Thank you so much for joining me as I share my adventures on the Pacific Crest Trail 2024! In my previous post, A Path of Light Through a Sweet-Watered Desert I wrote about my journey down from the frozen heights of Mt. Baden-Powell to the warm community of Agua Dulce.

Short stop in Agua Dulce

Wearing my now-classic sky-blue city shirt—none other than the Uruguayan national football team jersey—I treated myself to some Mexican food. I went to Maria Bonita Mexican Restaurant, a lively spot that stood in stark contrast to the calm streets of Agua Dulce. It felt like the entire town gathered there to eat, chat, and connect. Mexican food had quickly become my favorite on the trail. No matter how small the town, there was always a great spot serving up hearty meals

At Maria Bonita Mexican Restaurant

The mix of meat, beans, rice, veggies, and avocado was pure joy for my palate, mind, and soul. Eating in town had become an essential part of the experience—something that filled me with excitement as I approached each new stop.

At the restaurant, I met several hikers, and we shared beers while exchanging stories. With Wi-Fi available, I also made a few video calls to friends to tell them about my PCT adventures.

However, I accidentally left my camera on one of the tables. Luckily, a German hiker named Arthur noticed and brought it to Serenity Oasis Campground, where many of us were staying. When I got back, I retrieved my camera and had a great chat with Arthur.

He had started the PCT three days after me and recognized me from the trail register books. My nationality stood out, as did my message: “Don’t give up!” It was becoming known among hikers. We shared some beers, and I eventually headed to my tent. The next day, it was time to tackle the task of resupplying for the trail.

Resuply time

The next stretch of trail was to Hikertown, a popular stopping point for hikers strategizing how to tackle the infamous heat of the PCT’s driest and hottest section: the aqueduct. The distance to Hikertown was about 60 miles, so I needed enough food for three days on the trail.

My resupply strategy started with checking hiker boxes around town for items that could save me some money. Hiker boxes often hold unexpected treasures! In Agua Dulce, there were two potential spots to check: the campground and a place called Agua Dulce Hardware, the local outdoor store.

I headed to the hardware store first, as it was about to close. On the way, I ran into Alice and Lenette! They had just arrived in town, and of course, we stopped to chat for a while. They planned to take a two-day break with Lars, who had work commitments. Instead of staying in Agua Dulce, they were heading to a larger town, where a relative of Alice’s would drive them to Los Angeles.

It was heartwarming to see them, catch up, and say “see you later,” as the PCT had a way of bringing people back together.

Unfortunately, our conversation made me lose track of time, and by the time I reached the hardware store, it was closed. Instead, I enjoyed a late breakfast at a nearby café and returned to Serenity Oasis Campground.

Serenity Oasis

At the campground, I found a well-stocked hiker box with several useful items for the next leg of my journey. They also had a small store offering a great selection of hiker-friendly food at reasonable prices. With this, I was finally able to complete my resupply.

It seemed like a lot of food—and it was. So far, I’d always carried extra food into towns. While this wasn’t the most efficient, it didn’t worry me much since I was progressing well on the trail. 

Ultralight culture

Before leaving the campground, I weighed my backpack. It came in at 40 lbs (18 kg), not including water. With a maximum water capacity of 6 liters, my pack could weigh up to 24 kg (53 lbs) at its heaviest. I felt good about this weight, even though it was more than 30% of my body weight. Carrying it wasn’t too difficult.

Still, I’m far from the ultralight culture that’s so popular on the PCT. Many hikers are obsessed with minimizing their pack weight. I’ve improved a lot in this area compared to my earlier trips. For instance, during my trek in Torres del Paine—shared in my post My Broken Tower —my pack weighed 25 kg (55 lbs) without water for a 9-day stretch in the mountains. The PCT demands more food per day than Torres del Paine, so the weight difference lies in reducing my base weight.

Why I’m Not Going Ultralight

To achieve an ultralight pack, I’d need to invest in lighter gear. However, ultralight equipment is significantly more expensive and often less durable. In South America, getting such gear is nearly impossible, and it’s not the best choice for my budget.

My only option to reduce weight is to carry fewer items. That’s something I’ll keep an eye on as I go, figuring out what I don’t use and leaving it behind

Back on the Trail

When I had everything ready to leave, I looked for Arthur to start walking together. By now, I was used to hiking with a group, so it felt natural to begin the same way. However, when I reached the tent area, his tent was gone. In fact, mine was the only one left standing. The hikers still in the camp planned to stay another day in Agua Dulce, which meant I’d have to start my journey solo again. So, I grabbed my gear and set off at 6 p.m.

Letting Go of the Material

Leaving Agua Dulce, I came across a trash container. I stopped, opened my pack, and decided to follow through with something I’d been contemplating for a while. I pulled out my notebook and pencil, sat on the curb, and took a moment. This notebook was a gift from Carolina Etchart, my coworker who sat beside me in the office. She had given it to me to jot down my daily trail experiences, and I’ve been using these very notes to write this blog post.

