Canada’s border authority expanded on its decision to bar Pacific Crest Trail hikers from crossing into the country earlier this week, noting that its new policy mirrors the United States’ refusal to permit southbound hikers to begin their hikes by crossing the border into American territory.

In , the Canada Border Service Agency (CBSA) confirmed it would no longer issue permits for PCT hikers to cross into E.C. Manning Provincial Park at the trail’s northern terminus, and said that the change would “facilitate monitoring of compliance of trail users” as well as increase security at the border. In addition, the agency noted that the move “aligns with the U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) who does not allow travellers to enter the U.S. from Canada on the trail.”

Northbound thru-hikers will now need to end their trips by backtracking to the nearest road crossing at Harts Pass, roughly 30 miles away; those who still wish to hike the extension of the trail into Canada will then need to travel to the nearest border crossings at Osoyoos or Abbotsford, both of which are roughly 60 straight-line miles from the trail.

In a blog post, the called the announcement “disappointing,” but acknowledged the CBSA’s points, including that the new policy mirrors one that the U.S. has long held.

“Hikers and equestrians should turn around after reaching the Northern Terminus,” the group wrote. “We ask that everyone travels with the utmost respect for nature by practicing gold standard Leave No Trace practices. This area will experience increased use now that more people are traveling this section of the PCT twice.”

The change comes at a tense time for U.S.-Canada relations, as on imports from it and Mexico on February 1 if the two countries don’t take steps to deter unauthorized crossings. This week, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police unveiled a new fleet of leased Black Hawk helicopters that it is using to step up enforcement along the border.

The post Canada Responds to American Pacific Crest Trail Border Ban: U.S. Did It First appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I’m in my mid-forties, and for the past 15 years, I’ve lived an extremely steady, boring life. I know I sound like a stereotype, but watching my friends get older and experience health problems makes me want to savor the youth I have left. When I think of living like this for the rest of my life, and then dying, I start to freak out. I want to do things. Both of my kids are teenagers, and when I watch them try new things—full of possibilities for how their lives could go—I’m incredibly happy for them. But I wish I could have that same feeling of possibility for myself.

I’ve been daydreaming about quitting my job and hiking the PCT, or learning how to surf (I haven’t decided yet), and then coming back and starting a new career. I’ve mentioned some of my aspirations to my wife, and she’s supportive, but I haven’t talked to her about the full extent of what I want to do: completely shake up my life and take the time to figure out who I really am now. I love my family, and I don’t want to worry them or change anything about them. It’s just me I want to change.

That said, I’ve always been the stable one for my wife and kids to lean on, and I worry that doing something big—like leaving to hike the PCT solo—would cause a lot of stress for them. My own parents weren’t around much growing up, and I always promised myself that I’d never be like them. That said, this feeling is getting stronger and it’s hard for me to ignore it. How do I handle my midlife crisis without being a jerk to the people I love?

Your kids are teenagers. When they try something completely new, is that a crisis? Not at all. It’s self-discovery. Who says that kind of exploration has to end when you hit a certain age? You’re never too old—or young—to reimagine who you want to be in the world.

I think it’s fantastic that you’re filled with the kind of energy that makes you want to do something big. You’re seeing possibilities that you never considered before. A mid-life crisis »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t have to be a crisis—in fact, it »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t have to be negative at all. With the right framing, and as long as you don’t abandon your responsibilities, it can be an incredible adventure.

Because you do have responsibilities now, ones you didn’t when you were younger, and you know them better than I do. I’m guessing they include financially contributing to your household, being a loyal partner to your wife, and caring for your kids. That last role, in particular, is changing fast. Your kids may not need you to brush their teeth or make their lunches anymore—but they sure as heck need you to love them, see them for who they are, offer comfort, and guide them on their way.

Your stability as a family member, as a parent and partner, isn’t dependent on you doing the same thing day after day, year after year, until you die. It’s about your commitment and your loyalty. It’s about listening to your kids and wife, and hearing what they need from you, even if it’s not what you expected. It’s about never giving up on changing for the better.

None of that is contingent on stifling your own dreams. Keep in mind that being part of a stable, loving family »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t just mean you’re supporting your wife and kids. It also means they’re supporting you.

Talk to your wife. Tell her what you’re thinking. If you made major life decisions and simply informed her, rather than asking her opinion, you would be a jerk. But if you came to her early, explained the situation to her with humility, and asked for her perspective and advice, that would actually make you a responsible partner. You can talk through options together, consider your finances, and explore what makes sense for the whole family. What concerns does she have? What solutions might address them?

Maybe you can take a break from work, rather than quitting outright, and see if some time away helps you feel refreshed. Maybe you can start with a smaller adventure, like taking a surfing class or planning a week-long hike—and your family could even come along! Or, if travel’s rough, is there a way for you to take on something new and exciting without leaving home? Could you study at night to prepare ahead of time for a career shift? Your wife may have ideas that would never have occurred to you on your own. She might not be as surprised as you think.

Or maybe she’s even been feeling similarly herself, and you’ll be the one who’s surprised.

All this energy you have right now, this stirring to change things? . It »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t have to be destructive. Think of it as the energy an athlete has before a game, jumping on the sidelines to warm up, or the energy an artist has before putting a brush to canvas. Now is the time for possibilities, and daydreaming, and making sure your family’s on board. It’s the time for considering their dreams, too, and seeing how everyone’s visions mesh. Then, when you step into your new life, you’ll be doing so together. Or if you do try something new on your own, they’ll be right there cheering on the side.

Blair Braverman writes our Tough Love column. She lives near the Nicolet National Forest in Wisconsin, and her longest hiking trip was the 400-mile Oregon Coast Trail. She has not yet had a midlife crisis. 

The post I’m Having a Midlife Crisis. Will a 2,000-Mile Hike Snap Me Out of It? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

In a fast-changing world, the permanence of our favorite hiking trails is comforting. Apart from the occasional closure, reroute, or , most of us could go back and hike the same miles again and again, and enjoy the enduring views. But decades from now, will that still be true?

With the help of the National Park Service’s historical photo archive, we’ve collected nine photos of popular American trails taken between 1930 and 1996. You’ve probably heard of most, if not all, of these well-visited spots. See if you can recognize what they looked like back in the day; you’ll want to pay attention to geological formations, the skyline, and the few clues we’ve offered you. Scroll to the end for the answers.

1.

This trail is a household name in the US and around the world, with more than 10,000 people having finished it. But it wasn’t always that way, especially in the decades before the hike enjoyed the amenities it does now.

2.

This burly hike is the most straightforward way up one of the National Parks’ most iconic peaks, but that »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t mean it’s easy. Hikers who brave it still need to keep an eye on the weather and watch out for snow that could send them tumbling down a steep drop.

3.

Want to hike this popular trek in the desert southwest? Hope you’re ready to get wet. Whether you do it as a dayhike or an overnight, you’ll spend miles wading up a river and marveling at the geological scenery.

4.

This might as well be America’s national hike. In the 100 years since construction began on it, it’s drawn millions of day-, section-, and thru-hikers, and has become a byword for finding yourself.

