At 11:38am pacific standard time on 11/21/23, I completed my 1,600 mile Long-Ass Section Hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. I don’t normally do this, but I thought it appropriate to give a day-by-day detailed snapshot of the last 5 days on trail, to give you a thorough window into the ups and downs of trail life. This also serves the dual function of being informative for future me, as when I attempt to remember details about any long-distance hike, my brain gives me the sort of look a dog gives its owner if they try to put him on the phone.

Also, as this is my last trail blog entry (though not the last blog entry; I’m planning to do a gear review, and perhaps some blogs about hikes we do on our road trip home) I figured y’all wouldn’t mind if it was way longer than usual. Onward!

Friday 11/17 – 11 miles

I awoke at 5am in a very cheap motel room, takeout containers littering the space like there had been some kind of miniature targeted hamburger supernova. Rolling out of bed in the pitch darkness, I immediately slipped on the pile of “airing out” frictionless sleeping bags on the linoleum floor, catching myself on the edge of the bed and narrowly avoiding Charlie-Browning my way to a broken tailbone. I much more carefully picked my way to the bathroom, flicking on the light to stare at my shaggy bedhead mullet in the mirror.

“Five more days,” I whispered to myself, jamming my toothbrush into my mouth and gazing idly into the middle distance. I considered whether taking one last shower was necessary, before deciding it definitely wasn’t, and then taking a shower anyway just because I could. I stood luxuriating in the barely lukewarm water, the decades-old lime-encrusted shower head letting out a continuous, hypersonic whistling sound to accompany my last few moments of pseudo-civilized relaxation. For a hiker, this is the equivalent of a 5-star spa.

After getting out of the shower, I flopped my momentarily fresh body into my recently laundered, and yet still wholly stained, hiking clothes. Dumptruck and I packed up our backpacks, taking longer than necessary to decide on the last candy we’d get to consume on trail. I settled for jolly ranchers and candy orange slices. Dumptruck settled for every other candy that’s ever existed, crammed into a bulging ziploc bag straining at its seams and begging for death.

After treating ourselves to a breakfast of the previous day’s rotisserie chicken and macaroni salad piled on wonder bread, we got into The Toaster, and Toasty drove us back to Scissor’s Crossing, where we would set foot on trail one last time. Watching the desert landscape roll by past my open window, I danced my open flat palm on the rollercoaster of wind currents, trying to ignore the ominous, round-bellied thunderheads hugging the mountaintops.

By the time we hit the trail it was already 1pm, so we knew we wouldn’t go nearly as far as usual. Dumptruck and I merrily set off, squeezing through spiny brush and Matrix-ing our way around large, spindly cacti. We got to a tentsite in a saddle between mountains, and set up our tent in amongst some thick bushes about 10 feet off-trail. The spot was obscured and somewhat protected from the wind. Dumptruck had spent some time in the motel meticulously attaching velcro around the zipper of our 3-person tent, hoping that we could finish the trail in the tent we started in, but high winds were still a concern. After setting up the tent, we watched the sunset hitch a ride on the underside of the traveling cloud caravan, dancing away in swirls of orange and pink.

After night fully settled on the mountains, we climbed into the tent, and put on Disney’s Hercules, which we’d been watching for about 20 minutes at a time before bed. At around 6:30, I suddenly saw the light of a headlamp illuminate the side of our tent as a hiker passed by. I scrambled to grab my phone and muted the sound, but the damage had already been done: as our tent was fully hidden by shrubbery, it meant that some poor thru-hiker had to suffer the disturbance of hearing “Zero to Hero” blasting at full volume out of a clump of anonymous bushes, in the dark. Terrifying. They didn’t say anything, but Dumptruck and I stared at each other in mute paroxysms of silent giggles, as we listened to the clack of their hiking poles hitting the rocky terrain as they hiked away.

At around midnight, I opened my eyes to an odd sound. Pulling out my earplugs I narrowed my eyes in the dark, my brain whirring ineffectually, trying to identify the sound. Then it clicked: it was raining. We hadn’t had rain on our tent since Washington. We’d taken Wednesday and Thursday off due to the forecast being 40 degrees and thunderstorms, which seemed very unsafe (and unfun), but the forecast had set us in the clear. Or so we had thought.

I looked over at Dumptruck, and I could see the whites of his eyes keenly watching the zipper of the tent, daring it to split open. Wind was whipping around us, the tent poles creaking with the exhaustion of an arthritic old cat.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said back.

“It’s raining,” I said, helpfully.

“Yes,” he said.

And with that, having exhausted all options both tangible and philosophical, we went back to sleep.

Saturday 11/18 – 18.5 miles

If you’ve never woken up in a backpacking tent that has suffered a night of wind and pounding rain, let me paint you a complex and thought-provoking word picture: it sucks!

