The Top Nine Lessons From My PCT Thru-Hike

An aside: Before you read this article, please consider donating to relief for AT trail towns in the wake of Hurricane Helene. Spoiler alert: it’s my conclusion to this article, and is a cause dear to my heart. If you love the trail, consider helping those who helped you along your hike.

Okay, back to it — I finished the pacific crest trail. I thought I would feel sad as I touched the terminus — but I didn’t feel anything.

As I ran the last three miles towards it — I felt elated. I whooped and screamed as all the bushes blurred by in explosions of red and green light. My feet threaded themselves between rocks and streams; I trusted them in a way I could only after over 4,000 miles. I couldn’t fall. I was flying.

The Fulfillment of Independent Perseverance

I had done it. Through all the fires, the heartbreak, the time alone, the thunderstorms, the endless passes — I had done it. All of the high and low moments of trail lead me here, to this strange bittersweet end. Nothing that had happened to me on trail was truly good or bad. The heartbreak had made me realize how strong I was on my own. The friends I made allowed me to realize that I didn’t have to be all the time. The trail had finalized its role in my life as a great source of comfort and growth. Everything that happened made me who I was in that moment — and I was proud to be myself.

I had continued to live despite losing someone I thought I could never live without. And I had carried myself forwards on my own two legs. There had been no one behind me telling me to go forwards. It was an incredible feeling to touch the terminus and know it was myself that brought me here. I knew I could do it, but needed to see myself do it.

Learning to Let Go

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the back of a hitch as I was driven back to Mazama that I realized I was watching the home I had come to know for the past four and a half months fade away. The cold granite and deep trees ripped by my backseat window. The red huckleberry bushes blotted the mountainsides in crimson; they blurred by like clots of blood. I slipped too quickly away under the pine needles that I used to slowly walk below. Now we were driving too fast for me to see any of them.

Everything was just a green blur — except this time I felt as though I was being pulled backwards, down, out of my home. Torn backwards through all the memories of what used to be. In between the thick trunks, my memories flashed. Lovechild and I, curled under shrubs in the desert. Necktie, with his arm around my shoulders as I cried on a curb in Mammoth. Cleopatra, buzzing my head in Northern California. Squirrel and Candice, singing terrifying songs about the smoke with me in Oregon. Screentime, Stardust, Worldwide, Twinkle and Moss all sharing the last few dinners on trail with me.

I sobbed silently as my friends kept the conversation going with the driver. I couldn’t even begin to answer the question, “Where’s home to you?”

I realized I didn’t know where that was anymore. Home had become everywhere around me and nowhere at all. It was in all the flat dirt patches I passed along the sides of trail, but could never be found in any one of them for more than a night. It was in all the friends I’d walked with and grown to love, but it was also in myself. It was in the middle of a dry desert day, but it was also in the cold heart of a quiet Pacific Northwest night. It was nothing. It was everything. It didn’t have to be anything. It just was — like the trail that would remain after I was gone, and the forest that would continue to hold the earth long after I relinquished my grasp on it.

Mary Oliver tells me in the poem, Wild Geese, that even though I despair — “Meanwhile, the world goes on.” Nothing in this life will wait for you to keep moving. Not the fires, not the snow, not the seasons, not the people. The hardest thing and the easiest thing to do is to continue moving forwards. It was hard on this hike because I never wanted to let go of the people I loved. It was easy on this hike because there was nothing else to do.

And now — the trail asks me to let go again. Of it, of the beautiful people that have all walked me home, of the thick sky of pines I’ve come to love more than a roof. It’s almost harder than hiking the trail itself.

It makes me feel like letting go is impossible. I remember thinking that before on trail — when I was standing in front of Lovechild for the last time.

People Love Me For Who I Am

However, when I let go of him, I found myself again. I started feeling more confident in my gender and sexuality. I started feeling more myself again.

On this trail, I started introducing myself to friends with they/them pronouns — something I hadn’t done before. I realized I was surprised when they responded positively. The trail community loved, accepted and supported me for who I am. For some reason, I kept expecting someone to laugh in my face or doubt me. Instead — I was welcomed with open arms. It was immensely reassuring. I didn’t have to be feminine to be loved. I could exist between the gender binaries and my trail friends would walk with me all the same.

