WA Sections J, K, & L

Hiking through Washington on the cusp of fall was a crash course in climatic polarity. We started with beautiful days where the highest peaks protruded from the horizon in sharp focus. Daily temperatures fluctuated between the 50s and 60s, creating optimal hiking weather. However, the threatening Wildcat Fire closed the trail for a third and final time, forcing one last bit of creativity to keep our hike intact. We settled on diverting via a series of forest service roads and national park trails that actually took us far closer to Mt. Rainer than we would have come otherwise. Coincidentally, the main highway running through the park and its main campground were under hurried construction before the onset of winter. Combined with the threat of fire, there was far too much adversity for the sane, so we found ourselves walking through one of the nation’s most popular parks without another soul in sight.

What the Eastside Trail lacked in views of Rainer, it more than made up for by the power of the Ohanapecosh River that ran alongside. Water turned a thousand shades of turquoise as it crashed from pool to pool, dropping as much as 50 feet, before rushing to its next freefall.

After returning to trail, it was only a few more miles before we hit Snoqualmie Pass. Less than an hour from downtown Seattle, it was initially developed as a city park in 1934 before opening as a full-service ski lift operation 3 years later. We spent one night at the Washington Alpine Club cabin, which they staff with a rotating volunteer who hosts and cooks for hikers throughout their offseason, effectively turning a century-old ski lodge into a PCT hostel. Our hike out of Snoqualmie was the unofficial demarcator of the “Real Northern Washington” we’d all been hearing about since the early days, and the views did not disappoint. With the weather continuing to hold, the lush greens of the evergreen forest lie right next to sheer rock, mostly painted with a palette of dull orange hues that could have easily been mistaken for a desert landscape.

Our luck ended the second day out as the thunderstorms rolled in and brought borderline freezing temperatures along with them. At first, I wasn’t particularly phased by the light rain, electing to forgo my rain pants for our morning ascent. I convinced myself this was nothing, having grown up in the tropics, fending off a little drizzle was well within my wheelhouse. But I learned something very important that day. Miami’s rain is distinctly Latin: hot, fierce, and passionate. It comes on with no warning, drenches you instantly, and is gone before you know it. This was decidedly different; this was white people's rain: a slow, drawn-out mist that inspires false confidence only to produce death by a thousand cuts. After an hour or two, my rain gear had failed, and we were all soaked to the bone, shivering with every step. On these days, we were unable to stop walking as there was nowhere to take shelter, and such a sudden drop in body temperature would leave you flirting with hypothermia. It was undoubtedly the most miserable I’d been on the entire trail, and unlike other times in my life, there would be no hot shower waiting for me at the end of it.

Thankfully, we were shown some mercy the following day and had only dense fog to contend with. And while unideal to put on damp underwear at 40 degrees before sunrise, the views above the clouds atop each mountain pass were not to be missed.

Having finally made it to Stevens Pass, we got a ride down into the charming Bavarian-themed mountain town of Leavenworth (Washington, not Kansas). With Dylan and me having lost Mo, Margot, and Bella in the melee of the previous stretch, we were reunited in town, where we stayed at an Airbnb with 15 other hikers. As the last stop of any real size on the trail, people were going all out: the laundry machine was on overdrive, our belongings were strewn across the floor, and assembly lines repackaging ramen noodles & potato chips into Ziploc bags popped up everywhere. Once all the hard work was done, beers flowed, and the hottub’s capacity was constantly tested as hikers rotated out for cigarette breaks (at this point, many had decided their lung capacity was no longer going to impede the goal of finishing). It was the kind of scene that I imagine keeps Brian Chesky up at night.

While the town of Leavenworth is a caricature designed to drum up tourism, even the many Germans amongst our group admitted it was more charming than anticipated. At night, festoon lights illuminated the gabled roofs adorned with wooden shingles. Mo couldn’t help but smile and reminisce about winter visits to his grandmother in Tegernsee.

The final two weeks of the trek were among the best of my life. It started with a spontaneous decision to stay an extra day in Leavenworth, as we were all having too much fun to leave quite yet. Once back on the trail, the scenery was breathtaking, and the changing of the seasons was no longer in question. Blueberry bushes turned entire hillsides to seas of crimson, ruby, and scarlet. Steeper terrain sat in stark contrast, as the famous larches, which (unlike other conifers) lose their needles in the fall, turned to shades of amber, saffron, and brass.

Despite having heard about the majesty of this landscape for months, the grandeur did not disappoint. It reinforced a learning that rang true throughout this entire experience: true natural beauty that is visited sparingly and left unscathed by humanity cannot be oversold.

As the weather cooperated and the landscape opened up, we were treated to the jewel that is Northern Cascades National Park. The park is the least visited national park in the lower 48 (and the only one in the bottom 5 on America’s mainland), with only 16,500 visitors last year. That's 738 times less than Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the most trafficked in the system, with over 12 million.

Alpine lakes, smooth valleys, and craggy crowns were present as they often have been throughout the trip, but the sheer scale of untouched land was unlike anything we’d experienced up until that point. Each ecosystem we encountered, whether deep in the forest or well above the treeline, felt like walking along the same environment that had been there thousands of years before. The animals were not conditioned to human intervention, the trees were left to grow and die in their natural cycles, and the rivers were wild, silty, and undammed for reservoirs or hydroelectric power plants. The trail itself was the only sign of human life, and a transient one at that.

Our final resupply stop was in the rural outpost of Stehekin, which sits on federal land and can only be accessed by foot or a 4-hour ferry ride from the other side of Lake Chelan. For most practical purposes, the population is cut off (or at least heavily delayed) from our deeply interconnected society. What’s grown in its place is a beautiful township filled with charming architecture, sprawling gardens, and a tightly knit social fabric.

We happened to be there on my birthday, and my trail family went all out to make it one of the most special of my life. We spent the afternoon eating from the famous local bakery in between games of interperative cornhole. That evening, we commandeered a small park on the water where we exchanged laughs, handwritten letters, and plenty of tears. One of the best parts of Stehekin is that it’s bereft of cell service and wifi, save for the one hour that the ferry is docked each afternoon. While it was sad to be apart from loved ones, having everyone around be completely present was among the best birthday gifts I’ve ever received.

Reluctantly leaving Stehekin meant we were beginning the final days of the trek. The views continued to impress, even as wildfire smoke being blown up from the south brought the AQI into the 200-300 range. But we were well past the point of stopping for just about anything; we were going to finish regardless of conditions, because in all likelihood, worse weather would follow. Eventually, the winds changed, and we got spectacular vistas and more serenity. I also saw bears #3 & 4 of the trip over the last 4 days, adding to the majesty.

Once 30 miles from the Canadian border, we reached Harts Pass, the exit point we needed to return to upon finishing. That meant we were able to reunite with Dylan, who had gone a few days ahead of us to get his earlier flight on time. He finished with many of our good friends from the trek, including Nacho, who started with me at the southern terminus and hiked with Mo and me for the first 900 miles.

Seeing these two, and all the other hikers heading in the opposite direction, brought on a flood of emotions. On the one hand, the environment was jubilant; every passing hiker gave a hug, high five, or fist bump along with exchanging congratulations for the accomplishment that one had just completed, and the other was on the precipice of. Simultaneously, it was quite depressing. Admittedly, I had no interest in finishing this trail. Had there been another couple thousand miles to go, I would have happily obliged. There was no more putting things off; this was finally coming to an end.

As we approached the terminus the following day, I started alone to collect my thoughts. I broke camp just as the sun began to peek out and selectively illuminate the areas’ most intense mountain tops. As I started along that final walk, I was first saddened by all that I’d lost that had brought me out here in the first place. I mourned the deaths of my maternal grandparents, who had passed just weeks apart at the beginning of the year. It felt like with them, I lost an entire generation of Americans for whom I hold so much respect. Those who focused on family, friendship, and self-determination, who held value systems and helped their communities thrive. As much as I enjoyed sharing all of my stories with those back home, it was really my grandfather, Paul, whom I wanted to share with most of all. It pained me to know that I would never be able to sit at his side and debrief all I had seen. To tell him how I’d experienced the lands they’d fought to protect and saw firsthand the kindness and generosity of spirit that they embodied. To let them know that there was still hope for this country, which I fear he’d all but lost by the end.

I mourned the loss of the company at which I’d spent the majority of my young career. It was a place that not only brought me into contact with the smartest, most driven group of altruists I’d ever known, but also allowed me to feel like we were actually making a difference in people’s lives. For all the shitty phone calls I fielded about high rents, broken air conditioners, drag racing neighbors, and junkyard dogs, it was the occasional but not infrequent sobbing single mothers who thanked us, perfect strangers, for helping provide the safe household she never thought she’d be able to give her children that sparked something in me. Or the aging grandparent who had long ago thought they would be another Black American stuck in a cycle of endemic poverty, unable to build generational wealth for their family, but instead had bought back a home that had room for everyone at the holidays. It troubles me to know there were so many more people we couldn’t help and, unfortunately, may never be able to.

I reflected on my distance from the relationship I once thought would be my last. While very clear on the fact that I found myself in a better place, I couldn’t help but reminisce on the life I thought I’d created for myself, the one I always thought would mean success: a power couple, with a swanky Brooklyn apartment, and big plans to take on the world and reconciled how miserable I really was as it all came together. Rushed by my own idealism, supercharged by the collective expectation of “the next step,” I had stayed from the principles I’d convinced myself I held dear.

But as I came to terms with all that had pushed me toward this moment, I came to appreciate what each loss opened up in return. I feel extraordinarily grateful to carry on the Arrowood legacy. To be responsible for upholding the values of hard work, selflessness, family, openness to experience, and laughter that they’d built their lives on. I recognized the immense privilege it was to learn the importance of feeling like you’re contributing to the greater good with what you choose to do every day. And finally, to regain the confidence in the love I have to give and to learn how I want to receive it in return.

Shortly thereafter, I caught a glimpse of my hiking companions in the distance and felt chills when thinking about all the healing they had provided. For whatever hole existed in my heart at the start had been patched by those I had come to call my family.

As we reached the top of the climb, everyone had caught up, and we spent the final 8 miles reminiscing and handling the emotional rollercoaster in stride. One minute, we were the emotional rock, only to return the favor the next. As we emerged from the trees and saw the clear-cut of the border line, it didn’t feel real; it felt like we were out for just another hike, as we’d been every day before. But as we sat below the “Welcome to Canada” sign and thumbed through the terminus journal filled with entries from those who’d finished before that, I really came to appreciate what it all meant. There were poems, pictures, and paragraphs in dozens of languages. One entry from a hiker we’d befriended celebrated finishing the “thru-hiking triple crown,” having completed the AT, CDT, and PCT. It was his third attempt at the PCT, the previous one cut short due to the decline of his father’s health, just before his passing. His heartfelt passage ends with, “I finally did it, Dad. I love you.” My heart shattered into a million pieces.

As our time at the terminus wound down, it was my turn to write something. The irony was that after having written tens of thousands of words on this journey, I was wholly unprepared when confronted with those five blank lines. I tried to connect myself back to the “why” behind it all. By all accounts, I shouldn’t have been able to make it. I had no training, no experience, and no prep time. I started alone and in a dark place at that. And yet, I realized that may have been the very thing that drew me to it at all. The challenge of abandoning all comforts and facing one of the great physical feats known to man, armed with nothing but my own pure determination, was an attempt to see myself clearly in the face of adversity. To try and break myself down and understand who I really am, not the person I had learned to be.

I started from the heart, “I arrived in Campo a broken man, intent on finding meaning in a world that often feels so devoid of it. To walk this path has been both restorative and inspiring. As I sit here today,” I stopped myself from going on an inevitable tangent and took a deep, slow inhale. In trying to encapsulate my feelings with concision, I thought back not only to the mountain peaks and wide sweeping views, but the moments of uncontrollable laughter, the tears of joy, the depths of physical pain, and the resolve I relied on to continue. I erased the start of the previous sentence and penned what came into my mind with absolute clarity.

“Now I can die, for I have truly lived.”

By the Numbers

The Pacific Crest Trail

“What does it mean to walk across America?”

It’s a question I have asked myself time and again since I committed to embarking on this journey back in April. Over the course of the first week, I was nearly brought to tears each day at the gravity of what we’d all set out to accomplish. But over time, the majesty inevitably faded. When I left New York City, I was the only person I’d ever known to take such a leap of faith. But then you’re on the starting line, and everyone there has quit their job, moved out of their home, and left their world behind with the ultimate goal in mind. Then you start to walk, and while you know that the success rate is low (<10% for first-time thru-hikers), you seldom see those who end their journey prematurely. Instead, they merely fade away, never to be seen again. No matter how far you make it, everyone you meet has gone just as far. So in a way, what once felt like a near-impossible task becomes normalized. In an attempt to wrap my head around what we’d just accomplished, I did what always helps me most: I put some numbers behind it.

After leaving the Mexican border on May 3rd, we hiked for 150 days, covering 2,805 miles, and gaining 467,899 feet of elevation. That is equivalent to completing 107 consecutive marathons across terrain that starts at sea level, ascends to the top of Mt. Everest, and then descends back down again, 16 times. The path through the mountains was quite circuitous; had we gone due north from the Mexican border, we would have ended up 450 miles into the Arctic Circle, 1,100 miles from the North Pole. Our 2,805-mile journey is farther than the air distance from Miami to Seattle, Lisbon to Moscow, Madrid to Baghdad, Athens to Nairobi, and New Delhi to Taipei.

Our more than 300,000 active calories burned is roughly equivalent to what the average person would accumulate from exercising 2 to 3 times per week for 12 years. The nearly 6 million steps we took equated to roughly 50,000 per hiking day, 12.5 times greater than the average American's daily output.

Over the course of the trip, we experienced more than 100° of temperature variation, from 13° at the top of Mount Whitney to 116° on the valley floor of the Mojave (ironically, those two points were less than 55 miles apart). The UV was usually at its highest possible rating (11+) for the bulk of each afternoon, punishing at any temperature. We walked through rain, snow, sleet, and marble-sized hail. We endured dust storms, lightning storms, hurricane-force winds, and thick wildfire smoke. We climbed over thousands of dead and burned-out trees and bushwacked through areas where Mother Nature had taken back the trail long before our arrival. And we did all of this with anywhere between 20 and 45 pounds strapped to our backs, the entirety of our worldly possessions resting on our shoulders.

Early on, every hiker is faced with a question: What does a thru-hike mean to you? For some, it is merely about enjoying a summer amongst the trees, for others, it’s about hiking as quickly as possible from one end of the country to the other. For me, I knew that I was not there to set any records or impress with my speed; instead, this was a pilgrimage. I wanted to walk from border to border, to be able to trace every single step, no matter the obstacles that lie in our way. Thankfully, I was able to find hiking partners who felt the same way, and as a result, we hiked more than 2,800 miles around fires, through burnouts, and terrible weather. We uncovered each mile in sequence, watching the terrain shift slowly as we moved north and the landscape evolve with the seasons. We covered 150 more miles than the trail itself and between 300 and 900 more than most finishers our year. While there aren’t official records kept on continuous footpath hikes, it’s estimated that only a couple dozen are completed each season.

Despite doing almost no training with my short turnaround, my body fully adapted to the experience in under a month. It began to understand the routine and realized that a few hours at night was all it had to recover, and all things considered, it performed admirably. Not just in muscle aches going away, but illnesses as well. I can remember multiple nights where I limped into camp, thinking I was coming down with something, only for my body to completely bounce back by morning. Something that would’ve kept me out of practice for days in the real world wasn’t even a blip, and I’m convinced it’s because my body knew it wasn’t an option.

Within the first two weeks, while battling with my first real injury and given a legitimate out, I decided there would be no quitting, and that the only way I was coming off the hill was on a stretcher. That night, I also decided to splurge on search and rescue insurance. That was a gift to myself that greatly simplified my mentality, and I’m proud to say that I never once contemplated stopping prematurely.

And so, ironically, it was not any of the physical challenges that proved most difficult. If you spoke to anyone I spent time with in the month before my departure, they would likely tell you that it was clear I was a lost soul. On many of those early days, I hiked angrily: head down, full of steam, feeling pain and resentment towards any number of things that may have drawn in my ire. At times, it would boil over, and I would find myself at the edge of a canyon, screaming into the abyss. Luckily, it didn’t take long to get a grip on the demons that led me to the start. However, just as they started to fade into the background, the mental challenge of consistent injury management took over. Because a thru-hike leaves almost no downtime, no access to medical care, and no buffer for recuperation, even the smallest issue can compound into a trip-ending injury. There were several nights, spent sitting atop a mountain, taking it all in, that I figured may be my last.

And so with my mental challenges mostly in check and the physical out of my control, I found myself surrounded by nature, months removed from the routine of daily life, and alone with my thoughts for more than 12 hours per day. In a bout of unrelenting irony, it was through that withdrawal from the world that I began to understand it better than ever before. Every day, we were surrounded by a diverse group of people from all over, representing various walks of life, aspirations, upbringings, and beliefs. In a way, I’ve never felt as naturally connected to a group of people as I did amongst the “hiker trash.” Their desire to do hard things, to be self-sufficient, and to forge their own paths in light of so much pressure to conform was inspiring. It was a group that was sensitive and curious, with a recognition of our real place amongst the natural world, having it serve as their north star.

It was in this environment of psychological safety and curiosity (which is crucially different from an echo chamber) that learning burgeoned. It afforded the time to study global history via ancient religious texts, get a thorough background of human biological evolution, and reconcile social devolution in the 21st century. It allowed me to do some real thinking about the most controversial topics of our time: sex, gender, immigration, technology, preservation, etc., and then forced me to discuss those thoughts with people of varying worldviews in the immediate aftermath. It feels as though for the very first time, I can speak a mind that is truly my own, and with that, I am more open than ever to new information, perspectives, and experiences.

The trip helped me develop a purer form of patriotism that surpasses our revolving door of political figureheads. Like many of my generation, I’ve struggled to reconcile my deep love and appreciation for a country that has begun to contradict itself, watching our once stellar global standing deteriorate within my lifetime. Throughout this experience, I felt as though we embodied the resolve and perseverance that allowed our predecessors to create such a revolutionary democracy, intended to represent all interests. And unlike the adversarial world we seem to have developed into, it was heavily aided by the kindness of my fellow countrymen. For the first time in more than a decade, I saw firsthand the opinions of foreign visitors improve through interacting with what I have always known as the true American spirit.

This generosity was not limited to a single demographic. The physical challenge, the experience of being lost in the raw, attracts everything from trans-vegans from Portland to Marine veterans from East Texas. Over the course of 5 months, I met more people from North Dakota and Idaho independently than from Miami and New York City combined (due to an unsurprising lack of any other hikers from South Florida). I walked along artists who would break out their easels during lunch breaks, tailors who handcrafted their gear, and foragers who found a majority of their sustenance along the way. Best of all, I met exactly zero hikers whose previous vocation fell into the realm of real estate, finance, or tech. Or maybe I did, because for the first time as an adult, “What do you do for work?” wasn’t one of the first three questions I was asked, but instead was often left out entirely. Such a departure led to countless conversations about one’s hobbies and passions as opposed to an exchange of summarized resumes meant to determine if your counterpart provided enough value to pursue a relationship.

I think one of the best lessons upon returning has been seeing how little has changed over the past five months. The stock market has made some consistent gains, but is seemingly primed for a correction. The U.S. appears to have been on the brink of war with a nuclear adversary, only for cooler heads to prevail. The military flexed its muscles, and the Supreme Court handed down consequential decisions. But at the end of the day, the world is still more or less the same place that I left, and yet I’m sure there were countless sleepless nights, animated arguments, and frayed relationships, whether they materialized in actual impacts or not. You always hear the term “ignorance is bliss,” and there’s so much validity to it. I think it’s important to ask ourselves how much we really need to know, as opposed to what we take on just to feed our own desire to feel something.

So, what does it mean to walk across America? I think my conclusion is that, ostensibly, it means nothing. I didn’t set any time records; I wasn’t the youngest or the oldest to ever do it. I didn’t gain a global following or monetize the experience. The vast majority of people I will interact with for the rest of my life will have no idea what the PCT is, let alone my passage along it. But as I step back into society and take a look around, it almost feels as though I know something that everyone else doesn’t, like holding a secret that I cannot share, no matter how badly I want to. While there’s a frustration that comes with that, there’s also a sense of internal calm that has set in, knowing that no matter what, I’ve achieved happiness, not one that’s fleeting or manipulating my biology, but a true happiness in the purest sense of the word. And that’s a wealth no fame or fortune could ever match.

What I’ll Miss

As I’ve spoken to those who’ve been following along the way, I’m often asked whether the experience was truly as impactful as it appeared from afar. It is difficult to capture not only the emotions it produced, but more broadly, how a long walk in the woods could come to evoke such profound change. That was until I came across “The 8 facets of awe,” identified by psychologist Dacher Keltner, distilled as a means of outlining the most important factors in human development and well-being. It was through the grouping of awe-inspiring stimuli into moral beauty, collective effervescence, nature, music, visual design, spirituality, epiphanies, and the cycle of life that I started to appreciate the gravity of our experience and its impact on my soul.