I took out the written pages and saved them in my pack.

Letting go of material things was something the trail had been teaching me. I used to write every night in my tent, capturing the day’s adventures. But as I started hiking longer distances, time in camp grew shorter. My notes became less frequent, and I struggled to summarize my days in written lines and drawings. This decision had been brewing, especially after checking my pack weight the previous day and thinking of ways to hike more efficiently.

In my mind, I told myself:

“You’ll figure out how to continue your blog without these notes. Keep living and enjoying the trail; the memories will find their way onto the page.”

This blog matters deeply to me. It’s a record of my recent past, my feelings, and my journey through a dream that began to materialize 30 days ago but started taking shape four years back. That’s when the PCT became my source of energy, pulling me out of the emotional crater left by my breakup.

I stood up, held the rest of the notebook in my hands, and with tears in my eyes, said to myself:

You can do this, Diego. Don’t give up.

Because life is about this,

continuing the journey,

chasing dreams,

unlocking time,

clearing the rubble, and freeing the sky.

My friend Carolina ‘La Baque’

With my mantra echoing in my mind, I tossed the notebook and pencil into the trash. It wasn’t just a journal of my trail experiences; it also symbolized my connection to Carolina, who had supported me immensely over the years. She had witnessed my struggles, offered advice, and gave me the daily encouragement I needed to be here, walking this trail.

But Carolina had given me something else—a gift I still carried with pride.

Carolina had also given me a small Uruguayan flag. It was the same flag she kept in her car for Uruguay’s football matches. This symbol, which she shared with her three beloved children, was now with me, accompanying me on my journey.

To her, I want to say:

“Thank you, Caro. Here I am, head held high, living and thriving in this crazy experience of walking the PCT.”

Sunset on the Desert Landscape

The trail climbed quickly into the mountains surrounding Agua Dulce, revealing a vibrant green against the desert sand. The vegetation was tough, low, thorny, and rough, but its range of colors under the golden hour was spectacular. I felt content—back in my element, back on the trail.

That day, I decided to hike only 13 km (7 miles). Although Hikertown was three days away if I kept my average of 32 km per day, I knew my body could handle much more. This allowed me the luxury of taking it slow, enjoying the sunlight, and soaking in the scenery the next day.

I camped at a spot called Martindale Ridge. The view was breathtaking, and I enjoyed an excellent rest to prepare for the road to Hikertown.

The Sun

Hiking solo again, I had to adapt to the desert heat. In true Roadrunner fashion, that meant waking up at 4 a.m. and starting early. My main reward wasn’t escaping the unbearable heat that hit around 11 a.m. It was witnessing sunrises that left me breathless.

As the sunrise, illuminating the valley, the trail gave me what felt like a divine coincidence.

As the first light bathed the landscape, I came across a tree shaped like a heart. Immediately, my thoughts turned to my friend Pedro, also known as “El Sol.” Among our friends, it became a running joke to call Pedro by this nickname after a costume party back in engineering school.

Pedro had wrapped a golden tinsel garland around his head, claiming to be “the Sun.” None of us guessed it, but his explanation became legendary. Pedro, with his lighthearted nature, was far from the stereotype of a “boring engineer.” He truly radiates light, just like the sun. If Pedro were hiking the PCT with me, I have no doubt he’d have hugged that heart-shaped tree. Knowing his love for trees and our shared adventures, I took a photo of it to send him when I had signal.

But the sun can hurts too

The sun climbed higher, and I stopped to grab my hat from my pack. To my dismay, it wasn’t there. The difference was staggering. Without my hat, the sun seemed to pierce through my thoughts. My head felt like it was boiling. In its absence, I used a buff as a makeshift hat, but it wasn’t the same. The relentless heat became a constant reminder of how crucial small comforts can be on this journey.

Bouquet Reservoir

To beat the heat, I decided to take more frequent breaks in shaded areas and drink a lot more water than usual. Resting in the shade felt amazing, and the variety of desert landscapes was truly breathtaking. During one of these stops, I came across a lake that added freshness and life to the scenery.

Unfortunately, the PCT didn’t run close to the water. With the intense heat, I would have loved to take a break and dip my head in that lake. The lake is called Bouquet Reservoir, and it’s also a man-made lake, just like Silverwood Lake, which I mentioned in my previous blog, PCT Stage 04: Big Bear to Wrightwood.

I was hiking through a mountainous area called Sierra Pelona, located in Los Angeles County. The lake is fed by the Santa Clara River and created by the Bouquet Canyon Dam. It’s part of Los Angeles’ aqueduct system, serving as a water reserve to manage the flow through the aqueduct. This system helps meet the city’s high water demand. When the primary water flow is disrupted or low, the stored water from the lake supplements the supply, ensuring the aqueduct operates smoothly.

Power Generation in the Desert

I was climbing the final ridge before reaching Hikertown, already getting used to the unique geography of the desert sections on the PCT. The cycle had become familiar: leaving towns nestled in vast valleys or plains, followed by a couple of days ascending into the mountains, where the greenery returned. Then, another few days of steep descents would lead to the next town.

