Total Weekly Mileage: ??

“City Chinese”

Coming into Grants, I was out of food. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened. Wait—no—I had one ramen and two packets of oatmeal. I bee-lined it to the grocery store. I needed healthy food, so naturally, a quart of whole milk, an entire chocolate cake, and six bananas made for a very nutritious meal.

My spork was broken and I couldn’t find any utensils—also, no napkins. Being the resourceful hiker trash that I am, I used my hands. I sat on the curb outside the store and stuffed my face. Patrons stared and walked far away from me, but in that moment, how I looked wasn’t my primary concern. Calories, calories, calories.

I did laundry, resupplied, and avoided a rainstorm by eating more at a burger joint. Many miles of trail road out of town—I finished at 10 p.m. and camped in some bushes next to a barbed wire fence.

The morning seemed alright, and 15 miles of road walking led me right into the eye of a storm. Lightning was shooting all around with hail and downpours. There was no place to go. The road was the trail, and I was completely exposed. No buildings to hide in. When a bolt of lightning struck less than 50 yards away, I called it.

I had already turned off my phone and GPS, so when the next car came up the road, I didn’t even give it an option. I ran into the road and waved my hands. The car stopped—I ripped the door open and basically threw my trekking poles into the lap of the poor, unsuspecting sap. I jumped in with my pack on my lap and explained why I had seemed so crazy.

The lightning continued as we drove toward Grants. Flash floods had started making rivers across the road, which stopped traffic. After an hour, my driver decided to ford the river and go for it. Barely, we made it. I was back in Grants at 4 p.m.

Safe from the storm, I booked a room at the Motel 6, conveniently located directly across the street from the “Super Asian Buffet” (I’m not kidding—that was the name). After a couple pulls off a joint I’d purchased from the dispensary the day before, I headed over to stuff my face and thank God—not only for the delicious bounty that was about to be splayed before me, but also for sparing my life on this hike yet again.

Thinking back on it later, I still can’t believe how close that strike was. Well, God had other plans.

I arrived at the Super Asian Buffet to find a woman lying on the floor between the spread of food, crying and whimpering. Before I had a chance to assess the situation, the host came right up and said, “One fo’ dinna?” (He was Asian.) Being the ever-consumed capitalist, he wasn’t going to let a crying woman lying on the floor stop the business from making money—I mean, the crab rangoons were getting cold!

And of course, they sat me right in the booth closest to the injured lamb. Now herein lies my dilemma. I was starving—I’ve been starving—and a couple pokes from a professionally rolled jay really had me starving. But how could I, in good conscience, grab a plate and start perusing the spread while someone was writhing in pain at my feet?

This angel/devil debate lasted quite some time. No one else went up to get more food. Then again, they already had theirs—not to mention they got to watch this woman take the digger, slipping on the tile by some spilled egg drop soup.

I gave it three minutes—basically, when the paramedics arrived to take over the scene—I made my move. General Tso’s chicken, goons, wings, lo mein. Sure, I was getting some dirty looks, but when the EMT asked what her pain level was on a scale of 1–10 and she said “10,” I knew this was more of an ambulance-chaser lawsuit move than a seriously injured situation. I continued eating.

The maintenance guy, Jay, from the Motel 6 gave me a ride to my spot on the road the next morning. I was able to walk 35.5 miles even with a late start. Flat road makes for big miles, even where the washouts had been.

It had been a frustrating stretch with the weather. A lot of bikepackers through this area—all chipper, doing easy 50-mile days, smiling and waving as they passed. I would wave back, but part of me wanted to kick them off their bikes. Especially this one lady—singing as she passed.

After making it into Pie Town (yes, that’s the name), and eating a subpar breakfast even by hiker standards, I pushed on—needing to hit the Gila High Route and Doc Campbell’s Outpost to resupply before heading into the Gila Canyon section.

This should have been a stress-free, boring section, but it was brought to my attention by the CDTA and the brain trust over at TrekM.com that you now needed a new permit to hike the final 1.1 miles of the CDT where the monument is located. This was now a military zone, and the red tape to get approved was not something I wanted to deal with. A week out from finishing, and now I needed to complete a form, provide two forms of ID, and wait for approval from a military base. I’d deal with all that in Silver City.

Doc Campbell’s was great—the ladies opened early for me. I charged my stuff, ate a bit, filled my water, and headed into the canyon. Apparently, most hikers take the road for 40 miles into Silver City to avoid this tough section, but I was sick of road walking. I had just done so much in and out of Grants—I needed a change.

I was beat.

Photos and videos to come…

Total Weekly Mileage: 227.9

“Filtering Through”

Rested and refreshed, I picked up a water filter and hitched back to the trail the next day. Funny—the woman who picked me up was all excited because she’d been following my hike on social media. I managed to sneak through this entire hike filtering water no more than six times, but New Mexico is a different animal. A lot of desert, a lot of cows. Water sources, when they’re available, are not beautiful flowing rivers of clean god nectar. Instead: cattle troughs, filled with god knows what from god knows where. I’ve gone too far to get sick now—better to be safe than sorry, even if it cost me 50 bucks. The plastic sucker just screws onto the top of my Smartwater bottle and—voilà—clean, filtered H₂O.

With the water situation taken care of, I was confident in my pace: consistent high 30-mile days, even pushing into the 40s. Especially now that I’d be dropping to lower elevation. The Rio Grande National Forest is a nice change—cruiser terrain, slowly descending into lowland desert. Because I’m wicked smart, I decided back in Chama that I would no longer need my poncho. I had my rain jacket, and this is New Mexico after all. I remember three years ago dealing with no more than two days of rain, so removing any pack weight was a plus.

Well, getting close to Ghost Ranch Resort, the rain came back—and stuck around. I wanted to wait it out at the ranch, but it just lingered. I could only buy a hot meal in the cafeteria if I got a room. By 5 p.m. it came down harder. I got a room. Basically as basic gets—I felt like I was in a halfway house. No TV, plug-in heater, and communal bathroom. Dry and warm, I was happy. Included was dinner and breakfast. I was a little annoyed when, after leaving the dining hall, the sky had cleared. Oh well.

I met and passed “Flowers,” the most southern CDT hiker I’ve seen so far. Also met a couple other hikers, including an ex-pat living in Costa Rica. Even though I left the next morning late at 9 a.m., I still posted a 36.5—which just goes to show how flat and easy this section is. I passed the ex-pat around noon; he was having knee issues. The trail after this was completely washed out for the next three miles from a flash flood back in August. Negotiating this was interesting—from our side of the river back to the other, and so on, for two hours until a big climb out of the canyon.

“Flowers” caught me having dinner, and we hiked and talked until he pitched his camp at sundown. I pushed on, getting another seven miles in and putting myself just shy of 25 miles from Cuba, NM the next day.

The next day was another desert cruise. Hot, though—I’m not used to the exposure. It’s been a while. With a long road walk into town and a stop at the golden arches: four McChickens, two McDoubles, a strawberry shake, small fry, and a Dr. Pepper. Charged up, resupplied, and back on trail by 3:30, road-walking ten miles out of town. I had enough water to get me through the next day, and this section is amazing. Up on top of flat rock plateaus, the trail uses cairns to meander through, then twists down into the canyons. I didn’t bother setting up my tent—just slept under the stars.

I thought I had enough water, but the next morning realized the last source for 14 miles was over half a mile behind me. I’d passed it at night and didn’t feel like going back. I only had half a liter, but the morning was chilly, so I hoped to reach the next source by 11 a.m. The trail dropped lower, and as I was listening to something, I felt like I’d kicked a bunch of sand on my legs. I looked down to see what must have been 30 to 40 mosquitoes on each leg! Where in the F#%k did these come from? Middle of September? Really?

This battle against the winged devils lasted for the next ten miles. I didn’t want to, but I was forced to put on my rain pants. Noon in the desert is not ideal rain-pant-wearing conditions—sweating like a whore in church. It was rough, and I couldn’t enjoy lunch at the only water source for miles. They must have hatched after the rain from the other day, and my walking woke up the little bastards.

For what it’s worth, I really like this section. Intricate rock formations, the trail snaking through—makes good pictures easy to take. This area should be so much more popular than it is. Might have something to do with the lack of water and the condition of the precious nectar.

I arrived late in the afternoon to the source, which in this case was a cement pool of sorts. Surrounded by cows, the water was as brown as the cow shit floating in it. I do have a filter now, but even if that liquid went through every filtration system ever invented by man, I’d still be hesitant. Luckily, 20 feet away was a covered well, and aside from some live bugs on the surface, the water was okay.

A big 2,000-foot climb from the desert floor brought me up on top of another plateau. It was cruiser, and I crushed—cowboy camping off the trail at 10 p.m. Right as I had dozed off, I heard a scream of bloody murder. Over the years out here I’ve heard all kinds of animal stress calls—fawns, cows, coyotes—but this, this was different. And only 50 feet away. I was confused but also pissed. I lifted my head and yelled, “Bring it on, M#^@ther F@%#%r, or shut the hell up!” Whatever it was walked away. I went back to sleep.

Total Weekly Mileage: 230.2

“Beat Up”

Frozen and five miles before the road, I decided to call it. Chattering teeth, my numb, fat sausage fingers. The wind and hail were whipping my legs, but they were so cold I couldn’t feel them anymore. Above 12,000 feet in a storm, feeling the onset of hypothermia—pushing on would not be a smart thing. I’ve been an idiot plenty of times in my life, but this wouldn’t be a good time to prove it.

At the top of the plateau, there was a low spot 30 feet off trail. Enough room to pitch my tent and get some sort of reprieve from the storm. Cold and wet, the night was miserable—hardly able to move and only doing so when I started cramping up from staying in a single position for hours. I would have to roll over, cold and wet. This was the bivy situation I wanted to avoid, and I just kept thinking about staying at the Butterfly Hostel days before and how I could be out of this storm and in town if I hadn’t stayed there. I know the trail will bite you every once in a while, but my decision to be lazy and stay there created this frozen mess.

It was so hard getting packed up and moving the next morning, but I survived at 12,300 feet in the storm. With 5.1 miles to the road, I hiked hard. It was whipping wind and snowing for the first four miles until I started to descend. Funny—I ran into the two ladies I had met the morning before. They were doing a section, and I told them it wasn’t pretty up there. They said they’d check it out, and if they decided to turn around, they’d give me a ride down to Lake City.

I made it to the road at 8:30 a.m. It was raining now. As I stuck my thumb out, shivering, another poor soul came wandering from the parking lot on the other side. His name was Robert, a young kid hiking the Colorado Trail. He too was frozen, and we both stood there praying for the next car to pick us up. The next vehicle was a camper van that pulled into the parking lot across from us, did a loop around, and as they got to the exit, the driver gave us a peace sign and took off in the direction we needed to go. Really? You acknowledge us, see that we’re freezing, and take off in your big, overpriced Mercedes? I gave them the finger.

I told Robert about the two women I had passed on the hike. I was starting to lose hope after an hour. I should’ve scared them more about the weather and turned them around with me. At approximately 9:30, coming down the trail were the ladies—Kelly and Kathy. Lifesavers. They gave us a ride down, complete with all their hiker food, a free hotel room in town, breakfast, and a ride back up to the trail in the morning. Amazing trail angels. It’s crazy how quickly you can go from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs out here.