To be so lost in nature, to be completely consumed by it, was the most peaceful and comforting existence I have ever known. The solitude felt amongst the trees didn’t induce anxiety, but instead relieved it; a lifetime of being taught to fear the wilderness was debunked in days. It also exposed me to the cycle of life with a new sense of intimacy. In the spring, babies were everywhere. We saw families of deer, marmot, grouse, osprey, bear, and even a little skunk (which was the cutest thing I saw all summer). We watched animals forage, dam, fish, and hunt. We saw salmon run upstream to lay their eggs, literally killing themselves from exhaustion, so another generation could spawn. In a world where so much time is spent concerned with little more than our own pleasure and personal longevity, we saw countless species sacrifice both in service of the greater good.

The detachment of the trail provided an environment of focused study that eludes most of us in the chaos of today. In a shining example of symbiosis, music heightened the experience of almost any vista. In combination, music allowed me to go deeper into my own emotions, surfacing feelings as a drug-like catalyst. It also provided a new forum for discovery and a study of history, connecting me back to people and places I will never know. It was often this combination of set and setting that produced epiphanies of my own. I have shared some in previous chapters, but to the outside, they may not feel quite so revelatory. While listening to a book that touched on early clinical studies of LSD in the 1960s, one of the psychologists elaborated on his patient observations. He noticed, and the patients reported, a deep and thoughtful appreciation of the banal during their sessions. Participants were brought to tears when they reflected on the importance of family, the beauty of a flower, or the fragility of life. They describe such revelations of things they previously knew, but really came to understand as life-changing, and most had, in fact, made lasting changes after a single session. I’m sure from the outside, some of my observations received eye rolls and little scoffs at presenting the blatantly obvious as so profound. But coming to terms with your own values with such rawness really does provide an entirely new outlook - no acid required.

Visual design was not something I expected to see much of at all, having left behind human intervention in favor of the untamed. But it was a departure from anthropocentric life that made the ordinary feel so powerful. To visit small towns and appreciate their art and architecture. Not because it was world-renowned or considered the finest example of its style, but because it was there and held significance for those around it. I think back to Etna’s perfectly maintained workforce housing from the 1960s and the tenebrist portrait above the lunch counter in Ashland that our server admitted was her own and had been hanging there since 1995. There was so much beauty in the authenticity of what is otherwise considered ordinary and glossed over. Among the most emotional sights of the entire trip was man-made: seeing the Bridge of the Gods spanning the Columbia River, signaling the start of our final challenge. Seeing hints of humanity against the backdrop of the wilderness represented an ethos of equilibrium that was generally lost centuries ago.

Ironically, it wasn’t through the direct consumption of all world religious texts that sparked a sense of spirituality within me (although that did get me thinking about the topic), but rather a reframing of the concept itself. One of my favorite authors, Michael Pollan, argues that, instead of using materialism as the antithesis of spirituality, egoism should take its place. When thrust into the unfamiliar, where man is not king but just another participant, our sense of superiority falters. No longer is our own power the ultimate source of inspiration, but rather something that no human could create over generations, and in stark contrast, can only take away from. Awe is the antidote for egotism. It creates a sense of smallness that breeds, not resentment, but deep appreciation for our role in this world.

Despite what we are led to believe about the state of the world, there is an undeniable goodness that persists. Moral beauty is visible, but I have come to believe that we unintentionally don’t invite it as we once did. Through a mandate of self-reliance and an exponential increase in the size of our communities, we seem to have lost sight of the mutualism and reciprocity that defined the pre-modern human experience. By putting myself out into the world, vulnerable and in need of support, I was rewarded beyond what I could have imagined. We were welcomed into the cars and homes of strangers, anonymous supporters picked up our checks at the diner, and strangers carried postcards into the woods to ensure we could keep in contact with our families. But of all the gestures, it was those who would stop whatever they were doing to just sit and chat for a while that meant the most. It was those who took the time to understand who we were as people and what had brought us on this journey, and then shared their own stories in turn. In a world where many walk heads bowed, avoiding eye contact, a simple hello and soft smile from a passerby can make your day or turn into so much more.

On the other side of the coin, collective effervescence is defined as “the feeling of shared experience and connection that arises from being in a group that is focused on the same thing.” But this hit on one of the most important distinctions from the outside world. On the trail, we don’t exist in a zero-sum; when one person succeeds, it represents a triumph of our entire culture. No counterparty needs to suffer to achieve such heights. Success enriches conversation through cultural exchange, it stimulates the economies for those reliant on the PCT (the sole store in Seiad Valley generates 60% of its annual revenue over the 12-week hiker season), and it creates an acute awareness of the beauty in this great nation and the importance of its preservation. There is an unspoken kinship amongst hikers and the supporting community, one that should have broader applicability.

Yet the beauty of the trail was not reserved for awe alone, and there is so much more I am leaving behind. I’ll miss the opportunity to wake up every single day and do something individually simple and collectively extraordinary. I'll miss touching the Pacific Crest Trail signs as we walk by, feeling like you’re contributing to something much greater than yourself. I’ll miss the sense of pride felt in the depths of my self-reflection. I’ll miss double ramen dinners with the boys at night and the sights, sounds, and smells that came with it. I’ll miss the giddiness of spotting a shooting star and the bewilderment of a distant sunrise. I will miss looking up and seeing an endless horizon, the silhouette of dozens of mountains over hundreds of miles, that changes ever so slightly with every turn. I will miss the ability to get up every day with a blank slate and for the absolute freedom to make it my own.

I will miss all the experiential learning, particularly guided by so many of my expert peers on the trail. I will miss saying “I’ve got nowhere to be” with absolute honesty, allowing life to take me where I need to go.

I will miss the minimalism: digital, possessional, vocational, social, and otherwise. I will miss existing outside of the confines of organized society, undertaking a task deemed so different that business owners, authorities, and other powerful figures just choose not to enforce the rules. I will miss the simplicity, where it does not matter how you slept, how much you enjoyed your meals, who was around, whether you woke up sick or angry. A world where no matter what, you just put one foot in front of the other, no thought required.

I already miss the trail every day, and am comfortable admitting that I and most of those who walked alongside me are struggling right now. After stripping so much away and experiencing a newfound purity, it’s difficult to have it all added back so quickly. I wish I could say that I can transcend the shallow desires that haunt us all, but it’s not that simple. What I can say is having found it, I know to seek it out and even a pathway to getting it back. And for all that I miss, I am extraordinarily grateful to be taking that with me forever.

Hiker Profile

For the final Hiker Profile, I turned the pen over to those who have come to know me best: Mo, Dylan, Margot, and Bella; to understand more about the person they first met and the one they came to know over 5 months in the wilderness.

Dylan: Connor “The Green Machine” Space, 28, grew up in Miami but has more recently called Oakland and Manhattan home. A traveler with a wide lens on the world, he’s wandered through dozens of countries—Sri Lanka and Chile among them—immersing himself in each with the rare form of curiosity that makes his interests feel both eclectic and intentional.

At 5’11” with blonde hair, pale skin, and a muscular build, Connor looks every bit the part of a hiker, though his signature style makes him impossible to miss: a straw hat patched with the retro PCT logo, bright orange Oakleys flashing Miami flair, and the now-iconic green sun hoodie that helped inspire his trail name. The full ensemble has such an unmistakable presence that, along the John Muir Trail, more than a few hikers mistook him for a park ranger patrolling the Sierra.

Margot & Bella: We first met Connor as he stomped chaotically (politely made his way) into camp on our second night on the trail. We thought, “Could this be a bear?” as no human could possibly make such a ruckus. Certainly, a fellow hiker wouldn’t dare interrupt “tent time,” nor, we reasoned, would they have the audacity to camp right on top of us.

Little did we know this LOUD and OBNOXIOUS dirtbag would become one of our most treasured loud (lovingly) and obnoxious (not really obnoxious) friends.

Mo: Connor met me when I was struggling, weighed down by knee pain and doubt. Yet from our very first talk back in Warner Springs, when I asked, “Are you German?” there was a spark of connection. And in Idyllwild, just a few days later, he greeted me as if we were already old friends, and something just clicked. That night, he handed me my very first buffalo wing (this is so American!). His kindness, warmth, and that disarming smile showed me the size of his heart.

Margot & Bella: Early favorite memories include watching in wholesome disbelief as Connor spotted the Big Dipper on his own for the first time, or the giggles and caloric joy of the four of us having breakfast at Paradise Valley Cafe (something sweet for the table??).

Mo: I often think back to our German lessons together - endless hours of spelling and counting. And now I can proudly say that you can count from zero to ten and even rap the German ABCs! Our first night out together, under the most beautiful starry sky with Mount San Jacinto in full view, felt like a promise: no matter how far the trail would take us, we would walk it together. Thinking back on it now, it feels like two brothers had finally found each other again after a long time - from the first Buffalo Wing to the last mile.

Dylan: Despite having only a couple of backpacking trips under his belt before the PCT, he quickly established himself as one of the strongest hikers out here—disciplined, determined, and tough in every sense. Even more defining are his humor, his thoughtfulness, and the countless moments where he lifted me up when I needed it most. He’s saved me campsites, shared in vulnerable conversations, and carried himself with a selflessness that makes him the kind of trail family you dream of finding.

Margot & Bella: From pizza in Idyllwild to (free) pizza in Tahoe to pizza in Trout Lake to pizza in Stehekin, ConDog has cemented itself as someone we intend to stay connected to for all the years (and pizzas) to come. Vibrantly kind, inspiringly motivated, and deeply silly, Connor is the type of friend and adventure buddy that defines the PCT. He’s the type of friend who makes you breathe more slowly and experience life more fully. We’ve had the pleasure of watching him cultivate deep and thoughtful connections on the trail. This expressive human has no shortage of love and care to give to those around him, with unmatched loyalty to boot.

Mo: We often do not need words to know how the other is feeling. That trust, that quiet certainty that we can rely on one another no matter what – it’s something rare. It feels like home, like happiness, like deep appreciation.

We have spent nearly every day of the past five months together. I have shared things with him that I’ve never even told my closest friends back home. And in the same way, he’s opened up to me about his life in a very vulnerable way. That shows me just how strong our mutual trust has grown.

Margot & Bella: Green Machine is a frequent and unknowing inspiration for us, looking at each other and saying, “How lucky are we!?” Because, really, how lucky are we!? Here’s to a continuation of deep friendship with the one and only, Connor, Green Machine, TB, Mr. Space, Co(r)n Dog.

Mo: Connor is an unbelievably inspiring person that I admire – whether it’s planning the next stretch or the resupply (planning really is his thing!), or when he shares his stories, memories, and experiences. He has this way of bringing people along with words, which is simply captivating. His way of seeing the world is extraordinary, inspiring, and opens people’s eyes. The enthusiasm and passion for all he encounters are contagious.

Connor is so much more to me than a hiking buddy or my trail family. He has become like a brother to me. I am incredibly grateful that we walked this trail together – from Mile 200 to the end: 2,600 miles and five months, every single day.

Dylan: I walked nearly 2,000 miles with Connor, and saying goodbye was harder than I ever expected. To me, he defines what it means to be a thru-hiker—not just in strength or miles, but in the generosity and authenticity he brings to every step. My hike would have been far less without him, and I know our Denglish banter with him and Mo will stay with me long after the trail. I’ll miss my newfound brother every day. If I’m lucky, I’ll get the chance to hike a mile—or two thousand—with him again.

Acknowledgements & Farewell

The irony of my “self-supported” thru-hike is that it was the most supported I’ve ever felt. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my father, Keith, for being the behind-the-scenes engine that made this journey possible. He was constantly coordinating bi-weekly shipments of food, medication, and contacts to ever-changing locations, often staying up late after his demanding job preparing my boxes, only to wake up early and get them out first thing. He kept me moving and, beyond that, was an emotional rock who was there for me whenever I needed him, dropping everything to take my calls. I feel so incredibly proud to call such an extraordinary man my father.

Next, my mom, Beth, for her constant unwavering support of me. Her love and dedication go so far beyond the confines of this trip, and I can trace back a lifetime of encouragement and inspiration to follow my heart, knowing she will always be there to back me along the way. While others were constantly navigating the neuroses of their mothers, mine gave me the space I needed, once again putting aside her needs so I could work through my own. I love you, Mom.

To both of my step-parents, for keeping my biological parents at bay, as I know there were plenty of restless nights spent worrying about me. Each of you also enriched this journey in your own right. John, for nurturing my love of the outdoors as a child. Without our camping trips, this would never have been possible. Lili, for instilling a love of both literature and sewing, both of which ended up being vital along the way.

To my sisters, for always providing comedic relief and love from afar, and for keeping everyone occupied at home. Oh, and to the dogs, I know they kept the family sane and happy while I was gone as well.

To my friend Aaron, who, on a gloomy Tuesday in mid-March, saved me from what was among the lowest points in my life. If it weren’t for your guidance and insistence that I seek something better for myself, I have no idea where I would be today. You continue to show me what true friendship means. To my cousin Lexi, who kept her trip to come visit even though I could no longer offer a place to stay, and made me laugh and remember all the joy life has to offer. In a similar vein, my cousin Henry and his wife Diana, who took me in for the next few weeks without notice or a departure date and served as my sounding board when sharing the crazy idea to forgo a startup accelerator and spend the majority of the year hiking instead. I have learned so much from each of you and cannot wait to be a part of your future children’s lives.

To all those who provided support in the form of a care package, a visit on the trail, z ride, a place to stay, or a warm meal: Jacqueline, Alex & Mery, Erin & Tyler, Alex & Aaron, Walker, Jeff & Rachel, Scott, Josh & Annika, Mila, Crazy John, Mark & Deb, Eli, and Mark & Linda. I never expected this outpouring of support from friends, family, and former coworkers, and I’m so incredibly grateful for you having enriched this journey, not just for me, but for those I was hiking with.

I also have to thank the many strangers who turned into new friends and extended such kindness to me. The more than 50 drivers who picked up a hitchhiker on the side of the road, I thank you for helping me get back to food. To the trail angels that opened their homes to me and dozens of other hikers this year, treating us all like family: Liz, Abel, Joe, Pounder, and Steph. For those who shared their stories and, in turn, became part of mine and eventually readers along my journey. First, Sean, who was just a few months removed from losing his home of 30+ years in January’s LA fires, shared with me the hard-earned lessons that crystallized what’s really important. I will always think about our afternoon together at Walker Pass. To the Bogan Brigade, particularly Mark & Linda, who took me in like their son and showed limitless kindness to me and all those around me, punctuated by a box of homemade baked goods to power our final stretch.

Finally, to the fellow hikers who made this journey what it was. I can say confidently that I could not have done this without them, nor would I have wanted to. Those that I shared at least ten miles with include Fred, Ari, Bean, Alejandro, Gene, Nacho, Jimmy, Wayward, Rocks, Sunshine, and so many more. Of course, those who had the greatest impact were my trail family: Margot, Bella, Dylan, and Mo.

Margot & Bella, you embody the concept of seeing the glass half full. You are both teeming with life, love, and laughter; your cup runneth over in support of others. You helped me do something that has eluded me almost my entire life: to slow down, to see beauty in the ordinary, and to relish in the opportunity to take it all in. Most of all, you showed me how I want to be loved by those around me, and that may be the greatest gift I have ever received.

Dylan, your Midwestern charm and often unnecessary gratitude made every interaction a pleasant one. You’re a hell of a chef and an even better hiker. Your selflessness through injury, mental breakdowns, and needed rest kept me in the race. I could not have asked for a better hiking companion and outdoor veteran. You made me feel safe in times of danger and so grateful in times of doubt. You stimulated my mind with your deeply introspective thoughts and nurtured my soul with unconditional love. You’re one of the most incredible human beings I have ever known, and I cannot wait to cheer you on in all that you do.

And of course, Mo, my MoGi, the big little brother I never had but was worth the wait to come to know. Your smile is infectious, and your sense of humor and laughter have released so much baggage. Your kindness and sense of curiosity towards others make me a better person. The purity of your soul is beyond what this world deserves; you’re a much better person than I. Without trying, you showed me how to be a better man, and your dedication to my well-being and the sacrifices you made to stay by my side the entire trip make you a one of one. I would not have wanted to do this without you, and I’m so very glad that I never had to try.

As a final note, I’d like to thank everyone who kept up with my writing and was a part of the adventure as a result. When I started this newsletter, I saw it as a way to keep everybody at bay and informed with photographic evidence, as I rebuffed repeated requests to create an Instagram. But what I quickly realized was that as a man disenchanted with the world around him, I had something to say, and whether anybody cared or not, I needed to let it out. So, what started as a harmless update became a cathartic exercise that facilitated my own growth. For all those who stuck through my rants, I thank you.

My hope isn’t that I’ve changed anyone’s mind or convinced them of any of my views, but rather that this has inspired others to begin thinking for themselves in a way they hadn’t before. To reject simply learned ideals and develop their own. I hope this opens up a dialogue between anyone who's reading so that we can maintain a lifetime of debate and engaging conversation.

As for what’s next for me, the honest answer is that I don’t really know. I didn’t come into this experience seeking answers, which was a good thing, because if anything, it only posed more questions. But what I can say is I feel like I am better equipped to navigate an ambiguous world, knowing who I am in the face of so much uncertainty; holding my own definitions of what is important, extreme, and fulfilling in pursuit of an existence I can be proud of.

So as I close the final chapter of a life-defining journey, I have two requests of those who have been along for the ride. First, consider joining me in donating to one of the many organizations that make the hiking PCT possible: The Pacific Crest Trail Association, The Conservation Alliance, and all of the groups supporting wilderness firefighters. It is not hyperbolic to suggest that the fate of the trail is in serious doubt, even in the immediate future. Contributions to these organizations will ensure that no matter how badly we fuck up the “real world,” wilderness will be there to heal for generations to come.

The second is to ask yourself a simple question: “If I die tomorrow, will I be at peace with what I’ve done?” Regardless of the answer, you should follow with another: “Do I have concrete plans to seek out real fulfillment in the next year? Three years? Or even five?” If the answer is no to both, I think there’s some serious soul searching to do. Because there will always be reasons why we put ourselves second: people to be cared for, jobs to do, and bills to be paid. There are unique obstacles to every stage of life. But for my sake, really think about taking that job in Singapore, studying Spanish in Costa Rica, enrolling in that cooking intensive in Tuscany, or moving to an ashram in the Himalayas. Maybe it’s something even less exotic: making a move to be closer to family, reviving your artistic passions, trying out for the local musical, or starting the small business you’ve always dreamed of. If you’re really a glutton for punishment, maybe a really long walk in the woods will do.

If this adventure has reminded me of one thing, it’s that no matter what kind of hand we’re dealt, we alone are responsible for how the game is played. So if I may offer one piece of encouragement for those wondering how to reconcile their existence on this futile planet: remember that we are all guaranteed just one life, and it’s time to go live it.

Much love always,

Connor “The Green Machine” Space

PCT Class of 2025

Donation Links

• Pacific Crest Trail Association

• Conservation Alliance

• CAL FIRE Benevolent Foundation

• California Fire Foundation

• Washington State Fallen Firefighters Foundation

Lost In Space Archives

• Chapter 0

• Chapter 1

• Chapter 2

• Chapter 3

• Chapter 4

• Chapter 5

• Chapter 6

• Chapter 7

• Chapter 8

• Chapter 9

• Chapter 10

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Our trip began out of Bend with a couple of highlight rock formations. First, we passed by the Three Fingered Jack which fittingly juts above the lava rock as a trio of craggy digits. Along its base were half a dozen mountain goats, which you can barely make out as white blobs in the photo below. The second were the ever intensifying views of Mt. Jefferson which we eventually climbed to and hiked around as streams of snow melt gushed down throughout the afternoon.

The following day we entered the Mt. Hood National Forest and got our first glimpse of its namesake, the tallest mountain in Oregon, at over 11,000 feet. Determined to get to the famous Timberline Lodge in time for the all you can eat breakfast buffet we pushed through the next two days. Thankfully this stretch was loaded with wild blueberries, blackberries, huckleberries, and thimble berries which we could pick in motion, growing over into our path.

Another two days of hiking led us into the Columbia Gorge, through the most popular section of the PCT for day hikers & weekend warriors alike (and for good reason). Waterfalls were seemingly everywhere, with freefalls of over 100 feet commonplace. We also ran into what I consider the coolest animal we’ve seen thus far, a Pacific Giant Salamander positioned just off the trail in absolute stillness.

After finishing 440 of the 450 miles in Oregon in just 14 hiking days our bodies were really feeling the toll, so we decided to take a couple days off in Portland, staying with our new friend Eli. The prospect of entering Washington proved more emotional than expected and we all independently suggested taking things easier over the last section, having earned the cushion built throughout Oregon and Northern California.

