A few hours after dictating this note I sat at the northern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail, three months of walking north from the Mexico border behind me. Each member of my trail family followed one by one; Rocket burst into tears, Chimi let out his loudest whoop of the whole trail, and Zip, restrained as usual, let out a simple “Oh man,” with a satisfied smile. We spent lots of time in that bare dirt patch in the Canadian border clearcut. We took our terminus photos, drank celebratory Vitamin Rs (Rainiers), signed our name in the final trail register of our journey, then filtered out, heading back south for a cruisy 30 miles back to Harts Pass where Alaina awaited with celebratory drinks and those classic salted baguettes from the Mazama General Store.

I had no real reaction upon reaching the terminus. My idle time spent sitting in front of the monument post was silent, solemn. It was awesome, of course - I made it, after all. I had realized and fulfilled a dream I previously thought unattainable. It was and had been simultaneously an awakening and an affirmation of what I already knew, that fully immersed in nature’s majesty is exactly where I am meant to be. It was the greatest experience of my life. Yet those words from my Notes app, dictated mid-stride on the phone that had replaced the one that I destroyed in Yosemite, dominated my mind. It was the most coherent distillation of what I had been forced to accept over the past few weeks and what echoed in my mind as I watched Chimi and Zip drink Rainiers out of their shoes.

I wasn’t done with the trail. Not even close - and maybe I never would be.

To hike the PCT uninterrupted without a skip, flip, flop, jump, etc. is all but a unicorn in the modern world. Fire season out west dictates who and what can pass through where and when along the PCT each year, and my hike was not immune to those ill-effects. My continuous hike ended under the I-5 underpass at Soda Creek south of Mount Shasta, 1502 miles in. My trail family and I decided on the logistically easier option of finding a ride to Ashland, Oregon, bypassing 217.4 miles of the trail - a crushing blow, but one I was able to sit with and prepare for over the course of the week since the closure went into effect. That was just the way things were going to be, and that was okay. Our night spent in Ashland was perhaps the most restful and most necessary night off thus far.

Four days later we were forced to skip again. Upon cresting the rim of Crater Lake we were greeted not just by the stunning lake view, but by a massive smoke plume billowing from the slopes of Mount Thielsen. This fire, amongst numerous other smaller blazes in the immediate area, had started during the previous night’s lightning storm, and within minutes of reaching the rim I was informed via a single shitty bar of cell service that the trail had been closed through that area, just miles north of where we stood.

Walking towards the Trail Fire on Mount Thielsen in 2024

Those 24 hours before and after Crater Lake were among the most emotionally chaotic for myself and others in my group, and I’ll write more about it at greater length in the future. What’s important is that another skip was coming, and I had no preparation this time. My excitement to see Crater Lake for the first time was immediately overshadowed by the dread of uncertainty. Suddenly everything seemed to be coming undone.

One final skip came in Washington a couple weeks later due to fires in the Glacier Peak Wilderness and a “false alarm fire” I’ll also write about at a later time. This skip took us from Snoqualmie Pass to Harts Pass, from halfway through Washington to one day from the end in the matter of a few hours. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed in how things panned out for us. To be forced to the end so abruptly was jarring, but I was forced to make peace (or approximate making peace) with the situation in the final hours of my journey. In doing so, I thought back on the entirety of the past three months in juxtaposition to my imminent return to the real world, and ultimately came to the realization outlined in that note. There’s no way I wouldn’t want more and wouldn’t return in some capacity, regardless of the final outcome.

In keeping with what’s become a tradition of mine, by mid-March 2025 I found myself feeling burnt out from winter work, but this time I had an added layer of post-trail depression contending to break my spirit. I missed everything about the trail - the people, the views, the dirtbag way of life, the simplicity and spontaneity, the unabated freedom (fire closures notwithstanding), and the comfort of knowing I was always exactly where I was meant to be. Aside from a burgeoning Sierra High Route idea with Chimi in August, I had no real plans once ski season was over, and I needed something not just to look forward to, but to reset my mind after the chaos of a Snoqualmie Pass winter and to at least attempt to repair the PCT-sized hole in my heart.

Where the hell do I go at this time of year, though? By the time I realized my need for this type of trip, it was already too late in the year to consider a trip on the Arizona Trail, plus that would require me to leave my job a month before the season ended. Maybe the Hayduke? Nah, no way I could scrape together a willing partner and logistics plan for such a demanding trip on such short notice. I even briefly considered a section hike of the Continental Divide Trail, the next major long-distance goal of mine.

That’s when I revisited my PCT trail journal, specifically my entries from from the San Jacintos and Mission Creek. That stretch was an early stress test for me on my thru-hike: I ran out of food in the San Jacintos on my way to Idyllwild, where I quickly learned of the Norovirus outbreak exploding in the bubble of hikers a few days ahead, suspected at the time to have originated at Mission Creek. My time from Idyllwild to Wrightwood was spent obsessively filtering and disinfecting water and washing my hands every chance I got, resulting in a less than enjoyable week in what is truly one of the most stunning and engaging stretches of the PCT south of the Sierras - not to mention nearly freezing in a storm on Mount San Jacinto in 60 mph winds and freezing rain that destroyed my water filter and left everything covered in ice for the better part of a day.

Mount San Jacinto from the Snow Creek valley on my 2024 PCT thru-hike, where I had spent the previous day covered in ice crystals.

