite Valley without taking it all in?

The answer to all these questions was a resounding no. I chose to stick to my path. Sure, it would be more difficult without them, but these past 40 days had shown me that I was capable of taking on great challenges. They taught me that in tough moments, I could find support from others. That I was smart enough not to take on the impossible. And that every limit I thought I had, I had already surpassed.

On top of that, I had prepared for this. My mountaineering courses weren’t just about understanding the magnitude of this challenge—they helped me recognize my weaknesses, too.

My Way

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I made my decision. Instead of doing a massive 8-day resupply that would take me to Bishop via Kearsarge Pass, I would split this section in two.

First, I would hike about three days to Lone Pine via Cottonwood Pass. Once I crossed that pass, I planned to camp and figure out a way to hitch into town. It wouldn’t be easy, as the Cottonwood Trailhead was closed at the time. From the campground, it was over 40 km to Lone Pine. I would have to figure out the details as I went.

In Lone Pine, I’d resupply and then return to the trail to head toward the camp at the base of Mt. Whitney.

Looking at the map, I realized I wouldn’t face major snow crossings along this route. The toughest challenge would come after that camp: climbing the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States.

Because of this, I wasn’t taking on unreasonable risks by going solo through this section.

I shared my plan with Big Foot and Frozen. We agreed that we might not cross paths again down the trail. I knew it would be difficult. But that’s why I’m here—to challenge myself.

Let’s Hike

This marks the beginning of my journey through the Sierra Nevada. Strangely enough, my only companion at the start was my trusty backpack. I decided to set off around 2 p.m. Frozen and Big Foot, my friends, were planning to start a little later.

Right away, I noticed that the landscape was different. There was water everywhere, flowing in small streams, and the trail wound its way through a slightly damp meadow.

As I walked, I came across a cheerful woman heading in the opposite direction.

“Oh, you must be a PCT hiker!” she said with enthusiasm.

I smiled and replied that I was indeed one.

She shared that she was training to hike the Sierra section next year because she felt it required a lot of physical preparation.

I told her that while I usually train, most of my conditioning had come from being on the trail itself. Still, I admitted that any prior training can help you face the challenges ahead.

We parted ways, both of us uplifted by the brief interaction. As she left, she mentioned that I’d likely encounter some park rangers ahead, just past the Kennedy Meadows campsite.

Trail Control

As soon as I passed the campsite, I spotted a checkpoint manned by a few individuals. But when I approached, I realized they weren’t park rangers—they were PCTA volunteers checking permits for hikers.

To my surprise, they greeted me with cheers and applause. As I walked closer, one of them exclaimed, “You’re the Uruguayan, right?”

It clicked immediately—I remembered who they were.

“Yes,” I replied, smiling, “and you were the one who registered me at the Southern Terminus, weren’t you?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right! How are you? How’s your hike going? I remember how excited you were on day one. Do you have a trail name now?”

I grinned and said, “Yes, I do. They call me Roadrunner now.”

Bit by bit, I was starting to understand how this system worked. These volunteers, who dedicate their time and energy, play a crucial role in keeping this organization alive. Their efforts ensure the safety of hikers and protect the trail itself. The Sierra Nevada, being a popular section, requires this kind of regulation to prevent overcrowding and preserve the mountain’s natural beauty.

Aside from checking my permit, they also confirmed I had a bear canister—a mandatory item for this section of the trail. After saying goodbye, I recognized another volunteer. She’d been working at Triple Crown Outfitters just the day before.

First Sierra Register

Not long after leaving the checkpoint, I stumbled upon the most glamorous trail register I’d seen so far on the PCT.

I opened the logbook and found an incredibly neat page where we could write our names. I was thrilled when I noticed a familiar one—Renee.

If you remember my earlier post, Guardians of the Legacy: Never Give Up, Renee was the hiker who had foot issues on the trail. I met her in Tehachapi, and from there, she went to Ridgecrest by car to regroup with her friends and continue the PCT.