The decision was made easier by the fact that Eli was the most gracious and generous host, showing us some of the best of the PNW. Night one was a block party and DJ set with another friend, Drew, we’d met a few weeks earlier, the next day an evening float trip down the river, and then finally a sunset surf session along the Oregon coast. It was both relaxing and rejuvenating, filled with new friends and countless memories.

We finally tore ourselves away from the vortex of Portland and walked across the Bridge of the Gods, officially entering the third and final state of Washington. We were immediately reminded of how easy we’d had it in Oregon and were greeted with a 4,000 foot climb. Even so, we were treated to panoramic views of towering volcanos in every direction; Hood, Adams, St. Helens, and Rainer were all glowing in front of the fading sun.

Once over the first ridge we found ourselves in the most lush of forests we’ve walked through to date. Each canyon was filled with bright green pine, fern, and a plethora of ground plants. The damp, dank forest floor is an ideal spot for fungi and I’ve gotten lessons from local foragers on how to spot the famous chanterelle, porchini, matsutake, oyster, and lobster mushrooms as well as lesser known favorites like the cauliflower, coral, and chicken of the woods.

We were reminded of both the toll of the trail with the fragility of our own constitutions as Mo developed a sudden and debilitating lower back injury. After a couple of days limping through the pain at about half speed we decided to take an unplanned half day in the town of Trout Lake. We reserved to carrying part of the load from his pack and setting up mobile spa clinics along the trail to loosen his muscles. We are at the point where our collective determination will be enough to get everyone across the border together.

In Trout Lake we were hosted by a lovely woman, Steph, who opened the farmhouse where she raised her family in an attempt to give Mo a chance to heal in a real bed. We picked apples from her orchard with an unobstructed view of Mt. Adams in the background and got to interact with the (sometimes nefarious) animals on the property.

The ensuing stretch from Trout Lake to White Pass took us through the Goat Rocks Wilderness, which we all agreed produced a top three day on the PCT. First, we came upon the sheer wall of rock jutting up from the fog for which the area is named. Rolling green hills descended from their base into valleys that extended as far as we could see. A couple dozen mountain goats grazed lazily on the wild grasses. Up close, the landscape was dotted with Western Pasqueflowers, whose tips are wispy, villous hairs that look like mini Truffula trees, adding to the majesty of the environment. As we climbed, we got more unblemished views of Mt. Adams, this time from the other side after traversing it the day before.

After a brief rock scramble, we summited Old Snowy (7,880’) just as the sun began to lower in the sky. From there we saw the Goat Rocks, Mt. Adams (12,281’), Mt. St. Helens (8,366’), and Mt. Rainier (14,441’) all within a 360 degree panorama. As we took in the stunning view, the clouds continued to saunter in below and shortly thereafter only the four peaks mentioned were visible above the clouds. It made it feel like we were 30,000 feet in the air and it might as well have been the top of the world.

We started to descend the ridgeline below, called “Knife’s Edge,” as the sun dipped behind the clouds. Shortly thereafter, a full moon rose exactly opposite the sun, illuminating the breathtaking terrain into the night. As we walked our final few miles into camp I turned and captured Mo’s face as he looked up at the sunset. Speechless until he mustered up a prolonged “wooow,” all I could think was “this is exactly why we do it.” We go through the slog day in and day out to put ourselves in a position to witness the sun, moon, stars, clouds, and mountains putting their best on display in perfect harmony. To be humbled by a collation of natural beauty whose whole is undoubtedly better than the sum of its parts.

By the Numbers

Hiker Profile

Karen “Ms. Elegant” Eagleton, 80, hails from Southern California but has spent a good chunk of the last two decades on the trail. I first heard of her in the Seaid Valley, where a trail angel told me about helping her along her journey. So when I spotted an older woman shuffling up the hill, I immediately looked for her signature pearl necklace. Once I saw it (and the butterfly pendant that dangled above) I stopped her like a fan girl in the street.

Ms. Elegant started her thru hike in 2006, 19 seasons ago. Each year since she has made her way little by little, having completed 2,070 miles by the time we crossed paths. One of the grand ironies of the sport is that going slower is often more difficult than breezing through. Ms. Elegant has to carry an excess of food and water, making her pack massive, probably never weighing less than 1/3 of her body weight. She’s only capable of single-digit mileage every day and yet she continues along. “So few people in this world actually do it, so few people are able to see what we see…how could I not?” she said in reflection.

After I told her my name and the trail angel, Mark, who had told me her story she took out a small butterfly post-it note, almost entirely covered in haphazard scribbles, to write down my information. She always reports back to the trail angels that have helped her along the way, noting what an integral part they’ve been in her journey. She told me about a time where she had been evacuated by search and rescue. After her recovery, a local angel drove her for three hours on mountain roads just to get her back to the place where she had been taken off. “He wouldn’t accept a dime” she said, still in disbelief.

This will not be her last year, she knows that, but quipped “I’ve made it this far, I can’t stop now. If I’m still alive next year I’m coming back and I’m gonna keep doing it every year until I finish.” With enough time, she may be able to finish the entirety of Washington next season, 20 years after having started at the Mexican border.

As we parted ways, she gave me a fist bump, but then shook her head and put her fist back out. “You need to do better than that, I really need the energy” and so I tried again adding some oomph that contained all the love, luck, and positivity I could muster. I had another 32 miles to that day, she wasn’t even sure if she would make it to the next water in seven. I cannot imagine doing what she does but can think of no greater inspiration and living proof that nothing can stop pure determination.

What I’m Reading (pt 3)

Understanding World Religions Through Scripture

With about two months left I realized what a unique opportunity this was for focused study, one I’m unlikely to enjoy again until retirement. I started thinking about what long-format reading projects I could embark on and it dawned on me that for decades, I had passed over the greatest selling texts of all time: those of organized religions. So, I set out on an independent study to better understand the basis behind the organizations that have shaped culture, warfare, and society for centuries.

In the interest of time (and hopefully not pissing anyone off too much) I’ll synthesize my many thoughts into the following. First, I was surprised by the similarities within and stark differences between Eastern and Western religions. While the thoughts of the east generally concentrated around human imperfections and ways to overcome them, Western religions were built on themes of violence and conflict. Much of this was just a product of their environment, the books were being written in times of general unrest, and religion was pitched as a means of gaining a divine advantage (something that was confirmed in hindsight by the victors). However, the same could be said of the east and yet they struck a decidedly different tone.

Another clear difference was the role of the deity. Western idols are touted as mighty, jealous, spiteful, and all-knowing. Those of the east were described as calm and measured, often humble, shying away from excess praise. Some were even said to become disciples of their former students if they had gained knowledge beyond their own. I believe this also fed into the pacifist nature of the east. Eastern texts generally did not portray the other gods as threats, their justification being that a lack of adherence to their path would merely subject the dissenter to an infinite cycle of rebirth. This was the opposite of the texts who were adamant about countering the nonbeliever and taught “to detest and abhor the idols of others.” It really was a wake up call in understanding that religious and quasi-religious states, are in fact acting on what they perceive to be the word of God when seeking to eliminate those with dissenting views.

At first, it was difficult to look past a lot of the ancient teachings of the West which have aged quite poorly. However, as I took more time to reflect on religion’s role in society at large, I tried to look beyond the words on the page to the messages they attempted to convey. Books like the Bible, Torah, and Qur’an provide out-of-the-box moral compasses and ensure that entire communities are dedicated to their adherence. Some of the rules are outdated and objectionable (stoning disobedient children, permitting slavery, and beating wives), others are just downright arbitrary (don’t wear mixed fabrics, don’t boil a goat in its mother’s milk, don’t eat animals that die on their own), but at the very least the texts provided consistency through which society could evolve. And to their credit, the best of what was preached encouraged love, justice, compassion, forgiveness, accountability, and social responsibility; themes that remain key parts of the human experience to this day. When working properly, this manifested in communities of support for raising children, tending to the sick, and supporting the needy.

As I thought about what to take away from this exercise and how it translates into our rapidly polarizing religious landscape (with sharp rises in both orthodox fundamentalism and atheism) I thought about what each side could do to contribute in a secular but undoubtedly religiously influenced world. For those that choose to follow the texts, a true assessment on the applicability of their every mandate. Today the price for rape is life in prison, not 50 shekels to the victim’s father, in the same vein, should the divorce be shunned from their own? Or rather is it the spirit of what’s being preached: community, humility, and the importance of rest and reflection the most applicable elements for modern society?

For those that choose to live without religion, to ask oneself if you’ve really developed a robust set of morals and ethics in place of what religion would have imparted. And beyond that, have you surrounded yourself by others that will uphold similar values in your interactions?

What worries me is through the great radicalization and simultaneous disbelief, we are throwing the baby out with the bathwater on both ends. On the one hand, refusing to translate the core of these teachings to the modern day and the other rejecting them and not doing the work to replace the important role they’ve served in centuries of societal development. While I believe it’s possible for multiple religions and nonbelievers to peacefully coexist, it will first take a recognition of the other to build that bridge.

Texts Studied:

Christianity

• The Bible (Old + New Testaments)

• Recorded: ~1400 BCE–100 CE

• Followers: ~2.4 billion

Judaism

• Tanakh (Hebrew Bible)

• Recorded: ~1200–100 BCE

• Followers: ~15 million

Islam

• The Qur’an

• Recorded: ~610–632 CE

• Followers: ~2 billion

Hinduism

• Bhagavad Gita, Upanishads, Vedas, Mahabharata, Ramayana

• Recorded: ~1500 BCE–400 CE

• Followers: ~1.2 billion

Buddhism

• Dhammapada, Suttas, Lotus Sutra

• Recorded: ~500–100 BCE

• Followers: ~500 million

Taoism

• Tao Te Ching, Chuang Tzu

• Recorded: ~600–300 BCE

• Followers: ~12 million

(No) Shower Thoughts

Rewiring the Fear-Based Brain

It’s become a common practice when I’m getting to know a fellow hiker to ask what they set out to accomplish on the PCT. Among the more impactful and unexpected responses I’ve gotten is a desire to rewire the fear section of their brains. Most admitted that in their normal lives, they had begun to feel so consumed by fear and anxiety that they were often struggling to function. Even benign problems could balloon into a crippling anxiety. This prompted me to really reflect and think deeper on how we got here.

One of the first things I noticed change within me on the trip was that even in times of difficulty, my general mood was better than it had been in years. As I thought about it, it wasn’t that any individual thing was causing the change, but instead that the thick layer of existential dread that seems to hover over all of us in society had burned off. I no longer felt subconscious anxiety about crime, terrorism, economic collapse, political strife, and everything else that could go wrong. A practice that was generally accompanied by taking stock of all that I had to lose and was in a constant battle to retain.

The ironic part of so many of those thoughts is that they were theorized, not realized, and even if they had come to be, were unlikely to cause me any real harm. It wasn’t the prospect of getting hit by a car while running or biking through New York City, but rather getting a shitty email from a superior at work, a passive aggressive text from a significant other, or some political race not going my way that did the most damage. Without posing a real threat to my survival, they could evoke such a visceral reaction that it would consume my being and lead to both physical and physiological pain.

In my new context, my fears completely changed. I don’t exist in the day-to-day waiting for the next shoe to drop, wondering what it will be, but quite the opposite. I have a far more positive outlook on life and 98% of the time things are good. But every once in a while, I come across something that presents real danger. Staring down a cougar alone in the dead of night, while it growls to make its presence known. Waking up to a lightning storm while exposed on the top of a ridge, the ground shaking beneath me with every strike. Or being inches from a rattlesnake who’s coiled, hissing and prepared to attack. In those moments of real danger, my body behaves very differently. I don’t shut down and my mind doesn’t race, instead the response is measured and rational. The situation occupies my full attention, I think through my options and best course of action. I focus on my breath and do whatever is in my control. In each case, things have worked themselves out and shortly thereafter, I returned back down from my heightened state.

The key differences between the experiences are both a sense of control over what can be done and a release of tension from what cannot. And so I’ve tried to better understand, through research and reasoning, why we almost universally put ourselves through such needless agony. Biologically, our fear-based brain was developed to respond to immediate threats (like a rattlesnake) and anxiety utilized similar neurological pathways to put us on alert when there is a higher likelihood of threats (like when walking alone at night). And in an extra effort to ensure our safety, we developed a tendency towards false positives. Our brains believing it’s better to suffer in the short term mentally than to make a fatal miscalculation.

However, in the rapidly changing environment of the past few centuries, two major changes have occurred. First, lions and bears are no longer the most immediate threat but things far more existential like crop failures and job loss. Secondly, with the development of hierarchical society, man came to understand that fear was the ultimate tool for control, and that its weaponization allowed for the grouping of individuals on a scale never seen before. This has evolved from kings, generals, and religious leaders to politicians, CEOs, and news anchors; but at its core, the thesis remains the same. If you can tap into someone’s biological risk-aversion, you can influence nearly all of their decision making.

As I’ve thought about my goals upon reentering society, fighting against my own biological fear triggers is near the top of the list. As a part of that, I also hope to better understand the motivations of those around me. To decipher the authentic from the fraudulent and to regain autonomy in my own life. The goal isn’t to be fearless, as fear plays a key role in some of our most pivotal moments, but rather to fear less. In doing so, I hope that my decision making, risk tolerance, and mental health will be under my own command and that taking back control will lead to a life of greater happiness and fulfillment.

Much love always,

Connor

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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As usual, I caused our group to hike out of town later than expected. Our plan was to complete the 10 mile stretch back to the end of the fire closure before dark but the side trail we’d planned to take turned out to be unmaintained and extraordinarily steep. After a few hours of bushwhacking by headlamp we finally made it, although the sunset views on the way up made up for a lot of the hardship. The next two days in the Marble Mountain Wilderness were among the most serene on trail. The wildflowers in particular were gorgeous and the rolling hills reminiscent of a Monet painting. The colors ranged spectacularly but were a dulled matte that blended into the landscape, emoting the simplicity and stillness of a time since lost.

Even 3 weeks after our initial viewing, Mt. Shasta remained quite prominent in the background of our vistas. We’ve walked about 270 degrees around it and I must say its been even grander than I imagined. Without a doubt it has been my favorite mountain and will be difficult to eclipse.

California’s final challenge was the Seiad Valley, which we completed as a rim to rim hike in a single day, staying out of the sun at a trail angel’s home near the lowest elevation where the heat peaked at 107. The town of roughly 300 are staunch separatists intent on forming the State of Jefferson, which would unify Northern California, Southern Oregon, and Northwestern Nevada into a 51st state. They were more than happy to tell us all about their plan and the reasoning behind it as we passed through.

The next two days were a lot of the same heat wave, but over time we’ve adjusted to exertion in temperatures that would have once kept us in the shade the bulk of the day and we made it to the state border on schedule. After 100 days of hiking in California, I’d finally entered my second state!

After crossing over we could sense a changing landscape. The forests were suddenly dense with evergreens and the terrain noticeably flattened. After a couple days hike we met up with Dylan’s good family friend “Crazy John” who drove 1,300 miles from New Mexico to visit. We had an amazing time getting to know him and enjoyed a restful day at a reservoir near Ashland, our first full day off in nearly a month. John brought us steaks from a cow he raised for dinner and sang a mashup of his favorite songs while playing his guitar around the campfire.

Now in Oregon we’ve benefited from some of the best “Dark Sky” zones in the U.S. during the annual Perseids meteor shower. On the first night I counted 16 shooting stars, some spanning the entire horizon, and the following nights were just as spectacular watching meteors cut through the atmosphere. The following, Mo witnessed an extraordinary meteor shower that spanned the entire night’s sky where offshoots of orange and red comets glowing sporadically.

We said goodbye to John and hiked two more days to Fish Lake where we were met by our friend Ari who got off trail in Truckee but came up to drive us to PCT Trail Days in Cascade Locks, OR along the Columbia River. The towns along the river are beautiful, hip, and waiting to be discovered. A highlight was the bouldering gym built into a 19th century church, complete with all its original stained glass. Once at the festival, we pitched our tents among the 400+ on Thunder Island, practically at the base of the Bridge of the Gods which we’ll pass over when we cross into Washington.

The festival was a fun two day event filled with hikers we haven’t seen in months and lots of repair & replacement options for our failing gear (having a slow water filter and both a mattress and water bladder with holes doesn’t make for easy backpacking). The highlight of the weekend was Saturday night’s dance party featuring a DJ from Portland who was mixing vinyl records live as the sun set and the horizon turned an emerald green.

Once back on trail we were determined to take advantage of the flatter terrain and make up for lost time. Much anticipated was a day spent at Crater Lake National Park given COVID cancelled my planned trip here in 2020. I learned so much while there, including that its not a crater at all, but rather a caldera, with the eruption of Mt. Mazama 7,700 years ago causing the volcano to collapse in on itself. Snowfall & melt quickly collected to create the deepest lake in the United States. After walking along the lake’s rim, were able to hike down to the water for a dip, made particularly special given the water will be closed for restoration for 3 years after this season.

The next day was our longest yet, as we took on the 24 hour challenge which I’ve elaborated on below. The days following were brutal as we recovered both physically and mentally while maintaining a high mileage. The surrounding area was both beautiful and punishing as we came upon the Three Sisters volcanoes, the 3rd, 4th, and 5th largest peaks in Oregon. The rock formations have been unlike any geological formations I’ve seen before. In addition to all the volcanic rock, we’ve passed through multiple obsidian fields (which is actually volcanic glass), highlighted by Obsidian Falls.

The final two days into town were rough but stunning. First, a recent fire blazed so hot it eradicated any signs of life for miles. It felt like we were walking on a different planet, with temperatures hitting the 90s at the peak of the day and no water in sight. Just as we rejoined the forest, it was gone again as a desolate stretch of basalt flow allowed for no vegetation. It was punishing on our feet, particularly with shoes that already had 900 miles on them and it took a full day to really recover.

As we neared Bend we were joined by Dylan’s father, Mark, and his girlfriend, Deb, who are on one of their many long regional trips in their camper van. They set up camp with us right off the trail, cooked us brats, and treated us to an acoustic guitar + percussion duet. The next morning we left camp for a short hike that included the 2,000 mile marker which we celebrated by running around town trying to do all of our chores within the day. There’s no time for rest with the winter looming in Washington! Even so, we had to hit one of the main tourist attractions here, the last operating Blockbuster, which was just as nostalgic as you would imagine.

Suddenly were 2/3 of the way through Oregon and have less than a month left on the trail… if everything goes according to plan. I’m glad to say Mo, Dylan, and I are all happy, mostly healthy, and still so blessed to be pushing each other every day.

By the Numbers

The 24 Hour Challenge

Just as we crossed into Oregon I caught up with my friend Josh. In the middle of our conversation he asked me if we’d hiked 40 miles in a day yet and I sadly had to tell him our peak was only 36 at that point. While still very complimentary, I could sense the disappointment in his voice.

After ruminating on this for days, my interest was piqued when I heard about Oregon’s 24 hour challenge. Seeing it as the perfect opportunity to prove to Josh that I in fact do not dine at Weenie Hut Jr, I opted in mid-way through the morning out of Crater Lake. We made sure to capture some footage along the way.

Hiker Profile

Margot “Soap” Diehl and Bella “Crow” Diehl, 27, are cousins originally from Ventura, CA and Tacoma, WA respectively but they’ve been living in Santa Barbara and Boston for the last few years. Margot is a registered nurse where most of her time has been spent in the ICU, whereas Bella has dedicated her early career to working with children as both an elementary school teacher and au pair. Sensing they were reaching a point in their lives where the opportunity for adventure would soon be behind them, they decided to quit their jobs and hike the PCT together. Although, the seeds of inspiration for the trip had been planted long before, dating back to nights spent sleeping under the stars on top of Bella’s trampoline at age 10. They both admit that they are the only person the other could ever think about going on this adventure with.

We all started on the same day but I met the two of them on night two. I showed up to camp late (an hour until sunset was late in those days) and found that they were already occupying two of the three available tent sites. Not really understanding the norms and customs of the trail at that point, I felt bad setting up my tent in an area where others were already camped. My anxiety was seemingly affirmed when they gave me a less than warm reception, not acknowledging me the whole night. I really couldn’t tell what the dynamic was between the two of them at first. Each in their tent, cooking dinner and not speaking to one another. Were they strangers? Friends? Quarreling lovers? It wasn’t until the next day that we woke up and started chatting. They seemed kind and we crossed paths over the coming days until Warner Springs when we really hit it off and started hiking together along with Just Fred, who you may remember from Chapter 2.

Unfortunately Margot hurt her knee a few days later and went off trail for a week, causing Bella to join a group that charged ahead and we lost each other. But the three of us never lost contact, always relishing in those early days spent goofing around and having fun in the desert. So as time went on, we became town friends, meeting up in Idyllwild, Tehachapi, South Lake Tahoe, and at PCT days. We were even able to hike out together a little way in SLT, running into Margot’s mom “Momma Sue” hiking southbound with her friends. Sadly, our reunion was short lived as we lost each other again in the chaos of the Desolation Wilderness.

