Learning the Art of Walking Slow

On October 1, I walked my last steps of the PCT. Wow, it feels strange to write that. At points, I definitely thought that I would be hiking forever. Many emotions are wrapped up in that first sentence, but I’ll begin with some figures. All told, over the course of five months and fourteen days (April 18-October 1), I hiked a little over 2,500 miles, having to skip about 140 miles in central Oregon due to the Cedar Creek Fire. Other than those miles in central Oregon, I hiked every other mile of the trail. Sitting here now, I wish I could have hiked each and every mile, in small part so I could say I hiked the entirety of the trail. But, I mostly wish I could have hiked those miles because I would have had a few more days on trail, living a life of adventure, simplicity, and beauty shared with people I’ve come to cherish. However, I recognize that all things eventually end, and my heart is fuller than it’s ever been. It is fuller with love and gratitude for those that I met along the trail, but also for those that supported me from afar—my parents, family, friends, and colleagues. They encouraged me when I told them about this crazy idea, helped me along the way, and have welcomed me back with open arms.

If you read my last post, you may have sensed that I had a tough time in parts of Washington. Towards the end of Washington, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep hiking and make the effort to return to northern California to make up the ~600 miles that I’d missed due to the fires that closed the trail in early August. But, my gut told me I needed to go back to do those miles, not so I could check a box that I hiked each mile of the PCT (okay, we all know that was a small part), but for a reason I didn’t know yet. I simply knew it was the right decision to go back. And it was.

After Washington, Illy, Squeezy, Caveman, and I made our way back to Mount Shasta, mile 1501. It was strange going from the northern Cascades of Washington to the southern part of the range in northern California. Northern Washington was more remote, more desolate, more untouched by humans. The mountains were more jagged, more steep, and less forgiving. And, although Washington was also plagued by fires, the aridity of northern California was more pronounced, with previous years’ burns lining the trail. The sun was stronger, the air drier. The sweat from my hiking shirt evaporated in minutes, rather than being cold and damp each morning I had to put it on. It was simply hot again.

We noticed two other significant differences when we returned. We saw no northbound hikers in that first stretch back and the days started getting shorter. We were used to seeing lots of hikers in our bubble as we hiked, whether at water sources, campsites, or just along the trail. Now, the trail was ours. While this solitude was a bit jarring and I wondered if I would see any of my old friends again, it was also a welcome change. We got to experience the wilderness without feeling like it was overrun with hikers. And the section from Mount Shasta, to Etna (mile 1501-1600), was stunning. We walked through the Trinity Alps Wilderness with views of Mount Shasta and layers of mountains in shades of blue in the distance. The sunsets glowed shades of reds, oranges and yellows over the lower Cascades. Because the sun was setting earlier, we often found ourselves catching these sunsets as we walked along ridges on our final miles to camp. I found myself hiking these last miles of the day slower, even though I had a tendency to speed up when getting close to camp. I wanted to take in these magical sunsets. But then, quickly after the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness would appear, earlier than we were accustomed.

Hiking at night is disorienting in general, but it is particularly unnerving when hiking through burned forests. Black mangled branches line the trail and a purplish-blue sky fills in the gaps. Your headlamp provides just enough light to see your steps in front of you. You keep walking, hoping that the chosen campsite is not surrounded by dead, breaking trees. Your heart beats with excitement when you see your friends’ headlamps in the distance setting up camp. You’re almost there and you will soon get to share stories of the day with each other over terrible food — ramen, instant mashed potatoes, or, my trail favorite, Annie’s white cheddar mac and cheese shells with a spoonful of Nutella for dessert. Okay, multiple spoonfuls. Nutritious! The four of us got into this rhythm, a traveling little family in the northern California mountains. Despite our nomadic life, I felt that I had a home.

On the night before reaching Etna, as we were eating dinner, Caveman made a strong suggestion framed as a question: what is the rush and why are we hiking so fast? He pressed us to follow his Slow Hiking Movement and gave us all the reasons supporting his Movement. His reasons made a lot of sense.

While slowing down may sound like an obviously preferable way to hike, there are egos on the PCT. Hikers sometime get wrapped up in how many miles they hike in a given day and there is a certain competitive edge about it. No one wants to be the slow hiker. People are impressed when you hike fast. I was impressed when I hiked fast! You often hear hikers talking about how they are going to hike “big miles.” But, as Caveman joked, a mile is a mile. There are no big or small miles. Jokes aside, it’s easy to get caught up in this way of thinking, in part due to ego, in part to lessen the weight of the food carry, and in part due to the necessity caused by the PCT’s limited weather window.

