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The chajin lifts their right arm, enveloped in an oversized sleeve, bringing a silk cloth carefully to chest level. They begin a sequence of four major folding motions. Each crease is calculated as it cleans the rim of an intricately designed bowl. Below, every utensil waits in its assigned place. The water slowly backs off its boil, first into a string of pearls, then fish eyes, before settling into the desired state.

Every facet of Japanese tea ceremony is deliberate, even before a single gram of powder touches water.

For centuries, chajin, or tea practitioners, have been preparing matcha this way. The practice of whisking powdered tea leaves originated in Song China, but was later preserved in Japanese monasteries centuries after it faded in its birthplace.

In the last 25 years that has fundamentally changed.

Today, more than half of Japan’s matcha is sent overseas, much of it ending up in trendy cafés where it’s appreciated for very different reasons than those that shaped it. The final product often more closely resembling a mocha frappuccino than a meditative aid.

How does that impact those who cherish it most?

I came here to find out.

Before the turn of the century, matcha remained largely confined to Japan and its diaspora communities abroad.

Then it started to go global.

First it was a niche wellness drink favored by yogis, health bloggers, and the macrobiotically obsessed. Steeped green tea is often lauded for the health benefits brought on by minimal oxidation. Matcha goes a step further: the entire leaf is stone-ground into a fine powder, allowing drinkers to consume the plant itself rather than an infusion of it.

As the world slowly discovered matcha, its next phase of growth was already taking shape.

In 2001, Starbucks Japan introduced the Matcha Cream Frappuccino. Five years later, Starbucks added it to its U.S. menu as a ‘Green Tea Latte.’ For the first time, matcha had a global café chain capable of introducing it to millions of customers. Arguably more importantly, in the U.S., matcha wasn’t being introduced through tea culture at all. It was being normalized by the coffee industry that dominated daily routines.

That was only the beginning. Its greatest accelerator turned out to be algorithmic.

By 2020 TikTok and Instagram discovered the same thing that 16th century Uji farmers did when they started shading their tea trees before harvest. Matcha was visually irresistible. Shades of jade, emerald, and wheatgrass with shimmering translucent pearls settling in a foam on its surface.

It’s vibrant, yet minimalist. Aesthetic while also healthy.

Matcha became more than a drink, it became an identity statement.

But matcha, at its core, is an acquired taste. Certainly for a typical American palate, where bitterness, grassiness, and umami aren’t exactly sought after. So in order to make it more familiar, much of the matcha consumed abroad was combined with milk, ice, sweeteners, and fruit syrups.

I had my own preconceptions about all of this. But before deciding what I thought, I wanted to hear from the people who had inherited the tradition. To families who had spent decades farming, blending, and preparing matcha, was this a welcome evolution—or the beginning of something they’d come to regret?

I asked Tetsuya, the sixth generation to run his family’s tea business and the president of the Shizuoka Tea Association. He started with the farmer’s perspective. International demand, he explained, gives tea farmers a future at a time when many are struggling to survive.

That much made sense. But he went a step further.

Foreign consumers, he argued, are often willing to pay for higher-quality matcha. That demand rewards traditional cultivation and processing methods that might otherwise disappear. That directly counters the domestic trend toward bottled teas, where lower-quality leaves can be blended and processed into inexpensive drinks. Outsiders weren’t just buying tea, they were helping save it as well.

But Tetsuya spoke as a businessman. What about the tea masters? The ones who’d spent decades apprenticing just to make a single cup.

I asked Naoko, a chajin from Tokyo, about her thoughts on rising overseas interest. She said that, in a way, it drove her toward matcha. After spending her middle school years in Connecticut, she wanted a way to interact with foreigners back home.

“So I studied tea ceremony.”

It isn’t her primary job. Her days are spent behind a desk in a Shibuya high-rise. But now nights and weekends are dedicated to sharing her culture with the world. Impeccably dressed in an inherited kimono she practically glides through the choreographed steps. Five years on, Naoko feels she’s found the passion and purpose she’d lacked as a young adult.

I posed the same question to Akira, a Kyoto-born chajin. Ironically, it was foreigners who led him back to Japanese tea as well.

“It was not until I moved to the U.S. that I realized how little I knew.”

Friends would ask him basic questions about his own culture that he couldn’t answer. Embarrassed, he eventually chose to move back to Kyoto to take over his family’s kimono shop. At the same time he reconnected with a local monk, a childhood idol, to study tea ceremony under her. It’s a practice he carries on in her memory for visitors from all over the world.

By now, I’d heard some version of this story several times on The Tea Trail. The MBA student in Seoul, the math teacher from Beijing, and the executive assistant in Tokyo. All of them grew up with an affinity for Western culture only to realize they’d become enamored at the expense of understanding their own.

Nor was it limited to tea. I found the same pattern in calligraphy, ceramics, textiles, and countless other crafts. Again and again, I found globalization pushing young people back toward the very traditions many feared it would erase. Adoption by those outside their culture didn’t dilute their interest; it emboldened it.

Not everyone I spoke to, though, was quite so elated.

“I’m glad that matcha is really popular, because Japanese culture has become famous around the world,” said a third chajin, pausing for a moment, her eyes drifting down to the floor.

“But on the other hand, the most attractive part of the tea ceremony is the heart, showing service to guests, about creating peace.”

She shook her head and met my eyes once again.

“I just want people to know more about the original matcha too.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d come across a tradition wrestling with what happens when outsiders fall in love with it. In certain ways, it reminded me of the early 2000s, when newly wealthy Chinese buyers began to fancy Swiss watches, Scottish whisky, and French wine.

At first this was a welcome change for producers, delighted to find an entirely new group of customers. But that elation quickly turned into unease as hushed stories started to circulate in wine circles: “those billionaires are taking Chateau Lafite Rothschild, and mixing it with… Coca-Cola.”

Those rumors ended up being mostly debunked, but it was true that lesser, yet still artfully crafted wines were being combined with soda. Faced with unfamiliar flavors, many consumers reached for something they already knew.

I found one of the most poignant voices in the Chinese-born, British-based wine scholar Janet Wang, who wrote:

“It is a great pity to waste something fine on the uninterested, when it could have brought much joy to a discerning drinker, or someone eager to learn. If a wine is made with a great deal of skill and love, intended to be enjoyed in its glorious unadulterated form, it deserves to be treated so, not least to appreciate the people who worked hard to give it life and art.”

She then adds a more centering perspective.

“This knowledge will also come with learning and experimenting… It is my opinion that a two way exchange of culture, to draw on common feelings and finding cultural parallels, would be infinitely more potent in communicating ideas than any unilateral preaching programme.”

Her point wasn’t that people shouldn’t experiment. It was that appreciation takes time—and that culture rarely moves in only one direction.

Back in Tokyo, I walked into another café, and a couple of tourists ahead of me ordered a first flush Ogurayama matcha, one of Uji’s finest. Then they asked for it with oat milk and blueberry syrup.

My instinct was to cringe.

I had just visited those tea fields, spent weeks learning about the painstaking effort required in its production, and watched experts spend hours of focus on just four cups of it.

But I thought back to every conversation I’d had over that time.

Maybe I’d been asking the wrong question.

Was it fair to expect an entirely new demographic to be both willing and able to inherit someone else’s practice at face value? To forgo something that makes them happy because they have not “earned” the right to enjoy it?

I’d spent weeks wondering whether outsiders were appreciating tea correctly. Maybe the more important question was whether appreciation had ever begun with perfect understanding in the first place.

I don’t know whether the millions of people ordering vanilla matcha lattes with whipped cream will ever sit on a tatami mat across from someone with generations of heritage. Honestly, most probably won’t.

But some will.

And those lattes will become their first bowl. That curiosity will grow into study. And study will eventually lead to stewardship.

In a world of dying art forms, maybe we can’t afford to be so picky about how they are sustained. Because traditions endure not by remaining untouched, but by allowing each generation to find its own way to value them.

Sources

• The Japan Times. “Matcha shortage: Global demand forces Japan to rethink production.” February 23, 2025.

• Wine Peek. “So What’s Wrong with Mixing Château Lafite and Coca-Cola Anyway?” November 25, 2013.

• The Economic Times. “Why Matcha Is Trending Everywhere: From Boosting Heart Health to Weight Loss, This Over-800-Year-Old Tea Surprisingly Beats Coffee & Chai in Many Ways.” June 19, 2025.

• Queens Gazette. “Green Tea Joins Starbucks Menu.” April 19, 2006.

• Japan Today. “Starbucks Matcha Marches into VIA Lineup with New Japan-Exclusive Green Tea Drink Mix.” July 2025.

The Tea Trail — Japan is supported by

MAASS — Fort Lauderdale, FL

Supporting storytelling about craftsmanship, hospitality, and culture.

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Days here generally begin the same way. A bit dazed after another night spent editing later than I would have liked, I roll over to my phone to see what happened overnight. A few scores go final. Texts are exchanged. Someone says something outrageous. It goes viral. Not much has changed and now everyone back home is getting ready to go to bed.

