Earlier this year, I publicly shared my outdoor goals for 2022. Hiking Section J of the Pacific Crest Trail, from Snoqualmie to Stevens Pass was on that list. Eight months ago, here’s how I described it:

As soon as I saw this line on a map, I was immediately interested…there isn’t a single road that you’d come across til you’re finished. Many of the dozen alpine lakes are even swimmable in late summer. Some areas are impassable until the snow fully melts in August…and would require taking some days off to complete…Five days would be the plan if Leah can join me, but I’d attempt it in four days if I was going solo. The hardest part may be arranging transportation for a drop-off and pickup.

As the summer started to come to a close, I’d become aware this objective hadn’t yet been crossed off. A late-September window of mild temps and clear skies was in the forecast. Leah was away for another week. Just like that, a few days before heading off, I committed to what I fully expected would be a leisurely long weekend of solitude in the mountains.

Day 1 of 4 — 19 miles, 5,200ft elevation gain

My initial concerns about getting to the Snoqualmie Pass trailhead were settled when Cindy offered to drive. She had been eager to get on a day hike and also loved helping PCT thru-hikers as a trail angel. We pulled up to a mostly empty parking lot on Thursday morning. She kept me company for the morning hours, eventually turning back to return home after wishing me well.

I was now alone, but I kept the same pace. There was enough daylight for me to cover the next fifteen miles. Pretty soon the Kendall Katwalk, a 600ft section of trail, appeared through the thick fog that draped the mountains. This footpath, blasted into the side of a cliff, is estimated to have cost $10,000 per foot to build and was the most dangerous and complex section of the PCT. It was intended to relocate the original line of the trail to the ‘true crest’ of the Cascades.

The handful of day hikers that passed me earlier in the day were now turning back. There were only two other PCT thru-hikers heading deeper into the mountains with me. One of them, Burner (named for being easily sunburned), had a goal of 30 miles a day to make his flight home to Prague. Even by PCT thru-hiker standards, that was ambitious. Anyone who has made it this far, after starting at the US-Mexico border, had spent the greater part of the year on trail every day, hammering their bodies to the routine of walking on rough terrain with a loaded pack.

I, on the other hand, hadn’t exercised in at least three weeks and it had been months since I even laced up my running shoes. I assumed fitness from early-summer cycling would help me get through the four days ahead of me. I didn’t think much about how the body mechanics of hiking were different from pedaling.

The seeds of doubts were on my mind when I stumbled and fell, halfway to my intended campsite. I landed directly onto my right knee. My my chest was pressed into the sandy dirt, pinned down by my heavy pack. I rolled over to get back up. I looked around and couldn’t believe what had just happened. I had tripped on completely flat ground, without any obstacles bigger than a clearly visible small root. I rolled up my pants for a quick glance and spotted the fresh gash on my kneecap. It was still new, a clean white streak brightly shining against my skin; in a minute it would begin oozing with blood. I rolled my pants back down, hoping to distance myself from what just happened.

I continued along the trail, with a faint patch of red darkening on my my pants with each step. Regardless of what I did next, making it to camp was a non-negotiable. My pace had slowed down significantly and waiting around to clean my wound would cost minutes of daylight that I didn’t have to spare. There wasn’t much I would’ve been able to do anyway with my wound. In an effort to go light, the my first aid kit was a tube of antibiotic ointment and wet wipes.

Eventually, I found my stride again while I contemplated what I should do to avoid an infection. I could always spend a night at camp and retrace my steps back to Snoqualmie Pass, calling off the entire attempt. I decided to defer the decision til the next morning.

Spectacle Lake, my destination for day one came into view. My camp for the night would be the small spit of land jutting out into the lake. My spirits were lifted, especially knowing I’d have the entire place to myself. Despite the spectacular stumble and the gear with my backpack’s outer pocket falling off, I started to feel lucky.

When I arrived after nine and a half hours, I settled on a campsite with a view of the Three Queens. I imagined I was a castaway on an island with views of water on both sides of me. A howling wind was racing over the passes from the north. As I began to set up my tent sheltered by a patch of trees, to my surprise, the shock cord on my tent poles were completely limp. I hadn’t used this tent in over a year and it must have deteriorated in my closet. I managed to still connect every segment with some effort but saw this as a continuation of the bad luck of the day.

