Category: Backpacking

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SDTCT – Day 6

Mile 98 to mile 117

Hi, me again. Can we talk about the fundraiser? You know the deal by now, human rights disaster at the US-Mexico border, Border Angels uses the money you give them to help people from dying in the desert and educates folks about immigration and employee rights. That they’re helping people on both sides of the border. I know that not everybody has the means, that’s okay, care for yourself first, but if you can afford to give, I’d really encourage you too. I threw into the fundraiser myself because I really believe this is an organization that deserves our help.


The infamous bushwhack starts at mile 109. One and a half miles and 1,500 feet of gain to the summit of El Cajon Mountain, through chest high Manzanita and chamise bush. I moved slowly this morning and by the time I reach the base of the climb I can’t see anyone from the group, only their voices above me indicate where they are. I rush to stow everything on the inside of my pack and start climbing. I feel a little left behind, and then a little stupid for feeling that. Since all my efforts were towards self preservation I’ve set myself on the outside of the group. I’d been so focused on trying to stay in a place where I didn’t feel like I was going to crawl out of my skin, that I didn’t notice I’d been drifting away. Now I felt like a little life raft tied to the back of the party yacht.

At first the climb is simple enough. I can follow gaps in the brush, making my way diagonally up the mountain bit by bit. Half way up and I’m starting to wonder what the hype is all about. Sure I’m getting scratched but it’s nothing to write home about.

Except, I soon learn, I’m not half way up. I’m not even a third of the way up but rather half way up one of the three false summits. Fantastic. Really great. Once I gain the saddle I can see the rolling ridge extending away from me. Our group of 12, which feels so large when we are all collected, is scattered across the sweep of terrain and I can finally see how very far behind I am.

The peak rises in three hulking mounds below a round summit. Only large granite boulders break the sea of dense, haphazard green brush, like a giant, warty Chia Pet. It will be my special pleasure to work my way through 1.5 miles of it. As I climb higher the easements in the brush fade away until there is nothing but persistence and heaving lunges to move forward. The Manzanita has smooth bark and hard, unforgiving branches covered in small leaves. They whip my legs and leave them stinging. No matter how I try and navigate through the brush I end up scratched. My only reprieve is when I can clamber up on a boulder and attempt to get a better sense of a path. But there is no path there is only brush. Above me I can hear the others, see them standing on the summit a rise above me. I start pushing myself faster and faster, becoming careless and all the more scratched because of it. But I don’t want to be left alone, not up here, not adrift in a sea of green leaves and dark red bark.

I nearly break down in tears I am so frustrated. But this hike isn’t about having fun, it’s not about doing something easy. And somehow this knowledge calms me and allows me to keep moving as uncomfortable as I am. Eventually the skin on my legs becomes a singular, burning sting. The pain is both part of me and beyond me, allowing me passage through the dense vegetation with a supreme lack of concern for any further pain. It can’t hurt any more and so I stop fighting it, I stop fighting anything and simply make my way to the top of the mountain where I find Audrey, Beau, Hadley, Ashley our adopted daughter, Muffy, Liza, and Pilar.

The infamous bushwhack is over and with it the only summit on the entire SDTCT. From the top we can see ridges marching away to the east, each one unique and yet similar in their building blocks: dense brush and round barrel rocks. To the west a thick haze blankets San Diego and it’s surrounding neighborhoods, blocking them from view. We’re pushing up against the edge of civilization and walking our way out of the desert.

The descent is knee-jarring in its steepness but provides one excellent diversion. Less than a mile from the summit rests an old rusted-out jeep from the days when our trail was a road and well dressed city folk came this way in their fancy automobiles for a bit of adventure. We however, put the car to a different use. Beau suggests a thru hiker themed Truck Sluts photo shoot and soon people are stripping off their clothes and climbing onto the truck. As the person with the camera I am both photographer and art director, posing, arranging, and encouraging this collection of half-dressed hiking companions. It is truly amazing how doing difficult things in the outdoors can bond people.

Dressed and back on trail the sun grows long as the miles slip slowly by. The sounds of the racing highway herald our arrival at the bottom. It is here where we see Pea with trail magic. And this truly is remarkable. There is no such thing as trail magic on a route so obscure as the SDTCT. But Pea loves this route and loves supporting the hikers on it. The group sits on a grassy berm and eats Taco Bell bean and cheese burritos in the fading sunlight as cars wiz by below us. Incredible, I think, that people would go so far out of their way just to help those of us who like to hike long ways and sleep in the dirt. I try and tuck this wonderment away in my head for future use when things grow dark and the world feels a hostile place.

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SDTCT – Day 4

Mile 58 to mile 77

The SDTCT runs close to the US-Mexico border. As such, it seemed only right to raise money for an organization doing humane social justice work in this area. Border Angels, a non-profit organization that works to reduce the number of deaths on the US-Mexico border. If you have the means to donate I strongly encourage you to do so. If you appreciate my writing on this blog, consider it a favor to me to donate to this fundraiser.

This morning I feel like I am moving backwards. Every time I pack something away it’s on top of something I need and then I have to reverse course and start over. It’s perhaps unsurprising that I am the last one out of camp, walking up the cool canyon that lays beneath the morning shade. The tendon pain in my left foot has receded to the point where I am no longer worried about it. But in its place the bottoms of my feet throb. Such is part of thru hiking and so I walk on.

Unlike my foot, my mood has not improved much over night and as I make my way up the first gradual climb of the day I find myself thinking of ways I could leave this hike that wouldn’t be my fault. Maybe a rock fall would break my arm. Or maybe just a small bite from a rattle snake. Or maybe a severely rolled ankle in one of the gopher holes that litter the fields we so often walk across on this route. I wish I could say that my brain felt like it was on my side today, that I felt well and truly better, but I can’t. Rather, it feels like one side of my brain is arguing with the other and I can’t stand it anymore. I am growing tired of being awake with this runway brain. I feel like a building that has burned from the inside, leaving nothing but sparking wires and blackened timber.

As the track rolls out of the narrow canyon and onto a broad valley dotted with cholla cactus and manzanita bushes I realize that I have service. I pull out my phone and start to text Starman. I want to tell him how hard this hike is, how my meds aren’t keeping me stable, how my brain feels less and less like a safe place to be. I want to tell him I wish I could come home. But I settle on “this is hard, I miss you,” then put my phone away. However, my phone soon buzzes, the message from Starman reads “I miss you too, I can’t wait for you to come home.” In those three small words, I miss you, something in my chest cracks open and sobs rip from my throat with only the vast silent desert as witness. I am trapped I think, as I cry-hike my way across the valley.

The sun so far above presses me into the valley bottom like I am an ant walking across a giant open palm. The others are ahead of me and I find I don’t care where, I am content to be relieved of the niceties required of socialization. I simply walk and attempt to tune out from my brain. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” I ask myself. “Isn’t this what you’re out here to get?” To be worn down, to grind my body into the earth until it disappears, to be forced to listen to my thoughts without the distraction of music or podcasts or people or work. The pain becomes me and I surrender to it. I wanted this, brought it upon myself and now I will see it through. As much as I want to quit I know I will regret it if I do. So I walk. On tender feet through campgrounds of clean-smelling tourists in their gleaming RVs. I walk. Tear-stained and salty through narrow sandy canyons below the hiss and rumble of cars on the highway overhead. I walk. Across flat fields full of short grass and hard-packed soil.

I walk until I am past the last highway I could hitch a ride from. I walk past my last out and find myself seated in the sand amongst the group in the shade of a large bush. Lunch time. Today we get to town and because my food bag is still somewhat full I treat myself to soup and a sandwich for lunch. This basic meal is a luxury and I savor it as such. I listen to the others with their funny stories, letting their words wash over me and away. I don’t want to be in my brain anymore but instead let the words of these people cover me until I find I am laughing along side them. I could sit here forever, I think. In the good, calm shade. Laughing and sharing. I could stay in this moment forevermore and be happy and held and safe. But that’s not how time works and soon the others are packing up around me.