Letting go is the last beautiful unbecoming I’ll go through on this thru-hike. I unbecame so many things that weren’t truly me through these mountains. I have fought for 2,300 miles to find a way back to myself again. To be myself again. And I am. Or starting to. Like the trail, it does not matter if it never gets truly finished, if I never walk every mile, if I die before I understand all of myself. What matters is that I try. And as long as I try to listen and live according to my truest core — I’ll know not a second of my life was wasted.

Everything Changes

The end of each thru-hike fills and breaks my heart. I could feel it as I approached the terminus. It was the culmination of all the joy and love I had found in the trail and the community I created. And then I had to leave it.

I had to turn around and walk the 30 miles back from Canada since I didn’t have a passport — and it might’ve been my favorite 30 of the trail. It was the rare occasion on a thru-hike that I got to say bye to friends I hiked with.

So many friends — Squirrel, Cookie, Whatever, Candice, Lorenzo, GiGi, Nora V, Antman and Frog. I started grinning uncontrollably with each friend I saw. It was a lovely experience to be able to say goodbye to a majority of the people I knew. You don’t get that on every long trail.

However — on the walk back, I decided to take a road walk down to Hart’s Pass for the last half mile.

It was a huge mistake. As I headed downwards, my friend, Necktie, headed upwards. He was one of my closest friends from trail — and I’d missed him in the last .5 miles that I walked. Not only that, but Lovechild was on that same stretch of trail, and I wouldn’t see him again either.

When I began my walk back from the terminus, I found that I started crying because Lovechild wasn’t there. It was hard to finish this long trail without him. Although we’d grown distant over the miles, I still considered him a close friend. He was who I finished the AT with. Who I walked over 2,000 miles with. Who joked with me through painful times. Who was the hardest to hike away from.

It was as if the trail was teaching me one final time to let go. That I couldn’t hold everyone in my heart forever. As soon as I learned they were both behind me on trail, I threw my pack down and started sprinting back up the road, trying to catch them.

My legs didn’t want to move. I was starving and had only eaten Clif Bars that day in an effort to make it back quickly for a speedy hitch. It was useless. I couldn’t move quickly if I tried. I collapsed in a heap of sobs on the side of the gravel road. I had to let them go.

They were gone. The trail was gone. Everything was different now. Now saying goodbye didn’t mean that I might just see you in the next town while we resupplied. Now it meant that I don’t know when the next time I’ll see you is — sometimes, if ever again. It wasn’t fair, but goodbyes never are. People fade in and out of your life, often time without warning. All I had was the memories. It would have to be enough.

It’s been a week after I finished, and I think about how the desert became the forest. As I walked through the barren landscape of the desert, it felt impossible that the trail would ever become the deep forests of Washington. And yet — slowly, the trees began to grow thicker. Cacti were replaced with huckleberry bushes. The scorching sun was replaced with fog and snow. The sandy rocks became moss. I became happier.

It took was the persistence and time. The faith that everything will change. It is certain. Someday, I will be surrounded by beautiful trees again. Someday, I will be laughing on a trail, surrounded by friends again. My heart will heal and be broken and heal and be broken. And I will persist through it all. There is nothing else to do but feel it and continue.

How lucky to have I loved so deeply and have broken my heart so terribly. How lucky I am to feel so intensely. How lucky I am to be so human. How lucky I am to wish my feet were back on trail this instant. How lucky I am to have thru-hiked. How lucky I am to have lived. 

My GI Tract is Messed Up

And so I spent the next thirty minutes of the hitch back from the PCT filling up the car with farts. I went from silently sobbing in the back seat of a hitch to insidiously giggling as Stardust, Screentime and Worldwide all looked at me in horror. I had just eaten an XL Hershey’s chocolate bar and was lactose intolerant. I hadn’t been able to stop farting the whole day. This hitch was about to turn into Chernobyl. I wrote threatening notes about the next movements of my bowels and showed them to Stardust covertly. She shook her head desperately. I farted so much the driver rolled the window of the car down. I think he regretted picking up stinky hikers. Or at least one stubbornly lactose-consuming hiker.