In the distance, I spotted something that made me question my eyes. Near the next mountain range, a cluster of small, white toothpick-like structures stood tall on the desert surface. There were hundreds—maybe even thousands—of wind turbines. I had never seen anything like it before, despite having worked in the energy sector for over 10 years.

Harnessing Wind Power

The only explanation that came to mind was that these mountains created wind corridors where the air moved with relentless force and consistency. The terrain where the turbines were installed was far from flat. Many seemed to climb the slopes, almost reaching the ridgelines. This uneven placement likely minimizes interference between turbines, which would otherwise make such turbulent wind flow inefficient for power generation.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My mind kept turning over the studies and planning that must have gone into designing this dense array of turbines. It fascinated me, even as I tried to figure out why this specific location had been chosen.

Then, as I scanned the horizon, I noticed another form of power generation in the area.

Solar Power Generation

Scattered across the landscape were vast square patches that resembled lakes. These were massive solar farms, far larger in area than the wind turbines, but much less noticeable. Their low profile blended more discreetly into the terrain. Yet their scale was immense—dwarfing the small settlements scattered nearby.

My engineering side was captivated by this combination of renewable energy sources, while the part of me that appreciates natural landscapes felt conflicted. These extensive installations dramatically altered the scenery. In my opinion, the wind turbines had the greatest visual impact on the desert’s raw beauty.

Mniejsze zło (The Lesser Evil)

Throughout my life, I haven’t read many books, but I am fascinated by fantasy novels set in a gothic past. In these stories, mystery and imagination intertwine to create parallel universes. I especially enjoy when these worlds stay close to reality, only diving into the magical occasionally. That’s when extraordinary beings emerge—wizards, witches, elves, dragons—figures that defy the laws of the world we know. They possess extraordinary abilities that transcend human limits but don’t overpower the entire universe.

In our everyday lives, we also encounter “superhumans.” Runners, for example, shatter records once thought unreachable. As soon as one person breaks the barrier, others follow. It’s as if those limits were psychological, and overcoming them unlocks new potential for everyone else. This phenomenon feels almost magical, reminding me of the kind of fantasy where the extraordinary brushes against the real, inviting us to explore new horizons.

This brings to mind The Last Wish by the Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski.

The last wish

This book tells the story of Geralt of Rivia, a witcher in a medieval fantasy world. Witchers are a special order trained to hunt monsters that threaten humans. From a young age, orphans chosen to become witchers undergo genetic mutations and rigorous training to gain superhuman abilities. The process is dangerous, and only a few survive. Those who do are trained exclusively to fight monsters, avoiding involvement in human conflicts.

The Last Wish is the first book in the saga and is presented as a collection of short stories. The main narrative is interwoven with tales that introduce the witcher’s complex world. In this universe, the profession of witchers is in decline. Most monsters have already been hunted to extinction, leaving Geralt as a wandering vagabond, scraping a living by slaying the few creatures that still terrorize remote villages.

Chapter: “The Lesser Evil”

One of the most memorable stories in the book takes place in Blaviken, a small town Geralt reaches after killing a dangerous creature called a Kikimora. Starving, he hopes to claim a reward, but the town mayor directs him to a mage who might want the monster’s corpse for his experiments.

To Geralt’s surprise, the mage, Stregobor, is an old acquaintance who once caused him trouble. Stregobor asks for Geralt’s help, claiming he is being hunted by a woman named Renfri. However, Geralt refuses; his code prohibits him from getting involved in human disputes.

Stregobor insists that Renfri is cursed and will slaughter everyone in Blaviken to find him. He argues that killing her would be the lesser evil. Geralt, skeptical, still refuses.

Later, Geralt encounters Renfri at the village tavern. She is accompanied by a band of mercenaries and shares her tragic story. Stregobor tortured her as a child because of her clairvoyant abilities. Mages, driven by fear and prejudice, often persecuted gifted children, and terrified villagers allowed these acts to happen.

Renfri asks Geralt to help her take revenge on Stregobor. She claims his death would be the lesser evil, sparing others from suffering. But Geralt remains neutral, refusing to choose sides. Renfri promises to leave town with her group the next day.

The Outcome (Spoiler Alert)

Renfri breaks her promise. Instead of leaving, she leads an attack in the town square, causing chaos and killing the villagers. Geralt is forced to intervene. To stop the bloodshed, he kills Renfri and her mercenaries.

Although he saves Blaviken and Stregobor, the mage does not defend him. The townsfolk blame Geralt for the massacre, accusing him of being the true villain. No one believes his version of events, and he doesn’t bother to explain.

Thus, the witcher who avoided taking sides earns the cruel title of “The Butcher of Blaviken.” In choosing what he believed to be the lesser evil, Geralt is left to bear an unjust stigma for the rest of his life.