We string out along the hard-packed jeep road and begin the climb that will take us up and over a ridge to the Sunrise Highway where we will hitch into Julian. We couldn’t have picked a worse time to start an exposed climb as the hottest part of the day is quickly approaching. The heat is relentless. A thousand fevered hands pressing onto every inch of my body. Any breeze, a kindness. This is the kind of heat that feels dangerous, intolerable. The road climbs steeper and steeper, undulating along the side of a mountain and occasionally, but not nearly often enough, proving a small sliver of shade into which we can squeeze ourselves. Squatting in the red dirt we complain about the heat, the climb, the pain in our feet. The saving grace of the day is that it is still early and even at this slow pace we will be able to make it to the road with enough time to hitch before sunset. The group hops from shade patch to shade patch, the only person who doesn’t seem to be suffering is Audrey who matter of factly tells us they were made for the sun.

The good, the bad, and everything in the middle. All things end, and at long last we crest the top of the climb and the world opens up around us. From here, round-topped mountains march away in ridge lines toward the inland sea where this whole thing began only a few days ago.

The last miles to the highway slip by in an easy downhill, the afternoon cooling as the sun arcs to meet the horizon. When I hit the road it is to find the others gathered on the shoulder waiting for a hitch into town. Relief covers me like a soothing blanket allowing me to breathe fully again. I am still less than half way done, still held firm by the talons of this hike. But I made it to Julian, and perhaps with enough food and time I will be strong enough to make it all the way to the ocean.

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SDTCT – Day 3

Mile 38 to mile 58

The SDTCT runs close to the US-Mexico border. As such it seemed only right to raise money for an organization doing humane social justice work in this area. Border Angels, a non-profit organization that works to reduce the number of deaths on the US-Mexico. If you have the means to donate I strongly encourage you to do so. If you appreciate my writing on this blog, consider it a favor to me to donate to this fundraiser.

I start the climb out of Borrego Springs before the sun has cracked the eastern horizon, priding myself on my early start. However, as soon as the sun makes its way over the ridge I know I didn’t start early enough. The temperature rockets skyward even at this early hour. This morning we are climbing on a real bona fide trail as we gain more than 3,600 feet in a little over four miles. The sun paints the rocks a warm, glowing pink and I think, not for the first time, that I do not find the desert beautiful. The trail winds through a Seussian landscape of house-sized boulders and scratching plants with their curled fingers clawing at the sky. Just past the summit of the climb is our second water cache and we press ourselves into the bushes in search of shade. My cohorts gush about the beauty of the desert while all I can see are rolling scrubby mountains shot through with sandy washes and covered in reaching, splayed vegetation. They say there are three types of people, mountain people, desert dwellers, and river rats. In that case I am a mountain person surrounded by 11 desert dwellers. We hike on.

The afternoon is one long descent towards another highway and I allow the group to pull ahead. My brain feels too full, chattering with itself, making up stories and playing out imagined scenarios. There is already too much going on between my ears and I feel panicked at the presence of other people. My mood feels like it is perpetually falling down a flight of stairs and I am struggling to right myself amid the tumbling. Toward the bottom of the climb I find most of the group posted up for a snack and smoke break in the shade of a large bush. I stop long enough to shovel down some snacks before I head off alone.

I imagine they think I’m weird. Or that I don’t like them. That I’m a loner, antisocial, a freak. My brain is too full and today none of the voices are on my side. I can’t manage the niceties of being social and yet not doing so makes me feel like I am somehow failing at this hike. Why would I come all this way to hike through terrain I don’t even like if I’m not even going to hang out with the people I came to see? It makes me want to cry, just as so much does these days. But I don’t, I can’t. I’ve never been much of a crier, something which at this moment I’m frustrated by and grateful for. After all, it’s not easy to hike when you’re crying.

A few miles after I pass my group I see Ashley, a woman who started this hike on the same day as us and who has been flitting around us like a serene humming bird. She is sitting on the side of the trail in some deep shade all by herself. I am so envious that my knees almost buckle from the wanting. To be alone, I think, I would give anything to be that alone. But I know the group is just behind me and so after a quick chat with Ashley I press on, pushing myself harder and harder down the shallow descent.

My legs churn and my feet ache and my brain starts looking for a way out. When I get home, I tell myself, I’ll have one single afternoon before Starman gets home from work where I can be totally alone. Somehow, I’ve reasoned, being alone will stop the roiling current in my head. Somehow if I can just be alone, if I can just make everything stop then maybe I won’t be so very tired and so very wound up at the same time. And then, I do something I have never done before on a thru hike, I pull out my phone and look for flights back to Seattle. Or, I would have, but there is no service out here. And so I hike on with my head too full of thoughts and my body weighed down from the inside with this exhaustion that has followed me for the better part of a year. On throbbing feet that ache with every step I march into camp and set up my tarp with the others.

Over dinner that night I laugh and joke and listen to the others tell hiking stories as we eat our dinners out of our tiny pots. In the darkness it is easier to be social, almost effortless. Like it used to be. It only occurs to me now, after a day of being disappointed in myself, that my meds still aren’t right and that my brain is still running away with me. But there is less than nothing I can do about it now and so I return to my little home under my tarp and prepare for bed.

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Sissy

A thick mist presses tight against the tent walls and I am cocooned from the world by white and nylon and down. It’s too early to hike so I’m reading, my phone screen glowing cheery and bright as I scroll through page after page of Jacob Tobia’s Sissy. The book, which details Tobia’s gender-bending childhood and discovery of their trans and non-binary identity strikes so close to home it feels like someone is jamming their finger through my heart.

As I read, big, sloppy alligator tears roll from my eyes and puddle against my ultralight backpacking pillow. Tobia’s coming of gender story elicits the particular kind of pain that comes from struggling to find one’s self. I can do nothing but cry. Cry and wish I was born just a few years later when more people knew the word non-binary. Cry and wish I was a little more knowledgeable about the queer world. Cry and wish that anyone in my sphere knew what being trans and non-binary was when I was a child so I wouldn’t be stuck working this all out in my 30’s. 

But you can’t rework your past to better suit your present.

I grew up a child of the largely homophobic early 90’s where gay culture was just beginning to crack into the mainstream discussion and trans was still a foreign concept to most Americans. Genderqueer was even further afield and non-binary was a word that didn’t even exist yet. And I was a child who liked to dress in boys clothes.

As a child I was a hyperactive, sprinting, adventurous mess who was largely allowed to ditch the femininity ascribed to those of my sex. I credit my parents for introducing me to the idea that gender norms are bullshit. My mother never wore makeup and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt to her job as an engineer. My father worked from home, taught me to cook, encouraged his my sister and I to play sports and that it was okay for girls to want to win. I continue to reap the benefits of having parents who focused on ability over appearance. Brains over beauty.

Still, life is change and childhood is temporary. To me, puberty was a betrayal. Seemingly overnight my genderless adolescent body with it’s straight lines became a mockery of itself. I was repulsed by my widening hips, growing breasts. Suddenly I needed to shop in the girls section. Clothes that were cut to accommodate this new body seemed clownish and bizarre; worse was that my female friends seemed to want to wear these clothes. Short , capped sleeves, tight pants, pink and purple glitter scrawling out sassy phrases across their chests or worse, asses. They sailed off to the land of femininity while I remained trapped on the gender confused island of misfit toys. Clever as I had been raised to be, I could understand how one would assemble the pieces of an appropriately girly wardrobe. What was lost on me was why; why did they want to dress like that? Why did I not?

The years between high school and my first foray into the professional, office-bound world hammered home the idea of why. Because there is social capital, security, and affluence in dressing like the gender everyone assumes you are. And though I was still uncomfortable, still took every opportunity I could to conceal my chest with scarves, I began to develop a look that was feminine enough. Though I hated shopping for clothes I didn’t like. Though getting dressed every single day was a frustrating ordeal. Though I still didn’t understand the rules of this game I was playing, I tried my best to figure it out. To use my brain if not my desire to play the part of woman. And in doing so I even began to believe the specific kind of bodily oppression that women are held to. I dieted: carb counting, paleo, vegan, vegetarian, intermittent fasting, and good ol’ calorie counting. Maybe if I was thin enough I would feel at home in this obviously feminine body. When that failed I tried makeup, styling my hair, plucking my eyebrows, artificially contouring my face. But these efforts were nothing more than secondary acts in the farce that was my life. And all the while I never thought there was another option.