What I really love about these two is how much fun they’re having on this trip. They’re serious hikers, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t take it seriously at all. They’ve turned men’s pajama boxers into matching outfits and they’ve got the best bag swag I’ve seen (RIP to Margot’s mini disco ball). When stuck with a resupply store in the Sierra that had run out of food, they turned it into an opportunity and invented the “Honey Bun Challenge,” where they hiked while eating nothing but honey buns for the next two days into Mammoth.

At this point in the hike, a lot of those that remain look despondent. Hikers are physically and mentally exhausted, often lying down alone on their phones. But not these two. I feel so extraordinarily lucky to be surrounded by amazing people like Margot and Bella who are living this experience to the fullest no matter what it throws at them. I look forward to keeping our adventures going for years to come.

What I’m Listening To (part 2)

Reranking Rolling Stone’s Greatest Albums of All Time

A few months ago I was looking for some new music to incorporate and decided to look back at the classics for inspiration. I started with the top 10 albums of all time and then went to the top 25 when I realized I would have ranked some things differently.

So I’ve decided to make my own top 10 (from the pool of 25 Rolling Stone provided) realizing that I have my own criteria for what makes an album great. I was looking for artistic vision, an artist utilizing a number of different compositional styles, a flow that just keeps you coming back, and at least one smash hit single. I listened to each album at least 5 times through but some quite a bit more. So below is my list, with the album’s initial ranking in parenthesis.

10. Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys (#2) - Wonderfully fun and surprisingly emotional in parts the album goes so much deeper than the summer hit Wouldn’t it Be Nice. I was pleasantly surprised by the diverse set of instruments but I felt like it lacked some of the deeper meaning others on this list possess and was over ranked at #2.

9. Nevermind by Nirvana (#6) - Nirvana showed great range from their typical rock & roll sandwiched between acoustic singer songwriter ballads like Polly and Something in the Way to heavy metal with Endless, Nameless. The importance this album had on the grunge movement of the 90s combined with the emotion you sense that led to Kurt Cobain’s eventual death make it all the more powerful.

8. Rumours by Fleetwood Mac (#7) - The only album on this list I was listening to before this project, I was glad to dive back in again and again. The chemistry of lead vocalists Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham, and Christine McVie blend perfectly whether collaborating on something edgy and energetic or soulful and subdued.

7. I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You by Aretha Franklin (#13) - I’m ashamed to say I had never listed to this album in full beforehand as it has so much more to offer than just its popular single Respect. This album should be in the top ten based on the fact that Franklin has arguably the most beautiful voice to ever grace the radio waves.

6. London Calling by The Clash (#16) - The album listens like a major rebellion and upon learning more, that seemed to be the state of the band (and the city of London) when it was recorded. Rare on this list as it just pumps out rock & roll throughout, it does so with an intentional messaging that shines through each track.

5. To Pimp a Butterfly by Kendrick Lamar (#19) - Coming out just a year before my Kendrick fandom began in college I was generally unfamiliar with its contents. I consider his following work, DAMN, to be the greatest rap album of all time and I think from the perspective of creating a commercially successful work it probably is (it was the first non-classical, non-jazz album to win the Pulitzer Prize for Music). To Pimp a Butterfly is jarringly poetic as Lamar‘s upbringing in Compton is a central theme, stating those around them felt their options were to become an athlete or a gangster. Each interlude between songs unveils a slightly longer version of a poem that we come to find out is being read to the late Tupac Shakur. The final song, lasting 11 minutes, is composed of a simulated interview using a recording of Shakur from 1994 covering what will come of black America if changes aren’t made. The subject matter and artistry go so far beyond the songs themselves and we gain so much from listening to the album in its entirety, exactly what I was looking for in this exercise.

4. Thriller by Michael Jackson (#12) - Already a bona fide star since his youth, Michael Jackson just produces albums that excite all that listen. This album includes his entire spectrum of work from the upbeat ballads reminiscent of his fist solo album Off the Wall, to the eerie namesake title Thriller that still operates as the theme song of one of our most popular holidays.

3. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill by Ms. Lauryn Hill (#10) - This album really surprised me and has been played on repeat since my first run through. It probably takes the cake on incorporating a singular theme that is elaborated on throughout the album, in this case love. The interludes emanate from a North Jersey classroom similar to where Hill grew up. Symbolically, at the beginning when taking roll call, Lauryn Hill is absent, suggesting that she missed this lesson as a child and contributed to her own miseducation on love as an adult. Possessing no less than three well-known, independently successful singles, it also has a litany of other great songs in varying styles. Hill switches from rap to soul the hip-hop to funk often within the same track creating a true work of art.

2. What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye (#1) - Marvin Gaye put together a masterpiece from beginning to end. He both keeps the theme of social unrest and limited upward mobility for minorities present throughout, but presents them in a way that aren’t suffocating or feel like a lecture, but instead are being meant to feel the struggle. The album boasted a lot of what I was looking for with narrative, well-known singles, a variety of styles & instruments, and overall the vibe you could listen to on repeat without feeling oversaturated. It also goes without saying that the importance of his message endures to this day.

1. Abbey Road by the Beatles (#5) - The most iconic album from the most iconic band of all time. The album takes you on a ride from the start. The first three songs go from jovial and upbeat, to psychedelic, to calm and reflective, showing range at a time when range wasn’t really something that most musicians were capable of. To break a tie with the albums above I relied on a definition of greatness that goes beyond the subjective qualities in which we perceive art, but also the objective measures of commercial success and it’s ability to impact lives and human history. There’s no question that the Beatles did just that. They changed the trajectory of music and as a result, despite any personal preferences, I have to say Abbey Road is the greatest album of all time.

(No) Shower Thoughts

The Power of Ritual and Repetition

The backcountry is the 180° opposite of the urban environments I’ve always called home. Living in such stark contrast has shed light on how repetition and ritual impact our day-to-day. In many respects, there is nothing more repetitive than the life I currently live. I wake up every day with the same small set of possessions. I remove every item from my bag and repack it in the same way, I eat more or less the same food, and spend most of my waking hours walking.

This strict repetition has reinforced that speed does not equate to efficiency. Speed is a key input, but we often forget about quality when thinking about that trade-off. Fast fashion, overnight shipping, and current tastes often blind us to the long-term impacts of our decisions. Ironically, I’ve actually started to take longer to break down camp as the trip has gone on. What I used to do in 40 minutes has extended to an hour because if I take the time to do things thoroughly and prepare both mentally and physically I save time later on.

So repetition can be a powerful tool for refinement but at a certain point, you reach an inflection where the repetitiveness of what you’re doing can begin to control you unconsciously. I imagine a lot of this is actually rooted in the repetition of our professional lives. We go to the same place and do similar things within the same timeframe and that bleeds beyond the workplace. We come home and watch TV one night and then it becomes a habit. It’s a slippery slope, making it so easy to start what are often damaging routines using a standardized structure.

As I look back on my own life I can see it everywhere: diet, drinking, physical inactivity, workplace, and social circle just to name a few. When we are so constantly in the same flow, it’s nearly impossible to take a step back and evaluate what benefits you’re getting and what you’re not. There’s a point at which it’s important to break things to unveil who is truly in control. Hopefully we find that we actually do benefit from the way we live and the routines we establish but seeing the other side of the coin is the only way to find out.

Nowhere is this more poignant than the cell phone. For most, it’s the first thing we touch when we wake up in the morning and the last thing we look at before we go to bed. I mean, when was the last time you went to the bathroom without looking at your phone for at least a few seconds? It’s a this immediate reaction we’ve completely lost power to. They’re no longer cellphones, the phone feature accounting for maybe 2% of its usage, but really personal dissociation devices that fill the cracks of free time left within our routines. And yet, they’re among our most powerful tools, whether it be for communication, capturing moments, or educating ourselves. As much as I hate it, my PDD is central to the way I live my life.

One place unpacking ritual has been pivotal was in my unexpected decision to make this a sober journey. Save for four doses of ibuprofen and a lifetime of refined sugars, I’ve tried to cut out all vices from my life. Caffeine was easy as I haven’t really been drinking much since college but alcohol of course was the most obvious. The biggest realization to come of it was how much of my relationship with alcohol is conditioned. The bonding element, the social lubricant, the escape it can create. In New York, the expectation was that pretty much every first date would involve alcohol and realistically at least the first two or three. But not only is nonalcoholic beer better than I would’ve expected, it’s also a great replacement for the social ritual that is often what makes drinking so enjoyable. It’s about sitting outside at a brewery with friends around the fire pit with live music or sitting at a bar watching a sporting event, chatting up the strangers next to you, or relaxing at a beautiful lake. I’ve experienced all three where normally I would’ve been drinking (and more than just a beer or two). And yet through Athletic Brewing, kombucha, ginger beer, and just good old fashioned water as substitutes I found that I don’t miss drinking as much as I thought and most importantly it hasn’t kept me from having those same experiences. When choosing to abstain I seemingly took the power back that it once possessed over me. It’s not to say that I will be staying sober permanently, but this respite has put my relationship with alcohol into perspective and decoupled the social and ritualistic elements of drinking with the actual enjoyment itself.

So as I think about ways to extend my learnings into my future life, I know that I don’t want to allow myself to settle into any routine without testing the validity of my preconceptions with regularity. That any form of conditioned repetition is powerful and that I can both use that power to establish and carry forward habits I want while being careful not to allow bad ones to entrench themselves. And most of all, to challenge myself to really know where I derive happiness and joy, maintaining autonomy over my choices and ultimately my life writ large. l know it won’t always be easy and that sometimes we need to give in to enjoy life or just let ourselves catch up, but I also know that I’m blessed to be surrounded by real supporters who will be there no matter what.

Much love always,

Connor

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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As seems to happen often, I found myself behind the 8-ball coming out of Chester. I got a ride to the trail at 9 pm after a very nice gentleman proactively offered to take me, potentially worried about me as I sat on the sidewalk outside the grocery store defiling the carcass of a rotisserie chicken (the only hot meal available at that hour). After camping alone under a sea of widowmaker trees that night, I started towards Lassen Volcanic National Park, knowing I had to hike my longest day yet in order to catch up with my group and evade the park’s stringent food storage requirements. Along the way we were treated to a number of geological wonders showing active volcanic activity in and around Mt. Lassen. First was the Terminal Geiser and then Boiling Springs Lake. All the rocks around seemed porous and often the landscape seemed like it would be better suited for Mars, crazy considering it was often surrounded by tall green pines and firs.

The park itself was quiet on a relatively wet afternoon. Much of the flora has also been torched by fires in recent years which has led to a sharp decrease in visitation. Even with the scars evident, we were treated to serene views of Mt. Lassen towering above the neighboring open expanses. It also had the largest uprooted tree I have ever seen, Dylan included for scale.

The next days continued what was the first real stretch of rain and lightning we’ve received this trip. Somewhat complicated by the still having the rain jacket whose zipper broke on day one, kept intact by a single safety pin. But the clouds and rain kept us cooler than usual in this exposed area, and we got a brief reprieve in the Subway Cave, a natural lava tube formed less than 20,000 years ago when molten lava drained beneath a hardened crust.

The next few days had much easier terrain than normal, relatively flat and devoid of punishing rocks. Just as we passed Mt. Lassen (10,437’), we got our first views of Mt. Shasta (14,179’). Although we didn’t discuss it at the time, we all independently relayed what an unexpectedly spiritual experience it was to walk from one towering volcano to the other, Shasta becoming more prominent as Lassen faded into the distance.

Eventually we found our way into Burney, an old timber town that was seemingly frozen in time 60 years ago. There aren’t any signs of development since a decline in mill activity and the increase in wildfire concerns drove away those that could afford to leave. What remains is a rag-tag collection of hardened locals living in dilapidated housing and fixed trailers. Drug use is rampant, homelessness is clearly a problem, and yet there was something so alluring and authentic about this place that made it very enjoyable to visit. We spent our Tuesday morning at the bowling alley, and we were having so much fun playing 80s hits over the jukebox and seeing our scores improve that we stayed into the afternoon. The gregarious lane attendant who had whiskey on his breath from the moment we walked in and never let his cup go dry was “happy to see some new assholes in here for a change.” When I added some Prince to the queue, he proclaimed I’d gotten $5 off my bill, brining my total from $18 to $13. We resisted the urge to stay an extra night in the church gymnasium that they’d set up for hikers and instead left that evening.

Our first stop was Burney Falls a 129-foot tall, 100-foot-wide waterfall that gushes more than 100 million gallons of water per day from spring-fed underground volcanic aquifers. After spending the night, we continued to enjoy beautiful water views through both Klamath and Shasta–Trinity National Forests, a highlight was camping along the waters of Deadfall Lake, where the sun set just beyond the trees perfectly framed by the mountains on each side.

As we grew closer to Etna we began to see and then feel the effects of the Big Cliff Fire, burning less than 2 miles from the trail and closing it from miles 1,581 to 1,601. The fire resulted from one of the lightning storms we had endured days earlier and was a deflating development as we thought we were going to get through this often fire-closed section unscathed. Even still, we were extremely lucky because as we approached the final section before the closure a westward wind reduced the AQI from 300 to under 50 and allowed for safe passage. Once we reached the closure itself, we turned down a forest service road, N95s in waiting, and camped, ready for a hybrid dirt and paved road walk into town the next day.

As we descended into the Scott Valley we passed by the JH Guest Ranch, a 1,200-acre property that effectively serves as a luxury wilderness summer camp. After so much time in the rugged it was off-putting to see so much manicured grass and so many clean-shaven people, but the staff and volunteers were extremely kind to us. They gave us great tips for our stay in Etna as well as a tour of their facilities. We left and ran into a number of blackberry bushes and peeked into the neighbor’s barns before finishing the final few miles along Highway 3.

Now, we’re resupplied and all ready to walk back along the road to where the trail reopens with just 100 miles left until the Oregon border!

By the numbers

The Om-Nom-Nom Series

On day one I unexpectedly interrupted a squirrel’s lunch break. He stopped and stared deep into my eyes, showing his displeasure at my having broken his concentration in that intimate moment. Since then, I’ve shown my support for animals as they eat by cheering them on with a hearty “om-nom-nom.” It’s a practice that some other hikers have since adopted and can even extend to humans. I’ve collated a selection of my favorites below, happy eating!

Hiker Profile

Madison “Peg Leg” Blagden, 28, is originally from Eastern Massachusetts, equidistant from Boston and Cape Cod. Her first thru hike was half of the PCT in 2017, in between semesters in college. After school, she worked odd service jobs while living out of her truck until deciding to do the entire trail in 2022. This reignited her love for the lifestyle and she’s barely left trail since. The following year she completed the Eastern Continental Trail, a 4,400-mile hike starting in Key West that follows the Florida, Appalachian, and International Appalachian Trails, ending in Newfoundland, Canada. As she reached the terminus she said to herself “well I could have gone farther if there’d been more trail.”

That sparked the idea of completing the border-to-border calendar year triple crown, often shortened to the simple acronym, B2BCYTC. It’s a feat that’s only been done once before (in 2022), it combines the three longest thru hikes in the United States: The Pacific Crest, Continental Divide, and Appalachian Trails, for more than 8,000 miles to be completed consecutively in a calendar year. In preparation she completed the final leg of the triple crown, the Continental Divide Trail, in 2024. On January 1 of this year, she left Key West, setting a pace of 30 miles per day minimum with no days of rest planned for 2025.

I’d first heard about her attempt all the way back in week one, but figured she’d be well past before I’d get to see her. So, I didn’t think anything of it as I passed a disheveled hiker atop a climb in Lassen National Park. She stopped me in my tracks to ask my name, saying she hadn’t expected to see any hikers that day, clearly craving some social interaction.

At first she didn’t share her name, both of us enthralled in conversation from the start. I told her about getting stalked by a cougar the night before on my 3 mile hike out of town and she casually dropped that shed actually started back at that road this morning, meaning she was going to be do at least 35 miles that day to get out of the park restrictions.

At that point I made a point of getting her name and it all clicked. The conversation quickly turned into a fast-walking interview, where I was reserved to sticking with her for as long as I could.

Space: What’s been your favorite trail and why?

Leg: The PCT is probably my favorite. It was my first trail, so it has a special place but there’s just something about the people and the grandeur of the scenery that makes it so pleasant. Plus, while the remote nature of the trail makes logistics more difficult, the terrain itself is a little bit easier than the Appalachian Trail.

Space: What’s the most mileage you’ve done in a day?

Leg: That depends on what you consider to be a day. If it’s just a 24 hour period, I’ve done some 55 and 60s but on the CDT we hiked between two towns 120 miles apart without stopping. It took us 48 hours, I didn’t let myself sit for more than 30 minutes because I was afraid I’d fall asleep.

Space: What’s the most dangerous thing that’s happened to you on trail?

Leg: We got caught in an overnight flash flood on the CDT last year. It had been raining for 48 hours straight in the desert, and it just came out of nowhere. I woke everyone up and we gathered all of our things as quickly as we could, but even still we were completely soaked through, so we just hiked the 86 miles next town straight away.

At this point a second stranger passing southbound recognized Peg Leg and stopped to ask her for a picture. At that point, I really started to appreciate the legend I was hiking with.

Space: Why do all this hiking? What motivates you?

Leg: I mean, I just love the community. I love the lifestyle. I love the opportunity to be challenged by what I do, but simultaneously, to be surrounded by an incredibly supportive group of other hikers. The physical toll it takes is worth it.

Space: You wrote in your initial blog that you were expecting to be quite lonely this year, has that ended up being the case? And what impact has it had on your experience?

Leg: To some extent, I got really lucky. At the last second another guy decided to do the B2BCYTC so we hiked together pretty much from Key West all the way to the beginning of the AT, which would’ve proved the loneliest otherwise. But there’s no question, if I start the day with somebody, I almost never finish with them because we’re going at least 35, you know? So sometimes I get people for the last 12 of the day and it’s nice to get to know them in passing but I’m definitely missing the deeper relationships I’ve made on previous trails.

Space: You clearly have a pretty robust social media presence and some sponsorships that are predicated on it, what’s managing that been like? You’ve got this new fame, the pressure of the hike itself, but also the task of keeping everybody on the outside happy with the content you’re putting out, it must be difficult.

Leg: I don’t really see it as much of a chore, at least I didn’t early on. My sponsors are really great, and I was able to manage pretty well up until this month. But then I didn’t have service for two weeks so I fell behind and it’s starting to feel a little bit more like a job. It does give me something to do, like I said, I’m not around a lot of people and so in the downtime I do have I can make content.

The conversation rolled on like this for hours until we arrived at camp just before 9. I pretty much collapsed into my tent after 36 miles, my longest day thus far. Peg Leg seemed just fine, having completed 39 without issue. We invited her to eat dinner with us but disciplined and knowing it’s in her best interest to recover horizontally, she turned in shortly thereafter. I made sure to go over and thank her for hiking with us and remind her that’s she’s a badass, surely something she already knew. She said it was great hanging with us too and we wished each other luck. By the time I got up the next morning, she was long gone, never to be seen again. We were just three of hundreds of hikers who were giddy at the prospect at being a small part of her journey and is now the ultimate name drop I can use around hiking nerds. If successful, she will be the second person and first woman to complete the B2BCYTC, placing her amongst the most decorated thru hikers of all time.

You can follow her journey either via her blog on The Trek or Instagram. You can read her journal entry from our walk together here.

(No) Shower Thoughts

Redefining Masculinity

Over the past 100 years it seems like what it means to be a man has changed dramatically. Gone are the days of glorified toxic masculinity, where financially providing served as justification for a bad attitude, excessive drinking, and unprovoked violence. Vocations have changed from mostly physical to those that require you sit still behind a screen for most of your waking hours. So not only the toxic, but so much of what men have used to define themselves for millennia has been turned on its head. Having gained self-confidence from providing for a family, being the patriarch and decision-maker, working with your hands and being completely self-sufficient have all but evaporated from modern privileged life. And now with the world rightfully operating on a more even playing field I see a generation of men in existential crisis.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had my masculinity called into question by others. Hobbies and interests in art, fashion, theater, and dance fall into the feminine category for some, my voice is an octave or two too high for others, and my build slighter than what a “real” man should look like. I’d like to say that I’ve always been able to transcend these slights, discarding them as tactless transgressions, but the honest answer is they’ve always occupied space in my head. My most recent relationship wasn’t exactly the healthiest when it came to my masculinity either, as it was seemingly always called into question, intentionally or otherwise. All to say, I started this journey with old insecurities that had resurfaced and some new ones to boot.

In hindsight, my subconscious may have been responsible for pushing me towards a thru hike. What was more masculine than spending months in the woods, removing all modern conveniences from daily life? Not to say that through hiking is a solely masculine activity, there are still plenty of women out here who are feminine in their own right, but not showering, changing clothes, or doing laundry all week while eating canned foods and shooting the shit with the boys over a campfire is something our primal instincts generate toward.

