PCT Desert Section Part 1: Beauty, Pain, and the Art of Reframing
The first couple of weeks have gone by in an absolute blur—somehow feeling like both a lifetime and an instant. If I blink, I might miss the whole thing.
Each day is full— movement, the rituals of packing up and settling in, so many calories, yet never enough. Life out here is stripped down to its essentials—simple, but consuming. Hours pass in a flash, yet each moment feels weighty, expansive, as if we’ve been out here forever.
The Desert in Motion
I’m in awe of the landscapes. I had no idea the desert could hold so much diversity, so much richness. These first couple hundred miles, winding through my home state, have been eye opening. The land shifts constantly—one moment I’m stepping over bright speckled granite, the next, across deep red clay. Prickly chaparral brushes my legs, cacti and yucca dot the hillsides, manzanita twist to form canopies, and fragrant pine trees greet me at higher elevations. The landscape unfolds like a living, breathing mosaic. Shifting and surprising me with every turn. It’s life breathing new life into me too. I feel utterly immersed, and yet constantly aware that I am a visitor— a privilege I do not take for granted.
A Community of Obsession
One of the greatest joys so far has been the people. It feels special to be immersed in this world— surrounded by people who get it. Not just the splendor, but our strange ways of surviving out here— hikers who have obsessed over every ounce of weight in their packs, who ooh and ahh over gear choices with the same reverence as fine art collectors. We touch fabrics, weigh items in our hands, exchange stories of trial and error. It’s niche, it’s nerdy, and it’s so much fun.
There’s an instant camaraderie among hikers. We may walk for hours or days alone, but when we do cross paths, the bond is immediate. Stories spill out over a meal and friendships form in the span of a few shared miles. And though the trail feels quieter this year—perhaps the late winter storms scared some away—those we do meet feel like kindred spirits.
Pain Progress and Perspective
Some days, everything hurts. Blisters bloom, hips protest, and feet scream with every step. And yet, we keep going. The goal—Canada—is a distant but steady pull forward. There’s something incredible about being so single-mindedly focused, about digging deep, about discovering just how strong we are.
At night, we crave nothing more than to be horizontal, cradled by our sleeping pads. Recovery is sacred. And every morning—despite everything—we rise, breathe in the crisp desert air, and feel a spark of excitement. It’s astonishing how the body heals itself overnight, how quickly it adapts. The first steps of the day almost always feel fresh, new, full of possibility.
Lessons From the Trail
The trail has a way of teaching you lessons you never knew you needed. Take directionality, for example. I naively assumed we’d always be moving north. But following a mountain range is rarely that simple. The trail bends, dips, turns west, turns east—and sometimes, to my absolute frustration, it even turns south.
In those moments, I could curse the path. Or, I could choose to see the lesson—growth is not always linear. Progress doesn’t always feel like forward momentum. But if you zoom out, if you trust the bigger picture, every step—no matter the direction—is still leading us closer to where we need to be.
I was given the trail name “Coach”, because I can’t help but find the silver lining, the lesson hidden in the frustration. I reframe, I adapt, I push forward. Whether it’s crushing miles, making better food choices, or simply keeping morale high, I remind myself and others that every challenge holds something valuable—if we’re willing to see it.
The trail has already required constant reframing—through hours of postholing across steep, snowy traverses, battling relentless wind, enduring freezing nights, and then sweltering under the blazing daytime sun. One moment, I’m bundled in every layer I own, shivering in my quilt. The next, I’m stripping down to my base layers, sweat dripping as the desert heat radiates. Rain soaks everything, then the wind dries it out as we push on towards the snow. Adaptation is the only option. The trail doesn’t bend for us—we bend for it.
And so we continue— one foot in front of the other, further into this journey and one step closer to Canada.