I groaned miserably into my tiny pillow, the only thing in the tent not soaking wet. Cautiously I snaked an arm out of my sleeping bag and gingerly brushed my fingers across the top it. The sensory torment of dank feathers and nylon sent a jolt of disgust down my spine. I shivered in revulsion, briefly considering just balling up all of my gear and drop kicking it down the mountain. Meanwhile, Dumptruck was already sitting up, trying to jam his feet into the wool socks he’d left to “air out” at the foot of the tent, which were now a soggy nightmare. A miserable “HHHhhhhnnngggg,” sound was leaking out of his mouth as he engaged in a brutal battle of wet friction. He did eventually win. But at what cost?

After supporting one another in a much deserved whine-fest, we eventually got everything packed up. It had luckily stopped raining, but was still quite windy, cloudy and cold, which meant that even though we attempted to hold the tent up in the air to dry it out, we had mixed success. After some time we just had to give up and cram the damp thing into its compression sack, a problem with which future Thresher and Dumptruck would have to deal.

The entire day of hiking alternated between fitful spurts of rain, and hiking on mountaintops directly through thick clouds, our bodies accumulating constant moisture from being nonconsensually hugged by relentless mist. This was compounded by the torture of all day seeing the valley far below bathed in glowing sunlight, totally unaffected by the witch’s brew of ridge gloom through which we found ourselves plodding.

To be fair, it was visually very beautiful. Honestly, it was a surreal in a fun way to be hiking through landscape that looked and felt like Appalachia while being less than 60 miles from Mexico.

When we sat down halfway underneath a bush to try and eat lunch, the rain came back in earnest, happily soaking the crackers onto which I was ineffectually attempting to scoop tuna with my spork. I had to give up and just cram everything into my mouth with my hands like a child with no supervision. This is not dissimilar from my normal behavior.

Our timing was such that we ended our day in a 10-mile section of trail where no camping was permitted, due to land restoration. The only permissible spot was at a car camping site just off-trail, which happily meant that we got to camp with Toasty, who had driven there ahead of us and snagged a site. The 3 of us sat in the car and watched an episode of Great British Bake Off on Toasty’s laptop. We were quite tickled by the fact that everyone else at the car camping site was there to sit in their tents and enjoy nature as a treat, while Dumptruck and I sat in the car and enjoyed cushioned seats as a treat.

The campsite was in a grove of oak trees, the branches thick with orange autumn leaves dancing in the escalating bluster. We set up the tent between a few trees to hopefully snag some wind protection, and were moderately successful. Overnight it poured rain again, and we all got to have dreams about being in New England as the shadows of winter grow long in ethereal November light.

Sunday 11/19 – 21.5 miles

After packing up our disgusting wet gear and subsequently feeling very grateful that there was a privy (there’s nothing quite as deeply demoralizing as squatting over a cathole in the rain), we pored over the map to make a plan for the day. Delightfully, we found that Toasty would be able to meet us again in the evening at another car camping site, one that the trail literally runs directly through. We all high-fived when we realized that meant we could slack pack! Slack packing is when you only have to carry your food, water and emergency supplies, and can leave behind your sleeping bag, tent, and sleeping pad with someone who will shuttle it to the next spot for you. This makes your backpack feel like a jaunty little jansport, and you feel like you can just fly down the trail.

We walked back to the trail crossing with our cheeky little backpacks as the last of the clouds made their quiet exit to the West. We were rewarded for the past 48 hours of damp wretchedness with an enormous rainbow beaming down into the valley. Worry not, we marked the spot on the map and, as far as we know, Toasty went down there and kicked the crap out of that dang leprechaun and finally got his gold back.

Dumptruck and I more or less pranced down the trail, the sun glowing happily down on us, and a gentle breeze keeping the temperature extraordinarily pleasant. We saw mountain lion paw prints (must have been a big kitty!) and mountain bike tire treads (must have been a big jackass!) and had lunch in a tiny meadow overlooking a gentle burbling creek. We passed a sign warning us to stay on trail due to there potentially being unexploded mines in the surrounding area, and I found myself unconsciously walking a little more daintily than usual.

We followed the trail right into the car campsite, and it led us to Toasty, parked next to a spot that had the most enormous, beautiful Live Oak tree. Its low-hanging limbs were as thick as barrels, and it resonated with ancient secrets on an inaccessible atomic level. We got there early enough to hang our tent and sleeping bag up to dry on the branches in the last rays of sunlight. As the wind gently rustled the fabric back to life, we sat at the picnic table and played Yahtzee, reveling in the love in our little family.