Over dinner, I studied my the gash on my knee. Dry blood thickly coated the surface, sticking to my skin and tinting my entire knee a blush. I did my best to clean with sanitized hands. I vowed to bring a proper kit next time. Being Wilderness First Responder certified doesn’t mean much without the right tools.

After eating what felt like not enough food, I slipped into my tent just as light of the day was fading away. I laid down, exhausted and defeated. Today was already a lot more than I was mentally and physically prepared for and this was the easy day.

Day 2 of 4 — 27 miles, 4,800 elevation gain

I was wide awake just before my 5am alarm. I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag, quite literally. My knee had left a stain on the nylon overnight.

My view of the Three Queens was changing every time I glanced over while preparing in the dark for the day ahead. I decided I was lucky to be here. My father-in-law often mentions how few people he’d come across in the wilderness when he hiked as a student in Colorado College and how special that felt. I wanted to experience some of that magic of being remote in the woods. Although I had my inReach, I chose not to turn it on until the last day. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and see where they’d take me, and even resisted the urge to entertain myself with music or my long queue of podcasts.

My knee looked and felt fine, so I committed to my plan and pushed myself north towards Stevens Pass. Today’s goal would be Deep Lake, over a marathon length away. My body overall was feeling stiff, but I had more daylight today with an earlier start.

My campsite had been a half mile off the main PCT trail, and to avoid backtracking I chose to follow what looked like another trail that paralleled the PCT until it eventually merged.

Within minutes I was navigating through a web of crisscrossing footpaths, some leading to nowhere. I relied on my watch to guide me and always finding a cairn and what was certainly a faint trail below the overgrown forest. Eventually, I found myself in thick, chest-high brush, lurching forward with every step. It was so thick that I doubt my feet ever fully touched the ground. I asked myself whether I should stubbornly push forward at this snails pace or backtrack. I decided to keep on for a few minutes longer. Once out of the brush, I was greeted with an open clearing that ended with a 40ft cliff that didn’t appear on my map. My gps wanted me to be on the other side of the drop and I couldn’t see an obvious path. I wandered around for ten minutes before I found a safe crossing down a steep and loose ravine. The only footprints I saw were from deer, and my map told me this was the Old Spectacle Lake Trail. Losing almost an hour of time, I tried not to think too much about my unfortunate start to the morning.

From the bottom of Lemah Meadows, I pushed myself up almost twenty switchbacks, trying not to think too hard about how the outer part of my right knee was growing stiffer and more painful by the hour. I paused for a break at a clearing and gazed into the open valley sweeping up into the jagged peaks characteristic of the Cascades. I was only a quarter of the way through the day but I tried to find little truths to tell myself, like how I was almost halfway done with the climbing for today at least.

Just as I was getting ready to pack up, I heard a booming sound that was growing louder. It echoed across the valley and I finally spotted them. Two military planes were cruising through the mountains heading north. I was a little jealous imagining how much fun they must be having. I hadn’t seen a single person all day except the pilots. It made me feel a little less alone and occupied my thoughts for the next hour of climbing.

I kept waiting to see who I’d run into today, but there was no one. Hours later on my descent I got a view of Bears Breast Mountain, one of the most spectacular peaks I’d ever seen, like several mountains layered onto each other. Within seconds of putting my camera away, the pilots from hours before came by to do a lap around Bears Breast.

My mind was feeling weary at this point in addition to my body. By the time I reached the Waptus River, my watch was telling me I had covered the same mileage as yesterday. I took my shoes off and let my bare feet soak in the running water, rubbing the bottoms of my feet on the cool, polished stones to try and dry them. At the bottom of both feet, hotspots had formed into fat blisters that I felt with every step today. I poked at them in fascination. Although the trail runners I wore weren’t new, the custom insoles I had on from my podiatrist had never seen this kind of mileage before. Another poor gear choice.

It had been over ten hours since I left camp and I’d covered over 20 miles. There was one final climb left before closing the chapter on my longest day on the trail. I had enough left in me to make the push, even though my right leg’s IT band had gone from yelling at me to now screaming. I took both an Aleve and Tylenol just to get by.