The Trail Provides What You Need (Not What You Want)

Everyone piled out of the car in Mazama, quickly escaping the noxious fumes. As we walked to the brewery and everyone poked fun at my gut movements — I realized the trail had given me a trail family right when I needed one.

I had spent the last couple days hiking with Stardust, Screentime, Worldwide, Moss and Twinkle. We played games as we hiked: guessing games and singing games or sometimes both — guessing singing games were my favorite — until we were all launching into loud verses of Country Roads as we hiked down the mountainside.

I had been hiking alone for the week before that. Most nights, I felt extremely lonely — I was coping with a job rejection and general sadness about a breakup. But as I continued on alone, things started to feel more okay. I learned to appreciate the quiet nights and the opportunities for self-reflection. I was happy to not have to compromise on mileage, breaks or tent sites. There were no arguments to be had with anyone. It was just me and the trees. And it felt nice.

And just as I became comfortable alone — I ran into a trail family. It was as though the trail was trying to teach me something: that I was strong enough to make it through on my own — but that I didn’t have to all the time. To have the independent strength to hike alone, regardless of what I’m going through, but also to let friends in when they appear.

It was incredible to feel so loved so quickly. They made the end of my hike a truly treasured memory to me. I remember us all sitting on the side of Harts Pass, eating baguettes and cheese (or the parts of baguette and cheese that Worldwide would give to me) and laughing at me finally converting to using a spoon instead of my trowel. (I had lost my spoon a while ago.) I remember bonding with Stardust over an infinite yearning for Mazzy Star, shouting the first lines of Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” over and over with Screentime, watching Worldwide frolic around the camp like a small hobbit, learning different mushrooms from Moss and guessing never-ending answers to one of Twinkle’s impossible riddles.

It was magical to wake up with friends again. As the days got colder — I stayed warm, mostly because of my zero degree sleeping quilt, but also because of how nice it felt to be known. It was a wonderful way to finish.

Everything Comes Full Circle

As I descended down the final mountain I climbed for the PCT — me and a new friend talked about our time on trail. Birthday Boy explained how he hiked in 2022 and was coming back on trail to finish the PCT since for the past two years, the section leading up to the terminus had been on fire.

I had a friend who hiked in 2022. I asked Birthday Boy about his trail family and who he enjoyed hiking with.

“Well, there was this girl in the desert that was a really fun member of our trail family but then she blasted off and started doing crazy mileage to make it back in time for school.”

“…is her name Boogie?”

“YES!”

We both screamed and ran down the mountainside. I went to college with Boogie — in fact, she was the first person who made me realize thru-hiking was possible. She made it seem approachable, fun and completely achievable for someone our age (in our twenties) — even alone. She broke down the fear mongering around solo backpacking (especially as a female presenting person) and convinced me I could do it.

It was incredible meeting some of her friends from her PCT thru-hike at the end of my own. It felt like a reminder of the beginning of everything, right at the end. An indication that I was on the right path and that everything connects back to itself in the end.

The Importance of Representation

If I had never met Boogie, I might have gone on being too intimidated to thru-hike. Seeing someone who looks like you in the outdoors doing something you thought was too dangerous or too daunting to take on can completely shift your worldview.

There were a few times in this hike when I was reminded of this.

Once when I was passed by a hiker sprinting by me in Oregon.

“Where ya going?” I asked.

“Timberline lodge! My boyfriend will pass you soon — he should be right behind me.”

And he sprinted away, pack bouncing behind him. My heart leapt. Another gay! It thrilled me to see queer people in the woods. Sure enough, his boyfriend sprinted by me just a few seconds later and we exchanged similar words about sprinting towards the buffet and excitement about breakfast.

It was always lovely and affirming to meet other queers on trail. It was a constant reminder that we belong. That nature accepts us all. That it does not care what we identify as, who we love, or even who we are in the first place. It is the same for everyone. It is the same mountains, the same trees, the same thin winding trail. It felt so special to be able to share it with people from my community.

Another time, I hiked past a grandmother and three daughters with small backpacks. She had taken them out on a weekend trip. The girls couldn’t have been older than 8. They were grumbling about feeling tired. I stood aside so they could pass as they walked down to the parking lot.

