The answer is probably the same for both detractors and defenders: because it’s stupid, obviously. Who decides to voluntarily live in a tent for five or six months and sustain themselves on ramen, rice and beans with a pinch of the best deals a gas station in the middle of nowhere can stock? Twinkie anyone? Or rely on the kindness of strangers to take you from the trail to the city? Or be mutilated and eaten by a wild animal? Fording a river that could kill you if you lose your balance?
What is this? The Oregon Trail? What’s next, dysentery?
Honestly? Maybe.
This isn’t the Oregon Trail, but it’s not far off the mark: It’s the PCT, a continuous trail that sits comfortably between the borders of Mexico and Canada and runs through California, Oregon, and Washington.
Every year, thousands of people try to complete this journey because it sounds like heaven, and every year hundreds of millions of people don’t because it sounds like hell. I think that’s where we confuse the definition of fool.
Who am I?
Hello, my name Ian. I’m going to try to hike the 2,650 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail precisely because I think it’s silly, or rather: the adventure of a lifetime. Despite dangerous river crossings, wild animals, mountains, diseases or problematic humans; I do it for the dangerous river crossings, the wild animals, the mountains, the health and the good people I will meet along the way.
I’m on an excursion to NOBO. It seems to be the sensible option since it is the most popular route (something like 90% of hikers hike NO (rth) BO (destination)). Seemingly like a lemming walking off a cliff, I will follow the crowd north on my solo walk.
I’m not entirely familiar with hiking. Like many, I knew him from a very young age through a relative, in my case it was my father. While he is an avid outdoorsman and all things nature nut, I would be lying if I said I didn’t hate every second of being forced to join him on his hikes as a child. I’d rather play Golden Eye or kick a ball into a goal that looked eerily like a garage door on the noisy, dusty street in front of our house in Melilla, Spain, a Spanish enclave on the North African coast. Morocco borders this small city on all sides except its cliffs and beaches facing the Mediterranean.
My dad is coming up with a plan: walk up a nearby hill and take a dip in the Dead Sea (behind him).
My dad grew up in the Pacific Northwest. I grew up in Morocco (sort of). My appreciation for the outdoors began and ended with soccer in the street or on a concrete playground, while my dad knew what it was like to walk as a child in the North Cascades and experience all its majesty.
He tried his best to convert me, but there’s something about the hills of Beber country and the black and white sand beaches of the North African coast that just don’t lend themselves to saying «hey, do you want to walk for God knows how long and eat shitty food before sleeping outside?» rather than the fun alternatives that appeal to a child. Naivety your name is youth. Fortunately, I finally understood my father’s way of seeing things.
What changed?
It wasn’t until decades later that I understood it. I had meticulously mapped out the path I thought I needed to follow to make life (with a capital L) work: education, relationships, buying a house, career… It worked well enough until it didn’t work at all. And, frankly, it was really boring.
After working in the corporate world for forever, I quit my job and got into distilling. After years, I became one of the head distillers at what was the first and best distillery in Washington, DC since Prohibition. Bottom line: We caught the attention of one of those industry giants and they made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. The DC facility was eventually closed after the acquisition just as the world was emerging from COVID. I was heartbroken.
I was dating a girl who was a lot like my dad in one way: she loved being outdoors. In my attempt to impress her, I told myself I would suck it up and act like I liked hiking. She knew the truth. There were signs. A guy who says he goes camping all the time doesn’t ask you what a rainfly is. But it didn’t take long until I became infected. I couldn’t get enough. Being outdoors offered me a freedom I didn’t know I craved. And then we broke up. While the relationship ran its course, I gained a hobby that will last me a lifetime.
This happened at the same time that the distillery was in the process of closing. Everything seemed to just suck. He was almost 30 years old and didn’t think he had much to show. It seemed appropriate to embark on that once-in-a-lifetime, “screw it” solo adventure that I wouldn’t even dare dream of doing just a few months earlier. My reaction was proportional to what I felt I had lost.
My friend Trav making jokes at the distillery.
As soon as travel was back on the table, I jumped at the opportunity to get out of Washington, DC. I bought one of those round-the-world tickets, put all my belongings in a small storage unit, overpacked my backpack, and headed out to be outside for six months. Over the next half year I walked the Camino de Santiago (French Way), toured Sardinia in my tent, climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, ventured into the jungles and beaches of Thailand, explored volcanoes and surfed in Bali, watched Messi become the greatest of all time (come to me) while drinking beer in the shadow of Uluru, and walked the W in Patagonia, before returning to what I knew That could never be my home again, DC
On the way to Kilimanjaro
The experience changed me in ways that I am still analyzing years later. But it also left me with that insatiable itch to get out and go places I could otherwise only experience through a screen.
What’s next?
In fact, I’m fine with this whole outdoors thing, as if walking in a straight line and going to sleep are something to brag about. If anything, it’s become an annoying part of my identity. But the prospect of doing the Pacific Crest Trail scares me. It will be my first real hike (sorry, Camino people, it’s true); five to six solid months of continuous movement towards the same path. It is a great challenge, one that I am sure many who walk it compare to the Fellowship of the Ring and its long journey to Mordor.
Side note: the number of hikers who interpret that scenario in their heads as they do with their bodies along the trail is probably not insignificant.
My start date is quickly approaching and I couldn’t be more excited but also intimidated. I want to hike the Pacific Crest Trail because I think it’s necessary.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in recent years, it’s that once-in-a-lifetime adventures only become that if you don’t give them competition.
Happy trails.
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