5 years. 5 years ago we took our first literal steps on the PCT, starting inches from the US/Mexico border, our entire life for the next 5 months smushed into a 60L pack weighing under 20lbs. We had no idea what the future would hold and no plan other than North; one foot in front of the other we would head north. Canada. That was our plan; our only plan.  

The night before I had packed my pack for the first time; I didn’t even know how to close it. 

The night before we “meal prepped” at 1am. We weren’t bringing a stove- we were going to cold soak. We started to throw random shit into boxes that our friend Jesse was going to mail to us along the way but we gave up. Too much planning. We weren’t planners or preppers. We still are not.

We sent for our stove a few weeks in. I didn’t know how to turn it on. I still don’t. But I’ll never backpack again without it. Cold soaking is for the hardcore & I, my friends, am not hardcore.

I didn’t know how to filter water until day 2 or 3 on-trail.  Matt had to teach me.  I have since chugged filtered water from brown puddles; water I needed to push my hand through a layer of floating bugs to collect; water I had to filter out what I can only describe as a shrimp/fetus; water from a drying creek bed that I had to dig and beg and plead to get drops to fill my bottle, only to learn that horses were peeing in that same creek bed just a little upstream.  I drank from ponds and lakes and random jugs of water left by the side of the road.  And from fresh springs, trickling out of the earth, a tiny green leaf spigot guiding the water gently into my bottle. To this day whenever I see flowing water I think, “that’s a good water supply.”

I think the same about tent sites; whenever I see a flat cleared area on a trail or by the side of the road I think, “tent-site.” Our first night on-trail I didn’t know how to set up our tent. I still don’t. But that 3-person tent was my home- it protected me from bugs, hail, rain, wind, freezing temperatures, mice, and visits from bears- even in our camping and backpacking trips since The Trail it still feels like home, comfortable & warm, a safe haven; our mansion.

5 years ago we took our first steps on the trail, but the dream that became an obsession was born 4 years before;  Matt & I had just started dating. He had a dream that sounded crazy. I liked crazy. I gave us 5 years- sometime in the next 5 years we would quit our jobs and walk- we did it in 4.

It’s weird to think- I have now known Matthew longer post-trail than I did before.  We have known our Tramily longer than we had known each other’s real families before April 13, 2019. I love them all.

In the past 11 months I have found myself with a new dog (2 rescue labs are surely better than 1, eh?), a new house, a new car, and a new husband*same Matt*. All of these things are amazing and beautiful, yet all of these things push me farther away from who I am at my core: a backcountry princess {iykyk}. I think I am my happiest when I stand in a shower in a warm hotel room, full from town food, watching the dirt, blood, and other filth wash down the drain, knowing that I am about to crawl under the white sheets of a hotel bed, warm and safe, aching from another day of adventure, sore from climbing and descending, exhausted from pushing myself both physically & mentally…

I am still mourning the trail- and not because we didn’t finish. Yes, we have about 650miles left, but I think I’d still be mourning the trail even if we had finished. I read somewhere (& previously quoted) something along the lines of, “when I say I miss the trail, I mean I miss the version of myself I was on the trail.” That version of myself is the same, with or without finishing. I mourn her; I mourn the trail.  Saudade: “it describes a deep emotional state; a yearning for a happiness that has passed, or perhaps never even existed.” It existed, but it never will again, not in the same way that it had.

4 years and 6 months ago I wrote this “epilogue” for my thru hike attempt. I never published it, I don’t think. I thought for sure by now that we would have completed those last few hundred miles we missed, but as I suspected it would, life got beautifully complicated. Since 2019 we have completed a few more sections of trail that I have yet to blog about; maybe one day I’ll get to it. I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a section hiker. I want to try again from the start; Matt wants to finish the sections we missed first. *First*

Epilogue:

I needed Southern California to develop my trail legs, earn my trail name, find my trail family, and fall in love with the trail.

I needed Southern Washington to take that all away- even the trail name I felt I no longer lived up to.  I needed Southern Washington to chew us up and spit us out; to strip us down to nothing; to test our strength, determination, patience, and judgement; to see just how far we could be bent without breaking; to prove that even when the magic of the trail was lost we could still keep walking, one sore foot in front of the other.

I needed Oregon to fall back in love with the trail; I needed Oregon to remind us to slow down and savor the moments that were meant to be savored.

I needed the Sierra to witness Matt fall back in love with the trail. But first, I needed it to completely break me. I needed it to be my absolute lowest point on trail, leaving me crying on the side of an unnamed road begging Matt to let me hitchhike if any car happened to pass by.  I needed it to completely deplete me of any hope and happiness, so that when the magic came -and boy did it come- it could permeate every ounce of my being.  I needed it to witness Matt stop, mid climb, turn around, and grab my shoulders to proclaim, “this is the most beautiful lake on the PCT”- fuck did I need that.  I needed it to reunite with our tramily and meet many more amazing humans. I needed it to challenge me, yet in a way that left me feeling triumphant, not defeated. 

I needed the unfinished business of NorCal to remind me that even though we have come so far, we still have a long way to go, and we don’t have to go it all at once and we surely don’t have to go it alone. The trail will always be there, that’s what they say.