5.

As you might guess from the retro-casual apparel, this hike is more of a stroll than a true wilderness experience. But the wildlife—which is bigger and toothier than most national parks’—is enough to capture your attention.

6.

It’s still possible to traverse this iconic, steep trail by mule. But today most visitors who brave it carry their own gear, with a few hardy souls attempting to run it.

7.

Look hard at this black-and-white snapshot, and it may begin to look familiar: Some of the most famous scenery in one of America’s most beloved national parks is visible in this mid-trail picture.

8.

You’ll need a permit nowadays to hike this famous high-country trail, which crosses through three different national parks over its span.

9.

All right, so it’s not technically a hike. But this ultra-classic (and ultra-ultra-popular) lookout is accessible by a number of different trails. (Start early, and carpool if you can.)

Answers

1. Pacific Crest Trail. In this undated archival photo, hiker Dick Kerns poses next to Tunnel Falls on an Oregon section of the trail which doubles as a beloved local dayhike, the Eagle Creek Trail.
2. Keyhole Route, Longs Peak, Rocky Mountain National Park. The rock formation that gave one of RMNP’s premier hikes its name is visible in this undated archival photo.
3. The Narrows, Zion National Park. A group of hikers enter the Narrows via Deep Creek in this 1955 snapshot.
4. Appalachian Trail. It’s a little hard to tell where on the AT photographer Richard Frear snapped this undated photo, but it’s a safe bet that hikers are still enjoying that scenery today.
5. Anhinga Trail, Everglades National Park. This 0.8-mile boardwalk, pictured in 1971, traverses a freshwater sawgrass marsh. A variety of birds—as well as alligators—are common sights there.
6. Bright Angel Trail, Grand Canyon National Park. Bright Angel was considerably quieter in 1930, when this photo was snapped.
7. West Rim Trail, Zion National Park. Visible from left to right, eagle-eyed viewers will spot the Great White Throne, Angels Landing, Gothic Arch, and East Temple, all snapped in 1932.
8. John Muir Trail. The alpine lake and peaks of Evolution Basin tower over the trail, which runs concurrently with the PCT at the spot, in this 1976 photo from Kings Canyon.
9. Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park. Back in 1996 when this photo was snapped, anyone could drive to the top; starting in 2019, however, the national park began requiring reservations. Yet another reason to hoof it.

Lead Image: A snowy scene high on the Pacific Crest Trail

The post Can You Name the Trails in These Historic Photographs? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

At the time, I thought I was a genius.

I was about 250 miles into the Pacific Crest Trail, still a relative novice. It was lunchtime, and as I looked through my food bag, I saw the usual suspects: ramen packets, peanut butter, and lots of high calorie snacks. I considered getting out my stove and cooking a “”—combining the noodles with dried mashed potatoes and peanut butter for a dense glob of sodium and fat—but I was feeling lazy and knew I still had miles to go. Then it hit me: What if I could have that same meal with less effort?

I took the dry blocks of rice noodles, spread peanut butter between them, sprinkled the seasoning over it, and put them together. The first bite of my made a bit of a mess, but I persisted through the rest of the dry, crunchy creation. For the rest of the day, I felt amazing. I crushed miles through the pines, feeling full of energy and pulling into camp in the early evening.

Unfortunately, my love affair with my new creation didn’t last: The next time I tried it, the novelty had worn off and I realized that it was borderline inedible. I could barely crunch my way through half. My experiments in unflavored chia seed oatmeal, cold-soaked rice and beans, and -peanut butter tortilla wraps didn’t perform much better.

Food challenged me time and time again on the PCT, as I looked for creative ways to get down my calories, save on weight and time, and eat things I enjoyed. But the importance of food was just one of many insights I wish I’d had pre-trail. Here’s what I wish I had known when I set off.

Know what you like to eat before you start.

Most of the preparation I did for the PCT was physical. I went on day hikes, did mountain trail runs, and made sure my body was ready for the challenge. What I didn’t do was spend time finding foods that hit the sweet spot of flavor, nutrition, and weight. A couple of months into my journey, I was still experimenting with snack and meal combinations, and I’m not sure that I ever did get it right. Some of my main learnings: Flavor packets are your friend, a little dried fruit can go a long way, and Annie’s White Cheddar Mac n’ Cheese never gets old.

The side quests are always worth the added time and miles

My group was tired by the time we entered . We had . Now, the first road we’d crossed in 240 miles was closed. Our only way into Yosemite Valley was a 25-mile downhill hike, something we were all dreading. But as the sun lit up the granite around us on the morning of July 4, we instantly knew the 50 extra miles were worth it. We hiked past Vernal and Nevada Falls, gazed up at Half Dome, and entered an oasis of civilization. A kind man named Big Ocho offered to buy us pizza in Curry Village, and we washed it down with cold beers as we gave our weary legs a rest.

Whether it’s an ostrich farm, a raging waterfall, or just an ice cream with friends, the fun adventures to be had just off the trail are one of the best parts of hiking the PCT. The miles will be there when you get back.

Talk to the townies.

The PCT can be a bit of a bubble. When you are hiking, the vast majority of people you’re interacting with are affiliated with the trail in some way: other thru-hikers, section hikers, trail angels, and so on. This community is friendly, supportive, and generous, but limiting your social experience to just them would be a missed opportunity. The trail passes through or near dozens of vibrant towns, and the people who live there have just as many stories to share as you do. Take the time to go to a local bar and chat up the locals. You never know what you might learn.

Make some plans for afterward.

The . For 2,650 miles, you’ve had a crystal-clear sense of purpose, a simple goal, and the gratification of achieving it step by step. Then, you head home. What awaits you there is your choice. For me, I figured I would decide my next move after I was done. But while having some time to rest was lovely, I ended up falling into a depression, spending most of my day in my childhood bed watching YouTube videos rather than planning my next adventure. Having some sort of plans for after you’re done, like a fun trip with loved ones, a seasonal job, or even just a place to live, will set you up for success as you navigate your way back into society.

The post Here’s What I Wish I Knew Before Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

My headlamp illuminated yet another snow patch, this one close to 30 feet across, looming out of the shadows to completely swallow the trail. Even on a path this narrow, contouring along the side of the valley at night should have been easy, but these intermittent snow fields were killing me. Ollie, my hiking partner, barely slowed, stamping footprints into the crust, but I hesitated. I couldn’t trust my malfunctioning left leg to negotiate the steep and icy traverse, certainly not with a runout that disappeared into darkness. I grunted, turned, and began scrabbling up the muddy incline above the trail, my useless limb trailing behind me. By the time I’d climbed high enough to skirt the snow patch and slide back down to the path, I was filthy, exhausted, and frustrated. In the 14 hours since breaking camp, we’d averaged one mile per hour, taking our grand total over the last two days to 26. Out of 501.

