I’ve never fit in. This realization took some time to accept, although in retrospect not surprising given my proclivities. I’m most at peace when moving on foot, spending time in moments of connection with the natural world.

When I learned of the Pacific Crest Trail, or PCT as it is known to hikers, it sounded like the perfect place to detach from society and chase these moments. The PCT follows a ridge of mountains thrust up from a collision of continental plates in the western United States. It covers a total distance of 2,650 miles.

Once an idea of this magnitude is born, it takes on a life of its own, falling into place quickly. I spent a few hours online selecting new gear to augment my current inventory, then had it delivered to my parent’s house in the US. I was not in the US but rather living in a small village in the north of Panama, working on a book.

After I flew back to my home country, I took the GRE and watched my youngest sister graduate from college. I even interviewed for a position as a geneticist. This could have replaced the Pacific Crest Trail in my life had it offered more.

It did not, so I flew to San Diego.

Day 1: From the San Diego airport, I hopped on a bus to reach the city trolley, passing from the trolley car to another bus that deposited me in Campo, California. This city sits nearly on the Mexican border. The bus driver directed me down a dusty road, past a border patrol station, and into rolling hills.

The road passed a ranch with a dirt driveway, and I noticed a woman working with some horses. She saw me simultaneously and waved, walking in my direction, so I left the road to meet her halfway.

“Headed for the PCT, yeah?”

“Yup, could you direct me toward the official starting point?”

“Sure, just keep heading that way until you hit the big metal fence.”

She then surveyed my pack with some concern.

“You have a weapon, right?”

That was the second question she thought to ask.

“It’s for the migrants. They cross the border here.”

“Well, I have my ice ax.”

I trailed off, not knowing what to say because I had not accounted for this during the planning stages.

“That might work. Just be careful.”

I walked toward the border, anticipation building as I examined each bush, expecting to find droves of migrants ready to attack. All was clear.

The road then crossed over the officially marked trail, so I backtracked to the crest of a small hill. Here was the Southern Terminus Monument. Three squared wooden posts of increasing sizes and a small plaque marked the start of what I considered a national treasure. This hiking trail stretched from the Mexican border to Canada through California, Oregon, and Washington.

The border itself was unremarkable. A barbed-wire fence, then a dusty white gravel road that ran parallel to a second fence fashioned from sheet metal. I read about the construction of this metal fence before the hike. The US government produced it from recycled metals. It did not look like an effective deterrent.

I then turned to face the goal of walking to Canada. The land spread out to the north in sandy hills strewn with a low-lying desert scrub brush; the vegetation contained many green variations that seemed to meld together over the distance to produce a uniform color.

After leaving the border, I crossed the road again and headed into the hills. Blocks of tan stone lined the PCT at specific points here in the beginning. The openness of my position surprised me, a boundless view of the horizon on all sides. I crossed a road, then some railroad tracks, planning to hike far enough away to camp comfortably.

The trail began up an incline, making a slow ascent from a canyon floor toward the top of a dusty ridge. The sun set earlier but left enough light to keep walking. I set up my tent behind a flat boulder, deliberately slow because this was only my second time pitching this tent.

Nightly chores went smoothly and with purpose. I knew this was only the beginning; my initial anticipation transitioned to joy. I found it hard to stop smiling. Six months to hike and climb was a wonderful gift to someone like me.

The boulder in front of the camp had a well-defined round hole of about a cubic foot in dimension. Ancient humans used this bedrock mortar to grind grains and seeds. I started a small fire in the hole to eat by the firelight. The warmth chased away the chill of the spring night. When I looked over the terrain to the south, I had to admit I had only hiked around four miles this first day.

I was unaccustomed to the desert, the extent of my prior hiking experience being in the wooded mountains along the Appalachian Trail, where water was plentiful. My guidebook informed me that the next water source was 16 miles to the north along the PCT. I had about two liters of water remaining in a four-liter capacity. 16 miles was a short five hours. Or so I thought.

Day 2: The sun bore down on my shoulders and produced serious sweat before I reached the top of the ridge above camp. The trail then wrapped around the crest of a hill before descending to a gravel road. Thankfully, someone had built an arrow with rocks showing the direction to follow along the road. Many times this would be unclear from the trail markers.

