McDonald’s, mountain towns and the kindness of strangers
Some PCT milestones are more important than others.
When we reached Cajon Pass, around mile 342, the only thing we could really think about was food.
The twenty-four mile trek to McDonald’s felt strangely iconic for a hiker of sorts. For years I’d heard stories about hikers smashing absurd amounts of fast food under the giant golden arches along Interstate 15, and somehow we ourselves had finally become part of that strange little tradition.
I hadn’t eaten at McDonald’s in probably fifteen years, which made the whole thing seem even more ridiculous.
I went completely off the rails.
Nuggets, fries, Big Macs, chicken wraps, double cheeseburgers and bacon. Honestly, I think I ate about six thousand calories in one sitting, which somehow felt horrible and completely justified at the same time. Trail hunger is a completely different type of hunger. At a certain point, your body simply becomes an oven and all logic disappears with it.
And honestly? It tasted amazing.
Twenty-four miles of hunger and heat ended exactly where they were supposed to go.
Not long after, we connected with a local trail angel named Carlos, better known as YaYa, who had hiked the PCT in 2023. He and his girlfriend Brittany, whose name is Soup, welcomed us into their home like we were old friends instead of dirty hikers they’d just met. Carlos even took me to the dispensary to resupply before we all settled in for the night watching movies, laughing, and decompressing from the desert miles behind us.
The friendliness surrounding the PCT still takes me by surprise sometimes.
The next morning, Soup made some of the best breakfast sandwiches I’ve ever had. Bacon, egg, and cheese on every bagel, all carefully wrapped in foil like trail magic crafted by someone who really understood hungry hikers.
Moments like that continue to humiliate me here.
The generosity that surrounds the PCT community still takes me by surprise at times. People who offer transportation, houses, food, conversation, encouragement. Complete strangers who choose to make your life easier simply because they understand what this path means.
The further north we go, the more I realize that the PCT is not just about nature. It’s also about people.
At Wrightwood
The next few days took us further and further into the mountains.
The exit from Cajon Pass felt hot and exposed, although the wind turbines spinning overhead offered a strange kind of comfort as they spun endlessly against the desert sky. Over time, the landscape slowly began to change again. The smell of pine began to replace the dust and dry brush, and with it came that familiar mountain feeling that I have always liked.
Leaving the desert behind, one climb at a time.
There is something euphoric about that first breath of pine air after weeks in the desert.
We camped just before Guffy Campground with views stretching endlessly to the desert lights below. The temperatures were mild, the stars bright, and sleep was easy. Lately, more and more, camping with jeans has simply become the default option.
The desert still shines long after dark.
I honestly don’t know if I will ever fully return.
There’s a freedom to it that’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it yourself. No store walls. No condensation. There are no barriers between you and the landscape around you. Just your blanket, your sleeping bag, the sound of the wind moving through the trees and the stars overhead. It feels simple in the purest way possible.
Somewhere along the way, sleeping outdoors stopped feeling exposed and started feeling natural.
The next morning we made the decision not to ascend Mount Baldy.
Honestly, that choice weighed a little more on me than I expected. Baldy had been on my list for a long time and part of me really wanted to push for him. But after checking conditions, reading recent reports, and hearing stories from returning hikers, it became obvious that we were not adequately equipped for what awaited us up there.
Without traction devices. No ice axes. No helmets.
And sometimes the smartest decision is simply knowing when not to force something.
Later that day we ran into Prophet, who had attempted to climb before finally turning around. Hearing the conditions firsthand gave us complete assurance that we had made the right decision.
The mountain will still be there another day.
Instead, we hitchhiked in Wrightwood and honestly, the town immediately felt special.
It reminded me a lot of some of the mountain towns I passed through on the Colorado Trail, especially Lake City. Small, cozy, relaxed. The kind of place where everyone seems to know everyone. We sat for hours at Wrightwood Brewing Company eating sandwiches, drinking hazy IPAs, and laughing with the growing family of trails forming around us.
A cold beer, a giant sandwich, and a mountain town that felt exactly like what we needed.
Meanwhile, locals wandered around town celebrating a women’s softball victory while pristine old Chevys, classic Ford pickups, and vintage Volkswagens rolled slowly through the streets like little moving pieces of American music.
Wrightwood felt frozen in the best way possible.
Everything in Wrightwood felt warm.
Not only physically comfortable, but also emotionally comfortable.
As if the trail had briefly left us a small place to exhale.
Baden-Powell
The climb from Wrightwood towards Baden-Powell was no joke.
Big climbs always have a way of humbling you, no matter how strong your legs get. But at some point during the climb, fatigue began to mix with excitement. The higher we climbed, the more the views around us opened up until finally the desert stretched endlessly behind us in all directions.
And suddenly we were at the top.
I had wanted to reach the summit of Baden-Powell for years.
Living in California, it’s one of those peaks you hear about constantly, but somehow I’ve never gotten there before. Being at the top excited me in a way I didn’t expect. There was euphoria, amazement, relief, pride and something else that I still don’t quite know how to describe.
Maybe it was just realizing that we were actually doing this.
We don’t dream about that anymore. Don’t plan it. Not being prepared for it.
Living it.
I remember holding the summit sign and smiling for the photo, and what struck me afterwards was how genuine that smile seemed. There’s nothing forced about it. Just pure happiness at being on top of a mountain I had wanted for a long time.
One he had wanted for a long time.
That one felt earned.
We headed down toward Camp Little Jimmy later that night in the fading light and cold mountain air. Stars slowly appeared overhead as the desert lights shined far below us in the distance.
Another night of cowboy camping.
Another perfect dream under the sky.
Camping in jeans stopped seeming unusual and started feeling normal.
Mile 400 is coming fast
Sometime after Wrightwood, the miles started to feel different.
It’s not exactly easier. Just more natural.
The twenty-mile days, which had once seemed enormous, had quietly become routine. Even with the zeros and nero days mixed in, we were still steadily moving forward at a pace that honestly surprised me. It’s strange to realize how adaptable the human body really is when given enough time, enough repetition, and enough purpose.
By now, the rhythm of life on the trails had settled deeply into all of us.
Wake up with the birds.
Pack up camp.
Walk.
Eat.
Laugh.
Climb.
Filter water.
Find the camp.
Sleep under the stars.
Repeat.
And somehow, that simplicity has started to seem more real than normal life at home.
The morning we crossed mile 400 began with birdsong echoing through the camp before dawn. Star jays, bluebirds, spotted towhees. Nature’s alarm clock has become one of my favorite parts of life on the trails. The three of us made steady progress through long climbs, trail hikes, the warm afternoon heat, and pine forest breezes before finally passing the marker.
Four hundred miles.
The miles were beginning to seem like less distance and more life.
He felt earned.
It felt fast.
And somehow, it also felt strangely normal.
That realization impacted me more than the number itself.
This path is no longer something I’m trying to survive or prove to myself that I can do it. It is becoming everyday life. The people, the movement, the simplicity, the tiredness, the small moments of gratitude for cold drinks, shady campsites, roadside refreshments, hot meals and stories shared around picnic tables at night.
That night we camped at Sulfur Springs under the trees with easy access to nearby water. We soaked our feet, did our laundry, cooked dinner together, and sat around telling stories long after the light had faded.
As the miles add up, so do the people around the table.
The further north we go, the more these people stop feeling like random hikers and start feeling like family.
And somewhere between the pines, the cowboy camps, the mountain towns and the endless miles north, the trail has slowly begun to feel like home.
Somewhere along the way, the trail started to feel like home.