Back on trail about a mile later, I came upon a dead sheep. Fangs in the jugular—indicates a wolf attack. At least that’s what CSI has taught me. I lost Robert, a.k.a. Milk Man, a ways back, but I did run into the two Seths again. They didn’t want to do my pace anymore. After saying goodbye, I took off—back into the big mountains. A lot of hunters through here. The climbs were long, but that was fine as long as the weather held. 110 miles to Chama and lower elevation.

9,000 feet per day was average for ascent, doing mid-30s mileage. Nights were below zero. A lot of hunters—gunshots often. I wish I had brighter colors. Two hunters I met, a couple of Mormon boys from Utah, told me they’d killed a deer the day before. After field dressing it and carrying it all the way back to camp, they laid the meat out to dry, and coyotes had eaten the whole thing by the next morning. Somewhat demoralized, but they gave me food—including biscuits and gravy. They had a 10-hour drive ahead of them; I had 3,000 more miles.

Making it to the campsite and lake that night after a hard-fought 39-mile day, I came upon five more hunters chilling around a campfire. I stayed there that night and hung out with Colt. The other guys slowly pulled the Irish goodbyes—something my friend Bob Mickle has perfected over the years. Froze again that night, and after one more good 1,000-foot climb in the morning, it was a speedy 15 miles to Cumbres Pass and a hitch into Chama.

The feeling of relief to be out of Colorado and those big mountains in mid-September was amazing. A tough state. Add in the storms, and it was really difficult. I made it through relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, two young hunters died in that bad storm, struck by lightning as they huddled underneath a tree to get out of the weather.

It’s easy to sometimes think I’m doing this great American adventure, but then the reality of the situation comes back tenfold, and I have to refocus on what this is—what it means to be outside for over seven months and 95% of the time. It’s hard. It’s dangerous.

Total Weekly Mileage: 240

“Rain Supreme”

This week started with a reroute through Copper Mountain Village, where a couple thousand people had showed up to see Third Eye Blind. I just ate a honey bun and kept walking. I saw them open for U2 when I was 10, and I wasn’t a big fan then—and I’m still not a fan now.

It started to rain again, and I had a big uphill through the ski area. I kept halfway up. I was excited to get to Leadville and pick up my Melly hoodie—and one for my niece. A Melly for Mel! The timing couldn’t have been better because it’s starting to get cold, and an additional layer is definitely needed.

Leadville was a quick in-and-out: eat, charge, resupply, and back on trail. I saw Squalo hitching into town when I arrived back at the trail. We talked for a minute, and he got a ride. The trail out was easy—no big climbs, actually kind of flat.

Each day has had some rain in the afternoon, which is fine for a couple days, but after a while it’s starting to get annoying. Around Twin Lakes a couple days later, there was a 4-mile, 2,000-foot climb up to Hope Pass and more big mountains.

I’ve been pushing hard to make it to Monarch Pass and the Butterfly Hostel to get my resupply box and my 10th pair of shoes. The plan was not to stay, but after taking a shower, it started to rain and I fell asleep on the couch—waking up later than I wanted to and deciding to just stay there for the night. This would end up being a big mistake.

Shane, the owner, made me a triple cheeseburger, and it was just me and two other people staying there. The hiker bubble I passed, and most of the southbound CDT hikers will be going to Trail Days in Leadville on September 12th. I think that’s kind of late—these mountains are formidable, and late-season hiking is dangerous through here.

I started early on that Friday with a goal to do 42 miles and make it to the road by 7:30. Hitching into Lake City is notoriously hard, and any attempts too late are futile. Out of the farmland and completely exposed, the weather turned. I met a couple young dudes hiking the Colorado Trail—both named Seth—and we hiked most of the day together, which really helped. When the weather sucks and you have other hikers to talk and distract with, it makes a difference.

Not many names on some of these mountain passes. Just “High Point” or “Panoramic View.” It was 2 p.m., and I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Total Weekly Mileage: 244.2

“On the Edge”

The beginning of the day looked good, but yet again, rain came in around 10 a.m. On and off, I wanted to stop when it started coming down hard, but after the day before, I had to keep pushing. Luckily, it stopped by 5:30 and just stayed cold and overcast for the remainder of the day. I was cold that night—really cold. If I rationed my food, I could make it to Grand Lake, but I needed to get some warmer clothes. Doing these big miles with little sleep wasn’t going to last long.

I made it to the highway by 11 a.m. the next morning and hitched into Steamboat Springs. After a light resupply—sushi and chicken wings, which I ate on the curb outside the grocery store, enjoying the looks from upper crusties thinking I was homeless—I picked up some mid-weight cross-country ski pants, a hat, and gloves. Back on trail by 2, with help from Richie and “Professor,” the road walk out of town was hot until the clouds closed in again. I pitched my tent and waited it out: 15 minutes of hard-pounding rain and hail.

The rest of the day was roadwalking—from paved to dirt to forest to 4×4 roads. These roads were the gradual beginning of getting up into the big mountains. I think they’re called the Rocky Mountains.

Getting into Grand Lake, I noticed in a trail register that a hiker I met on the PCT in ’22 had left that morning. I would catch Squalo the next morning. He was cowboy camping on the side of the trail with a group of four. He decided to hike with me. We had our work cut out for us—big mountains to climb and potential for bad weather within the next few days.

The plan was to push hard over some 13,000-foot steps that day: James Peak (13,500) and Mt. Flora (13,200), with a lot of other hard pulls resulting in over 10,000 feet of ascent and 39 miles for the day. Also, we needed to reach the pass for a Winter Park hitch before dusk. My homeless-looking—sorry, I mean unhoused-looking—self has trouble getting picked up, and when it’s dark, forget it. We had to hustle.

It was tough. The thinner air and three-mile uphills were rugged, but the views were spectacular, and it was great to hike with someone for a change. Mid-afternoon hit us with a hailstorm, but the summits were clear.

At 2:06 p.m., I hit the four-month mark of the hike with 4,185 miles. By 7:55, we made it to Berthoud Pass. By 8:15, we were on our way to Winter Park. After a quick pit stop at McDonald’s (four McChickens and a double quarter pounder), we checked into the Best Western. Resupply, shower, laundry, AYCE breakfast, and back on the trail by 11.

Not as hard as yesterday and shorter, with a nice paved road walk along I-70 to finish the day and put us at the base of Grey’s Peak (14,200). I was glad Squalo was going to be up and out with me at 5. With the afternoon weather looking sketchy, we crushed the ascent and topped out on Grey’s at 7:30. Did the usual Instachat/social media stuff and took off.

The hike off the top is harder moving south. Following the knife’s edge, staying as close to the ridgeline as possible—it’s some precarious hiking. Slow going and scree make it tough. By 3 p.m., we were surrounded by storm clouds and could see where it was really coming down behind us. We hiked fast and hard to outrun all of it. Being at 13,000 feet for most of the day meant complete exposure, and it was not a place to get hit with a storm.

By 6 p.m., we made it down to 11,000 feet and to where the CDT and the CT join. Into the woods and safe. The Colorado Trail is plush compared to what we had just gone through the last few days—single track, well-marked, plenty of water. It was great. 36 miles for the day.

I said goodbye to Squalo the next morning at 5 a.m. and took off. Got rained on a bit by the time I made it to Breckenridge. Just wanted a coffee and a doughnut and spent an hour charging my stuff and talking with another hiker I met named “No See-Em.” More rain back on trail, and I was fairly happy with my week when it ended around 240 miles.

I’ll try to be funnier for next week’s write-up, but I’m currently trying to pack up and get back on trail right now. Gotta get my pale ass through this state before the bad weather comes in. Which it has—and it’s been rough. But that story is for next week.

Total Weekly Mileage: 242.2

“I Froze”

Onto the basin: 120 miles of flat, exposed high desert walking. Mostly roads, with cattle troughs for water. After picking up my eighth pair of shoes, fresh socks, and a new hat, I headed out of South Pass City. Rawlins was my next stop—a big town the trail goes right through. After 10 miles to finish the day, I did a 45, 43, and 23 into town. I wanted a 50, but lightning and thunderstorms forced me to pitch earlier than planned.

My phone was dead and I was out of food by the time I arrived in Rawlins, which was no big deal because I had planned on taking a nero and using the microwave in my room at the Econo Lodge to heat up multiple over-processed, shitty foods and put myself into a food coma for the remainder of the day. This plan was not to happen—or at least part of it. Rawlins was in a complete blackout when I arrived. Apparently, a lightning strike the night before had knocked out a transformer, and all power was out. The only place open was a food truck in town making killer burgers. Forty-five minutes later, I got mine and checked into the room with no power, then slept until it kicked back on. I was more tired than I thought and was out for two hours, which felt like fifteen minutes.

I headed over to the grocery store, which had thrown out all their frozen food and deli items—basically anything that needed refrigeration was gone. My food options were basically the things I buy for the trail, so no microwave usage for me! Walmart had the same issue. Apparently, the power had been out since 8 p.m. the night before, and it was 1 p.m. the next day by this point. I was able to buy a new 20,000 mAh power bank. No more messing around with power or waiting forever for things to charge. I now had 30,000 mAh in total.

I was back on trail at 9:30 the next morning, well-fed and well-rested. The weather was perfect, and the road walk would be long. I caught six hikers taking a hitch 30 miles up trail. There have been so many people skipping—it seems like it’s getting worse every year. I feel bad for the hikers who actually hike the trails.

The sky was clear when I called it a day at 10:45, so I decided to cowboy camp under the stars. At 3:30 a.m., I was getting rained on. Instead of setting up my tent, I just started hiking. Groggy and grumpy, I pushed on in the rain, expecting the sky to clear at some point so I could dry all my things. This never happened. By 10 a.m., I was soaked to the bone. The wind was whipping too, cutting right through all five layers I had on. I couldn’t feel my fingers and was paranoid about pulling my phone out too much, worried it would get destroyed.

The small town of Encampment was not part of my plan, but I needed to get dry and warm. By 12:30, I reached the road—shivering and spent. It was so foggy I didn’t think I’d ever get a ride, but as luck would have it, the first truck to pass stopped for me. Brian saved me. He dropped me off in town, and I got one of the last remaining cabins. No TV, but dry and a hot shower was all I cared about. There are always a few showers I remember on each one of these hikes, and this would be one of them (the other was back in Chester, CA, when the pay shower cut out on me while I was covered in soap).

Back on trail at 10:30 the next day, thanks to a cool dude named Jimmy, I pushed hard to make it to the border of Colorado. I did by 5:45 and ate and talked with “Rabbit,” who, only two months ago, had left his Amish family to pursue thru-hiking. I asked if his real name was Jedadiah—it was Ben. I pushed another 10 miles out of there, and the next day started hitting rain yet again, but was still able to hit a respectable mileage for the week, even with two half days.

Now it’s onto the big mountains, and it’s starting to get chilly.

Total Weekly Mileage: 272.2

“Three Sheets to The Winds”

I’ve read comments from hikers complaining about too many people in Yellowstone. Yes, tourists in the most popular national park in the country will happen in the middle of summer. I myself enjoy people-watching—the melting pot of all walks of life while we’re all literally standing on a melting pot. Old Faithful, a pressure cooker overdue to blow, and when it does—sayonara. Let’s just hope before the entire country melts down into a lava pool, I get to pull the record off.

Anyway: lots of people, a couple bison, flat trail, slight rain—park done. Where the CDT trail brings you in Yellowstone is anticlimactic. It’s the boring side, the west side. The eastern side has all the good stuff. It’s the last park and permitting I have to deal with: choosing campsites, making calls, yada yada yada. All I wanted was to get to Dubois and into the Winds!