I’d wanted to hike California’s Sierra Nevada for over a decade, my greedy eye fixed on a classic north-south traverse along the Pacific Crest Trail. Geologically, the range runs from Lake Almanor in the north to Tehachapi Pass, near the Southern California desert town of Mojave, but I was only really interested in the After playing around with a PCT distance calculator the previous year, I’d discovered that the route between Donner Pass and Walker Pass never fell below 5,000 feet and ran for exactly 501 miles, one mile over the minimum requirement for a permit. I loved the thought of breaking 500; It was 2022, I would turn 50 the following spring, and the challenge of hiking ten times my age intrigued me. Everything had fallen nicely into place. Except for one thing.

In 2019, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS), a neurological disease in which the body’s immune system attacks the protective myelin sheaths around the nerves in the brain and spine, exposing them to damage and resulting in a poorly functioning central nervous system. Effectively, the signals sent by the brain to the rest of the body are interrupted.

The first evidence of the disease cropped up in 2017, when my legs started going through periods of uncontrollable twitching, contracting violently every couple of minutes. It was impossible to sleep during these attacks, or drive, or sit watching television. I was referred to a neurologist, who diagnosed me with restless-leg syndrome (RLS), and I now take a drug called pramipexole three times a day to prevent the spasms from driving me insane.

Then, in 2018, my left foot began to drag when it got tired. This would have been problematic for anyone, but hiking has been my primary obsession for over three decades, so the inconvenience was tinged with panic. I was born in the UK but moved to my adopted home of Sydney, Australia, in 2009. I’ve walked all over the world, from the Andes to the Alps to the Himalayas. Then there was trail running. I’d won an ultra in my time, and was only the second recorded person to run the full 43-mile circumference of Easter Island. I’d just started training for the 100-kilometer Ultra Trail Australia when the dragging began, and that was the end of that.

I like to think I’m a level-headed individual. I didn’t rant or damn God or even cry when, via an MRI scan and spinal tap, my neurologist diagnosed me with MS. What I did was ignore it as best I could and carry on with my life. That first summer, as planned, I walked the UK Coast to Coast path, the , and back-to-back, a total of 442 miles. I called it the European Triple Crown.

Such feats meant I could pretend this slow-motion car crash wasn’t happening. The disease became my secret shame, known to only a handful of people: my doctors, my wife, and select colleagues. I felt embarrassed that my body was failing to do its job, as if it were somehow a moral weakness. To friends who caught me limping, I spun a lie about a rolled ankle. I couldn’t face their sympathy, and that unintentional look of pity behind the eyes. As far as my family was concerned, I didn’t want to worry them. Even today, five years after my initial diagnosis, I haven’t told my parents.

As I began planning the Sierra traverse in late 2022, my condition deteriorated rapidly. I went from breezing through multiday hikes to being unable to walk for half an hour without my left leg dragging behind me, like a sandbag attached to my knee.

There was no question of postponing the hike, though. The most common form of MS is called relapsing remitting, sufferers of which can sometimes live a relatively normal life between episodes of catastrophic disability. The other form, primary progressive MS, with which I am blessed, steadily worsens over time, a constant downhill slide into neurological oblivion. I can’t afford to delay anything today that I may not be able to do tomorrow.

When I’d revealed my plans to my neurologist, a man of measured understatement, his eyebrows had risen a good inch. He’d recovered well, though, suggesting a series of exercises to strengthen my —the muscles that bring our legs up when we walk. When these are malfunctioning, I can trip over the tiniest crack in the pavement. Something like a fallen log presents a major impediment, as I have to use my arms to physically lift my legs over it. Nevertheless, I’d stubbornly declared that whether it took me eight, ten, or twelve hours per day, I would go the distance. Little did I know that twelve hours would be my minimum daily slog.

The post How I Dealt with My Multiple Sclerosis Diagnosis: First, Hike 500 Miles appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

When Jeff Potter arrived in Carson City, Nevada near the end of the ’90s, he noted an absence: His new home was ringed by low-slung mountains at the eastern edge of the towering Sierra Nevada and its sweeping Lake Tahoe, but there was no real way to get to them without a car.

A California native drawn toward Tahoe for its labyrinth of mountain-bike trails, Potter and his pals grew tired of mounting their rides to roof and hitch racks just to go somewhere else. So Potter, who would eventually earn the name “ started scheming with , an organization that had long been promoting non-vehicular infrastructure there: How might he build trails that connected this place where he loved to live to the mighty mountains and endless routes he loved to ride?

A quarter-century and 9.8 miles of single-track later, Potter’s dream is now a navigable trail. Finished last fall just before snow swept into the region, the makes it possible to hike, pedal, or horseback ride nearly from Nevada’s sandstone capitol building to the (TRT) and its country-spanning connector, the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). In fact, Carson City is looking to pay two hikers $5,000 each to do exactly that come the Summer of 2025: walk from the capitol to Canada and tell the tale. (The closes May 31, 2024.) At just over 1,600 miles, that’s a little more than $3 per mile.

“Our downtown sits in the middle of all of our trails,” says Lydia Beck, the Visit Carson City marketing manager who hatched the plan to sponsor thru-hikes late in 2022. “And people have no idea that Carson City has a beautiful stretch of the east side of Lake Tahoe. We’re trying to bring awareness to our proximity.”

Carson City will likely never become a “trail town” for long-distance hikes of the PCT or TRT, since the resources and revelry of South Lake Tahoe are much closer to those trails. (And the PCT, for its part, trends westward from Lake Tahoe.) But the small city’s geography and position along the base of the beautiful Carson Range, with other peaks to every side, make it a prime hub for exploration in all directions. Peter Doenges—the 77-year-old retired who stepped into Potter’s former role at Muscle Powered as Trails Coordinator in 2019—sees “Cap to Tahoe,” as he calls it, as a crucial part of that plan.

“We’re constantly stirring the pot based on prior public processes that approved all these trail routes—and then going about building them,” says Doenges. “There are so many people in this town who believed in this trail, of getting us integrated into this larger system.”

Indeed, the Capital to Tahoe Trail is simply the latest phase of a larger plan that Potter helped to initiate when he first partnered with Muscle Powered. They built Ash to Kings Trail, linking two roads that cut through canyons, from 2012 until 2015, even earning from American Trails. Back then, Potter was already fantasizing about how the next trail would reach Lake Tahoe. “That’s another 10 miles of trail we hope to build,” he told . “This isn’t just about recreation. It’s about providing connectivity to our community.”

That community responded in kind. Construction began in 2020, and Muscle Powered recruited a professional, mechanized trail builder at one point, as the path rose nearly 2,000 feet and cut through thick brush. Doenges remains verklempt by dozens of volunteers who arrived to work on hand crews as well as the surgeon who gifted the trail a permanent easement so that nearly a mile of it would not be so dastardly steep. Potter, who no longer lives in Carson City, even did the “final flagging”—a last survey to make sure the trail is properly aligned. The very day after the final two remote miles were finished, Doenges saw tire tracks and boot prints cutting across the path.

But as far as anyone knows, no one has yet to take the Capital to Tahoe Trail west, hit the PCT, and head north to Canada. That is where the contest comes in. Rather than hold a lottery of submissions, Visit Carson City intends to vet each application and choose two people they think can go the distance—and, of course, share the story along the way. As of mid-March, they’ve only received a dozen applications.