Eventually I get myself out into the world, but don’t really integrate into it. Moving from place to place as anonymously as a white guy a head taller than the crowd can possibly do.

I’ve learned a bit of Japanese, but not nearly enough to sustain a conversation. English fluency has improved dramatically in recent years, but communication still rarely comes easily. Even those who are proficient, I’ve found, are often hesitant to use it.

After enough days without really talking to anyone, I began to notice how little human interaction everyday life actually required. A few coins dropped into a vending machine deliver my morning tea. A touchscreen takes my ramen order and I plant myself at the counter. Maps guide me effortlessly between cities, going door to door without a second wasted. I scan my passport at the check-in station and my hotel key drops into a tray, sending me up the elevator to my newest accommodations.

My life here is easy, efficient, and consistent. Things that can’t be said for travel in much of the world. But those moments are frankly forgettable. It’s three others that stand out.

Tomopy was introduced to me through Chef Ryan’s publicist. She held no formal title other than the unofficial cheerleader of her small city of Sukagawa, yet she was willing to drop everything to show me around. She picked me up in the light pink Suzuki Kei she’d inherited from her mother, then took me to her favorite breakfast spot overlooking the bamboo forest. A wall of doors stood open, letting the cool morning breeze drift inside. We sat down and got to know each other over boiled eggs, toast, and some hojicha from last autumn’s harvest.

She took me from place to place, proudly showing off the home of Ultraman and the Haiku trail that brought fame to her little corner of the world. She introduced me to family and friends. Her radio studio, her son’s school for afternoon pickup, the man who has acted like a father to her since her own had passed away. Each a window into the life that she was so proud of.

As she prepared to drop me off at the train station that evening she turned and said:

“I can’t believe we just met this morning.”

We began the day as strangers and ended it as old friends.

A week or so later I stumbled upon Ken in a sunken log cabin in the mountains of Shizuoka. He was sprawled out on the floor, enjoying the mountain mist floating in through the open windows, peacefully stroking the cat that had jumped onto his thigh. It took a few moments to get his attention but as soon as I did he sprang into action to shepherd me inside.

He explained that it was actually his home that doubled as a Yakiniku, or barbecue restaurant, open by reservation only. He made me some first flush sencha from the farm down the road and showed me photos of neighbors jamming on the various string and reed instruments that were nestled into every corner of the room.

We talked about where I was from, I asked him about the area, and he became fixated on the price of McDonald’s in the States (he was thrilled to learn about the Big Mac Index). But somehow the conversation drifted back to the nights when the place was filled, each seat occupied with neighbors from the village.

I could picture it immediately. Drinks flowing. Wood coals crackling beneath wagyu and vegetables from his garden. Amateur musicians pouring themselves into every riff. The rousing applause from the dozen or so gathered there, as heartfelt as if the musicians had been performing for thousands.

He spoke with genuine affection. He insisted the place wasn’t much—dark, cramped, and falling apart. Yet every story he told returned to the people inside it. You could tell he knew the building meant far less than the community that congregated there.

Eventually it was time to move on. I attempted to pay him for the tea, but he refused.

“You can pay me by coming to visit again”

Then there’s Kayo. I was standing on the sidewalk in the Kiso valley, in the foothills of the Japanese Alps, when I heard footsteps.

“Picture?” she asked.

“Yes.” I replied, smiling just as broadly as the great-grandmother now standing in front of me. She was beautifully dressed from head to toe, a sparkling necklace serving as the outfit’s centerpiece.

“Of what?” She inquired.

That exchange set into motion more than I could have imagined.

Then, without another word, she started walking. Assuming but uncertain that she intended me to follow, I lagged behind a little way until she stopped to see why it was taking me so long.

She took me to the town’s main temple, slowly making our way through the central gate to take in the maples, cherry blossoms, and dogwoods that had grown over the pathway. She paused at the temple’s entrance, explaining that her father was one of the main carpenters on the project over a hundred years ago. She gently placed her belongings at the base of the stairs and pressed her hands in front of her chest before taking a long bow at its altar. I quietly mirrored her movements in a moment of reflection.

From there we made our way to the gravesites. To pay our respects to her father and husband who were buried near one another. We repeated the same quiet ritual.

She stopped and asked me, “House five minutes. Okay?”

I told her, of course, and she led me down a steep path to the place where she raised her family, being sure to point out her summer annuals in bloom.

She gave me a tour, constantly emphasizing how small it was. The space was filled with life. She introduced me to her parakeet and beta fish. She pointed out family photos and trophies from placing in dancing competitions all over the prefecture. She led us back to the living room to pay our respects a third time at the shrine she keeps, dedicated to the departed.

She disappeared into the kitchen in search of something for an unexpected guest. I tried my best to encourage her to sit and relax but she insisted. She returned with a handful of snacks and two glasses of sobacha before finally settling in.

We sat there for hours as the rain began to come down, creating movement in an otherwise peaceful view of the hillside. She told me about each of her children. Who they’d married, what they did for a living, the lives they went on to build for themselves. She told me about her travels to New York City and Prince Edward Island. About the time her whole family went to cheer on her son Itaru at the 2006 Olympics in Turin. Describing the mania of excitement and pride as he dropped in, in pursuit of his dream.

There were plenty of small breaks in our conversation, often brought on by language fatigue or a loss in context. Each was filled by a sip of tea or a bite of fruit before a new thought popped up.

For the rest of the week, she stopped at my hotel each time she passed by. A few days later we met for matcha and egg sandwiches at her daughter-in-law’s café. Our final meeting back in the lobby was to exchange letters and gifts. I left her the best gyokuro I'd tasted in Japan. She slipped me an envelope with a few origami cranes, a drawing, and a letter.

I opened it after returning to my room, my heart already full.

Thank you for the wonderful days.

They became one of the best memories of my life. You are very kind and generous.

I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Japan.

Take care and stay healthy. I hope to see you again someday.

Best regards,
Kayo

I did not come to Japan in search of a lesson in loneliness. I came here to understand tea.

Instead, I found myself thinking about the people who insisted on sharing it.

Every meaningful interaction shared one thing: time. Time to stumble through a conversation that neither of us fully understood. Time for conversations to wander. Time for strangers to become something more familiar.

Human connection needs more than proximity. It needs permission. A reason to stay seated. To put your phone away. To stop worrying about what comes next.

That’s so much of what tea has always done.

Long before it was bottled, branded, or sold for convenience, tea gave people permission to slow down together—to accept hospitality, to linger. The drink was never the point. The space it created was.

Three months into this journey, the thousand cups of tea have started to blend together. The people I shared them with never will.

The Tea Trail — Japan is supported by

MAASS — Fort Lauderdale, FL

Supporting storytelling about craftsmanship, hospitality, and culture.

📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

I met Chef Ryan Ratino about three years ago, when he was preparing to open MAASS, his first restaurant outside of Washington D.C. Despite being just a few years older than me, he had already become one of the youngest two-star Michelin chefs in America, earning recognition across the industry.

What struck me most, though, weren’t the accolades. It was his work ethic.

Chef Ryan talked about sleeping on a restaurant banquette after service so he could be ready for the next morning’s deliveries. About obsessing over details he knew most people would never notice. About building a dining experience worthy of the farmers, fishermen, artisans, and producers whose work arrived in his kitchen each day.

Five Michelin stars later, those standards haven’t changed.

That’s why I’m excited to announce MAASS as the title sponsor for The Tea Trail – Japan.

The more time I spend here, the more I see similarities across industries. Tea farmers obsess over the timing of a harvest by the hour. Ceramicists apprentice for years refining a single form. Craftsmen dedicate entire careers to perfecting techniques that remain invisible to the untrained eye.

It’s an approach that feels strikingly familiar to what Chef and his team pursue every day in their restaurants.

Chef Ryan was one of the very first people I called when I decided to embark on The Tea Trail. From the beginning, he and the Hive Hospitality team have been generous with introductions, recommendations, and local connections that have helped me reach the people at the heart of Japan’s tea culture. As those conversations continued, it became clear we shared a common belief: the people behind extraordinary products deserve to have their stories told.

That’s what this partnership is about.

Great restaurants honor great ingredients. The very best honor the people behind them.

MAASS
525 N Fort Lauderdale Beach Blvd
Fort Lauderdale, FL 33304

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📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

The final minutes were ticking down in Japan’s opening World Cup match against the Netherlands. The Samurai Blue were down 2–1 and the room had grown noticeably tense. A few men sat, hands wringing. Some paced near the undersized television. Others stood motionless, seemingly resigned to a disappointing result.

Then Daichi Kamada put one in the back of the net and the crowd erupted. A celebration worthy of a proud nation with deep tournament aspirations.

But suddenly a voice came over the loudspeakers and the focus quickly shifted.

The clock was about to hit 7:00 and the doors to Japan’s largest wholesale tea market were preparing to swing open. I got in line, but craned my neck to see if any more last-minute heroics were in store.

We’re not going to wait five minutes?

I walked into this building for the first time a few days earlier expecting baskets of overflowing tea and hordes of people coming in and out. Instead, I found an office park. Inside the entryway, there was a laboratory to my right and rows of workstations to my left.

