Category: Backpacking

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The Whitest Thing I’ve Ever Done: Privilege and PCT Prep

For the last three months my life has been consumed with getting myself ready to hike the PCT. When I think about this adventure this constant nagging exhilaration floods the back of my brain. Lately that nag has crescendoed into a crashing wave that breaks throughout the day sending me reeling into daydreams of mountain trails and aching muscles. This hike combined with our intended move comport the majority of the conversations between Keith and myself. It’s ridiculous, it’s unflattering, it’s the exact kind of obsession that affluent white people get when they become bored and disenfranchised with their urban lives. I know it’s true. And I know it’s true for more than just us.

Expensive gear is expensive.

Scroll through the PCT Class of 2018 Facebook page and you’ll see 4,500 predominantly white, male, middle class folks talking about their increasing anxieties around this very privileged thing we’re all about to do. People buying and rebuying gear in an effort to shave pack weight – which is the thread that binds all talk about gear. Folks asking complete strangers with no credentials about highly personal decisions. There is aggressive fear mongering about everything from bears to snow to snakes to bug spray, it is endless and overwhelmingly uninformed. All of this is doused in the highly competitive culture of thru hiking. The problem that arises when you surround yourself in this very small bubble of outdoors culture, is that this bizarre behavior and subject matter takes on a patina of normalcy.

What is missing from these conversations is the recognition that hiking the PCT requires substantial financial, social, and lifestyle privileges that not everyone in our culture is afforded. More worryingly, is the thru hiking community’s rabid denial that privilege or access to resources has anything to do with attempting a successful thru hike.

An example.

A few weeks ago Keith and I had an argument, the kind which stems from attempting to plan a months long adventure. It was nearing 9pm and I had just finished sorting 60 days worth of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners into our 11 resupply boxes. The boxes were labeled, neatly organized, and waiting by the door to be shipped out. Just as I finished the last box Keith came home, noticed the boxes, and then we had an argument about how the boxes themselves were too big. He felt that I’d bought the wrong boxes. I told him they were the exact size he told me to buy, and would the phrase “thank you for working on this for four hours” possibly come out of his mouth? Of course, the obvious solution was to simply buy smaller boxes for our food and use the big boxes for moving. We ultimately came to this solution, but not before a good 20 minutes of huffy silence and apologies – it would seem that while thru hike planning is exciting, it can also turn both you and your partner into jerks.

Because PCT prep has become our normal, it took me some time to realize how much privilege this little spat reveals. This is exemplified by the fact that I have access to money to not only buy months worth of food ahead of time, but also to mail it to myself. Something I could never have done if I was living paycheck to paycheck. I have a family and friends who are willing, even eager, to spend their time to mail these boxes to me, because they have access to things like flex hours, PTO, and cars to tote boxes around in.

This brings us to the question: why do I need resupply boxes anyway? Because I was raised, and have always lived in suburban areas with easy access to nice grocery stores filled with fruits and veggies. Because I don’t even consider it an option to shop for my food the way that so many people in this country shop – out of mini marts and gas stations. Because even while backpacking I’m accustomed to a certain level of comfort, of privilege.

Of course, food is not the only cost associated with undertaking a thru hike. Drop into any backpacking forum, and the most prevalent discussion will be gear. Not cheap gear, mind you. No, to be a thru hiker you need the lightest, often most expensive gear. Because if you don’t have the lightest gear, then you won’t have a low enough base weight, and that of course means you’ll fail at your hike. As though there is some uniform for thru hiking that will ensure success.

And while there may not be a literal uniform you need to buy before you can hike the PCT, there is a shocking uniformity among those who undertake it.

Do me a favor and picture an outdoorsy person in your minds eye. Is that person a white able bodied man with a beard and a thin body? Does that person look a little or a lot like the Brawny paper towel cartoon with a backpack? There is a reason for this, and it’s directly related to who has been held up as the standard of the outdoors adventurer.

The history of white men exploring  the world exploded in popularity around the turn of the 20th century when men like Ernest Shackleton and Roald Amundsen captured the world’s imagination by plundering into the furthest reaches of the globe. That standard dates back even further to when white Europeans claimed discovery of the Americas, as though there weren’t already people living here. We have told this story so many times that even in our minds the stereotype persists. Men are told that they are the purveyors of adventure, the owners of wild spaces. That is their privilege. The privilege to not only go where you want, and do what you want, but to be told by society at large that you are welcome and wanted there.

That is what privilege is: it is the inadvertent things in your life, things you did nothing to gain, that benefit you in a way that others are not benefited.

Privilege directly impacts not only the experience one will have when attempting a thru hike, but also the likelihood that you will even consider thru hiking as something that you can participate in.

Perhaps, another example. And because I know several of the men folk in my life will be reading this article with their defensive hackles raised, I want to address the privileges that are helping me get to the start of the PCT.

First, I was born to a middle class family living near abundant open spaces, as a result, my parents had the resources and free time to introduce me to the outdoors at a young age. Proximity to open spaces meant I had easy access all my life, and being outdoors was something that was normalized in the culture I grew up in. Because I come from a middle class family, I attended good schools all my life, I went to college, and ultimately I landed in a well paying job that affords me the ability to save enough money for a trip like this. As a white middle class woman, it is socially acceptable for me to up and quit my job for an extended walking vacation – nobody is going to think I’m a homeless vagrant. Additionally, falling within the parameters of conventional attractiveness means that people are kind to me while hitchhiking, I am not perceived as a threat, and they let my dirtiness and smelliness slide in a way that we do not offer other folks. I could go on, but I’ll hope that this abbreviated list serves to prove my point.

Planning to hike the PCT requires substantial capital in the forms of gear purchases, food, and free time. It requires access to nature and trails for training. It requires the social status to leave the working world behind for a time and literally escape social norms by fleeing into the woods. While I believe nature is for everyone, we currently do not live in a society that truly operates that way. Sadly, this is going to be one of those frustrating articles that ends in a gaping question mark, not a neatly concluded list of actionable steps. Tackling the issues of inclusivity and diversity in the outdoors is one of those wicked problems that will take time to solve, and will require those of us with access and privilege to change our behavior in a way that affords those same privileges to everyone.

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When Your Career is on Life Support, Sometimes it’s Best to Pull the Plug

“What about your career?” They said.

They have been my bosses, my friends, my relatives, and some complete strangers who just feel the need to voice their opinions. They have been confused that a young woman who just jumped from a big advertising agency, to an even bigger marketing company could simply be pulling the plug on what outwardly appears to be a smooth career trajectory from elite college graduate to a career headed towards more money, fancy job titles, and the cushy world or corporate credit cards and personal assistants.

