Becoming a hiker: the desert

I came to the desert hoping to experience some mental changes, philosophical changes. I was strong. Good cardio. I thought the heat would be my biggest challenge, followed by the hills.

I expected it would take me two weeks to adjust to the life of a hiker. A month to be comfortable.

Instead?

I settled into this life on the second day. I’m not comfortable. I never feel comfortable.

The expected used to be a flat place to sleep. Now it’s more of a battle to find a place to lie down, managing the slopes as best I can by stuffing my clothes under my mat to level them out.

I thought I was in good shape before I left. Now I feel weak and harassed by the harsh conditions here. An hour in the gym every day doesn’t compare to the physical and mental challenge of days on the track.

My shoes worked fine before I came here. Comfortable. There are no problems.

They did not pass the test under the all-consuming stress of the desert. My feet have been blistered for 700 miles, through two pairs of shoes and a billion first aid supplies.

I simply changed the way I walked to compensate for the pain of the blisters. This is not a good thing, of course, but I have done it.

And that’s all there is here. Manager.

I got used to my bland dinners, my smelly clothes, my urine splashing on my shoes when I pee because there is only rocky sand for my bathroom.

I don’t prefer it, but that’s just the way things are here.

My life is simplified. I only worry about my most basic needs. Eat. Sleep. Water. Bathroom. Bored. Look at the map for guidance.

My feet hurt every day. My legs are tired. The views are disappointing. This trip is not about an epic view. It is about having been forged in the desert.

Miles used to be the only factor in the equation. Now it’s miles + elevation + heat + terrain = challenge.

There are so many variables here.

Hiking Mission Creek, an eight-mile stretch of river rock, taught me that having to navigate every step is incredibly exhausting.

Sailing is exhausting.

Although I wander the sandy hills of the desert, along with thousands of other hikers, we all seem like foreigners in the city.

We are easily identified by our dirt-stained clothing and hiker-style clothing. The hikers look like eleven-year-olds on their first day of high school, bounding around with an oversized backpack filled with heavy books.

We don’t walk well on the pavement. This life does not fit well into society.

I’m suspended in time here. I feel like I started the journey months ago, that the desert will last forever.

I usually focus on the future in my free time. Here the future is just a distant dream. The only thing that matters is my basic needs. Those are the only things that populate my mind.

I feel like I’ve known the people here for a long time, that we will always be together on this path.

I’m stuck in a moment in time.

A moment in time with my dad.

People think my dad and I are getting closer here. We are not. My dad and I are already so close that this adventure is simply maintaining the strength of our relationship.

I’m very lucky to be here with him. Before this trip, I watched a YouTube video of a PCT hiker. He was finishing the tour when he said, «I wish my dad was here. He would be so proud of me.»

I’ve stayed close since I started the tour, because my dad is here. He is alive. We can do this together. Not many people can do this with their parents.

I am very grateful to my dad for teaching me everything about backpacking. It’s not rocket science, but he’s giving me all the tips and tricks learned through experience.

I am very grateful that you have allowed me to accompany you on this adventure.

Something I learned from my grandfather is that at the end of the day, the only thing that really matters is the people around us.

Out here I’m building something. Character, strength, memories with my dad, I don’t know exactly. Sometimes I think the best thing I can do is just go out and do something.

And that’s where I am.

So I’m left with the blisters, the terribly hot days and freezing nights, the bland foods, the depleted bank account. I will choose pain and discomfort every day.

Something is building inside me here, but it is my hard work that produces it. It’s just taking some time.

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