It was quickly established that this market wasn’t open to the public, plus there wasn’t even any tea there. But after making my way through a few different representatives I found myself invited to Monday morning’s auction.

“Be there at 6:50… maybe even a bit earlier,” the host was already skeptical of my interpretation of punctuality.

I walked through the doors at 6:40 sharp. The empty hall I’d seen a few days before was already filled with about 100 people, each wearing a hat corresponding to their role. Tea farmers sported green, marketplace employees wore yellow. Light blue was for the press, red for government officials.

But the largest group wore dark blue, donned by merchants waiting outside the exhibition hall’s doors. An exclusion no one seemed to be particularly upset about on match day.

Tetsuya walked in and bestowed upon me a dark blue hat of my own. “You need to wear this, otherwise you can’t go inside.”

As soon as the doors opened, blue hats flooded the room and merged into the sea of yellow and green. They rushed to tables lined with black plastic trays filled with tea from the prior day’s harvest. Their job was to quickly assess the tea’s quality and begin negotiations before another buyer could claim it.

They first inspected the raw leaves, taking handfuls and shaking them out from above, activating their aromas. Anything under serious consideration was scooped up and carried over to tasting sinks where 15 industrial-sized kettles blew steam from every opening, always at the ready.

My host, Tetsuya, is the president of the Shizuoka Tea Association. A sixth-generation tea merchant and 10th-level tea master, he is one of only 30 people to have achieved the country’s highest ranking in its 70-year history.

“And half of them are from Shizuoka,” he added.

So this market is often home to the greatest density of Japanese tea experts in the world and I had the pleasure of seeing it through the eyes of one of the very best.

Standing just outside the rush of passersby, Tetsuya explained that they were currently in a seller’s market.

“There is still rising demand for tencha,” he said, referring to the semi-processed tea eventually turned into matcha. Many farmers had invested in the equipment required to produce it, as tencha can fetch prices 3-4 times higher than the more common sencha.

We moved past them to a set of second flush senchas, their leaves larger than the rest. “Most second flush is now being used for RTD (ready-to-drink). So the way it’s cut doesn’t matter as much because the consumer will never see it.” He lingered on that thought for a moment until we were interrupted, joined by the local journalist who first introduced us. It turned out he’d been stewing on a question for him.

“How much less tea was sold in the first flush compared to last year?” Tetsuya asked.

“10%,” he replied.

“And the harvest yielded 30% more tea per acre,” Tetsuya added.

Supply and demand going in opposite directions.

The organized chaos of tea bargaining continued in the back of the room. Once a buyer was ready to negotiate, they called over one of the market reps to facilitate the trade. Everyone appeared calm, and while I could only read body language, there seemed to be a mutual respect for the other’s expertise. Once they started talking numbers, the rep would make calculations with an abacus, their fingers displaying the dexterity of a concert pianist.

This could have been happening a hundred fifty years ago.

The front of the room was different. There were two rows of trays with no seller at their side. Instead, a pool of buyers slowly circled the product like sharks, sizing up everything around them.

Because this year, the market introduced a new element: silent auctions run through an app.

We moved toward one of the special pieces in this section, a lot of first-flush okumidori tencha, rare for this late in the season. Starting bid: ¥5,000 per kilogram, already 2.5 times the price of anything else in sight.

“I expect it to go for ¥12,000,” Tetsuya said.

He was in the market for some tencha on behalf of one of his more discerning clients based out of Bangkok. I followed his lead as we used our gloved hands to grab a handful and bring it to our nose.

“You’re looking for umami and sweetness,” he sniffed intently. “Then the regional aroma that makes it unique.”

I raised some freshly brewed leaves to my nose. The first smelled of dull grass, while the second was much more vibrant. I took a swig of the oversteeped liquor meant to bring out its weaknesses. One batch was clearly better than the other, exactly as Tetsuya had described it.

“It won’t meet her standards.” Without another word, he was already walking toward the next tray.

“Much of the tea trade has relied on relationships,” Tetsuya said, a shared history that allowed transactions with limited information. “Some people feel that the digital auctions have the farmers taking advantage of a seller’s market when the buyers helped the sellers through bad times just a few years ago.”

During COVID, raw tea pricing was down more than 70%. Many businesses failed, others were pushed into early retirement, unable or unwilling to work through the pain. Tetsuya noted that if it weren’t for certain buyers continuing to do business with their normal counterparts, even paying inflated prices to keep them afloat, more would have folded.

But he also noted he wasn’t so sure that the changes were all that bad.

“The online system allows newer traders to buy or sell tea without established relationships.” A quick look around the room shows why. The room was occupied almost exclusively by older Japanese men.

What a silent auction does is ensure that the best tea wins, no matter who’s involved.

I found myself dwelling on the two modes of sale.

Which is better? A system that has little emotion, but also little bias? Or one that relies on partnerships in both good and bad?

What do markets actually value? And what should we value in them?

Questions I couldn’t answer.

But as I was ruminating, Tetsuya posed a question that hit much closer to home.

What happens when the rush for more is no longer there? Once ready-to-drink tea corporations and foreign buyers have enough to meet demand?

“They will stop buying, and I can’t blame them. That is their business,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But we will still be here, because this is our community, our heritage, and we must make sure that it survives.”

It was 7:45. Almost everyone had left. Tens of thousands of kilograms having traded hands.

It brought me back to less than an hour before. A hundred people willingly walking away from one of the biggest sporting moments of the year because work was about to begin.

Most hadn’t chosen the profession so much as inherited it—some stepping into businesses that dated back to the nineteenth century. For them, leaving the match early wasn’t abandoning sport in favor of work, it was exchanging one national pride for another.

To the rest of the world, Japanese tea is becoming a commodity.

For the people inside that room, it’s still a way of life.

Sources

• Original reporting based on direct conversations with tea merchants, buyers, market makers, and industry participants at the Shizuoka Tea Market (静岡茶市場), Shizuoka, Japan. June 2026.

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I stepped off the plane into the standard precision I’d come to expect.

QR codes and facial recognition got me through customs & immigration without speaking to an official. A tap of my credit card carried me onto the world’s most expansive rail network, and less than an hour later I was stepping out into Kagurazaka.

But what was waiting for me outside the station that Thursday evening was just as emblematic. Hammered salarymen, ties undone and shirts unbuttoned, were yelling over one another, shoulder to shoulder inside one of the designated smoking areas I’ve begun referring to as “cig pens.”

Just beyond, a couple was very publicly displaying affection against a wall. A few feet farther, a man sat on the curb, rubbing the backs of two friends doubled over on either side of him, suffering the consequences of the last few hours.

I shook my head, let out a big breath, and smiled.

“Ah Tokyo, how I’ve missed you.”

That love isn’t universal for the world’s largest city. Many encourage people to treat it as no more than a port of entry en route to the rest of the country. And while I don’t think a visit exclusively within its limits is a true trip to Japan, something about it has always spoken to me.

Because what others view as overstimulating contradictions, I see as a society balancing between extremes.

Hyper-efficiency and joyful disorder.

Quiet reverence and neon spectacle.

Ancient ritual and relentless modernity.

Somehow, none of it seems out of place.

In the eight years since my last visit, Japan feels both the same and subtly different, with language playing a huge role. English signage has become commonplace, and people switch to my native tongue before I can even stumble through half a sentence of theirs.

In 2025, Japan welcomed over 42 million foreign visitors, one-third more than 2019’s pre-pandemic high.

Tourists have become so ubiquitous in certain neighborhoods that I’ve become desensitized to it. At times, the ratio of Westerners to Japanese has felt closer to San Francisco’s Japantown than Japan itself.

It feels like the most significant wave of foreign influence since Japan reopened to the world in the nineteenth century.

The comparison isn’t perfect. While foreigners once arrived aboard gunships seeking trade, this time they’ve come on budget airlines, armed with smartphones.

The tea world has evolved alongside the rest of the country. A matcha craze has swept the globe and added another layer to Japan’s international appeal. Now, a tea once reserved for ceremonies is being splashed over alternative milk products from Los Angeles to Lagos.

Japan is producing nearly three times as much tencha (matcha leaf) as it did 10 years ago, and it’s still not enough to meet demand.

But there’s far more to Japanese tea culture than matcha alone. Nearly 70% of tea consumed here is sencha, the traditional steamed green tea that has long defined daily life. And for the everyday person in Japan, more tea comes from a plastic bottle than a teapot.

Last year, foreign visitors spent more than ¥9.5 trillion ($60 billion) here. Economists classify that spending as an export, making tourism Japan’s second-largest export sector after automobiles.

Japan isn’t just exporting its culture anymore; it’s importing the world to experience it.

Tea has spent centuries balancing old and new, ritual and routine, luxury and convenience. If Japan is learning to balance one more contradiction—the world itself—I suspect its favorite drink will tell the story first.

Sources

• Japan’s Heat-Stressed Matcha Tea Output Struggles to Meet Soaring Global Demand. Reuters, July 4, 2025.

• Japan Buckles Under Matcha Mania. Financial Times, October 10, 2025.