She made it! My friend Renee had reached Kennedy Meadows and was ready to take on the Sierra Nevada.

First Steps

As I kept walking, I couldn’t help but imagine what it must have been like for Renee to return to the trail. Her friends were probably thrilled to have her back, though I’m sure there was some nervousness about how her foot would hold up.

They likely started slow, testing her strength on this short section. Since they continued onward, I figured she must have been doing well. Perhaps in a few days, I’d get the chance to meet her friends and hike with them.

Funny Trailnames

I amused myself by imagining what her friends might be like based solely on their trail names. One name, Ragnar, stood out. I pictured a bald, bearded, muscular Viking, trading trekking poles for a pair of battle axes. Imagine hiking alongside someone who challenges other hikers to duels along the way! Or maybe his name came from his love of beer and boisterous toasts of “Skool”

I laughed to myself, creating these scenarios. On the trail, you can’t just look someone up on social media when you’re curious about them. Instead, you’re left with your imagination, creating mental pictures that might never match reality. Sometimes, you never even meet the person, and their name remains a puzzle.

Then, I wondered: how would other hikers perceive me? Would someone notice my name in a register and think about the unusual nationality or perhaps be inspired by my mantra?

At that moment, I realized I hadn’t heard from High Five in a while. Where was my old, speedy friend? The last time I saw him was at the Aqueduct, and I hadn’t taken too many zero days since then. Chances were, he was behind me. I was sure we’d cross paths again, and the thought motivated me.

If he was behind, he’d catch up in no time since I was moving at a slower pace. He’d be a perfect hiking companion—we both moved at a similar speed and didn’t have a fixed group.

The Whispers of Silence

Lost in these thoughts about other hikers, I began to notice the landscape changing around me. The trees grew taller, forming dense forests. The terrain became steeper, with more elevation gain.

I was walking, lost among the mountains, the trees, and the sun. The birds began to sing as if greeting the sun that was starting to set. A sign marked my location—I had just entered a place called Beck Meadows.

The scenery was stunning. Green pastures climbed the rolling hills in the background. The trees were conifers—different kinds of pines I had never seen before.

The wind was present too, but not in a violent way. It whispered through the trees, blending harmoniously with the landscape. Everything was perfect. It was a perfect sunset. I walked alone for hours without seeing a single soul. The only sign of human presence was a few houses in the distance, nestled in the meadow.

The sun continued its slow descent beyond the curved horizon—so unlike the flat landscape I was used to. This made the night fall more abruptly. One moment, there was light. The next, only a dim shadow, then darkness, where even my hands became difficult to see.

The shifting light made the trees look like they were watching me, observing my every step. And with the whispering wind, nature itself seemed to be speaking.

The song

I thought to myself: This is not just nature. This is a message. A special place. Like those warm-hearted people who welcome you into their home, not because of luxury or comfort, but because of something deeper—a feeling that you belong, that you are meant to be there. Strangely, it felt like I had been here before, like I was home.

A song came to mind, perfectly in tune with the landscape’s harmony. I couldn’t recall where I had heard it or who had written it—it simply surfaced. And before I knew it, I was humming:

“Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains…”

The Moon

I felt deeply connected to the environment as I walked. Almost without realizing it, I reached a ridge. On the other side, I spotted a river—my final destination for the day.

Have you ever experienced those little signs in life that tell you you’re exactly where you’re meant to be? I had been feeling that way for a while, but then something happened that confirmed it even more.

The moon began to rise over the rolling horizon. It climbed above the mountains, glowing pink—tinted by the lingering sunlight. A full moon, massive, stunning, and full of life.

I quickened my pace, searching for the perfect spot to capture this scene. When I reached the riverbank, I saw a bridge. In my mind, I composed the photo I wanted to take.

I stood there for a while, taking in the moment. The water, the sound of birds, the bridge, the moon, and its reflection shimmering on the river. I felt at peace. I felt free. I felt at home.