But now that we were alone in NorCal and our weather-window was bigger, Illy, Squeezy, and I (eventually) heeded Caveman’s suggestion. Rather than hike 25+ miles a day, which is certainly possible given the terrain in this section and our fitness at the time, we decided to hike 20-22 miles a day. In terms of time, this is 1-2 hours less hiking a day, assuming we were hiking 2.5-3 miles/hour.

This was one of the best decisions we made on trail. Caveman often discussed a book by Eckart Tolle, called the Power of Now. Admittedly, I haven’t read it so I cannot speak to its worth. But, the slower pace allowed me to embrace the philosophy — be present in the moment, rather than let your mind’s fixation on the future or rumination over the past overwhelm or diminish your current experience. People often ask me what I thought about on trail because I had so much time. Well, I thought about a lot, but in these final weeks, I stopped thinking so much. I started going with the flow and not asking when the flow starts. While this may sound like an Oprah-endorsed cliché, I lived in the moments, took in the beauty of the wilderness that had emptied of hikers, and enjoyed the company of the amazing people who I was lucky enough to meet.

On September 9, we reached the town of Etna, CA. Etna is a hiker-friendly town that did a lot to help stranded hikers when the McKinney Fire broke out. At the trailhead leading to Etna, we met some SOBO hikers and we all got ride to town in the back of some nice loggers’ pickup truck. Many people ask me about the most dangerous parts of the PCT, thinking my answer will be animals or something in nature. I can say now with confidence that the most dangerous parts of the PCT are roads, cars, and trucks. About ten of us piled into the back of pickup truck, holding onto the railings that seemed to be coming loose but also secured our lives. As we weaved through the twists and turns of the mountain road, stopping only for the crossing cows, Illy looked over, and perhaps seeing my face, reached out her hand as support, in case the guard rail of the truck failed. We both laughed at ourselves and the situation, hung onto our hats, and let the warm wind brush across our exhilarated faces.

Needless to say, we made it safely to town, which consists of a delicious bakery, a gear shop, a couple of restaurants, and a post office. The distillery had a two-hour wait for dinner, even though some of its patrons show up on horseback and tie their horse to the post outside while they dine. We also had the good fortune of running into some old friends of ours in Etna—Sam, Denial, and Unfiltered. It was so good to see them, and catching up was the perfect excuse to delay getting back on trail. But, after the midday’s heat wore off, we mosied our way to find a ride back to trail. Within seconds, some nice folks pulled over to give us a ride.

The next section, from Etna, to Ashland, Oregon, was the equivalent of a college reunion. Oh, and we also finished walking the entire length of California! In this stretch, even if we wanted to hike fast, it was difficult because we kept running into so many of our friends, as they made their way south. I hadn’t seen many of them since before we skipped up to Washington, and some not since the desert or the Sierra. Unlike us, who decided to go north from Mount Shasta, to Timberline, to make up the missed miles, many hikers in our position chose to do the opposite, go south from Timberline to wherever they left off in NorCal. Each time we ran into another hiker was a mini-reunion and a big smile crossed my face. I felt so lucky to have met all these people. All these hikers found ways to make up these miles, and, in doing so, we got to say goodbye.

We also coordinated with Pickle, who met us just after Seiad Valley, the last town in California. Seiad Valley, perhaps the heart of the wannabe State of Jefferson, is mostly known for its sweltering temperatures, its general store run by the super-friendly Rick, a small cafe, and a large climb out of the town. Seiad Valley is one of the few towns where the trail literally goes through the town, so every PCT hiker walks through it. After making the big climb, we found Pickle. We all gave huge hugs, as we hadn’t seen Pickle for over a month. Seeing Pickle was like running into a close friend you hadn’t seen in years. We caught up, shared stories, and laughed over jokes that aren’t objectively funny by any standard, but somehow bring you to tears. Pickle would hike with us until Ashland, where we’d have to go our separate ways.

We also hiked some miles in this section, too. Most notably, after 1694 miles of the State of California, we finally crossed into Oregon! This felt like the biggest milestone yet. I walked the entire length of California. I really couldn’t believe I had walked all of Cali-freakin-fornia. Writing it even feels unreal. I started reminiscing about all the highlights of this ridiculously long state, trying to think of my favorite parts, the wonder and newness of the desert, the beauty and majesty of the Sierra. This was up there, and not because it was the end of California. It was up there because I had become close friends with these awesome people, and together, we found a way to get back to the middle of nowhere and finish what we had started.