• Japan Tourist Arrivals Rise to Record in December Despite China Drop. Reuters, January 20, 2026

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📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

As you pass through the galleries, palaces, and streets of Seoul, it’s hard not to be captivated by the place. The rush of heavy traffic is softened by the elegance of white-gloved policemen and the effortless sophistication of the people moving through it. But if you sneak down the tight alleys splitting off from major promenades, you end up in a different world. One filled with the jovial shouting of locals helping themselves to heaping portions of barbecue, crackling and steaming from the electric grates at their knees.

Seoul, like much of urbanized East Asia, seems to operate in these dichotomies while somehow making them work. Except this bustling metropolis has something missing.

After a day’s walk past coffee shop after café after Starbucks, I stopped and said aloud: where’s the tea?

I asked around, nobody had a clean answer.

But the numbers are clear. Koreans consume about 3.9 kilograms of coffee per person each year. Tea? Just 0.16 kilograms, roughly 4% of the volume.

It wasn’t a single factor but rather compounding events that led to one of the world’s oldest tea cultures at times feeling disconnected from its own roots. Through my research, conversations, and reflection, there seem to be three main contributors: time, urbanization, and war.

Tea arrived in Korea from the neighboring Tang dynasty during the Silla period in the 7th century. This was roughly the same time as the Ancient Tea Horse Road began between China and Tibet. But where the Tibetans embraced tea for practical reasons related to their diet, Korea’s adaptation was primarily spiritual, in line with the country’s deep Buddhist practice.

So tea grew in popularity throughout the Silla period, before really hitting its golden age during the Goryeo dynasty. But power shifted in 1392, when the Joseon took over. Their Neo-Confucian ideals emphasized education, moral conduct, and social order. That differed from the Buddhist institutions that had played a central role during the Goryeo period.

And while a discrepancy existed, the departure was really a matter of the Joseon consolidating power by reducing the influence of institutions that came before it. As temples lost land, wealth, and influence, tea faded alongside them.

So while that explains why tea wasn’t particularly present in 1640, it doesn’t begin to explain why tea still feels marginalized today.

Tea art as a whole has undergone a massive revival since the 1980s, led by Taiwan and spread throughout Asia. It helped restore centuries of history in just a few decades. So while there is some growth in the Korean tea market, it’s still dwarfed by that of its neighbors.

The first reason is likely the most intuitive. It’s difficult to change habits in a single generation. But after three, few people retain firsthand memories of the old ways. After fifteen? Even the most determined preservation efforts struggle to survive. I suspect that while tea outlasted a 150-year dormancy in China, recovering from Korea’s 500-year decline was more difficult.

Coffee, the beverage that came to dominate Korea, is known for thriving in urban environments (a fact that I plan to explore further in future chapters), while tea has historically done well in both rural and urban places. Both China and Korea were heavily agrarian in the 1950s with between 80% and 90% of each population living rurally. Today, both are predominantly urban. But the pace and timing of that shift tells a more complete story. By the time tea began reviving in the 1980s and early 1990s, Korea was already 75% urban while China was still just 20%.

Korea’s population was primed for a coffee revolution. China, still overwhelmingly rural, followed a different path.

But what is most interesting to me is the third point: war. As I settled into the only real tea shop I happened upon in central Seoul, I got to know the owner, Teo. A Chinese immigrant himself, he had come to Korea to study business and stayed. Eventually I got comfortable enough to ask the question I couldn’t stop thinking about: why did he think Koreans seemed to have such a preference for coffee over tea?

“It all starts with history,” he began. He believes Chinese support of North Korea pushed many South Koreans toward Western, and particularly American, cultural influences and away from what they view as inherited Chinese habits. Even if that inheritance happened 1,500 years ago.

That was the lightbulb moment for me.

While American staples had reached East Asia for generations, the Korean and Vietnam Wars brought unprecedented numbers of Americans into daily contact with those local populations. Some of the habits they brought with them stayed long after they left.

Today, more than 70% of adults in South Korea consume at least one cup of coffee daily. On average, the country consumes 416 cups of coffee per person per year, 3 times the global rate.

Seoul has around 20,000 coffee shops (85 per square mile), serving its 9.5 million residents. That’s more than three times the shop-density of New York City with 28 cafés per square mile, while serving a similar population of 8.5 million. This trend goes beyond the city. There is a coffee shop in South Korea for every 510 people, one of the densest on earth.

Eventually I was led to Insadong, the old tea neighborhood just outside the palace walls. But what I found wasn’t particularly moving. As I hopped from shop to shop, most tea was served in bags and uninspired glass mugs, the kind of afterthought I was used to back home.

Of course tea still exists in South Korea. Boseong still grows it. Tea houses still operate. Tea associations still meet. But compared to China, Japan, or even their Northern counterparts, its visibility in everyday urban life feels remarkably diminished.

Instead, South Korea’s most consumed beverage is one that can’t meaningfully be grown domestically and only became commonplace within a lifetime, while one of its oldest traditions survives largely at the margins of daily life.

Whether that’s progress or loss, evolution or devolution, or simply change is subjective opinion. But it raises a question that’s becoming increasingly relevant all over the world: how did a drink with fifteen centuries of history come to feel less Korean than the one that arrived only a couple generations ago?

Sources

• USDA Foreign Agricultural Service. Coffee and Tea Market Brief: Republic of Korea, 2025.

• International Coffee Organization. Coffee Development Report.

• The World Bank. Urban Population (% of Total Population) – China.

• The World Bank. Urban Population (% of Total Population) – Republic of Korea.

• Kim, Mee-Hyang. The Use and Culture of Tea in Korea. Proceedings of the International Conference on Tea Culture, 2001.

• China Heritage Quarterly. “Feeling Your Way. The Cultivated Aesthetic in Taiwanese Tea Art”

• KOISRA. Rising Coffee Consumption in South Korea.

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📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

I hadn’t been right for a few days. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but my body was rejecting something I’d done to it, and I couldn’t deny it anymore. I hadn’t let anyone in my traveling party in on the secret, but when I arrived at our next destination I saw some medicine on the table, a freshly brewed batch of Chinese medicinal herbs next to them.

“This will help you,” said the note placed by its side. The benefactor remained anonymous.

For most Americans, China exists more as a geopolitical rival than a nation filled with ordinary people. And even less as one of the world’s oldest and most consequential civilizations.

The Communist Revolution, the Korean War, and modern economic rivalry all helped shape how recent generations of Americans have come to view the country. After 75 years of disagreement, we have largely shut ourselves off from nearly 5,000 years of lived experience and cultural development.

Because what I experienced was not a nation stuck in the past, but rather one that was firmly living in the future, while maintaining a deep respect for its longstanding customs.

Most that make the trip are taken by the extraordinary infrastructural and technological progress China has made. Nearly everything is paid for digitally. Anything you could ever want is at your door in under an hour. The streets are silent with electric vehicles, and you can cross the country on a network that accounts for 75% of the world’s high-speed rail.

I too was struck by the modern. But it was the way it lived alongside traditions that really captured my attention.

In just a short time, I was able to visit with the Dai people of Manzhao Village who have been making rice paper the same way for 800 years. Every yard, street corner, and stall is dedicated to preserving the ancient art form, while incorporating new techniques (like laser engraving) to continue serving the world around them.

Then spending weeks with Blang leaders who have lived harmoniously with nature for more than 2,000 years on Jingmai mountain. Using the tea tree as the foundation of their social, economic, and spiritual worlds. Ensuring that each generation will live sustainably in order to pass what they view as their greatest resource on to the next.

Seeing the potters of Jianshui, whose intricate handmade practice of creating incised reliefs could never be replicated by a machine. The process is so meticulous that many masters have resigned themselves to a nocturnal life in order to retain focus.

To end with the monks of Wuyi, who have overseen tea making since they helped pioneer rock tea during the early Qing dynasty. Their temple, perched high among the cliffs, has promoted peace and mindfulness through nature for centuries.

Yet, it wasn’t just the artists and artisans who cared for craft. Instead, it seemed to extend to the way everyone thought about their possessions. I often saw people on the side of the road tinkering, restoring, and repairing instead of rushing to replace. Understanding that the value of what they possess outweighs anything that could be bought. Because while you can make a clay teapot or cast iron pan in a day, it takes years of use to reach their true potential.

These values extended beyond craftsmanship alone, beginning with community. Where it isn’t theoretical, but embedded into daily life.

Meals were eaten at a round table, a rotating centerpiece showcasing the food. Whether there were two people or twenty-five, it didn’t matter. Each dish was shared, the plates in constant movement to ensure that all were served.

Every time I went to take a sip of my drink, someone would stand up across from me, their hand placed beneath their cup, in a sign of deference and respect. I would meet them in the center, embarrassed at having forgotten once again.

Tea sessions carried the same spirit. All participants had a seat at the table. The host remained constantly aware of everyone’s cups, quietly refilling them while keeping tabs on the leaves to ensure the tea never lost its peak flavor. Merchants were eager to share their finest without any expectation of purchase in exchange.

Hospitality wasn’t a business model, it was a way of life.