End of The First Day

Without even realizing it, I had arrived at my final stop for the day—Kern River.

Caught up in the excitement of photographing the moon, I barely noticed the crowd around me. I had never camped in such a packed spot on the PCT before. Clearly, I had caught up to a large group of hikers. Some were still awake, gathered together, cleaning up after dinner.

I suggested they come down to the lake to see the full moon. They all followed, drawn to the beauty of the Sierra under its glow.

Meanwhile, I set up my tent, made dinner, and prepared for the night. Tomorrow, I’d greet everyone properly. For now, it was time to sleep and process everything I had experienced on my first day in the Sierra Nevada.

The Gift

The next morning, I made breakfast—camera in hand, of course. Stepping out of my tent in the early hours, I noticed my neighbors were still inside theirs.

I packed up my gear and got ready to do something I had been looking forward to for a long time.

Back in 2022, a Uruguayan couple became the first from our country to take on the immense challenge of the PCT. Naturally, I connected with them. We shared amazing moments, and even now, they follow my journey as if they were walking it themselves.

Marcelo and Isabel became more than friends. There’s an invisible thread that connects our minds and hearts—a bond that defies logic.

For them, this bridge was special. They had mentioned it countless times, though they couldn’t quite recall its exact location. It wasn’t about breathtaking views or towering peaks. It was about a feeling, a moment in time that had deeply marked their journey.

They helped me get here. They encouraged me, guided me, and always answered my messages without hesitation.

That’s why I wanted to give them something—a gift. I wanted to capture this place that meant so much to them. I had spent days imagining the perfect shot: the bridge, with the birds that lived beneath it soaring in the sky.

But when I tried, I fell short.

I experimented with different angles, waded into the water and tried different lighting. But to truly get the shot I envisioned, I needed a tripod and less light.

I felt disappointed at first. But then I realized something important—the expectations had been mine alone. And there was no reason to feel frustrated.

Hello, My Old Friend

The moment I let go of that frustration, something magical happened—something only the PCT can explain.

A hiker standing on the bridge raised her hand and waved.

I had caught up to Renee. 😊

Instinctively, I lifted my camera and snapped a shot from where I stood—in the middle of the river, balanced on a patch of muddy ground. The scene before me was surreal.

Trail Connection

If you remember my previous post, Guardians of the Legacy: Never Give Up, I mentioned that Renee had a drawing on her backpack. It was made by a PCT hiker who later wrote a book. Take a look at that photo again.

Now, let me show you the one I took in that moment.

It’s not the most stunning shot in the world. But the elements within it made it special.

Because, just like in the drawing on her backpack, there she was—walking forward, mountains behind her, and birds flying all around.

The Magic of the Trail

This moment was yet another reminder of the magic of the Trail. I had run into my friend again, in a very special place and at a very special time.

Renee’s Friend

“Hey, Renee!” That was the first thing I said when I saw her. She came closer, and we hugged.

She looked at me in surprise. “How did you do it? You caught up with us? No way! Now I get why they call you Roadrunner!”

We both laughed at that. I replied, “And you have a will of iron to be hiking with him in your condition. How are you doing? How’s your injury?”

She told me she was managing it well. The pain had flared up again, but the group had slowed down so she could recover. Over time, she had learned to deal with it and was getting better at managing the discomfort in her foot.

She looked happy, truly happy, to be walking with her friends again. It showed on her face. I asked, “Are all these people your friends? You’re hiking with a huge group!”

She laughed. “Yeah, it’s become a big group. A couple of people decide where we camp, and then we all reach the spot in smaller groups. It’s like hiking with a big family. You should join us!”

Walking with a Big Family

We said our short goodbyes. They kept moving while I stayed behind to dry off and organize my gear before hitting the trail again.

As I packed up, more hikers emerged from their tents, falling into step with the group. It was a big crowd—more than fifteen people.

I picked up my pack and started walking. A new chapter of my journey had begun.

