Long Distance Backpacking

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Long distance backpacking rules

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It’s interesting how much of a role hitchhiking plays in thruhiking. A few years ago, I would have shuddered at the thought of hitchhiking because I was told from a young age that it’s not safe to get into cars with strangers. But after many positive experiences hitching around trail towns on both the AT and PCT, I’ve started catching rides all over the place.

I can’t believe the number of fascinating folks I’ve met hitchhiking—people I would’ve never been exposed to otherwise. I’ve gotten rides from Trump supporters and Trump haters. Jesus freaks and vocal atheists. Rural Americans in beat-up trucks blasting country music. Chinese tourists in a rental car who barely spoke English. A district attorney in a luxury sedan on her way home from work. Climbers and vagabonds livings out of their vans. Cement pourers. Students. Pot growers. Former long distance hikers repaying their karmic debt for all the rides THEY got when thruhiking. I even spent an hour in a car in the eastern Sierra discussing water politics with an employee of the LA Department of Water and Power.

I’m not saying hitchhiking is for everyone. People of color and trans/queer folk might have difficult if not dangerous experiences hitching. And I know that, as a woman, I have to be careful. For sure I turn on my “Spidey sense” when hitchhiking. I generally prefer to approach people in parking lots, so I can assess their vibes from afar before asking them for a lift. But if getting picked up from the side of the road, I chat for a minute with the driver before getting into their car to make sure we feel comfortable with each other. I also sometimes take a picture of their license plate and text it to a friend.

After countless hitches over the past three years, I have never felt unsafe. Not once.

Again, I’m not trying to say that everyone should start hitchhiking. I just wanted to talk about it because it’s been a big part of my journey over the past three years. Along with thruhiking, it’s taught me one of the most important lessons of my life—that you can choose rational caution over irrational fear when making decisions and taking risks.

It’s also cemented my belief that most people, despite their flaws, are inherently good.

Flip-flopping the PCT has been a bit exhausting, but I ultimately think the pros outweigh the cons. What can I say--I enjoy doing things my own way. 500 miles to go!

The Pros and Cons of Flip-Flopping the PCT - The Trek Flip-flopping is a style of thruhiking that really works for those of us who like doing things our own way. But it also has its drawbacks.

Muir Pass Shelter, July 22. The benign cumulus clouds that had dotted the sky all morning were now multiplying, become dark and brooding. I felt a few drops of rain as I posed for this picture but I didn’t think much of it. I snapped a photo of the ominous sky from the top of the pass, gathered my few possessions, then kept hiking south. A few minutes later, I saw a marmot scurrying about and stopped to leisurely watch the little guy, chuckling with amusement. I wish I had known that only a few minutes later, I would experience the worst thunderstorm I have ever hiked through.

It was as if the sky suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces. Out of nowhere, a combination of hail and driving rain began to pummel my arms so aggressively that I had to tuck my hands—still gripping my trekking poles—under my chin like a praying mantis and lower my head so that my eyes wouldn’t be struck by the stinging ice. I yelled out in indignation and started to hike as fast I could, but the forces of nature that had brought on the storm paid no attention to my cries.

I knew I had to drop elevation as quickly as possible but as I passed Helen Lake on the south side of the pass, my progress was suddenly hindered by a flood of water from the overflowing lake that was gushing onto the trail. I could no longer distinguish between the trail and the rocky stream beds on either side of it, so I just sloshed my way downhill, unsure of where exactly I was going—only knowing that I needed to go down. My trail runners and gloves quickly became soaked and within 15 minutes, I could no longer feel my hands and feet. My panicked shivering quickly gave way to sobbing. Warmth and safety and comfort felt so far away—pleasures I had once known but would never feel again.

“No,” I told myself. “This is temporary. You ARE going to be warm and safe and comfortable again soon.” I knew I needed to find a campsite as quickly as possible, but the world around me seemed to be made of only jagged rocks and gushing water.

Finally, I came upon a tentsite next to the Middle Fork of the Kings River and staggered onto it. I could barely unbuckle my pack because my fingers were so numb. I erected my tent as quickly as I could in the rain and then dove inside of it. I had lost my base layers two days before and had nothing dry to wear, so I buried myself in my sleeping bag and tried to regain control over my body and emotions. I was still heaving with sobs when the warmth of the down bag finally began to calm me down. I reached for my cell to check my PCT app and see how many miles I had hiked that day...but, to my horror, the Otterbox encasing my phone had somehow filled with water. A few minutes later, the phone short-circuited and died.

I stared at the wall of my tent, anger coursing through me as my inner child threatened a tantrum. But then, a soothing voice within me said, “This is thruhiking, Janel. This experience is just one of many on the hard but amazing journey that you have committed to.” I closed my eyes, felt the solid ground beneath my body and took a deep breath. “I am here. I am here in this moment on the Pacific Crest Trail. I am committed to this journey and all that it has to offer.”

Thruhiking means learning to roll with whatever the trail throws at you, no matter how uncomfortable. Sometimes, it truly sucks. But it’s good training for the rest of your life. When you’re working towards a big goal, you will inevitably experience trials and tribulations. Life doesn’t always go your way—and that’s a good thing. If it did, you wouldn’t innovate and grow. You wouldn’t appreciate the little victories nearly as much. Committing to something means accepting ALL that it has to offer—both the wonderful and the difficult.

So this is just a reminder that whatever you’re struggling with right now on your path is part of a bigger story. Zoom out and take a deep breath. You’ll make it through.

“Go with the utmost respect,” said a PCT section hiker named Ingo the night before I was to hike into the Sierra. Ingo knew better than anyone how dangerous these mountains can be. Last year, his good friend Strawberry went missing in the High Sierra. Ingo was the one who notified Yosemite rangers of her disappearance. Days later, the rangers found her body in the South Fork of the Kings River—she had slipped and drowned while attempting to ford the river alone.

After Ingo told me that story, “utmost respect” became my mountain mantra. Whenever I’d hike through a strong stream current or across an icy slope and started to feel pangs of nervousness, I’d repeat the phrase over and over under my breath. I wanted the mountains to know that I humbly understood who had the ultimate power. I wanted them to know that I didn’t underestimate their strength and that I wasn’t there to “conquer” them, but to appreciate them in all their unpredictable and expansive glory. Luckily, they responded to my prayer of sorts by challenging me only as much as I could actually handle.

I believe that experiences like this are critical for understanding our relationship as humans to the natural world. In fact, I want every leader around the globe to spend a week in gorgeous wilderness that could kill them at any moment. I have a feeling they would start to approach decisions that have major impacts on the environment with a bit more respect.

📸 by .world.wild (IG)

“Immerse into the past. Arise into the present”. EG