Again, my mind on Trail

As I walked, my thoughts wandered to Geralt’s story in The Last Wish. His experience in Blaviken mirrored patterns that humanity has repeated throughout history. Geralt’s actions—meant to prevent a greater tragedy—cast him as the villain in the eyes of the locals. Renfri, the one who suffered most, was doomed not only by her choices but by the cruel fate imposed on her since childhood. Meanwhile, the true power—embodied by Stregobor—remained untouched, protected by his influence, status, and control of the narrative.

Renfri wasn’t born bloodthirsty; she was shaped by an environment of abuse, exclusion, and fear. Her rage reflected systemic evil—not in individual actions, but in the structures that perpetuate injustice. How can we not expect individuals like Renfri to arise when the system creates and condemns them simultaneously?

That lesser evil the story dwells on isn’t really about personal choices. It’s rooted in the conditions that frame those choices. Geralt’s dilemma is a microcosm of humanity’s tendency to justify its actions in the name of progress, safety, or survival.

Renewable Energy

As I reached a ridge and gazed at the wind turbines and solar panels dotting the landscape, Geralt’s story felt eerily relevant. For a long time, I admired wind turbines, even appreciating how they adorned the scenery. But seeing their density here made me pause and reevaluate.

The U.S., one of the largest greenhouse gas emitters, faces a tough choice. Meeting its growing energy demands with traditional sources like coal and oil is environmentally catastrophic. Transitioning to renewable energy is cleaner but not without its costs. Yet, the trade-off—though imperfect—is necessary.

It’s easy to stand back, point fingers, and assign blame. “You need to change,” we say. “You’re doing it wrong.” It’s a comfortable position, absolving ourselves of responsibility. But the truth is, we’re all part of the problem. As a society, we constantly demand more: more gadgets, more conveniences, more everything. And to power that, we need more energy. There’s no magic solution.

The visual impact of wind farms and the risks they pose to birds are valid concerns, but they pale in comparison to the devastation of unchecked climate change. My engineer’s mind told me: this is the necessary path—a decision imperfect, yet aimed at a greater purpose. A choice for the lesser evil.

But this is the real problem?

Perhaps real change doesn’t come from choosing between two evils, as Geralt had to. Maybe it lies in stepping out of that framework entirely. Renfri and Geralt weren’t the problem; the system that forced them into conflict was. Similarly, humanity must rethink not just how we act, but why—and for whom.

As I walked with all I needed on my back, a more fundamental question emerged. Before questioning how we generate energy, shouldn’t we ask if we really need to keep increasing its consumption?

My instinctive answer was, “Of course. Energy fuels progress.” But something in me—perhaps the rhythm of my steps, the fresh air, or the clarity that comes with time alone—challenged that notion. Progress? Toward what? For whom?

New approaches

On the mountain, I felt whole. Everything essential fit in my backpack. No unnecessary comforts, no possessions weighing me down. There was no stress, no endless list of things to buy. I was happy with just the basics. Did I really need more energy, a newer phone, a bigger house, or a fuller wardrobe?

My answer was stark: that need is artificial. It’s a construct we’ve created, equating having more with living better. In daily life, I chased material goals because that’s what seemed right. But here, far from it all, I realized that true fulfillment didn’t come from owning—it came from being: being present, walking, observing, breathing.

And so, the question shifted again. Where was I heading in my regular life? Down there, everything revolved around accumulating wealth, possessions, and status. But up here, the contrast was striking. Progress, as we define it, wasn’t making me happier or helping me live better.

As I continued walking, the wind turbines on the horizon became more than just energy sources. They were symbols, sparking a deep introspection I’d never explored. This minimalist lifestyle on the trail was reshaping my perspective, subtly but profoundly.

This journey is changing me in ways I’m still uncovering. But one thing is clear: the clarity I’m gaining out here will transform how I view life when I return. The trail is teaching me a fundamental truth: life isn’t about having more—it’s about needing less.

500 miles!

Reaching milestones on the trail feels surreal. Each day, every step adds up to your progress, and some moments stand out more than others. This time, it was a truly special one that made me pause and reflect.

Exactly one month into my journey on the PCT, I reached the 500-mile mark—about 800 kilometers! To me, this number felt like a crazy achievement. To put it into perspective, that distance is longer than my entire home country, Uruguay. If I were back home, I’d have crossed the whole country by now!

Trail Magic on Pine Canyon Road

As I descended further, the celebration wasn’t over yet. At Pine Canyon Road, something magical awaited me. When I reached the road, I was greeted with an incredible surprise: a Trail Angel was there with freshly grilled hot dogs, cold beer, Oreo cookies, and other delightful snacks. It was after 4 p.m., and finding such a haven was almost dangerous—the temptation to set up camp and call it a day was overwhelming!

When I arrived, I met a hiker named Fireball. It was my first time seeing her on the trail, and her energy and friendliness were contagious. Shortly after, my friend Arthur showed up unexpectedly. I had assumed he was ahead of me since he had left Agua Dulce about eight hours earlier to avoid the heat. However, he had decided to camp near some powerlines on a ridge I had crossed earlier that morning. We must’ve passed by without noticing each other.