As I thought about how much damage I was doing to my body, and how quickly I would recover, I heard a soft “hello” above me. It startled me and I panic-jumped. A forest ranger was waving to me and apologizing for the surprise. She and her partner came closer and chatted with me about my day. They had just finished digging a new pit toilet at Deep Lake, my destination for the evening. She seemed to trust that I had good LNT skills, so she gave me a directions to her secret camping spot right on the water. Her partner agreed that it was his favorite as well. I promised to take good care of it and thanked them for their work on the toilet.

I had a burst of joy from hearing about the special site, and I hurried to get there. Unfortunately, even though mentally I had unlocked a new level of excitement, I couldn’t shift my body into a higher gear no matter how hard I tried. My legs felt like stumps that could only move at one speed.

I was thrilled to make it into the camp at Deep Lake, and it was a beautiful welcome to my home for the night. The light was beginning to fade from the sky and there wasn’t a single breeze or bug in the air. Most importantly, I was all alone again. I hurriedly set some water to boil for dinner before I would need to eat by headlamp. I set up my tent while my meal rehydrated. I was getting into the groove of setting up for the night, even with a broken tent. I was even a little happy. I resisted the temptation to message Leah from the inReach. I felt so far away from everyone and there was a bit of sweetness to my loneliness. As I drifted off to sleep, I was happy to know that I had found what I was looking for when I set off on the trail, even if it hurt a bit.

Day 3 of 4 — 21 miles, 4,800 elevation gain

I woke up at 5am again after another dreamless night. Within minutes of opening my eyes, I rolled over in my bag to begin heating up water. It’d be another morning of oatmeal with a piece of leftover chocolate. I was struggling to keep the food down today though. I tried eating faster, but that made me want to throw up even more. I eventually forced it down and made a mental note to add more sweetener next time.

I packed up my tent and started to look for the fresh toilet I had heard about yesterday. I needed to backtrack a half mile on the trail to find it, and without realizing it I added an extra mile to my day.

My day started with a steep and steady climb. I saw no one and was starting to get used to this solitude. The first hour of every day started the same way. The air was perfectly still and the only sounds was shuffling of my legs and the occasional ding of my poles hitting a rock. The blisters below my feet would remind me of their existence but eventually the wincing pain that dominated my headspace would recede into the background of my thoughts.

As I crested over Cathedral Pass, I saw other people ahead. By the looks of their clean outfits and thin packs it was obvious they were day hiking from a side trail. A few of them stopped to ask me what I was up to. For a brief moment, I felt pretty smug when they were impressed I had only started two days ago.

It wasn’t long before I was alone again. For the next few hours on trail, I felt possessed. My body was moving forward slowly without conscious effort. I had shut my brain off, and wasn’t thinking about how stiff my knees felt, or how the small muscles in my shins were burning with every ankle flexion. I wasn’t even allowing myself to enjoy the sweet smell of pine trees for very long. If I tuned out for long enough, this would go faster I figured.

At this point on the trail, I was mostly within the woods. I was grateful for the shade and could see hints of the bright sun that I was being shielded from. While shuffling robotically along on the trail, I came across another hiker, Giuseppe, who was doing the same hike but had started a day earlier with the intention of completing in five days. Both of us agreed that this would have been a lot more enjoyable in six.

I would have hiked with Giuseppe, but my goal for today was several miles past where he intended to stop. Both of us were hurting, and it had been nice to share what had been on our minds while we quietly pushed our bodies along the PCT. I was hoping he would catch up, and I’d often turn to see if he’d be around the corner.

As I headed further north, I was finally experiencing the smoke of the Bolt Creek fire which had started two weeks ago and was continuing to smolder. The threat of smoke was enough for me to consider calling off the entire trip and I spent more time studying air quality maps than anything else leading up to the trip. I packed a bundle of N95 masks that I was willing to hike in if necessary. It smelled faintly like being at a campground but the smokiness grew fainter as I climbed higher up to Pieper Pass.

As soon as I made it to the other side of the pass, I breathed a lot more easily. The wildfire smoke only crossed my path for less than an hour. I didn’t feel so lucky descending the other side though. The descent was a set of switchbacks carved into a steep boulder field. As beautiful as this experience of being deep in the mountains was, I wanted to be home. Each uneven and unbalanced step on loose talus sent a shooting pain into my shins. I even yelped at a few moments.