And one day I need to walk into Canada & tag that monument, having walked every mile from Mexico to Canada, and thank the girl who years before stood at the monument at the border of Mexico & California with a heavy pack and a crazy dream and an equally crazy boyfriend;  they had NO idea of what was in front of them, but they kept walking, sometimes north, sometimes south, but always forward. I will forever be grateful for their courage and determination- for it has made us who we are today, metal jaw, bigger feet, & all.

Thru- hiking will ruin you. It will break your heart and crush your soul, but it will also revive you.  It will take that same soul that it crushed and set it on fire.  It will tear you down then build you up, undoubtedly stronger than ever before.  It will challenge you in ways you never expected, then reward you with beauty you never knew existed.  It will leave you exhausted, convinced that you cannot take one step more, but you will, again and again. It will drain you, but then make you feel more alive than ever before. 

It will often leave you questioning why you thought it was a good idea to ever leave the comforts of your life at home, then maybe even more often have you wondering how you could ever return to the society you left behind.  You will meet people- so many people- from everywhere and anywhere and you’ll make forever friends.  You will hear stories of heartache & struggle & loss & love & survival- some of these stories will haunt you, others will inspire you.  Yes, you will be so fuckin inspired by the people you meet, the kindness you are shown, and the beauty you stumble across.

Yes, thru hiking will ruin you, but it will also revive you. 

If I ever mention that I’m thinking about another thru-hike attempt (as I already have to Matt…) please do me a favor and remind me that it is hard.  Remind me of the nights I spent shivering in my sleeping bag, convinced that I would never feel warm again.  Remind me of the days we spent hiking in the rain, wind whipping us around, soaked to the bone, freezing cold, fingers numb.  Remind me of how many miles I walked with wet, cold feet, and how many miles we had to walk in the desert to find shade to escape the unrelenting sun.  Remind me of the questionable water sources in the desert & remind me how we had to ration our water, one sip per mile, praying the next water source was full.  Remind me of how dry my mouth was, and how once, when we were running low on water, a bug flew into my mouth & I had to decide between spitting it out or swallowing it and how the idea of spitting out any of my saliva seemed worse.  Remind me about the mosquitos and how I almost lost my fuckin mind; how I would put off peeing for HOURS, because the second I dropped my shorts my ass was attacked. Remind me of the dead mosquitos I found in my underwear.  Remind me of the poodle-fuckin-dog-bush.  Remind me of the time we were picked up by a guy who was high, or the man who was drinking beers through the mountains, but we were too exhausted to care.  Remind me of all of the aches, pains, blisters, and tears.  Yes, please- please remind me that it was hard, for surely I will forget. I already have…

I both take comfort from and am frustrated by knowing that we were a few hundred miles short, miles that we could have hiked if a freak accident hadn’t set us back.  It’s bittersweet to know that we had everything that it takes, both mentally and physically, to walk {the distance of} Mexico to Canada in a single hike…everything but time.

Another post I just found, I believe unpublished, but so similar to the words I wrote today:

Saudade…that word again.  That longing for a place that no longer exists….that longing for a version of myself that no longer exists; she was so free, so happy, so frequently tried and challenged but she never quit; one foot in front of the other she kept going.  She felt at home. She was so alive…but was it enough? {Sigh}


Some days I find myself mourning the trail as i do those that I have loved and lost; the hole in my heart rips open and I’m overcome with an overwhelming sense of regret and doubt and longing: did I love her, the trail, enough? Did I take advantage of our time together?  Did I appreciate all of her beauty? Did I take the lessons she taught me and grow stronger and wiser- or have i forgotten them?  Was our time together wasted? Did I let the bad moments overshadow the good? Was I open enough to receive the love and beauty she offered me? Could I have loved her more?

But I did love her, I did- I loved her the best I knew how to, which is why I now ache for her, the trail. And I ache for her, too, that version of myself on the trail that woke with the sun and walked into the storms, that stood on mountain ridges and crossed raging rivers, that trusted strangers and tried wild berries; yes, I miss that version of myself that didn’t think that walking from Mexico to Canada was a crazy idea…that version of myself that was alive.

While on-trail, I wrote letters to future thru hikers…some excerpts below.

My hope for you is that when you leave the trail, no matter how many miles you have hiked, you can leave it in peace.  I hope that you have the ability to appreciate every single mile that you hiked, whether it was 2653, 1000, 700, or 1, and that you are forever changed by each and every step.  I hope that your heart & soul will always breath the fire of the PCT, but I hope and pray that when you leave, you can leave it in peace; I hope it no longer haunts your dreams.  I I hope you can find life and purpose and happiness off-trail and  (this sentence was left unfinished. Maybe I tripped on a rock…or fell asleep…)

8/22/2019: When you’re thru-hiking you really need to listen to your body & heed it’s warnings,  but you also need to know when you have to push yourself beyond what you think your limits are

You need to know when to push and know when to surrender

Listen to mother nature; listen to her warnings; she is a force not to be reckoned with.


I had signed my notes, “happy trials”, which at first was a typing error but truly that’s what the trail is- trial after trial.

Our bodies ached for months after the trail. Eventually the numbness in my toes resolved and my knees stopped hurting with every step that I took.  I don’t know remember when, but one day I got out of bed and didn’t wince from the pain in my feet.  The physical pain is gone, but my God does my heart ache. The trail still haunts me; still whispers in my ear, still beckons me towards it. One day…maybe. and maybe one day I’ll catch up on my blog posts.

Until then,

Happy Trials.