But what’s been so encouraging is, although male dominated and masculine in nature, there is a cohesive sensitivity and what would have once been considered “femininity” in the way that people interact on trail. There’s none of the brute alpha bullshit that you might imagine accompanying unchecked testosterone but instead you find deference, kindness, and genuine care for others. Instead of being perceived as a sign of weakness, it’s reciprocated and the few bad apples tend to find themselves spending a lot of time alone. In the woods it feels like you can nurture your sensitive side in a way that’s encouraged and it doesn’t make you any less of a man.

I’m particularly grateful when I think about the group of men I’ve surrounded myself with. Both Dylan and Mo are extraordinarily kind, selfless, and thoughtful human beings. Mo may tower over you at 6’ 4”, barking orders with Germanic precision in his all-black hiking outfit, but he’s really a gentle giant with an infectious smile who's hesitant to harm so much as an ant. Dylan, a true gentleman who puts others before himself and shows incredible vulnerability in hopes of helping others. Each day we wake up chiseled & grizzled, primed to climb a mountain or two over the course of a marathon. And yet almost every night we talk about our challenges, open up about our feelings, and really communicate with one another. Often the conversation ends with a round of hugs as we head to bed.

I think this experience has helped remind me that your identity is whatever you make of it. That life no longer exists in binary codes of conduct that we all must adhere to. We’ve evolved as a species to realize that most everything operates on a spectrum. We’re all just a random collection of traits that make us unique and being distinct is something we should strive for, not be belittled because of.

So many men, particularly young men, are stuck in a rut. They’re struggling to reconcile a quickly evolving world with the examples set by their fathers and grandfathers and the polarizing opinions of society at large. I think it’s made for many lost souls, wasting away behind keyboards in the depths of their own pain. But I do have hope. I believe that on the whole, we’re moving towards a more tolerant and accepting society. One where the men of present and future will be defined by their productivity to society, whether in art or athletics, business or childcare, as well as their treatment of others, making the world a better place. Hopefully men are able to find the happiness that’s eluded us as we labored to maintain a facade of what we’re told to be. Even still, I’m sure we’ll remain as stubborn and proud as ever!

Much love always,

Connor

Bonus: Highlights From the Darkroom

One of the more difficult decisions I made to make pack weight was not to bring any cameras with me beyond my phone. Missing shooting film after the first month on trail I picked up a set of Fujifilm 35mm disposable cameras and took them through the Sierra. I just got back the first set of developed photos, from Walker Pass at mile 550 to Yosemite National Park at 943. Here are some of my favorites.

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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South Lake Tahoe kept me around longer than anticipated. After 3 days of swimming in the lake, catching up with friends, and taking in a few shows from local bluegrass and folk bands, it was time to head back to trail. I traveled alone for the first few days, choosing to forgo the required bear canister and instead hike through the restricted zone in one go. It was gorgeous country in the Desolation and Granite Chief wilderness areas, often with a view of Tahoe off in the distance. Swimming in Lake Aloha remains a highlight with perfectly cool water framed by high alpine mountains. This area was also filled with traffic between the PCT, the popular 170 mile Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT), and shorter backpacking routes all overlapping. This meant lots of dogs and even a free lemonade stand at 9,500 feet atop the area’s most difficult climb. Toward the end I passed by lifts and runs at Palisades that I’ve actually skied before which made the passage extra special.

Next it was on to Truckee, the one place on the PCT I know well and was very much looking forward to. I first got to spend the afternoon with my friend and confidant from our McGrath Properties days, Scott, who drove all the way from Oakland to say hello. We caught up on the last 5 years of our lives, retold old stories, and he was a great sounding board as I debriefed on my evolving life goals. A true adventure athlete himself, Scott was one of the first people who really got me outside hiking and rock climbing at 18 years old. He was certainly an inspiration for this trip and is a living reminder that you never have to give up on being a badass.

That night, Dylan, Mo, and I were hosted by Jeff & Rachel Weitzman, parents of my good friend and former roommate Eli, at their home in Truckee. It was like 24 hours of cheating on the PCT. We had steaks and salad (fresh vegetables!) for dinner, sat on a couch, puzzled, watched television, and for the first time in nearly 3 months I slept under the covers in a real bed (not waking up until 10 am). When the dream was finally over, Jeff drove us back up to Donner Summit and we set out on a sunset hike.

The trip to Sierra City was gorgeous. The landscape was dotted with perfectly calm and temperate lakes and the trail quieted down significantly, with no section hikers and many thru hikers electing to skip the coming miles. The one drawback was that the Forest Service decided to go with an open concept layout for much of the surrounding area and had a logging company raze hundreds of acres. After stopping for a quick resupply we trudged up the first of three intense climbs this week, starting in town at 4,200 feet and ending at 8,500 atop the Sierra Buttes.

The upcoming 150 miles or so were heavily impacted by the 2021 Dixie Fire, the largest in California’s history, that burned roughly a million acres of land and cost $637 million just to put out. The scars are evident and its why many people decide to skip ahead. I cant necessarily blame them as what remains are miles of towering dead “widowmaker” trees and their fallen compatriots that leave a thick black soot if you so much as brush them while climbing over. What grows back first isn’t great either, the trail is lined with short thorny brush and bur clover as well as the highly irritating but adorably named poodle dog bush.

But like always, there is a lot of beauty that emerges from the destruction. The bark of the burned trees is a deep obsidian that shines like a scaly reptile in the sunlight. The lack of foliage and people makes wildlife more visible and I saw a small black bear run across the trail, maybe 75 feet in front of me. But the highlight was two separate sightings of peregrine falcons, the world’s fastest animal. The first was just whimsically floating above the trees but on my second sighting I got to watch one dive, as it plunged toward its top speed of 240 miles per hour.

Later on we completed large climb number two, 3,800 feet over 10 miles after having already done 20 that day by getting to the base of the Feather River. We raced up that mountain, all feeling as strong as ever, and were rewarded by a gorgeous 360 degree view of the sunset. The sky quickly shuffled through shades of orange and pink, each vista different than the one we’d caught just seconds earlier, as we unpacked our things. We set up camp on the edge of the cliff and woke up the next morning to catch the sunrise from bed before the short hike into Quincy.

Once in town, we were hosted by a trail angel named Pounder and we met some PCT legends during our stay. First was Outside Jay, another trail angel who’s notorious for dedicating his life to hikers. If you break your ankle on the hill and need a ride 4 hours to the best hospital, he’s your guy. He coordinates across all the major stops in California and has helped some of those in their greatest times of need. The other was Matt, the director of trail maintenance for the 450 mile stretch of trail starting in Yosemite and ending near the top of California. He and his team work tirelessly, underfunded and without the use of power tools due to wilderness regulations, to clear dozens of miles of trail from the various hazards that plague it each year.

The final 62 miles between Quincy and Chester were similar to the previous stretch: lots of blowdowns and not a lot of people. It also had the final and most difficult climb of the three with 5,500 feet of gain over 13 miles. We did this in the heat of the day, completely exposed by the burnout. About halfway up I decided to jump into the river and enjoy the waterfall, the perfect respite in an otherwise arduous afternoon. Once at the summit it looked like the mountains of Vermont in the winter, with miles of leafless trees, but upon further inspection it was just carnage from those fires farther than the eye could see, sobering to say the least. It was made all the more menacing by the thunderstorm that lie just ahead, our first on the trail, but my busted rain jacket held up pretty well through it all.

This morning, just before the road that connected us to Chester, I made the perfect trail taco (salami, pepper jack, and mango Thai chili salad kit) and then passed the halfway mark of the PCT! More than 1,325 trail miles later I am officially closer to Canada than where I started in Mexico. I cannot wait to see what part two has in store.

By the Numbers

What I’m Reading (Part 2)

The trail has continued to provide the perfect time and headspace for audiobooks. I have loved opportunity to really dive deep and finish dense titles in just a sitting or two. If you see something you’ve read or are interested in, reach out! I’d love to discuss.

Memoirs

Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain (2000) - One of my favorite books of all time written by my idol, Anthony Bourdain. While brash and often indicative of his time, the no-holds-barred rockstar description of life as a chef in New York in the 80s and 90s captured my imagination. Although he debunked some of his own claims in the years since, it opens your eyes to the world of restauranteurs and the real happenings behind the kitchen doors at your favorite establishments.

Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain (2010) - My first time through the follow up to Kitchen Confidential, Tony elaborates on stories from the first book, gives updates on its characters, and just provides laughs and a bit of wonder for the minds of those of us who I’ve never worked in a professional kitchen.

Born a Crime by Trevor Noah (2016) - My fifth listen through Trevor Noah’s memoir of growing up in apartheid South Africa as a mixed race child. Although I’ve never actually read it, listening is the way to go as he hilariously recounts the accents and anecdotes of his family that was anchored by strong women (much like my own). It’s an inspiring story of resilience and resistance to an oppressive regime. From starting a small time crime ring in the slums to hosting the Daily Show within a decade, Trevor‘s life really does read like fiction, but along the way he tells us too many harrowing truths to be anything but reality.

Big Dumb Eyes by Nate Bargatze (2025) - Currently Nate’s my favorite comedian so I jumped at the opportunity to read his book. He talked about growing up in Tennessee and then moving to Chicago and eventually New York to pursue a stand-up comedy career before going back home again. Not particularly incredible if I’m being honest, not as funny as his typical work and he is certainly not known for his academic mind. I don’t regret listening, but I would say skip it.

Science

The Body: A Guide for Occupants by Bill Bryson (2019) - Recommended to me by Sean, a gentleman I met at Walker Pass and shared a lovely afternoon with, the book was extraordinarily helpful and eye-opening for someone who hasn’t taken a science course since high school. Particularly as I’m dealing with a variety of physical ailments, it was useful to understand why my feet hurt so bad, why my back is not particularly well conditioned, and to help better understand how we are controlled by natural selection in everything that we do.

Everything is Tuberculosis by John Green (2025) - One of my favorite authors, creators, and historians; John Green deep dives from the origins to the modern impacts of what remains the deadliest infectious disease in the world. His interest in the topic begins with a visit to Sierra Leone and its capital of Freetown, where he encounters a young boy and is touched by his story. Green anthologizes the diseases history and how it’s intertwined with biases even in the modern day. Tuberculosis could be a thing of the past, but as his common refrain in the text says “the cure is where the disease is not and the disease is where the cure is not.” Good luck getting through it without shedding a tear.

History

Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner (1986) - Recommended to me by my cousin Phil, this book is a historical account of water in the southwestern United States but focuses on Southern California. It was recommended in part because we went over the LA aqueduct and that is the main topic of his first few chapters. Telling the story of how the city shadily took water from the Owens Valley and redirected it to sustain the growing city. It left that area desolate, something we were able to see looking down on the barren land at the beginning of the Sierra.

After the Dance: A Walk Through Carnival in Jacmel by Edwidge Danticat (2002) - Since her commencement address at my high school graduation I’ve always tried to seek out Danticat’s work. In this book, she returns to her native Haiti over a 10 year period to catalogue the carnival celebrations on the western part of the island. Her first hand account on the evolution of the celebrations and its deep roots in African history were particularly interesting as I got to understand more of the background of Mardi Gras during my time in New Orleans. It sparked an interest and I now intend to dive deeper into the nuances of carnival celebrations all over the world.

Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow by Yuval Noah Harari (2015) - The sequel to the extraordinarily popular Sapiens that I thoroughly enjoyed years ago, it’s an interesting predictor of the future of humanity. Among the most astute was his prediction of a potential pandemic, which got me thinking about what other positive or negative changes may be on the horizon.

Philosophy & Spirituality

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig (1974) - Another reread, my first since my high school philosophy course. I appreciate the semi-autobiographical format, the candor and vulnerability with which he discussed his previous mental breakdown, and some practical perspective told through the lens of vehicle maintenance. There’s a reason why it’s still among the most popular philosophy books of all time.

The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello (1991) - This was gifted to me by that same gentleman, Sean, who I met about a month into my hike. We spoke for a few hours and he read a few of my newsletters and felt I would benefit from its content. Written by an Indian Jesuit priest, he melds Eastern philosophy with Christian scripture. It overlaps a lot with the non-mystical teachings of Eastern religions surrounding the source in route of our suffering and our ability to overcome it. I would highly recommend it for anyone who is interested in exploring their spirituality but through a Christian lens.

The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching by Thich Nhat Hanh (2011) - Its crazy to think it’s been almost 10 years since my college Buddhism class. So in an effort to brush up before diving back into Eastern religions, I felt the need to relearn the history of the Buddha’s teachings. This Vietnamese monk covers the four noble truths, the eightfold path and other core tenants of his enlightenment, before covering the growth in branches of study for the past 2,500 years.

Why Buddhism Is True by Robert Wright (2017) - This was a real game changer for me. Wright scientifically validates secularized Buddhism which centers around meditation as a means of overcoming the emotions that control us. By tying the teachings from 500 BCE to the relatively recent concepts of natural selection and evolutionary biology, he empirically justifies much of what has made Buddhists such pleasant and pacifistic people in search of enlightenment.

Fiction

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien (1937) - One of the only books I’ve actually read on my Kindle since starting, The Hobbit was the perfect adventure novel to get me excited about our journey ahead. Light and easy to read it was my first foray into the Lord of the Rings series, and one of the only fantasy books I’ve ever read. I enjoyed it, but don’t know that I’ll be going any further.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (1939) - A book I’d put on hold all the way back on the fourth day of the trek finally came available and I went through it as quickly as you can a 22 hour book. Admittedly, it taught me a lot, even though it’s historical fiction, I’m not particularly educated on the dust bowl and its impact on westward expansion. A sad story from start to finish, a bit of a slow starter, and sometimes unnecessarily detailed, but puts into perspective how lucky we all are to pursue work and support ourselves compared to those who were so destitute for reasons that were beyond their control.

Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens (2018) - My second attempt at this book, the previous one coming in college, and like many things in college other priorities got in the way of finishing. I absolutely loved the storyline, almost like three different tales in one, each captivating in its own right. I fell in love with the characters and certainly appreciated the way Owens landed the plane in the end. The book left me yearning for the shores of the Atlantic. As amazing as the PCT has been, the ocean is always calling, particularly as we get further and further away from it.

James by Percival Everett (2024) - Although I never read Huckleberry Finn (I’m not sure how that changed my perspective), I absolutely loved this book. Although still fiction, it is rare to find literature that speaks from the enslaved perspective during this time and the narrative itself kept me engaged throughout. Highly recommend.

(No) Shower Thoughts

Reflecting on the First Half of the PCT

One thousand three hundred and thirty three miles on the Pacific Crest Trail. I had two write that all out because, wow, that sounds like a lot. It’s something that was just a dream I assumed would go unrealized as recently as 6 months ago. Over the last 2 1/2, my life has changed dramatically and yet at the same time it’s really been no time at all and really, not much has changed in the outside world.

On the one hand, it does feel like we’ve accomplished something. There was a certain weight lifted off my shoulders after 1,000 miles; even if disaster struck the next day, I had done something I could be proud of. Until that point, everyone is in a constant state of fear, overreacting to every ache and pain, wondering if it will derail their trip. There’s good reason for this, you tell everyone you know and love that you’re planning to embark on this journey and in doing so you’re showered with congratulations before you take a single step. Imagine having to return home after a couple of weeks: injured, your tail between your legs, your dream unrealized, and no plan on how to spend the next 4 months of your life. It’s something that made me very uncomfortable and thus reticent to share my plans until I’d actually begun.

At the same time, it doesn’t feel like we’re halfway there, it feels like I’m battling every single day. I haven’t spoken about it in this newsletter, but the majority of the time I’ve been injured or on the brink of injury in one way or another and have gone to bed on several nights wondering if it would be my last on trail. I didn’t expect to get some of the better advice I’ve received to date from the checkout clerk at the discount grocery store in South Lake Tahoe. Unbeknownst to her I was worrying about this newly developed nerve impingement in my lower leg, unsure if I would need to leave the trail as she said to me: “Just remember what the Buddha taught ‘It is better to travel well than to arrive.’” The trail always provides, in more ways than one.

The importance of staying in the moment has really started to take hold. The markers after every 100 miles don’t really bring a flurry of emotion as they once did. Instead, I’m inspired by every sunrise and sunset, every towering tree, every time I lock eyes with a new animal, every pleasant exchange with a stranger I’d never encounter otherwise. I’m incredibly grateful for the lifelong friends that I’ve made. The kind that you can go years without seeing and then pick right back up without skipping a beat. It’s a bond that’s cemented through sharing moments of immense beauty, high stress, and reflective silence. Brothers that have enriched my life, merely by having shared theirs with me.

Among my favorite changes has been the worthlessness of monetary currency while in the backcountry. With dollars not worth the paper they’re printed on it’s about sharing resources, acts of kindness, exchanging knowledge, stories, and time that people prioritize. It has recalibrated my view of value, chipping away at the dominant economic lens, and really placing an emphasis on autonomy and experience. We literally live some of the metaphors that we are used in daily life: dust eventually settles, there is a calm before every storm, bees are terribly busy, uphills require that you go to battle, and the circle of life continues on after we’re gone. These truths are truly priceless.

I don’t know how my body or brain will respond when removed from this vacuum and placed back into the environment it’s always known. Undoubtedly, there will be some regression, imperfection an undeniable part of my being. The everyday feelings of jealousy, hatred, hubris, and greed will surface once again. But at the very least, from here on out I hope to be conscious. Cognizant and able to take a step back and evaluate as opposed to giving in unwittingly. To recognize and understand them, detaching as opposed to suppressing.

I don’t know what the next couple of months may hold, but I know that I’m exactly where I need to be.

Much love always,

Connor

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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We left Mammoth Lakes in the evening, with the goal of making it to the nearby Reds Meadow Resort shortly before nightfall. Usually a bustling camping destination given its car accessibility, it was quiet, only filled with thru-hikers, enjoying the last two days before the road opened for the season. The highlight was the natural hot springs, which are seemingly always positioned directly next to a frigid stream, and we soaked under the stars. The next morning we walked a little under a mile to Devils Postpile National Monument, a columnar basalt formation from ~100,000 years ago, far more recent than the millions initially estimated. Lava flowed, cooled, and cracked in a hexagonal shape, similar to mud. Then glaciers covered the formation during the last ice age and when they receded, they sheared off the top of the 60 foot columns, leaving a nearly perfect cross-section you can walk on.

The trail continued through beautiful forests of the High Sierra in both the Ansel Adams and John Muir Wilderness areas. We climbed to a ridge and then walked through a meadow for miles, treated to views of the famous Minarets, with Mount Ritter and Banner Peak also close by. With the weather getting slightly warmer below 10,000 feet we began to make it a habit of camping and eating all of our meals at alpine lakes, taking an obligatory dip in each.

Next up was Yosemite National Park, one of the trail’s highlights. We entered the park from its southeastern corner and, while beautiful, it wasn’t the dramatic scenery I was expecting. That was waiting for us in the Yosemite Valley, a nearly 2 hour side quest off trail. Having missed the hiker bus earlier in the day, I walked outside the Tuolumne Meadows Post Office and put my thumb up. I didn’t know it when the sprinter van pulled into the adjacent parking lot but I was in for the best hitch of my life. But, more on that in the Hiker Profile below.

The Valley is akin to Disneyland if it were situated in the in the most beautiful natural landscape imaginable. There are thousands of (often unsavory) people, massive parking lots, flag-waving guides, and buses that shuttle everyone from place to place. Nondescript but loosely thematic restaurants like “The Village Grill” and “The Pizza Deck” are happy to serve mediocre burgers and pizzas at $15 and $40 respectively. The hospitality is similarly on theme, throwing in a Native American term here and there to feign authenticity. But just like Disneyland, there’s also a certain magic to the place. The wonder of being at a bus stop, looking up, and seeing a cascading waterfall in the distance, framed perfectly by the trees you’re taking refuge under. It’s almost like you look around wanting to say “hey everybody, look at this,” but I would usually keep such revelations to myself.

The wildlife viewing was more like an open air zoo than a true preserve. The bears were tagged and so accustomed to human interaction they barely looked up to see the hordes of tourists taking pictures. The squirrels and chipmunks don’t appear to have had a non-human meal in weeks. The crows and ravens tore into boxes of Cheez-Its, Starburst, Nerds Clusters, and any other snacks they could get their claws on. At times, I was even a part of the wildlife viewing for the visitors. I heard “look, a real backpacker” several times. International tourists asked for pictures, as if they needed the proof in order to convince those back home. I’d oblige and then go back to whatever I was doing, happy to play my part.

There’s no denying Yosemite was amongst the most beautiful places I’ve ever been and is likely the most beautiful frontcountry in the United States. Some of its most striking vistas are visible from a car or after a 1 mile hike, making it accessible for all (even if a good number of them chose to spend the time looking at their cellphones instead). But even the initially annoying guests can redeem themselves. We camped the first night next to a group of Boy Scouts that yelled well past 11 pm, a major faux pas in the backpacking world. But they were instantly redeemed the next morning when they emptied a box of extra snacks onto our picnic table. Mo, Dylan, and I (usually quite civil), devolved into savages, playing out a real life game of Hungry Hungry Hippos as we snatched every granola bar. It’s always good to know what your price is and mine is no higher than a package of Welch’s fruit snacks.