As I progressed through my 20’s I held on to my masculinity through sports and, most importantly, the outdoors. I would rarely think about my chest while bombing down a ski run. Rock climbing, with it’s intense focus and unforgiving standard of safety, meant my gender was shoved to the deepest recesses of my mind. But my true love became solo backpacking; the more remote the better. Away, truly away from other people I was free of expectation, gaze, performance.

Being in the backcountry felt like a return to childhood. In the sort of travel turned adventure, yes. But far more importantly in the way that I could simply be. In Tobia’s book they talk about feigning late-night study sessions so that they could choreograph secret dance routines in their high heels—hiding their feminity away from the world, knowing it wouldn’t be accepted. The outdoors became my midnight dance party, I craved the moments when no one was looking at me. I still do. In a body that has never quite felt like mine, backpacking afforded me the means to move at my own pace, go where I wanted to go. I could simply exist.

Until recently I never thought to tie those feelings of bodily and gender discomfort to anything larger. Certainly not things as substantial as being non-binary or transgender. Plus, I rationed, if I were non-binary, or trans, I would know. Right? Certainly by this age. Right?

And here we come to the lie that cisgender people tell themselves about the transgender experience: that it looks one way. That being trans means you know at a young age that you were born in the wrong body, that you’re meant to be a different gender, and that you’ll go through specific physical transitions to achieve your desired body. 

Bullshit. 

Bullshit bullshit bullshit. 

That narrative, while valid and real, it is also held up as the one and only trans coming out narrative. Because if that’s the only way to be trans then all cis people are safe from questioning their gender. If that is the only way to be trans, then people who fall in the middle, people like me, aren’t real. It’s a narrative that ties physical transition to being trans. It’s a narrative that fails to recognize that being trans is at its very core a simple criteria: being trans means you don’t identify with the gender assigned to you at birth. Non-binary is no more complex than not being a man or a woman.

I hope that paragraph helped someone realize they’re trans. Just as the incredible work of Molly Woodstock did for me. Because sometimes it takes someone holding up a mirror to themselves or their community to help you see yourself. And when you do, it can change everything and nothing. But at least for me the realization that I’m non-binary shook my understanding of myself while simultaneously putting a lifetime of experience into clarity. Everything changed and nothing changed.

Which brings us back to the mountains. To the places where I can bound along like a cut marionette, beholden to no strings but my own. Invisible and protected because of it. Free from constant misgendering, the curious looks or blank stares that are commonplace when you inhabit the hinterland between man and woman, free from the forced self-advocacy that is required by every trans and non-binary person. The mountains don’t ask that from me. Out here I can still be invisible. From others, yes. But also from myself, from mirrors. From that now familiar twinge of disappointment when an unfamiliar face and body look back at me from the mirror. Something that happens less these days but in the mountains it never happens at all.

Out in the wild I never have to explain or ask or justify. I don’t have to listen to people get my pronouns wrong. In the way that these wild spaces belong to all of us and none of us I can be both all of me and none of me.

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Something Has to Change

In 2014, the Elwah River in Olympic National Park was finally freed of it’s two damns. Allowing the river to return to it’s natural state. In the following years the Elwah began reestablishing it’s flood planes. And as a result destroyed a section of the road that visitors used to access the trail to the Olympic Hot Springs. With swift force the Elwah sliced through the road, destroying it. Suddenly, a 2.4 mile approach to the springs became an 11 mile approach.

Lacking any better sense Starman and I decided to snowshoe into the springs and have a relaxing weekend sitting in the murky, sulphur-smelling water. Actually, we tried to ski into these same springs last weekend and I was too tired, and we’re moving too slow to make it so we bailed four miles in. Then we spent the rest of the weekend in the sound-side town of Port Angeles sitting in a hotel hot tub, eating pizza, and watching garbage television. It was incredible. And I am so glad we took a weekend to mellow out. That being said, we both still wanted to check out the Olympic Hot Springs.

The approach to the springs is long and low. When gaining 3,200 feet over 11 miles you’re always sort of climbing, but it’s never steep aside from the one very short scramble that is the reroute trail directing hikers above the washout. Additionally, the views are nearly non-existent, you’re basically following a road through the woods for all but the original, last 2.4 miles of the hike.

These are the perfect hikes to spend zonked out in thought, watching the sun trickle through the trees all day. I’m working hard enough hiking in the snow to draw some of my attention on the monotonous task of not falling on my ass. But this means the rest of my mind can just wander off, following odd doors and strange left turns through the Escher painting of my brain. You should try it some time.

This hike kicked off our spring training as we work our way back from a fall and winter spent healing from thru hiking, relocating, finding work, and not moving very much. Big trips are not simply built out of grit. They are cultivated through training hikes and weekly gym sessions, as much as passion for the outdoors. Starman and I are absolutely head over heels in love with living in the Northwest, and with each other, too (Hi mom, Hi Carol, I know you’re reading this). And part of this adoration of our new home comes in the form of a galloping desire to explore this land. We have some big objectives this year both near home, and abroad that I’m really stoked on.

Right now Starman and I have trips to the Virgin Island and Puerto Rico, ski touring in the northern Sierras, and a hike around Mont Blanc in the works. In addition I have a week planned off-trail scrambling in British Columbia with a hiker I met on the PCT last summer. Plus we’re looking to climb a couple volcanoes, backpack a ton, and explore this great glorious gorgeous gem of a place.

In addition to hitting the gym, the plan is to go on progressively longer backpacking trips over the weekends. These weekends away are something that I love as well as something that takes a huge amount of time and planning. I know that going out every weekend is far from how the average American spends their 48 weekly leisure hours. But these trips help define the weeks of my life, they remind me that time is passing and to see the planet while I have the chance. To revel my self against her multitudinous skin. Which brings us back to this weekend.

Between the forest walk and the time spent sitting in the algae filled hot egg-fart water like the preposterous great ape that I am, I had a nice opportunity to think about some intentions for how I spend my time. I have recently started a new job as a Copywriter and Video Director at TomboyX (though my actual title is the somewhat meaningless Content Manager). Additionally I’m going to be making an exciting announcement over on my Instagram this evening about an upcoming photography project that I’m excited about, but can’t say more about right now. Which means that the blog is going to be changing, again. Ten points to Ravenclaw if you saw that coming. I know I just said this. But first let me explain why and then I’ll tell you how as well as what you can expect to see here in the future. Because Wild Country Found isn’t going away completely.

I have fallen into the busyness trap. I have a full time job, plus freelance writing, volunteering, working out, planning and going on training trips, creating content for this blog and Instagram, in addition to doing all the other shit like changing my car’s oil and feeding myself! I have bought the line told to us by capitalism which is that we are only as valuable as we are productive. And in doing so, created more work for myself than I can handle. And it’s stressing me out. I want to read books again. I want to have down time to go for a walk or make a cup of tea and look at the spring sunshine. I am no longer interested in trading hours of my life for internet popularity. I will write when and what I want. Boundaries. I’m learning to set boundaries.

So many of you have been kind and supportive over the life of this blog. And for that I am so, so grateful. Your comments have made me smile with pride while others have been beautifully candid about your experiences. Thank you for that. Truthfully, I have agonized over this choice simply because of the kind comments I have gotten here, I read and appreciated them all. But I need time for me. Time to reform my life into an experience instead of a to-do list. So here’s what you can expect.

I repeat: Wild Country Found is not going away. On all my longer hikes I will be writing daily blog posts for each day of the trip. These will publish shortly after I get back from the hike since all my trips this year are shorter than two weeks. In addition to that I’m working on a new photo series profiling women, trans and nonbinary, POC, and disabled folks who get outside and what draws them there. You can expect these to be released like seasons, each with six profiles and portraits, probably only a couple a year. I’m creating the first series now so if you or someone you know (who lives within four hours of Seattle) want to be a part of this series, or future series, please let me know.