Once I stuffed my face with pulled pork and mac ’n’ cheese, I left Old Faithful a few minutes before the thing shot off. Seen it before, needed to get miles. I finished around 10 and just cowboy camped in the woods off the trail. One of my power bank lights had accidentally been pushed on and had almost completely drained. I had 120 miles and one and a half charges to get me to Dubois. This meant radio silence until town.

The next morning, as I was eating breakfast on the side of the trail, another southbound thru-hiker came around the corner. His name was Taxi. After a brief conversation about the trail, I packed up and we hiked together. I told him about my power issue, and he said he had a 26,000 mAh power bank fully charged and that I could charge my phone as we hiked. How lucky was that!? So I did, and we talked and hiked for the next two hours.

He’d been living in Guatemala before trail, day trading. He filled me in on how he makes enough money working a few hours a day doing this, and $45 covers his Airbnb and food for the day. I’ve met a lot of people who’ve found success living in other countries, not falling for the struggles of the American cost of living, and I was very intrigued. After a while, he headed to Grant Village in Yellowstone, and I continued on. Thanks, Taxi—you bailed me out big time!

I pushed hard from there, clocking a 43-mile day. The next day: 41. Other than getting stuck behind two huge bison hogging the trail for 10 minutes, everything went relatively smooth for the next 48 hours. The final 10 miles to the highway for my Dubois resupply stop was a mud pit. I was lucky to avoid the torrential downpour the night before, stopping north of the storm, but the next morning I could tell the trail had been saturated significantly. Dried-up rivers had been flowing down the trail, and I was slipping and sliding all over the place. The bottoms of my shoes got so caked with mud they felt like they weighed an extra five pounds each. I constantly had to stop, take them off, and bang off the mud or scrape them against rocks.

By 10:30 I was at the road, and only 10 minutes later I was picked up by two women from Colorado—Isabelle and another girl whose name I can’t remember. It was a 28-mile ride, so we chatted about my hike mostly. They had just hiked in the Tetons and were taking the scenic route home, which worked out perfectly for me.

By 11:15 I was dropped off in town, headed straight for the laundromat (which also had pay showers), and 45 minutes later I was clean and cleaning my clothes. Headed to the store and bought food for a resupply box at my next stop, which was South Pass City. It’s a small museum mining town and is literally on the trail. Dubois is a long hitch but necessary. Staying as close to the trail moving forward would be the key to big-mile days, even on resupply days. So taking an extra hour in town here to build a box was worth it.

The post office went off without a hitch—except I spilled my root beer during my box-building and yelled a profanity right as a woman came around the corner. It wasn’t directed at her, but she gave me an offended look. I’m too used to being alone on the trail—gotta watch my mouth when in towns in the future.

I had a cheeseburger at the local dive, unable to get a temperature on the meat, which I forgot I can’t get in Wyoming. This is funny and annoying to me because I’m in cattle country U.S.A., and they won’t cook my burger to temp. Hockey puck style is all they’ll do. It was still decent. Beats the hell out of cold ramen and oatmeal.

After a 15-minute resupply for the next 167 miles to South Pass City, I was again quickly picked up by old-timer Mike, and he whisked me back up to the trail. Road-walking the old CDT trail for the next 15 miles, I cowboy camped under the stars and woke at 5 a.m., moving by 5:30. I needed big miles through this section because I wanted to get to SPC before they closed at 5 p.m. on Friday. It was Tuesday, and I had 152 miles to do in under four days. Hard but not impossible.

Met a few SOBOS that day—Steam Engine and Mama Cita. We hiked and talked most of the day, and when they stopped for lunch, like I always have to do, I continued on.

The Bridger Wilderness, known as the Winds (short for the Wind River Range), is beautiful. Like a mini Sierra. Many alternates and high routes along ridgelines. But I was following the line of the dude I was trying to beat, which meant the low red-line route. It still has incredible views, just not as rugged hiking as the other stuff.

It was the following day I realized my food situation was going to be an issue. I didn’t buy enough in town, so I started to ration with 110 miles to go. My only saving grace was the Big Sandy Lodge a few miles off-trail the following afternoon. I could skip it and be starving until my next box, or go in, raid the hiker box, and get a meal there. It would take an extra 90 minutes to do this, which might mean I could be late to SPC for my box, but I felt I had no choice and would just have to do big miles. So I did what I had to do and pulled a 45-mile day.

In the Winds, that’s not normal—but I’m not, and neither is my hike. A lot of weekend warriors through this section—some happy, some miserable. Light sprinkles kept the heat at bay, and I arrived at Big Sandy at 3 p.m. I ate two overpriced burgers (no temp), talked with more hikers (all of whom were from New England—French Fry and Achilles), and was off and hiking by 4.

Besides a quick detour to dig a cat hole after the burgers in a wide-open field, I made great time and still was able to get a 41. Saw a lot of deer and elk that day also. This left me 29 miles the next day to do by 5—totally doable. On trail early, a couple big climbs and then a long downhill cruiser, I clocked one of my biggest weeks so far. Feeling good and ready to crush into the Basin.

Total Weekly Mileage: 249.9

“I’m 40”

I had a day to make it to Leadore. I think it’s Idaho—could be Montana. This part of the trail weaves its way from Montana to Idaho, then back to Montana, then Idaho, and then… well, you get the point. I could never tell the difference, except for the fact that it’s illegal to hitch in Idaho and legal in Montana.

I was able to get ahold of Jen P. and book a pickup at the pass for a ride into town. People do wing it and hope to get a ride, but it’s on a back road to nowhere, so confirming a $20 ride each way was better for me. I made it there early, and she was early too. Another dude named “True Grit” hopped in with us. A couple of Cokes later, I was in Leadore by 2 p.m.

This was a quick two-and-a-half-hour turnaround: eat, charge, resupply, organize, and go. I forgot that I was in Mormon country. The young girl at the counter at the store—Lexington—was nice, and before I left, I told her I was headed back out to find a female hiker to “soak” with. She said, “Oh my god!” Believe it or not, soaking is something Mormons do, and it’s too inappropriate for me to explain here. Google it!

There are a lot of people who are jack-of-all-trades and masters of none. I’d put myself in that camp—except it’s more along the lines of useless knowledge, which comes in handy for random conversations, especially in small towns.

Jen P. (Lexi’s mother) dropped me back off just before 5.

105 miles to Lima—pronounced like the fruit, with an “a.” I crushed this section. Water was tough in the cattle troughs, but I hit the 100-day mark with over 3,200 miles. Finally got service. Just so you know, I have cell service about 25 percent of the time, so no more texting that you haven’t heard from me for a while. This is why I have a website.

I scheduled a ride to get picked up in the morning at 9 a.m., not realizing that where I thought I was to be picked up was actually 2.5 miles farther than I thought. That morning, I was doing a nice 8-mile run. If I hadn’t done a 45-mile day with 4.5 hours of sleep, it might not have been so bad. I made it, and Josh picked me up and whisked me into town. Shower, laundry, charge, box, and 1:30 back on the trail.

Six miles of road walk uphill in the hot sun was tough, but I was still able to get 30 miles in for the day. The following day: 42. The next morning, I woke up and I was 40. Made it into Island Park, ID around 10:30. Had Subway, resupplied, charged my things at a Mexican restaurant, and ate some strange egg rolls and shrimp ceviche.

Took off and met trail angel Val, who made me a spaghetti dinner. The following day, I made it into Wyoming and Yellowstone and finished out the week getting warm water out of Summit Lake. I bleached the hell out of it and filtered through my bandana. There were still some odd-looking floaties in there, but what the hell—the bleach kills all.

Montana and Idaho had some tough sections. Wyoming has the Wind River Range, but other than that, it should be a quick state!

Total Weekly Mileage: 255.9

CDT Mile: 609

Total Miles: 3264.5

“Murder in Anaconda”

After spending three hours in my tent waiting for the lightning storm to pass, I got back on trail at 4:15 and was able to knock out another 18 miles. The following day, my goal was to reach the junction to the Anaconda alternate route. The traditional CDT continues south past Butte and then cuts west into the Pintler Wilderness. I, however, would be going to Anaconda. This alternate was taken by the record holder, and it cuts out 96 miles. I’m trying to mirror his CDT distance, which is 2,665 miles, so there’s no need to add miles.

As I approached the junction, Dallas (the guy that built the awesome website you’re enjoying right now) called to tell me about a quadruple murder that took place in Anaconda the day before—and that the guy had still not been caught. It didn’t matter. I had 26 miles of roadwalk to get there, and by that time I was sure they’d find him up against a tree with a bullet between his eyes.

On the roadwalk, three locals stopped to tell me about the killing and gave me food and drink. Getting into town, I stopped at the Town Pump Mini Mart and grabbed a Slim Jim to hold me over until I made it to the golden arches. There are Town Pumps in the place I live, but they’re not gas stations.

Two more locals told me about the murder and that the crackhead was still at large. I arrived at McD’s and decided to change up my order game. I like Big Macs, but the burger patties (if you want to call them that) are the size of a 50-cent piece—three bites and the thing is gone. So I ordered a Double Quarter Pounder, which is closer to real food, and had all the things that come on the Big Mac go on that. Y’know the song: “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.” Yeah, that—but on a Quarter Pounder. It was great, except the teller put extra ketchup instead of no ketchup. I ate it anyway. Still beats ramen and oatmeal.

I added a Filet-O-Fish, a McChicken, medium fry, and a Hi-C. Resupplied at Albertsons grocery and headed to the “Hiker Hut,” which is a small building in a park on the outside of town. I charged my stuff, ate again, and slept on the floor inside. The next morning, I was able to shower at the community center next door. The water pressure was extreme, and with my sunburned arms, I was wide awake by 7:30.

On my way by 8:30, I was pleased with myself. I always have a hard time getting out of town before 10, so I was excited to attack the Pintler Wilderness. About a mile up the road, I was stopped by police who told me the whole area was shut down. They still hadn’t found the killer, and they knew he was somewhere in the mountains. I turned around.

I called Dallas to figure out a new game plan. I certainly didn’t want to get a ride back 26 miles to the junction and lose all those miles. So, we came up with a plan for me to get a ride back to the other side of town and save myself an hour of roadwalking. From there, take Highway 1 for a mile and then take Highway 569 south, which—after 16 miles—would bring me back to the traditional CDT route and on my way.

By the time the trail angels David and Robin dropped me off, it was close to 11. Onto Highway 569 I went—completely sun-exposed with no shoulder, cars flying by at 70. About six miles in, I took lunch under a tree on the side of the road. Laid out my sleeping pads, took off my shoes and socks (pavement can do a number on your feet, especially with a heavy pack), and chilled for a bit.

As I was enjoying my pepperoni and Easy Cheese wrap, a truck drove by slowly, the woman driving staring at me. It pulled down the next dirt road, and I didn’t think much about it. Ten minutes later, it pulled back out and again went slowly. As I was packing up, a red pickup pulled into the parking lot next to me, and sheriffs got out. They looked like they were straight out of central casting from the show Yellowstone—button-down plaid shirts, cowboy hats, ranger jeans held up with big ol’ belt buckles, Stetsons, and the attire would not be complete without a big-ass revolver sitting on their hips.

They moseyed on over and asked what I was doing. I explained my hike and the reroute because of Rambo. They told me they had gotten a call about a suspicious-looking character.

“Well, I am thru-hiking the CDT. We all kinda look weird.”

