I am coming to you live from just outside the very aptly named “Sand to Snow National Monument”. It has been quite a week. Or so. I am having a hard time keeping track of days now.

One day you wake up to a dusting of snow. The next you open your eyes and it’s already approaching 100F. You climb a 10,000ft mountain and descend all the way to the ground next day. You sleep in the dirt, you sleep in a luxury hotel. Mostly you sleep in the dirt. The only constant on the PCT is change.

I take my first rest day in the charming alpine town of Idyllwild. By the time I return to hiking the San Jacinto mountains two days later, the weather has turned, and I walk through thick fog most of the day. I wake up with to a heavy dusting of snow after camping above 9,000ft. My phone starts to fail, so I ask my brother to pick me up to go get a new one. I take three days off at the house his startup is renting in Los Angeles to bathe, lounge around, drink matcha, and eat 1/3 of Costco‘a entire stock of ice cream. I even catch a DJ set, my brother’s not so secret talent, which is always a pleasure to witness live.

I return and climb Mt. San Jacinto, this range’s high point. I intend to make it up for sunset, but with 14 additional pounds of food on my back, I run out of gas 1 mile short and camp near the summit just above 10,000ft. For the first time in 5+ years I feel thoroughly out of breath. Luckily the weather is clear, and I make it up just in time for sunrise the next morning and take my sweet time enjoying the peak. From here I can see Palm Springs, suburbs of San Diego, and even the smog layer from LA.

What lies ahead is a comedown from hell. Brush, growing onto the trail, scratches and pokes my legs. Dust coats every available surface. I descend, and descend, and descend, all day, and then almost all of a second day. It never ends. About 8,500 feet in all, it is incredibly taxing, and the switchbacks are monotonous.

As I get closer to the valley floor, it heats up and water becomes scarce. Under the I-10 underpass, some volunteers pass out hot dogs and soda, more “trail magic”. I gorge myself on junk food, already chronically short on calories due to the 6,000+ I burn each day. It’s great but I can’t stay. I tear myself away from the oasis, nobody follows. I wonder if I am stupid to continue now, if I should wait. But I go anyways.

It has reached 106F/41C by 11am. No trees here means no shade. Bushes and shrubs provide as much cover as chicken wire, which is to say, none. The hottest day so far, I try to lean into the pain. I put on my hot weather playlist, double up on my electrolyte mix, lock in, and pass a dozen people or more who have been flattened by the heat. I know this is not a competition or a race but it still feels good to make progress while everyone else around is stalled.

I camp at the charming and well kept Whitewater Preserve 0.5mi off trail, enjoying the free camping and beautifully landscaped garden—check them out if you are ever in Palm Springs.

It’s good that I get a solid night of sleep since the next day is a new Hell.

At Mission Creek the whole trail has been completely washed away in a storm some years ago, leaving a 12+ mile stretch of giant rubble and unstable debris. Rocks, dust, and slippery mud. No shade. It is not dangerous or difficult per se but mind numbingly tedious and taxing to the brain and body.

Worse, I am completely alone, picking my way through the strewn rocks all morning and in the heat of the day. I am not sure how many house-sized boulders and car-sized fallen tree trunks I can keep climbing over. Every pair of socks I own are soaking wet. On the other hand the only way out of this is through. Just when my sanity was beginning to slip, I run across a pair of hikers. They are fast. More of their friends join. I stay in tow. I’m saved!

I camp with them, and in the morning I hike out, one of their group joining me. We are surrounded by lupine in full bloom. We have transcended Hell, looped back around, and reached Heaven.

Cruising at almost 4mph, we breeze through miles very quickly, elated to be on solid, smooth ground again. As we climb the weather cools, and I barely notice the uphill. I am so happy to finally have found someone at the same pace as me. Faster than than the typical slow plod but not breakneck. It’s hard to tell but he probably has a decade on me, with very short shorts, lots of tattoos, a slight build, soft voice, a serious and focused demeanor, and highly customized and obsessively well-kept gear. We talk a lot, about the badlands of Utah, seam sealing, doing big miles, wielding chainsaws for trail maintenance, designing and sewing your own gear. He made his pack entirely by hand (!!) and I am thoroughly impressed.

Before I know it we are at the city of Big Bear, and I have hiked 35 miles, my biggest day so far, and my feet barely hurt. I actually feel great. I could do 35 more. My people are out there, confirmed. We are an unusual bunch even among the already crazy people who decide to start the trail. My people are out there, and even if I am momentarily alone I know if I am determined and keep putting in the miles I will find them.

That’s all for this week, stay tuned.

Eigen