Looking for a Place

From the Kern River Valley, the trail climbed steadily. A series of switchbacks led us up the mountain.

On the way, I ran into more of Renee’s friends. I greeted them, introduced myself, and kept chatting with different people.

Meeting new hikers was fun. The group had a relaxed, easygoing vibe. People talked, switched groups, and kept walking together.

First View of Mt. Whitney

As I climbed higher, I saw Renee again. She had stopped for a short break to rest her foot. She was with four other hikers. After checking in on her, I continued the ascent.

Soon, I spotted the first patches of snow in the Sierra. At first, just a few scattered spots. Then, a longer stretch where we had to step carefully. Eventually, the ground turned completely white.

I stopped to put on my microspikes, hoping to save some energy and avoid slipping.

When I reached the ridge, Renee’s entire group was waiting. We took a long break, ate some snacks, and chatted. I stayed quiet, just listening, still new to the group.

The view was incredible—clear skies, a mix of forest, rocks, and snow. In the distance, one peak stood taller than the rest. Its summit was flat and covered in snow.

I pulled out my phone, checked the map, and realized what I was looking at.

Mt. Whitney.

The Target

From where we stood, it didn’t seem like such an overwhelming challenge. It was a high mountain, sure, but it didn’t tower over everything else. Maybe it just looked smaller from this far away.

Time passed. I started feeling restless from sitting too long, but I also didn’t want to disrupt the group’s moment. Then, three hikers got up and started moving.

I caught up with the three hikers and walked with them all the way down. Two of them were an Australian couple, Rik and Anthony. The third was Lucy, a hiker from England.

By pure chance—or maybe not—I always ended up hiking with international hikers. Thinking about it, it made sense. Most American hikers had decided to wait a few more days for the snow to melt before continuing.

Launch time

We stopped for lunch at a small creek that cut across the trail. It was the perfect spot to rest and chat.

The conversation flowed naturally. We shared stories from our time on the trail—our first days, the highs and lows, and how we felt now. I found it fascinating that a couple had chosen to hike the trail together. It was such a tough, deep experience. It would surely forge a strong bond between them.

Back at the trail registers, I had seen notes from a South Korean couple hiking the PCT for their honeymoon. That was next-level commitment. Hiking over 4,000 km through the mountains for a honeymoon was nothing short of insane.

Cold Soaking Ideas

During lunch breaks, it’s common to ask other hikers what they’re eating. It’s a way to socialize, show interest in their meals, and pick up new food ideas for the trail.

Rik and Anthony’s meal caught my attention. They were eating couscous from a small plastic container strapped to the outside of their pack. I asked about it, and they explained that they cold-soaked it with water, oil, and some spices. They loved having it for lunch.

I really liked the idea. Couscous provides energy, protein, and essential micronutrients—key for high-energy activities like thru-hiking. Here’s a quick breakdown of its benefits:

My New Lunch

I loved the idea of adding couscous to my lunches. I had been struggling to get enough carbs at midday. Rice and mashed potatoes required more preparation and felt too heavy. I preferred eating them at dinner.

Couscous, on the other hand, required no cooking and would pair well with tortillas and tuna. It seemed like the perfect solution.

So, on my next resupply stop, I planned to add couscous to my pack.

Death Canyon Valley

Looking at the map, we saw that the next water source was about an hour away. It was still early, but the spot seemed ideal for camping. Beyond it, the trail climbed steeply, with few water sources along the way.

At this stage of the trail, we didn’t feel like doing heavy water carries. So, we decided to stop there for the night and finish the day early.

One by one, more hikers arrived. Our group was huge. On the trail, with the vast mountains and open paths, I hadn’t realized just how many of us there were.

Camping here was the right call. There were plenty of flat spots to set up our tents.

A little Gift

At camp, Lucy gave me a beautiful wool hat. She felt it was too big for her and had another one waiting in Lone Pine. It was such a kind gesture. I knew I would carry that hat through the Sierra Nevada and probably all the way home. It was simply too nice to leave behind.