Fortunately, I didn’t have much longer to go and knew I’d clear the last two miles before dark. My last long day on the trail was almost over. This felt like a small a finish line before the real finish. Trap Lake lay below me and I could see exactly where I’d be camping, right at the head of the lake. I could already tell I’d have the place to myself.

Once I made it to camp, I dipped my feet into the soft sand below the water. I stepped in further, almost to my knees. I didn’t want to risk an infection from the open wound I had.

I was limping around the campsite setting up my tent. My legs had been dominating my thoughts for the last three days, but they felt entirely foreign to me. This level of damage to my body was unfamiliar to me. The only reason I hadn’t given up was because it wasn’t an option. After a certain point, going back to the start would be just as difficult as finishing. In my tent, I pointed my headlamp down at the bottom of my feet, studying the blisters, bruises, and incredible swelling of my ankles. I had enough left in me to finish this tomorrow.

Day 4 of 4 — 13 miles, 2,300 elevation gain

After yesterday’s regrettable oatmeal, I skipped making breakfast and went straight onto the trail with snacks. I figured the sooner I started, the sooner this would all be over. Mentally, it already felt like it was over. I had settled my mind into a headspace of today being my victory lap. There was a real bed and warm meals awaiting me, and the only thing that separated me from rest was half the mileage and elevation of the previous days.

Even though my pack had been lightened by the meals I consumed, my body carried the fatigue of more mileage and elevation than I had ever done in a short window of time. I buckled to the need for extra motivation, so I finally put on some earbuds to listen to music saved offline. The songs kept my mind occupied and my body now was purely a machine moving along.

After an hour or so on trail, I came across a junction to the Tunnel Creek trailhead, which just over a mile away. This was a shortcut, an escape hatch from my suffering. The sign promised that this could all be over in less than an hour. I was already aware of this path and had been thinking about it all day.

I could skip the last ten miles of the PCT Section J by just veering left instead of continuing north. I walked in circles trying to decide what to do. I wondered if the last ten miles would break my body down in a way that I’d regret, or whether I’d regret that I hadn’t actually done Section J of the PCT. To justify all that I had already endured, I wanted to I complete it properly. I skipped the shortcut and plodded along.

The next ten miles felt like the longest miles of the entire trip. Because I expected today to be twice as fast, I must have also expected it to be twice as easy. Instead, every step was just as challenging today as it was yesterday, if not more. As I got closer to Stevens Pass ski resort, the trees disappeared and I found myself walking over the same ski runs that I enjoyed so much just five months ago. I was finally feeling the full force of the sun without the shade I had grown accustomed to. I did at least have cell service and called Leah. I shared with her what I’d seen and done. I was only gone for four days but it felt like so much more.

Earlier in the day I sent my friends an inReach message letting them know when I’d arrive to Stevens Pass. They were there already doing volunteer work and promised me a big lunch. It was a warm thought to know I had friends waiting for me at the end with crispy and juicy pork roast. 80 miles and 17,000ft of elevation gain later, it was finally done and I could cross it off my damn list.

Post-trail thoughts

Unlike most of my adventures outdoors, this one doesn’t end in triumph or joy. I was just relieved to be done. I went into it thinking this would be something I could do off the couch, without any ramp up of my hiking fitness. I was very wrong. On the one hand, I’m proud of myself for mentally pushing through a level of suffering far beyond what I thought I could manage. On the other hand, I was woefully unprepared in gear (first aid kit), in hiking fitness (cycling fitness is not hiking fitness), and I’ve got several weeks of recovery to heal the damage to my body.

This was also a lesson in humility. A year ago, when I drafted up my ambitions for 2022, I severely underestimated this challenge and overestimated my ability. A common problem with dreaming big is that you sometimes dream too big, and this isn’t the first time that’s happened to me (although it was the most painful). Still, I wouldn’t change my approach in the slightest. My muscles and tendons will heal. The callouses beneath my feet will soften up. My big toenail will eventually not be black from blood pooled underneath it. Instead, what I’ll have forever is intimately knowing what this thin line on the map looks and feels like. Maybe someday I’ll retrace these steps, long after I’ve forgotten how much it hurt and have convinced myself that “yea, I could totally do that again no problem.”