An idea had formed - a section hike along the PCT from CA-74 to CA-18; Paradise Valley Cafe to Baldwin Summit, 114.5 trail miles including the blue blaze to the summit of Mount San Jacinto that I had missed on my thru-hike (see aforementioned weather bullshit) - a revisit, reimagining even, of the section I had mostly suffered and stressed through in 2024 rather than indulging in its inspiring magnitude and beauty, both conventional and unconventional. Sans snow, sans Norovirus, sans near-crippling uncertainty, I figured this would be the perfect little solo trip to recharge and revitalize my soul. Given my newfound propensity for long, fast days in the mountains, I deduced the trip shouldn’t take more than a week with transportation factored in, and it would even be most ideal to go once the Snoqualmie ski season had finished.

Two months later, on May 10, 2025, I walked to the southern terminus of the PCT, ready to hike 750 miles north to Horseshoe Meadows.

Huh?

Alright, I can’t help myself. I missed the trail too much. Once the door was opened to hiking a feasibly-hikable-in-late-spring-to-early-summer-with-the-time-I-had-at-my-disposal section of the PCT, I decided alarmingly fast that I actually wanted to go as far as I could - within “reason.” Within a week of conceiving the PCT section hike idea, I was dead set on hiking the entirety of SoCal, the Desert. Maybe even further. And I knew I could do it faster than I had before, I could do it in a month or less.

And so, I was off. Just me and my new 30L Nashy in the 95-degree heat, hotter than any day I had in SoCal in 2024. My first day was spent cruising the mellow ups and downs of the first 18 miles in oppressive heat, such a stark contrast from the cold and wet Cascadian winter. I shared some miles with a first-time thru hiker named Tim, and spent over an hour relishing in a precious patch of shade with a half-dozen other hikers in the afternoon. Their excited and uncertain energy kept me spiritually nourished despite my inability to choke down my food all day. It was beautifully nostalgic for me and truly special to witness the opening act of everyone’s life-changing journey,

The good ol’ 3 mile sign

A sweltering sunset over Hauser Canyon

Descending to Hauser Creek

I descended to Hauser Creek early in the evening, a key early landmark as it marks the end of the first 10+ mile water carry for Nobos, and as such is a common Day 1 campsite for many. The creek was barely a trickle when I arrived, and by the time I had filled my bottles and started my cold soak it had stopped flowing entirely, leaving just a few stagnant pools surrounded by poison oak, much to the chagrin of the dozens of campers scattered around the area. Hopefully it would begin flowing in the morning for everyone, but I had more miles to make - it was almost the best time of day to be hiking.

I finally crushed my first salty snack of the day as the sun was setting (experienced hiker here) and powered up the climb out of Hauser Canyon. Despite the sun setting as I climbed, the temperature remained in the high 80s, leading to my nutrient-depleted body (experienced hiker here) entering a near-transcendental fatigued flow state - some might call it “borderline heat exhaustion,” but I’m just more open-minded I suppose.

Atop the climb I rested on a rock for a few minutes, electrolytes nonexistent in my system, and found a campsite about a mile away. An early afternoon start kept me from hitting the mileage I’d be aiming for the rest of the month, but given the heat and my poor nutritional decision making I could be satisfied with a 17.4 mile first day. I clambered to my feet and cruised the last mile of the day under the moonlight, remembering how much I LOVE hiking at dusk. Before long I was set up under a manzanita, where I choked down my cold soaked rice and had the worst night of sleep possible due to the heat. Fuck, it was good to be back.

Day 2 started as all days do for me on the trail - at 5am, moving before the sun rises. It was going to be nearly as hot today as it was yesterday, so my main goal was to hit the long gradual climb towards Mount Laguna before the heat got too bad. Thankfully a thin layer of clouds lingered throughout most of the day, filtering the sunlight just enough to keep the worst of the heat at bay.

The 2.6 miles to Lake Morena were a breeze. I walked into the campground, found an empty RV site and plugged my portable charger into the outlet to snag some free charge while I filled my water bottles and took a 6am business call.

It’s free real estate

Once I’d had my fill of free charging I powered on, passing by Boulder Oaks just after 8am. I was making great time today, flying through the familiar terrain. I was pretty shocked at how well I remembered every stretch. I made a stop at Kitchen Creek, where my early group of friends and I had taken a swim on Day 3 last year. Having familiarity with the desert water sources this time around made water management much easier and efficient, something I struggled with in 2024, always carrying far too much.

The sprawling, gentle terrain south of Mount Laguna opened up in the distance before noon - I was flying today despite the heat, but the shitty sleep last night was starting to win the battle for control of my brain. I reached Long Canyon Creek 20.4 miles into the day, had some lunch, then approximated a sickening parody of a nap for almost two hours. This creek was where I had met Madi, one of my favorite people from the first 700 miles in 2024. Today, though, not a single hiker came by the creek for those two hours.

The stretch from Mount Laguna to Scissors Crossing is one of my favorite parts of the desert section. It’s the first truly grand view a Nobo gets, with divine textures and endless hills of the Anza-Borrego desert reaching all the way to Mount San Jacinto far in the distance. Add in some soft evening light to make those textures pop and I’m a happy guy.

The one drawback about this stretch is the killer winds, and they were ramping up as I got to my camp for the night. I managed to find a mostly sheltered spot in the manzanitas, but it still made for a second straight night of atrocious sleep, writing a prescription for a downright disgusting amount of instant coffee the next day. At least the sunset was phenomenal.

Does this half-assed phone photo do any justice?

Day 3’s sunrise was also a stunner, a vibrant red and orange light show over the Anza-Borrego desert, and I spent plenty of time snapping photos while buffeted by the wind from a viewpoint just off the trail. The next hours would

Return to the PCT: A Long Ass Section Hike For The Soul