Week 4 (part 1): Sandy Meadow, CA to Miller Lake, CA
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: Angeles National Forest, CA to Sandy Meadow, CA
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 2: Outside of Big Bear, CA to Angeles National Forest, CA
Week 2 Mileage: 255.4
“Getting Cooked”
I limped to the road that leads into Big Bear. My ankle was swollen up pretty good, and pulling a 40-mile day probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could have done so soon into this hike. The reason I pushed so hard was because I had left my credit card at the post office in Campo, and it was being sent to Big Bear. I was five miles into the start of the hike when the postmaster sent me an email through my website telling me she had my card and wanted to know where to send it. Big Bear made sense at the time, but later I realized I was 260 miles away—and it was Friday. The post office would only be open on Saturday from 10 to 12, hence the frantic pace to make it there on time. The luxury of slowing down and waiting until Monday doesn’t exist during a record attempt.
At 8 p.m., reaching the road, the sun had set, and what would normally be an easy hitch into town wouldn’t be because of the darkness—so I got a Lyft. For all you old people reading this, a Lyft is another form of an Uber. For all you old people who don’t know what Uber is, it’s a new way to schedule rides through your phone (it’s what young people do nowadays).
At 8:45 p.m., I was dropped off at my hotel, ordered pizza, showered—no laundry—cleaned my clothes in the shower, and slept. The next morning, I got to the P.O. at 10:15 and was out by 10:30. Thank you, Campo postmaster! I headed to CVS, bought compression socks and Advil, resupplied, and was back on the trail by 12:30.
Twenty-one miles later, I set up camp, cowboy style, under the stars. I realized just before I stared at the back of my eyelids that tomorrow’s section was a cruiser, and there was potential for a 50-mile day. The socks and Advil had done their job, and the swelling had gone down. On trail at 5 a.m., I went for it, passing the Deep Creek Hot Springs—where, as always, the naked people were flocking about. Skin flutes flapping in the wind, chesticles bouncing all around.
By 2 p.m., I was 25 miles in. By 8:40, I had pushed farther. But by 10 p.m., at 46.5 miles, my feet were getting beat up, so I called it and rested those poor dogs.
Six and a half miles in the morning, I arrived at the Cajon Pass McDonald’s. Roped into the “2 for 6” sausage McMuffin deal, I placed my order and got a deluxe breakfast. I took three McMuffins with me; as much as I wanted to eat everything, I didn’t want to feel like complete garbage heading out. I probably would have been forced to dig a cat hole—not long after—the size of which would’ve had to fit a small dog, like my brother’s Yorkie Poo.
There was a fire reroute this year that took the trail out of the mountains and onto a road leading into Wrightwood. I linked up with a kid from New Mexico named Miles. Real name, not trail name—but very fitting, don’t you think? We headed to Yoddler’s restaurant for $2 taco night, and after stuffing my face, I decided to get a room. After 46.5 miles yesterday and 30-plus today, I could use a slight break.
An 8.5-mile road walk out of town led up to Vincent Gap, back to the PCT, and by 11:30, I was ascending 10,000 feet up Mt. Baden-Powell. The plan was to get as close to mile 400 by the end of the day. There was hardly any snow up high, which was great for my pace and much different than last year.
Why aim for 400 miles? Well, the KOA campground I sent my bag to was at mile 444. To keep on my pace of 250-plus for the week, I needed to be there by Thursday morning—so I pushed hard, hiked late, and ended the day at mile 399.8.
The next morning, I was gone by 5:15 a.m. A fellow hiker was sawing logs all night in a tent nearby, so I didn’t get much shuteye. Regardless, I was able to cruise pretty well through a hiker bubble and make it to a fire station with a water spigot—a place where I had been stung by a scorpion back in 2017.
A big uphill climb out of there in the afternoon sun took a lot out of me, but I pressed on and was five miles on the dot from KOA by the end of the day.
Arriving at the campground at 6:30 p.m., I had to wait until 8 for the store to open. No matter—I had to charge my stuff and put down several packets of oatmeal that I’d been neglecting for some 300 miles. Got the box! Always a relief. There were shoes in there, but they were a lame pair of Altras, and mine were still holding up well—so I switched out the footbeds and donated the shoes.
I wanted a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, but this place wanted $11 for a pint! I live in New Hampshire, bordering Vermont. I pay $5–6 for one of those. Eleven dollars is highway robbery. Welcome to California!