Lucy had traveled through South America and hiked in Patagonia. That sparked endless conversations about that incredible region in Argentina and Chile.

SKOLL

As soon as I saw him at camp, I recognized Ragnar instantly. The mystery behind his trail name was solved—he was definitely named after the legendary Viking because of his striking resemblance.

I hadn’t noticed it while hiking. With his hat, sunscreen, and sunglasses, it was hard to make out his face clearly on the trail.

Big Team

As the hours passed, more and more hikers arrived. Everyone joined the circle, continuing the conversation about how the trail had been treating us.

Personally, I felt somewhat distant from the group. Being new, I had quickly bonded with a few people, but there were so many others. They all knew each other well and had clearly been hiking together for a while. This large-group dynamic was different, with a few leaders organizing the logistics.

I wasn’t used to this. I usually planned my day with just a couple of possible stopping points in mind. But I knew I had to shift my mindset quickly—when I reached the Sierra Nevada, I wouldn’t be hiking alone. I had to start adapting to walking with more people.

This wasn’t entirely new to me. Before the PCT, I had always hiked in groups and managed to blend in just fine. But this experience had been different so far, and I had to adjust.

Dream Team

That evening, Frozen and Big Foot caught up with me at camp. We talked for a long time about the challenges they had faced at the start of the Sierra. They had left Kennedy Meadows much later than I did, delayed by the heat and a few too many beers. After that, they had pushed through a long day to reach Death Canyon Campground, and they were planning another big day tomorrow.

Their goal was to reach Bishop Pass and exit the trail from there. That meant facing the formidable Forester Pass in just two days, and they were both excited about it.

I quickly noticed how much more naturally I connected with them compared to Renee’s group. My hiking style felt more aligned with theirs, and I was comfortable with them. Even though we hadn’t hiked together before, we had crossed paths many times along the trail.

On My Way to Lone Pine

I was seriously tempted to abandon my plan to go to Lone Pine and just keep hiking with them. It felt like that moment at the airport when they announce final boarding, and you’re still debating whether to get on the plane. They were an incredible team… but my plan was solid too. I was convinced that taking a slower pace through this section of the trail was the right choice for me.

In the big group, each subgroup started hiking whenever they felt like it. Usually, a couple of the leaders would head out first, setting the pace and stopping at strategic spots for water, food, and breaks. I started early, coordinating with Rik, Lucy, and Antony to meet up later in the day.

El sendero empezó a tomar altura rápidamente y con ello aparecían grandes tramos con nieve, que eran muy simples de transitar. Se notaba que la nieve se derretía con una velocidad impresionante porque habia mucha agua que caía por el sendero. Incluso en algunos tramos se veían huellas en la nieve que iban en paralelo al sendero, producto de que cuando esos senderistas pasaron por allí el sendero aún no era visible.

Owens Valley

The trail quickly gained elevation, revealing long stretches of snow. The snow was easy to cross, but it was melting fast, with streams of water flowing down the trail. In some sections, I saw footprints in the snow running parallel to the path—a sign that when those hikers had passed through, the actual trail had still been buried under snow.

At the ridge, a viewpoint opened up to the vast Owens Valley. The elevation contrast was staggering. More than just a valley, it looked like a deep trench carved between two towering mountain ranges—the Sierra Nevada and the White Mountains in the distance.

Owens Lake

The area looked incredibly dry and arid—a stark contrast to the lush Sierra. I figured the surrounding mountains acted as massive barriers, preventing clouds from easily passing through and dropping rain on this land. In the middle of the valley lay Owens Lake, its shoreline lined with a vast, white salt flat.

This type of geological formation is typical in valleys created by tectonic movements. Over time, glacial processes deposited minerals at the bottom, shaping the terrain. Another classic sign of glaciation was the broken, scattered rocks everywhere—a familiar sight from my hikes in the Andes. These fragmented piles of rock, known as glacial moraine, were remnants of ancient ice movements.