They laughed. Apparently, that Karen in the truck had called the cops. Now, I’m not the sharpest tack on the corkboard, but I’m pretty sure if I had just shot and killed four people and was hiding from the cops, I don’t think walking down a highway in the middle of the day and taking a leisurely lunch on the side of the road would be my move. I mean, I’ve heard of hiding in plain sight, but that’s just redonkulous.

They ran my ID, and Barney Fife and company took off. Another first: being mistaken as a quadruple-murdering crackhead.

I wasn’t thinking about water after this, but I should have. Luckily, I stopped into Stockton Outfitter, a snowmobile and hunting guide spot. Jay, the manager, gave me a soda and let me fill my H₂O. I told him what had just happened, and he thought it was hilarious.

Another seven miles, and I was on the red line heading southwest. Met a family camping around some back roads, and we talked for a few minutes. I continued my day, finishing about nine miles or so from where the two trails intersect.

I had four solid passes to get up and over the next day. The weather was good—not crazy hot—but the area in the Pintler Wilderness did remind me a little of Section J on the PCT: big ups and big downs.

Oh, I forgot to mention that morning, half-awake, I got confused as to which direction to go and hiked 2.2 miles back the way I had come the night before. So I added 4.4 miles of useless hiking to start my day. Pushed hard, met a geologist, and we talked for a bit. I’d been trying to outrun storm clouds all day, but they finally caught me at 7 p.m. on my ascent up Pintler Pass. Cold, wet, and tired, I called it at 8 p.m.—a couple hours earlier than I would like, but I was too cold.

The next morning, I pushed hard right out of the gate. Went the right way this time! The trail started to get easier, and the weather was in the 70s with a light breeze and few clouds. Perfect hiking weather. I ended the day with a 42, putting me seven miles from the parking lot and the one-mile roadwalk to the highway into Darby.

I didn’t wait too long. A rancher named Jeremy picked me up, and I was at the RV park by 8. Had a huge, overpriced breakfast across the street, showered, did laundry, resupplied, and charged all my stuff by noon. Picked up a poncho and a pair of pink socks (yes, that’s all they had), and back at the road I put out my thumb.

A dude picked me up but could only bring me eight miles. I took it. He dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, Montana, and I waited 90 minutes before Lisa gave me a ride. The reason it was so hard to get a hitch, we figured, was because the murderer was still on the loose and I was still close to the area.

I finally got to the trail at 2:45, and although it was later than I wanted, I was able to get 19 miles. That night around 8 p.m., a deer came flying down the mountain in front of me and crossed the trail. About 30 feet behind was a black wolf—no doubt going for the kill. He was so determined he didn’t even notice me until he was about 20 feet away. Once he did, he put on the Jake brake and spun around back up the mountain. First wolf sighting!

Water is tough to come by in these parts. Some of the cattle troughs are dry, and the cow flops are many.

What a crazy week! I wanted an adventure, and goddammit, am I getting one!

Total Weekly Mileage: 267.7

CDT Mile: 358

Total Miles: 3,013.5

“Horseshit and Thunderstorms”

Now that the traveling, park permit, and resupplying were all behind me, it was time to crush some miles. I needed a big week to start chipping away at the lame 108 miles I had just done. From past years, I know a couple things about the Bob Marshall Wilderness:

1. It’s flat cruiser for a lot of it, so my pace should be solid.
2. It’s remote—cell service will be sparse, and food options are hard to come by.

I didn’t want to go into Augusta, which is a pain, so I was going to do the 192.5-mile carry straight to Roger’s Pass and head into Lincoln. So, into the Bob’s I went.

The following morning, I reached the spot where I blew out my shoulder—remembered the pain and the hike afterward to the rescue spot via helicopter. I took a quick video and moved on. I didn’t want to stick around; the memory of that terrible and disappointing day was something I wanted behind me. It’s hard to sum up what it’s taken for me to get back to this spot and to be back in position to break another record. Giving up was never an option. When you know something is worth it, whatever it is—don’t ever give up.

Into the Bob’s, I started running into horse-packing outfits. You know, the City Slicker trips on horseback. Hey, I like horses as much as the next person—not as much as my great Uncle Georgy O’ or my friend Thin Lisa—but I don’t normally mind them… except when I’m on trail. These hoofed devils tear up the trail and shit all over it. I had to be careful when getting my water and where I put down my gear. Not to mention the horse flies! These little bastards were buzzing around my head all day, plotting their attack. I must’ve killed a dozen that day. Sometimes I’d win, sometimes they would, but it was driving me mad.

Finally, they went away—because a massive thunder and lightning storm came through. Then the sun came out. Then another storm. It had been less than one week since I started the CDT, and I’d already been rained on more than during the entire PCT. The good thing is the rain helps prevent forest fires, and being rerouted because of those is such a pain in the tail.

My days were 40-plus through here. I hiked until 11 one night and, unable to find a site, just cowboy camped right on the trail—a 45.5-mile day. The next morning, I was moving by 4:50 a.m. I had 41.6 miles to make it to the road into Lincoln. The hitch into town can be tough—a double lane in the middle of nowhere. I knew if I wanted to get into town that night, I couldn’t be at the road any later than 8:30. Other than the 41.6-mile distance, I had over 9,000 feet of ascent and 8,700 feet of descent. Tough day. I was caught in one storm and outran another. Limiting my breaks and pushing hard, I was at Roger’s Pass at 8 p.m. on the dot. 192.5 miles in four and a half days. Might be my best, but I can’t remember.

It took 45 minutes to get a hitch. Luckily, a dude named Shane spun around and picked me up and dropped me off at the motel. Thanks Shane! I checked in and headed to the restaurant for dinner. They were closed. I went to the next one—also closed. And the third—closed as well. My only option was a dive bar/casino three blocks away. Other than a few drunk locals and a wall of one-armed bandits (slot machines), they only had their fryer going. Fine by me. Anything besides ramen, oatmeal, and peanut butter was fine by me.

I got the fried platter to go and took it back to the room. This meal of absolutely terrible things for you consisted of tater tots, fries, mini tacos, wings, onion rings, a mini burrito, mini corn dogs, and something resembling fried chicken gizzards. I was in heaven. The greasy pile hit me hard, and I died in the bed soon after—too exhausted to even take a shower. I know, such a hiker trash move.

It took me a hot minute to get back to the trail the next day. Another 45 minutes of hitching. Luckily, a retired forestry dude named Ernie picked me up. A big climb out of the pass—the trail was really enjoyable. No storms, but they were in the forecast the next day. This triple storm came through when I was completely exposed on a forest road. I still have some PTSD from the Yellowstone storm of ’21 (see GWL 2021 for that gem of a story). I badly wanted 270 miles for the week. Unfortunately, this storm forced me to ditch into the woods an hour early and wait it out. Settled for 267.

Total Weekly Mileage 108.4

“Cars, Trains and Rain”

I know what you’re thinking: “108 miles? What’s wrong with him? Is everything okay? Why is it half the normal mileage for the week?” Allow me to explain.

Once I tagged the PCT monument on the border, I had to hike 30 miles back to Hart’s Pass. From there, it was a one-hour ride on a pothole-filled dirt road down to Mazama. I arrived at 4:30. Now, I could have rolled the dice and tried to hitch the two-plus hours to Wenatchee and maybe make the train at 8 p.m., but I had a guaranteed ride the next day. Also, I was tired.

That was Saturday, and none of the 30 miles counts towards anything, just bonus miles. After spending the night at the hostel, hanging out with a German named Vampire (who pronounced it “Wampire”) and a newly ex-Jehovah’s Witness named Louis, the next day Kelley gave me a ride to the station. That’s Sunday—no miles.

The overnight ride to Glacier was fine, although I never sleep well on those—I’m too long for the seats. Arriving in Glacier the next day at 9:30 a.m., it was in the high 40s and pouring rain—not a good day to start. So I decided to take the day and wait out the bad weather.

At the hostel, I met Blindspot from New Zealand, Simple from Maryland, and Lucy from Australia. Lucy is an unusual case—she started hiking from Venezuela in 2017 with her dog Wombat, and her goal is to finish in Alaska. She had been at the hostel for a couple of weeks waiting for a “parcel,” as she put it. What kind of package would take someone out for a few weeks? Who knows.

Anyway, she had access to a car left by someone hiking in the park, so she’d been shuttling hikers around and offered to bring me up to the Ranger Station to get my permits for Glacier. The permitting here is different from other national parks. You can’t just walk in and camp around—you have to pick specific spots with limited sites, and, being the middle of summer, a lot of the campsites were full. It’s even harder for me because I’m trying to pick places spaced 30-plus miles apart to keep up my MPD average.

Once the spots were chosen, the ranger had to override the system because normally they only allow 15 hiking days. But I’m a special case. After that, a 15-minute safety video on bears and a $25 fee. Voilà—an hour later, we were headed back to town. We stopped at the store for a quick resupply and a frozen TV dinner, and then we were back at the hostel.

While I was enjoying my Hungry Man TV dinner, Luna (the owner) showed up with a platter of fresh vegetables and fruit and two salmon burgers for me—what a sweetheart! After stuffing my face, I still had to deal with getting to the border. It’s an hour and a half away. Last year, I paid $100 for a shuttle service. Luckily, this year there were Belgians staying at the hostel and they had a rental car, heading to Calgary the next morning. So, I hopped in with them.

It was raining pretty hard when we arrived at the border the next day, but I couldn’t take another zero. I thanked them and took off. The trail was a mud pit. Horses really tear up the trail, and with all the rain it was slick and messy. By 5 p.m., I had made it to Many Glacier after a detour through the Ptarmigan Tunnel, cutting out 14 miles. Given the conditions, I figured it was better to get warm and dry and make up the miles down the trail somewhere.

The hotel is huge, with a fire in the lobby. It was completely crowded with people drying out their things. I decided I’d have a hot meal and wait until the rain slowed down before pitching my tent across the parking lot. This was a temporary site behind the employee housing while construction was being done. Whatever—as long as I was inside and drying out.

I met some nice people in the restaurant—Neal and Dave and their family. We talked for a bit, and when I went to pay my bill, Neal had already picked it up. Thanks, buddy! I also met a couple of dudes from Alabama and saw them the next morning at the AYCE breakfast buffet. We took a picture together and then I headed out onto the deck to take in the views.

My next campsite was only 28 miles away at Red Eagle Lake, so I figured I’d linger around the hotel for a bit before taking off—I didn’t want to get to camp too early. I ran into Neal and his boys and thanked him for dinner, talked with them and a school teacher from Iowa for a bit.

At 10, I took off. It didn’t take long before the overgrowth car wash started—I was soaked within 15 minutes. But the sun was out, and it was going to be a nice day. Some spots were muddy still, but manageable without the rain. The park was packed, being the middle of July, and some sections of trail were crawling with people.

I thought for a moment about hiking beyond my designated spot and trying to get as many miles as I could—until a ranger stopped me and asked for my permit. I decided to scrap the idea and stopped at Red Eagle.

The next morning, I was out by 5:30 with a five-mile, 3,000-foot climb up to Triple Divide Pass. I reached it by 9. From there, a long downhill and cruise trail until heading back up for 2,000 feet to Pitamakan Pass, then down forever again and cruising to Two Medicine Campground—and finally back up a three-mile climb to a scenic point, then down and out to East Glacier again.

I dropped my bag at the hostel and ran down and ordered a large BBQ chicken pizza at Brownies Bakery. Hung out with Just Greg, Lucy (she was still waiting on her parcel), Blindspot, a foreign dude with a messed-up eye (I didn’t ask), and a Mainer named Friendly.