But the truth is far less glamorous, and perhaps, a little more relatable. The truth is that my career has been a walking corpse for the last year and a half. The truth is that I have lied to the faces of many a person, told them my decision to leave my ad job – a job that I actually loved and was good at – was my own choice. I told them that my decision to take a job at a massive corporate marketing company was for the money, and the relaxed hours. And I’ve told  those same people that I was moving my career in a new direction, that it was done intentionally. But that is not the truth. Here is what really happened:

In early 2016 I was given the opportunity to start working as an art director at the advertising agency where I had worked as a video editor for three years. I was told that this would be a trial assignment, and that if I did well I’d be given a job as an art director. I worked so hard. I remember waking up at 4am to put in a few hours work before going into the office where I’d sometimes work until 10 at night. I held down my new duties and retained my old job, holding the edges of my career together with sheer force of will. For close to six months I worked two jobs within the same company. But it worked! The clients loved the work, they wanted to buy and produce some of our best ideas. I was thrilled! I bought champagne, I told my boyfriend that I’d done it, and that just like everybody told me, I saw that working hard gets you ahead.

But then before we could move into production, our client had a massive internal shake up. People lost their jobs, the project folded, and I was back at square one. I was disappointed, but grateful to still have a job, no complaining from me. So I started again, and my agency was all too eager to allow me to work myself into the ground. After all, it’s not like they were paying me more money. And while it would be easy to paint myself as the victim here, the reality is that I knew I should have left in the summer of 2016. But I loved the people I worked with, I liked the work I was doing, and I was being told that if I just hung in there I’d get the career I was so desperate to have. I was young, and hungry, and blind.

For the next 10 months I worked hours and hours of overtime, what would amount to two full months of OT hours in the span of a year. Two jobs, one company. I tried to launch new initiatives within the company, I tried and succeeded in impressing the most senior members of my agency. And then I got in my car and cried on the drive home a lot of nights. I took on freelance work to boost my flagging salary, I was passed over for promotions and raises because I wasn’t fully in anyone’s department and nobody took responsibility for me. I was a young woman in man’s world and I didn’t know how to speak up for myself, yet.

And finally, finally, after nearly a year and a half I saw the writing on the wall and I told them they either needed to offer me an art director position, or else I’d be stepping back into my editor role. Our talent manager tried to feed me a line about budget and getting the money for my salary but I wasn’t having it. It took me nearly two years to stand up for myself, but I finally did and it felt awesome! I went back to working under my old boss, I tried to launch a new production arm, I tried for the zillionth time to prove my worth, I continued to impress the leadership of my company, and I received the best review of my career. All of which I’m still very proud of. I was planning on leaving for the PCT in 2018, and I resolved to grit it out until then, be helpful, be the best worker bee I could be.

And then they laid me off.

I thought I was going into a meeting to negotiate a raise and instead they canned me and told me they hired my job out from under me to a 20-something dude from Dallas – talk about reading the room wrong!

And I never told anybody but my closest of close friends and family because all I could see was my personal failings. I was so humiliated. Laid off at 29. Who get’s laid off at 29? Probably lots of people, but nobody talks about it – I didn’t want to talk about it – because we’re so career oriented that I couldn’t bring myself to tell everybody how I’d failed.

When this new job offered me a decent salary, a close location, and a good title, I jumped at it, even though I knew that it wasn’t a good fit. My highest priority was getting to the start of the PCT in 2018 and getting out of LA. What I told everybody was a career leap was really more like grabbing a tree branch to keep yourself from falling off a cliff. I know that I’m lucky to have landed on my feet, that many people who lose their jobs have a far more precarious financial situation than I, and I am grateful that things turned out so well for me. Truly.

So, what about my career? Won’t hiking the PCT leave a big gap in my resume? What will employers think about a woman who gets a new job, works there for six months and then up and quits to romp through the woods for half a year?

Frankly, I don’t care.

I spent the last three years chasing the approval of those who told me my career should be my everything, and I have nothing to show for it.

Beyond giving corporate life the big middle finger in 2018, I’m also resolving to be more open and honest about it. Because if everybody was just a little more honest about work and life and the lie that work/life balance is a thing, then maybe we wouldn’t feel so hurt and scared when our careers fall apart. At least we’d know we’re not alone. Maybe you’re 23 and getting a degree you hate to appease your parents, maybe you’re 40 and you’ve just been canned from your dream job – the job you built your identity around- maybe you’re 60 and you’ve just been let go and woken up to the rude reality that your company never cared about you as a person. Whatever your reality, I bet you’re not alone.

Perhaps hiking the PCT will be the single worst thing I could do for my career, but somehow I don’t think that’s the case. Maybe placing our worth and identity at the center of what we do 9 to 5 is the worst thing we can do for ourselves. So I’m electing to try something new. I’m done believing that if I just put enough hard work tokens into the career machine that a shiny badge a validation and corporate success will pop out. I want to get out of a city where the first and most important question is: where do you work? And I’m ready to give this irreverent dirtbag life a try.

What’s the worst that can happen, they fire me?

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Don’t Call it Spontaneous: The Financial Reality of Hiking the PCT

My announcement of my plan to thru hike the PCT with Keith has kicked off a veritable whirlwind of activity. We’ve started to pack away our apartment, we’re preparing to leave our jobs, anxiety/excitement has been on the rise, and I’ve been hearing one thing over and over again: “What? you’re leaving?! This is so sudden, so spontaneous!”

To which there is only one honest reply: No it isn’t.

I decided to hike the PCT in April of 2016. Which means, by the time I get on the trail on March 27th, it will have been nearly two years since I made the choice to attempt this trail. The reality is, this only feels spontaneous to the people I’m telling about it now, and there are a handful of very good reasons for that. The first being that employers really don’t want a worker bee who is going to up and leave in a few months/years. As they say in the advertising world: it’s bad ROI. The second reason, is that a million things could have happened between deciding I wanted to hike the PCT and actually leaving on the trip. A million tiny little things that could have derailed this entire dream. I don’t want to be the kind of person who says she’s going to do something and then bails, so I decided that I’d only tell a select few people in my life about my plans until they were all but certain. And frankly, when you talk about thru hiking, almost nothing is certain.

The third and biggest reason for a two year gap between deciding to hike the PCT and actually doing it: money. Yes, thru hiking is cheaper than living in a big city like Los Angeles, but that doesn’t mean it’s cheap, and it doesn’t mean it’s free. The financial reality of undertaking a trip like the PCT is something that is rarely discussed in the hiking community, and as a result planning a trip like this can seem incomprehensible. However, I think it’s important to be more honest about where our money goes and what we spend it on, and this post is a stab at doing just that. Below you can see how I’ve saved for and budgeted for this trip, and since this post has the likelihood of getting a little long, I’ve broken it down by topic.

Estimating Cost:
Based on my calculations I needed to save a minimum of $10,000 in order to hike the PCT.  If I could get closer to $15,000 that would give me some much appreciated wiggle room for after our hike, since we’ll be relocating to Seattle, WA and I will be jobless upon arriving.

If you do a cursory search for what it costs to do a thru hike you’ll find that not many people are talking about this in concrete dollar amounts, but those who are estimate around $5,000  for their entire hike, including things like food, gear replacements, getting a hotel room in town, and rides to and from the trail. Then how did I settle on $10,000 for my hike?

