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.