The next morning, after shaking the earwigs off my tent’s mesh door, I resupplied and took off at noon. I was ready to launch, and now I didn’t have any permitting issues until Yellowstone. I allocated three days of travel—anything quicker would’ve been gravy.

It’s on to the Bob now—and the spot where I blew out my shoulder a year ago. Excited to make it back!

Week 11 Mileage: 203.3

“Not Without a Fight”

The rest of the day I wasn’t feeling great. Not sure if it was the heat or not—34.5 miles with almost 9,000 feet of ascent was no easy feat. Still without much of an appetite, I arrived at Stevens Pass at noon and thought maybe some real food would kickstart it. So I grabbed a steak and cheese and charged my stuff for a couple of hours. My plan was to do another 20 miles out from there, which would put me just under 90 miles from Stehekin, where I had a box waiting for me.

Also, my buddy and sponsor Geoff—with Mary Poppins UL sleeping pads—was just up the trail doing a section. I was looking forward to seeing him.

Leaving Stevens, I became really sick—twice—and realized pushing on 108 miles to Stehekin wasn’t in my best interest. It’s hard making those decisions knowing I’m racing the clock, but I couldn’t push that hard feeling like that. I pitched into Skykomish and got a hotel room, basically laid in bed for 36 hours, stayed two nights, and got back on trail Monday morning. I wouldn’t beat last year’s time, but a day and a half difference isn’t the end of the world. The rest was probably needed, and I felt great after flushing my system for two days: 32.5, 42.5, 43.4.

I skipped going into Stehekin—I had enough food to make it to the next town. I hadn’t eaten much of my stuff anyway, and dealing with the bus schedule into Stehekin would’ve cost me at least half a day. So I pushed hard and made it to Rainy Pass on Thursday. Got enough resupply to finish the trail and was back at the Pass by 2:30. Met a guy who knew me—trail name “Meat Hammer”—and I was able to do another 20 miles out.

The final day on the PCT. Bittersweet. Over four times doing it—I did the math, and it’s almost 12,000 miles of hiking just on this trail. The weather was perfect, but it was still going to be a hard day: 40.6 to the monument and another 3.6 back to camp. I made it to Hart’s Pass by 9 and met some volunteers who said they could get me to Wenatchee to catch my train on Sunday. So now I had my plan for after the trail. All that was left was to reach the end and get back.

I passed a lot of people starting southbound—no doubt they assumed I was doing the same. My week ended at 2:06 p.m. I still had 18 miles to go, but I figured I’d just write until the end. No doubt most of you know I’ve already finished by now, so I’ll keep writing.

I had met a dude named Coffee Break in Mazama the other day, and I ran into him just before the terminus. He said my hike inspired him to get back on trail earlier and knock out this section. That made me feel good. The trail for the last 5 miles was mostly downhill, which was great—except I’d have to climb that back up soon after. By 8 p.m., I saw the end. I ran to it and tagged that sucker! 77 days and 6 hours. About a day and a half slower than last year, but still pretty damn good.

This is my last time doing the PCT. I’ve met amazing people and enjoyed most of the steps. It’s such an unpredictable trail every year with fires and snow, but for the second straight year, I finished first and didn’t get rerouted for fires once—very lucky. To do the PCT over four times is very special—a rare accomplishment.

On to the CDT.

Week 10 Mileage: 244.3

“Masshole, Savage and Section J”

To start the week, I got stung by a wasp. I was hoping to see my buddy Masshole north of Trout Lake. When I arrived at the toad crossing, I didn’t see a note from him, so I decided to hitch into town. While resupplying, I heard a familiar voice—it was him. He had just arrived in town.

I ate, had a huckleberry smoothie, and we were back on trail by 2. It was great catching up and hiking through the Mt. Adams Wilderness. The mosquitoes were rough, but I started a fire at camp and it kept them at bay.

I said goodbye to Masshole early the next morning and pushed hard. I wanted to get through the Goat Rocks Wilderness and make it to White Pass. The mosquitoes were still relentless, so I upgraded to 100% DEET at the store. After resupplying and eating, I took off into the Mt. Rainier Wilderness—hard hiking and good climbs, with some snow still lingering in spots.

I saw big herds of elk and met my first southbound PCT hiker. He told me everything was clear and that there weren’t any fires to deal with. The trail gets easier for a bit past Rainier, and it’s a good section to make miles before Snoqualmie and Section J—one of the hardest sections on the PCT, even without snow.

Arriving in Snoqualmie, it was raining, cold, and foggy. I decided to stay—it was 4:30 and I was soaked. I got a hotel room, ordered pizza, and relaxed for the night. The next morning, I hit the trail around 10, hiking up to the Kendall Catwalk.

A pretty blonde girl named Savage caught up to me, and we hiked and camped together that night. She had hiked the PCT in ’21, and it was nice to hike with someone for an entire day. She headed back to Snoqualmie the next morning; I continued north.

It was a hot day—in the 90s—very humid and very buggy. I couldn’t quite get it together. I wasn’t hungry either. It was a rough day, and all I wanted was to get to Stevens Pass.

Week 9 Mileage: 253.1

“Oversharing?”

At 33 miles in for the day, I was starting to get bored with this section. Sure, ponds and lakes and flat, twisting trails are fine for some people—and normally I welcome that kind of thing—but today, for some reason, I was over it. It might’ve been the fact that I wasn’t going to make it to Elk Lake Resort before the restaurant closed—two days in a row. I was late for Shelter Cove last night, and now this.

It was 5:15 and I had 6.3 miles to the trail junction for Elk Lake. So I did what any normal, sensible hiker would do after 33 miles: I started to trail run. If I wanted to change my situation, I had to act. So I put on some angry music and ran the last 6 miles.

I arrived at Elk Lake, had a pizza and a couple sodas, and was back on trail by 8:10. I did another 6 miles, and once the elevation started to climb and I hit snowpack, I called it for the night at 10:30. With the 3-mile out-and-back side trail, it turned out to be a 48-mile day. I got it done.

Yeah, I got it done alright—more tired than I’ve ever felt. I only hiked 3 miles before stopping to rest my eyes for a bit. That was short-lived, because as I laid there, I felt something moving…down below. I reached down and grabbed something crawling—it was a tick.

The snowpack lasted all day and it was 36 miles to Big Lake Youth Camp, which has a PCT hiker building with a shower, laundry, kitchen, and my resupply box. The challenge was that they lock it at 9 p.m. I had work to do. Pushing through endless miles of white, I stopped briefly for lunch near a waterfall and met a couple of guys who had just hiked Middle Sister. Andrew and Jordan gave me some food they didn’t need, and I took off shortly after.

I had new shoes in that resupply box, and the ones I was wearing were falling apart. Once out of the snow, I hit lava rock for miles. With wet socks and beat-up shoes, I could feel my feet deteriorating. At McKenzie Pass, I swapped my wet socks for dry—but dirty—ones, and that helped. By 8 p.m., I rolled into Big Lake Youth Camp. No one was around; they were all at evening prayer. I made myself at home and got everything done.

I didn’t pack much food in this box because I planned to stop at Olallie Campground to bulk up for the stretch to Cascade Locks. Leaving around 7:15 the next morning, I encountered more snow—sketchy stuff. Comments on this section warned, “Ice axe and microspikes mandatory,” and “I had to turn around.” Slipping, tripping, and falling weren’t rare, but I made it through and arrived at Olallie by 10:30 the next morning.

Olallie is extremely remote and cash only. I’d tried hitching into the town of Sisters the day before to get to an ATM, but had no luck. Luckily, Dennis was sitting on the porch and remembered me from previous visits. He told me to get what I needed and just mail the cash when I could. What a guy.

At noon I was off, with 52 miles to Mt. Hood and Timberline Lodge—known for the all-you-can-eat buffet. This section was easy: no snow, flat, big miles. I clocked over 30 from noon and finished with 45 for the day. I arrived at Timberline at 12:45 the next day. Seeing the cheeseburger at the ski lodge was $27, I opted for the buffet at the hotel for $10 more. The lunch spread was decent and I met Eddy and Oliver—the Swiss and Norwegian hikers—at the buffet. They were the most northern starters on the trail, beginning March 24th, and I’d been trying to catch up to them for a while.

After leaving, I tackled some tough terrain with big ups and downs, pushing to get close to Cascade Locks and the Washington border. One semi-sketchy river crossing and a few more miles brought me to Eddy and Oliver’s camp. I wished them luck and hiked a few miles farther before pitching my tent on a flat switchback turn.

With 36 miles to Cascade Locks the next day, I hit the trail early and pushed hard. I wanted to arrive before the end of month two, but missed it by about 10 miles. Still, I clocked 1,116 miles for the month—30 days I’m very happy with.

At 5:45 p.m., I reached town, excited for Washington and a well-earned break. I went straight to the grocery store and bought all kinds of frozen food. The hotel only had a microwave, so I grabbed Banquet fried chicken, burritos, a salad, strawberries, and bananas. I ate like a pig, checked in, and fell asleep at 7:30, sleeping like a rock.

I didn’t leave town until 2 p.m. the next day. I had a lot to do, and all I wanted the night before was to eat and sleep—and I did just that. With a late start, I tackled the 13-mile climb out of town. Along the trail, something caught my eye. I turned around to find a recently deceased bobcat next to the trail. No blood, no signs of trauma—it looked asleep. I took a video and a photo, then moved on.

I hoped to see my friend Masshole on trail—he was ahead somewhere, and I was motivated to catch him. The weekly alarm rang, and I clocked 253.1 miles. Not bad for a late 2 p.m. start the previous day. Charging through Washington now, with less than 500 miles to the finish!

Week 8 Mileage: 267.8

PCT Mile: 1938.3

“Trans, Snow and Skeeters”

I wanted to reach the Oregon border by the end of the day. That would be 35 miles, but the elevation gain was over 9,000 feet. By 7 p.m. it started to snow; by 9:30, I called it quits 4 miles from the border, figuring the snow was just a passing fluke. Waking up to 3 inches on the ground was a surprise, and even more surprising was that it kept falling. Most of the day brought steady snowfall, switching to freezing rain and then, briefly, sunshine—only for the clouds to quickly roll back in. I was cold and wearing every layer I had.

My resupply box was at Callahan’s Lodge, just a mile off-trail, and I usually grab it and keep going. But this weather wasn’t typical. As I descended, snow turned to rain—40 degrees and soaking wet is a brutal combo. By the time I reached the road to the lodge, it was absolutely pouring. I could have pushed on and eked out another 6 miles in that misery, but instead I got a ride to Ashland and stayed at the Columbia Hotel—a renovated hostel with music memorabilia on the walls, right in the center of town. My bunk cost only $50, and I met two Australians hiking the trail. Took a hot shower that lasted two minutes before the water went cold… another lame shower experience. I washed and dried everything, got my gear on charge, and headed out for food: large pizza, wings, Caesar salad. Sleeping by 9.

The next morning, one of the Aussies—named “Bush” because he once brought Bush Light to hikers—offered me a ride back to the trail. Before leaving, the front desk person wanted a photo for their “PCT Wall of Fame,” which printed out quickly. I wrote my name and hometown. She asked, “NH?” I replied, “Yeah, where men are men… and so are the women.” No one laughed—not her, not the housekeeper next to me, who was transgender and transitioning. I could tell the comment didn’t land well. For the record, I identify as funny, so the fact that they didn’t laugh offended me too. Bush chuckled at the whole exchange, and by 9:45 I was back on trail and moving well.