Student loans baby!

At the writing of this post, I have close to $25,000* in student debt (down from nearly $47,000 when I graduated college). Those loans need to be paid come rain, shine, unemployment, thru hikes, and in some cases even death. When I started saving, I paid close to $650 each month in student loans, now I pay closer to $450 since I’ve been able to pay a few loans off. Furthermore, I assumed I wouldn’t get a job right away upon finishing the trail, so I threw in a couple more months of payments, rounded up for sanity and ended up at another $5,000 that I needed to save just so I could continue to pay back my loans while on the trail.

NOTE: I’m sure some of you are thinking, with $15,000 in savings you could pay off a lot of that debt! And you’re not wrong. But I could also be hit by a car tomorrow and killed, so I’d rather pursue this dream now. Also, I didn’t ask for your opinion or approval, so kindly keep it to yourself.

The Savings:
Time for honesty! Saving money is not sexy, it’s not cool, and it’s not fun.

To save for this hike I stopped buying new clothes for close to two years, I didn’t go on vacations, I packed my lunch every single day for months and months, I set budgets for myself for every single thing in my life and tried my best to stick to them. I said no to fun things like concerts, weekends away, and little treats. It was stressful, and lame and boring at times, but that’s the truth of it.

In addition to being more frugal with my spending, I also started freelance writing where I made $100-$150 an article. For the last nine months I’ve been constantly pitching and writing articles – a task that often felt like I had two or more jobs at any given time. Beyond writing, I took any and all overtime work I could get, I got a new day job with a higher salary, even though I didn’t love the work, and I said yes to any paid gig that came my way. Because I am good at video creation and editing, and built a solid reputation during my time in advertising, I was able to snag some lucrative projects from old contacts which served as big capital windfalls (around $2500) that helped me reach my $15,000 savings goal. Sometimes this meant that I was exhausted, working multiple jobs, and sleeping very little. Again, it’s not sexy or fun, but it’s also true, and it’s what it took for me to pursue this dream.

Pre-Trail Costs – Gear:
Lucky for me, both Keith and I are avid backpackers. This means that when I set out to hike the PCT I already had a lot of the gear I needed, much of which we used on our JMT hike in 2017. So this was a cost, but not one that came in a big lump sum. Instead it was handfuls of little to moderate costs strung out over the last two years*.

An added bonus, is that Keith is an incredibly generous and talented human being and he made many of the items that we’ll need on the trail. He designed and made me my own sleeping quilt and gifted it to me for my birthday, as well as making gaiters and a pack covers which are nicer and cheaper than ones I would have bought. Keith is also the most frugal human I’ve ever met, which means he knows how to score a deal! When we settled on buying Mountain Hardware Ghost Whisperer Jackets (MSRP $350) we waited for a sale, and then bought our jackets in kinda weird colors – allowing us to get the jackets for less than half price. And since we’re doing this hike together, we can split the costs of things like our tent and stove (this also saves pack weight). I know I wouldn’t be starting the trail half as well prepared if it weren’t for Keith, so he deserves a huge amount of credit for all his help.

*NOTE: I did not include gear purchases in my savings calculations for this hike. Another note, if you’re planning your own thru hike, or simply want to get into backpacking in any capacity, don’t be an idiot and buy this stuff off the shelf at REI. Shop around and use the dozens of discount gear sites like MooseJaw, Backcountry, Sunny Sports,  Steep and Cheap, Sierra Trading Post, and even Amazon. Paying MSRP is for fools.

Below is what you could expect to spend on your set up for the PCT (around $2,000). Some people drop serious cash to get the lightest gear, other people prioritize savings instead of pack weight, it’s up to you. But I prioritized pack weight and comfort over money, and then looked for deals to cut costs.

Backpack: $250-$350
Tent: $200-$600
Sleeping Pad: $150-$200 (but you could go as low as $40)
Sleeping Bag/Quilt: $300-$800
Hiking Outfit (daily wear): $150
Shoes: $80-$120/pair*
Trekking Poles: $100
Thermals top and bottom: $100
Misc. Other Clothes: $60-$100
Rain Jacket: $150-$200
Down Jacket: $120-$360
Water Filter: $40
Hat: $10-$40
Sunglasses: $20-$150
Pack Cover, Gaiters, stuff sacks, sleeping pillow, other random crap: $200

NOTE: Shoes, socks, and sometimes clothes will have to be replaced during your hike, so take those costs and multiply them by 4 or 5.

Pre-Trail Costs – Food:
Part of hiking the PCT is mailing yourself resupply boxes – these are boxes of food and gear, which one typically sends themselves in areas that are more remote and don’t have a proper grocery store. These boxes probably cost $400 per person for food, buying the boxes, and the shipping costs of mailing them first to my parents and then buying postage for my parents to mail them back to us. Backpackers are a weird lot, and resupply boxes epitomize that.

While $400 is a lot to spend on food that I won’t even eat for five or more months it works out to just about $7/day. We cut costs here by making our own freeze-dried and dehydrated meals instead of buying a brand name like Mountain House or Backpaker Pantry which can run $9 for one meal. Also, instead of buying snacks at the store, we purchased things like candy bars in bulk online where you get a discount for buying 48 candy bars at once.

As someone who cannot eat gluten without *ahem* unpleasant side effects, my food costs will likely total more than Keith’s since gluten free food is much more expensive than standard food. Furthermore, I’ll be supplementing my boxes on-trail with potato chips (aka backpacker super food) which are easy to find almost anywhere, but were too bulky to mail ahead.

Costs I’m Avoiding:
I’m doing my best to strip away any costs that I don’t need to pay for on the trail. We’re giving up our apartment, which also means no utilities or wifi bills. I’ll be parking my car off the street in a private lot, which will cost me $100 each month, but will save me the need to register my car or pay for car insurance, in addition to cutting down on gas money, oil changes and maintenance. My mom is generously paying for my phone bill (she’s the best!). And we’ve also elected to sell the majority of our furniture and possessions (aka return them to the great Craigslist circle of life) instead of storing them while we’re on the trail. The $100/mo I’m paying to store my car will also cover storing the trailer with all our stuff inside.

Health Insurance:
This is a big, scary topic, and one that I wasn’t fully prepared for. With the start of the Trump administration, and the removal of the personal mandate from the ACA, everything around health insurance shifted in 2018. And while I’m pretty sure the elimination of the personal mandate will ultimately lead to the destruction of the ACA as we know it – a system that relies on the payments of young, healthy folks, to subsidize the higher costs of older folks and those with chronic illnesses – it was a massive relief for me personally. I feel really conflicted about even saying that, but the truth is, I could not afford any of the options available to me under the ACA when I checked back in 2017. I was looking at around $380 a month in premiums through The Marketplace. Most of the plans would have failed to cover me if I was more than 100 miles from home, or needed to seek healthcare outside of my primary provider. In short, they were nearly useless given my situation, and would have meant incurring massive payments for coverage if I needed healthcare on the trail, in addition to the already sky high premiums.