If it goes well this time, however, they may even continue the program for hikers in years to come. “We’re not ruling that out,” says Beck. “We’re very excited.”

The post Nevada Offers Travelers $5,000 to Hike the Pacific Crest Trail appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I often joke that thru-hikers are total fearmongers. Alone on a trail with nothing but a few friends, a cell phone that has no service, and all our thoughts, we dwell on the challenge posed by upcoming terrain, and we then spread these worries to one another like a common cold.

Oh, man, you think Tennessee is tough? I heard this statement a dozen times on the Appalachian Trail. Just wait until we hit Virginia. Brutal, bro. When we did in fact hit Virginia, Pennsylvania became the new object of our collective dread—and on and on, up the spine of those old mountains. In thru-hiking, whatever comes next is almost always going to be the worst thing ever.

But I’ve wisened to this fearmongering. In early November 2023, I finished the Triple Crown of Hiking, a process I started in 2019 when I withstood the Virginia Blues and Rocksylvania to reach the northern end of the Appalachian Trail. The hardest part of a thru-hike, I can now say with 8,000 miles and 22 states of certainty, is not always what comes next. Some states feel like actual walks in city parks, because they sometimes are; others summon Odysseus, seabound on his ship and seemingly only getting farther away from home as one disaster precipitates another.

To clear up any future on-trail confusion and jitters—and perhaps to provide some insight to those who are just looking to trek across one state and not nearly half of the 50—I’ve ranked them from hardest to easiest, or from the ones that felt like they were trying to kill me to the ones that felt mostly like items on a checklist. This, of course, is entirely subjective, based only on my experiences in 2019 (Appalachian Trail, northbound), 2021 (Pacific Crest Trail, northbound), and 2023 (Continental Divide Trail, southbound). Go find out for yourself.

The post The 22 States of the Triple Crown of Hiking, Definitively Ranked appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

When you’re spending weeks at a time on the trail, it’s not unusual to have a little bit of stomach trouble. From trouble adjusting to calorie-dense, lightweight backpacking fare to indigestion after chowing down on a burger and fries at a town stop, there are all sorts of plausible reasons a thru-hiker might feel their stomach rumbling, most of them benign. But after more than 20 people came down with diarrhea and vomiting on the same Washington stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail in 2022, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) were alarmed enough to send an investigator to find out why. Now, their findings are out—and there’s a lesson in them that hikers need to learn.

The incident began in late August last year, when hikers suffering from gastrointestinal illness began trickling into the Washington Alpine Club Lodge near Snoqualmie Pass. According to , the glut of sick backpackers alarmed a volunteer enough that he closed the lodge and sent a warning to the Washington State Department of Health, where Arran Hamlet, an officer with the CDC’s Epidemic Intelligence Service, received it. 

In an attempt to determine the source of the illness and gauge its spread, Hamlet posted a survey in a popular Washington PCT Facebook group, as well as at trailheads along the 73-mile stretch of trail where most of the cases had begun, and asked sick hikers to fill it out. Hamlet and his fellow investigators that 27 hikers responded with usable answers, and two who were still in Washington sent stool samples to a state laboratory. Both tested positive for norovirus.

Norovirus is one of the most common causes of gastroenteritis, and it spreads easily via  person-to-person contact and contaminated surfaces. Several widely reported outbreaks have taken place on cruise ships over the past decade, but cases can multiply anywhere that infected people are sharing space. With between 800 and 1,000 people completing this trail every year—and thousands more hiking its most popular stretches—the PCT certainly qualifies. 

When Hamlet and his colleagues visited pit toilets and a cabin along the suspect stretch of trail, every single surface they tested—from door handles to toilets to the tabletops where hikers were eating their lunches—came back positive for “human-specific fecal contamination.” (Tests of nearby water sources, on the other hand, all came back negative—a good thing too, since most water filters can’t remove norovirus.)

“Although the REDCap survey identified only 27 ill hikers, social media reports indicated that the true size of the outbreak was likely substantially larger, with 27 reports with a date of onset, and numerous others without further chronologic information apart from the year,” the team wrote.

How did one or two sick people manage to balloon into dozens? In their report, Hamlet and his coauthors have one gross guess: Hikers aren’t very good at washing their hands. Without running water, backpackers often opt to use alcohol-based hand sanitizers after doing their business. That’s true for newbies and veterans alike, and outdoor journalists aren’t exempt: In an in-house poll, 57 percent of şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř staffers said they primarily used sanitizer after going to the bathroom on the trail, while another 27 percent said they were equally likely to use sanitizer as they were to wash their hands. Just 17 percent said they always washed their hands with soap and water after going to the bathroom on a hike. 

The problem is that while hand sanitizer effectively kills germs like E. coli and SARS-CoV-2, the same isn’t true for norovirus. Numerous studies over the past 15 years have found that alcohol, the active ingredient in sanitizers, »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t significantly reduce the number of virus particles on users’ hands. The issue, researchers believe, is that , meaning it lacks the lipid envelope that surrounds the virus particles. Alcohol-based hand sanitizers work by attacking that protective layer, which deactivates the virus. This works for viruses like the flu, but when it comes to norovirus, which lacks that layer, there’s little that sanitizers can do.

While norovirus rarely causes major complications and generally passes quickly—most of the backpackers in the 2021 outbreak recovered after two to three days—it’s more than serious enough to tank a trip. Fortunately, the CDC says, there’s one easy way to cut down on your risk: Get in the habit of washing your hands after you use the bathroom and before you eat. Scrubbing your paws with soap and water can help remove the persistent norovirus—and any other sickening pathogens—from your hands. Because while taking the extra minute or two to lather up may not be as quick as slapping on some sanitizer, it’ll slow you down a lot less than losing a long weekend to the trots.

Lightweight Handwashing Gear

You won’t even know these hygiene essentials are in your pack.

This half dollar-size case holds 50 leaves of dehydrated soap, each one good for a wash. (Pro tip: Make sure your hands are dry when removing a sheet or you’ll risk melting them together.)

Tired of drying your hands on your clothes? Consider swapping your neck gaiter for this quick-drying square hand towel, which pulls double duty as a kerchief.

The post Hand Sanitizer Isn’t Cutting It. Here’s Why Hikers Need to Start Washing Their Hands. appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

If you are going to hike just one of the three iconic trails that comprise the Triple Crown of American Hiking, the choice is simple: you’re headed to California to start the Pacific Crest Trail.

Consider, for a second, the competition. While the Appalachian Trail is dearest to my heart, it is a brutal hang, a 2,200-mile roller coaster of steep old mountains that rarely offer gobsmacking views and seem to generate their own rain constantly. It is a journey of glorious misery but not really the trail you forever want to associate with your lone thru-hike. And its Rocky Mountain counterpart, the , is a choose-your-own-adventure epic through some of the wildest remains of the Lower 48. Starting there seems legitimately perilous, a zero-to-infinity endeavor with very little margin for error.