Meetings started with the offer of a cigarette, and with almost every departure, a parting gift. Not something generic, but deeply personal: a bit of the tea I liked most, wrapping up the cup I had admired, sending me along with the tea pet that made me laugh.

It’s something I have seen all over the world. Even places that have nothing will insist on giving you everything. Because when you have a depth of pride in what you can provide, where you come from, and what you make, seeing the appreciation of an outsider is the greatest privilege. Creating something and passing it forward provides a fulfillment that no purchase could ever replace.

And it went beyond the people I knew, but to strangers as well.

I spent days in the park, joining a group playing mahjong or Chinese chess. Dropping in on qigong or a learned dance. Happening upon an artisan who was willing to stop their practice to give me a lesson in their craft.

Life is lived in public and everyone is welcome to play a part.

It showed me how conscious the world was around me. In an age that can feel like people are operating on autopilot, self-absorbed, deep in their digital worlds, I felt seen by complete strangers day after day. People who had never met an American took the time to pick up on the nuances of my actions, my demeanor, and my facial expressions. Even though we had no common language, they still found a way to understand who I was.

But over my last few days in Shanghai, it became abundantly clear that these values are at great risk. Because back in the transactional world, placeless luxury had become its own form of commodified culture. Trendy neighborhoods looked the same as those of Brooklyn, London, and Buenos Aires.

Because cultural homogenization is real, and the threats it poses to the heritage it washes over cannot be understated.

There is no replacing an impromptu lesson on the potters wheel, the mesmerizing sight of handspun silk, or the gravity of sharing the same space as a spiritual leader.

For those who cherish the bespoke, the handmade, and genuine human connection — for those who believe globalization should connect communities without eroding them — there is a path forward.

Understanding Chinese culture is a great place to start. Spending your free time in a local park, watching brushstrokes flow across paper, or feeling the steam as it rises out of your teacup.

The values of intention and attention are not a given, but when we bestow them upon one another, we create a world that feels far more human.

Sources

• UNESCO World Heritage Centre — Cultural Landscape of Old Tea Forests of the Jingmai Mountain in Pu’er

• International Energy Agency — Global EV Outlook 2026

• ChinaData — China High-Speed Rail Statistics

• Interviews and firsthand observations collected throughout China, Spring 2026.

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It feels like every Chinese tea market begins the same way.

The gates are ornately decorated, dragons twisting around towering figures painted in pastel colors. It then opens up to cavernous concrete buildings with space for hundreds, if not thousands, of vendors to sell more or less the same three products: tea, teaware, and tea packaging.

And there is one more similarity I would add: they’re empty. Unlike the luxury malls and tourist promenades filled with shoppers, the tea markets I visited were filled with vacant storefronts. Those that remained were stacked to the ceiling with boxes, the owners staring deeply into their phones, a cigarette dangling between their fingers, sipping their own supply.

I was told many of their buyers were elsewhere, or handled through distributors. But it’s in stark contrast to the books I’ve read describing these markets overflowing with customers. Times when nearby banks halved withdrawal limits to prevent a run on cash reserves and pedicabs sold tea to anyone who would listen.

In 2007 Pu’er tea lost between 70-90% of its value. In 2014, 50%. The current freefall has yet to find bottom.

Each time, it felt like a warning of what was to come.

Modern China is not communist in the way many Westerners imagine. In the decades after the 1949 revolution, the country remained poor and economically isolated. Yet, with Mao Zedong’s passing in 1976, Deng Xiaoping became the country’s de-facto leader and he came up with a different approach:

“It doesn’t matter whether a cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice.”

His logic was simple: a few people had to become wealthy before the masses could prosper.

So in 1978 China opened its doors to the world. At the time, its GDP was less than 10% of the U.S. economy. Within fifty years, it would challenge it for the world’s largest.

Crucially, China’s wealth boom wasn’t just felt at the top, but also across a burgeoning middle class that had disposable income for the first time in its history. In the West, we have a preference for wine, art, cars, and watches as stores of value. The Chinese found these alluring, but they also looked closer to home: Pu’er tea.

Between 1999 and 2007 the price of some Pu’er tea increased 1,000%. Outpacing gold, equities, and nearly every major Chinese asset class. There was a saying at the time:

“It’s better to save Pu’er than to save money.”

They were about to find out why that wasn’t really the case.

Pu’er was naturally positioned for abnormal market behavior. Its ability to improve with age encourages stockpiling and speculation. And because true Pu’er can only be produced in Yunnan, supply was naturally constrained.

Then there are the structural vulnerabilities. It’s extremely difficult to authenticate and pricing is opaque, meaning forgery and manipulation are rampant.

Most of all, luxury markets depend on scarcity. From 2006 to 2007, production doubled from 50,000 to 100,000 tons, while producers from around the country shipped product to Yunnan to be labeled as Pu’er, flooding the market with counterfeit tea.

Once buyers began doubting both scarcity and authenticity, the market unraveled quickly.

The institutions left first. And like other speculative markets, once momentum reverses, the collapse feeds itself.

It was crushing. At least one-third of merchants and manufacturers quit within the first year. Medium-grade Pu’er fell to roughly $3/lb, after its prime counterparts had fetched as much as $150.

Villagers quickly shifted back to farming rice and corn. Some market participants took their own lives. It was a regional collapse that foreshadowed how the Great Financial Crisis would reshape the global economy.

But that crash wasn’t the end of Pu’er. Because out of the rubble, something else emerged: financial tea (金融茶).

Guangzhou’s Fangcun is tea’s hidden Wall Street. Originally, it was China’s largest traditional tea market selling all the tea and teaware you could imagine. In the 2010s, an invisible commodity market began to emerge within it. Investors stopped taking delivery of tea and instead traded receipts, eventually buying lots before they were even finished.

Imagine if 95% of Bordeaux buyers never drank the wine. The cases never left warehouses and owners simply traded the rights to them online.

Fangcun began to resemble the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, but instead of soybeans or wheat, they were trading tea.

But unlike the CME, there is no trading floor in Fangcun. Instead, it grew out of storefronts and WeChat groups. So while the first Pu’er crash was due to a supply/demand imbalance for tea itself, its later valuation barely had anything to do with the product at all.

Suddenly tea wasn’t valuable when it was good, it was valuable when it was liquid.

That’s why the world’s most valuable Pu’er was no longer single-origin tea cakes or prestigious blends from high-value gardens. Instead, it became benchmark teas like Dayi 7542.

Dayi 7542 is a raw Pu’er tea blend from Chinese giant Tae Tea. Its name comes from the year the recipe was developed (1975), leaf grade (4), and factory designation (Menghai is enumerated as 2). It turned an otherwise bespoke product into something standardized and easily tradable.

That standardization made financialization possible. By 2012, financial teas had largely regained their pre-crash values. Within a year, they had surged again, rising between 75% and 250%.

Prices grew because people expected them to. That worked for some period of time, but inevitably, new speculative capital dried up and another crash followed, with up to 50% declines through 2016.

The first crash was rooted in oversupply. The second was rooted in speculation.

In 2007 tea producers broke the market, in 2016, the market broke itself.

But unlike 2007, belief in financial tea never disappeared. Prices stabilized quickly, and by 2019 they went parabolic once again. In normal circumstances this may have led to a quick compression, but like just about everything else during COVID, the price of Pu’er exploded.

By 2021, certain teas like Xuan Yuan Hao (轩辕号) increased 25-fold in four years. Standard packages traded for the price of luxury cars.

Then, the Chinese economy began to slow.

Today, businesses aren’t sending gifts the way they once were. And while the stock market gains, ordinary people don’t feel it at all. I lost count of how many times I heard: “the economy is not good and it hasn’t been for years.” More than once, I walked into a shop where the owners sat in darkness to save on electricity.

The price of some teas has fallen by as much as 80% from their pandemic highs. Corporate showrooms are boarded up. Those that remain have four employees for every customer. While farmers and producers are once again trying to figure out how to sell something that once sold itself.

After an impromptu visit with a tea boss in Jingmai, the laoban led us down to his warehouse, passing two Porsches on the way in. As he opened the door to the dark room, we were dwarfed by the cardboard boxes piled to the ceiling, more than 15 feet high.

He cleared us a path to the back, rummaging past bags of tea that had been there for far too long. He handed us each a kilogram of fresh maocha from the recent spring harvest.

“I have more than I could ever sell. At least this way someone will actually drink it.”

Sources

• A County in China Sees Its Fortunes in Tea Leaves Until a Bubble Bursts — Andrew Jacobs, The New York Times

• How Is Market Reading the Tea Leaves as China’s Puer Bubble Comes Off the Boil? — South China Morning Post

• China’s Pu’er Tea Market Cools as Financial Tea Bubble Deflates — The Epoch Times

• Making “Senses”: The Qualia of Pu’er Tea and Sensorial Encounters Between Tea Producers and Traders in Southwest China — Zhen Ma

• Price Prediction of Pu’er Tea Based on ARIMA and BP Models — Zhi-wu Dou, Ming-xin Ji, Man Wang, Ya-nan Shao

• Predicting Pu-erh Tea Prices Using Machine Learning Techniques — B. Balamurugan, S. Pradeep Kumar & R. Lokesh

• Pu’er Tea in Flux: Intersections of Financialization and Digital Capitalism in China — Yutian Wong

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📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

The fog came in thick and held on throughout, causing the granite columns cloaked in vines to disappear into the sky above. The drive wound through hairpin turns secured by minuscule barriers, sheer drops waiting beyond them. We sped through every curve, each blind stretch taken more than halfway over the dividing line, hoping for the best.