My broken Cellphone

During the break, I checked my phone and noticed it was on its last legs. Since leaving Uruguay, it had displayed three green lines across the screen. Now there were seven. At first, I didn’t mind, but the growing number of lines worried me. On top of that, the battery life had plummeted, and the USB port had started acting up due to a moisture detection issue, making charging a challenge. Without a working phone, using FarOut, my navigation app, was becoming increasingly difficult.

After six years of use, it felt like time to let it go. However, replacing a phone while on the PCT posed its own challenges: transferring apps, banking details, and ensuring everything worked smoothly would require time and a calm environment.

A Trail Angel recommended RB’s Hiker Hut, a spot where I could receive a new phone and stay a few days to set it up. They replied to my SMS quickly, giving me all the necessary details. With that sorted, I continued my way toward Hikertown.

On the way to Hikertown

The hike to Hikertown wasn’t easy. The trail was sandy and winding, with constant views of the highway below. While I wished for a more direct route, I understood why the PCT avoided that area—it was open to hunting. To avoid becoming a target, I cheerfully stuck to the trail.

After about two hours of ups and downs along ridges, I finally reached Interstate 138 with Fireball. We arrived at Hikertown—a place like no other.

A Western-Style Oasis

Hikertown isn’t a town in the traditional sense. It’s a private property transformed into a quirky Western-themed village. Each room had a theme—the chapel, the sheriff’s office, the doctor’s office, saloons, and more.

For hikers, the place had some essentials: a Hiker Box with gear and food, camping spots, laundry facilities, and a spacious common area perfect for resting and socializing.

I was delighted to find that Martha, the owner, spoke Spanish. After days of speaking only English, conversing in my native language was a much-needed comfort. Our chats reminded me how much I treasure these unexpected connections on the trail.

Martha had seamlessly blended a Western aesthetic with hiker necessities. While the Western vibe was obvious, the hiker-friendly touches were subtle and thoughtful—details that only those walking the PCT might notice.

 

The Hiker Box was well-stocked with basic trail supplies. Behind the main house was a designated camping area, ideal for those who preferred to sleep outdoors at a lower cost. Another incredible perk was the laundry machines. Although they weren’t free, the mere availability of laundry services felt like a luxury.

And speaking of luxuries, there was a shower. In this dusty stretch, washing off the grime of the trail was a heavenly experience. Something as simple as a shower became an indescribable pleasure—a small but powerful moment of renewal during this journey.

Their plan was ambitious: start hiking at 4 PM, cross the aqueduct, and reach a bridge 20 miles away—the first reliable water source on the way to Tehachapi. Walking during the cooler evening and night hours was essential to avoid the Mojave Desert’s scorching heat.

The Risk Factor

This section was perhaps one of the riskiest I’d faced in over 500 miles on the PCT. You might think dehydration, rattlesnakes, scorpions, or black widows would be the primary concerns. However, the real danger was more unexpected—road traffic.

After trekking through remote mountains and isolated deserts, the greatest risk now came from human activity. Walking on an unlit road with dust clouds stirred up by vehicles posed a serious threat. Statistically, road accidents are one of the leading causes of death worldwide, and even the PCT isn’t immune.

Fireball, a well-known hiker, organized a group of over ten people to tackle this section. She brought glow sticks and fluorescent glasses—gear you’d expect at a party—to make the trek safer and more fun.

Let’s Party

Fireball’s idea was brilliant. The glowing accessories made us more visible to passing cars, significantly reducing the risk of accidents. Walking as a group further enhanced safety. Plus, the flat, monotonous terrain called for something to liven things up. Chatting, dancing, and singing turned a tedious stretch into a joyful experience.

Arthur, another hiker who’d recently arrived at Hikertown, loved the idea of joining Fireball’s group. Since the planned start time was 5 PM, I had a couple of hours to rest. I lay down and quickly fell asleep.

Time to start

At 4:50 PM, I woke up ready to go—or almost ready. I’d lost my sun hat back in Agua Dulce, a mistake that had left me battling the relentless sun. Luckily, a kind Russian hiker staying at Hikertown offered me a stylish hat. It wasn’t the typical hiking gear, but it had flair and showed the generosity of trail camaraderie.

At 5 PM, Fireball’s group decided to wait longer for the heat to subside. Arthur and I exchanged a look and decided to start on our own. With High Five’s group about an hour ahead, we felt confident having both a reference point and a potential group behind us.

The Aqueduct

The trail began along a road, then followed open reservoirs before straightening into a seemingly endless line across the desert. This perfectly straight path appeared to collide with the Tehachapi Mountain range on the horizon—our next destination. The landscape was starkly different from anything else on the PCT. An arid expanse stretched endlessly, the ground bone-dry despite the aqueduct beneath our feet carrying an astounding 11,900 liters of water per second.