Famously graded for pack animals, the PCT often rolls across gentle slopes as it slowly winds its way up California, Oregon, and Washington. The AT’s brutal repetition is supplanted by a West Coast cool, and, though you move among peaks as mighty as those of the CDT, your path through the Sierra Nevada traces the idyllic valleys between its summits and over entirely manageable mountain passes. It’s arid and calm in the desert of Southern California, low-key and still at the base of Oregon’s Cascades, misty and lush in the highlands of Washington. Almost every day on the PCT presents another image powerful and pretty enough for computer wallpaper. It is a surefire way to be stunned by this country’s scenic largesse.

But the PCT is not a benevolent cakewalk. At nearly 2,700 miles, it drops almost to sea level and reaches just shy of the highest points in the continental United States—110 feet when you cross the mighty Columbia River, 13,153 feet when you mount the imposing Forester Pass. Its stunning variety presents a staggering variety of challenges and conditions; when I first hiked it in 2021, my favorite aspect was that I never got accustomed to or complacent with the trail, because it always shifted. If you’re too cold today, just wait until you’re too hot tomorrow. During the right year, you may need to work through some serious snowpack in the Sierra or northern Washington to reach your destination.

If indeed you decide that the PCT might be right for you, I’ve answered a litany of basic questions about it, from what you’ll eat on trail to how sad you may feel when it’s done. If you find yourself with a way to leave the rest of your life behind for five months, I hope you find something here to help you along the PCT’s incredible route.

When and Where Should I Start the PCT?

If this is your first long trail, I won’t argue with conventional wisdom. Start at Campo, California—a former railroad-and-military hub on the Mexican border—sometime between the middle of March and the middle of April and aim to make it exactly 20 miles north (tough, but entirely doable) to your first day. Get a shower, maybe some trail magic, and meet your fellow north bound (to fit in, say NOBO) beginners. That said, is intriguing, putting you against some steep and remote terrain from the start and on a race against big California snowfall that likely begins in October. Pretend you’re a California settler, trying to make it through those passes before they become, well, impassable. You might also consider flip-flopping, or jumping between assorted sections of the trail and often moving in different directions, due to weather, fire, or your own calendar. (More on that later.) Either way, budget at least five months for this grand adventure, knowing that a month more or less are both totally reasonable. That seems especially true for 2023, when so much of the PCT has been walloped by snow.

Do I Really Need a Permit for the PCT?

Sorry, but yes. Look, I get that, at least in part, you’re disappearing into the Anza-Borrego Desert and Goat Rocks Wilderness to elide responsibility, bureaucracy, and all the other real-life exigencies that make us batty. Or that maybe you’re a radical anarchist rulebreaker entitled to use public lands like they’re private. Good for you. But just pick your prospective start date and apply for a permit through the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA); if you don’t get it the first time, try again. (, for instance, there were 50 northbound permits per day for a three-month season and 15 per day southbound, with lottery dates in November and January. That’s a total of 4,005, though you’ll inevitably meet some illicit friends along the way.) Of course you’ll be frustrated if you don’t get a permit and when you hear of hikers who left one unused. But from litter-strewn woods to climate change, the PCT has enough challenges. Help the trail moderate traffic, and save yourself the shame of getting sent home by a ranger. Yes, it happens.

Do I Need to Be in Crazy Good Shape to Hike the PCT?

No, but: for reasons we’ll get to in a bit, the ability to move many miles in a day, from trail’s beginning to end, will enhance your chances of seeing all of it. By most math, though, the PCT loses or gains about 100 feet less per mile than the AT—a difference your joints will profoundly feel and that eats up less effort. You will move among the Sierra Nevada and the Cascades, but rarely over these peaks. As you head north from Mexico, the trail’s modest agricultural grade will get you ready for what’s ahead in 300 miles. Even if extreme endurance training isn’t in your plans, focus on flexibility, especially around the ankles and knees. You are going to trip, wipe out, or even just sleep the wrong way; spend a few months working through a basic stretching routine, and you’ll increase your ability to take the next step after a stumble.

Do I Just Go Straight on the Trail?

Probably? The PCT is no longer what it was or what it will ever be again. Climate change and electrical failures are destroying forests—writer calls it the “The Pyrocene”—that in some cases . And climate change is disrupting patterns of snowfall and snowmelt in the mountain ranges you’re not only hiking but depending upon for drinking water. Maybe you can start at the Mexico border in late March and reach Canada five months later in a single shot, but don’t call your bookie just yet.

To wit, in 2021, as my trail family was leaving the wondrous town of Etna, California, we nearly skipped a chunk of trail because the mountains in front of us had just started to flood with smoke from a nearby fire. We made it through unscathed, but that section was crippled by fire in and again in . We worked around other closures up trail while fire seemed to nip at our heels until we were finished. You will walk across old fire retardant (its red color is on the nose, huh?) and pass through reopened burn zones that smell like the hearth of some centuries-old cabin. Talk to other hikers and bookmark the . And most importantly, don’t be a completist hero—hike the hike that’s open on your year, not some arbitrary vision you have from Instagram.

And if you’re worried about getting lost, it’s rare. No, the PCT isn’t meticulously white-blazed like the AT, and, yes, you will sometimes get turned around for a few hundred yards. But look for on trees and poles, read trail junction signs, and buy the PCT package on (the most common navigation app your fellow hikers will use). Also the has tips from a thru hiker on things like points of interest and amenity stops. You’ll be better than fine. (Gaia GPS is owned by şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Inc.)

Should I Follow Other Hikers on Social Media?

Yes—in fact, this is a smart part of preparation. Follow some obvious hashtags, like #PCT, #PCTthruhike, and #PCTrail, plus #PCT2023 (if that’s the year you’re hiking) and the previous year. Scroll through some posts of people who have done this trek before for tips and intel and to get a sense of how this adventure will feel. As the season approaches, start following people who will be your peers. They’ll post about their gear and excitement and apprehension, and, chances are, you’ll not only learn something but feel like you’re already building a community that will grow.

I do, however, recommend that you limit how much you read books, watch videos, or scroll posts about the trail before you begin. Know enough to know what you’re getting yourself into but not so much that you corrode the sense of surprise that is the true joy of thru-hiking. Feel like watching someone else online hike the trail you’ll soon be on? Go stretch instead—it’s much more useful.

What Should I Wear on the PCT?

The key to gear on the PCT is versatility. Remember that you’ll climb beyond 13,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada and dip below 150 when you cross the Columbia River to enter Washington. Start early enough, and the desert will be cold, but Northern California will cook you. Hot nights and cold days and, on occasion, the inverse—how do you handle it all?

Given the desert and the time you will spend on mountains above treeline, start with a sun hoody—a lightweight shirt with sleeves and fabric that offers UPF and SPF safeguards. There are lots of fine options (and has a nice round-up), but I stan for Coalatree’s new . You’ll need a rain jacket and some sort of puffer; they should both be lightweight but foolproof, capable of keeping you dry and warm when conditions collapse. I invariably hike in very short running shorts (), though there’s always a pair of wind pants or tights in my kit, should the cold get overwhelming. Speaking of cold, if I’m not wearing a blaze-orange hat on trail, I’ll be in a knit beanie to stay warm. And don’t forget your sunglasses and lightweight gloves.