A sign posted in Spanish warned against snakes, heat, and drowning. This might sound odd to warn against drowning in the desert, but Lake Morena was a short distance to the north. The sign faced away from the access road and up a canyon wash. If someone was trying to avoid detection, this was a likely route to take down into the canyon.

A person reading this sign had avoided detection in the desert for some time. They walked with nothing more than what they could carry, climbed over the sheet metal border fence, and hocked their family’s assets plus whatever else they could muster up to pay the human traffickers in Mexico. A life of poverty south of the Rio Grande is a struggle; poverty in the United States is a great excess for most of the developing world.

The US Customs and Border Patrol drove by, slowing to wave. The patrol stopped to chat just past where the PCT turned off the access road and led down a steep canyon slope. They knew what I was doing out there. It was obvious. I agreed during our conversation to report any migrant sightings.

Previously I decided that if I came upon a person needing food, water, or medical attention, I would help, no matter their nationality. This took priority over running to the patrol to report them. A desert is a brutal place, and people die from exposure often.

I should have accepted the bottle of water offered by the patrol. I had already seriously underestimated this section of the PCT. About half a liter remained in my water bladder. I had gone light on water the previous night and in the morning. I was out of the water by the time the trail began an ascent up the canyon walls and toward a final ridge between myself and the next water source.

The sun at midday was beyond anything I could have envisioned. I felt my body responding slowly to my commands. An erratic pace ensued, almost ending my hike with a foot placed squarely beside a rattlesnake. Thankfully, the rattle warned me of the snake’s dissatisfaction without a strike.

There was little shade in the desert, but I found a boulder with an overhang to take shelter under. My body temperature had soared, making me dizzy. The dirt under the boulder felt cool against my skin. I was so dehydrated that I did not bother to take the backpack off. I slouched against the frame, unbuckling the waist strap to slouch further.

Breath came in gasps. All I could think about were times I had not topped off my water, in the town of Campo, with the border patrol, even back at the gas station on the bus route here.

When I closed my eyes, I was vividly hallucinating. I could open my eyes and see the actual world, but a crowd of people surrounded me as soon as I closed my eyes. I believe I was most likely nearing a heat stroke. But the hallucinations seemed to comfort me. I cannot recall precisely what occurred there, but it was pleasant enough as dreams go.

When my body had cooled sufficiently to open my eyes and consider hiking, I found the outside temperature had dropped enough to become bearable. Ambling slowly up the canyon wall allowed me to keep cool. Soon I had reached the far rim of the canyon. In the distance, the water of Lake Morena teased me.

As the crow flew, it was only three miles away, but still hours of hiking in trail miles. Going down to the lake was faster than hiking up to the canyon rim, and with some hard hours, I reached a campground. The road leading into the campground also led to a water fountain. I don’t remember ever being this thirsty.

I spent what felt like forever with my mouth in the stream from the water fountain, swallowing great gulps. It tasted slightly metallic and was warm. I drank until my belly swelled, and I could hold no more. A campsite nearby was unoccupied, so I stumbled over and lay in the shade on the picnic table, letting my body process the water.

This was not the auspicious start I had visualized; weak and nearly passed out from heat exhaustion on the first full day of hiking. The campground’s public shower was available, so I slumped down on a bench while the water washed the dirt from my tired skin. I felt utterly drained.

Part of the emergency plan to conserve water before the campground was to not eat. Digestion uses water; each initial breakdown of protein, carbohydrate, or fat is a hydrolysis reaction. After the shower, I cooked and consumed a meal, then took a brief nap in the shade of an oak tree.

When I awoke, the sun was relatively low in the sky. I knew I wanted to cover more miles before night’s fall. The place where I assumed the path left the campground promptly ended at a ranger’s station. So I spoke with the rangers, learning that the kick-off party for this year’s other thru-hikers had been a month prior.

A beautiful rattlesnake was lying beside the campground road, a pure chocolate brown with green and gray accents, so docile that I could get close enough for a great picture.

