After months of preparation. And by “preparation,” I mostly mean doubling down on Spanish lessons, listening to reggae, devouring trash food, and brain rotting Seinfeld for the 10,000th time on Netflix.
Alright, alright, I know, sounds intense. But physically, outside of the gym, I stuck to my yoga routine and carried my 35-pound pack everywhere to get used to the weight again. This bag is my lifeline, holding everything I need to survive, and I respect that fully.
Mentally, I’ve braced myself for the challenges ahead by accepting one simple truth: no matter how much I prepare, I can’t control everything. The weather, injuries, unforeseen obstacles, those are out of my hands. My plan? Embrace it all with laughter and a smile, make educated decisions, weigh risk against reward, and trust that the rest is exactly the journey I’m looking for.
I’ve always believed that nothing truly prepares your body for hiking like hiking itself. But back home, it’s not hiking season—it’s ski season, and a mediocre one at that
Now, my first real task? No, not surviving the brutal permit system, dialing in my gear, or saying those bittersweet goodbyes like that last hug, that final airport kiss. After that, I need to get from San Diego to Campo, CA, the official starting point of the Pacific Crest Trail. The Southern Terminus.
Campo is about an hour and a half by car from San Diego, but not having a car, I decided after getting here to take my time, spend a couple of nights in the city, soak up the beach, catch up with friends, and handle a few last-minute errands before disappearing into the wild. It was worth it, a little calm before the storm.
After my goodbyes and one last view of the Pacific Ocean, the first leg of my bus journey began. Or so I thought.
As I packed up to take the bus at the last minute I scrapped it. I don’t think I’ll make it to the station in time, I’m usually always early, in fact, in usually viciously early for everything, but for once I was late and it only runs twice a day. I send a text to an Uber driver I met the day before. Jim, a Navy vet who’s now retired, lives in the area and worked his corporate career post military for Hitachi. He was nice enough to tell me if I needed anything give him a call. I called and he was there a few hours later.
Thank you Jim, I was dreading that bus ride.
62 minutes and I was at the Campo Green store. A quick purchase of some gas and jerky and I’m off up the street to the post office, I mailed my headphones, crocs and some other things I simply don’t want to carry to my friend Dylan in Washington. They weren’t as heavy at home.
Dylan doesn’t know it yet but his ass is picking me up when I get there, I’m crashing on his couch, eating his food and surfing his boat for a week come August. Life is and will be good.
Finally I arrive at CLEEF, pitch my tent, and go sit down, crack open a cold can of Sprite, a crushed stroopwaffle in hand, around a fire place with 4-5 other hikers, sharing stories of where we came from, how unemployed we are, what our spouses think of this and questioning if we are F’in crazy.
As the convo continued I think of back home, a tear drops from my eye. I’m mentally toast. I look to my left and see a older person with a face of pure excitement, they just finished the AZT to my right a guy younger than me I’d guess mid 20s, white as a ghost.. I quickly learn and realize the fear we have is normal, and we are in this together.
The trail community is strong in the thru hiking world.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll wake before sunrise, savor one last use of a flush toilet, brush my teeth, text my mother not to worry, and then start my walk to Canada.
Northbound.
NOBO.
The Pacific Crest Trail 