Realizing the Scale of the Sierra

Standing there, gazing down at the valley, I finally grasped the sheer scale of where I was. Cities had to be down there, which meant I had to descend all the way to the valley floor.

I remembered that when I left Kennedy Meadows, the Cottonwood Campground trailhead had been closed. That meant no cars had been driving up, which was a big problem for me. If I wanted to hitch a ride down, there wouldn’t be any cars to help.

Renee’s group had connections with Trail Angels who, for a fee, could drive hikers to town. That seemed like my best option. My plan was to reach the campground and wait for the group to arrange a ride.

Mulkey Meadows

The trail was stunning—a beautiful valley filled with trees, patches of snow, and a breathtaking view of Mt. Whitney in the distance.

Mt. Whitney from Mulkey MeadowsThe place was called Mulkey Meadows, and from there, I could access the campground. The trees weren’t just green; some had shades of red, varying in height, with vibrant grass covering certain areas.

Cottonwood Campground

Just before reaching camp, another problem crossed my mind. There were more than 15 hikers planning to hitch a ride to town. Renee’s group was waiting until tomorrow, but with so many people, transportation could be an issue.

As I mulled over this, I ran into two people walking in the opposite direction—an elderly man and a young boy, probably his grandson.

They greeted me and asked how much further they could hike. I told them they’d soon hit snow. They didn’t seem equipped for snow travel, so I warned them about the conditions ahead.

The man told me they just wanted to hike a bit farther to catch a glimpse of Mt. Whitney before heading back.

That’s when it hit me. “Wait, if you hiked up here, that means the road is open?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yeah, the trailhead opened today, so we came up to check out a place I’ve always wanted to visit.”

Good News

That was exactly the news I needed. If the road was open, cars would be coming down. I asked if they could give me a ride to Lone Pine.

They said they didn’t mind at all—they were headed toward Bishop and would be passing through anyway.

I told them I had to wait for my friends to let them know I was heading down, but if my group didn’t arrive soon, I’d gladly take the ride. They kindly agreed. Relieved, I headed to camp, ate an extra Snickers, and waited.

Good People Everywhere

While waiting in the parking lot, a couple approached me and asked if I was hiking the PCT.

I told them yes, that I was walking this magical trail. They shared that a friend of theirs had attempted it a few years ago but had to quit in the Sierra due to the extreme difficulty.

I told them I was well aware of how tough the Sierra could be, but I was ready for the challenge.

They asked about my nationality, my experience in the U.S., and how I had made this journey possible.

I told them how incredible it had been, but also how hard it was to plan everything—getting the visa, saving money, making it all work. But, as I said, there are no easy roads to great goals.

Winning a Ride

They were moved by my story and offered me a ride to Lone Pine. Not only that, but they also wanted to show me something special—the famous Alabama Hills.

Of course, I said yes. I grabbed a pen, left a note for my trail friends letting them know I had decided to head down, and set off on a new adventure.

Lone Pine

After our tour, they dropped me off in the center of Lone Pine—a tiny town lost in the endless flatness of Owens Valley. Once again, the race began to find a place to stay, do laundry, and resupply. Washing my clothes wasn’t a top priority since I had only been on the trail for three days.

The Return to Cottonwood Campground

We started our way back to Cottonwood Campground in the afternoon. We rode in a pickup truck with Will, Grace, Helena, and one of the group leaders.

On the way, we saw Owens Valley again, but this time at sunset. The softer, orange-tinged light completely transformed the landscape.

The road was absolutely stunning. The colors of the mountains surrounded us, and the best part? We didn’t have to walk.

When we arrived at camp, most people had already set up their tents. They had only come down with the essentials to resupply before heading back to the trail.

This was an established campground, complete with dry toilets, trash bins, designated camping areas, and even ground-level barbecues.

I looked for a spot that wasn’t too close to the other tents since I would probably be leaving early the next morning.