Once back on the trail, I crossed a flat area of land followed by an easy ascent up to a rock-crowned ridge, meeting the sunset in a clearing to the left. I called the day there and took time setting up, cooking, organizing, and eating. While I lay back on the smooth rock, another thru-hiker named Sister Mary passed, stopping for a chat before moving on.

Pounding footsteps tromping down the trail toward my campsite awoke me that night. The moon was full and directly overhead, so I knew it was early.

Moonlight illuminated the immediate area, but the trail to the south was a black nothingness, the plant growth on the sides of the path taking on alarming proportions in the night. The pounding footsteps grew closer. I sat upright in my tiny tent and gripped the ice ax with both hands.

A centipede line of short men appeared out of the nothingness, similar in stature and carrying identical packs, moving efficiently down the trail in the moonlight with no artificial illumination. Upon reaching my campsite, the line paused momentarily before pointedly moving in my direction.

I assumed they must be migrants, perhaps carrying drugs across the border. But it could have been anyone. I said the first thing that came to mind. I had prepared a Spanish statement for just such an encounter, and considering the situation, I had several variations of the statement ready.

“Hey!”

That was all that came out. The product of an hour of planning. A choked-up spurt of a word.
I hoped it sounded tougher than I felt at the moment. Perhaps 15 men had materialized from the darkness. The leader stopped short; without consulting with the others in his group, he replied with what sounded like a heavy Spanish accent,
“Hey.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or panic, so I sat still.

The group returned to the trail and headed north, moving along with the same efficiency they displayed when they arrived. It was some time before I could sleep again. When I did, it was with the ice ax gripped firmly in my hands, ready for anything else that might come pounding out of the dark and lonesome night.

Day 3: The events of the night before seemed unreal, like a dream blurred on the fringes. I closed my eyes against the sunlight peeking in and tucked further into the sleeping bag. This proved to be a mistake because I woke up covered in sweat. After that, the morning went smoothly.

Breaking camp, I found more efficient ways to fit gear into the pack. My breakfast was quick and delicious; artisanal bread topped with natural peanut butter and flax seed.

The ridge line continued for a moment, then the trail descended to cross a brown meadowland dotted with oak trees. Shade from the oaks gave me hope that the next stretch of trail was free from the unrelenting sun. I crossed a stream, walked a few feet past it, and then returned to gather water.

The guidebook assured me the trail would cross a reliable water source again soon, but I had narrowly escaped a heat stroke the day before and promised myself not to allow a chance to drink pass by. There were hoof prints and dung piles next to the stream, so I chemically treated the water before storing it in the backpack.

Back on the trail, I fell into a comfortable, mile-eating pace, moving effortlessly across the terrain and passing a closed campground. I topped off my water again at the campground faucet and drank my fill. The PCT then began a short ascent to another road crossing.

Yellow caution tape covered the pipe gate meant to enclose access to grazing lands. A sign stated hazardous conditions existed past the gate and that the trail was closed. A detour sign described an alternative route along a road rejoining the official PCT route about 15 miles to the north.

I carefully passed my backpack underneath the taped boundary to avoid disturbing it. I wanted no evidence of my trespass. Then I ducked under and started walking fast. In my peripheral vision, a green SUV about half a mile away stirred, soon speeding up.

I quickened my pace to match, almost breaking into a sprint. A tap on the siren, perhaps just the lightest touch to flip the switch on and off, I ignored. The siren became more persistent, demanding attention. A smiling US Forest Service Ranger was waiting outside the SUV when I returned to the road.

“What, did you not read the sign?”

“I figured it was old since I had heard nothing about it.”

“What about the siren? Was that unclear?”

“Just in the zone, man.”

“The sign is recent. A military helicopter just crashed. The chopper lost something like 18 Hell-fire missiles somewhere in the desert ahead. I can’t let you pass.”

This was an issue because I wanted to hike the entire Pacific Crest Trail, and I knew skipping this section would bother me greatly for the rest of the hike. I am slightly obsessive/compulsive during long-distance hiking.

I pleaded with the ranger, mentioning I had extensive hiking experience, even asking him to look the other way while I kept walking. He denied my request but offered to drive me past the military blockade to hike north. This would cause me to miss only three miles of the trail, which was the best option.

I believe he offered because I was the only person who tried to sneak past the sign. The other hikers simply walked down the road.