What will be going away are the semi-weekly posts. So if you want to follow along I encourage you to subscribe. That way you’ll know when I post. Plus, I never give your information out to advertisers and I’ll never spam you. If you want more regular access to my writing I can be found on a few websites around town. Or you can pop over to my Instagram which I post to more often.

Again, thank you for being here. Look for some more trail writing and cool profiles in the future. Sport Bastard out!

Give em the ol’ razzle dazzle.
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Unbalancing Act: Reflections on PCT Thru Hiking

“…this, dear reader, is what I want to tell you about the Pacific Crest Trail. That it is not the romance you expect it to be. Nor is it the suffering which one can imagine it to be, nor the constant elation that many wish it to be. But as with every dream turned accomplishment it lies somewhere in the middle.”

A hiker stands with their arms wide looking at an impressive peak in the distance.

Outside the window the North Cascades roll past as the bus travels south towards Seattle. A verdant green valley stretches away towards craggy cliffs which jut skyward to be capped with low grey clouds. As viewed from the enclosed glass bubble of a Greyhound bus this otherwise expansive view feels distinctly minimized, small, removed—as though I am being sealed off from the natural world. With every traffic-laden mile I roll back hours of walking and this, more than anything, makes me realize that my PCT thru hike is well and truly over.  

A group of hikers gather next to the Mexican border wall.

On March 27, 2018 I stood at the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail outside the minuscule town of Campo, California. Hemmed in on all sides by rolling desert hills and nervously laughing strangers I took my start day pictures. I remember thinking that if it were not for the PCT no one would visit this particular stretch of border wall, this particular stretch of chaparral and sand and sky. But there we stood, 35 pale, squinting strangers assembled under a flat blue sky looking north and pretending we could see all the way to Canada. All the way along this wild stretching journey laid out in front of us. The plan: to walk the land between Mexico and Canada, the height of a country. An act which on that day in late March felt more feasible than it does now, some 168 days later. Bizarrely it is only upon completion of the PCT that I have come to realize how absurdly improbable the task of thru hiking is.

At its most basic level a Pacific Crest Trail thru hike is an exceedingly long logistical and physical challenge set against the backdrop of some of America’s greatest natural spaces. Which, when compared to the romantic notion of what people believe a thru hike to be, may sound overly reductive. But the most basic elements of thru hiking are precisely what drew me towards it. Like a thread tied deep within my chest tugging me forward through the months of preparation, it was the thrill of the challenge that sustained me. I have long been drawn to being physically challenged beyond what is expected, or assumed that I am capable of. Furthermore, this hike was an opportunity to spend an extended period of time backpacking in remote places—something which is central to who I am as a person and seek to do as often as possible. I didn’t want to hike the PCT as a means of suffering my way towards a life realization, but because I believed I would genuinely enjoy it—the sleeping in the dirt, the hours spent walking through wild places far away from the next human animal, the self reliance and accompanying logistical planning.


“I remember thinking I wasn’t sure if the PCT would be a life altering experience, or simply another experience in a life.”

And this, dear reader, is what I want to tell you about the Pacific Crest Trail. That it is not the romance you expect it to be. Nor is it the suffering which one can imagine it to be, nor the constant elation that many wish it to be. But as with every dream turned accomplishment it lies somewhere in the middle. More indescribable, more nuanced in the ways it will affect you. More prone to leaving you staring at your keyboard in frustration as you attempt to express an entire world of roiling emotions into the cumbersome, imperfect things we call words. Early on in my hike, as I stood panting atop Mount Laguna and looking down onto the vast beige desert below me, I remember thinking I wasn’t sure if the PCT would be a life altering experience, or simply another experience in a life. Now that it has come and gone and I am left standing along the shores of the aftermath I can say it feels more like the later.

Kara standing on the PCT in Washington, she is smiling at the camera and there are mountains in the background

Looking out at the great forward expanse that will be the rest of my life, the PCT stands behind me as part of who I am, not the entirety of who I am. An experience that has left me changed, but was not life changing—a sentiment that I tend to feel a little guilty about. As though I should have produced a deeper moral to this story. That I should want to leave my life in the city, throw everything in my backpack, and wander into the wilderness where I would be my deepest and truest self. I know this is the story that many people want to read. But for me it is simply not true, and I have never been a person capable of dishonesty simply to placate others.

You see, there is a prescribed narrative splashed across the pages of books and the screens of social media, a story that says thru hiking will radically change your life or else thru hiking will become your life. For there are a small but highly vocal minority of hikers for whom long distance thru hiking has become the central pillar of their lives. They post YouTube videos about gear and food in the winter. While during hiking season they fill our Instagram feeds with stunning images of wild places and wax rhapsodical about the purity of life on the trail, how the simplicity of living from a backpack and wandering through the woods will lead you onto a higher plane of being. This narrative is so pervasive, that to the uninitiated it feels preordained. In the days after I finished the PCT I was subjected to the constant refrain: what’s next? Strangers who had followed my hike inquired about my next big hike. Would it be the AT? CDT? Something abroad? The online peanut gallery has read the script and in witnessing my success looks to cast me in the roll of thru hiker for life.

Three hikers and their gear sit in the bed of a pickup truck, they are all smiling.

Yet, thru hiking is not something I wish to build my life around. I believe the act is simply too unsustainable for that—you can’t thru hike forever, no matter what social media portrays. And beyond that, neither my body nor mind have the desire to do so. To thru hike repeatedly at the exclusion of all other activities would be to trim oneself into a mere shadow of the multitudes we contain. I am a thru hiker as much as I am a writer, a skier, an adventurer, a traveler. And substantially less than I am a daughter, a sister, a partner, and a individual with myriad desires and flaws.

Kara and Keith smile at the camera next to their tent in Northern California on the PCT.

Please don’t be disappointed dear reader. For while my months long walking vacation has not rent me into a new person for which unabated hiking is the only path to happiness, it has gifted me a great deal.

Thru hiking taught me that there is a great joy in unbalanced, unrelenting forward progress towards a singular goal. The very nature of thru hiking gives us that. Something with which we can focus all our energy towards, an unambiguous pursuit to which we can commit fully and in doing so strip away the banalities and distractions of a more complex life. To realize that balance is rarely at the center of great achievements, but conversely is required for us to be full and complete humans. That balance should be sought in the long game, not the cause for strife in the minute workings of a day.

A hiker with their arms spread wide silhouetted in tunnel while hiking the desert section of the PCT

In the unbalanced volume of time spent walking I was afforded a chance to think, to wander and wonder about my life, to leave space for realizations about what is important. In the broadest sense I came to realize that I do not want to spend my life working towards things to which I only feel the most obligatory passions. Namely, dedicating my life to a career. I have struggled most of my life against the highly American notion that our work lives should be placed at the center of our whole lives. I believe this is most obviously seen in the question we all deem most important to ask new acquaintances–“what do you do.”  To which it is implied “for work.” Not what do you do for joy, or to relax, or to challenge yourself. But what do you do to earn money, who are you in relation to the way you feed your ever hungry bank account. And in the drive for transparency I must admit that it scares me to write this.

You see, upon leaving the trail I am also unemployed and will need to seek work, and what if some future employer reads this and in doing so discovers that a my career has never found a home in my heart? It is subversive in the most basic way to not want to work. America believes itself a country of hard workers and capitalists. But thru hiking gave me the time to fully step outside that narrative and see how artificial that idea is. To re-frame my life’s long struggle to figure out what I want to do with my one wild and precious life, and begin to frame that question outside of a career. What do I want to do with the rest of my life if my job is not the most central part of it, but instead a facet of who I am?

Maybe in some ways thru hiking the PCT simply gave me the space to recognize the full measure of myself. It gave me time to see what I thought was important, and most invaluably, why those things were important to me. To have the time and space to fully observe why I choose to do things, even the somewhat silly things like thru hiking was a tremendous privilege.