As we walked along the aqueduct, we encountered a California kingsnake. Thankfully non-venomous, it seemed irritated by our presence. We carefully avoided it and continued our journey.

Meeting New Friends

Arthur and I maintained a brisk pace, covering about four miles an hour. In the distance, we spotted three small dots moving along the horizon. We guessed they were High Five, BigFoot, and Frozen, who’d started an hour before us. The dots grew larger and smaller as we alternated between gaining and losing ground, a playful chase that kept our spirits high.

Every hiker I’d spent time with on the trail had a unique story about what led them to this journey. Yet, a common thread ran through these tales—deep, personal reasons for taking on the PCT. Whether it was self-discovery, a need for simplicity, or a connection with nature, everyone seemed to share a profound motivation.

Every hiker I had meaningful conversations with on the trail had a unique life story that led them to undertake this crazy adventure on the PCT. Despite the variety in their backgrounds, there was always a common thread—a deep and compelling reason that had driven each of us to the mountains. The hikers I connected with most deeply shared profound motivations: personal growth, a desire to connect with nature, or the yearning to live simply and authentically for a while.

None of these individuals were chasing purely athletic goals. While I did encounter people focused on performance and setting records, they weren’t the kind of hikers I gravitated toward. In fact, as the miles added up, I saw fewer of those types. Likewise, I stopped meeting people who were just “trying it out” to see how they felt about being on the trail. By that point, everyone around me had a clear and profound reason for being there—something bigger than the trail itself.

Connecting in disconnection

Arthur and I talked about our lives and what had drawn us to this incredible journey. He had extensive trekking experience in Europe and South America and was the kind of person who effortlessly brought people together with laughter and generosity.

As our conversation deepened, I shared my struggles with self-esteem and the pain of a recent breakup. Speaking about these wounds felt like pulling out thorns—painful but necessary for healing. Arthur, too, had faced similar challenges, which had partly driven him to the trail.

These moments of vulnerability brought a sense of connection and understanding. Hearing Arthur’s perspective helped me see my own experiences in a new light.

Battling Monotony

In my daily habits, I’ve always struggled to be productive in the late afternoon or evening. As a child, I was the kind of kid who was ready for bed by 7 p.m. As I grew older, this habit shifted a bit, but not by much.

By the afternoon, my performance starts to drop—not just physically, but in a more general sense. At a certain point, I feel my energy fading, and my mind begins to “wander.” I say “wander” as if I were supposed to stay focused on something—traditionally, it would have been studying or training for competitive volleyball. But it’s not just distraction; it’s more like my thoughts drift into random, nonsensical topics.

My random mind

For instance, I might find myself pondering why pink is associated with girls. How did that even start? Is it because the color conveys sweetness? Or is it the other way around—do we see pink as sweet because we associate it with girls? Could it be linked to the soft pink hue of newborn skin? But then, baby boys have the same skin tone, so why don’t we associate pink with them?

Thoughts like these occupy my mind for hours, to the point where they start feeling tedious. On top of that, I also crave sugary treats during these times. It’s not just hunger but a desire for something sweet and indulgent, the kind of snack that gives you an instant boost of satisfaction as soon as it hits your taste buds. Sweet things seem to bring me a fleeting sense of joy and comfort during moments of monotony.

My mind started to drift into random thoughts. The sun was long gone, and the night had fully taken over the flat terrain we were crossing. The aqueduct was no longer visible. I wasn’t sure if it was because the PCT veered away from it or if the structure itself had changed. Step by step, I wasn’t physically tired—I was bored. I kept glancing at my watch more and more often. By 9:30 p.m., Arthur and I decided to take our first break of the day.

Time Break

The road had turned into a deep trench in the sand, with walls about a meter high on either side. We looked for a relatively safe spot to stop, pulled out our water bottles, and sat down to rest for about ten minutes. It’s like about 10 kilometers left before reaching the river, where we could refill our water. We each had three liters left—clearly, I had carried extra. It had been a good decision to set off late because dehydration wasn’t an issue.

What was becoming an issue for me, though, was the overwhelming sleepiness creeping in. I had rested all day—nearly 24 hours in Hikertown—but I still felt exhausted. It wasn’t physical fatigue; it was the disruption of my routine. My body was used to resting when the sun went down. Arthur seemed fine, but with just the two of us, I couldn’t find the energy to lift my spirits. His goal was to walk 20 more kilometers, but I was completely drained.

We talked for a bit, and I shared my plan: “Let’s have dinner at the bridge. Once we’re there, I’ll decide if I can keep going. If you want, you can continue on your own after that.”

The end day plan

In 10 kilometers, we’d leave the road and rejoin the trail, which felt safer. On the trail, we wouldn’t have to worry about getting hit by a car on these lonely, sandy roads. Walking on the road at night was genuinely dangerous. Visibility was practically nonexistent because the sand hung in the air, blocking the beam of our flashlights. A couple of cars passed by, and we barely saw them. We heard them long before we caught a glimpse of their lights. Fortunately, the drivers seemed cautious, likely aware that hikers used this route at night.