There’s no use in me telling you what shoes to wear, because our feet can be as idiosyncratic as our fingerprints. But forego clunky boots for trail runners, and do not make the mistake of waterproofing them. You’re going to get wet, so give yourself a chance to get dry. And on the note of skin irritation, toe socks prevent blisters and support the spacing your feet need. XOSKIN’s making , Creeper the if possibly least durable. The widespread will do just fine when you’re in a pinch.

What Else Should I Pack for the PCT?

Here’s a quick list, mostly essentials: A modest first-aid kit of bandages, antibiotic ointment, alcohol pads, ibuprofen, and antacids. Any medicines you take regularly. A small Dopp kit of soap, maybe wipes, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. A cell phone charger and the necessary cables. A trowel for catholes. Sunscreen you actually enjoy wearing. And you should consider some kind of satellite-based communication, whether it’s Garmin’s standby inReach, the very good Somewear, or the iPhone’s emerging satellite capability.

When you arrive at the Sierra Nevada, you’ll need some extra goods you can mail to and from . (Confusing, I know. Basically, two places with the same name, five hours apart by car, essentially marking the beginning or ending of your time in the Sierra, depending on your direction.) You’ll need a bear can capable of holding at least five days of food and, depending on annual snow conditions, microspikes and an ice axe. And for the love of your lovely face, please practice the latter before lashing it to your pack. You’ll take an eye out, kid.

What Kind of Sleeping Bag Should I Take on the PCT?

Let’s get back to that versatility bit. The temperatures will fluctuate on the PCT from frigid to feverish, and you need to be able to handle both. My sincere advice is to invest in a warm bag you love that you’re able to unzip or otherwise spread out when it warms up. My with a side zipper was so perfect on this front I named it 200 miles in. (That’s Romy to you, thank you very much.) But so many small companies are making great bags now, so shop around.

One final consideration on this front: After reaching Lake Tahoe, I downsized from a relatively large Hyperlight backpack to a tiny Pa’lante until entering Washington at the Bridge of the Gods. I did that in part by switching temporarily to an Enlightened Equipment quilt for Oregon’s warmer temperatures. Consider a move like that to keep your weight down and legs fresh—and to let your smelly stuff air out for a few weeks. For more guidance on your equipment, spend some time perusing .

Where Do I Sleep on the PCT?

Allow me to be blunt here: carry a shelter for the entire hike, be it a tent or a tarp or a shower curtain liner. Those wonderful AT shelters? They’re not here. I’ve chuckled in schadenfreude while watching hikers who sent their tents home to reduce weight and boost speed shivering under awnings and in bathrooms in storms because it “»ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t rain like that in California, bro.” Don’t be that guy (because it’s almost always a guy). The glorious news, however, is that most nights, you can, should, and must sleep under the stars, with no nylon or Dyneema to block your sight lines of the sunset or sunrise, to muffle the wildlife, or to hinder late-night chats with new friends.

This is called cowboy camping, as it is indeed a throwback to days of working the frontiers that are far too complicated to romanticize. The premise is simple: Put a ground cloth on the ground, a sleeping pad atop that, and a sleeping bag atop that, and climb inside. The wildlife (probably) won’t eat you, and the rain (probably) won’t soak you. Keep your tent accessible, just in case. You will feel like you’re actually sleeping outdoors, because, well, you are. For a more complete history of and guide to cowboy camping, I’ve raved about its merits before.

What Do I Drink on the PCT?

Water, of course! The hydration situation on the PCT can be precarious, with seemingly endless stretches of empty arroyos in Southern California and desiccated creek beds once you enter Cascadia. But trail angels—that is, anyone who takes care of us hikers by giving us rides or a place to say or even a banana—maintain dependable water caches in the desert, and by the time you hit those northern reaches, you’ll know how to create scoops, spot small seeps, and be patient for a drip. And yes, you should filter your water, or at least treat it. Keep it simple with a Sawyer Squeeze and a CNOC or , two products that earned their ubiquity by being the best at what they do. For a second water bottle, which you’ll need for long hauls, I recommend CNOC’s . While we’re at it, spend some time finding an electrolyte powder you love, whether it’s cheap or the .

Will I Have to Hitchhike on the PCT?

Yes, and ain’t that grand? Hitchhiking is one of the most underrated aspects of long-distance hiking, a microcosm of adventure and surprise that allows you to rest your legs rather than punish them and enables you to see life momentarily from an unexpected vantage. In California alone, I got rides from a biologist who named the invertebrate species he discovered for his friends, a single mother who demanded my trail family go to her trailer for showers and laundry and food, and an international banjo expert whose entire essence felt like a folk song. These are among the most fascinating interactions of my entire life, not just my hiking life. Unless you’re going for a self-supported Fastest Known Time (an FKT, more on that soon) or just enjoy long road walks, you’ll need to hitchhike to get to most of your resupply-and-rest points on the PCT. When you emerge from the Sierra Nevada to buy your next week of food, these hitches might last for nearly 100 miles. Lean into the strangeness of it all.

Some tips on how to hitch: First and foremost, trust your instinct. My enthusiasm for hitchhiking is couched in the privilege of being a white cis dude with beady eyes and a perma-scowl. So if the vibe of a prospective driver feels weird, wave ’em on. When you’re trying to recruit a ride, take off your sunglasses. Wave with one hand and thumb with the other. Maybe dance? Make sure your pack is visible and try to look at the very least somewhat pleasant. Consider toting a small sign or bandana that says “Hiker to town” or “Hiker to trail,” or, otherwise, keep a Sharpie in your pack at all times should you need to improvise. Be satisfied with a truck bed. If you’re in the car, offer up your on-trail escapades as compensation; remember, you’re living an adventure most people will at best imagine.

What’s Up with Fast Thru-Hikers on the PCT?

For most of us, a thru-hike is a race against the weather, the fire, and our own fatigue. But each year, a self-selecting cadre of extreme endurance athletes set out for a , or FKT—the shortest span it’s ever taken for someone to finish the thing, at least that we know of. A decade ago, in 2013, two people set astounding records. Josh Garrett shaved seven days off a long-standing benchmark set by ultra-running legend , meanwhile, almost beat him on a hike with no help from anyone, walloping the standard set by another ace, . Garrett’s mark has been shaved many times since, with Timothy Olson’s Adidas-sponsored run of just less than 52 days being the time to beat now. And in 2022, English newcomer Josh Perry almost did it without assistance of any kind, not only smashing Anderson’s record in a major way but besting Olson until Oregon fire closures knocked him off his stride.

What does all this talk of speedy GOATS mean for you? Right now, the PCT record suddenly seems tantalizing and possible, and you’re likely going to encounter some contenders—or at least the hubbub around them—on trail. If you run into their crews, they may feed you, as Olson’s often did. If you’re willing to go fast, you might even walk and talk with a prospective champion for a bit. Follow these folks on social media for an alternate window into the experience you’re having. Think of it as the Bulls and the Blazers showing up in 1992 during the middle of your pickup game to finish the NBA Championship.