We left Ashland on September 17. Soon into hiking that day, it began to rain. And it didn’t really stop. For nearly a week. That day, we set up our tents in the rain, ate dinner in our tents in the rain, and woke up in the rain. I heard the patter of rain all night (there was no pittering, only pattering). The rain and the onset of colder temperatures made it clear the seasons were changing. We had hiked through spring, summer, and we were in the fall of our hike. I started to sense that this adventure was going to end, and the weather was making sure we knew it, too. But, in the meantime, we’d continue to hike.

Up until this point, I could count on one hand the number of days it rained on trail. The weather out here is so different than the east coast. It just doesn’t rain in California! While lack of rain is a challenge for the environment, hiking when it’s not raining is hugely preferable, obviously. Particularly when it’s also cold. But a new obstacle! Getting out of your tent when it’s still raining! Packing up soaking wet gear! It took me until 10am to face this obstacle this day, many hours after I normally started hiking, but I eventually did it. Plus, we had planned to meet Big Spoon and Slay at a campsite about 20 miles away (they had gone south from Timberline). So, unless I wanted to get there super late, I needed to get moving. I was excited to see them, so rain be damned. And it did clear up, allowing us to have a proper goodbye dinner with Big Spoon and Slay. It felt like the old times, and we had a final meal as a group, laughing over our crappy food and convincing Big Spoon it was about time he made his much talked about Beard Ramen.

The next day, we said our goodbyes. We hiked only 13 miles that day, as we came across one of the few cabins you can sleep in on the PCT. It was supposed to pour that night and we were tired of sleeping in the rain, even though we only had endured only two nights of it. But those two nights were enough. So we stopped hiking early, Squeezy made a fire, and we just enjoyed ourselves. As night began to set in, the four of us piled into this seemingly cozy cabin, which was just big enough for all of us. Although we stayed dry and warm, none of us slept. A vicious unidentified rodent terrorized us all night, seemingly being everywhere and nowhere at the same time. We heard chewing sounds throughout the night that were coming from all directions, wondering what it was chewing, hoping it wasn’t some expensive piece of gear. At one point, I swore someone was noisily eating potato chips while crinkling the bag over and over again. No, no one in our group was eating potato chips at 2am. It was the terrorist rodent. While our food was secure, we learned the next morning that the rodent seemed to take a liking to Caveman’s tent, leaving chew marks throughout the mesh lining.

Over the next couple days, the rain would stop, only to start again, usually when we decided to take a break. More rain, more clouds. We couldn’t get away from the rain, as it seemed that we kept walking in the direction of the rain clouds. I took almost no photos on this stretch, more concerned about my cold fingers than snapping shots. The same questions kept repeating in my head: Would the sun ever appear again? Would I be able to enjoy a break without cold pellets dropping on me? Would we be able to have dinner together or would we need to retreat to our tents? Would anything dry? These were my thoughts.

On September 22, it finally stopped raining and the sun did reappear, just in time for us to make it to Crater Lake National Park. Caveman convinced us to take the next day as a zero day exploring the park, rather than rush through one of the most incredible places on the trail (and arguably in the world). That night, we camped at a designated campsite in the park, but a short ways from the main event. It was cold that night, with temperatures dropping below freezing and ice forming on our tents, but we huddled around the fire that Caveman built, excited for our upcoming day of exploration of Crater Lake.

Our non-hiking day exploring Crater Lake was one of my favorite days on trail. Crater Lake was formed by a volcano that collapsed thousands of years ago. It’s the deepest lake in the United States and the deepest volcanic lake in the world. There are no rivers or streams that feed into Crater Lake. Rather, all of the water comes from rain or snow. The water’s color changes depending on the sun’s light, but with full sun, the lake is the purest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. The weather on our tourist day could not have been better to take in this wonder: blue skies, temperatures in the high 60s/low 70s, and a shining sun that warmed our smiling faces. My memories of rain faded away.

By the time we arrived at Crater Lake, it was the end of the season, so there were few PCT hikers there. While there were some tourists visiting the lake, it seemed far less crowded than if we had been there in August. We made our way to Rim Village and let the day unfold before us. It unfolded in magical and unsuspecting ways. As we arrived at the lake, we hadn’t gotten far before a luxury guided bicycle tour group had a huge spread of colorful food, offering it to us to enjoy. We indulged in the fresh salads, fruits, and charcuterie that beat anything we’d ever find anywhere else on trail. We were eating things that weren’t beige! We were eating gourmet food overlooking Crater Lake! What a treat.