In my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much better it would be to walk with High Five’s or Fireball’s group. I’d never felt this way on the trail before. I remembered the terrible shape I’d been in at Saddle Junction, but this was different. I wasn’t just physically worn out—I wasn’t motivated to keep going.

Walking at night felt meaningless. I wasn’t enjoying it. It felt like I was walking just to get this section over with.

Time to start again

Arthur and I talked about it as we walked. He seemed to be doing better than me, but he also felt uneasy about hiking at night. We continued along the dusty road, heading toward the bridge. Then, I checked FarOut and realized something terrible: we had been walking off-trail for the past 20 minutes. Twenty minutes. Lost.

We considered taking a shortcut across the fields, but the “No Trespassing” signs and barbed wire fences scared us off. We had no choice but to retrace our steps until we found the junction where we had taken the wrong turn.

Hard Feelings

It felt surreal. 9:50 p.m., and my mind was in chaos, swirling with exhaustion and frustration. Arthur and I hardly spoke. A nod or a brief mumble was all we exchanged. We took turns using the flashlight to save battery, but it only made the night feel even longer. In the distance, the lights of Lancaster glowed faintly, casting a haze into the sky. It was the only thing visible—and it offered no comfort.

I glanced at my watch again: 10:00 p.m. How could that be? It felt like at least forty minutes had passed since I last checked. “Diego, stop looking at your watch,” I told myself. But I couldn’t help it. The watch’s backlight seemed to stay on constantly. Was it a defect? Or some automatic setting that activated with movement and low light? Whatever it was, it was draining the battery fast.

I kept obsessing over it. “Does this feature even make sense? Could I turn it off somehow?” The light on my watch grew dimmer, but it still read 10:05 p.m.. “This can’t be real!” I thought, nearly shouting in frustration. Five minutes. Only five minutes. I convinced myself that the battery level must be affecting the watch’s accuracy, maybe slowing it down. I remembered how quartz crystals in watches regulate time by creating a steady pulse. Could something be wrong with that?

I grabbed my phone to check. It said 10:07 p.m.. How could time be so cruel? It felt like it was mocking me. This was torture.

The anxiety was getting to me. My backpack felt heavier with every step. My hips ached, and my shoulders burned. The weight of it all—both physical and mental—was crushing me. Arthur noticed I wasn’t doing well and kept trying to lift my spirits. His encouragement was like a lifeline. Knowing he was paying attention to my struggle gave me just enough strength to push forward. I lifted my head, clenched my fists, and kept walking.

The Bridge

I managed to calm my anxiety a bit, and we kept walking. Around 11:45 p.m., we finally reached the famous bridge. Down below, we saw that High Five’s group had set up camp in the few flat spots available. The wind in this area was absolutely insane. It blew with such force that it made us feel cold, even after all the walking.

I glanced up and realized we had passed the first wind turbines I’d seen on the descent before reaching Hikertown. In the distance, the lights of Lancaster shone brightly, with the shadows of the windmills etched against the horizon.

We ate quickly, and I told Arthur I would try to keep going the additional 10 kilometers he wanted to cover, but at a slower pace. Arthur was tired too. He nodded, and we continued toward our planned campsite.

Walking Between Windmills

The trail was no longer completely flat. It had slight inclines and declines, but it was easy to follow. The path was teeming with mice, darting around us as if blinded by the beams of our headlamps. Arthur entertained himself by trying to catch them. I wasn’t in the mood for his games, so I let him walk ahead while he kept at it. For the first time on the PCT, I realized I was in a bad mood.

This foul mood came from exhaustion and the discomfort of walking so far outside my comfort zone. I couldn’t find any sense in what I was doing. Another factor began to seriously irritate me—the constant droning of the wind turbines. Whoosh, Whoosh. The relentless sound followed us like a shadow.

At the 8-kilometer mark, I found a flat, dry spot and told Arthur I was done. I expected him to continue the remaining 2 kilometers to the next water source, but to my surprise, he decided to stay too. He was just as tired.

We pitched our tents as best as we could and settled in for the night. It was 3 a.m.

New Sun, New Start

As drained, bored, and resistant as I feel about doing anything at night, the mornings bring out the opposite in me. When the first rays of sunlight hit my tent at 5 a.m., I woke up eager to get going. It felt like a reset. My body wasn’t physically exhausted anymore, even though just three hours earlier, I’d fought an intense battle to set up my tent. Those two hours of rest were enough to make me want to start fresh.

This pattern is typical for me. By midday, I’d probably be dead tired and in desperate need of a power nap. But in that moment, all I wanted was to walk. So, I broke down my tent and packed my gear.

I glanced toward Arthur’s tent, but there was no movement. It made sense—we’d only set up camp three hours earlier. Slinging my pack over my shoulders, I started hiking solo.