Crater Lake was 100 miles ahead. I know this section—it’s a cruiser. Staying low in elevation, it avoids most snow, but it’s sparse in water sources. A lot of ponds and lakes, but not many large flowing streams. Stretches of 10 to 20 miles without water aren’t uncommon here. I pulled a 46.5-mile day, landing me perfectly at Crater Lake the next afternoon. Arrived at 3 p.m., went into the camp store, and they had my resupply box! Relieved, I signed for it and heard someone ask in a high-pitched voice, “Is the trail everything you hoped it would be?” I looked up to see a man in a dress. I said, “Yeah dude, a lot of snow the last 20 miles.” It’s still a mental shift—to see someone presenting differently and adapt my response mid-thought. I’m old school, still navigating the learning curve.

After eating a bison burger and a slice of cheesecake, I hit the trail again. The PCT doesn’t pass close to Crater’s rim, and since I’d been up there three times already, I was fine skipping it. The section I did was flat and pleasant aside from a few blowdowns. Happy to knock out 37 miles after a two-hour break.

Next day I cruised to the Mt. Thielson Wilderness. Not much water through here, but two caches helped. I met a defeated section hiker heading out—his Achilles was acting up. Reminded me of my own struggles before Big Bear Lake. I told him to try compression socks and Advil, but I could tell he’d mentally checked out.

I pushed toward Thielson. Snow started around 6,500 feet and continued for the next 20 miles. It was tough, but I had to reach Shelter Cove Campground by Thursday night. Trail below 6,500 was clear but packed with mosquitoes; above that, it was snow-covered. Diamond Peak Wilderness was slow-going with post-holing and deep snow, burning more food and energy. Still, I made it to the store by 6:15, not knowing it closed at 6. Luckily, the guy inside let me quickly resupply with card payment. $8 for a bag of Doritos—everything was insanely overpriced. But then a lady invited me to her campsite.

Maggie and Kevin were great—gave me sodas and food. Their baby boomer friends had lots of deep questions: Why do I do it? What do I think about on trail? What are my plans afterward? After 32 miles through snow, my mind was a bit fried. To answer those, you’d have to be there.

Maggie and crew drove me back up to the trail, and I squeezed out another 8.2 miles by 10:30, putting me 39 miles from Elk Lake Resort. The next section was flat and easy—low elevation, mosquito-heavy. I was drenched in bug spray and wore my bug net for the first time. By the time my alarm went off at 2:06 p.m. to end the week, I was proud of my weekly mileage total: 267.8. Even with the unexpected stop in Ashland, I was very satisfied.

Total Weekly Mileage: 269.5

PCT Mile: 1670.5

“A Dying Breed”

I was at mile 1401. My shoes? Mile 1502, thanks to a 2-mile side trail. The ones I was wearing? Toast. After trudging through snow for 400 miles, the glue holding the sole together had given out—and I still had 100 miles to go. This was Friday at 2 p.m.

I called KellyFish, the owner of Castle Crossroads in Dunsmuir, just east of my shoes and west of Mt. Shasta. Told her I needed a spot for Sunday night. Aggressive? Sure. But slowing down to hobble along in trashed shoes wasn’t appealing either—may as well push hard and hope they held up. Fortunately, this section through Lassen isn’t too bad—pretty flat, with limited water unless you want to hike 0.3 miles down into a canyon. I hit a water tank and chatted with an Aussie couple starting from Chester. They said they were ultrarunners but taking it easy to start. The guy had some gnarly blisters—awful for hiking. I gave him a pair of five-toe liner socks I wasn’t using; it would help reduce the rubbing from his Smartwools. I told them to pick up the pace unless they wanted to be dodging fires, then I took off.

That night, I aimed for Burney Mountain Guest Ranch. I needed water, charging, and a light resupply. Christina and her husband are amazing people. I’d met them the previous year, and they had just opened back then. I’d wished I could stay longer, and this year was the same—great place, wrong timing. That’s one of the toughest parts for me out here: seeing familiar people I’d love to spend time with, but knowing I can’t. So I do my best to make the most of the moments I have.

As soon as I showed up, Christina recognized me—said a few hikers had mentioned I was heading north. She handed me a Dr. Pepper. Her husband, Lehen, noticed how wrecked my shoes were. He went into his shed, grabbed some supplies, and caulked between the sole and upper before duct-taping the whole thing. It bought me the next 100 miles. I went inside for an ice cream sundae and couldn’t resist the seafood buffet—absolutely incredible stop. Charged up, resupplied, full belly, and my green handprint now on the water tank of fame. As hard as it was, I hit the trail again at 7:30 p.m.

The next day, I went big. I’d booked a bed at the Dunsmuir Crossroads Hostel the day before, which meant I had to log big miles to arrive by Sunday night around 8 p.m. I pulled a 42, then a 44, then a 38—arriving by 7:15. KellyFish picked me up, took me to grab my shoes and resupply at Dollar General—or, as she calls it, “The Dirty G.”

I met Ugly Stick at the hostel, along with two Germans having a very good time. They’d say something in German, then giggle for five straight minutes. It was hilarious. Ugly Stick was the first through the Sierra this year—breaking trail in snowshoes. A true thru-hiker. He’s kept a continuous footpath despite slicing his leg open (needed stitches), getting blistered so badly he had to hike with a cane, and taking a few days off. But he never broke the chain. A rare breed these days, with all the skipping and flip-flopping going on.

I got a late start out of town. My goal was to knock out the 155 miles to Seiad Valley by Thursday night. That way I could reach the RV park, charge up overnight, resupply early, and start the big climb out. KellyFish dropped me at 11:30—late start—which meant I’d need a string of huge days to make it. The climb out was rough. I’d packed a lot of food, so the weight was punishing. Still managed 25 miles, with the last 3.5 gaining over 1,000 feet.

The next day? Into the 40s. Then a 44 on Wednesday. By Thursday morning, I had 39 miles to go to reach the road—and another 6 miles of roadwalking into Seiad. I pushed hard, through blowdowns and burn zones. By 9 p.m., I hit the road.

Earlier that day, a section hiker had told me about Brian, who lets hikers stop by his place—right on the road into town. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but by mile 42 I was ready to be done. I reached the sign at his driveway: “Trail Magic.” All the lights were off—it was 10 p.m. I walked onto the deck and found a note that read: “Make yourself at home. Charge your things. Have a drink. You can sleep on the deck.” I did all that, and I was beyond relieved I didn’t have another 2 miles left.

Next morning, I was at the store by 6:30. They didn’t open until 7, but Joshua let me buy what I needed. After organizing my pack and eating two burritos, I headed out. Spotted a Porta John on the side of the road and made full use of it—always grateful to save my quads from a cat-hole squat.

With food to last me, everything charged, and a couple pounds lighter, I began the climb. It’s a beast—gaining over 3,000 feet in 8 miles. Thankfully, the weather was cool and breezy. I’ve done it in full sun before, and it’s brutal. When I reached the top, I stopped at the forest road and chatted with a couple of dirt bikers. From there, I kept pushing—crawling over blowdowns and wrapping up one huge week. Almost to Oregon.

“Poor Man’s Shower”

I didn’t go into Sierra City—the town was close, but the store didn’t open until 8. I crossed the road and tackled the big 5-mile climb. The goal was to get out of the snowpack. I remembered from past years that it usually ends near Bucks Lake. Since I skipped Sierra City, Haskins Store was my next stop—about 65 miles away.
Around 10 a.m., I stopped at a small campground to get water. Some guys were there, hanging out for a bachelor party. I found it amusing that the groom already had his wedding ring on—he’s clearly not taking chances with that 60% divorce rate.

As I moved on, the climb continued. The snow was sporadic, with a few sketchy sidehill stretches. A storm rolled in behind me, and another one loomed ahead. Fortunately, the trail weaved between the two, and I made it to mile 1,235 with a 42.2-mile day. As soon as I crawled into my tent, the wind picked up and the thunder, lightning, and rain hit. Great timing!
Thankfully, the snow had finally stopped. Now the trail was covered in massive blowdowns and overgrowth. Pushing through all that mess left my legs scratched and soaked from the wet branches left over from the previous night’s storm. This section has been like this the last four times I’ve been through—another challenge courtesy of the PCT.

After bushwhacking down to the North Fork Feather Creek Bridge, I faced a 10-mile climb in the heat of the day. Haskins Store closes at 6, so I pushed hard—it’s a 2.7-mile road walk off trail. A kind lady gave me a lift, and I was dropped off at 4:30. I promptly devoured food for an hour and did a light resupply that set me back $115. Oh, California—your prices never fail to impress.
I hit the road again at 5:50, walked back to the trail, and got back on the PCT around 7. I hiked halfway up to Bucks Summit, still 16 miles from Belden and dreading the 13.4-mile uphill out.

Belden itself is quite the place—part hippy commune, part trailer park. I crushed a double Belden burger ($21 + tax) and started the climb at 1:15 p.m. My timing lately for big ascents has been, unintentionally, right at the hottest time of the day. It’s been a lesson in endurance—90+ degrees and a 13-mile climb. I must be crazy, or maybe just stubborn. Probably both.

I aimed to complete the climb in 6 hours—it took 7. I passed a few smiling southbound hikers who had flipped up to avoid the snow and were enjoying their pleasant downhill into Belden. Part of me was a little jealous.

At Frog Lookout, reaching the summit brought the usual rush. For all my complaining, there’s something addictive about conquering these climbs. Serotonin surging—it’s almost up there with life’s best moments. Yes, I smoked a celebratory cigarette at the summit.

Next stop: Chester—a major resupply point for me. This is where I’d prep my food boxes for Oregon. The hitch? The post office closed at 4 p.m., and I had 25.3 miles to cover to make that happen. I’d need to hit the highway by 2:30, hitch to the market, do a massive 12-day food shop, break it into three boxes, and ship them all out. No pressure.

Thankfully, the trail was mellow—no major climbs, just a stark burn area from the 2021 Dixie Fire. By 11 a.m., I hit the PCT halfway point: 39 days, 21 hours—a personal best. I didn’t linger. I reached the highway by 2 p.m., caught a hitch by 2:15, and wheeled my loaded cart to the post office. I broke everything down just in time and shipped out the boxes at 4 p.m. Success.

Back at the market, I charged my devices and grabbed some food, then went to do laundry and shower. The shower cost $3 for 6 minutes, so I put in $9 and went for 18. Ten days on trail had left me caked in ash, sunscreen, bug spray, and grime. I took my time—dedicated scrubbing to my legs and feet. Just as I was covered in soap and shampoo, the water suddenly shut off. I had 8 minutes left! Couldn’t get it back on, so I used the last few drips and then hurried to the laundry room sink for a rough rinse while someone nearby waited for his clothes. Not ideal, but it did the job. By 7:30 p.m., I was back on trail and logged another 7 miles before calling it for the day. What a day.

This section to Old Station and Lassen Volcanic National Park is smooth—perfect for big-mile days. Still hot, but manageable. I pulled off 40 miles the next day and, despite sparse water and more burn zone terrain, wrapped up the week with 246+ miles. I landed at PCT mile 1,401. Now, my goal is to crush through Northern California and get into Oregon, where I’ll meet whatever late-season snowpack awaits.

Week 6 Mileage: 246.5

PCT Mile: 1401

“It Won’t Get Out!”