Ultimately, I am electing to purchase health insurance through the ACA/Covered California when the plans shifted in 2018. What I have purchased would be considered ‘major medical’ or ‘catastrophic medical coverage’ which means that while my monthly premium is low, my deductibles are very high. This is the type of insurance that only serves to safe guard you should you become seriously injured or ill and need elaborate medical care. Up until 2018 I’m pretty sure these type of plans didn’t even qualify as fully insured under the ACA individual mandate. Furthermore, I only qualify for this plan because I am under 30, rarely use medical services of any kind, and am willing to pay out of pocket for any small to medium medical costs. In short, I will pay $155/mo for a PPO plan that gives me the right to not be bankrupted should I need significant medical care. My deductible will be $6500 in network, and $25,000 out of network, and the coverage I will receive is basically all out of pocket until I hit those deductibles. Like I said, this isn’t a great insurance plan, but because I am young, healthy, and very rarely go to the doctor it’s an option that is open to me. It’s frankly a bit of a  risk, but much less so than forgoing insurance entirely.

On top of major medical insurance, I’d suggest every person traveling in the outdoors buy the American Alpine Club membership. Spend $80 for a full year of insurance and you’ll get coverage for things like trailhead rescue coverage, and domestic rescue coverage in the backcountry for any land-based activity. It’s the sort of coverage that no standard insurance company offers, but one that backcountry travelers can really benefit from should you need an evacuation – helicopter rides are really expensive.

One of the other options I explored was to get travelers insurance through a company such as World Nomads. Companies like this one offer insurance for those who are traveling internationally or domestically, and participating in activities that typical insurance companies will not cover. They will also do things that no standard insurance company will cover, such as emergency medical evacuation from a remote area. These plans are only intended to be ‘secondary insurance’ and not stand in for being insured in another way. The main problem with such insurance plans is that they work on a reimbursement system, which can take six months to a year to fully resolve. This means that you need to pay all of your medical bills up front, and then submit a claim for the insurance company to pay you back. While this arrangement certainly isn’t idea, I figured that I could always get an 12 month 0 APR credit card to put the balance on until the company could pay me back. I recognize upon writing that how bananas our health care system is.

The other insurance option for a thru hiker is to buy insurance individually through a standard company. However, unless you can shell out big money, then you’re basically left with a pretty garbage plan and praying you don’t get injured.

_____

The above more or less details where my money will be going on the trail, and what I did to accumulate it before the trail. Leave a comment below if you have any questions on gear, money, or the trail, and I’ll do my best to answer them before I leave.

 

 

 

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Kara and Keith Hike the PCT – One Month Out

On March 27, 2018 Keith and I will start hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, commonly known as the PCT. Getting to the trailhead is the culmination of a dream nearly two years in the making, a dream that has involved substantial frugality, planning, organization, packing all our possessions away, and leaving our lives in Los Angeles. Upon completion of the trail Keith and I plan to relocate to Seattle.

There, now that the basics are out of the way, we can delve a little further into the plan. As I mentioned, the PCT is a really complex undertaking, and something that I’m guessing most folks aren’t super familiar with. I’ve constructed this post as an imagined conversation between myself and y’all and I’ll try and answer the most common questions people have. Note: I totally co-opted this idea from Vanessa’s blog, which you should 100% be reading because she is great.

What is the PCT anyway?
The PCT is a hiking trail that runs 2,650 miles along the height of the country from the Mexican to Canadian border, and can be hiked either northbound (NoBo) or southbound (SoBo). Keith and I are heading north, which is by far the most common direction. The trail follows the pacific crest, which is a natural feature, something like a spine made of mountains and ridges that run north to south through California, Oregon, and Washington.

If you’d like to know even more about the trail, I’ll direct you to PCTA.org, which is the nonprofit organization that maintains the trail, issues permits, and is the repository of knowledge about planning for the trail.

Rad, how long will that take?
A successful thru hike, defined as hiking from one end of the trail to the other with minimal skipped mileage, takes most folks 5-6 months to complete. This is somewhat of a inaccurate description, since the majority of people setting out to hike the PCT do not, in fact, finish the trail in one season (or at all). Most estimates put the finishing rate at around 30%.

Most NoBo hikers start between late March and early May, and look to complete the trail before late September – for SoBo hikers the timeline is closer to mid June to early November.

The reason for this timeline is due to the numerous environments that the PCT runs through. Going north from Mexico hikers must traverse desert, high alpine forest, the Sierra Nevada range, the ridges of northern California, the arid semi-desert of southern Oregon, the lush rain forest of northern Oregon and Washington before finally ending in the North Cascades and the Canadian border. If you start too late you’ll bake in the California desert, and may not finish before the snow starts in Washington. If you start too early you won’t be able to safely enter the Sierras due to snow.

What do you need to go backpacking?
When backpacking one takes everything they need to survive with them in a pack on their back, hence – backpacking. Between us we’ll carry a tent, sleeping bags, stove and fuel for cooking, clothes for hiking in, sleeping in, and extra layers for when it’s cold, first aid kit and miscellaneous electronics like headlamps and battery packs for recharging items, and some other stuff like mosquito head nets that I’m probably forgetting to mention here. 

Mmmm, so do you stay in hotels along the way or….?
That’s a great question! The answer is typically, no, though on some trails like the Camino del Santiago one can stay in hotels or hostels the majority of the time. However, since the PCT is pretty remote most nights we’ll be sleeping in our tent near the trail. Hotel stays will be reserved for when we’re in town resupplying.

What am resupplying?
Gosh, so many good questions imaginary person that I’m having this conversation with! A resupply stop is when a hiker heads into town to get more food and to rest. Since it would be impossible (and way heavy) to carry all of the food you need for a full thru hike, most hikers will head into towns near the trail every four to 10 days to stock up.

There are two kinds of resupplies, one where you head into town and buy your food at a regular grocery store (just like regular people), and one where you mail yourself a box of food ahead of time and pick it up at a post office or general store that holds boxes for hikers. The second method is good for areas with either no store, or one with very limited options like a gas station. Pre-mailed boxes will only make up about 35% of our planned resupplies because frankly they’re kind of a pain to put together and then find someone who will mail them to you, and then who knows what you’re going to still like eating in one to five months time. Some people elect to do all their resuppling from boxes, but they are typically folks with dietary restrictions.

What does a typical day on the trail look like?
In short: walking up and down mountains while snacking.

In long: We’ll wake relatively early (6-7am), eat breakfast and break down camp before getting on the trail. The majority of the day will be spent walking down the trail, occasionally stopping to rest and eat snacks and refill our water bottles. Towards sunset we’ll begin looking for a campsite where upon we’ll set up our tent, make and eat dinner, fart repeatedly, and then pass out into our sleeping bags before 9pm because hiking is hard work and sleep is awesome.