Monday 11/20 – 14.7 miles

At 4:45am I sat up suddenly to a deafening FFFZZZZZZZZ sound. I cast about for its source and discovered that the wind was back in full fury, pressing the rainfly against the right-hand wall with such continual force that it looked like a giant boulder had come to rest against the side of the tent, only barely not crushing me to death. On Dumptruck’s side, the velcro was hanging on for dear life, the zipper gaping open everywhere possible, like a kid who’s trying to show you his loose baby teeth. Dumptruck checked the weather, and, as we are incapable of finishing anything without a flourish of drama, there was a wind advisory for the next 48 hours (the entirety of our final 2 days of hiking). We decided that as we had only one more night, we would again borrow Toasty’s tiny tent, because we’d rather be sardines than filets.

We packed up feeling a little dreamy, both from lack of sleep and also from the prospect of having only one more night on trail. It didn’t feel real at all, but did nag at the back of my mind, a gentle persist reminder to be present.

We had 6 miles to hike before the trail was set to walk us directly through a tiny neighborhood on the shores of Lake Morena, and within striking distance of a malt shop. We made a plan to meet Toasty there, and walked the 5 feet past our campsite and back onto the trail. The sunrise welcomed us back to hiking, glinting through the low-hanging branches of Live Oaks spotting an open field of tall golden grasses. There was a cloud of humidity around our feet all morning, as the sun baked the temporary rainwater back up into the sky. I imagine that there likely would have been a blanket of low hanging mist, that is, if the screaming wind hadn’t backhand slapped it into oblivion.

We arrived at the malt shop at 9am, and promptly ordered Italian subs and french fries, as 9am is lunchtime, naturally. We chatted with a very friendly local named Allen who mentioned in passing over his chicken-fried steak that he has a 45-year-old giant tortoise named Waldo. I perhaps might not have believed him, if not for his golf cart sitting directly outside the malt shop, his extremely well trained tiny pug sitting obedient and unleashed in the passenger seat, a huge gold chain necklace around his neck instead of a collar. This was confirmation enough for me.

After eating and happily spending way too much on unnecessary snacks, Dumptruck and I hugged Toasty tightly, knowing the next time we’d see him would be at the monument for the Southern Terminus at the Mexican border. He waved goodbye to us from the trail crossing, and we set to finishing our last significant climb.

At about 1:30pm, after having done 14.7 miles, we were only 11.4 miles away from the Terminus. We also were standing in front of the most magical, charming campsite we’d seen the entire trail. It was a spot nestled safely in a cave made by a grove of huge Manzanitas (my favorite plant I’ve met on trail). We could have easily hiked on and gotten to the Terminus before sunset. We could have run, grit our teeth and finished the dang thing, never really seeing anything but the determination of looming accomplishment.

But, if you have followed the blog this far, you know that’s not who we are. We aren’t hiking to prove anything to anyone. We’re having ourselves an adventure. Dumptruck and I immediately decided to pitch the tiny tent and spend one last afternoon and evening honoring the Sloth Squad mantra we’d been carrying this whole time: we’ll get there when we get there.

We sat in the sun and reveled in the feeling of our sweat-imbued shirts actually drying. We laughed and reminisced about the last 4.5 months, and cheerfully shouted Argonaut’s name into the wind, certain he could hear us. We lay our sleeping bags out on a flat rock, the down finally, totally drying and poofing back to its happy fullness. We ate ramen and plowed through the last of our snacks, stuffing our faces with exuberance and mixing flavors that have no right to co-mingle.

As it neared 4:45pm, Dumptruck and I stood facing the sunset in our down jackets, wrapped in each others arms for warmth, the relentless wind now a well-known friend. We stood together and watched in comfortable silence as the last rays of light faded away, a perfect half-moon making herself known just over our shoulders. I nestled my cheek against Dumptruck’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, time moving in a slow spiral as we stood in defiance of the dictatorship of clocks.

When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about a bedroom that was wall-to-wall 100% bed, just a square cloud of fluff that you’d have to climb up into from the outward-opening door. The last night on trail, climbing into the tiny tent that was wall-to-wall sleeping bag, one of our sleeping pads turned 180 degrees so as to puzzle-piece together to entirely fill every inch of the too-small footprint, I realized that my childhood dream had become a reality. The two of us snuggled together, the wind rolling in crashing ocean waves through the shelter of plants just above us, as we became coral, steadfast and peaceful just beneath the violent water.

I fell softly to sleep watching the Manzanitas’ moon shadows dance on the roof of the tent. I sank into the lullaby of the falling leaves, tired from a good life, gently letting go of their home to, just once, here at the end, know the feeling of flight.