We were quickly waved past the soldiers at the blockade. The ranger brought me to a saddle where the official trail crossed, asserting again I hike directly north and stay on the path. We had spoken about the local reptiles and some mountain ranges in the east. He was a decent guy.

I began hiking fast, passing a line of sweaty firefighters coming down the ridge in full uniform. When I reached the last point from which I could see the saddle, I took a picture to remember the area for when I returned. I then headed for the desert to the north, bracing for anything else I might encounter during this challenging start to the PCT.

The day grew hot as the path entered a stretch of shaded forest. I rewarded myself with a break beside Long Creek, soaking my feet, shirt, and socks. Lunch, I ate slowly, enjoying the cool air rolling across the creek’s surface, the sun filtering down through twisting leaves. My body felt hydrated for the first time in two days.

Soon the trail started an ascent of Mt. Laguna. The terrain changed as I climbed, with desert scrub fading into an evergreen forest surrounding the Burnt Rancheria Campground. A water fountain was at the junction of a side trail leading to the campground. There was also a group of children milling about in the primary forest. I set up my stove on one of the picnic tables and cooked a meal.

Fathers and sons filled the camping sites as part of a group activity planned by one family. A rope swing was up, and some fathers greeted me, sipping beers in the day’s heat. While I sat and ate, the children came running to tell their fathers when they found a snake. The fathers would then go kill the snake. I was not a fan of that practice.

To reach a general store some distance to the north, I crossed over Mt. Laguna and followed an access road on the far side. There was an expanse of desert to the east, promising more sun before long. Another hiker passed and suggested I head quickly for the store because it was about to close.

This store could have been a lot better. The essential items cost far more than average. It was actually the worst price gouging I would encounter on the PCT. In a place like this, I would only buy enough food to last until the next resupply point.

The proprietors assured me I could carry less food because, in their vast experience talking to hikers, most thru-hikers hitch-hiked from a road ahead to skip a tricky part of the trail. I was not planning on missing anything else, but after the military blockade and hell-fire missiles, I was open to the idea that this might be out of my control.

The hiker I had passed earlier camped in a nearby picnic area. Trail name Picasso, another brave soul attempting the trek from Mexico to Canada. He had recently graduated from an art school. Instead of carrying a camera, he packed several canvas sizes and watercolors.

We shared a small campfire and a great laugh about how many times he had pulled a “Titanic” on college girls. This occurred when he painted them in the nude. For not the first time in my life, I wished I had some artistic talent. I then spread a sleeping bag out on a picnic table that overlooked the slope of the ridge. It was a fantastic sunset and brought the hope that things might start to move more smoothly.

Day 4: Picasso and I ate breakfast together. After reviewing the terrain, we both set the goal of reaching the Pioneer Mail Campground. With water in such short supply, we planned breaks and campsites accordingly.

The day was uncomplicated for me, traversing the slopes of an easy-going ridge, a short 12 miles from camp to camp, where I claimed a spot in the shade of a large tree near a picnic table. The day grew hotter, but I spent time talking with several day hikers and a fascinating woman living out of her van in the parking lot.

She wanted a sympathetic ear and offered delicious homemade sun tea in a recycled glass bottle. The afternoon I spent learning about the events of her life, the hopes and dreams of past and present times, and the difficulty of being alone. I mostly kept quiet and just listened.

Two other long-distance hikers named Dirt and Nano arrived before dark. We made the usual small talk, when did you start, how far are you going, when will you finish, where are you from, and so on. The initial conversations on the trail would follow the same design. We did not progress beyond this small talk that night.

I lay back on a second picnic table bed, smiling at the thought that two of the four nights to date in my grand west coast adventure were spent in a similar hobo fashion.

Day 5: The sun awoke me late in the morning, heating my sleeping bag until it was unbearably crispy. I opened my eyes to find the others nearly packed. Before leaving, I drank my fill from a water cache behind a circular horse trough. The couple responsible for filling it had stopped by the night before and brought us some fresh oranges.

From here, I walked into the blazing sun and knew this was a day for power hiking. The trail only rose a little before slowly winding down into a canyon. Sometime around noon, I found myself with companions near a firefighting cache of water in a concrete tank.