What happens after the trail?
Ah, you’ve stumbled upon what it perhaps the scariest aspect of thru hiking, clever you. As I mentioned previously, Keith and I will be relocating to Seattle, WA for at least the next few years. Keith has been offered a position at SpaceX’s Seattle branch because he is smart and talented and they thought (correctly) that he was an employee worth holding on to.

I on the other hand will probably travel for a bit (Thailand, anyone?), because I have very little interest in jumping back into the corporate world and enough savings to allow me to dick around for some time. Honestly, I don’t have any concrete plans for after the PCT. No job lined up, no apartment, no real concept as to what I actually want to do with my career. I’m trying not to think about it too much because I’m an adult and that’s how adults handle looming life changes.

One month to go, what are you doing to prepare?
At this point we’re pretty well set with our preparation. Our gear has been purchased and assembled, Keith has a job lined up and next week I’ll be handing in my notice at my job, our resupply boxes are packed and ready to ship to my parents, and our landlord has been told that we’re leaving. There are dozens of small things that still need to be handled such as finding an insurance plan I can actually afford, registering my car as non-operational, and last minute dentist appointments just to name the few that I can remember at the moment.

The remainder of our prep will be to get our apartment packed into the trailer we’ve purchased to haul our junk to Seattle, and doing training hikes on weekends. I’ve also been trying to visit with friends more and do any of the last things I’d like to see/do in Los Angeles before we leave. In some ways it’s like any move, and in some ways it’s like running headlong into a tidal wave of apprehension and barely concealed glee at leaving my city life behind. Spending time in nature is something that is central to who I am as a person, and the plan to spend months simply walking and being outside is one that is inexpressibly appealing to me.

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7 Stupid Questions to Stop Asking The Female Hikers and Backpackers In Your Life

This is me being tired of dumb questions.

I get it, stupid questions are part of the human experience, whether it be from people who are too lazy to google something for themselves, or perhaps they prefer to roll the verbal dice and choose not to think about what they’re saying before it pops out of their mouth. After all, we could all use a little more surprise in our life. What better way to accomplish that than by saying the first thing that comes to mind?

But seriously, if you spend any time in the outdoors, I’m going to bet you’ve been asked these questions before. Maybe from your well-meaning grandma who genuinely has no idea what backpacking even means. Or perhaps, the ever insidious Creepy Guy at a Gas Station who likes to “tell you how it is” despite never having been more than 10 miles from where he’s standing right now. Add to that the radical act of simply being a woman in this world, and I can all but guarantee you’ve been stopped either on the trail, or by someone in your daily life and confronted about the how, what, and why of your chosen hobby.

Below you’ll find the 7 most groan-inducing questions that the lady backpackers and hikers in your life are supremely tired of hearing.

1 – Are you doing this because of that movie Wild?

At the writing of this article, I’m pretty certain that everybody and their mom has seen Wild. And if you saw Wild and it inspired you to get outside and explore, or turn to nature as a means of healing, then I am by no means throwing shade. You do you, Boo.

This question is infuriating because it insinuates that we never would have gone outside if we hadn’t seen a movie about it first.

I find that most people who ask this question are trying to grasp the tiny sliver of information that they have associated with women hiking as a means to connect. When viewed against the scores of movies that feature men going out and tackling adventure, Wild stands very much alone against a backdrop of white able-bodied men. However, I have never met a woman who started hiking because she read or watched Wild. 

2 – You’re going out there by yourself?

Why yes, yes I am. This question falls into the “I don’t believe it’s safe for a woman to travel alone” lie that we’ve all been told by society. And if you’re really worried about my safety, then maybe start speaking up against a society in which men are told that hurting women is ok. Start speaking up about rape culture, slut shaming, and start asking why men are so broken internally that they feel the need to harm women, girls, and young boys. Here, this TED Talk is a good place to start:



3 – Do you carry a gun?

What? Jesus, no! I do not now, nor have I ever carried a gun, a giant knife, pepper spray, or another form of protection. Only once in a very specific situation I carried bear spray, and the insinuation that I need protection while traveling in nature is a tad disturbing.

The biggest reason for this is that I’m not planning on shooting wild animals. Why? Because they’re not very likely to attack me. The second reason is that in the backcountry I’m relatively safe from other people. Real talk, the biggest danger in my daily life are regular people. And beyond the obvious logic of it all, not all National Parks and protected Wilderness areas allow guns, either for carry or for hunting.

While I personally do not carry a weapon on me, some women elect to. That’s their right. Still, don’t go around asking people this.

4 – Aren’t you too old/young/brown/small/female/fat/weak to handle backpacking or hiking?

This is a terribly rude and offensive thing to ask someone. What the fuck are you thinking?

This question translates to: you don’t look like the kind of person I expect to be in the outdoors, so I’m going to tell you that you don’t fit into the stereotype of “outdoorsy people” I’ve built in my mind.

Fuck these people, nature is for everybody. If somebody asks you this, kick them in the shins and walk away. You don’t need those people in your life.

5 – Are your parents ok with this? What about your boyfriend/husband/SO?

This question is belittling and insulting on a number of levels, to which I’ve created a small script you can recite to the next person who asks you this:
“I am an independent adult woman, which means that I am not the property of, nor beholden to, anyone else. What I choose to do with my time is not subject to the approval of my parents or partner.” Enough said. And if they protest, then kick them in the shins and walk away. You don’t need these people in your life either.

6 – What about bears?

What about them?  Have I seen bears? Yes. Normally I see their big furry butts as they’re running away from me. Because humans are freaky scary creatures with a habit of killing bears and encroaching into their territories in noisy ways. Bears are scared of you, and any bear that isn’t has been removed from the North American gene pool years ago.

What this question means in reality is “I’ve heard about bear attacks and I’m scared and you should be scared too, and if you’re not your dumb.” Typically this question comes from people who are both afraid and deeply uniformed about bears in North America. We call this ignorance.

In the last 20 years there have been 25 fatal black bear attacks in North America, the majority of which have taken place in Canada and Alaska. This works out to about 1.25 attacks each year. Compared to the number of people going backpacking or hiking this works out to a .00000003% chance of being attacked by a bear each year. Want a really scary fact? In 2015, 1.6 of every 1,000 people in America were raped or sexually assaulted. So let’s give the bears a break and worry about the real issues we all face in society.

7- Why?

I honestly don’t know what people are hoping to gain from this questions. Why do people do anything? For many women, getting out in nature is a deeply personal, sacred thing. A better question is “tell me what you love about backpacking.” But if you’re just going to ask “why” with mouth agape, don’t be surprised if the lady you’re asking says “why not?” and walks away.

And if you want to know more about our hiking experiences ask us about our favorite trails and why, what is the best season to get out in, or perhaps when we first realized how delightful and challenging and freeing exploring our wild places can be.

I’m not here to put a stop to you asking questions, every outdoors person I know would love the opportunity to talk more about their passion for the outdoors. What we’re all getting sick of is people trying to impose their own worries and misunderstandings on us instead of trying for understanding.