All three of us were lucky enough to secure Half Dome permits the day of, usually a lottery system that rewards only 10-20% of entrants months in advance. I woke up at 2 am to get a head start on the crowd with my group. The ascent up the Mist Trail at sunrise was gorgeous passing two 100+ foot waterfalls as they were illuminated at dawn. We made it up the surprisingly treacherous cables by 11 and got a view of the entire valley brightened by the mid-day sun.

At the end of our second day we knew we had to leave the vortex and get back to trail. Shortly after returning to the wilderness, the chaos of the Valley melted into a quiet serenity. Just 2 miles in I was walking along a gently flowing stream, I noticed three deer on the other bank, a mother and two fawns, picking at grasses along the water’s edge. The sun, two hours from setting, blasted light through the trees. Birds chirped and insects buzzed by and I slowly rolled past another waterfall. Order had been restored to the world.

The coming days represented our last in the High Sierra, we enjoyed every moment as the newly formed brotherhood of Mo, Dylan, and I (aka: Team Reggae) slipped into a sustainable routine. We would find ourselves hiking 28 miles in a 12 hour day, even with plenty of time for lunch and a swim or two nestled in.

As the elevation dropped the mosquitoes became borderline intolerable, requiring multiple applications of repellent, bug nets, and even rain jackets to prevent them from biting through our sun hoodies. Any time spent stationary was rewarded with dozens covering every part of our bodies. Thankfully mosquitoes are more glutinous than they are cunning and many of them met their end by sticking around a little too long. Even the animal lovers, vegans, and pacifists out here that get upset when you kill a single ant will mercilessly slaughter mosquitoes by the dozen.

Within a mile or so of Dorothy Lake Pass, the official border of Yosemite, the landscape changed dramatically as we left behind the granite rock with its silver hue and white lines and instead found ourselves atop Red Peak, a metamorphic rock, turned red by oxidized iron minerals. Seeing lush forests dotted with alpine lakes and flanked by snow-covered rock juxtaposed with this harsh volcanic landscape was mind-boggling. We followed this new environment for another 15 miles or so before heading into the Kennedy Meadows Ranch for a quick resupply and steak dinner.

Heading out, with the sun about to set, we were really gambling on someone coming over the mountain pass to pick us up. As soon as we got to the main road and put our thumb up, the first car stopped short before backing up onto the side road. An eccentric, grizzled man hopped out and emptied the backseat to make room for the three of us. I immediately noticed there was a rubber chicken on the back of his bike and then once I got into the car, saw full-sized rubber chickens in each seat and a small rubber chicken in the AC vent. We didn’t know how lucky we were to have been picked up by Hans, “The Chicken Man of Silicon Valley,” on his way to complete his 15th consecutive “Death Ride,” a 103 mile bike race with more than 14,000’ of climbing.

A stalwart of the tech industry since the mid-90s, Hans’ true passion was performing Germanic music with friends after work. The group became associated with "Der Ententanz" or the “Chicken Dance" as its known in the U.S. He then got the idea to carry a rubber chicken on a bikepacking trip along the Blue Ridge Parkway with his brother. It got them a lot of attention and he knew he was onto something. Once home he began bringing the chickens with him while volunteering with children suffering from muscular dystrophy. The association has taken on a life of its own and he does the Death Ride every year while handing out the small rubber chickens to volunteers and first responders. Once we got out, we each got a hug and a small rubber chicken to go on our packs, now bound for Canada!

We spent a night at the Lost Lakes, getting in on the later side, but we’re treated to a moonrise over dinner behind the mountain that cut off the perfectly calm water. We were also blessed with a fair amount of trail magic as we got closer to civilization. First from a brother and sister, honoring their late father who was a backpacker all the way through his 70s, then at the Carson Pass visitor center where volunteers had set up a PCT-specific recovery area. There were signs explaining the PCT at each trailhead for this popular day hike destination and folks were extraordinarily differential and kind to us as we came through. It was common to have a stranger tell us how great we were doing or how proud of us they were as we walked by, accompanied by a beaming smile. It honestly meant so much seeing how our little journey could inspire others. We saw quite a few older folks on backpacking trips and day hikes. People well into their 70s and 80s shuffling up these mountain. A great reminder to continue hiking, knowing it’s something we can love now and for the rest of our lives.

South Lake Tahoe is abuzz with the Celebrity Golf Tournament taking place this weekend. Charles Barkley, Stephen Curry, the Kelce brothers, and many more have flown in on a constant stream of private jets onto the runway just outside our campsite and made everything 5 times more expensive than normal. While I’m perturbed at the moment we’ve all learned I can be bought with as little as a sighting and a picture, we’ll see if that materializes.

This morning I was greeted by 5 packages at the post office in town, a new record. College friends Alex & Aaron and former Divvy colleague turned old friend, Walker, each sent a thoughtfully crafted care package complete with words of encouragement. I am extraordinarily grateful for their generosity and to all of you who are along for the ride. You’re constantly in my thoughts and the phone calls and messages mean so much, connecting me back to my world while on this journey.

By the numbers

Get Ready With Me

I’ve heard that the newsletter format is taxing for some of the younger folks so I figured I’d try something more familiar. Enjoy!

Hiker Profile

The Bogan Brigade

The Bogan Brigade, first formed in 2020, is a tight-knit collection of family, friends, and nature enthusiasts from across the U.S. The nucleus is Mark and Linda of Memphis, Tennessee and their daughters. Some of their friends and spouses from days planning college sports in Arkansas were invited as the group took their first trip to Glacier National Park in 2020. Since then, they’ve made an annual trip and have passed through more than a dozen parks, including Zion, Banff, and Olympia. This year, the group started in Sequoia National Park, followed by Kings Canyon, before spending their final days in Yosemite. These folks are real hikers. Some are athletes outside of the trip. For others this is their major adventure each year, but all of them are capable of doing intensive hikes like Angels Landing and now Half Dome.

The group’s love language is definitely food. Linda (the head chef) flies in two days before each trip, renting an Airbnb with a suitable kitchen just to prepare for all the meals. Mark is the designated mixologist, making craft cocktails each night, strong and on theme. They crowdsource recipes and produce everything from homemade power bars to grits and gumbo. Their signature course may be dessert, where they prepare cakes and pies in cast iron Dutch ovens that are then covered in exactly 32 hot coals: 21 on top, 11 underneath. Linda meticulously organizes every meal in a spreadsheet (a woman after my own heart) and the jobs of cooking and cleaning are allocated on a rotating basis.

They rent a large passenger van that everyone can pile into as they go from view point to trailhead to new park. They listen to a map extension called Guide Along, with a narrator they’ve dubbed Bill (they’ve since learned that’s not his name but it has stuck nonetheless). Bill periodically interrupts the music to give a historical or geological accounting of the area they’re passing through. Dutiful acolytes, they stop at most any recommended point of interest to take in the view. From what I gather, Bill rarely disappoints.

The Brigade was coming back from a day hike when they saw me on the side of the road looking for a ride. After some internal debate, Linda vouched for me and given her status as the matriarch I was invited to join them. The group was immediately welcoming and passed cookies and chips while we played a game of 200 questions about the PCT. “When did you start? Are you made of money? Where are your parents?” Always happy to chat with strangers, I gladly indulged them as I simultaneously tried to understand the dynamics between each member of the group.

I cannot begin to describe the kindness that they imparted upon me. When I put my thumb up, I was going to the valley with very little preparation. They instantly made me feel at home and all I wanted to do was spend more time with them. But of course I was careful not to overstep or invite myself. I was elated when Mark told me I could join them for dinner after settling into camp and that’s exactly what I did. There was a nervous excitement that night as months earlier they had secured enough Half Dome permits to accommodate their entire group. I had told them I’d hoped to get a permit in the coming days but of course knew that was a longshot. Halfway through dinner Mark pulled me aside and said “if you’re willing to here at 3 am, there will be a spot for you.” I told him I wouldn’t let him down.

I didn’t sleep at all that night, buzzing with excitement at this last second development and determined not be late. I woke up at two and was at their camp by three just as most of their alarms were going off. The hike started in the dark so it was cool, a good thing as the terrain was challenging from the outset. I wasn’t sure how everyone would fare, but as we went up everyone broke into their pace groups and there were no signs of turning back. I was able to run between groups as we got lost and over time spoke to each member on a deeper level. Kristi and I spoke about the loss of our grandparents and longevity in life. Linda and I talked about improvisational jazz and outdoor literature. David gave insights into moonlighting as the group’s graphic designer, completely different from his day job as a pharmacist. Billy and I spoke of his time in the Coast Guard. With his wife Jess, her love of TikTok and fitness. Jen told stories about living abroad in Germany and now Amsterdam, raising her children, alongside her husband in a completely different context from which they were raised. Mark and I talked about everything under the sun, a seemingly permanent smile planted on his face.

As I was reflecting on this group in the middle of our visit, one of the first things I thought about was how kind they are to one another. I thought about the strength of the women, their maternalism shining through even with this stranger, for many of them was just a few years their junior. Then I thought about the men, so supportive of their significant others, walking them through what was objectively a pretty terrifying climb with love and grace.

Every single member made it to the top and we were all thoroughly exhausted after coming down. I took a little nap on the river before we grabbed pizzas and went back to camp to celebrate. We went through the nightly tradition of every member sharing their favorite part of the day. There were tears every night without fail, everyone expressing their gratitude around the campfire.

On that last night, they gave me something too. This was a group big on swag: custom mugs, cups, stickers, signs, bandanas, and more. It felt like I was officially a part of the group, having been given a set of the stickers that had been made to commemorate the trip. The next morning over breakfast I was given their ultimate honor, a custom red bandana that everyone wore, emblazoned with each attendees name. My name was added in sharpie at the bottom. Most symbolic and touching of all was when Mark gave me one of their tent stakes: “Use this on your trip so that we can all have a stake in your journey,” he said, warming my whole heart.

Mo, Dylan, and I benefited from all their leftovers, preventing us from even needing to buy food for the coming stretch. It was a tearful goodbye that final morning. Not only the Fourth of July but also Linda’s 65th birthday and we celebrated, not like people who didn’t know each other 48 hours prior, but like lifelong friends that didn’t know when their next meeting would come.

I know it will be a good story for the Bogans to tell on future trips and to friends back home, but I certainly hope they appreciate how much they enriched my life in that short period of time. It was heartwarming to have been adopted by such a loving family while so far from my own. I will always love the Bogan Brigade. I certainly hope our story isn’t over, but no matter what, they are a prominent part of my journey.

(No) Shower Thoughts

The Kindness of Others

My experience with the Bogans really accentuated something that I’ve found through all of my travels: people are inherently good. If you watch television or scroll on your phone, you’re led to believe the opposite; that the world is a dangerous place, intent on harming you. That society has degraded into some sort of heathenistic and predatory dystopia. While there are undoubtedly bad people intent on doing harm, they are in the minority compared to those that give every day. But those stories don’t get the eyeballs that translate to sales of cars and pharmaceuticals. Those are the stories that prey on our fears for profit.

This fear mongering is moving us towards a different type of dystopia. One where every trip is safely tucked away in a car between days spent reserved to their home, blinds shut. Some of life’s most casual interactions are dying: sitting on the front porch, getting to know the new neighbors, taking public transportation, and going on neighborhood walks. Any time we do venture outside we have headphones in both ears, sunglasses, and a hat, gaze fixed on the ground to avoid any potential contact.

In letting fear control our thoughts, minds, and habits were closing ourselves off from the world. When we assume the worst in others that’s all we see and often that’s all we allow. If you live your life never letting people in, the good ones will never make it. Bad people don’t care if you want them there or not, so it is almost up to you to bring goodness into your life and to reciprocate it by putting it back out into the world.

I think a few things have to happen, though, as we seek out the kindness of others. First and foremost it takes vulnerability. That means putting yourself in situations where you go out on a limb: comment on what someone is reading, compliment their outfit, or casually strike up a conversation in the street. Sometimes vulnerability comes from a place of need where you have to ask for help. The key is that you have to be willing to leave behind the ego and stigma of being the person to initiate. At some point we got it in our heads that reaching out is a sign of weakness. That its cool to be aloof and completely detached from strangers. But giving and receiving is what makes life worth living. It doesn’t have to be something tangible or monetarily valuable. Your stories, your presence, and your ear can all enrich someone else’s life immensely.

Over the years I’ve stayed in a number of strangers homes, gotten into their cars, eaten their coking, and been the recipient of many other kindnesses. To that point, I’ve tried to repay them as best I can by being polite, keeping in touch, and giving them stories to tell. Always trying to do something thoughtful, even if I’m not in the financial position to do so. A postcard, a letter, a photograph, or a text message goes a long way.

When I think about my ideal world a self-supported community blossoms. People sit on their front porch with their cup of coffee. Their children play outside and when they see someone their assumption isn’t that they’re going to hurt them but that they could help if need be. I see a world where people walk around just to experience the sounds of their city, neighborhood, or the wilderness. Where they strike up conversations, making a point to bring in those that are alone. It starts with people that want to see beauty in the world and so they create beauty for it. I believe this is all inherent, that we’ve just been programmed away from doing so. If even a minority make an effort and put that foot forward, we will begin to reignite that authenticity of interaction and restore the faith that we desperately need in one another.

Much love always,

Connor

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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This section was eventful from the start. Within a few miles we met two hikers that were celebrating the 50th anniversary of their PCT thru-hike in 1975. Before their attempt at 19 years old, there had just been 38 documented completions of the trail and their stories matched that degree of pioneering. Shortly thereafter, we entered Sequoia National Park and the trees did not disappoint. Some twice as thick as I am tall, they ranged from a few hundred to a few thousand years old.

As we got ready for bed on the first night we noticed a strange stream of smoke coming from the sky and we watched what we later learned was SpaceX’s Falcon 9 launching 26 Starlink devices from the nearby Vandenberg Space Force Base. Cool in some ways and detracting from our isolation in others we were just glad it wasn’t a missile.

Our run-ins with aircraft weren’t done yet. As we summited Cottonwood Pass (11,140’) and looked out on the high desert floor below two military fighter jets zoomed by just a couple hundred feet above. A former military aircraft engineer identified them as a Marine Corp Harrier jet and a Naval F-16 respectively.

After just a couple of days above 7,000 feet we found ourselves at the base of Mt. Whitney. While not technically on the PCT, the 16 mile side quest is among the trail’s highlights. Our alarms went off at midnight and we started walking by 1, 7.5 miles and 4,000 feet of elevation between us and the sunrise at the top of the country. The first thing I noticed as we began was the extraordinary sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and that revealed the most stars I’ve ever seen. The Milky Way was more visible than normal and what is usually just a single strand of atomic matter became two parallel to one another in an almost rainbow-like formation across the sky. The mountains, all black with the features on their faces invisible were lined by a silver haze that outlined their rigidity.

I made it to within a mile of the peak with just my sun hoodie and hiking pants, but the winds picked up in a way that I could no longer ignore and plunged the temperature into the teens. An orange light started to appear upon the eastern horizon around 4:30 as we rounded the final corners. Once on top, we were greeted by our friend Nacho, who had to come in front of us and I gave Mo a big hug absolutely astonished by what I was seeing. I couldn’t hold back tears as hundreds of peaks began to glow on the horizon. We stayed on top for more than 4 hours, most of them in our sleeping bags tucked away from the wind. Before going down we realized that with nothing around to block us we actually had cell service and I was able to Facetime both of my parents to share the view and the moment with them.

The views didn’t deteriorate much at all as we continued through the range. At low elevations streams and rivers wound through lush meadows that appeared like perfectly manicured golf courses from above. As we rose and the tree line was met the soft sand and dirt turned to stone and the trail became everything from pebbles to boulders. Over the coming days we would summit Forester (13,700’) and Kearsarge (11,709’) passes.

Once over Kearsarge we made our way to the town of Bishop. Much to my surprise it was not a mountain town but instead in the high-desert, more reminiscent of our previous stops. We stayed at the iconic Hostel California which was seemingly frozen in time 40 years ago. It was an old Victorian home painted a random assortment of pastels and boasted a common room with thousands of VHS tapes. The host, a fellow Miami native, also happened to be a classically trained artist. That evening we watched the original Blade Runner as he hosted a portraiture class in the room next door, a PCT hiker serving as the group’s muse. The next morning I passed a fellow hiker donning none other than a Divvy Homes t-shirt, clearly left behind by an engineer and now utilized as loaner clothing for those doing laundry. Talk about a small world!

Getting back to trail was more trouble than we’d bargained for as we needed to go 50 miles south and then another 25 west where there’s nothing but the trailhead. But 3 1/2 hours and 3 separate rides later we made it with plenty of time to hike out before sunset. As we went back up the pass that evening we experienced our first snow on trail!

The days that followed were among the most difficult to date. The compounding effects of more than 10 days of hiking without taking a full one off and each requiring we climb a new pass or two miles in the air took its toll. Over 5 days we covered Glen (10,544’), Pinchot (12,090’), Mather (12,068’), Muir (11,955’), Piute (11,417’), Selden (10,800’), and Silver (10,781’) passes. At the top there was often 2-5 miles of snowpack to trudge through using crampons and ice axes (for those that carried them, I decided to forgo the additional weight). After each summit the trail would go down 3-4 thousand feet before starting back up again.

But with each switchback and every short break to catch our breath we were rewarded with what are undoubtedly the most striking views I have ever experienced. There may have been other places as captivatingly beautiful or unique but the combination of the elements was surreal. In one area you have the ruggedness of the Scottish Highlands, the serenity of the Swiss Alps, and the grandeur of the Canadian Rockies, and water the color of the Amalfi Coast. Most importantly you experience all of this without any trace of human influence and generally without another person visible for miles.

One thing this section was not short on was water. Snow that had melted hours (or even minutes) earlier gushed down every crease it could find. While this made it difficult to keep our feet dry it meant we were past the long water carries of the desert. No longer relying on standing water we had to scoop for hydration and with years of New Orleans’ tap water in my system, I stopped filtering altogether and would just stick my water bottle into the flowing streams whenever thirsty. Often the rivers were too deep or strong to cross via tree branch or rock jump and we would take off our shoes and trudge through the rapids.

It is difficult to describe the serenity of the valley floor. Unlike the mental image I have always had of linear mountain ranges, we were completely surrounded by peaks, merely moving between alpine bowls with each mountain pass. At the bottom deer, coyote, pika, chipmunk, and other animals would come within feet of us as they went about their days. Sleeping in was never an option (no matter how cold), as birds from finches to eagles greeted one another. The sun would alter your perspective of any vista as it rose and fell each day, highlighting areas that would have otherwise gone unnoticed amongst all the beauty.

The final two days were filled with unexpected visits from friends, both old and new. First, we ran into our host from Tehachapi, Abel, while he hiked a portion of the John Muir Trail southbound. Then, as we came into Mammoth Lakes I learned that my old roommates Max and Kristen would also be there with their dog Mila. It was amazing to catch up with them, hear about how all of our friends are doing, and reminisce on some of the best times of the last 5 years.

The last two weeks were among the most beautiful, memorable, and enjoyable of my entire life. As sad as I am to have them behind me, I cannot wait for Yosemite National Park before the Sierra’s end in Lake Tahoe.

By the Numbers

Hiker Profile

Dylan “Raw Dog” Donovan, 31, grew up outside of Detroit, Michigan but has spent the past 10 years in the southwestern suburbs of Chicago. We originally met towards the beginning of the trek when he was hiking with a group much faster than ours and we lost touch for almost a month. But after a week off trail for his best friend’s wedding, we were reunited in Kennedy Meadows. A lifelong fan of the outdoors, with more than 30 National Parks under his belt, Dylan had been dreaming of the PCT for years. Last summer he made the decision to quit the job he’d held for the past decade to hike the trail, consulting (but really informing) his partner of 3 1/2 years of his plans. “She gave the perfect amount of pushback” he recalls. “Not wanting to spend so much time apart but eventually understanding how important it was to me.”

At 5’10” with blue eyes, blonde hair, pale skin, and a trim build, the two of us could be mistaken for brothers. He dons steampunk glasses and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap along with a full suite of high-quality technical gear collected over the years. Possessing all of the Midwestern charm and politeness that you’d expect, Dylan is a pleasure to be around, thanking others for even their most benign contributions. He’s among the minority that doesn’t listen to any media on the trail, preferring the sounds of nature as companions. Dylan is among the most academic and cultured people I’ve had the opportunity to spend time with. He is educated on everything from science to fine dining and is an avid reader, often referencing works from Socrates to Jared Diamond. I must say it’s also nice to hike with someone older than 23 who isn’t flat broke.