Hiking into the Donner Ski Ranch after doing 20 miles on one packet of Ramen noodles was a sight for sore eyes. Nevertheless, 20.3 miles by 2 pm, I was very happy about that. I ordered loaded nachos but couldn’t wait, so I got a piece of chocolate cake and a bag of Dorito’s to hold me over. After that, a slice of caramel apple pie ala mode. Thankfully they had my resupply box, and I spent the next 3 hours charging my stuff, organizing my pack and taking a nap in the ski lodge. A quick thunder shower rolled through and afterwards I took off, saying goodbye to Breeze and the rest of his trail family. I only hiked 4 miles out. All that food and heavy pack made the going tough and after a hard-fought couple of days, I was spent.

Rolling out at 5am the next morning, I made it to Peter Grubs Hut about 6 miles away. The snowpack had returned, and I figured another 70 miles of this before lower elevation would clear the way until Oregon.

I was between hiking bubbles, no footprints to be found. So here I was, getting in touch with nature, staring at my phone screen every 30 seconds to figure out where the hell I was. After lunch, I found myself in deep thought about why they don’t make Cool Ranch Fritos when all of a sudden some winged devil larger than a mosquito and smaller than a June bug flew into my ear. No, not just flew into the side, flew IN! Inside my ear canal. At first, I thought it was gone, but after a minute or so I felt crawling, tickling and then, wings fluttering. I tried to grab whatever it was with my fingers but too big to fit. What about a stick? No that would smoosh it. I thought about using my tweezers, but the ends are too pointy. I didn’t want to stab my ear drum. Now I’m thinking about the nearest road to the nearest town to the nearest hospital. I was literally in the middle of nowhere. The fluttering and crawling continued. AAHHH, what a nightmare! Finally, I had a thought. Bugs are attracted to light, what if I tilt my head towards the sun? Maybe it will come out, it’s gotta be getting bored by now, not too much going on in there. So, I stopped, and like a statue, stood still looking like the possessed girl from the Exorcist and waited. If any hiker showed up now they would definitely be freaked out. At first nothing, then I felt crawling, a little at a time. The damn thing was walking through my ear canal around like it was in one of those fun houses at the fair. Around and around it went until eventually it reached the exit point and flew away. Son of a bitch, you’d think after 22,000 miles of hiking I’d dealt with it all. Broken bones, poisoning, hypothermia, heat exhaustion, helicopter extraction to name a few. Well, let’s add invasion of the body snatcher to the list. If I get an ear infection, the damn thing laid eggs. I finished the day 38 miles in at a campsite next to a water tank. Right near the road that led into Sierra City. After playing Pacman with the hiking trail all day and dealing with the winged devil, I was spent.

Week 5 Mileage: 194.2

PCT Mile: 1154.5

“Mad Rivers and Stupid Technology”

The mosquitoes are starting to come out, not bad yet, but they will be. I caught back up with “Handshake,” the Irishman I had accidentally flipped off earlier. We talked for a bit, and I got a quick education on Guinness. By 6:30, he was stopping, and I was moving on. By 7, I came to my first good river crossing. This was the section on the backside of Yosemite where there would be a lot of them. I made it across, and the next two. I had to put my phone and other things in a Ziplock and then my bear can for safety. Climbing out of that low area was tough, and the snowpack returned. I pitched my tent at an odd spot halfway up the climb under a tree. It was a little slanted, but it did the trick. The next day was going to be tough.

This section has it all: big climbs, snowpack, and dozens of river crossings. Last year I was just ahead of peak melt, but this year, I seemed to be right in the middle of it. My timing for these rivers was terrible. I reached Kendall Creek after a snow-packed, steep downhill at 5:30 pm. Where the trail crossed was raging. I had to go for it. Four steps in, and I was swept down. Luckily, I was able to grab some branches leaning offshore and pull myself back up. That was close. About 200 yards upriver, I noticed that the river had split and then rejoined about 50 yards before my crossing. I walked up and saw a log dam. Carefully, I balance-beamed across, pushed through the first part to an island, and then across the second. My adrenaline was going pretty good at this point, so I just hiked on, plowing up a 3-mile climb, crossing two more sketchy rivers. By 6:30, I reached another huge lazy river, and after 15 minutes of trying to find a safe and shallow spot to cross, I just said, “screw it.” I put my pack on top of my head and walked across, up to my chest. From here, another good climb before more snowpack and down to what I thought was my last big crossing. It was 8:45 pm, all my electronics were in my bear can, and I didn’t want to stop and pull out my headlamp and phone to see where I was. I decided to walk over to a log right on the edge of the shore and pick my crossing point. Right as I got to it, I took one more step and fell right in, up to my neck. Just like the kids in the movie “Stand By Me,” except I didn’t have any leeches stuck to my body. I decided to call it for the night.

The next morning, after putting back on all my cold, wet clothes (it was in the 40s), I could now see where I went wrong. The path was 50 feet to the right. I wasn’t even at the river I thought I was. I was actually at a lake inlet 0.2 miles before the river. Anyway, I had 29.8 miles to Sonora Pass and Kennedy Meadows North, and come hell or high water (which there would be), I’d get there. Luckily, after getting across the river, which was cold but lower than last year, up to my belly button, the trail was quite cruiser for the first 10 miles. Some snow but mostly wet meadows. I hiked with a kid named “Kind Heart” for a bit, and once we caught up to his trail family, I continued on. Twelve miles to go with a snowpack ascent leading down to the pass. I had called and arranged a shuttle ride. About 10 minutes later, a ’95 Ford pickup flathead with two young kids showed up: Aiden and Cote. We piled in, and by the time we made it down the steep mountain road, the brakes on the old Ford were smoking pretty good. As soon as I arrived, Deserae, who worked there, remembered me from last year and took my order. The biggest cut of prime rib I’d ever seen. It was the whole cow without the hooves. I ate the whole damn thing. A couple of extra shower tokens and a quick ice cream sandwich, and I was back in my old familiar room. I met a couple of PCT hikers, Tarzan and Mr. Sunshine. They were surprised at my pace. I slept great that night, excited for the trail in the morning and being over a day ahead of last year.

The next morning, I shipped shoes north. I had sent a big resupply box there via UPS. I broke everything down and sent separate pairs of shoes to two places up the trail and the rest to the CDT. Grabbed more food for the next 132 miles and headed back up to the pass with Grandpa Ron, the designated shuttle driver. I checked my guide to see mileage, and my map app wouldn’t load. Strange. I knew there was service a few miles out of the pass, so I would reinstall it then. I did four miles out and continued down into the valley. It was all snowpack, and there were footprints, but very faint. I lost the trail. Checked my map app. It wouldn’t load. It wouldn’t even show the map. It would start loading and then close. I wandered around for two hours trying to find some semblance of trail. Nothing. And if you think the trail is marked well, it’s not. Usually, one of the first things that gets done when establishing a trail is to…MARK THE FUCKIN ROUTE! (that’s my Sam Kinison impression). By this time, it was approaching 3 o’clock, and I was totally lost. A storm came in. Wind, rain, and hail. I had no choice but to hike back up to the top of the mountain to get service and reinstall the app again. By the time I reached service, trudging through snowpack, soaking wet and cold, I was spent. I pitched my tent, got the app working, and by 6:30, the storm had passed. By 7, my tent was dry. I thought about packing up and eking out six or so miles, but I was done. 3.9 miles for the day. The trail won. I quit for the day. Fell asleep by 8.

I woke up and started just before 6. Following my working app, now I found the trail only 50 yards to the left of where I had been looking for it the day before. After a couple more miles, wouldn’t you believe it, the snow ended, and the trail cleared. This resulted in a pissed-off mood for me, thinking if I had just packed up last night and went for it, I could have snagged another 8-10 miles. I thought about this all day. By 3, I had to stop and tell myself, “you made the decision last night to stop and quit, there’s nothing you can do about that now, forget it and move on!” So, I did. Only getting 33 for the day.

The next morning, I was better, moving by 5 am and pushing big miles. The best way over the years for me to get out of a funk is to have big mile days, and it always makes me feel better. The snowpack through this section towards South Lake Tahoe had less snow than last year, and I didn’t miss a trail junction and go three miles in the wrong direction like I had the year before, so that helped too. I did fall through a snow bridge over a small creek, bent my trekking poles, and cut my ankle, but just like in years past, arriving at Echo Lake near SLT, my morale shifted to feeling hopeful and good. I was about to enter the Desolation Wilderness, and with 62 miles to go, closing in on Donner Pass and out of the big snow-covered mountains. This is the hardest section of the entire hike for me, and to keep my MPD average over 30 is a huge morale boost. I set off out of Echo Lake at 5:30 am. Low on food, with a light pack, I needed a big day. I pushed hard, limited my breaks, and was able to finish at 11 pm with 41.9 miles, putting me 20.3 miles to Donner Ski Ranch. All I had left was four packs of oatmeal and one pack of Ramen.

I was on-trail at 4:30 am. No sense in dicking around; I was basically out of food. Six miles in, I passed a group of tents, no doubt the hikers whose footprints I had been following the last couple of days. I guess it was my turn to navigate. I climbed hard up to Squaw Valley Ski area and was very careful on the downhill, making sure I didn’t make a wrong turn and go too far down and off trail (I did that last year). The snow cleared up high on the ridgeline, and I was able to call Grandma and see how she was doing. My cousin was there keeping her company, and since entering the nursing home, Grandma’s mobility and speech have deteriorated. She doesn’t respond as much and often doesn’t answer the phone when I call. It’s hard for me because she has been my biggest fan since I started this crazy shit 10 years ago. At any rate, it was nice to tell her everything that had been going on, and although I’m down to 157 lbs., I’m right on schedule, in fact, one day ahead of last year and moving well. Soon to be out of the snow.

A young Dutch kid called Breeze caught up to me, and we hiked to Donner together. We made it there by 2 pm, just under the end of my week 5 mark. I was starving but happy.

Push through, no matter how hard the challenge, but quitting, that’s forever.

-Cam Hanes

Week 4 Mileage: 170

“Zero Time”

I know what you’re thinking, only 170 miles in a week and taking nudes, has he lost his mind? Well, anyone that would try this again after a 3,000-mile failed attempt the year before must be a little crazy, so there’s that. Furthermore, I need to blow off some steam every once in a while, so the photo certainly did that and I did get some interesting comments from it. Also, this is the toughest section of all the trails for me, so resting the feet and legs for a day will be beneficial down the trail. I’m trying not to be so “bull in a China shop” on this hike. More calculating and efficient so as to expend too much energy or waste time.

I got into Mammoth on Wednesday. A cool couple, Mitch and Blake brought me in. It seems their morning routine is drinking road sodas and walking the dogs, my kind of people. I was able to check in at Motel 6 at 9 am and beelined it to Carl’s Jr. Nothing was going to get in my way. If there was an elderly lady on the sidewalk, I’d be kicking her off the curb. A cripple at the crosswalk, he’s getting wheeled into traffic. I was in a zombie-like fast food trance. I crushed a bunch of salt, sugar and fat. I took a double cheeseburger to go and headed to Mammoth Mountaineering and supply. I replaced my broken pack buckle, new socks and replaced my snow baskets. From there, I hit a discount grocery store and loaded up with food for the next leg and food for the night. A lot of dairy. Back to the motel for showers, naps, TV and food. A proper zero day.

I had given Mitch my website and he emailed me later that day letting me know if I needed anything in town to let him know. The ride back to trail was no problem and Blake and Mitch were ready and waiting at 9 am.  A great couple! I would have liked to hang out with them and get to know them, but no rest for records. I wonder if Blake has a sister.