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JMT Day 18 – It’s Like Euro Disney

Sunrise Campground to Yosemite Valley/The End

This is it. I think as I tear down camp this morning. We’re trying to get up and out early, the packing made all the easier by the fact that we’re both almost out of food, and by this point on the trail everything has it’s own home inside my backpack.

Today we’ll climb a mere 1,200 feet up to a small pass before we drop 6,000 feet down into the heart of Yosemite Valley. For the first time in nearly three weeks I think about Keith’s car parked and left unattended in an overflow lot. Boy, I really hope it’s still there.

For the first half of the day we’re the only two hikers on the trail. Switchbacking down, steeply, unrelentingly, through the trees still chilly in the early morning before the sun has warmed their branches. Just before Half Dome we hike through a burn from two years before which has transformed this once lush tree-filled valley into an other worldly grey moon scape, the land dotted with the blackened skeletons of roasted trees, as the sun sears down from on high.

Rounding the corner at the base of Half Dome and there they are! The tourists whom I’d known we’d encounter at some point today. We cruise on past the turn off to Yosemite’s most iconic rock formation, our only direction today is down. Each time we stop to let uphill traffic pass us they ask how the summit of Half Dome was. At first we answer truthfully: didn’t climb it, hiking the JMT, 18 days, yeah long, views are probably a little smokey, it’s a good challenge, yep climbed it previously. This conversation is unsatisfying for the question asker, and belabored for us and after a time we revert to the tried and true method of lying. We tell each passing tourist who asks “how was it?” with “amazing, but a little smokey” at which point they smile and move on and we are freed from the longer conversation that comes with being totally honest. Plus, we’re not being totally dishonest, the views from the top of Half Dome are amazing, and it doesn’t take a genius to presume that the smoke that has filled the entire valley will be present up there too.

The air warms around us as we pass into lower climes. Nobody passes us going downhill, we have strong hiker legs now and the complete disregard for personal comfort that comes with thru hiking.  Waves and waves of tourists pass us on the uphill though, and it doesn’t take long to notice the conspicuous lack of American accents. It feels like all of western Europe decided to vacation in Yosemite this year.

Down. Forever hiking down hill, when we turn onto the Mist Trail and we’re so close but the traffic jam of day hikers is worse here than ever. I turn off the part of my brain that is keeping time and just allow myself to make forward progress when I can, allowing others to pass where I must. A Russian man presses into the back of me as I wait for a scared woman to descend the slippery steps. Mist swirls around us, water thundering as it flies into space and disappears.  “Come on, come on, come on” I hear him mutter impatiently, as though we’d all decided to hold him up intentionally. Finally he skips around us on a sketchy side trail and is out of sight until we pass him 10 minutes later deeply engrossed in the task of taking a selfie with Vernal Falls.

And then, as suddenly as falling asleep we’re down onto pavement. Bodies, cars, screaming children swirl around, all oblivious to our personal victory.

Should I be feeling something more than this? I think to myself as we make our way back to the car. Am I supposed to cry, be overwhelmed with the magnitude of our accomplishment? But then again, it’s only backpacking, and while I feel proud, happy, grateful, anything beyond that is a dishonest emotional balm, applied in hindsight to give gravity to a situation, writing the story in reverse. I text my family, my friends, “we’ve done it!” Then I turn to look at the thousands of people around me, each on their own paths, as oblivious to our accomplishment as we are to theirs.

Back at the car we let the AC rush over us, the glass blocking out the sounds of the valley, so pressing and foreign after weeks in the mountains (Keith’s car wasn’t stolen, how polite) Then, giddy with delight of forward movement without physical exertion we drive to the showers. Inside I scrub myself twice over until the water stops running brown and I’m transformed from a thru hiker into just another Yosemite tourist.

I sit in the dappled shade of a bench while I wait for Keith and stare at the obese squirrel chattering at my feet, eager for food I will not give it.

Our time on the trail was wonderful, but it wasn’t magically transformative in the way you hear written about in books that are made into movies staring Reese Witherspoon. Our time on the JMT was bigger though, emotionally and physically immense in a way that pushes away everything else outside of the dirt path that is your home. However temporary that home may be.

Keith emerges squeaky clean and pink and we walk to get ice cream. Tomorrow we’ll start the drive home, merging back into our regular lives, our real lives, at least for now.

One for the ages, folks.
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JMT Day 17 – Nice Crocks Ya Got There

Random Flat Spot Near Tuolumne Meadows to Sunrise Campground

Over breakfast the conversation turns to mileage and days and time. We’re already ahead of schedule but with the abundant smoke from nearby wild fires filling the valley we make the call to condense the last three days of hiking into two.

The bag that holds our cooking supplies also fits on my head like a hat. Also I’m being a pirate I suppose.

The morning starts with a relaxing stroll towards the Tuolumne Valley store where there will be fresh food and picnic tables to eat on instead of just sitting in the dirt like we’ve grown so accustomed to. We pass dozens of hikers this morning. Clean, sweet smelling day hikers waft by us. SoBo JMT hikers, excited, just a few days into their trip bounce by, trekking poles merrily stabbing the ground, packs loaded with days of food. The skies above curdle and threaten rain. Clear and the sun makes a valiant attempt to shine through. Round and around this goes.

Mmm flat. The trail of course, not the hiker booty.

Suddenly we’re walking through a massive campground, children shrieking as they streak past us. Bleary eyed tourists with their coffee mugs in hand stare unabashedly as we walk past. Quick quick quick. There is food ahead of us, and these hoards of tourists are less interesting to us by far.

We lunch at Tuolumne Meadows cafe and while Keith gets us ice cream I watch a Japanese tourist encourage her little girl to throw bread to a bird near the garbage cans. At this point, I’m so bored by the blatant disregard for our wild spaces, the flippant air taken by frontcountry and backcountry travelers alike that I barely find this annoying any more. Plus it’s not like I speak Japanese, so I stay silent and soon the woman and her daughter climb into their shiny rental car and disappear from my life forever. The bird they were feeding gives me a dully inquisitive look and when I do not feed it, hops away to beg from someone more lenient than I.

When at last there is nothing else to eat or entertain us at Tuolumne we get back on the trail. The relaxed hiking of Yosemite is like a balm on my tired body and I ride my legs as they carry me forward toward the end. I find I cannot feel terribly sad about the terminus of our thru hike approaching, as this whole trip has felt closer to the beginning of something, rather than the end.

In the afternoon we climb towards Cathedral lake, passing fellow JMT NoBo’s along the way, 10 or so in all. Passing fellow thru hikers stokes my ego every time, a little balloon swelling inside my chest. Along this climb we pass a man hiking in one crock and one hiking boot, a woman in socks and flip flops mincing up the trail on ruined feet. Something between pity, admiration, and passive nothingness at the struggling of these aimless strangers. Grateful, under it all, for my able body, intact toenails, unblistered feet, calloused by years of climbing hiking running and everything else.

Look at these dope fucking clouds yo!