Do I Need to Mail Myself Resupply Boxes on the PCT?

Not really. Unless you’ve got incredibly strict dietary restrictions, you’re going to find what you need (sure, if not always what you want) in the PCT’s great trail towns. Much of the fun of a long trail, especially your first, is getting out of your comfort zones and habits, of learning to love instant mashed potatoes from a bag if you’re more of a fancy French fries or pommes aligot person. That said, I remember the meticulous planning that went into the resupply boxes of my first long trail (and part of the second), dispatched on a strict schedule by a patient family member; you want to know you’ll have dependable access to the things you want, given the uncertainty such an endeavor entails. So gather up your resupply boxes if you’d like, but don’t fret if you find yourself running out of time, either.

What Is the “Gross Out” That Hikers Talk About?

Unless you’re from the West Coast or a rather small pocket of the Middle Atlantic, you may be very confused when you hear fellow hikers rave about going to “Gross Out” when they get to town. Fear not, as they are only talking about the greatest-ever grocery store for hikers (or anyone?), . Grocery Outlet is a product of post-World War II excess, when a San Francisco entrepreneur bought up military surplus and . Now, 75 years later, Grocery Outlet works directly with food brands and manufacturers to buy whatever may be left over—seasonal or experimental flavors, items that underperformed, things they simply overproduced—in bulk and pass those savings on to the consumer. Because it buys so much from local makers and distributors, Grocery Outlet’s selection changes from store to store, meaning your mind may be blown anew with every visit. It is a course corrective for capitalism’s bloat and a gift to the curious eater.

I love it so much that, during the drive back to North Carolina after the PCT, I tried and failed to convince my wife, Tina, to open the first one along the southern half of the Appalachian Trail. Grocery Outlet is perfect for hikers, who are not only on a budget but also prone to eating the same thing every damn day—Pop-Tarts, ramen, mashed potatoes, and so on. I love all those things, until, after a few months, I hate them (except Pop-Tarts, always perfect). Brined cauliflower in lightweight packaging? The in the world for a third of the price? Trail mix and corn chip varieties you’ve never seen? That’s the stuff I start to crave and often find at Gross Out. And the best news? Grocery Outlets essentially trace the PCT from tail to tip, through all three states, so you’ll never be far from this magical depot of discards.

How Many Rest Days Should I Plan Along the PCT?

When your body or brain needs a break, take a zero (a day where you hike zero miles), even a double-zero if that feels right. Anyone who tells you that you’re doing it wrong isn’t you. For context, I took ten total days off on an 18-week hike during a relatively low snow year. But there were also multiple “nearoes”—days when you do fewer than ten miles to get to town, then stay overnight—and heroes, where you hike low mileage into town, rest a few hours, and get back in the woods before dark. These all happened when I felt that’s what I needed. It’s that simple.

What Are the Best Towns to Stop in on the PCT?

Hikers often rave about the quaint spots along the Appalachian Trail, curious little communities like Hot Springs in North Carolina, Damascus in Virginia, or Duncannon in Pennsylvania. Maybe it’s just West Coast exotica for me, but I prefer the trail towns of the PCT, especially the way they can often feel remote and small but also offer up fantastic food and some culture, too. There are too many spots to name, so I’ll start with five of my most common reminiscences.

In my mind, I am often in Etna, a Northern California town of less than 700 within spitting distance of the Oregon border. You’ll hear a lot about the famous German bakeries in Tehachapi and Bishop, but there are few bakeries in America better than , a beautiful spot right on Main Street. The thrift store is enormous and wonderful. The library is friendly and quiet. And you can soak for hours in tubs at Mountain Healing Spa. I slept in a stranger’s garage in Etna, and I felt right at home.

While we’re on the subject of bread, Ashland boasts the incredible , which will break your brain not just with loaves but also with morning buns and big sandwiches and indulgent ice cream. In fact, I cannot recommend the food scene of Ashland enough, from Noble Coffee Roasting and Taj Indian Cuisine to the burgers at Flip and the best co-op on the entire trail. Get a bunk at Ashland Commons and take a day off before your Oregon sprint really begins.

Can a great hardware store make a good trail town? , about halfway through the PCT’s desert introduction, thinks so. They treat hikers like, well, people, supplying a huge outdoor porch with chargers and a magnificent hiker box and clean bathrooms. They’ll give you a PCT souvenir pen just for signing a logbook. The rest of the town is welcoming, too, from the massive meals at Mexico Lindo to the hilarious staff at the essential breakfast joint Evergreen. It’s a great hitching town, too.

By the time you reach Stehekin, you will be pining for the finish, with less than 100 miles to go before reaching the Canadian border. You’ll be tempted to pass this ultra-isolated spot on the majestic Lake Chelan, reachable only by shuttle or boat. Don’t. on the edge of town is one of the most memorable spots you’ll stop on trail, a delicious scene seemingly transported from the town of Woodstock. I once hitched a ride with a guy on a speed boat, who offered an exhilarating gratis tour of the hidden coves and beaches.

Portland, Bend, Reno, Las Vegas, Seattle, or Los Angeles: “I love not hiking.” It’s one of the great mantras of thru-hiking, uttered sans irony or shame by long-haulers tucking into a cold beer on a hot day or leaning into a soft bed in a small town. Nothing’s better. So at least one time on trail, go all the way and hitch a ride to one of the major cities within striking distance. Go to a museum or baseball game, a movie or massage. Splurge on a hotel or a magnificent meal that does not need to be rehydrated with a camp stove. It’s totally OK to be something other than a hiker for a day or so, and, in my experience, it will help you stay sane long enough to finish.

What Should I Avoid on the PCT?

I cannot tell you how badly the rash rendered by the —a shrub that grows in puffy clusters in southern California and smells like very good weed—hurts. That’s because I kept watch for the hairy, sticky beast like I was looking for rattlesnakes, and I suggest you do the same. By most reports, it stings for days, even weeks, and you’ll need no extra pain at the start of your northward journey. Speaking of rattlers, they’re the animals you need to be most mindful of on trail, not black bears (give ’em space, and you’ll be fine) or mountain lions (count yourself lucky to glimpse one). Keep your headphones out of the red, and the snakes will let you know when you’ve come too close. And one last word of advice: beware the of the temptation at , the liminal community at the southern edge of the Sierra Nevada. Their cold beer, lukewarm shower, and hot food form a vortex for weary and hungry hikers, and some folks party away a sizable chunk of their weather window there every year. Give yourself one bender at most, and get on with your walk.

What Should I Embrace on the PCT?

Thumbing, cowboy camping, bargain hunting: I hope I’ve encouraged you to embrace a spirit of acceptance and adventure on the PCT, to take advantage of this opportunity to live entirely outside of routine. In the end, I think that attitude—“OK, sure”—should guide most of your decisions on trail. Yes, you should climb Mount Whitney (or Tumanguya, as it’s long been known by the Paiute Tribe here), though it’s not officially on trail. Yes, you should take the spur trail to , and jump in as many very cold alpine lakes and rushing rivers as you can manage, as they are some of the most gorgeous swimming holes you’ll see in your lifetime. Yes, you should eat at the on-trail , even if McDonald’s isn’t your thing. (Meat not your thing, as it’s not for me? Cram fries into a Big Mac, with extra sauce and no meat. Incredible play.)