Dylan got his trail name shortly after returning from his time off on what was supposed to be a 25 mile day. But 17 in, he was informed of a hiker party taking place another 17 miles ahead at Walker Pass. So starting at 2, he hiked the remainder of the way, practically running at times to complete 34 miles by 8. Unfortunately, the party was winding down: there were no hot dogs left and the vibe was fairly muted. That didn’t stop him though, he found hot dogs sitting in the ice chest and at that point hungry and having been fanaticized about them all day decided to go in cold. The party’s host, equal parts disgusted and impressed, stopped him after two dogs and offered to cook the rest. But by that point it was too late, Raw Dog was born.

His profession is fascinating. A food scientist by trade, he holds three degrees: an associate’s in Culinary Arts, a bachelor’s in Culinology, and a master’s in Food Process Engineering. The unique hybrid of chef and chemist has led him to become one of the country’s foremost experts on prepared meats. If you go to any of the nation’s fast-casual restaurants, he’s likely responsible for part of your meal. The rotisserie chicken at Subway, the KBBQ steak at Sweetgreen, the carne asada at Chipotle, and effectively the entire menu at Cava are his creations. But after 10 years of nothing but work he took a step back and realized he had stopped living but instead was just checking boxes and not necessarily ones he had consciously created for himself. He is taking this time to figure out if he’s really on the path that will provide the most fulfillment.

The importance of Dylan’s journey heightened just six months before he departed. His older sister, Sierra, had just gotten on the right path after years of battling addiction. She had secured a job at Trader Joes and moved out of her mother’s home into and apartment with her stand-up boyfriend. But within just two weeks she ingested cocaine that had been laced with fentanyl. A few hours later she stopped breathing; she was just 31 years old. The family was devastated. They had long known this was a possibility but it seemingly came out of nowhere given her recent improvement. After reflecting on how to best honor her while in the desert, Dylan returned to trail with a small vile of her ashes, intent on spreading them amongst the mountain range she was named after.

As we sat atop Mt. Whitney he slipped away for a moment. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, sitting on his knees, quivering, while overlooking the 10,000 foot drop. I immediately understood what was happening and moments later he released his sister’s remains back to the world. I met him halfway on his slow walk back and gave him the biggest hug I could, tears welling in our eyes, I told him what a beautifully special moment he had created. Just minutes before I was texting my own sister for her 19th birthday and became incredibly emotional putting myself in his shoes. But Dylan is strong and I can’t think of a more beautiful burial and memorial than for your brother to go on foot all this way and return you to your namesake.

(No) Shower Thoughts

Keeping Your Word

One of the more concerning trends I’ve seen in my lifetime is the degradation of our word. Over time, for a variety of social and technological reasons, it’s become commonplace to make commitments we don’t intend to keep, to disappear without notice, and to just ghost people altogether. I think it may be a symptom of our expanding world and the lack of community its created. It may also be the simplicity of sending a last second message that we convince ourselves absolves any wrongdoing. When people don’t know others in your world, the repercussions from such behavior are nonexistent. This is in stark contrast to when everyone knew when you had treated someone else poorly and it reflected on you in other parts of your life. But out here without the technology that we’ve all come to rely on and a small network of interconnected people, I’ve seen a return to those same values. Not to say everyone adheres to them, but it’s very clear early and obvious who people are and the character they put forth.

When I meet someone on trail, particularly someone I am hiking alongside, one of the first things I do is assess their trustworthiness. I do this not only as an assessment of their character but also for much more practical reasons. If someone tells me they plan on being somewhere by night’s end and they don’t show, I have to decide whether its an emergency requiring I go find them, eventually calling search & rescue, or merely another empty promise that’s gone unfulfilled. In a way that’s really not hyperbolic, the world’s assessment of your character could be the difference between life and death.

So I would encourage everyone to think about their own commitments as if there was no technological crutch or diffusion of the masses to bail them out. Whether it be in dating, business, or just a kindness to strangers, the stakes don’t have to be so high for us to extend the simple courtesy of honest communication. If we all began to treat each other with the respect that was once the default, the world we’re creating will be a much better place.

Much love always,

Connor

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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Section E began solo with a sunset climb out of Agua Dulce overlooking mountains while climbing over barren, windswept ridges. I quickly encountered two dangers on the trail. First, an adolescent Western Diamondback Rattlesnake, whose bite is nearly fatal as they’ve yet to learn how to regulate their venom. Second, was a local man asleep in the trail with no food, water, map, or plan and was struggling up the final stretch. After giving him water, protein bars, and directions I set up a cowboy camp a few miles further, forgoing my tent in the strong winds.

The next two days went by quickly. Having fallen a day behind my hiking partners, finally figuring out my foot problems, and getting my proverbial “trail legs” I was officially unleashed: hiking the 62 miles between Agua Dulce and Hikertown in just over 48 hours, topped off by a 32+ mile day into town. It was a great feeling to really empty the tank for the first time in a while, as I’ve missed the high aerobic “runners high” which I’ve exchanged for the long slog of the trail.

Hikertown was the strangest stop yet. It’s a plot of private land intended to look like an old western movie set that’s run by an eccentric oil executive and his crew. Our group was thrust into the middle of a feud between rival convenience store owners over hiker’s business. We were taken under the owner’s wing and toured around what they claimed were their foes’ meth labs: a collection of trailers adorned with tin foil window coverings and extra roof ventilation, guarded by a hoard of angry dogs. We requested a swift departure after he began to antagonize them by laying on the horn of his truck. We were taken back to the other store where spare ribs were waiting as a quasi-bribe for our business and endorsement on the trail.

We left Hikertown at 4:30 pm the next day, with the goal of going 42 miles to Tehachapi on one “nights” sleep through the notorious LA Aqueduct section in the Mojave desert. After the sun set, the Joshua Trees seemed to dance, casting shadows in the moonlight as the cosmos revealed itself with breathtaking clarity. In the distance, two mushroom clouds hung above the horizon and a lightning storm rained down to the East. I got into camp at 4 am and slept until 8 before heading out for the remaining 17 miles.

Once in Tehachapi, I was hosted by two separate families over two nights. In between, I resupplied at Walmart and enjoyed multiple meals at the town’s famous German Deli & Bakery: “Kohens.” Our second host was one of my favorites yet. Abel, a retired maintenance worker who moved to Bakersfield from Mexicali as a young man, inherited four acres in the hills above the city from his mother and law and now tends to it full time. In addition, he volunteers with the forest service maintaining the trail, builds model commercial vehicles out of wood in his basement workshop, and hosts hikers & bikers on their journeys. An accomplished cyclist himself, he’s completed a number of double century rides and a bikepacking trip from Santa Monica, CA to Virginia Beach, VA.

After departing, I walked solo through the third largest wind farm in the world, boasting over 4,000 turbines spread across hundreds of square miles. Initially built in the 1980s, the farm was a pioneer in the renewable energy space. It now produces enough energy to power nearly 700,000 households each year, roughly equivalent to the population of Boston or Washington D.C.

The ensuing stretch was among the most difficult to date. A final desert section with a net increase in elevation as we ascended into the Sierra Nevada. A heat wave produced temperatures well into the 90s at elevation and in the 110s on the valley floor, with next to no coverage from the beating sun. This was made even more difficult by a dearth of natural water sources for over 40 miles. Thankfully, a local trail angel maintains two enormous water caches in between, with over 500 gallons each, reducing the burden. All of our training up to this point had prepared us well and I was surprised by our resolve in overcoming the challenge.

With each mile we could see (and feel) the landscape evolving before our eyes. The color of the rocks dulled, spiked shrubs turned to towering pines, snakes all but disappeared, and snowy peaks emerged above the horizon. This was all before a final descent into Walker Pass where we got a great hitch 45 minutes into Ridgecrest for another Walmart resupply.

Typically, not changing or showering for a week makes you a social pariah but in a Walmart along the PCT, it makes you a rockstar. People constantly came up to us, asking about the trail and offering to buy us food and drive us around, the latter of which was crucial to avoiding the 115 degree high at 2 pm.

After returning to Walker Pass, Dad Space joined the trek! Some transportation delays had him arrive at 6pm so we started with a night hike up a brutal 3,000 foot climb over the first 10 miles. Ending at 2 am (5 am for him) and completely exhausted we both collapsed into bed. His snoring that night quickly earned him his trail name: Chainsaw.

We spent the next two days ambling through Inyo National Forest before the desert finally gave way to a high alpine environment and we entered Sierra National Forest.

After 43 days in the desert we finally made it to Kennedy Meadows, the gateway to the Sierra. As I came up the final stretch of trail having hiked the previous 20 miles alone, Mo, my dad, and a number of other hikers and tourists stood up on the deck above to give me the customary standing ovation for reaching this point. It was an incredible feeling and milestone made all the more special by my father’s presence.

We got to spend Father’s Day together, hanging out with all of my new friends and giving him a taste of the thru-hiking community, one that’s often the total opposite from what we’re accustomed to. This morning we said goodbye as he returned to Miami and I set my sights on the Sierra Nevada, with my summit attempt of Mt. Whitney (the lower 48’s largest peak), just a few days away.

By the numbers

Hiker Profile

Anonymous hiker, 33, asked that their identity be protected as I told their story. Be forewarned, it is heavier than the previous few.

He had always been somewhat guarded with his background. Over the first month of intertwining he had mentioned that he had been working as an EMT and a crisis interventionist in Portland before coming on the trail. But the timeframes provided didn’t add up to the full history for a man of his age.

From the beginning I noticed a hardened ruggedness about him. Not the contrived type that many curate to fit in around here, but rather one shaped by the scars of real experience. To some he may look unapproachable, long stringy blonde hair flowing from the back of his cap is flanked by the sides of his head shaved to the scalp. A ring gauge protrudes from his nose and unidentifiable tattoos are scattered across his body. He posses a great smile but rarely deploys it, generally relying on a deep scowl that is more introspective than uninviting. Despite it, he remains amongst the friendliest and most positive people on the trail, always looking at the glass half full.

We hadn’t had the opportunity to spend any time alone up until the night we hiked through the Mojave. He caught up to me as I took a break pressed up against the concrete barrier of the LA aqueduct watching the sun dip behind the mountains.

We sat and looked over the skyline as Joshua trees turned from beautiful, dancing flora into menacing figures in the darkness. Our conversation started fairly casually, mostly me prodding into his past as I like to do with everyone I meet, asking about where he lives and where he’s been before. I knew something was off when he mentioned moving back and forth from his hometown to Seattle no less than four times over five years. I asked whether it was personal or professional and he laughed to himself as he said "yeah I guess you could say personal, I was a junkie for five years.”

Immediately worried I’d crossed a line he’d intended to steer clear of I shifted the conversation elsewhere. But remaining calm and transparent, he spent the next several hours detailing how he’d lost his twenties, and almost his entire life, to heroin.

Coming from a traditional middle class family (mom is a librarian, dad a carpenter), he went off to the large state school in his hometown without really knowing what he wanted to do with his life. He studied philosophy and got through school without particularly much to note. He moved to Seattle shortly after school “mostly because I wanted to break up with my girlfriend, but didn’t know how.” He moved into a co-op, something that he had always an interest in: not having a lot of money, pooling resources, bartering, and helping each other as opposed just “throwing money away on rent.” He got a job working in the art section of the bookstore at the University of Washington and started to forge a life for himself.

Shortly thereafter and startlingly simply, a member of the co-op (who he now acknowledges as a bad friend), introduced him to heroin. What struck me was the ease in which he fell into the addiction. It wasn’t sprung on by trauma or depression. In fact it was quite the opposite as he’d been in a state of euphoria in his new home. This friend was a chemist and held a respected research position. But he was a “chipper,” meaning he was able to go on and off the drug at will. Our protagonist wasn’t as lucky.

Now, at this point, I had a lot of questions. Although also recognized I was in sensitive territory, asking somebody about what was clearly a difficult time in their life, consistently providing an out to my line of questioning. What I mistook for hesitance in sharing his story was actually a combination of surprise in my interest and a fogginess of his memory during that time. But I made it clear that I wanted to hear his story (as much as he was willing to share), so when he would often say in a practiced “to make a long story short” I would respond, “If I’m being quite honest, I’d rather you didn’t.”

The process was simple, he was in a somewhat manic state, living in a new place, smoking a lot of weed, picking up a second job (one on a night shift), and was vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been before. On one of those euphoric nights this “friend” convinced him to try some of his heroin. At first, it was smaller doses, just a couple hundred milligrams but that grew quickly. Another detail in the story that surprised me was that he was still maintaining a very intense work life. In the nascency of his addiction he was working three jobs, 50-60 hours a week at the bookstore, as a bar-back, and then other odd jobs on the side. But roughly 3 times per day he was spreading out a full gram of heroin that ran him $70, close to a full days wages after taxes.

Relatively broke and with little direction things did start to fall apart on the margins. He started stealing from work, taking cash out of the register here and there to feed the addiction. He was slowly let go from each position and continued to drift from place to place professionally working at various bars, a bakery, even as a nude model.

Over time he realized he couldn’t do it anymore and he moved back in with his parents. They knew something was up but addiction was so far outside the scope of their world they assumed it was something far more benign. This first attempt at sobriety lasted about two weeks before he booked a midnight bus to Seattle to get a fix. Life continued to devolve and it eventually led him into a polyamorous relationship with a friend’s girlfriend. The three of them moved into a trailer together parked in her father’s front yard and he proceeded to do very little and he admits he remembers almost nothing from this time. He recalled her suicidal ideation and her falling out with his friend while he remained relatively comatose and directionless.

At a certain point he “woke up,” realized he was going nowhere and left that trailer nine months later, with the clothes on his back and $40 that her father had given him.

He found his way to Portland, where he was able to crash on his brothers couch for just a few weeks until he was employed. Things were looking up. His mistake was moving into another co-op. Still romanticizing them in theory, he now admits that an environment where “everyone was broke, most had mental health issues, and many were addicted to some aggressive drug” predisposed him to poor decision. So he started using again in Portland.

After a while, he tried detox centers. He detailed the process, going in the morning and taking a number, hoping to be called with the alternative being trying again the next day. If you were selected you were escorted into a separate room, stripped down, and searched for drugs or weapons. You took a shower and were given standard issue clothing and led to an uncomfortable cot with a single thin blanket. It was freezing he remembered, a shiver going down his spine. There was no entertainment, the days marked by the three trips to the nurses station for whatever sedatives you were allowed for the drugs you were recovering from. These never worked for him despite multiple attempts.

And one day amidst the haze of a life being lost, he just couldn’t do it anymore. And just like that, he's stopped using and hasn’t used since. There was no treatment program or rehab that did the trick, it was just his desire to get his life back. It wasn’t easy, he didn’t sleep for 7 days, hallucinating all the while. But he repeated the mantra: “I know the drug is strong, but I can be stronger.”

In the last five years he hasn’t touched heroin but still drinks casually and will smoke the occasional cigarette, deeply understanding of his limits. He’s dedicated his life to providing support and advocacy for addicts. He is a certified EMT, a crisis interventionist, and lobbyist for more progressive drug policies in his home state. He spends his free time on trail reading and reciting Taoist and Buddhist texts, committing them to memory as he hikes and we debate their virtues over meals.

After finishing his story he thanked me and we embraced, saying it felt good to remember, that nobody really wants to know about that time in his life. But it was a honor to have someone be so raw and I reciprocated with some of my own struggles as we continued to hike through the night.

For me, it served as a reminder that addicts are meant to be healed, not scolded or considered less than. Even in the last week I have begun to catch myself when referring to “drug addicts” remembering to reframe the stigma that accompanies the illness. Its something that can happen to anyone, it only takes one slip up (something we’re all capable of) and we need to lead with empathy and support for those impacted.

(No) Shower Thoughts

A Reflection on the Desert

Admittedly, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of spending over a month in the desert this summer. To some, it’s the worst part of the PCT and I assumed it would be my least favorite biome, having never gravitated toward the hot, dry, and sparse expanses. However, after trudging through 700 miles, I have to say I loved (almost) all of it, coming to see the value in each of its facets.

First and foremost, its physical attributes are striking. Southern California’s desert is very different than the rolling dunes that we think of in Africa and the Middle East. We went through six mountain ranges, hitting peaks of nearly 11,000 feet and then descending into valleys close to sea level within 20 trail miles. The large jagged outcroppings, weathered by the elements, produced among the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever seen. Standing atop one of these ridges you can see seaside Mediterranean landscapes on one side and some of the hottest terrain on earth over the other edge. Layered rocks tell the story of millions of years of evolution and almost any elevation provides 25 to 50 miles of visibility.

As you zoom in closer, the struggle to survive in the elements is noticiable in the inhabitant’s evolution both physically and temperamentally. With large animals sparsely populated, small ones shine: chipmunks, squirrels, mice, lizards, rabbits, insects, snakes, and birds are the primary species on display. The flora itself is striking, often showing the scars of living amongst the intensity. The unrelenting winds may have been the most unexpected challenge with gusts consistently toping 50 MPH, some getting so strong they would have been hurricane force had they been sustained.

This section straddles dense population centers and frequently passes through hiker-friendly towns. So many locals dedicate their lives to supporting the thru-hiking community in the form of meals, transportation, and housing free of charge. It’s not uncommon to see a total stranger pick up the tab for a group at the local diner, for a mom to proactively offer a ride from the grocery store, or for a retired couple to open their home to literally dozens of people who end up sprawled across their guest bedrooms, living spaces, and backyard. The abundance of kindness has just reinforced that despite what we are made to believe, most people in this world are generous and good. I will forever owe a debt of gratitude to those who shared their time, stories, and resources along the way.

Outside of the tangible, the desert proved to be a great place for introspection. The environment contextualizes your role on this earth, reinforcing your insignificance against the backdrop of its grandeur and the veracity of its elements. Walking alone here, your demons are inescapable, almost omnipresent, as you feel the suffering brought on by your masochistic decision to hike through its most challenging season. You have no choice but to confront those demons. No choice, but to relive the pain and to reframe your mindset as you confront them. When your options are to process or be consumed by your troubles, the only way out is through.

I think it may be why so many broken people, so many who have been cast out from society, so many that find themselves out the outside of the confines of what we consider "normal" find their way to the rural desert. Rejects in one sense, but almost embolden by their own difficulties, they face their challenges head on while supported by others doing the same. They’re able to live amongst the pain with those that understand it and in an environment that promotes self-actualization and welcomes all that can survive here.

I found the people deep in the backcountry generally fell into two groups. First are those running away from something. Many had done so in earnest, attempting to better themselves but often their demons proved inescapable. Yet just as often, if not more, I met people running towards something; looking for a better life for themselves and their families. They sought what small towns, fertile farmland, or urban sprawl could not provide. In truth, I’m not sure which group I fell into, often feeling like I had a foot in each.

A final and pleasantly surprising thing about the experience has been gaining the respect of real men and women in a way I’ve never felt before. Plenty of people understand the allure of hiking through the High Sierra, far fewer the Mojave. Truckers and train conductors honk their horns at me and wave in admiration, construction workers stop me in the street to ask about the journey, ranchers tip their hats and farm workers pay their respects as I walk by. Motorists are always the least understanding, often doing their best to avoid eye contact and shuffle by quickly, apropos given that’s actually the world I came from. But the real people who keep this country moving, those that work the land on horseback, on foot, and behind commercial vehicles truly appreciate what we’re doing. Themselves often longing for the freedom and the wild we experience. It’s an honor to feel a sense of kinship with them.

In all, they tell you that life is scarce in the desert, reserved for only the most depraved. I found it to be to the contrary, at times bountiful, if you really look for it. It’s an eccentric crowd that congregates here, drawn to it by the excess of land, respect for privacy, and its isolation.

One of the hardest things about leaving is knowing that there will be no more desert ahead. There will be high mountain peaks, densely forested canopy, deep lakes, and rushing rivers throughout. But the desert we will have to leave behind and I leave it with a new found respect. For the land, for the people that call it home, and for the challenges it faces. I sincerely hope that we’re able to find a way to respect this vast ecosystem, to live in symbiosis, and to continue to preserve what remains. I may never choose to live here but there will be a part of me that longs for it, knowing a way of life completely the opposite of what I know is always waiting.

Much love always,

Connor

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• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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We started out of Big Bear Lake on the opposite side of where we had stayed the night before, producing beautiful views back over the water, overlooking the town and small ski resort above it. We descended about 2,000 feet in the first 15 miles surrounded by a dense forest of towering fir, pine, and cedar trees. Once settled, I was treated to one of the most beautiful sunsets yet over the jagged peaks of the San Bernardino Mountains.

Shortly thereafter we passed Lake Arrowhead en route to Deep Creek, likely my favorite stretch of the trail thus far. The tectonic uplift of the San Bernardino Mountains provides a steep elevation gradient for the creek as it weaves through the canyon, dropping almost 3,000 feet through boulder strewn reaches and deep pools en route to the East Mojave River. Our approach began with a massive bridge, towering more than 30 feet above the water and we had our first river swim of the trip, much needed after a hot day!

The highlight was the naturally occurring geothermal hot springs, with 10 pools of perfectly clear water going up to 110 degrees, nestled on the bank of the creek (which got as low as 45 degrees itself); perfect for hours of hot and cold plunge therapy. The site was first used by the Serrano people for spiritual rituals. It then became a haven for counterculture movements of the 60s & 70s, which cemented its designation as a clothing optional site. It always astonishes me that nudists insist on getting very close in conversation, regardless of where you are in the world.