In truth my beautiful reader, I didn’t hike the PCT for any real reason other than I wanted to. There was no burning desire to memorialize a loved one, nor did I expect the trail to somehow solve all of my life’s problems. In the most literal sense there was no point to it, no purpose other than that I thought I would like it. In so many ways the whole PCT is a pointless, deeply absurd endeavor. To walk the land between Mexico and Canada along a set line between two arbitrarily decided borders–and to what end? To live a life of social conformity–and to what end? If I don’t have my own own reasons for doing something, then why am I doing it? If I am not finding joy in the process or working towards a goal, then what am I doing and why? Why, I was given the time to ask, does one choose to anything in life?

A hiker stands on a the PCT overlooking a valley, there is a rainbow in the distance.

Ultimately, I chose to thru hike the PCT because the challenge appealed to me and gave me the time to shed the gaze of the world and play freely in the outdoors. And that, maybe more than anything, is what the PCT was to me. A chance to honor myself by doing something that was so purely selfish and joyful. Yes, maybe that is the real truth of it—to me, the PCT was an act of joy.

For joy is not something that is without pain, or suffering, or strife. Joy is electing to go through that pain because what is waiting on the other side is so much grander and more beautiful than comfort and conformity could ever be. To bleed, to ache, to hurt in pursuit of something that you want–that is joy. To peel back the layers of your skin like a wild, feral, inhuman beast, to dig deep within yourself for no other reason than the thrill of adventure–that is joy. To choose how you suffer, to look far into the distance and recognize that this ridiculous idea of walking to Canada is nothing but an expression of want–that is joy. It is a privilege to be given the body, time, and world in which that is a possibility.

So no, the PCT did not change my life so much as it was an opportunity to step away from how we are told to live and open up to the ways in which I would prefer to live.

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Anticipation

In April of 2016 I decided I was going to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico. The first person I told about this plan was my boyfriend, Keith. We were in our apartment, the two rooms with the yellow walls and the apple tree in the lawn. I let him know that in 2018 I’d be leaving Los Angeles, my job, and our home together. That I’d be chasing this dream that had reached up and grabbed me; a dream I couldn’t shake loose. I didn’t ask him for permission, nor did I exactly invite him to come along with me, I simply stated my intentions and hoped for the best. It was a risk. It continues to be a risk. And I was comfortable in the idea that I could very likely be tackling this adventure alone. Later, to my surprise and delight, Keith told me he wanted to come along on my wild dream, that this was something he wanted us to do together. From that moment on it was our dream.  We had an audacious goal that felt deeply special, like the whole PCT was just for us. Our lives in Los Angeles now operated against a ticking clock – one that would take nearly two years to wind down.

Humans, it would seem, are obsessed with big improbable dreams, the Olympics are certainly proof of that. But what I never reconciled about big dreams, is that they operate on long timelines, years where things could go wrong, months and days where plans can change and fantasies can fall apart. These long timelines are ripe with potential pitfalls, but also quiet moments where one’s mind drifts off to what could be. What it would feel like to stand at the start of an epic adventure, what the daily miscellanea will feel like, and the imagined euphoria of completion. It’s like being a kid before Christmas. Yet, with the perspective of age I’ve come to realize that the anticipation might just be the best part, and it also might be the most damaging part too. Because life attempts to teach us that what we want and what we get are often different, what we hope will be true can mar the experience of what is. Anticipation can loom so large and magnificent that the real experience could never live up to the effortlessly beautiful film reel that plays in our minds. Even the knowledge of inevitable pain and challenge is muted until it is nothing more than a dull ache echoing from a far away place.

The time for us to depart on our hike is rapidly approaching. The little apartment with the yellow walls has been stripped of everything that once made it ours and the anticipation of what is to come fills my waking mind. I’ve stopped living in the present and started living in a distant fictional reality where the world is at once more wonderful and extreme and dangerous. A world, where unbidden to reality, my rapidly spiraling imagination can picture a thousand outcomes replete with detailed fictional characters. Day dreams where I can swap out details and scenarios, replay them until they’re right or wrong or poignant enough to feel almost real. In some, I’m witty and kind, the best version of myself, and thru hiking is an effortless dream scape. In some I’m argumentative and petty or worse, I balk and retreat where I would rather I stand up for what I believe, and I’m ashamed and mad at this future fictional self. In the present however, I know that I am all of these things, which is what makes these anticipatory day dreams so captivating, they’re all based on some granule of truth. Just because something feels real, doesn’t make it real, or even possible, and I fear that my daydreams will cloud my reality to the point where the only outcome is disappointment.

The PCT is one thing – a finite trail,  defined by milage and markers, but it is also a million things – daily struggles and pain and joy and apathy and who knows what else. I’m worried that I’ll meet people on the trail who are as toxic and problematic as they appear on the PCT Facebook page, where casual derision and sexism are par for the course. I’m afraid that when I meet these people I’ll let their behavior wash past me, and I will disengage, using my privilege to retreat to a safe space. At the same time I’m worried that I will stand by my convictions and as a result I will be friendless all the way to Canada, ostracized and mocked and threatened.

I’m also afraid, so afraid, that some unforeseen accident will keep me from finishing the trail. That two years of planning and dreaming and hoping will all be for nothing. I’m afraid that my very body which has carried me through 29 years of not terribly kind treatment will simply fail to tote my brain all the way to Canada. Or perhaps that my tendons will all swell and freeze into place and I will have to admit that hiking, this thing that feels like part of me, is not meant for me. That I won’t be strong or adaptable enough to persevere and that I’ll have to live with the knowledge of that. I’m worried that Keith will hate the trail and I’ll have to carry on alone, or worse, that we’ll fall away from each other and the four years we’ve spent building a life together will cease to matter. That I’ll finish the trail alone, in a new city without a job or an apartment or friends.  

In writing this, I’m attempting to concur another fear – around the very real possibility of public failure. Of stating my plans for this grand adventure, writing about my hike on this blog and then falling short, the embarrassment of having to explain that I failed. There are perfectionist tendencies which roil inside me, and the few things in my life that I’m very proud of are those which were nearly impossible upon the outset. With a finishing rate of around 30%, the PCT certainly falls into the category of things I’m statistically likely to fail at, and while that is scary, it is also what draws me to this challenge.

Fear, however, is not my only companion on my approach to the PCT, though at times it is certainly the loudest. There is an ache that resonates inside me, that calls me towards the mountains, and I yearn for the opportunity to explore that, to deepen my connection to old places I love and new places I’ve yet to be acquainted with. I’m looking forward to the muscle pain of effort, the euphoria of endorphins rushing between my ears. I want to meet wonderful people and share this experience with them. I want to take on the world with this man who feels like home, and I want us to grow together and become better both individually and apart. The anticipation of cold mornings, boring snacks, suffocating laughter, and  tear inducing frustration, I’ve anticipated it all, I want it all. But I also know, that what I can imagine is not all there is.

How can you possibly anticipate a future about which you know almost nothing? So much of the map, both literal and emotional, is blank. There are vast stretches of this trail which are totally foreign to me, there are people I have never imagined meeting, and yet I will. Experiences I won’t expect to have, and yet I will. There is fear in the unknown, but also the opportunity for discovery, and when I try and think of all the eventualities that lay beyond the horizon I’m awed at the immensity of it. I cannot help but laugh at my audacity, for thinking I could plan out this trip, anticipate everything that could be. The honest truth is that I have about as much knowledge of the next nine months of my life as I do of 1920’s refrigerator maintenance.

Amongst all the things I have tried to anticipate, there is the one thing I’ve tried to push completely from my mind: what would my future look like if everything stayed the same. There is fear in the unknown, yes, but for me there is a much greater fear of stagnation and dull uniformity. What if in my quest for challenge and newness I find nothing so much as the same person I am now? What if nothing changes and I’m spat out on the far side of the Canadian border as lost and wondering and confused as I am now? What if the PCT isn’t a life changing experience, but just another experience in a life? Is it possible to step off the map, only to find yourself on another map, walking down another road and wondering how you got there?