Maybe you should get naked in the , and you should definitely a beer or a joint from the Los Angeles revelers there. Yes, you should hitchhike to a casino, if only to sneak into the swimming pool. Yes, you should hitch into Yosemite Valley and waste a day soaking in a river or beneath a waterfall. And finally, yes, you should hike for a spell with someone whose ideals and politics don’t align with yours, because you might learn something, even if it’s only a little extra empathy.

What Do I Do When My PCT Hike Is Over?

This, I’m afraid, is the most difficult question here, so thorny it may actually be impossible to answer. But let’s acknowledge now, before you begin, that post-trail depression is real and terrifying, especially if this is your first time out. After the glow of completion has dimmed and the calorie deficit has been defeated, you’re left to square off with all you’ve lost—the daily mission of walking until you’re done, the immersive mental stimulation of ever-renewing newness, the blissful and all-consuming fatigue those two tasks combine to create. It sucks, and your body will likely be in no shape for immediate 20-mile runs or mountain climbs. Oh, and winter will be on its way, too.

My best advice: Stay in motion as much as you can. Stretch. Talk to your trail family, and tell them what they mean to you and what you’re experiencing. Write down what you remember about your adventure. Start planning a new one, and that »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t have to be a thru-hike. If that all fails, see a therapist; I did so after my first thru-hike, and it changed my life. If anything, hiking the Pacific Crest Trail should reiterate how big and grand this world and life can be. When nostalgia for the recent past starts to set in, try to turn toward your own future with that top of mind.

What Else Should I Read About the PCT?

As you’ve likely noticed by now, there’s a lot to say about the PCT, and lots of people have done it well. If you want to know more as you prepare, here are six essentials, both informative and inspiring.

, by Mac: An outgrowth of his with a popular PCT guide, Halfway Anywhere chronicles the experiences, insights, and analyses of a sharp thru-hiker named . He also espouses a say-yes approach to adventure, to the belief that a real thru-hike should be more than walking. There’s so much to explore here.

, by Jennifer Pharr Davis: Jennifer Pharr Davis is , having set records on the AT (twice) and Vermont’s Long Trail. So what does she have to do with the PCT, aside from once hiking it? The Pursuit of Endurance digs into the saga of the great Western FKT through intimate if sometimes purple snapshots of its aces.

“,” for Backpacker, by Laura Lancaster: The Oregon Challenge demands that you cross the state in two weeks or less. Here, a 2014 PCT alumna offers up a compelling alternative—slow down and enjoy the not challenging but often marvelous terrain, like the walk beneath Mount Hood or the state’s terrific waterfalls. Hard to argue with the logic.

, by Barney “Scout” Mann: Barney and Sandy Mann , responsible for helping thousands of hikers get off on the good foot. This quick and compelling read follows the two during a rather dramatic thru-hike and explores the intense and inviolable bonds we create with our chosen trail families.

by Heather “Anish” Anderson: Of all the record-setting hikers who have written books, has not only the most rewarding personal journey but also the best prose. Thirst is the raw and uncensored document of her 2013 FKT on the PCT, filled with grim physiological and psychological insights that will reset your baseline for suffering.

, by Cheryl Strayed: C’mon, it’s a totally good book about the PCT and why we hike at large. When hikers say they hate it, I generally presume they’ve never read it.

The post Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail: A Beginner’s Guide appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Josh Perry could not fathom the news he was reading about Heather “Anish” Anderson. It was the summer of 2013, and Anderson had bested the Pacific Crest Trail’s fastest known time by nearly five days. Through the wind-worn California desert, the volatile Sierra Nevada, and the seemingly endless Cascade Range, Anderson had averaged 44 miles per day during a two-month march from Mexico to Canada.

Perry, who was a teenager living in Leeds, England, at the time, was a budding hiker. A year earlier, he had accepted a friend’s dare to walk to his former high school in St. Albans, 190 miles south. He wore leather military boots and an overstuffed 70-pound backpack, trudging roads outlined by Google Maps printouts. Perry detested the trek. “It hurt, the blisters,” Perry, now 27, says. “I’d never walked like that before.”

If trekking 27 miles per day along highways had nearly broken him, how, he wondered, had anyone done 44 through the American wilderness? “I read about Anish,” he says, “and thought she was a superhuman athlete, elite at an unfathomable level.”

On August 7, 2022, just after the sun set in the northernmost reaches of Washington, Perry set his own record on that same trail: 55 days, 16 hours, and 54 minutes. He erased nearly ten days from the men’s self-supported benchmark and five from Anderson’s, a time that eluded many attempts during the previous decade. Perhaps most astonishing, for nearly 2,000 miles Perry was on pace to break the supported time of celebrated ultrarunner Timothy Olson, who ate hot meals and slept most nights with his family in a roadside RV during his Adidas-sponsored 2021 quest. The logistics of navigating Oregon fire closures—and bushwhacking through overgrown alternate routes—tempted Perry to quit, at least for a few hours. But when he got going again, Perry placed Olson’s mark in his sights.

“It is incredibly bittersweet—it’s heartbreaking—to put so much effort into something for six weeks and come up short,” Perry said less than 48 hours after his finish. “This time »ĺ´Ç±đ˛ő˛Ô’t represent the best of what I can do. It represents the best of what I could do under the circumstances.”

Perry embraced through-hiking soon after marveling at Anderson’s accomplishment. In 2014, he hiked Spain’s Camino de Santiago to “see if I could have a fun walk,” as he puts it. He loved it so much, he headed for Japan’s Shikoku Pilgrimage, followed by the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail. In 2019, what he calls his “extremely addictive personality” led him to tackle three American hiking records: Vermont’s Long Trail (273 miles), the Arizona Trail (800), and the PCT southbound (2,653). He nabbed the first two but bailed on the last after being stung by a wasp and eventually collapsing from an allergic reaction three days later.

Perry had hoped that his successes would be a grand finale of sorts for his speedy ambitions, achievements so big that he could settle into a job after being peripatetic since turning 18. “I am a dirtbag through and through,” he says. “But I was ready to stay in one place, not be so broke. But the moment I quit, I knew I couldn’t move past this. I wanted to get the thing that had inspired this entire journey—the record.”

Getting back to the PCT proved more difficult than Perry imagined. First, the pandemic shortened the 2020 hiking season. In 2021, facing financial woes, Perry suffered a nervous breakdown that culminated in a suicide attempt. But in 2022, Perry committed himself to the trail, even passing on a job opportunity to pursue the record.

“I have given up everything for this—friendships, relationships, normalcy,” Perry says. “Sometimes I’m envious of people who are happy where they are.”

The hardest part, he admits, was surrendering to the vagabond lifestyle.

“I’m not an athlete of any sort,” Perry says. “I am just a dude who likes to walk a lot.”

The post Josh Perry Smashed a Record on the Pacific Crest Trail appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.