After a short desert section that included a compound resembling Walter White’s mobile meth lab, we passed through the man-made Silverwood lake, where a dozen hikers sheltered from the mid-day sun spoiled by the modern conveniences of potable water and flush toilets.

A few miles later was one of the most talked about points on the PCT - the McDonalds at Cajon Pass. The pass is notable as the gateway between the San Bernardino and San Gabriel Mountains. Initially used by the native peoples of the region, it was then utilized by the Spanish to travel between their Californian missions, and eventually added as a part of the original Route 66. The pass remains one of the most highly trafficked thoroughfares in the American West.

Coming immediately out of the pass we had a steep, 3,500 foot climb into the San Gabriel Mountains. While it brought striking views, it was relatively short lived as it also led to our first major trail closure, a result of the 2023 Bridge Fire. We descended down off the detour and walked Highway 2 into the idyllic mountain town of Wrightwood.

Once in town, we were hosted by a local trail angel named Liz. She completed the PCT 15 years ago and in 2023 decided to retire along the trail so she could host hikers on their own journeys as a way of giving back to all those that supported her. She housed, fed, and drove us for two days as we resupplied and recuperated. She sent us to bed with warm hot chocolate, cookies, and homemade marshmallows every night and hosted a delicious Memorial Day barbecue, giving some of our foreign friends a true American experience.

We then road walked out of Wrightwood, almost immediately crossing into Los Angeles County and Angeles National Forest. We followed Highway 2, which has been closed to vehicular traffic, until it intersected where the trail reopened. A short and steep climb later we summited Mount Baden-Powell, named for the founder of the world scouting movement (ie. Boy Scouts & Girl Scouts). We were incredibly lucky to have made it up as, unbeknownst to us, the Forest Service had shut that 10 miles of trail down that morning, and we were likely the last to see those views for months or even years to come. Did we commit an accidental felony punishable by 6 months imprisonment? Yes. Was it worth it? Absolutely. The views were sweeping in all directions with the various mountain ranges we’d previously summited behind us and the flat expanse of the Mojave desert just ahead.

Following the natural order of things, the summit was immediately followed by our descent out of the San Gabriel mountains. This wound on for a couple of days and the scars left by the local population were clear. It shouldn’t have been a surprise as this section has the highest density of trash people per capita (which I believe should be an officially tracked statistic) on the entire PCT. People came from all over the Inland Empire to use every turn off as an opportunity to do donuts in their cars and shot magazine after magazine into the air in celebration (of what, I’m not entirely sure).

But just as I was becoming disillusioned with society we came across a parking lot at the end of a 20 mile day, when we were tired and in search of a campsite. There sat an older gentleman, next to his parked van, which in most other times in life would be something to avoid, but in this case it was a (literal) god send. Bob was a representative from the Christian wilderness camp a mile down the road and had drinks and snacks to offer for those on the go, or a ride to camp where a bunk bed, shower, laundry, and dinner would await. We jumped at the opportunity and watched a beautiful sunset before a lovely nights sleep.

Trail magic continued in the coming days. First with a hiker named Snow Angel handing out breakfast burritos, next a truck filled with sandwiches and sodas for the taking, and then two older ladies handing out sandwiches of their own. For two days on the trail I ate almost none of my own food, sustained by the generosity of complete strangers, proving that there’s still a lot of love and kindness in this chaotic world.

Finally, we found our way into Acton, taking my one millionth step along the way, and camped in the backyard of the 49er Saloon. The next day required just a short hike to Agua Dulce through Vazquez Rock park, formed 25 million years ago due to activity from the San Andreas Fault. Having stunning sedimentary rock formations so close to Hollywood has drawn the eye of directors for decades, serving as the backdrop for productions including Star Trek, The Flintstones, Austin Powers, Little Miss Sunshine, and many more.

In Agua Dulce, I got 24 hours to recover and was blessed by a visit from old friends Erin, Tyler, Alex, and Mery who brought sandwiches, homemade baleadas, and an all important Amazon order. Now it’s time to head back on the trail with one of the most infamous sections ahead: a 50 mile stretch through the dry and unrelenting Mojave Desert.

By the numbers

Hiker Profile

Moritz “Quail” Geiseler, 23, was born in Berlin but has lived the majority of his life in the smaller German city of Düsseldorf. In between the two, he spent a year living in Spain, which was where he first developed his love of travel and adventure.

I first saw Moritz (or Mo, as he goes by in the U.S.), in Warner Springs at the local community center run for hikers. He came inside while his laundry was drying, towering over us at 6’ 4” and dressed in nothing but boxer briefs that left little to the imagination. The sweet 70 something year old volunteer named Linda nearly fell out of her chair. I immediately started to chuckle and knew a) that he wasn’t American and b) that he was a character I needed to befriend. It was simple, as Mo is one of the happiest and kindest people I’ve ever met. In the weeks since, he’s become my best friend on the trail, hiking and camping together each night.

Traditionally Germanic in many ways, Mo isn’t shy about asserting his opinion and presenting it as a command. “Put on your jacket, you’re going to get cold”, “take off your shoes to rest your feet”, and “you need to take more water with you” are things I hear throughout the day and he’s almost always right. But counter to the stereotypes about his cultura Mo is extremely warm and giddy. The two of us can laugh all day but also slip into modes of intense focus when warranted.

He’s also obsessed with America’s cultural nuances. Relatively benign things such as gated timeshares, soda machines, burnout marks, lifeguard stands, lifted trucks, and mega highways are all photographed and accompanied by his favorite tagline “this is so American.” Mo speaks phenomenal English, with a vocabulary than a lot of native speakers I know, but he still produces little errors that are very entertaining. The Indians are “The Indianas,” you eat a salad with letters instead of lettuce, and you’re going to kiss the dust instead of bite it.

Mo is a welder by trade, having recently finished his apprenticeship. But his passion is jewelry making, often working with coarse metals adorned with precious gemstones. Upon his return home he hopes to start a graduate program in Vienna focused on developing bespoke products that optimize for both aesthetics and function.

This environment has hyper accelerated the rate at which friendships are developed. Of course there is the fact that we spend all day every day together, but the nature of the journey itself: sharing hardships and resources in times of scarcity really shows you who others are. This experience also promotes a degree of vulnerability that I’ve not seen before. And most of all, by hiking with someone day in and day out you are implicitly trusting their character and judgement, knowing that they could be responsible for making a snap second decision when your life is in the balance.

It’s incredible to think that you would risk your own life for someone you just met a few weeks ago and know that they would do the same for you. I’ve had “friendships” with people for decades where I know they wouldn’t do the same for me. But for now, Mo & I will focus on making animal calls in canyons to see how much they’ll echo and giving each other endless shit, living every day of this experience to the fullest.

What I’m Listening To

I’ve started to listen to a lot more music in the last few weeks. Going back through my Spotify downloads, I’ve focused on revisiting some of my favorite albums of all time. The requirement for inclusion below was that I had to immediately replay the album after finishing it the first time through. I’ve highlighted one song from each that stood out.

Whether it be the first CD I ever bought for myself over 20 years ago or music from the last year, genres run the gamut from jazz & bluegrass to rap & reggae. Collectively, it’s a good sampling of my musical taste. I hope you all enjoy!

Early Morning | Sentimental | Introspective

• “Duke Ellington & John Coltrane” Self titled (1963)

  • “Angelica”

• “Plans” Death Cab for Cutie (2005)

  • “Soul Meets Body”

• “Chet Baker Sings” Chet Baker (1956)

  • “But Not For Me”

• “Parachutes” Coldplay (2000)

  • “Shiver”

• “Blindfaller” Watchhouse (2016)

  • “Wildfire”

• “Home” Billy Strings (2019)

  • “Long Forgotten Dream”

Mid Day | Up Tempo | Celebratory

• “Rumours” Fleetwood Mac (1977)

  • “Go Your Own Way”

• “KAYTRAMINÉ” Self titled (2023)

  • “4EVA”

• “Le Tigre” Self titled (1999)

  • “Deceptacon”

• “Carpe Lucem” Kylon Eiley, in Collaboration with Francis Ford Coppola’s Hideaways in Belize (2022)

  • “Caribbean Girl”

• “Tropical Indie” a playlist curated by Melodic Magazine contributor, Sarah Space (2024)

  • “Take Your Time”

• “You’ve Come a Long Way Baby” Fatboy Slim (1998)

  • “Praise You”

• “SOS” SZA (2022)

  • “Ghost in the Machine”

Evening | Ephemeral | Joyous

• “Matahari” L’Impératrice (2018)

  • “Là-haut”

• “Ella and Louis” Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (1956)

  • “Cheek to Cheek”

• “Currents” Tame Impala (2015)

  • “Let it Happen”

• “Play & Play B Sides” Moby (2008)

  • “Porcelain”

• “Look Whose Talking” Jank Setup (2022)

  • “Mylah”

• “Golden Hour” Kasey Musgroves (2018)

  • “Rainbow”

• “Jaguar II” Victoria Monét (2023)

  • “Alright”

Personal Check-In: Month 1

When I first told others about my plans to embark on this journey almost everyone asked me what I hoped to get out of it. And either because I’ve gone a few of solo journeys in the past or because this one came on so spontaneously, my answer was that I didn’t have a real objective. I almost looked at this through a shamanistic lens - the medicine will give you what you need - and in this case the trail is my medicine. As I reflect on this first month, I’ve already been gifted something: a reclamation of my joy and zest for life.

I grew up an eccentric and goofy kid, with hobbies & interests that didn’t align with the mainstream. It’s something that often ostracized me from others but was so core to who I was. I didn’t appreciate how stunted I’ve felt over the last few years, battered down by the realities of work life, the toxicity of our societal state, and the drain of having people in my life (often that I chose), that didn’t align with my values and didn’t appreciate that side of me. Slowly I became someone other than myself. I lost that youthful & jovial energy. People throughout my life had told me as much in recent years and I sought to get it back, but there’s no playbook for undergoing such a fundamental rewiring.

Since starting, being around so many incredible people, who have a smile on their face all the time, being immersed in such dramatic, breathtaking settings have brought it out in me again. It’s reminded me that oldies music in the hardware store is meant to be danced to, that when presented with the opportunity, you always take the mini shopping cart, and, in a pinch, trekking poles can enhance an air guitar routine. That sewing and pickling and acting are useful pastimes and not things to be ashamed of.

If I had to leave the trail tomorrow, I would have achieved what I would hope to have set up to do, which was to give what the trail needed me to have and that was a new lease on my outlook and a desire to seek out joy in life above all. As I look forward to the next four months on trail, I cannot wait to see what else this experience has in store.

(No) Shower Thoughts

Seeing my own evolution in real time has caused me to reflect on healing and reform in a broader sense. Just before this trip, I watched a documentary called “26.2 to Life” covering the marathon club at San Quentin, a maximum security prison in Marin County, California. In the film, you follow the lives of inmates in various stages of their incarceration, most of whom appear to have been truly rehabilitated and they attribute it in part to their club membership. Even within the confines of prison walls, the notion of having a goal (particularly something physical), to strive towards every day had an outsized impact on their personal growth.

It’s data points like these that really have me think, as impractical as it may be in practice, how much more effective our systems would be if instead of locking people up in cages surrounded by others also deemed dangerous, our inmates were in nature. A thru hike specifically would check a lot of the boxes: it’s a physical task with some degree of difficulty, you’re remote, and immersed in nature. There is plenty of time to think and reflect on your actions (and their repercussions) as your demons tend to be inescapable in the wilderness. You spend time around a diverse range of people that are physically and mentally healthy, hoping to share their perspective with you.

I think this concept goes well beyond criminal justice and applies to all forms of institutionalized healing. I often think about a something my Aunt Catherine told me years ago. She has suffered from schizoaffective disorder since her late 20s and has spent most of her years since in halfway homes around the country. She said, in her very matter of fact way, “Connor, the worst thing you can do for someone who’s mentally ill is surround them with more mental illness. It just pushes them further into their own psychosis.”

Often when we think about how to solve a problem, our instinct is to isolate and surround with similar circumstance. This is true of mental institutions, tuberculosis sanatoria, senior living facilities, prisons, and countless other congregations. There is a certain utility in the concentration of resources for treatment or improvement, but I’m not convinced that, at an individual level, it leads to better outcomes. If anything, we should be giving those in need of healing more family time, more strangers to exchange with, more intellectual stimulation, and certainly more time in the natural world. While I’m not vouching for taking sick family members out of hospitals away from their care or allowing criminals to run unchecked throughout society, I’m also not vouching for locking people up under fluorescent lights and stale air solely for the purpose of keeping anything unpleasant out of sight and out of mind.

Illness, delinquency, and old age are fundamental parts of life. Some aren’t “treatable,” but to separate all that is unpleasant from society, stigmatizing and secluding those who need our support most will not improve their circumstances. I hope we can all find it in ourselves to extend love and grace to those who need it and develop holistic systems for growth where all can thrive.

Much love always,

Connor

Bonus Content

While I did not take this video, one of my friends witnessed two rattlesnakes starting their mating ritual on the trail after falling out of a tree. It’s extremely rare to see so I had to share.

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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These sections have been remarkable, with a wide range of ecosystems and terrain in rapid succession. We started in rolling grasslands and oak woodlands, where the trail wound through the arid chaparral of the San Felipe Hills and the high desert expanses of the Anza-Borrego. Flora highlights were coast live oak, manzanita, and yucca with their flowers in all three stages (pre, during, and post-bloom).

A 3-day heatwave, producing temperatures in the upper 90s with pounding sun and a real-feel close to 110, caused a change in our hiking strategy. We began waking up between 4-5 am, heading out before sunrise and hiking 10-12 miles, stopping by 11 am. Then, we would find some shade near one of the relatively infrequent water sources and camp out until close to sunset.

Once the sun was down, we would set back out for another 5-6 miles, guided by a full moon. It was my first experience with night hiking and is something I will definitely be doing more of throughout the rest of the trek. We would set up camp in the dark and pass out immediately, with another early wakeup on deck.

Just a couple dozen miles and less that 36 hours later we began climbing the cooler, forested slopes of the San Jacinto Mountains. Covering 1,200 square miles and with a max elevation of 10,834 feet, the range is affectionately referred to as the “Baby Sierra” (the Sierra Nevada, for context, covers 24,000 square miles and tops out at 14,505 feet). This section had towering jeffrey pines and firs, many of which were torched from wildfires in 2013 and 2018.

The weather was unforgiving in this section, low temperatures hovered around freezing and 70 + MPH gusts whipped over the ridgeline. Some smaller hikers reserved to crawling on their forearms in the most exposed sections to avoid being blown off the ridge. Despite finding relative coverage, little sleep was had that night, but it did produce one of the most spectacular sunsets to date.

Towards the top of the range, we took a detour to drop down into Idyllwild, a picturesque mountain town filled with dozens of thru-hikers. I camped in the state park downtown and was floored by the luxuries of flowing water, flush toilets, and hot showers (at $1 for 5 minutes). I took a day to rest, do laundry, get some very caloric meals, and explore this alpine paradise. I even got to meet the mayor & vice mayor, both good politicians indeed.

Afterward, we got a hitch back up the base of the mountain and then ascended 6,000 feet to the peak of Mount San Jacinto. After the summit there was a steep descent into San Bernardino National Forest. We went from nearly 11,000 feet down to just 1,100 feet in under 30 miles of trail (and my knees took note). At the bottom we crossed underneath I-10, passing through the hiker haven, and I introduced a few of our international friends to In-N-Out (double-doubles, animal style of course). With more wind in the forecast, we cowboy camped under the stars that night, treated to a direct view of the snowy peak we’d been at the top of just 36 hours earlier.

The next morning, we began our ascent into San Bernardino National Forest. We spent about 15 miles scrambling through a riverbed of unmarked trail, the result of a hurricane washout from 2023. It was fun at first, reminding me of summer days spent scrambling through creeks in Maryland with my cousins Henry, Lexi, and Lily. The charm quickly wore off and the pain of walking on rocks for hours on end couldn’t stop soon enough.

With only 34 miles remaining until Big Bear we decided to push on for a 24 mile day, my longest yet, to set us up for an easy 10 mile hike into town. Now we have a tent site in town for the night, are off to resupply and plan to hit the trail again in the morning!

By the numbers

* Overall mileage will diverge from where I am on the trail as I complete side quests to peaks and other points of interest.

Hiker Profile

Fred “Just Fred” Lawson, 57, of Tacoma, Washington is a recently retired firefighter, avid hunter, husband, and father of two college-aged daughters. He and I met on day 3 and crisscrossed for the next week or so. We spent 4 days hiking and camping together in the latter half of Section B before Idyllwild, hiking through some of the most difficult terrain and worst conditions of the desert section.

Fred was born and raised in Southern California and joined the Army right out of high school working as a firefighter. That took him up to Washington and he elected to go back after his service was up. He met his wife in his mid-30s (“what’s the rush to get married?”) and had his two daughters shortly thereafter. He speaks fondly of his 33 years on the force and his youngest is planning on following in his footsteps.

Fred can be described as a mixture between Sam Elliot and Ron Swanson. He knows what he likes and doesn’t care for overcomplicating things. His trail name “Just Fred” really encapsulates it: straightforward, no-nonsense, unflappable. Our conversations mostly centered around gear, hiking strategies, nature, and his plethora of hunting & firefighting stories. He plans to spend his retirement outside, staying active and keeping in touch with old friends. He hopes to join us for a portion of the Washington section near Mt. Rainier, assuming he’s back from his bow and arrow elk hunt in Idaho by then.

The only thing Fred fears more than a mountain lion? “What my wife will do to me if I don’t get off the trail before our family vacation in August.”

Term of the Week

‘Camel Up’

The act of drinking extra water while at a water source, usually an additional liter, to reduce your hydration needs in the upcoming section.

“You better camel up at the rusted pipe, the next water is in 20 miles on the other side of I-10”

(No) Shower Thoughts

I am going to revive a Divvy classic and put my own spin on it. Obviously the trail has given me the opportunity to do a lot of reflection. While it has been mostly confirmatory to my views/values, its also provided exposure to an entirely different way of life. That really became clear while sitting under a pine tree in the desert on day 7.

By 11 am, most hikers had found their way to “Mike’s Place”, the property of a local trail angel complete with water tank that prevented what would otherwise be a 40 mile water carry. Situated immediately opposite the tank on the other side of a dirt road sat a lone pine tree, under which Mike had erected a few small tables and benches. No less than 20 of us huddled underneath this tree waiting out the mid-day heat, some having to shift every hour or so with the changing shade.

Over the course of 8 hours, we did… almost nothing. We sat and talked, cracked jokes, appreciated the scenery. Some read books for a while, others played cards off to the side, but for the most part we were able to just pass the time living in the absolute present. In the wrong mindset it could have felt like being held prisoner by the heat, boring to no end. But when thinking about it as a gift, an opportunity to learn about yourself and the world around you, it was absolute bliss.

I recognize that often the things we do to occupy our time are borne of our responsibilities and cannot be avoided. But most, (myself included), make a life out of occupying our time with mindless activities where the goal is really to just make it to the next obligation. We binge TV, scroll on Instagram, run to the store, make plans with people we don’t really like, go to the gym, etc. all just to avoid being alone with our thoughts. We excuse the behavior as “needing an escape” or “shutting off” for a bit. While there is certainly a time when that’s necessary, its a strategy that is overused, offering diminishing returns, treating our symptoms and not the root of the problem.

So I would encourage you all, the next time your life allows a few hours on a beautiful day, to avoid slipping back into the habit of occupying your time just for the sake of doing so. Instead, take a long walk with no destination, sit in a park, or invite a friend over to the backyard. Take in everything around you, stop and reflect on it, watch the world as it changes throughout the day. Strike up a conversation with every stranger possible and try to take something new away from them. I think what you’ll find is what I can now truly appreciate: sometimes the fulfillment derived from hum of constant movement falls short of the joy life can bring when you stop long enough to take it all in.

Much love always,

Connor

Useful Links

• PCT Trail Map

• Trip Itinerary (Out of Date)

• Satellite Location

• Substack Home

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One of the best parts of preparing for any endurance activity is the bulking period just before you begin. My first trail angels and gracious hosts Alex & Mery were up to the challenge of feeding my insatiable hunger at their Santa Barbara casita in the days leading up to the trip. We feasted on local corn, clams, trout, and other goodies from the farmers market.

Alex and I were able to get out for a few hikes & mountain biking trips to stay loose. We were even greeted by a couple C-class transport planes flying at just a few thousand feet.

On Friday morning it was time to get on the train and head south. Amtrak didn’t make it easy of course, cancelling the second half of my train and making this a car to train to bus to another train to another car trip down to the southern terminus near Campo, CA. Waiting for me in San Diego was trail angel #2, my friend and former Divvy colleague, Jacqueline, who was kind enough to drive me to a campsite right near the border.