So how did I end up banking corners at twice the speed limit, scaling this otherworldly landscape? Because tea has a tendency to favor the remote, towering, and serene. This was no exception.

Tea and Buddhism became intertwined during the Tang dynasty (7th–10th centuries), when both tea culture and Chan (or Zen) Buddhism began to spread widely throughout China. Monks initially took to the drink as a form of medicine, before quickly finding it an apt tool for maintaining focus during meditation. Much like coffee would later spread through Sufi devotional culture in the Islamic world, tea became intertwined with Buddhist monastic life.

Tea was a simple ritual requiring mindfulness while promoting harmony with the world around you. The two were a natural fit.

Buddhist temples became more than just spiritual centers where tea was consumed. They became testing grounds for the growth, production, and consumption of the plant itself. They helped shape the tea culture we still associate with today.

One of my main goals for this trip was to experience it firsthand. What better place than Wuyishan, where both black and oolong tea originated among the region’s cliffs and valleys, and whose landscape was later designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its “Red Mountains and Jade Waters.”

The complex at its peak is known as the Tianxin Yongle Zen Temple and traces its roots back to that initial spread of Chan during the Tang dynasty. But this place isn’t just a beneficiary of tea’s history, it’s a foundational part of it.

Tianxin Yongle is widely regarded as the birthplace of Da Hong Pao, or big red robe, the world’s most famous Oolong tea. And it brings the kind of tourism you’d expect along with it.

When we first arrived I got nervous, as flag-totting tour guides led throngs off their buses. Another sacred site, lost to tourism. I cynically resigned myself to it. Thankfully, our first stop was a secluded gazebo where we met Tian Chan.

Tian Chan was a fresh-faced monk somewhere in his late 40’s, but was only ordained in 2022. Before that? He was a banker in Malaysia.

“I came here to volunteer and I had never felt so at peace,” He said, a gentle smile of inner calm swept across his face. “So I came back for good.”

It turns out his story wasn’t unique. There was a mix of career monks and mid-life converts among the ranks. Partly because the qualifications weren’t as strict as I envisioned. No entrance exam, diploma, or rigorous trial period. Instead, “understanding the texts and being prepared to live this lifestyle.”

Vegetarianism, abstinence, and 5 a.m. wakeups included.

My first morning in the temple complex started earlier than usual to attend morning prayer, the day’s most important. I stayed toward the back, following as closely as I could for 30 minutes of standing meditation. Then, the room quickly shifted into another half hour of synchronized walking, chanting, and hand motions around the temple’s main hall. Drums thumped with every beat, incense wafted by, cymbals rang out across the hall. Whether you wanted it or not, the rhythm pulled you in.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the main hall emptied in a matter of seconds. We met Tian Chan outside, without acknowledgement of the sacred ritual we’d just experienced. We ate a communal breakfast, which was followed by a tour of the temple grounds, explaining every chamber, decoration, and deity. He led us through a Qigong session overlooking the mountains, and we met up with a few more monks, including one who spoke fantastic English after spending 12 years in Thailand.

They toured me around their tea plantations, whose finished product can reach 5 figures per kilo. This wasn’t just a coincidence.

Legend has it that a Ming-era scholar fell ill nearby en route to the civil service examinations, by far the most important avenue to social mobility in imperial China. He was found severely ill and was taken into the care of the temple’s monks, who healed him with the tea they’d grown. The young scholar regained his strength and made it to the exam in time to pass.

The newly minted imperial official returned to the mountain and wrapped the tea trees in red silk as a means of protecting them, giving the tea the name it carries to this day.

So the temple doesn’t fund itself through donations, it’s self-sustaining. More than covering their expenses with tea sales from the Da Hong Pao grown and processed in the surrounding grounds.

Eventually, it was time for tea. Our ever-growing crew departed for the living quarters, where the centerpiece was a massive tea table, likely 20-by-5-foot. We started with a variety of teas grown and processed on site. The mood was great, and the tea even better until one moment something changed. The room that had relaxed seemed to tense up a bit. Smiles faded into straight faces just as shoulders perked up. Not out of fear, but of respect for the gravity of that moment.

I knew he was behind me before turning around.

He came in with a quiet confidence, almost gliding across the floor, the bottom of his robe floating effortlessly behind him. Everyone gave a respectful bow, hands pressed together. Multiple seats were offered and he settled into the one opposite my own on the host’s side of the table.

This was the Shifu, abbot of one of China’s most historically important tea temples. His attendance that day was rumored but never confirmed. His name was never revealed, we were not allowed to share any photographs. But none of that was necessary to understand the weight of his presence.

He began asking me a few questions in Chinese to which my translator stepped in and answered on my behalf.

“America?” He took a beat, his facial expression noticeably changing as he stared into my eyes.

Uh-oh.

After a moment, he continued. I waited anxiously, the last person in the room to be clued in. “You know we call this tea Da Hong Pao. Maybe this would be a good one for you to bring back home because you all seem to look so beautiful.”

I laughed on the outside, but on the inside it was a sigh of relief.

After an hour or so, he beckoned me to the other side of the table. It was my turn to prepare tea. It felt as though I had been asked to lead grace at a monastery on no notice. He watched intently as I tried to put all of my skills up until that point to use.

Pour the water off to the side of the tea, immediately replace the lid. Thumb and middle finger on either side of the rim, index finger over the lid, leaving a couple millimeters of space between the two. Elbow tucked, wrist flicked confidently, but without too much panache.

A slow tilting of the gaiwan over the gong dao bei.

As the tea gently flowed from bowl to cup, I could sense a collective exhale from my traveling party. The Shifu nodded in approval, and my teacher did the same.

After that, the rhythm came naturally. Before I knew it, one of the monks was slipping off his outer robe and placing it over my shoulders. As I returned to the host’s chair, the Shifu began discussing my month-long residency, which he then extended to 3 and finally 6 months.

Surrounded by genuine love, awe-inspiring nature, and deep introspection, it was hard to say no. Quite honestly, it felt like it actually might be the best thing for me. I can be a vegetarian for 6 months and 5 a.m. isn’t too early if I just get to bed on time. Romantic relationships would be harder to talk around, but I can get to that one later.

My short period of entertaining the idea came to an abrupt end as almost all departures seem to happen in China. The Shifu departed as unceremoniously as he had arrived. A few seconds later he was out of sight.

I was left to wander through the vast corridors on my own and I reflected back on an anecdote earlier in the conversation.

“People come to the temple looking for answers” he said, almost bemoaning it. “And a monk’s response is always the same: go and drink tea, go and drink tea.”

When I first heard it, I was a bit disappointed. Part of me had been hoping for some kind of revelation. Some tea-prayer wisdom that could help unlock the secrets I set out to find.

But maybe that’s not how Buddhism – or life – works. The monks weren’t holding back on their advice out of selfishness. They do so because they believe the answers are already within you. To them, tea is the vessel to uncover them.

In the days since my visit, I’ve looked at tea a little differently. I’m less focused on consuming as much information as I can: age, steep time, leaf quality, and more on the act itself. All previously in service of gaining the knowledge and authority I feel is required to speak on the topic.

Instead, I have tried to take a different approach.

To drown out the noise. Allowing every drop to trickle out. Every hand movement to sit with intention. And to carry a piece of their teaching with me for the rest of my life.

Sources

• UNESCO World Heritage Centre — Mount Wuyi

• Britannica — Wuyi Mountains

• Teasenz — The Legend of Da Hong Pao Tea

• Serious Eats — The Ancient Chinese Ritual Behind a Favorite Green Drink

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Tea powered China’s army.

Just not in the way you’d think.

By the Tang dynasty, China faced mounting pressure from nomadic cavalry powers.

But they couldn’t produce horses in the quantities their military needed, so they built a system to acquire them: tea into Tibet, horses back to China. The terrain in between was among the most treacherous on Earth, requiring months of sustained endurance to complete. But the strategic value justified the danger.

This would come to be known as the Ancient Tea Horse Road.

According to legend, Princess Wencheng of the Tang dynasty married into the Tibetan royal family in 641 AD. She brought with her some of the empire’s precious tea as part of her dowry and the Tibetan court embraced it.

Tibet is a high alpine environment, with little arable land forcing a diet heavily reliant upon meat, dairy, and animal fats. It was notoriously difficult to digest and tea helped offset the strain.

Its value was obvious, but it mostly remained among the royal and aristocratic classes during the Tang dynasty.

The Song faced greater pressure than their predecessors. The Liao, Western Xia, Jin, and other frontier foes tested their strength. That led to the creation of Tea Horse Agencies (茶马司), designed to regulate tea monopolies and institutionalize tea-horse trade.