We’re in camp by 5:30pm set up amongst the torn down canvas cabins of a high sierra camp which never had the chance to open this year, due to the snow. Our neighbors are a group of four brightly enthusiastic women who are section hiking the JMT from Yosemite Valley to Red’s Meadow, drinking and fraternizing the whole way there. They flirt openly with a group of young guys who invite them over to their fire for the evening. I’m half envious of their breezy sociability – a skill I fear I’ve never mastered – and half grateful when the campground falls silent aside from their ringing tinkering laughter that sidles into my ears, the too loud noises of inebriation.

Tomorrow this whole trip will come to a resounding end. It’s hard to parse out my emotions, but my body deeply wants to rest.

In the gloaming light over our little pots of food (potato soup, I think) I turn to Keith and ask “what if we just kept walking and didn’t stop?” To which he replies “we could.”

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JMT Day 16 – The Lady Nod

Thousand Islands Lake to Random Camp Near Tuolomne Meadows

I wake feeling like absolute garbage, the sun pouring into the tent. The morning has come too early and I dread pulling myself from my warm cocoon of down and crinkly sleeping pad. But wait, no, not the sun. The brightest moon I’ve ever seen, filling the valley with it’s piercing blue light. I snatch up my phone; oh sweet baby cheeses it’s 2:30am! I pull my hat down over my eyes and crinkle into my quilt. I sleep the sleep of those who know they don’t have to get up for a few more precious hours.

When I wake again it’s actually morning and it’s already 7:45. Oops. Keith appears to have been awake for some time and has been kind enough to while away the morning hours on his phone while I snoozed on. With the knowledge that we have a relatively easy day on the trail we spend the morning attempting to dress up our breakfast eggs.

My introduction to Mountain House Breakfast Hash was on my first ever solo backpacking trip and it was soooo good that it immediately claimed a spot on my top three backpacking breakfasts list. Now, 2 years later, and 6 days of this stuff on the JMT and Keith and I can barely look at it. Luckily, we’re armed with cheese, sausage, and cheetos – all gifts from our over-packed friend back in Red’s Meadow. With some effort and patience (entirely on Keith’s part) we manage to turn our sad little breakfast around. While we eat we watch hikers stream out from around the lake, at least 50 people merge onto the trail heading north or south. Who are all these people? It’s so easy to imagine we’re out here on this unique adventure, but really we’re just part of the conga line.

Today we’ll climb 2,600 feet up towards Island and Donahue Passes and enter our third and last national park: Yosemite.

As we climb through the splotchy afternoon rain, and later crossing a creek going in the opposite direction of I share a smile and a nod to several female hikers and I realize there is some deeper connection there, a phenomenon that has connected all of the smiles and nods I’ve shard with women on this trail, an intimacy shared across time and space, visible for the briefest of moments: The Lady Nod.

The Lady Nod says: hey girl, I see you. And: it’s ok, you’re doing it. And: more importantly: you’re stronger than you know. Because any woman who has spent time in the outdoors knows that they’re a unique breed, fighting against the tide of white, male, able-bodied ego that is prevalent in both outdoor media and on the trails themselves. From online social forums where posts from women are met with derision and dismissal, to gear that isn’t fit or made for our bodies and where ‘unisex’ is about as close as it gets, to the countless outdoor media brands that splash their covers with white thin male faces, men who concur and own nature as though it was something to be claimed by birthright.

The Lady Nod acknowledges all of this and more. It is the soft, unspoken agreement of sisterhood mixed with the thrill of seeing yourself represented in these wild places. Even if it is only for the briefest flash of time, as you pass each other on the trail, smile, go your own way.

Evening finds us descending through the trees towards the flat expanse of Tuolomne Meadows, the river meandering and broad as it cut’s a wandering channel through the tall grass.

The smoke fills the valley, permeating deep into the trees, creeping up towards us. A silent, luminous pall – we walk right into it, and stop soon after. The smoke is too unpleasant to walk through.

5:30pm and we’re calling it a day. 7pm and we’re in our tent. What to do. What to do? We’ve reached an impasse where physical adaptation lags behind mental motivation. Meaning, we haven’t yet grown our hiker legs yet, but we’d rather be hiking that sitting in camp. Meaning, truly, we’re tired all the time.

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JMT Day 15 – Goodbye Old Friends

Red’s Meadow to Thousand Islands Lake

We’re up at 6:30am, which isn’t early by hiker standards – or even my normal standards – but I feel like I’m finally starting to mellow to the fact that we’re just not in that big of a rush. We emerge from our tent to find the backpackers campground is buzzing with activity. Everyone seems to know each other and I feel a little like an outsider. Are we just terrible at making friends?

But no, the majority of our compatriots are hiking 8 miles down to Rosalee lake, while we’ll be knocking out 15 today.  They’ve been hiking 6-10 miles a day and we’re just now passing them. People comment that we’re moving “light and fast” or “going really far” and I can never discern from their tone if they’re impressed or judgmental, or simply feel the need to comment as a means to validate their own pace.

We make and eat breakfast, and rummage through the hiker box filled with miscellaneous dried items vacuum sealed into plastic bags. Mmm mm sketchy food! I score some candy bars and oatmeal from a SoBo hiker who so massively over-estimated his food needs that he’s giving away most of his resupply box. Keith supplements his dwindling Snickers stash “two a day until the end of the trail!” he gleefully proclaims. We say farewell to Phil and then finally finally we’re on the trail by 8am, hiking out past Devil’s Post Pile.

Despite all the calories we ate yesterday Keith and I are both dragging ourselves up the trail today, grateful for the fact that it’s cool and overcast, both listening to podcasts to distract from the tiredness and when we stop for a break I take on the roll of enthusiastic cheer leader – when you’re a hiking party of two only one person at a time is allowed to be in a funk or else you never get anywhere.

But get somewhere we must and so we move on towards our second snack break of the day. After all, backpacking is just walking through the mountains with snacks.

At the bottom of a steep, tightly switch backed descent we stop at a glittering blue lake and watch a bird snatch a fish right out of the water and fly off overhead. The fish still wriggling in the birds talons. “Oh sibling of Trevor” I think “you are certainly about to become lunch.”

Making our way along the edge of the lake after our snack I stumble, whack my trekking pole on a tree and it breaks. I then proceed to totally lose it in a really unflattering way. I cry. No, I ugly cry and hard. Succumbing to a tidal wave of emotions, made all the worse for the fact that I can’t really figure out why I’m so upset. While I ugly cry Keith kicks into Engineering Problem Solver Mode (his favorite mode, I think) and begins to splint my broken pole with tent stakes and athletic tape. He’s so sweet and patient during the whole operation and I’m still unable to control myself. I like to think I’m not a materialistic person, I’ve been known to clean out my closet to the point where I have almost nothing to wear, and would be perfectly happy to don the same outfit every day were it socially acceptable. And yet, breaking my trekking pole feels like letting down a close friend. A friend whose been on countless exciting adventures with me. A friend who Keith helped me to pick out because he knew they’d help tremendously with my hiking. And now my poor friend is broken, and I’ll simply have to throw them in the garbage and replace them after the trip. And for whatever reason this breaks my heart.