We tried to retrieve the water from a hatch on top using a cup with a string, but this proved impossible. Picasso would tell me later that we missed an underground hose leading to an outlet a few hundred yards downhill and hidden in the brush. But without that knowledge, we continued in the heat of the day with little water.

Dirt caught up with me about 20 minutes after the heat did while I stumbled; he smiled, asked if I had enough water, and then moved on. His trail experience was extensive, and he seemed comfortable enough in the heat. I then looked for shade as Nano caught up. We spotted a boulder some distance from the path, tilted slightly to allow for a few feet of cool shaded earth. For miles, I had avoided furry walking-stick cacti that lined the trail, only to accidentally kick one as I walked toward that boulder.

The fur lining the cactus was thousands of tiny quills, most of which were now stuck in my shin and knee. I spent the better part of an hour pulling quills out, only to realize this was an insurmountable task and that I would be better off rubbing the exposed ends until they split from the internal section. We decided they would likely work their way out or fester and exit in the resulting pus. The entirety of my leg throbbed with my heartbeat.

The shade soon dissipated as the sun moved across the sky, sending us back to the trail searching for Dirt. He was about a mile ahead, relaxing underneath a massive rock overhang. When we went to sit down, my rear end discovered dozens of sharp quills interspersed throughout the sand underneath the stone. I could only laugh this time as I had spent most of the day digging out thorns. This adventure was proving to be more irritating than exciting, so I enjoyed the chance to forget the day and learn more about my companions.

Dirt drew his trail name from a mathematical equation. Distance equals the rate multiplied by time, D=RT. This was a very fitting name for a hiker, and as a scientist, this made my day in a pocket-protecting, snorting-laugh-blasting, missed-high-five kind of way. He had hiked each of the three longest trails in the United States twice and had just come from walking 700 miles in the Arizona desert. This explained his apparent ease in the heat. He was hiking on this trail until July, after which he planned to walk across Death Valley.

Nano planned to become a physical therapist and had extensive knowledge of ultra-light gear and technique. He had hiked two other trails, although nothing as long or extensive D=RT. These guys carried less than eight lbs base weight, half my own. Hikers calculate base weight as the pack’s weight without food, fuel, and water. It was a pleasant afternoon, but Nano and I were out of water, so it became necessary to leave as soon as the sun weakened.

Before reaching Mt Laguna, D=RT met a band of migrants who had recently crossed the border. Among them was an older gentleman fluent in English and returning to the US after deportation earlier in the year. This man had given D=RT $10 with a request to purchase the group some food from the general store. D=RT agreed, only to return to the woods and find that the group had gone. Anywhere close to a road was subject to scrutiny by the border patrol.

The last few miles before the road were grueling, as I swore strong oaths that I would never go short on water again. When I spied a water cache, I tried to run but almost fainted under heat exhaustion. A box with handmade wooden shelves lined with gallon jugs made this cache. I collapsed with one jug in my hand, chugging water until my belly swelled once again. I drank nearly an entire gallon of water.
I had foregone food once again when dehydration was imminent. When I finally reached into my pack, I found that a half-pound chocolate bar I had been saving for days had melted over the rest of my supplies. As I licked the chocolate off my hands, I found my fingers covered in dirt, sweat, sand, and cacti quills.

I had begun this hike planning to use an alcohol stove as I was only cooking once per day while in such heat, and the fuel had also spilled, soaking through the entire side of my pack.

We walked further until we reached a road and camped after speaking with a passing border patrol truck that warned us against moving on in the night. The patrol mentioned there were few suitable campsites for miles ahead. I accidentally pitched my tent directly on top of an anthill. As I scrambled inside to avoid the ravenous little brutes, my companions laughed at my luck or apparent lack thereof.

Picasso arrived on a wounded knee he had twisted earlier, and the three debated what my trail name should be. I suggested “Lucky,” which would credit the sequence of events during the start of this hike. It was questionable because I should earn a trail name, not select one. I had earned a trail name on the Appalachian Trail, but that was years ago, and I wanted this experience to have its own flow, uniqueness, and trail name. So the issue of what to call me went unresolved for now.