#2 | The Trail Lives On
In celebration of one year
Dear PCT Class of 2024,
Spoiler alert: there is no graduation. By the time you read this, you will be near the end. You might be examining the map to navigate around fires towards Canada. Or, maybe you are running down the desert’s sloping hills to the southern tip. Some of you might take your last steps on the Bridge of the Gods; others, after summiting Mt. Whitney. While the endpoint might change, one fact remains the same: it’s over.
But here’s a secret: the trail lives on.
I hiked the PCT last year along with my fellow snow-weary companions in the Class of 2023. We weathered an unprecedented snowpack in the Sierra, glissaded down San Jacinto, and escaped fires near Seiad Valley, Three Sisters, and Rainy Pass. I glowed in the dark and got lost by the LA aqueduct with a trail family dozens deep. I learned how to use an ice ax from a 21-year-old Triple Crowner. I marveled at the moonrise. I fell in love with the Cascades’ marmots, pikas, and larches–and decided to move to Seattle to be closer to them.
As we neared the end of the trail, my friends and I began to wonder what our “off trail” lives would look like. We had heard of post-trail depression and worried about reentry. We smelled different. We still had problems to solve. Some of us planned to return to our same jobs, while others readied to move. We all fiercely wanted to protect the precious magic that the trail had provided. But, how?
No one had it easy. Those who returned to their jobs appreciated the structure, but felt like they no longer fit. Others who were transforming everything about their lives felt exalted by the freedom, but overwhelmed by the decisions to make. Money was running low. Reuniting with loved ones meant both the joy of celebration and crushing reality that some of them could not understand what happened to us out there–or, worse, some might not even want to try.
“We’ve walked all this way, and no one even cares!” my friends and I yelled at the top of scrambles, running down steep descents, and as we set up camp. Our laughs licked the ludicrosity of our lives–here we were, hiking this storied trail, doing the hardest thing we’d ever done, and we only had each other to bear witness.
Turns out, that was more than enough.
You come to trail to hike your own hike, but after you leave, you tell the stories of when your hike intersected with others: the trail angels who gave you the keys to their boat, the free rides that broke down so you had to hitch the rest of the way together, your fellow travelers. Each encounter, from the fleeting to the forever, ties a thread between you. These threads braid the time on trail with what comes after. Distinct, inextricable – and ongoing.
As I drove from my hometown Milwaukee to my new home in Seattle, Ironwill, my ice-ax-teacher-Triple-Crowner, called to keep me company as he hauled his truck all around the Southeast. Toph, my hiking partner for over 2,000 miles, hosted me in her yurt atop the Columbia River Gorge. Moony, one of my first trail friends, nudged me to sign up for my first ultramarathon. Purple Lightning told me ultramarathons were thru-hikes for people with jobs. Jacque Jacque danced with me at Mt. Joy and Trail Days. Waldo bought a van. I skied with Bob, and cheered him on as he adventure raced with Dumpster Fire and QB near Mt. Rainer. I hosted trail magic at Chinook Pass with Prairie and Klepto. Sharkbait, who took the leap with me, holds my hand as I look to take the next. They all gave me space to wonder if it was a mistake to leave life for trail; if it was a mistake to leave trail for this other kind of life. They held up a mirror from every angle to help me see my new shape.
And, together, we returned.
“Mama!” we screamed, embracing the blaze on our first hike back. This summer, six of us hiked the Three Sisters Wilderness loop. Due to the Pete’s Lake Fire, we had missed the 40 miles of PCT traversing through it and were finally able to close the gap.
We fell right back into it. I’ve never stopped calling my friends by their trail names. We re-downloaded FarOut and planned for “chill miles” – nothing more than 12 mile days. As we climbed out from the sizzling 100ºF trailhead, we emerged into a surprise snowfield that lasted the rest of the day. We laughed – of course. We swam in alpine lakes, baked through burn zones, and stood transfixed by the glint of obsidian. By day three, we craved Thai food, so we combined the final two days of planned miles into one and sped to town. We were back. We had never left. The trail lives on.
When you leave trail, you emerge into the wilderness of our bubbling, shiny, chaotic civilization. All of a sudden, you have options. There are five grocery stories rather than just the lone Grocery Outlet. You can make a left turn. You can reverse course and still be moving forward.
You may leave no trace, but the trail will. One trail universal? The PCT reveals. It is the light that shines through the cracks, a mirror that will make you scream, a window into the lives of others, a kaleidoscope that crafts new visions. The gift is sight, renewed. The line is complete, and there is no more map; and yet, you still have a lot of bushwhacking to do.
What you didn’t have before: the people who have walked with you a ways, and will continue to walk with you always. The people who will get lost in the brambles along with you, plucking and sharing huckleberries as you both bash your way through.
Together, the trail lives on.
Love,
Snorlax
Beautiful MJ!!