Welcome to My Quarter Life Crisis?

If we’ve crossed paths in the last 10 years, you’ll have heard of the Pacific Crest Trail. I would casually joke with my coworkers about planning my quarter-life crisis years in advance. I would tell them as soon as I hit 30. I’ve been wandering in the woods for months and never been heard from again. But what you may not have noticed in a passing joke over coffee at the office is the underlying truth behind it all.

The story of origin

I grew up in a suburb of San Diego, where I spent my childhood reading geology books and building my rock collection. We were a road trip family, spending school holidays floating down the Merced River in Yosemite Valley and learning to cross-country ski in Mammoth. Although our version of hardship was a single night in the tent cabins of Curry Village, my parents still made an effort to spend time outdoors, laying the foundation for my love of adventure.

Fast forward to one of the wildest and most impactful 24 hours of my life, I walked across the university graduation stage and immediately flew across the world to walk the Camino de Santiago, solo. At age 22, walking 500 miles across Spain opened up a new world, new friendships, and an even deeper desire for adventure. When I settled in at home and started my first big corporate job, I started dreaming about my ever-growing wish list and, more importantly, used that new salary to upgrade my gear closet.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, like many, I spent my time at home longing to escape the confines of my city apartment. I would watch hours of hiking vlogs on YouTube imagining myself following in their footsteps. The PCT seemed like a distant dream, but I was going to do everything in my power to make it a reality. With my sights set on 2026, I spent the next few years putting together gear, saving every penny possible, choosing something resembling a workout routine, and crossing items off that bucket list. Everything leading up to this moment

Secrets, secrets are no fun

I can’t keep a secret to save my life. After a failed first round of permits in the fall, I immediately spread the word; False alarm, this is not my year. I myself had half accepted this result, but curiosity got the best of me. On a random Tuesday in early January, I logged in at my allotted time for the second round of permits and received the surprise of my life. Not only did I get a new permit, but I was able to get a permit to exact expected start date.

Contrary to my nature, I did not tell anyone about this permission. Maybe it was recognizing loose threads in a relationship a few weeks before it fell apart, or premature grief over missing out on this summer’s bridal shower/wedding/baby shower circuit, or just panicking at every possible worst-case scenario. I thought getting a permit would be a big exciting celebration that would shout from the rooftops. Instead, I felt like I’d been on this strange edge of uncertainty for weeks, stirring up a silent wave of emotions that I wasn’t prepared to process alone.

Caught in a fit of analysis paralysis, I confessed my secret leave to my inner circle in an attempt to overcome this sudden fear. Through this I realized that any fear I could imagine could not overcome the fear of never taking the risk in the first place. I have to take the leap. I’m going up the PCT.

The three letter question

As an aspiring hiker, you’ll hear repeated advice to hold on to your «Why?» Your why is what raises the highs and carries you through the lows.

So what is my answer to this (not so) simple three letter question? I’m climbing the PCT to take advantage of the joy of being a 10 year old on a mountain bike with a bag full of quartz. To overcome the limits of my current strength and fortitude and adopt a different perspective, away from the perpetual self-comparison in the daily routine. To give my future self the courage to make hard decisions, confidence to do hard things… and one day tell the story of how tough I was that time I walked 2,650 miles from Mexico to Canada.

So the crisis was averted, right?

I’m writing this from a half-finished apartment, about to pack up everything I own and start this journey in San Diego, back to where it all began. It’s bittersweet to turn the page on this complex chapter of my 20s and the routine I’ve come to love. I’m going to miss running on the beach with my dog, homemade pasta nights with friends, watching the Twilight Saga with my coworkers, Tuesday nights at the climbing gym, and this quirky little artisan department (kitchen ghost and all).For some reason, 30 has always felt like an imminent benchmark that reaching would mean you’d miraculously have your life figured out. In reality, that is far from true. There’s a strange dichotomy at this age where half the friend group adjusts to the ups and downs of married life and kids, while the other half pursues another hobby and cries over a painfully average guy who «just doesn’t have enough spark.» Some may even decide to take a long walk to try to make sense of it all… Either way, it’s hard not to feel a little lost or directionless when everyone’s lives look so different. But I’m starting to think that as unsettling as that feeling is, there is an equal and opposite thrill to starting a new chapter on a blank page.

Now, I don’t expect my time on the PCT to cause major, life-changing epiphanies or resolve this “crisis.” Maybe so, maybe not, maybe there isn’t a real crisis to begin with, and maybe, just maybe, letting go of these expectations will bring something fortuitous along the way. So here I am, facing that blank page with nothing but a backpack, a dream and a why. Although I have no idea what’s coming next, I’m very excited to find out.

Here we go.

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