Or: “Arizona, why the hell are you doing this when the world is [gestures broadly]”

There’s hardly a right time in life to abandon everything and spend 5-6 months backpacking. Before you pack your things and get to the trailhead you have to spend a lot of time justifying your choice to your family, your friends, and yourself. You’re sacrificing time to develop your career or your relationships at home to eat peanut butter and shit in catholes for six months. Such a decision is hard enough even if you don’t have to consider ascendant fascism.

Perhaps what I need is a narrative. Ask a thru-hiker why they’re hiking and you’ll get a more-or-less specific answer: they always wanted to see this part of the world, they wanted a physical challenge, they read Wild or A Walk in the Woods once. When I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail (AT) in 2021, I had a little narrative in order. I was born in Western North Carolina and always felt a closeness to the mountains. As I got into hiking as a teen the prospect of the AT was always in my mind more than getting a college degree or a six figure salary. A 24-year-old Arizona, coming to terms with her transness and newly recovered from an ankle injury, finally made it happen. Maybe I'll tell the whole story another time.

Adjusting to the so-called “real world” post-trail proved to be the more difficult journey. I moved cross-country twice and bounced between jobs. I finally started hormone replacement therapy but maintained a difficult relationship with my body and my emotions. I saw the rise and fall of many friendships and romances. And all the while, I missed the hell out of the routine and challenges of life on trail, lack of electricity and plumbing be damned. Thus, a return to the goblin lifestyle — this time out west — was inevitable.

Nevertheless, the timing isn’t ideal. The rapidly decaying state of trans rights in the United States is well-documented. If you’re somehow unaware of just how bad it’s getting (god I envy you), find a trans journalist online — Ari Drennen, Erin Reed, any really — and read up on how the far right is working to erase us from existence. Personally, I am no journalist and I have little desire to report in detail every hate crime, every cruel bill and every public harassment campaign: my trans siblings don’t need more reminders of suffering and cishets don’t have the right to consume our tears without allyship.

So, that brings us to the real reason I’m still hiking the PCT: pure and utter spite.

They want us out of sight and out of mind. They want us isolated from our communities, bereft not only of our support systems but of the things that bring us joy. They want to claim all aspects of life and recreation for themselves. But the mountains mean too much to me for me to let those pricks think they have sole dominion over the land. And more than anything, I don’t want to hide anymore.

I kept my identity relatively secret throughout my AT hike. There were enough weirdos out there that few really blinked at the “guy” with long hair who wore a trail skirt, but I still managed to get lots of uncomfortable questions and comments about my body and overheard enough smooth-brained bigotry at campgrounds and bars (enough that I might have to write a whole piece about it). I have no intention of quietly enduring misgendering and misogyny this time around. There are very few trans women who are known to have completed the PCT — a few of whom are friends of mine, of course — and I’m really excited by the prospect of joining that short list.

The trail itself is unlike anything I’ve ever done before. Compared to its older, more famous sister trail in the east, the Pacific Crest Trail presents more stunning vistas and geological diversity from the treeless deserts of Southern California, through the Nüümü Poyo (Paiute for “people’s trail) carved out centuries ago through the teeth of the Sierra Nevada, up to the Cascade Volcanoes rumbling in the lush Pacific Northwest. I dare not wax poetic on every detail months before my start date; I’ll share that with you once I start walking.

But most of all, trail life just makes sense to me more than anything else. Being a burnt-out autistic f-slur doesn’t set you up well for an ordinary life, but the mountains don’t care a bit about you one way or the other. On trail, I’m more in tune with my circadian rhythm and pushing myself to physical limits never before reached. Sure, I’m also eating a lot of processed foods, but I do that at home, too, so we can call that a wash. It might not be for everyone, but it’s definitely for me. And as a trans woman yearning for stability and community, finding where I belong is more important than anything.

This is where I’m meant to go.

I’m not a hero. I don’t believe that what I’m doing is revolutionary. What I do believe is that the Facebook commentors of the world expect trans folks like me to fade away from all aspects of life with little resistance. They would take the sun, moon and stars away from us if they could. But I’m not ready to give it all up quite yet.

There’s a lot of preparation to do and lots of things to be scared of in the interim, but I’m really excited to go on this adventure and share it with all of you.

So to my friends past, present, and future: I hope you'll stick with me through these 2600 miles.

And to the thugs who would have me silenced and exiled: catch me if you can.

Have a question for me? Want to say hi? Shoot me an email at trailgoblin@gmail.com and I may respond to it in a future newsletter.