This was welcomed by wider Tibetan society, which directly benefited from the introduction of more tea into their diet and lifestyle. It became a part of daily life, often combined with fermented yak’s milk as a calorie-rich staple. This evolved into an interdependence, with some historical accounts describing consumption exceeding a dozen cups daily.

As trade increased, an entire economy developed around it, including the standardization of production methods, weights and measures, pricing, and transportation routes. Tea was compressed into bricks and then loaded onto caravans for transport. They weren’t just creating an agricultural product, but a transregional commodity.

The Song saw something even larger taking shape: an opportunity to build not only a controlled trade network, but one that could finance the empire.

They went to work building one of the most sophisticated commodity-control systems in pre-modern China.

Farmers had annual production quotas and government sales requirements. Merchants needed licenses, permits, certificates, and state authorization. And the consumers supplemented all of it by paying inflated prices for their goods.

The Song intensified demand and expanded trade for a resource they desperately needed. Then monopolized production and monetized every layer of the network. It was the kind of statecraft that sustained empires for centuries.

For those on the ground though, things weren’t so simple.

The route spanned tropical jungle, steep hillsides, and Himalayan mountain passes at elevations in excess of 15,000 feet, making it one of the harshest sustained trade routes in human history.

Journeys along the main line from southern Yunnan to Lhasa in Tibet lasted 4–6 months, at a pace of 15–25 km (9–15 mi) per day.

Men carried bags of tea bricks, food, and other goods in baskets that they balanced on bamboo frames and slung over their shoulders. Porters routinely carried loads of 60–90 kg (130–200 lb). Mules, horses, and even yaks would carry roughly the same.

A small caravan might consist of 10–20 animals, a few porters, and some local guides. Larger ones could include religious leaders, extra handlers, and even security to ensure safe passage.

Mule bells, prayer chants, and creaking wooden frames dominated the soundscape, set against towering cliffs, endless ice, and dense jungle.

It was common for caravans to be lost without notice, merely slipping off a hillside into the abyss. The losses were built into the economic model, but the human toll was not.

It should not come as a surprise then to learn that those who sustained the system weren’t the ruling class, but mostly smaller ethnic groups on the empire’s southwestern frontier.

Minority communities such as Tangut, Dai, Tibetan, and Blang were central from cultivation to transport and trade.

This increased the strategic importance of the region. With each tea brick they made, they were essentially printing money.

And while tea was responsible for the journey, over time, the journey began to influence the tea.

Tea is a living product that changes with its surroundings: it soaks up smells, slowly ferments, and loses tea polyphenols and caffeine with age.

The tea that showed up in Tibet and Beijing wasn’t the same tea that left Yunnan. So the tea makers had to adapt.

Over time they started to make tea that didn’t just survive the journey, but thrived because of it. Modern Pu’er builds on the fermentation process that was once incidental, where cakes are stored for years in aging warehouses, inextricably linking product with passage.

Today the Ancient Tea Horse Road is a distant memory. It faded slowly during the 20th century with the advancement of mechanized transport and industrialized warfare. Cities were built upon some of its most important trade posts, but most of the rugged overland route has been returned to nature.

After nearly 1,200 years of activity, history has largely folded it into the extended Silk Road network and awareness has dwindled outside the regions it once connected. But its legacy shaped the geopolitical landscape, helping create lasting economic and political interdependence between neighboring powers and successive Chinese dynasties.

Most of all, it represents one of history’s clearest examples of a single commodity shaping an entire regional economy. That model still exists today; just look at the petro-states in Latin America and the Middle East. Imagine entire regions being almost entirely reliant on a few bottlenecks, with empires relying on their stability.

The Himalayan steppe of old is the Strait of Hormuz today. Because while the subject matter may change, the dynamics that drive conflict do not.

Sources

• National Geographic — The Forgotten Road of Tea and Horses

• Silk Road Foundation — The Ancient Tea and Horse Caravan Road

• American University Silk Road Journal — The “Ancient Tea and Horse Caravan Road”: The “Silk Road” of Southwest China

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China is a country of more than 1.4 billion people. Over 90% of them trace their roots back to the Han ethnic group. In most of the country, that breeds cohesion: overlaps in food, language, culture, and value systems.

And then, there’s Yunnan.

If Han-dominant Confucian culture is the rule, Yunnan is the exception.

Around one-third of the province is made up of ethnic minorities, and 26 of China’s 56 recognized groups have a foothold here. Its geography reflects that same break. The province runs from Himalayan peaks towering over 6,000 meters high (nearly 20,000 feet) to tropical rainforest along the borders of Laos and Myanmar.

And it’s here, almost improbably, that tea survived.

Tea trees are believed to have spanned much of the globe in the Tertiary period, but an ice age around 2 million years ago nearly wiped them out entirely. Along the Lancang River, a combination of climate, elevation, and biodiversity provided refuge for the resilient plant that would come to be known as Camellia sinensis.

Jingmai Mountain is the heartbeat of this zone. So I spent two weeks between its many villages, coming to appreciate how each has its distinct character and history.

Life here revolves around tea. Jingmai has the world’s largest ancient tea forest at over 1,000 hectares. But unlike the aesthetically lined tea bushes in India, Japan, or Taiwan, these trees were planted almost at random, in a biodynamic forest, or one that includes a variety of plant species.

It’s objectively less productive than their perfectly manicured counterparts, but locals claim the leaves they bear are richer. In fact, they attempted to plant trees en masse in the 1980s, but the experiment failed. Without biodynamism and room to grow, the trees just didn’t produce the same quality tea. They went back to the wild forests.

As you make your way along the winding roads that shift between dirt and cobblestone, you’re immediately drawn to the roof ornamentation. Jingmai traces its origins back to two ethnic groups, the Dai and Blang (pronounced dye and boo-long). Each has its own architecture, creating visual distinctions from the moment you arrive.

We were welcomed into the homes, dining rooms, and holiday celebrations of each group at their most important time of year. Sharing food, dance, and baijiu—experiences beyond anything I could have imagined.

But of all of the experiences I had, one stands out.

Mr. Su Guowen is the 42nd generational leader of the Blang people on Jingmai Mountain, where they have lived peacefully since the early Han dynasty.

We joined him alone for tea a week before the Blang New Year and again throughout the festivities.

To understand its importance, you have to see what they give up to observe it. The tea industry, the economy’s driving force, relies on a prime plucking and processing window in a six-week period between late March and early May. Yet for this three-day festival, it shuts down entirely.

In its place are prayer, speech, dance, and chanting, interrupted only by spontaneous water fights that give the holiday its name: the Water Splashing Festival.

When you leave the drum circles for the quiet of the temples, you feel a duality—where Buddhist deities are intertwined with something even older.

That’s because the Blang follow two religions simultaneously: animism, as their ancestors did, and Theravada Buddhism. The latter arrived with the Dai around 1,700 years ago.

In one of the main temples, seven giant figures line the back wall, three on each side of a central diety. The surrounding six represent the spirits of land, insects, trees, water, animals, and tea.

The main figure is an amalgamation of the ancestors. He sits upright but not tense. In his right hand, he grips the trunk of an ancient tea tree, a young sapling rests gently in the palm of his left.

These ancestors are represented in each “tea spirit tree,” the first tree planted in every Blang garden. Many that still stand today are over 1,000 years old. Only the ancestral leader is allowed to pick leaves from them. Mr. Su shared some tea from one that day. I was able to take a cake home—one of his many ways of carrying the tradition forward in a form that can survive.

It was his work, and that of so many around him, that made UNESCO take notice. The organization designated Jingmai Mountain as a World Heritage Site in 2023.

Long overdue.

It is the first (and remains the only) World Heritage Site dedicated to tea, lagging well behind wine (Rhine Valley (1979), Saint-Émilion (1999)) and coffee (Southeast Cuba (2000), Colombia (2011)), among others.

But the initial sugar rush of money and attention may be short-sighted.

No country has seen as much change as China in the 21st century. As you peek down alleyways and stroll past the homes off the main street, you’re afforded brief glimpses into a world that goes back 2,000 years.

You can see the faces of the elders, still dressed in their traditional garb, speaking exclusively their native tongue, who remember when there were no outsiders, and really, no government intervention here. Locals say that most visitors aren’t here for the tea, but rather the views, the prestige of visiting a World Heritage Site, and, of course, the perfect selfie.

Today, the road is a treacherous three hours from the nearest airport, in a few months a new super-highway will cut that to under 60 minutes. What exactly Jingmai will look like in a few years, let alone a few decades, is an open question.

On our final visit, Mr. Su showed us two large horses that flank each side of the main doors to his home. The first belonged to his father, the other to his grandfather. Each a gift from a Qing dynasty emperor, alongside a sword, in recognition of their authority to rule over this area. Mr. Su doesn’t have a horse, the tradition was abandoned with the rise of the PRC.

A testament to the history of his lineage and how quickly it can be taken away.