“And where are you headed?” The grandmother asked.

“Canada.” I said with a smile.

“Solo?”

“Yes.”

“All the way?”

“Yes. With friends sometimes.”

“Wow. Girls, look at this — she’s been walking all the way from Mexico to here. And she’ll keep walking! Let that put our trip into perspective.”

The little girls looked at me with three expressions of amazement. It was one of my favorite parts of my hike. In that moment, they realized another female presenting person could come so far on a backpacking trip — on their own. I smiled and began to make my way up the hill. I could still hear them talking as I hiked away.

“From Mexico? That’s… a really long way away isn’t it?”

“All by herself?”

“How can she even do that?”

My heart felt full as I hiked upwards. I hoped they would get outside on their own more as they grew older. I hoped the world wouldn’t make them doubt their spirits of adventure or independence. Or maybe it would — and they’d find it again. I’ve lost and found it too many times to count. I hoped the natural world would provide them the same feeling of home and fulfillment as it had to me. That it would still be here after all of the damage that we’ve done to it.

Climate Change: Hikers Need to Help the Trail

In this past year, there were record-setting wildfires on the west coast and a record-setting hurricane, Hurricane Helene, that hit the east coast. For the first time in history, the southernmost 800 miles of the Appalachian Trail are closed. This is insane. Closures have become commonplace on the Pacific Crest Trail, which is tragic in and of itself — but a closure this big to happen on the Appalachian Trail is unheard of — and jarring.

I remember how heartbroken my friend Necktie was when he stood watching the smoke unfurl over the first five miles outside of Chester in Northern California. He stood with his hand on his head, blinking at the ash raining down on our shoulders. It was like he was seeing the pine trees that used to stand with their beautiful green arms now reduced to nothing in front of us. We were standing in a burn zone and choking on the smoke from a new fire. We didn’t have to worry too much about this area catching fire — because it had already burned. My eyes filled with tears as I looked through the charred remains of branches at the smoke clotting the sky. This trail was more his home than mine — it had been his first thru-hike and he loved it more than I did at the time. 

Now I understand his pain. My heart breaks as I watch the AT drown. Entire towns are washed away. Towns like Damascus, Virginia: the heart of the AT and trail days, Irwin, Tennessee: where Uncle Johnny’s roared with hiker trash and shenanigans, Asheville, North Carolina: the artsy-mountain-town-brewery-home-rhododendron-loving-hippie-home-sidequest right outside Max’s Patch, or Hot Springs, North Carolina: the quiet wholesome home of Bluff Mountain Outfitters. This, and so many more — gone. Gone, almost overnight. These trail towns that inspired me to keep going on my thru-hike, that showed me friendly mountain-folk that encouraged me on my journey, that I felt truly at home in — have been destroyed in an instant.

This is bigger than our thru-hikes. Both trails are being decimated by global warming. One is drowning and the other is burning alive. 

They need us now, more than ever. If we want the Appalachian Trail to continue to be the wondrous footpath it always was, we need to help it get back on its feet. If there’s one thing our community is good at doing — it’s continuing even when nobody thinks we can, even ourselves. We are the only group of people that when faced with an impossible task — like walking 2,000+ miles — we think, “Yeah, I can do that. Give me a summer.”

The damage done by Hurricane Helene is devastating. It seems impossible to fix. But we’re used to fighting against what other’s might see as impossible. There’s simple ways you can start to take steps to help right now: by donating to one of the trail organizations listed here or to one of the ones I linked to the trail towns above. For the future of the planet, and to prevent disasters like this — it’s imperative we all attempt to reduce our carbon footprint and to boycott companies that contribute the most carbon emissions. These trails have already taught us how to live with less. That we can be happy just with our feet on the earth and our eyes fixed to the sky. If we want our children to experience this same simple joy, we have to take action now.

The trail has always provided for us. It calls us now to provide the same love in return. My heart aches for southern Appalachia. For the mountains older than time itself. For the towns that have stood since before the trail was founded. For the kind strangers I met in all of them. This is a community I am certain will rise again — because of how the rugged mountains have bound us together. So, be a trail angel today. Help these towns take their first steps forward. Help them make the impossible seem possible — just as they always did for us.