Tuesday 11/21 – 11.4 miles to the Southern Terminus

The emotions of waking up on the last day of a long hike are nearly impossible to explain. You’re so excited that, if you were a dog and had a tail, it would wag with such happy enthusiasm as to knock literally everything off the coffee table, including that giant Andy Goldsworthy art book that weighs a ton but is no match for your ferocious joy. Simultaneously, you are so depressed that you could lay face down in the mud, so motionless as to not even notice when moss and mushrooms start growing all over you. And then finally, you still have several hours of hiking, which means you have to ignore all of that big emotional stuff otherwise your heart will just stop from nervous system overload. So, you end up just kinda feeling like it’s a regular old, normal day of hiking.

Dumptruck made his daily cup of instant coffee, and I decided I wanted one as well in celebration. We sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the tent, sipping slowly to not burn our lips, appreciating how delicious instant coffee tastes in the wilderness. I ate my last dry breakfast bar, dipping it into the warm drink and feeling like a tiny king, lording over my kingdom of sleeping bags. We packed up and everything felt so bizarrely routine, as there was no external evidence that this day would be different than any other.

We had only 1,000ft of elevation gain left over the 11.4 miles, which meant that the hiking was almost comically easy. Wonderfully, we caught up to, and leap-frogged all morning with, the Dutch couple Thinker and Warbler. We’d met Thinker and Warbler in the first 2 weeks in Washington, in Glacier Peak Wilderness, when we met the hiker named James who had sprained his ankle. Warbler was the one who’d expertly wrapped his ankle for him. We saw them again when we camped next to them at the base of Forester Pass. I saw them the day I had almost been flattened by mountain bikers when I was solo hiking. And we were going to get to finish with them. At the end they were ahead of us by about 15 minutes.

I would say that the closer we got to the Terminus, the more real it felt, but that would be a lie. It didn’t feel real when we stopped for a snack at our last water source, 4 miles away. It didn’t feel real when Toasty met us 0.1 miles from the end, at the base of the dirt road that led up to the monument. It didn’t feel real until I was 10 feet away from the beautiful wooden sign, standing in front of me with resolute stillness, the only thing in sight not dancing wildly in the wind. It was adamant and immutable. It was real. And so was I.

My feet brought me to it. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the warm, solid wooden frame. I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of sand and dirt and tree trunks and sage and strength and only then did I realize that my face was shining with tears, tears flooding out of me with endless abandon, a silent waterfall of presence, a prayer, a rite, an acknowledgment of all the steps I’d taken and all the steps yet to come in this wild, endless trail of what it means to be alive.

And then the wind blew my hat off.

Dumptruck and Toasty and I hugged and screamed and jumped around, and Thinker and Warbler ran over to hug and scream and jump around with us, too. We took a million photos and brushed the sand from our eyes and the wind stole my hat over, and over and over again, each time Thinker hollering “I got it!” and chasing after it down the dirt road. Toasty produced several cans of Miller High Life (the champagne of beers, only appropriate) and we cheers-ed. The beers exploded foam all over our filthy shirts and we couldn’t care less.

I have been carrying a 27-shot Kodak disposable camera with me since Washington. It has been a wonderful challenge to decide when and where to take a photo, knowing them to be limited. I had one shot left, and I had saved it for the end. I cranked the wind, and brought the camera to my face to frame my hand resting gently on the monument, and took the last photo. Sometime soon I’ll get it developed, and I’ll put the photos here, I promise.

Warbler told us that about 10 minutes before we arrived, Thinker had proposed to her with a ring made out of an acorn that he’d been secretly widdling on trail. She was so overjoyed she could hardly speak, and the 2 of them kept finding moments and ways to bring their hands together. They fit together perfectly, afterall. After a solid 30 minutes of celebrating all together, the 2 of them left about 20 minutes before we did. We watched them descend back down the dirt road to their life ahead, hand in hand.

The last thing we did before leaving the Terminus was have Toasty drive our other hiking supporter, The Toaster, up the dirt road to the monument and get its own summit photo. That little Prius worked harder than most SUVs, and is our scrappy little buddy, true to the end.

And with that, we began our long, winding road trip home. We are going to spend some time exploring the coast of Southern California, then head East along the Southern coast, finding adventure and joy along the way.

I’d say it’s something that, at this point, we’re jolly good at.

Thank you, dear reader, for being with me, for being with us all. It has been a privilege to have your support, love and joy in our hearts for all of this. Thank you to Eby, Jesse, Jess, Cory, Oliver and Auri for the generous and kind care packages, and your fierce belief in us.

To my incredible family, I love you, and I would never have done this if not for your unwavering belief in my right to be in the wilderness, even as a very out transgender human. You gave me my courage.

To our beloved Scope, Whistle, Salt and Kodak, thank you for launching us so beautifully.

And to Argonaut, I am beyond lucky to have you as a brother, a best friend, and a teammate in this incredible life. I wouldn’t have made it off the train without you. Go-Gurt, my dude.

Live slow, die whenever, Sloth Squad OUT!

Love,

Thresher