The day was perfect. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. It wasn’t too hot, and a gentle, steady breeze kept me alert. It was an ideal start. Along the way, I came across a trail register. Opening it, I scanned the names but didn’t recognize anyone. They were all new to me. The push of miles Arthur and I had made the day before had put us ahead of the friends we’d been hiking with for months. Now, we were catching up to a new wave of hikers.

Again on the Mountains

The trail started changing, signaling that I had entered the Tehachapi Mountains. The flat desert gave way to rolling hills, water crossings, and hints of green vegetation. Flowers were blooming everywhere, adding splashes of vibrant color. This shift in the landscape energized me—I felt far more at home here than on the barren desert plains.

As I hiked, a sudden sound sent alarm bells ringing in my mind. A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, and in an instant, I leaped forward like a coiled spring. The sound? A loud, unmistakable hiss from a rattlesnake just inches off the trail. My foot must have passed too close, waking it and prompting its signature warning: sss.

I’d always thought snakes wouldn’t catch me off guard since I walk alert, without music. But I was wrong. It’s impossible to stay 100% vigilant when you’re hiking 14 hours a day. Their camouflage is flawless, and they only make noise when you’re already too close.

It was a big scare, but this encounter has left me better prepared for future ones.

The Flowers Of The Desert

In the Tehachapi Mountains, flowers were everywhere, vibrant and captivating. One that stood out to me was the Californian Bluebell. With its purple-blue petals and dark center, it thrives in arid environments like this.

The desert’s color contrasts are astonishing, adding a unique beauty to the journey. Walking among these flowers, along with lupines and other species, brought joy to my day.

My old Friends, The Lesser Evil

The trail began to climb, and soon I heard a familiar sound: the hum of wind turbines. Half-jokingly, I’d almost come to fear them more than snakes. After days surrounded by these “technological wonders,” my thoughts turned again to sustainability.

I might have been a bit sensitive because just a few hours earlier, I had endured the challenges of night hiking and the relentless hum of the wind turbine blades. Once again, I found myself reflecting on the dilemma humanity faces. These turbines, which harness the kinetic energy of the wind to generate electricity, are undoubtedly an ingenious way to extract energy from the environment with minimal impact. However, we must remain aware that every action has consequences. No matter how “pure” our methods of energy extraction may seem, they still leave an imprint on the world around us.

Being Conscious

It’s not my intention to take an anti-system or anarchist stance, waving flags to declare that these things are wrong—because I don’t believe that’s the right approach. I’m part of this problem; I’m part of the sustainability of our planet. My hope is for all of us—humans, animals, and every other form of life—to coexist and thrive on this Earth for as long as possible.

To achieve this, I believe we must each become aware of our resource usage and the surplus consumption we often take for granted. This awareness isn’t about self-punishment or pointing fingers to judge others, as I don’t claim to hold the ultimate truth. Instead, it’s about fostering a mindset of mindfulness, understanding that change begins with small, thoughtful actions we choose to take.

But I do feel it’s important to be conscious of our resource use and to take care of it. Over time, this mindset will gradually take root, and we’ll begin a cycle of reduced consumption. That reduction will come one way or another—either as a deliberate choice we make as humanity, or as a necessity forced upon us by resource scarcity in the face of ever-growing demand.

We are living in an era where consumption is rising exponentially. This isn’t just due to population growth but also because, as individuals, we constantly strive for more—more things, more experiences, more everything.

During this journey, I’m beginning to see things differently. It’s given me the chance to reflect and embrace a new perspective:

More consumption doesn’t equal happiness. And I choose happiness. Let’s explore that path, Diego.

The ending

With these thoughts swirling in my mind, I arrived at Tehachapi Willow Springs Road around 3 p.m. Unknowingly, I had reached mile 560 of the PCT—lands where Cheryl Strayed’s journey began! Her incredible book, Wild, was a key inspiration I read before embarking on this adventure. It felt surreal to stand at the starting point of her story, having walked all the way from the Mexican border to this significant landmark.

A Personal Record

Another remarkable achievement: less than 24 hours earlier, I had been at Hikertown. That meant I had walked 42 miles (70 km) in under a day—my longest mileage yet on the trail. It was a day to remember.

I was happy and fulfilled, living my dream step by step and doing it my way. Reaching Tehachapi felt like a moment of triumph.

As I waited on the highway, hoping for a ride into Tehachapi, I was greeted by a familiar face—Magic Man, the Trail Angel who gave me my very first trail magic back on day four of this wild journey, in Julian. His kindness back then had been a spark of encouragement, and seeing him again felt like a full-circle moment.

While we talked, another car pulled over. The driver kindly offered to take me straight to Tehachapi. Once again, the trail provided exactly what I needed, just when I needed it.

This was real. I was making progress in this beautiful madness, and so are you, sharing it with me. Thank you for being here, walking alongside me through this adventure of a lifetime.

There’s so much more to come, and I can’t wait to share it with you. See you soon—there are bound to be many more surprises ahead! 🌟