Marshmallows by the Fire

Most of the group was preparing dinner. I had already eaten in town, so instead, I joined a different group gathered around a fire.

There, I met Ragnar, who was happily sharing some beers and roasting marshmallows. They welcomed me warmly—some even recognized my name from the trail registers.

They offered me a marshmallow, handing me a stick to roast it over the fire. I had only ever seen this in movies. Back home, this wasn’t a thing. I was used to eating marshmallows cold—I had never roasted one before.

A Whole Technique

When they noticed my lack of expertise, they laughed and gave me instructions. It sounded like a joke, but there was an actual technique.

First, they told me, you have to “seal” the marshmallow by exposing it to high heat, letting the outer layer burn slightly. Once it had a bit of color, you pull it back and continue cooking it slowly while rotating.

The key was to make sure it didn’t melt too much and fall into the fire. The trick? Keep its cylindrical shape. If it started deforming, you had to turn it to heat another side.

How to Eat It

Eating it wasn’t what I had imagined. These marshmallows were much bigger than the ones in Uruguay, so the approach was different.

You don’t just pop it in your mouth. Instead, you nibble on the toasted outer layer until you reach the gooey center. Once you get to a firmer part, you start roasting it again.

I DID IT!

Of course, my first marshmallow was a disaster—I completely burned it. But I still enjoyed it. The hikers laughed as they watched me concentrate, trying to get it right.

It was one of the most memorable moments of the day. Something so simple turned into a cultural exchange. When you immerse yourself in local customs, you become part of the community and get closer to their way of life.

Sitting around a campfire, roasting marshmallows, felt a lot like sharing a mate circle in Uruguay. It was a moment of connection—deep conversations about life, mixed with jokes, laughter, and good times.

Mt. Whitney Basecamp

That night, I slept peacefully. No noise, no wind, no cold. Ahead of me lay 34 km and 1,200 meters of elevation gain before reaching the camp at the base of Mt. Whitney.

The group planned to cover this stretch in two days. I, on the other hand, wanted to start in the morning and see if I could reach the basecamp by the afternoon.

According to the standard hiking time rule, it would take about 14 hours to get there. I had been moving at around 80% of that estimated time, but this time I was more cautious. Snow could slow me down significantly.

So, I decided to start at dawn and take it step by step.

Moonlit Witness

The trail began with a steep climb and soon became covered in snow. Unlike the snow I had encountered before, this was firm, making it easier to ascend.

My brain was starting to gather information on how to move efficiently in these conditions.

And even though I seemed alone, a great white witness sealed my footsteps in the night.

Hey Snow, I See You Again

The trail to Cottonwood Pass was covered in snow. Climbing up was tough, but getting over the ridge was even harder.

To my surprise, the snow was even deeper on the other side of the ridge, where the sun only touched it for a few hours each morning. That’s when I started to understand how snow distributes itself across the mountains.

This section of the trail was high and fully exposed to the wind, which explained the heavy accumulation of snow. The lack of trees allowed me to take in the entire scene—a vast, open landscape shaped by the elements.

Stunning Landscapes

With every step, the scenery transformed. New rock formations emerged, towering trees seemed to point the way forward, and streams carved paths through the valley like highways seen from above. Life was thriving all around me—in the cracks of the rocks, in the forests, in the melting tongues of snow.

I realized how different this place must look depending on the season. Now, I was seeing it in a unique blend of snow, trees, and vegetation. But in a few weeks, that snow would be gone. The layer was too thin to withstand the sun for much longer.

Sequoia National Park

As I walked, I spotted a sign deeply buried in the snow, with only a small corner sticking out. I moved closer to read it.

It said: “Welcome to Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park.”

Reading those words filled me with emotion. It was another milestone, another small marker on my journey. But some markers, no matter how small, carry immense weight. This was one of them. I was entering one of the most iconic national parks in the United States—on foot, with nothing but my backpack, my dreams, and my determination.