RIP pole friends.

I’m morose for the next hour as we hike along this gorgeous lake, on soft downy dirt trail, covered by the good good trees so strong and silent above us. All afternoon we climb past lakes, with the sun playing hide and seek behind high clouds but never fully committing to showing it’s face.

Towards the top of the climb we meet an angry woman who demands that we tell her what the climb up to Rosalee Lake is like. When we tell her that the climb will be steep and full of switch backs she tells us we’re wrong and then stands in the middle of the trail so we can’t go around her. Neither of us know what this woman wants. Though it seems to be perfectly clear that she doesn’t want to yield right of way to us, the uphill hikers. Finally, unable to figure out anything else to tell her we edge around her on the trail with a half hearted “have a good hike.” This too, seems to offend her, and recognizing a lost cause Keith and I push on and out of sight.

The afternoon simply crushes me and the insane vistas, lakes nestled impossibly among granite monoliths, grey skies muffling the sounds of the world outside our little dirt path that will take us north, all of this is somewhat lost on me. When we finally roll into camp I’m almost too tired to eat.

We heap honey BBQ Fritos (which are gods gift to thru hikers btw) onto our dinner soup and this somewhat revives me. The sunset burning pink above us, reflected and refracted like stained glass in the water below us. Second best of the trip.

By 8pm we’re in our tent and it’s lights out. I’m so deeply tired.

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JMT Day 14 – We. Are. Hikertrash!

Ivabell Hot Springs to Red’s Meadow

Today is day 14, two full weeks. Does this mean we’re officially dirt bags? Officially hikertrash? Gosh I hope so.

We wake up to our first alarm of the trail. We know the climb to Red’s will be long, hot, and exposed, and we want to get on the trail as soon as possible. Plus, rumor has it that there are milkshakes at Red’s Meadow, and I would have woken up at 2am if you could promise me a milkshake. I would shank a donkey for a milkshake.

Today waking up to an alarm buys us another treat – more hot spring time. We venture to the closest spring and have it all to our selves this morning. I can feel my muscles unwinding in the hot water, my tendons lengthening. I’ve been trying to fight the onset of tendonitis in my calves and feet with nightly massages and it’s only partially working.

We breakfast on the old standby: crushed cheetos (#sponsoredbycheetos – I wish) and mountain house breakfast skillet. The food I’ve eaten on this trip could best be described and horrifying in it’s nutritional shortcomings. That and I’m really getting sick of these fucking eggs. But. Nothing to be done!

The first four miles of the trail descend along the creek to a bridge. More evidence of avalanche activity – root balls exposed, trees ripped from their homes and thrust into the trail. At the creek we tank up on water, chug some brondo (it’s what the body craves) and begin the climb. Getting out of the valley is easy. Slogging along six more miles through sand and ripe horse shit is exhausting. We’re pushing hard to Red’s. Not stopping for snacks, or water.

Along the way we pass two big groups and maybe three to four additional pairs of hikers. All are headed down to Ivabell Hot Springs. All are surprised when we tell them their the newest member in a disconnected conga line. Bless. We all think we’re so unique.

Suddenly up on a ridge we can see the back of Mammoth Mountain and then everything stops. We have LTE! this small precious connection to the outside world. Keith and I huddle and hard stare at our phones for 15 minutes. I send a message to my family just some light details and that we’re still alive and I’m thrilled that I get a text back quickly from my mom. It’s funny, we’re not really the type of family to call each other every day, sometimes not even every week but suddenly I miss them all terribly and start to cry a little while I group text them updates. Then quick as it came, we’re out of service again and we move on.

See? This photo was taken at like 10am, but it looks like golden hour. Fire are magic/terrible.

With less than a mile to go to Red’s Meadow we are blasted by tourist. They all smell amazing; clean like laundry and soft indoors things. I knew I’d smell on the trail, it’s hardly shocking when you consider we exercise all day, don’t bathe, and then sleep on the dirt. What I didn’t consider is that your nose never adjusts to your own oder. I know I smell as intensely as I know that these bright, scrubbed people don’t smell and I allow myself to linger here among the wafting scent of cleanliness.

Finally we’re at Red’s Meadow with the crowds and the food. Then, from nowhere it’s Phil! Phil is here! We thought he’d be a day behind us and now he’s here, what sorcery. We eat burgers and potato salad together and Phil tells us he’s done with the trail. We try earnestly to persuade him otherwise, create alternate plans that would give him lower milage days, invite him to hike out with us.

But in the end his heart isn’t in it, he misses home, his girlfriend. He says repeatedly that he didn’t know this hike would be so hard. “I just can’t handle another pass” he says. In the end he makes plans to get off the trail the following day. Once he’s decided I try to make him feel good about his choice. Thru hiking isn’t for everyone, and that’s ok.

After lunch Phil goes off to shower and call his girlfriend while Keith and I try to go nap – but mostly I end up petting a dog that’s tied up near by. I try and feel happy for Phil, he looks relieved to know he’s done. But I can’t really imagine making the same choice. Maybe because I (and by extension I assume Keith) knew this was going to be hard much if not most of the time. I end up on the opposite side of the spectrum from Phil. I love thru hiking. I’ve accepted that there will be 3,000 foot climbs that I’m not going to want to do, and that thru hiking isn’t some blissed out life, it’s more like a master class in accepting discomfort and letting go of attachment and anticipation.

Keith in his “worlds lightest” UL backpacking hammock. I keep telling him his trail name should be DIY, so far that hasn’t stuck.

We spend the afternoon relaxing, waiting for our stomachs to be hungry for food again. The tourists look angry as they wait in a long line for the shuttle that will take them back to Mammoth and their air conditioned hotel rooms. Is everybody this stressed out on vacation? A guy in army boots complains to his bro about his quads seizing up after a two mile hike, babies cry, girlfriends scowl, and uppity soccer dads give anyone who even thinks about cutting the bus line the stink eye. I try not to feel superior to these people and fail.

In the end we opt not to hike out tonight, and instead grab some adult beverages to supplement our burgers and milkshakes (!) and hang out with the dirtbags in the hiker campsite. Around the fire we talk about equestrians on the trail. And I’m surprised to find so many people who echo my feelings about equestrians on the trail. In short: We hate that they bring their big, stupid, non-native animals into the backcountry where they shit and piss on everything. We hate the the riders have no responsibility to pick up after their animals. And we hate that they look down their animals noses at us as we give them the right of way and they barely say thank you. If I could wave a magic wand and ban pack animals from the high sierras I would. Or at least force them to clean up after their big dumb pets like everybody else has to.

People trickle off to their tents in ones and in pairs. I’m in no rush, and I spend the evening chatting with a guy heading SoBo who has packed such an insane abundance of food that it’s comical. It’s barely past hiker midnight when the party breaks up. I snuggle down in my perfectly fluffy quilt, ear plugs in. Finally, sleep.