In planning to depart for the PCT I’ve tried, almost certainly in vain, to anticipate what is to come. As though by sheer volume of thought I could safeguard myself against future pain and disappointment. But the time has come to let go of all those thoughts and accept that I cannot know what is coming, and that I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be scared of change, and newness, and doing hard things, but I’m not allowed to not try. In electing to leave behind comfort and stability for something grand and unknowable, I’m accepting that fear is part of the process. But I want to believe that I’m the type of person who can do hard things, and the only way to prove that to myself is to do the hard things, and hopefully, to grow.

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The Whitest Thing I’ve Ever Done: Privilege and PCT Prep

For the last three months my life has been consumed with getting myself ready to hike the PCT. When I think about this adventure this constant nagging exhilaration floods the back of my brain. Lately that nag has crescendoed into a crashing wave that breaks throughout the day sending me reeling into daydreams of mountain trails and aching muscles. This hike combined with our intended move comport the majority of the conversations between Keith and myself. It’s ridiculous, it’s unflattering, it’s the exact kind of obsession that affluent white people get when they become bored and disenfranchised with their urban lives. I know it’s true. And I know it’s true for more than just us.

Expensive gear is expensive.

Scroll through the PCT Class of 2018 Facebook page and you’ll see 4,500 predominantly white, male, middle class folks talking about their increasing anxieties around this very privileged thing we’re all about to do. People buying and rebuying gear in an effort to shave pack weight – which is the thread that binds all talk about gear. Folks asking complete strangers with no credentials about highly personal decisions. There is aggressive fear mongering about everything from bears to snow to snakes to bug spray, it is endless and overwhelmingly uninformed. All of this is doused in the highly competitive culture of thru hiking. The problem that arises when you surround yourself in this very small bubble of outdoors culture, is that this bizarre behavior and subject matter takes on a patina of normalcy.

What is missing from these conversations is the recognition that hiking the PCT requires substantial financial, social, and lifestyle privileges that not everyone in our culture is afforded. More worryingly, is the thru hiking community’s rabid denial that privilege or access to resources has anything to do with attempting a successful thru hike.

An example.

A few weeks ago Keith and I had an argument, the kind which stems from attempting to plan a months long adventure. It was nearing 9pm and I had just finished sorting 60 days worth of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners into our 11 resupply boxes. The boxes were labeled, neatly organized, and waiting by the door to be shipped out. Just as I finished the last box Keith came home, noticed the boxes, and then we had an argument about how the boxes themselves were too big. He felt that I’d bought the wrong boxes. I told him they were the exact size he told me to buy, and would the phrase “thank you for working on this for four hours” possibly come out of his mouth? Of course, the obvious solution was to simply buy smaller boxes for our food and use the big boxes for moving. We ultimately came to this solution, but not before a good 20 minutes of huffy silence and apologies – it would seem that while thru hike planning is exciting, it can also turn both you and your partner into jerks.

Because PCT prep has become our normal, it took me some time to realize how much privilege this little spat reveals. This is exemplified by the fact that I have access to money to not only buy months worth of food ahead of time, but also to mail it to myself. Something I could never have done if I was living paycheck to paycheck. I have a family and friends who are willing, even eager, to spend their time to mail these boxes to me, because they have access to things like flex hours, PTO, and cars to tote boxes around in.

This brings us to the question: why do I need resupply boxes anyway? Because I was raised, and have always lived in suburban areas with easy access to nice grocery stores filled with fruits and veggies. Because I don’t even consider it an option to shop for my food the way that so many people in this country shop – out of mini marts and gas stations. Because even while backpacking I’m accustomed to a certain level of comfort, of privilege.

Of course, food is not the only cost associated with undertaking a thru hike. Drop into any backpacking forum, and the most prevalent discussion will be gear. Not cheap gear, mind you. No, to be a thru hiker you need the lightest, often most expensive gear. Because if you don’t have the lightest gear, then you won’t have a low enough base weight, and that of course means you’ll fail at your hike. As though there is some uniform for thru hiking that will ensure success.

And while there may not be a literal uniform you need to buy before you can hike the PCT, there is a shocking uniformity among those who undertake it.

Do me a favor and picture an outdoorsy person in your minds eye. Is that person a white able bodied man with a beard and a thin body? Does that person look a little or a lot like the Brawny paper towel cartoon with a backpack? There is a reason for this, and it’s directly related to who has been held up as the standard of the outdoors adventurer.

The history of white men exploring  the world exploded in popularity around the turn of the 20th century when men like Ernest Shackleton and Roald Amundsen captured the world’s imagination by plundering into the furthest reaches of the globe. That standard dates back even further to when white Europeans claimed discovery of the Americas, as though there weren’t already people living here. We have told this story so many times that even in our minds the stereotype persists. Men are told that they are the purveyors of adventure, the owners of wild spaces. That is their privilege. The privilege to not only go where you want, and do what you want, but to be told by society at large that you are welcome and wanted there.

That is what privilege is: it is the inadvertent things in your life, things you did nothing to gain, that benefit you in a way that others are not benefited.

Privilege directly impacts not only the experience one will have when attempting a thru hike, but also the likelihood that you will even consider thru hiking as something that you can participate in.

Perhaps, another example. And because I know several of the men folk in my life will be reading this article with their defensive hackles raised, I want to address the privileges that are helping me get to the start of the PCT.

First, I was born to a middle class family living near abundant open spaces, as a result, my parents had the resources and free time to introduce me to the outdoors at a young age. Proximity to open spaces meant I had easy access all my life, and being outdoors was something that was normalized in the culture I grew up in. Because I come from a middle class family, I attended good schools all my life, I went to college, and ultimately I landed in a well paying job that affords me the ability to save enough money for a trip like this. As a white middle class woman, it is socially acceptable for me to up and quit my job for an extended walking vacation – nobody is going to think I’m a homeless vagrant. Additionally, falling within the parameters of conventional attractiveness means that people are kind to me while hitchhiking, I am not perceived as a threat, and they let my dirtiness and smelliness slide in a way that we do not offer other folks. I could go on, but I’ll hope that this abbreviated list serves to prove my point.

Planning to hike the PCT requires substantial capital in the forms of gear purchases, food, and free time. It requires access to nature and trails for training. It requires the social status to leave the working world behind for a time and literally escape social norms by fleeing into the woods. While I believe nature is for everyone, we currently do not live in a society that truly operates that way. Sadly, this is going to be one of those frustrating articles that ends in a gaping question mark, not a neatly concluded list of actionable steps. Tackling the issues of inclusivity and diversity in the outdoors is one of those wicked problems that will take time to solve, and will require those of us with access and privilege to change our behavior in a way that affords those same privileges to everyone.

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When Your Career is on Life Support, Sometimes it’s Best to Pull the Plug

“What about your career?” They said.

They have been my bosses, my friends, my relatives, and some complete strangers who just feel the need to voice their opinions. They have been confused that a young woman who just jumped from a big advertising agency, to an even bigger marketing company could simply be pulling the plug on what outwardly appears to be a smooth career trajectory from elite college graduate to a career headed towards more money, fancy job titles, and the cushy world or corporate credit cards and personal assistants.

But the truth is far less glamorous, and perhaps, a little more relatable. The truth is that my career has been a walking corpse for the last year and a half. The truth is that I have lied to the faces of many a person, told them my decision to leave my ad job – a job that I actually loved and was good at – was my own choice. I told them that my decision to take a job at a massive corporate marketing company was for the money, and the relaxed hours. And I’ve told  those same people that I was moving my career in a new direction, that it was done intentionally. But that is not the truth. Here is what really happened:

In early 2016 I was given the opportunity to start working as an art director at the advertising agency where I had worked as a video editor for three years. I was told that this would be a trial assignment, and that if I did well I’d be given a job as an art director. I worked so hard. I remember waking up at 4am to put in a few hours work before going into the office where I’d sometimes work until 10 at night. I held down my new duties and retained my old job, holding the edges of my career together with sheer force of will. For close to six months I worked two jobs within the same company. But it worked! The clients loved the work, they wanted to buy and produce some of our best ideas. I was thrilled! I bought champagne, I told my boyfriend that I’d done it, and that just like everybody told me, I saw that working hard gets you ahead.