I felt an overwhelming sense of pride in what I was accomplishing. I could hardly believe I had made it this far.

Gradually, the snow began to disappear, giving way to larger trees and trails covered in neatly arranged, perfect little stones.

My Mind Wandering

The constant shifts in landscape kept my mind engaged. One moment, I was focused on the physical pain of the climb; the next, I was mesmerized by the beauty around me. It sparked deep thoughts—about life, about nature, about the meaning of beauty itself. I found myself lost in the details, imagining what that small tree had witnessed over the years, what that lonely rock had seen, or what lay beyond that distant ridge.

It was a space where I felt no judgment, no pressure to meet expectations, no obligations. In these early days in the Sierra Nevada, I felt lighter, unburdened. I was alone, yet deeply connected to everything around me.

Lunchtime in the Wilderness

I stopped for lunch at a small ranger cabin I stumbled upon. It had a few picnic tables outside, so I sat down to enjoy my meal.

The cabin was lost in the middle of the forest, with no obvious roads leading to it and no signs of human presence nearby. Finding it was a surprise.

That lunch break felt like pure peace. The river flowing in front of the cabin and the comfort of sitting in a real chair felt like luxury. The hardest part of the day was behind me. Now, all that remained was a descent to the camps at the base of Mt. Whitney.

Little Surprises—More Snow

But, as always on the PCT, surprises awaited me.

As I began the descent into the valley, I reached a section of the mountain that barely received any sunlight.

The snow there had remained frozen, untouched by the warmth of the sun. The trail was completely hidden beneath it. I could barely make out a few switchbacks leading to a gate, but they were nearly impossible to follow—or at least, way too risky.

Of course, my choice of route turned out to be the wrong one. I ended up with my back pockets full of snow after slipping and falling. But I just laughed—there was no reason to be upset. It was simply a funny moment.

The Last River Crossing

At the bottom of the valley, the final challenge of the day awaited me—or so I thought.

The melting snow had caused the river’s water level to rise.

And so, I had my first river crossing in the Sierra Nevada. It was an easy one, but that didn’t stop my socks and shoes from getting completely soaked.

I had made it—I was standing at Whitney Creek.

I stood there for a while, taking in the breathtaking view. The elevation difference was so dramatic that while the valley was warm and sunny, the peak remained snow-covered and frozen.

On the Way to Crabtree

The trail followed the water’s edge. Along the way, I ran into a group of park rangers who asked to see my permit.

They were a group of young, friendly guys who had just finished their shift at the campground. They told me they were heading into the mountains to ski.

They also gave me a word of caution—not to summit Whitney alone. There was still a lot of snow, and just a few days ago, a hiker had died on another route. Not on the one I was planning to take, but still, it was a sobering reminder to be careful.

Crabtree Campground

Their warning stayed in my mind. I thought back to all the mountain rescue cases I had studied during my mountaineering course with Azimutrek. Most accidents had one common factor—people making poor decisions and separating from their group.

In my case, I had no group. I didn’t know anyone ahead of me on the trail. Well, except for Frozen and Bigfoot, but they weren’t planning to climb Whitney.

My best option was to reach the campground, take a zero day, and wait for Renee and her group to catch up. It wasn’t a bad plan, but it meant I would have to climb in a group—something I hadn’t done in days.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

As my mind raced through plans, logistics, and strategies, I kept walking, thinking about who I could coordinate with for safety.

Because the moment was approaching—the moment to face the greatest challenge yet, to climb the tallest peak in the continental United States. My highest summit ever.

I felt a mix of excitement, fear, and uncertainty. My engineer’s mind wouldn’t stop analyzing every detail.

And then, as if the trail itself wanted to remind me of something, I heard a voice.

In perfect Spanish, someone greeted me with a warm smile:

“Hola, my old Friend :)”

The Ending

I hope you’re enjoying these posts as much as I’m enjoying writing them. And from the depths of my heart, I hope you’ll continue to walk this journey with me—the adventure of my life.