I finally reached the PCT by 11:30. That side trail was rough. Also, full resupply and a bloated belly from all the cheese the night before made me not feel like a champ. Luckily the trail cleared for most of the day from here, I had to take a reroute for a bridge washout from 2 years before (I actually shimmied across it last year) and made good time. Island Pass had less snow than last year, so it was a cruiser to my camp spot.

The next morning slow, post-holing Donahue Pass. It frustrated me so much, continuously falling through the snowpack, that I turned and flipped it off as I reached the top. There was a dude 15 feet behind. I apologized and let him pass. Once I got to the floor of the valley it was a no-snow wet cruiser. I met a kid named Booth and we hiked all the way to Tuolumne Meadows together. The mosquitoes were starting to hatch and I was glad to be out of that section. Yosemite wasn’t open yet, but the Ranger Station had a volunteer. I ended up at a picnic table in the sun. Feeling good, but still kind of full.

Dairy recap on zero day: A wheel of havarti, a bunch of fresh mozzarella, 2 pints of ice cream, and a half gallon of milk with my family sized box of cinnamon toast crunch. Oof, gotta eat more ruffage…

Week 4 Mileage: 170

“How Good Am I?”

As I approached Forester Pass, I felt excited—not just to climb it, but also because the patchy snowpack on the approach made me hopeful that the Sierra would be low this year. I topped out on Forester at 8 PM, and as I looked down into the valley, all I could see was snow. So much for that pipe dream.

I put on my spikes and headed down the back. It took me two hours to negotiate the slope—postholing, falling, and tripping. I tore my jacket, and by 10 PM, I had reached my campsite. Someone was already there, so I continued on. Because of all the snow, I needed to find a flat spot protected by a tree. I found one—just enough space to tuck my tent into.

The next morning, I was nine miles from Glen Pass, and it took almost five hours to reach the top. Once again, the snow on the approach was spotty, but the descent was entirely covered. It was a bit sketchy—there was a thousand-foot runout to the left, so I took it slow to get down. After four more miles of postholing and route finding, I finally made it to open trail. Exhausting work.

At this point, I knew where the snowpack level was—roughly 9,500 feet. Anything above that meant snow. Most of this section to Mammoth hovered around 10,000 feet. By 6 PM, I started my approach to Pinchot Pass. I liked the look of the clouds, but within fifteen minutes, the pass closed off, and it started snowing. Too dangerous, I thought. Honestly, I was relieved to have an excuse to stop early.

After pitching my tent and settling in, I started questioning my decision—this was too early to stop. I looked out of my tent to see the sky clearing, with sunlight poking through. A defining moment: should I stay or go? It was nearly 7 PM, and I had three miles to the top.

Screw it. I packed up and continued on.

It was rough, tough, and slow. So many times, I wanted to quit and pitch my tent. Those three miles took me two hours.

At 9 PM, I reached the top of the pass, adrenaline pumping as I bounced down the back side and found a flat spot a mile below. I was glad I had pushed through. I felt excited again to attack the rest of this section in the morning.

I kept my positive attitude the next day. Yeah, the snow was painful, but it would eventually end for good. This was the hardest section of my 7,500-mile hike. This is why people don’t hike the CYTC straight through—they can’t handle the difficult, exhausting, slow-going terrain. I can.

This is what I have to do to be world-class. Nothing less. So go, go, GO!

I topped out on Mather at 11:30 AM. I bouldered my way up the face (yeah, I can rock climb too) and stood on top—completely naked. I took a photo of myself standing on Mather’s peak with just my pack on and a Smartwater bottle covering my twig and berries. It took a few tries to get the coverage just right.

From there, I had a three-mile descent to open trail, followed by thirteen miles of fun, cruising terrain before the ascent to Muir Pass. I reached the top at 9:30 PM. I considered staying in the hut, but someone was inside, and after 31 miles of difficult hiking, I didn’t feel like making small talk.

That night, I froze in my tent. The next morning, my shoulders were rock-hard—I had to crimp, twist, and bang them just to soften up enough to fit my feet inside. Forget my socks—they looked like crinkled-up Christmas stockings. My tent stakes were frozen into the snow, so I used my ice axe to chip them out (the only time I used the axe) and hit the trail by 6 AM.

It had been so cold that I could walk on top of the snowpack without any problems for a couple of hours. By the time it warmed up, I had descended far enough that snow was no longer a concern.

I met the guy who had stayed in the hut the night before—“Fed Belly.” We hiked and talked for a while. He had the wildest setup I had ever seen—an 80-liter pack with a duffel bag attached by climbing rope. No trekking poles. Just wandering the Sierra for a couple of weeks, messing around. His kit must have weighed 100 pounds. He was doing five-mile days, and I believed it.

After crossing Evolution Creek and watching Fed Belly navigate it with two tree branches and his monstrosity of a pack, we parted ways. I had big miles to cover—Mammoth was calling, and it was 55 miles away.

I pushed hard through the next section. Plenty of climbs, but until the last two passes, I would be moving through limited snowpack.

Seldon Pass was next—sixteen miles ahead. Snow-packed and slow-going, I topped out at 6 PM and made my way down into the valley. At the bottom, I had a good river crossing to tackle. The all-day sun had melted so much snow that the crossing was a bit sketchy, but I managed it.

With my endorphins surging and my pack light, I found myself jogging down the trail—not bad after a marathon day.

I wanted to make it to the VVR (Vermilion Valley Resort) trail junction—not to go in, but as a good spot to set up for reaching Mammoth the following day.

I hiked late, stubbornly refusing to put my headlamp on. Missed a turn. Had to backtrack.

Ended up about three miles short of where I had wanted to finish.

Oh well.

Week 3 Mileage: 265.6

“Big miles, big resupply”

Imagine a place like Hiker Town, and that’s pretty much it—a fenced-off area in the middle of the low desert, scattered with trailers and small buildings. That’s where I was headed, needing to grab my box of prepackaged, over-processed food and get back on the trail.

I arrived at 6:20, having already covered 37.4 miles that day. Picked up my box, took a shower, and even did laundry in the shower—classic hiker trash behavior at Hiker Town! A fellow thru-hiker named Trash Panda gave me some extra food, and I quickly realized I hadn’t sent enough for the upcoming 186-mile stretch. I scarfed down a burrito and a Double-Double from In-N-Out, then charged my gear as much as possible before hitting the California aqueduct. I camped 3.7 miles out of town.

The next morning, I trekked across an exposed desert floor through a wind farm. The heat was brutal, and the wind was relentless. With every step, I fought against gusts that drained my energy.

That day, I met two German hikers, Lenny and Yanny, who had an unusual story from the night before. They heard whimpering near the trail and discovered an abandoned puppy. They could see two glowing eyes—probably coyotes—stalking the little guy, so they rescued him and planned to take him to Tehachapi. They named him Skippy.

By 9 p.m., I had knocked out 38 miles and was closing in on Tehachapi. The next day meant a big climb out—finally past all that relentless wind, nearly 40 miles of it. Now, I was approaching the high desert and Kennedy Meadows—my big stop.

Waiting for me there: my ice axe, microspikes, bear canister, and six days of food. My friends from back home, Captain Planet and Birdo, were on the trail just ahead. I kept seeing their names in logbooks—planning to reach Kennedy Meadows by 5/21. That meant big mileage days for me. After a 38-mile push, I camped in the low desert, then pushed for a 43.5.

It might sound extreme, but I was cruising through the desert, trying to keep my miles-per-day average high before hitting the Sierra.

That morning, I had 22.5 miles left and was on the trail by 4:45 a.m. About 30 minutes later, I heard footsteps behind me—it was Birdo, grinning.

We hiked to the next water source, where Captain Planet and his trail family caught up. Five hikers in total, with one I hadn’t met yet—Nick (can’t remember his trail name) and one named Gerbal. No reference to Richard Gere.

We hiked the rest of the way to Kennedy Meadows together. On these long hikes, especially when chasing records, isolation starts to wear on people. Mental toughness is everything. After four out of five seasons chasing the big hikes and covering 15,000 trail miles, I’m used to it. I can handle four, five, or even six days solo, but having a little human conversation now and then definitely helps.

Kennedy Meadows was packed—more hikers than I had ever seen there, around 30. As I approached, the familiar bell rang, followed by applause from the deck, marking another hiker’s completion of the desert stretch.

It was my fifth time arriving here, and it never gets old. I recognized someone coming down the steps toward me—Phish, a buddy from my first attempt back in ’21.

After catching up, I got to work. I wanted to leave by 5 p.m. I had averaged 37.2 miles per day through the desert and wanted to keep up the momentum.

I ate a ton, resupplied, took a cold shower, did laundry, snapped a few pictures, and sent a postcard to Grandma. Then, at 6 p.m., I hit the trail again—carrying the heaviest pack of the hike.

This was it—entering the hardest section of the hike. My goal was to cover the 201 miles through the toughest part of the Sierra in six days.

I’d done it faster, and I’d done it slower. Phish told me the snowpack was like it was for us in ’21—really low. But I was skeptical. I had a feeling it would be more like last year—five-plus miles of snow before and after each pass.

Most PCT hikers take time to rest and resupply in towns. For me, that takes too much time and extra effort. I prefer the challenge—keeping a 30-miles-per-day average through the hardest section of my entire 7,500-mile journey. No cherry-picking sections to avoid snow—I’m heading straight into it, for the fourth time in early season. Bring it on.

Week 1 Mileage: 249.3

“No TP”

Back for another fun-filled year of hiking, where my weekly posts provide good toilet reading and bar talk. This week’s topic: *”Let’s see how far Chezwick goes before he messes himself up again!”*

Let me clear the air on my shoulder injury from last year, since I’m always asked about it. I tore one of the skin grafts that had been repaired five years ago. That tendon held down my clavicle, which then popped out, resulting in my shoulder being separated—painful enough to warrant a quick helicopter ride out of the woods.

Moving forward: no surgery. I figured, *Well, it’s already popped out, it’s already torn—load me up with a cortisone shot and let’s get this hike done!* So that’s what we did. Dr. Chen shot me up a day before I left, and we’ll see how long it lasts. Yes, it’s uncomfortable.

The first day went fairly smoothly. I forgot my credit card at the post office, never sent my charging block to power my stuff in towns, and—worst of all—forgot toilet paper! The first two things? Stupid. The last? Unforgivable. Luckily, I had a brand-new China-made handkerchief, so I was able to sacrifice that.

The first three nights were windy and slightly rainy, each day requiring an extended break to dry out my tent. The water carries through this section are interesting. As you approach Mt. San Jacinto, your only water options are springs a mile off-trail, down a ravine. Not wanting to waste that time, I carried 37 miles’ worth of water to the first fresh, flowing mountain river—cold and delicious (no filter needed).

My right Achilles is inflamed and painful. My ankle swelled up, so I stuffed some snow from the high mountain into a ziplock and did the ICE treatment at about 9,000 feet the other night. Off San Jacinto, halfway through day five, I hit the low desert in the afternoon and was completely cooked by the exposed trail and afternoon sun. I pulled a 41-mile day to put myself in a good position for the next day’s trek: Mission Creek.

A massive flood washed this section of trail out three years ago. It’s essentially 14 miles of walking on a rocky beach, crisscrossing a small river in the middle. Precarious and annoying, it took a while. I started the day at 4:30 a.m. and was out of that canyon by 11. From there, cruising.

The first week shows an average of over 35 miles per day—more than I usually want to do in my first week, but that credit card I left at the post office is waiting for me in Big Bear.

✌️🥾🥾