But then before we could move into production, our client had a massive internal shake up. People lost their jobs, the project folded, and I was back at square one. I was disappointed, but grateful to still have a job, no complaining from me. So I started again, and my agency was all too eager to allow me to work myself into the ground. After all, it’s not like they were paying me more money. And while it would be easy to paint myself as the victim here, the reality is that I knew I should have left in the summer of 2016. But I loved the people I worked with, I liked the work I was doing, and I was being told that if I just hung in there I’d get the career I was so desperate to have. I was young, and hungry, and blind.

For the next 10 months I worked hours and hours of overtime, what would amount to two full months of OT hours in the span of a year. Two jobs, one company. I tried to launch new initiatives within the company, I tried and succeeded in impressing the most senior members of my agency. And then I got in my car and cried on the drive home a lot of nights. I took on freelance work to boost my flagging salary, I was passed over for promotions and raises because I wasn’t fully in anyone’s department and nobody took responsibility for me. I was a young woman in man’s world and I didn’t know how to speak up for myself, yet.

And finally, finally, after nearly a year and a half I saw the writing on the wall and I told them they either needed to offer me an art director position, or else I’d be stepping back into my editor role. Our talent manager tried to feed me a line about budget and getting the money for my salary but I wasn’t having it. It took me nearly two years to stand up for myself, but I finally did and it felt awesome! I went back to working under my old boss, I tried to launch a new production arm, I tried for the zillionth time to prove my worth, I continued to impress the leadership of my company, and I received the best review of my career. All of which I’m still very proud of. I was planning on leaving for the PCT in 2018, and I resolved to grit it out until then, be helpful, be the best worker bee I could be.

And then they laid me off.

I thought I was going into a meeting to negotiate a raise and instead they canned me and told me they hired my job out from under me to a 20-something dude from Dallas – talk about reading the room wrong!

And I never told anybody but my closest of close friends and family because all I could see was my personal failings. I was so humiliated. Laid off at 29. Who get’s laid off at 29? Probably lots of people, but nobody talks about it – I didn’t want to talk about it – because we’re so career oriented that I couldn’t bring myself to tell everybody how I’d failed.

When this new job offered me a decent salary, a close location, and a good title, I jumped at it, even though I knew that it wasn’t a good fit. My highest priority was getting to the start of the PCT in 2018 and getting out of LA. What I told everybody was a career leap was really more like grabbing a tree branch to keep yourself from falling off a cliff. I know that I’m lucky to have landed on my feet, that many people who lose their jobs have a far more precarious financial situation than I, and I am grateful that things turned out so well for me. Truly.

So, what about my career? Won’t hiking the PCT leave a big gap in my resume? What will employers think about a woman who gets a new job, works there for six months and then up and quits to romp through the woods for half a year?

Frankly, I don’t care.

I spent the last three years chasing the approval of those who told me my career should be my everything, and I have nothing to show for it.

Beyond giving corporate life the big middle finger in 2018, I’m also resolving to be more open and honest about it. Because if everybody was just a little more honest about work and life and the lie that work/life balance is a thing, then maybe we wouldn’t feel so hurt and scared when our careers fall apart. At least we’d know we’re not alone. Maybe you’re 23 and getting a degree you hate to appease your parents, maybe you’re 40 and you’ve just been canned from your dream job – the job you built your identity around- maybe you’re 60 and you’ve just been let go and woken up to the rude reality that your company never cared about you as a person. Whatever your reality, I bet you’re not alone.

Perhaps hiking the PCT will be the single worst thing I could do for my career, but somehow I don’t think that’s the case. Maybe placing our worth and identity at the center of what we do 9 to 5 is the worst thing we can do for ourselves. So I’m electing to try something new. I’m done believing that if I just put enough hard work tokens into the career machine that a shiny badge a validation and corporate success will pop out. I want to get out of a city where the first and most important question is: where do you work? And I’m ready to give this irreverent dirtbag life a try.

What’s the worst that can happen, they fire me?

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Don’t Call it Spontaneous: The Financial Reality of Hiking the PCT

My announcement of my plan to thru hike the PCT with Keith has kicked off a veritable whirlwind of activity. We’ve started to pack away our apartment, we’re preparing to leave our jobs, anxiety/excitement has been on the rise, and I’ve been hearing one thing over and over again: “What? you’re leaving?! This is so sudden, so spontaneous!”

To which there is only one honest reply: No it isn’t.

I decided to hike the PCT in April of 2016. Which means, by the time I get on the trail on March 27th, it will have been nearly two years since I made the choice to attempt this trail. The reality is, this only feels spontaneous to the people I’m telling about it now, and there are a handful of very good reasons for that. The first being that employers really don’t want a worker bee who is going to up and leave in a few months/years. As they say in the advertising world: it’s bad ROI. The second reason, is that a million things could have happened between deciding I wanted to hike the PCT and actually leaving on the trip. A million tiny little things that could have derailed this entire dream. I don’t want to be the kind of person who says she’s going to do something and then bails, so I decided that I’d only tell a select few people in my life about my plans until they were all but certain. And frankly, when you talk about thru hiking, almost nothing is certain.

The third and biggest reason for a two year gap between deciding to hike the PCT and actually doing it: money. Yes, thru hiking is cheaper than living in a big city like Los Angeles, but that doesn’t mean it’s cheap, and it doesn’t mean it’s free. The financial reality of undertaking a trip like the PCT is something that is rarely discussed in the hiking community, and as a result planning a trip like this can seem incomprehensible. However, I think it’s important to be more honest about where our money goes and what we spend it on, and this post is a stab at doing just that. Below you can see how I’ve saved for and budgeted for this trip, and since this post has the likelihood of getting a little long, I’ve broken it down by topic.

Estimating Cost:
Based on my calculations I needed to save a minimum of $10,000 in order to hike the PCT.  If I could get closer to $15,000 that would give me some much appreciated wiggle room for after our hike, since we’ll be relocating to Seattle, WA and I will be jobless upon arriving.

If you do a cursory search for what it costs to do a thru hike you’ll find that not many people are talking about this in concrete dollar amounts, but those who are estimate around $5,000  for their entire hike, including things like food, gear replacements, getting a hotel room in town, and rides to and from the trail. Then how did I settle on $10,000 for my hike?

Student loans baby!

At the writing of this post, I have close to $25,000* in student debt (down from nearly $47,000 when I graduated college). Those loans need to be paid come rain, shine, unemployment, thru hikes, and in some cases even death. When I started saving, I paid close to $650 each month in student loans, now I pay closer to $450 since I’ve been able to pay a few loans off. Furthermore, I assumed I wouldn’t get a job right away upon finishing the trail, so I threw in a couple more months of payments, rounded up for sanity and ended up at another $5,000 that I needed to save just so I could continue to pay back my loans while on the trail.

NOTE: I’m sure some of you are thinking, with $15,000 in savings you could pay off a lot of that debt! And you’re not wrong. But I could also be hit by a car tomorrow and killed, so I’d rather pursue this dream now. Also, I didn’t ask for your opinion or approval, so kindly keep it to yourself.

The Savings:
Time for honesty! Saving money is not sexy, it’s not cool, and it’s not fun.

To save for this hike I stopped buying new clothes for close to two years, I didn’t go on vacations, I packed my lunch every single day for months and months, I set budgets for myself for every single thing in my life and tried my best to stick to them. I said no to fun things like concerts, weekends away, and little treats. It was stressful, and lame and boring at times, but that’s the truth of it.