As we prepared to leave, Mr. Su offered a proverb that is widely shared among the Blang people:

Our ancestors did not leave us gold or silver,

for they feared we would waste it.

Instead, they left us tea trees,

so that, generation after generation,

we would always have something to depend on.

That belief remains true even as the way it manifests begins to change.

Sources

• For All the Tea in China: How England Stole the World’s Favorite Drink and Changed History — Sarah Rose

• UNESCO World Heritage Centre — Jingmai Mountain Ancient Tea Forest Cultural Landscape (2023)

• Tea: History, Terroirs, Varieties — Kevin Gascoyne et al.

• Encyclopaedia Britannica — Tea (Camellia sinensis, origin and history)

• National Bureau of Statistics of China — Ethnic Composition of China

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📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

Before this journey really begins, we need to start with the basics. U.S. tea consumption is higher than you might think (on any given day, more than 50% of the population drinks some), but when it comes from Lipton or Arizona it’s easy to miss the bigger picture. That’s like learning about wine by drinking Franzia after 30 seconds in the microwave.

Part of the confusion stems from the word itself. In English, tea is a polysemy, or a word with multiple distinct but related meanings. Those meanings form a chain, from crop to cup and beyond:

1. A plant (Camellia sinensis)

2. Leaves (dried, before brewing)

3. A drink (after steeping)

4. A ritual (Gongfu tea)

5. A social event (afternoon tea)

6. Broader infusions (chamomile, rooibos, mate)

7. Social exchange (“give me the tea”)

This is the root of one of tea’s greatest misconceptions: at what point on that chain is something no longer tea? If you ask an American what their favorite tea is, often they’ll answer chamomile, jasmine, or peppermint. Except, those aren’t actually tea, at least not in the stricter sense defined above. Instead, those are tisanes, or herbal infusions, that the Western lexicon has lumped in with tea itself.

That leads us to misconception number two: that tea comes from many different plants—when in reality, it all comes from one. Yes, you read that correctly. From earl grey to oolong to matcha to whatever’s in that Arizona can, all tea comes from the same tree. It’s processing that turns it into the drink we know and love.

So how is tea processed? The answer is also how it’s differentiated. If you boil it down to one factor, it’s oxidation: an enzyme-driven reaction with oxygen that only occurs while the leaves retain sufficient moisture, typically expressed on a scale from 0 to 100 percent.

Think about the last time you sliced up an apple. Right after slicing it, the golden-white flesh is perfect, unblemished. Leave it out for a few hours, and that flesh would start turning brown. But with a dried apple? There would be no visible difference.

That’s oxidation at work and the same thing happens to tea, creating the difference between lighter teas like green and white, and darker teas like oolong and black.

The second major difference is fermentation: the microbial transformation behind things like beer and kimchi, applied to tea. This is most common in dark teas, though producers are now experimenting with other bases.

Oxidation and fermentation are often conflated—but the distinction drives major changes in composition, aging, flavor, and price. As good as a fresh spring tea may be, few things carry the economic mystique of an agricultural product aged for decades.

Once tea falls into one of six basic categories, it can be impacted further, or “reprocessed,” through additional fermentation, scenting, flavoring, or grinding. It can change form entirely, or barely at all. Just look at Burmese tea leaf salad. Once the leaves are brewed? There’s room for those too. See: tea leaf eggs.

But underneath all of it, what seems like a simple leaf is actually a complex chemical system that has been shaped by society for thousands of years to meet its needs. One that continues to evolve into the modern day.

After all of that, we’re back to the original question: what is tea? It’s somewhat in the eye of the beholder, and to reduce it after everything it has become would be a disservice to the craft. For this project, we can think of it as a plant that grew into something larger than itself. One that evolved alongside humanity, not apart from it.

But the answer to why tea matters isn’t hidden in the nuances above. If you rely solely on chemistry, you’re only seeing part of the picture.

Because none of this is how tea is actually experienced.

A few nights ago, we were hosted by Mr. Shaohong Zheng, the da lao ban, or “big boss,” who founded Sui Yue Zhi Wei Tea Company. He is among those credited with helping re-popularize Yiwu, one of the original regions associated with so-called “tribute teas,” or teas prepared for China’s emperors.

He pulled out a 1986 sheng Pu’er from his personal collection. It had started aging in Hong Kong just 3 years after my mom attended high school there, while it was still under British control. If only tea could talk…

After a lively conversation about the nuances of terroir and blending strategies, I asked Mr. Zheng how he would suggest introducing higher end teas to my own community back home, where a gaiwan isn’t something you’d expect to find in your hotel room.

He started tactically.

“Introduce them to the 5 major elements of tea tasting: aroma, sweetness, umami, bitterness, and astringency.”

It was a useful framework, and one we will lean on. But as I jotted down notes and began to prepare my next question, he kept going.

“Once they begin to drink you must teach them to feel the tea’s impact on their body. Then they can appreciate it.”

Interesting. I quickly wrote that down.

But he wasn’t finished.

“Finally, they must feel how tea impacts their spirit. Only then can they truly understand it.”

That is the real question of this journey: not just what tea is, but what it does to the people who drink it.

Sources

• For All the Tea in China: How England Stole the World’s Favorite Drink and Changed History — Sarah Rose

• Tea Sommelier Coursework — International Academy of Chinese Tea

• Tea Processing Explained in Full — Wu Mountain Tea

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqDk2swTiB8

• The Story of Tea — Mary Lou Heiss, Robert J. Heiss

• Tea Fact Sheet — Tea Association of the USA
  https://www.teausa.org/tea-fact-sheet

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📸 Instagram | 🎥 TikTok | 🎬 YouTube

Culture is disappearing

Not all at once, but quietly, piece by piece. We’ve been taught to believe that when faced with such problems, we inevitably land on the right solutions.

I don’t buy it.

We all feel more divided than ever, yet advancements have enabled the study of our fragmented history as a unified one. It’s time we look toward the past.

The more I read, the more I saw trends in how all societies evolved. We found similar ways to build and grow our influence, even without contact, suggesting those patterns weren’t accidental. My thesis is that we can understand what matters by studying what endured. Yet, the analog artforms that got us here are now endangered. Awareness is the first step, helping us balance preservation and progress.

I’m launching Lost in Space Media to experience culture through craft, bringing you along with me.

Eventually, I hope to follow the global development of textiles, ceramics, fermentation, paper, and metalsmithing, but I’ve decided to start with the plant that changed the world like no other, Camellia sinensis, more commonly known as the tea tree.

The Tea Trail

The history of this shrub from the mountains of Southwest China is a lengthy one, and shockingly misunderstood. There are plenty of legends, tales, and debates over its true origins, but what’s undeniable is its influence: from territorial disputes, geopolitics, and global commerce, to the way it has anchored daily life for billions.

Much of this has been left out of the American understanding. This is relatively unsurprising; our most popular story about tea was when a group of anti-colonial independence seekers dumped 46 tons of it into the Boston Harbor.

Our tea consumption reflects it. As opposed to its use as medicine, stimulant, or ceremonial tool as it is in the majority of the world, Americans drink 80% of their tea black, 85% iced, and more than 50% using added sugars or sweeteners. In the West, tea is often treated as fuel or convenience; elsewhere, it remains ritual, hospitality, and attention.

In order to understand a more complete picture, I am embarking on a 6-month journey to meet the plant at its roots. There are regions, production styles, and trade routes made famous over centuries, and we will study them over the course of this project, but unlike silk and spice, there is no singular ‘tea trail’ that the commodity once followed.

This trip is in part an attempt to weave together a scattered history and find parallels we don’t realize are there. After all, it’s difficult to argue such grave differences in people across the globe when nearly all of us sit down to chat over a cup of tea. Starting in the Jingmai mountains of Yunnan, China, and ending in the Rift Valley of Kenya, this trip will trace 5,000 years of tea history.

Through a combination of short-form video on Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube and long-format writing here on Substack, I’ll sit down with the farmers, blenders, merchants, historians, and everyday people from the places where the plant sprang up and continues to thrive today. We will learn about colonization and global trade. And most of all, I’ll drink a whole lot of tea.

Author’s note

For those that are new to my work, I hope to properly set expectations. While I’m a seasoned traveller, I do not have a background in anthropology or ethnography. This is not an academic paper furthering research on ancient traditions. Lost in Space Media is structured as long-format journalism, full of immersion into crafts, artisans, and communities that are threatened. But as a sucker for the details, I will aim to link source material or list primary sources at the end of each post when possible.

Some of you may be asking yourselves (and others just asking me straight away) why I would leave my career behind to embark on such a diversion. The reality is I don’t know anything for sure. But for me, it’s about reconciling a systematic failure to learn from the experiences of those that came before us. In recognizing that, I hope to be a small part of reversing the trend, looking back, listening first and acting second.

This is The Tea Trail.

Sources

• Tea Fact Sheet — Tea Association of the USA
  https://www.teausa.org/tea-fact-sheet

• Tea and Health — National Institutes of Health (NCBI Bookshelf)
  https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK589770

  ---

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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

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• 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

Leave a comment

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

Leave a comment

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

Leave a comment

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

Leave a comment

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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