Finding My Way to the Pacific Crest Trail: My Backpacking Trip

Find my way to the trail

Backpacking didn’t immediately convince me. It started with a 50 pound backpack, a lot of pain, and no understanding of what I was doing. But somewhere between that first clumsy trip and today, something inside me opened up. What used to seem heavy and uncomfortable has become the most liberating thing in my life. When I’m on the road, I’m my best self. There is no other place where I feel more joy, clarity, or connection to who I truly am.

My backpacking journey began long before I set foot on the John Muir Trail. The spark came in 2007, on my first summit of Mount Whitney. Near the top, I met a group that had just finished the John Muir Trail. At the time, I had no idea what that was. They pointed toward Crabtree Meadows and said, «We’re coming from there.» I looked at the granite, the thorny ridges, and the distance that stretched further than my imagination had ever traveled, and I remember thinking: Can you walk all that? Does a trail really pass through there?

I was naive. But a seed was planted.

From fear to freedom

I have reached the top of the Whitney eleven times and each time I returned, that seed grew a little more. I wanted to know what was there in that wide, wild field. I wanted to follow the paths that cross the Sierra. However, for years backpacking intimidated me. Sleeping in a tent seemed risky. The bears felt risky. Being alone seemed risky to me. But the more I learned, the more I realized that everything was going to be okay. My confidence grew.

The John Muir Trail: My Gateway

In 2021, I finally hiked the John Muir Trail. That experience changed everything. I ended up with grit, dirt, and sore legs, but also with the undeniable realization that my place was there. Along the way, everything fell into place. No distractions. No obligations. Noiseless. Just the forward motion and the landscape unfolding around me. That was the first time I understood what hikers mean when they say the trail offers.

It wasn’t long after that that I learned about an even longer trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and like any trash-to-be hiker, I let that idea sink into my brain. At first in silence. Then stronger. So impossible to ignore. I knew, deep down, that one day I would walk from Mexico to Canada.

Snow, challenges and trusting my intuition

In 2023 I returned to the JMT, this time heading south in the snowiest year ever recorded in the Sierra. As a Central Coast Californian, I wasn’t exactly raised traveling in the snow. But I learned quickly: how to trust my balance, how to listen for water running under the snow, how to respect high-stakes terrain. My situational awareness sharpened in a way I didn’t know I was capable of. Those moments taught me to trust my intuition more than anything else.

The Colorado Trail: Testing the Call

Then came the Colorado Trail. When I got laid off last June, it felt like the universe finally said, «Okay, David, this is your window.» Between careers and commitments, I realized it was time to stop dreaming and answer the call I had heard for almost a decade. The Colorado Trail became both a testing ground and a revelation. I loved the logistics: the resupplies, the problems, the constant puzzle-solving of long-distance hiking. The challenge and pace of waking up early, walking all day, and collapsing into my quilt at night gave me a deep, honest exhaustion that can only be found on the trail.

But the biggest surprise? Town.

At JMT and Tahoe Rim Trail, I met some great hikers, but I hadn’t yet realized how important the social side of hiking is. It’s not that the people weren’t friendly, they were. I had been so focused on the mileage, itineraries, and camps planned each night that I was mostly left in my own head.

The Colorado Trail changed that. When you’re out there long enough, the same faces reappear—at water fountains, trailheads, and around town—and suddenly you’re sharing meals, stories, walks, jokes, and the kind of natural camaraderie that only comes from shared suffering and joy. Those connections changed the way I view hiking. Some of my favorite memories of CT aren’t the great views or the great days…it’s the people. And knowing that the PCT is even more social gives me goosebumps. I can’t wait to meet the friends I haven’t met yet!

Trail Therapy: Mental Health and Clarity

The Colorado Trail also reminded me of something essential: on the trail, my mental health is stronger. I have dealt with anxiety and hints of depression throughout my life. But along the way it is clear to me. I’m grounded. The only thing I worry about is the weather, which is ironic, because it’s the only thing you can’t control. Learning to let go of control and trust the environment was one of the greatest gifts that CT gave me.

Preparing for the PCT

When I got my PCT permit for my May 5 start date, it didn’t seem like a coincidence. It felt like confirmation. This is what I must do.

I’ve dreamed for years about what it will feel like to spend five, six, or seven weeks on the PCT. The way my mind will settle, the way my body will adapt, the way the world will open up mile after mile. I know my life will change out there. I know that my life will change out there, that I will discover parts of myself that I couldn’t discover anywhere else and that I will emerge stronger in mind, body and spirit.

I am sacrificing a lot to make this happen. I’m liquidating things, giving up security, moving away from the familiar. But I deeply believe that the path is where I’m supposed to be. And if I’m lucky, this will be the first of many long-distance trails. Maybe someday the Appalachian Trail, hopefully the Continental Divide Trail, and maybe even more after that.

The journey ahead

For now, my approach is clear:

On May 5, 2026 I begin walking north.
From Mexico to Canada.
A dream that has been nine years in the making.
A call finally answered.

And I can’t wait to share every step of this journey with you.

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