Ten miles into Agua Dulce—sandwich, bottle of Coke, and back at it. Yet again, poor afternoon timing. A massive uphill climb in the heat of the day—I felt like a fried egg being cooked in a cast-iron pan. I have to stop doing this!
Nine miles from town, I refilled my H₂O at Bear Springs, continued up, then down, then up, then down, then up, then down again. Missing a turn to a forest station for water, I pressed on uphill and cowboyed right on the trail, overlooking L.A., at 41 miles in for the day.
I was excited the next morning. I would be hitting the 500-mile mark in under two weeks—hopefully. Already a day ahead of last year’s pace. I’m now on the 40-mile train until Kennedy Meadows, at which point I’ll enter the Sierra with a mile-per-day drop into the low 30s.
It’s taken two weeks, but I’m back to feeling like my old self again.
Egg salad is really chicken salad if you think about it. —Glen Danzig
Week 1: Southern Terminus PCT, CA to Outside of Big Bear, CA
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.
✌️🥾🥾
Day 1
Late start at 2:06 PM PST. Stay tuned for posts from the trail and you can see my last updated position on the map.
Let’s Do This
Here I go again! After a disappointing injury 3,000 miles in and a helicopter ride to the hospital, I’m back for redemption. Starting the Pacific Crest Trail exactly a year after my failed attempt on May 2nd.
The Calendar Year Triple Crown (CYTC) encompasses all 3 of the longest trails in the U.S. Pacific Crest, Continental Divide and Appalachian Trails. I will do each one completely before moving on to the next one.
I will be SELF-SUPPORTED which means I cannot get any help from friends or family, no personal help to me. No rides from people I know into towns or staying at homes of people I know. I cannot receive any mail drop boxes from anyone. All the help I receive on the trail must also be available to all hikers. I can hitch a ride, accept trail magic, etc.
This is the most difficult Fastest Known Time (FKT) style. It’s a true separator, adding another depth of difficulty with a logistical challenge. A challenge I’m ready for! 7,500 plus miles and over 7 months. CYTC FKT, I’m coming for ya!
Self-Supported FKT Guidelines (from FastestKnownTime.com)
Self-Supported means you may have as much support as you can manage or find along the way, but not from any thing or person just for you; any support you employ must be equally available to anyone else. This can include caching supplies in advance, purchasing supplies along the way, staying at motels, and finding or requesting food or water. Camping in a friend’s yard would be supported, because it is not available to the public. Except at the start and finish, spectating pre-arranged by an athlete is considered support. Many long thru-hiking routes are done self-supported. To get a self-supported FKT you must also beat the fastest unsupported time.
About Me
Chezwick at the southern terminus of the ECT
The hiking bug caught me in my early 20’s with a trek to the base camp of Mt. Everest. The culture, the people, the views. It opened my eyes to a lifestyle that I could see myself pursuing. For the rest of that decade, however, I became sidetracked with the party lifestyle that comes with living in a ski town. Fortunately, the freedom of the trail never left me, and as my 30’s approached, the question of what I wanted to do with my life started to consume my thoughts. I knew I didn't want to continue my career in the restaurant business and up to that point it was the only type of work I had ever known. The idea of marriage, kids, a mortgage, while working some food service job just to keep up with the Joneses scared the hell out of me. I searched for answers.
The Appalachian Trail seemed like a good fit. A long distance trail that I believed would bring me the same feelings as the Everest trek I had done some years earlier. As I scrolled through pictures of the A.T. on the internet, I came across a scene that looked straight out of Jurassic Park. It was the Florida Trail. The wheels of adventure started turning again as I wondered if this trail would link up with the A.T. That’s when I came across the Eastern Continental Trail (ECT). The ECT is a 4,800-mile long distance hike that links together 8 different trail segments, using the Appalachian Trail as its backbone, essentially trekking the entire east coast of North America, starting at the tip of Key West, Florida and finishing in Gaspe, Quebec. With less than expert knowledge of what a thru-hike was, without reading blogs or watching YouTube videos, I bought what I THOUGHT I needed, and flew to Miami. With paper maps, a compass, and an old flip phone with no camera, I started hiking north and my new life began.
Over 10 months later I completed the trail and became the 16th person ever to hike the ECT. Two years later I attempted the Pacific Crest Trail, but I was stopped short by massive forest fires in northern California and Oregon. That year came to be known as “The Year of Fire and Ice.” This didn't discourage my sense of adventure and only seems to have fueled my determination for more!