After eating our second meal of the day before doing any real hiking, we decided to hike to a top of a peak with views of the lake. We hid our packs in the woods. Without the weight, we nearly ran up this peak, passing huffing and puffing day hikers. After sitting and enjoying the views of this surreal place, we made our way down and headed to the Crater Lake Lodge, a hotel that was built in the 1920s. We intended to stay only for a bit, but we met this incredibly nice man named Harry. Harry was likely in his 60s or 70s and couldn’t believe what we were doing. Harry, who lived in Alabama, was there with his wife and on his way to Seattle to have a check-up appointment with his oncologist. Yes, he went all the way to Seattle to treat his skin cancer. Harry insisted on buying us all drinks. Humbled by his generosity, we gladly accepted.

After hanging out at the lodge for probably too long, given it was getting towards evening, we decided we should hike a little bit and find a place to sleep for the night. We headed out to the Rim Trail, likely the most popular PCT alternate, as it follows the rim of the lake with outstanding views. Because the PCT is also an equestrian trail, the actual PCT has no views of the lake because stock being close to the lake would not be a good thing for the lake. Thus, most PCTers take the alternate. Since we were late in the season, the trail was virtually empty, so we were able to camp with clear views of the lake. The campsite we found may have been the most other-worldly place I slept throughout the 5.5 months I was in the woods. We couldn’t believe we had this to ourselves. As the sun set, the sky morphed into cool pastels of pinks, purples, blues, with the color of the lake darkening with the sky. The sky was a dome around us, with stars emerging and twinkling above us. That night, Jupiter just so happened to be closest to Earth as it had been in more than half a century. Jupiter shown brighter than any star in the sky. We collectively felt like the luckiest people in the world. The sunrise the next morning was equally stunning, with the purplish-blue sky filling with the warm colors of yellows, oranges, reds.

The next day, we made our way along the Rim Trail, taking in all the different views that Crater Lake had to offer.

Shortly north of Crater Lake, we made the decision to skip up to Bend due to the Cedar Creek Fire, missing about 140 miles of trail. While the actual closure was about 60 miles, the logistics of skipping just the closure were a bit tricky given its location and I don’t think any of us had the energy to take on setting up rides with kind strangers to and from the middle of nowhere. Perhaps in hindsight we should and could have figured it out, but, at the time, the actual miles seemed less important and we wanted to enjoy ourselves rather than deal with more logistics. So we skipped to Bend, got an Airbnb, and took a zero day. Bend is a very cool small city that sits on the Dechutes River. Among other things, it’s known for its excellent breweries and being the home to the last remaining Blockbuster.

After Bend, we had our last section of trail, from mile 1983, to 2098, Timberline Lodge. During this section, we decided we may start a company called Armageddon Adventures. This section would be the flagship tour for our new venture, complete with volcano lava fields, blackened, charred forests, and pink skies peeking through the mangled trees. If you’re lucky, like us, you’ll also get a day full of pouring rain and gusting winds at near freezing temperatures to make it truly feel like the apocalypse is nearing. Don’t worry, we will be sure to stop by the small store at Ollalie Lake that has a wood burning stove where you can dry out your soaking clothes and get a hot drink. The stove, however, won’t dry out your clothes so much, as char them, if you happen to put the clothes right on the iron stove, if patience isn’t your virtue. The tour will also even add in some night hiking through burned forests in misting rain as a bonus to add to the thrill. But, in the midst of the apocalyptic views, you will see blooming flowers, golden and red leaves lining the mountains, and jagged volcanic peaks inhabited by families of mountain goats. Dinner, together, under the stars, is also guaranteed. We hope you sign up.

Our last night and day felt triumphant but also incredibly sad, as this adventure was coming to a close. I couldn’t believe I had walked the equivalent of the length of the United States. While the distance seemed unfathomable even though I had done it, it wasn’t my focus that day. My mind was replaying the last five and a half months. I spent nearly half a year immersed in the most spectacular wilderness with this traveling family I had found. I spent more time with some of this tribe than almost anyone I can think of in my adult life, sharing an experience that is difficult to describe to the outside world. We knew each other’s walking sounds, habits, restaurant orders, fears, talents, soft spots for laughter, strong spots for support, morning routine, and most things in between. I was going to miss them more than I could fully comprehend.

On our last night, we chose a campsite overlooking Timothy Lake. As we approached camp, the sun put on a show and the stars enveloped us. A few tears fell from my eyes, sad because this was ending, but overjoyed at my good fortune of experiencing this world and knowing these people.

The next day, our last on trail, the sky was clear and Mount Hood came into view. As I got closer and closer to Timberline, I walked slower and slower. But eventually, it was time to finish. As I walked down the path to Timberline, I found my friends, who were cheering me on, as I took my last steps of the PCT.

Perhaps after I’ve had some time to reintegrate into the non-trail world, I’ll have some words of wisdom or insights into the puzzle of life. But, for now, that’s it from the PCT. Lots of love and thank you for following along.

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Fires, Fires, Everywhere