From Desert Heat to Mountain Blizzard: Unexpected Challenges on the PCT

We took the steep descent from the San Jacinto Mountains, winding our way back to the sun-drenched desert floor. The air grew warmer with each switchback, and the heat felt like a homecoming embrace. So did my mom, who met us right where the trail dips under I-10—yes, it literally passes beneath the highway.

She whisked us away for a “zero” day (no miles forward) in Palm Springs, where we traded trail shoes for sandals and savored family time, good food, and deep rest. Sharing this little slice of our niche world with her was a delight—especially during our resupply. She picked up on the strategy quickly: lightweight, calorie-dense, shelf-stable. If it’s less than 100 calories per ounce, back on the shelf it goes. Trail math.

It’s funny how long a day off can feel—and how overstimulating. There’s a different kind of tired that comes from air conditioning, crowded grocery stores, too many choices, and the odd sensation of sitting still. It was a great reset but we were eager to get back to the quiet chaos of trail life.

My mom dropped us off in raging wind, and we climbed higher past rows of wind turbines slicing through the sky. Our descent led us to the Whitewater River—the largest crossing in Southern California’s PCT section—and there we paused. Blaze Pizza (packed out from town) and a cold river soak made for my favorite lunch break yet. I was in heaven.

The wind picked up again, ushering us onward.

We climbed once more into vast-open vistas, then descended into the shelter in the canyon carved by Mission Creek. We cowboy camped with new trail friends beneath the stars, then rose early for what would become a very challenging stretch of the trail— if you could call it that. The area had flooded a few years ago, washing away the path entirely and leaving ten-miles of upstream scramble with nothing but river rocks and loose dirt hillsides to follow. It was slow and exhausting.

Eventually, we climbed out of the river and rejoined the trail—but it was steep and messy, littered with blowdowns. As we gained elevation, temperatures dropped fast. By the time we reached camp, snow began to fall in a soft, swirling flurry. Within minutes, it turned to a full-blown blizzard.

Where had this come from?

We pitched our tent in a hurry, fumbling with frozen hands. It was a shock to the system—we’d sent our snow gear home with my mom just days before, fresh from the triumph of traversing the San Jacinto’s and overly confident that spring had arrived. I layered on every item of clothing I owned, cracked open emergency hand warmers, and started the stove. The warmth of a hot meal brought so much relief to my body and we buried ourselves tight into our double quilt, waking often to knock snow from the tent walls to keep it from collapsing.

By morning, we were completely encased— about a foot of snow piled around the edges of our tent, our quilt crusted with frost, our heads dusted in ice. The thermometer inside the tent read 17°F, and the wind cut even deeper. We checked the satellite phone for a weather report—more snow on the way. And we knew we didn’t have the gear to wait it out.

We made a plan. Fellow hiker Chris had a sister with a cabin sitting vacant in Big Bear, and she welcomed us all. We mapped an exit route: a fire road 12 miles away. We threw on every layer, and hiked out with trail friends Black Beard and Nettle. My feet were soaked and numb, having just sent home my waterproof socks, but the landscape was stunning under a blanket of fresh snow. We took our time, laughed through an impromptu snowball fight and finally reached the highway.

At the highway, we thumbed a ride and soon stepped into warmth, shelter, and the incredible comfort of trail community. Chris’s cabin was a haven. A warm bed. Home-cooked meals. Laughter over dinner. A chance to dry out and recharge. I must have stood in the hot shower for at last a half hour before my body began to thaw. I was so happy to be sheltered from the storm.

That night, surrounded by comfort, I felt a sense of deep gratitude for the shelter, for community, and for the wild, unpredictable spirit of the trail.