In addition to being more frugal with my spending, I also started freelance writing where I made $100-$150 an article. For the last nine months I’ve been constantly pitching and writing articles – a task that often felt like I had two or more jobs at any given time. Beyond writing, I took any and all overtime work I could get, I got a new day job with a higher salary, even though I didn’t love the work, and I said yes to any paid gig that came my way. Because I am good at video creation and editing, and built a solid reputation during my time in advertising, I was able to snag some lucrative projects from old contacts which served as big capital windfalls (around $2500) that helped me reach my $15,000 savings goal. Sometimes this meant that I was exhausted, working multiple jobs, and sleeping very little. Again, it’s not sexy or fun, but it’s also true, and it’s what it took for me to pursue this dream.

Pre-Trail Costs – Gear:
Lucky for me, both Keith and I are avid backpackers. This means that when I set out to hike the PCT I already had a lot of the gear I needed, much of which we used on our JMT hike in 2017. So this was a cost, but not one that came in a big lump sum. Instead it was handfuls of little to moderate costs strung out over the last two years*.

An added bonus, is that Keith is an incredibly generous and talented human being and he made many of the items that we’ll need on the trail. He designed and made me my own sleeping quilt and gifted it to me for my birthday, as well as making gaiters and a pack covers which are nicer and cheaper than ones I would have bought. Keith is also the most frugal human I’ve ever met, which means he knows how to score a deal! When we settled on buying Mountain Hardware Ghost Whisperer Jackets (MSRP $350) we waited for a sale, and then bought our jackets in kinda weird colors – allowing us to get the jackets for less than half price. And since we’re doing this hike together, we can split the costs of things like our tent and stove (this also saves pack weight). I know I wouldn’t be starting the trail half as well prepared if it weren’t for Keith, so he deserves a huge amount of credit for all his help.

*NOTE: I did not include gear purchases in my savings calculations for this hike. Another note, if you’re planning your own thru hike, or simply want to get into backpacking in any capacity, don’t be an idiot and buy this stuff off the shelf at REI. Shop around and use the dozens of discount gear sites like MooseJaw, Backcountry, Sunny Sports,  Steep and Cheap, Sierra Trading Post, and even Amazon. Paying MSRP is for fools.

Below is what you could expect to spend on your set up for the PCT (around $2,000). Some people drop serious cash to get the lightest gear, other people prioritize savings instead of pack weight, it’s up to you. But I prioritized pack weight and comfort over money, and then looked for deals to cut costs.

Backpack: $250-$350
Tent: $200-$600
Sleeping Pad: $150-$200 (but you could go as low as $40)
Sleeping Bag/Quilt: $300-$800
Hiking Outfit (daily wear): $150
Shoes: $80-$120/pair*
Trekking Poles: $100
Thermals top and bottom: $100
Misc. Other Clothes: $60-$100
Rain Jacket: $150-$200
Down Jacket: $120-$360
Water Filter: $40
Hat: $10-$40
Sunglasses: $20-$150
Pack Cover, Gaiters, stuff sacks, sleeping pillow, other random crap: $200

NOTE: Shoes, socks, and sometimes clothes will have to be replaced during your hike, so take those costs and multiply them by 4 or 5.

Pre-Trail Costs – Food:
Part of hiking the PCT is mailing yourself resupply boxes – these are boxes of food and gear, which one typically sends themselves in areas that are more remote and don’t have a proper grocery store. These boxes probably cost $400 per person for food, buying the boxes, and the shipping costs of mailing them first to my parents and then buying postage for my parents to mail them back to us. Backpackers are a weird lot, and resupply boxes epitomize that.

While $400 is a lot to spend on food that I won’t even eat for five or more months it works out to just about $7/day. We cut costs here by making our own freeze-dried and dehydrated meals instead of buying a brand name like Mountain House or Backpaker Pantry which can run $9 for one meal. Also, instead of buying snacks at the store, we purchased things like candy bars in bulk online where you get a discount for buying 48 candy bars at once.

As someone who cannot eat gluten without *ahem* unpleasant side effects, my food costs will likely total more than Keith’s since gluten free food is much more expensive than standard food. Furthermore, I’ll be supplementing my boxes on-trail with potato chips (aka backpacker super food) which are easy to find almost anywhere, but were too bulky to mail ahead.

Costs I’m Avoiding:
I’m doing my best to strip away any costs that I don’t need to pay for on the trail. We’re giving up our apartment, which also means no utilities or wifi bills. I’ll be parking my car off the street in a private lot, which will cost me $100 each month, but will save me the need to register my car or pay for car insurance, in addition to cutting down on gas money, oil changes and maintenance. My mom is generously paying for my phone bill (she’s the best!). And we’ve also elected to sell the majority of our furniture and possessions (aka return them to the great Craigslist circle of life) instead of storing them while we’re on the trail. The $100/mo I’m paying to store my car will also cover storing the trailer with all our stuff inside.

Health Insurance:
This is a big, scary topic, and one that I wasn’t fully prepared for. With the start of the Trump administration, and the removal of the personal mandate from the ACA, everything around health insurance shifted in 2018. And while I’m pretty sure the elimination of the personal mandate will ultimately lead to the destruction of the ACA as we know it – a system that relies on the payments of young, healthy folks, to subsidize the higher costs of older folks and those with chronic illnesses – it was a massive relief for me personally. I feel really conflicted about even saying that, but the truth is, I could not afford any of the options available to me under the ACA when I checked back in 2017. I was looking at around $380 a month in premiums through The Marketplace. Most of the plans would have failed to cover me if I was more than 100 miles from home, or needed to seek healthcare outside of my primary provider. In short, they were nearly useless given my situation, and would have meant incurring massive payments for coverage if I needed healthcare on the trail, in addition to the already sky high premiums.

Ultimately, I am electing to purchase health insurance through the ACA/Covered California when the plans shifted in 2018. What I have purchased would be considered ‘major medical’ or ‘catastrophic medical coverage’ which means that while my monthly premium is low, my deductibles are very high. This is the type of insurance that only serves to safe guard you should you become seriously injured or ill and need elaborate medical care. Up until 2018 I’m pretty sure these type of plans didn’t even qualify as fully insured under the ACA individual mandate. Furthermore, I only qualify for this plan because I am under 30, rarely use medical services of any kind, and am willing to pay out of pocket for any small to medium medical costs. In short, I will pay $155/mo for a PPO plan that gives me the right to not be bankrupted should I need significant medical care. My deductible will be $6500 in network, and $25,000 out of network, and the coverage I will receive is basically all out of pocket until I hit those deductibles. Like I said, this isn’t a great insurance plan, but because I am young, healthy, and very rarely go to the doctor it’s an option that is open to me. It’s frankly a bit of a  risk, but much less so than forgoing insurance entirely.

On top of major medical insurance, I’d suggest every person traveling in the outdoors buy the American Alpine Club membership. Spend $80 for a full year of insurance and you’ll get coverage for things like trailhead rescue coverage, and domestic rescue coverage in the backcountry for any land-based activity. It’s the sort of coverage that no standard insurance company offers, but one that backcountry travelers can really benefit from should you need an evacuation – helicopter rides are really expensive.

One of the other options I explored was to get travelers insurance through a company such as World Nomads. Companies like this one offer insurance for those who are traveling internationally or domestically, and participating in activities that typical insurance companies will not cover. They will also do things that no standard insurance company will cover, such as emergency medical evacuation from a remote area. These plans are only intended to be ‘secondary insurance’ and not stand in for being insured in another way. The main problem with such insurance plans is that they work on a reimbursement system, which can take six months to a year to fully resolve. This means that you need to pay all of your medical bills up front, and then submit a claim for the insurance company to pay you back. While this arrangement certainly isn’t idea, I figured that I could always get an 12 month 0 APR credit card to put the balance on until the company could pay me back. I recognize upon writing that how bananas our health care system is.

The other insurance option for a thru hiker is to buy insurance individually through a standard company. However, unless you can shell out big money, then you’re basically left with a pretty garbage plan and praying you don’t get injured.

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The above more or less details where my money will be going on the trail, and what I did to accumulate it before the trail. Leave a comment below if you have any questions on gear, money, or the trail, and I’ll do my best to answer them before I leave.