Fear and Belonging on the Pacific Crest Trail

Photo courtesy of Soophia Ansari

M and D were my chosen family on the trail. I met them on my second day of thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). They were warm and welcoming, and we instantly connected, especially being aware that not many thru-hikers looked like us, as women of color. 

The three of us hiked side-by-side across 900 miles of desert and Sierra Nevada. We learned how to self arrest on Baden Powell, soaked our sore feet in hot springs, screamed when we saw rattlesnakes, and shared meals, motel rooms, and late-night movies.

It was an intense bonding experience, never enjoying the comforts of town for too long, and enduring freezing mornings and blistering afternoons, frozen socks and blisters on our feet. We cried and laughed and traded stories to carry us through the hardest days. 

Our time together on the trail felt like a dream — until it suddenly ended.

Let’s start at the beginning.

When I first embarked on the PCT as a solo thru-hiker, I was filled with imposter syndrome and fears that I wasn’t strong enough to complete the trail. I had never done a thru-hike before, and, during a normal year, the scorching desert, river crossings and high elevation are a few of the challenges that would make most people think twice. On top of the usual, 2023 saw historic snowfall throughout most of California, which covers the first 1700 miles.

The PCT is a 2,653-mile National Scenic Trail that goes through over 100 major mountain passes, 48 wilderness areas, 26 national forests, seven national parks, five national monuments, and five state parks.  - on its way from the Canada-U.S border in the north to the Mexico-U.S. border in the south. 

It is a truly epic journey.

Trail snow in 2023, Source: Postholer

During the first 700 miles of the trail – the desert section – instead of facing heat, I saw mountaintops covered in snow, a rare experience that even most locals were surprised by. I wasn’t a mountaineer, but I climbed peaks like San Jacinto and Baden Powell in the snow, which taught me important skills like traversing on ice, self arrest, and assessing snow conditions. They were a good precursor for what was to come in the Sierra Nevada.

The Sierra Nevada section of the PCT is where hikers witness some of the most stunning wilderness on the entire trail. It was also entirely covered in snow during my attempt. I remember staring up at the Sierra giants from the small trail town of Lone Pine, with a mixture of excitement and fear. Luckily, I wasn’t going in alone. I was still hiking with my trail family, a couple of sisters I met early on in my hike. We’ll call them M and D.

When we arrived to the Sierra,  we tried meeting others to hike with, but finding fellow hikers who matched pace, attitude, and values was hard. Out here, we needed to trust one another to make it through the snowy Sierra safely. Out here, the team was so important; I was lucky to trust and care for M and D so deeply, and have them care for me. 

Photo courtesy of Soophia Ansari

When we entered the Sierra, I was struggling both physically and mentally. I had just spent a week off trail, sick from town germs and bedridden on antibiotics. Returning to trail and gaining significant altitude all at once, my body felt weak and my hiker legs were gone. M and D were always stronger hikers, and now I was even slower. But they didn’t mind waiting for me - after all, we had hiked 700 miles together so far.

The Sierra Nevada was breathtaking and terrifying, cruel and unyielding. We climbed up slabs of ice, dug our crampons into condensed sheets of snow, scrambled up rocks, and traversed many steep dangerous slopes. Each day felt like it was about survival. We camped in the snow most nights, and could hear raging water all around us, though we couldn’t always see it as most of it was buried under snow. 

Collecting water from the rivers wasn’t safe due to fragile snow banks, so we would gaze out at the rushing water as we tediously melted snow for drinking water. Finding safe paths to cross the rivers was challenging, as the water levels were exceptionally high and currents strong due to the historic snowpack. As the temperatures rose, snow bridges used to cross became fragile and unreliable. 

Photo courtesy of Soophia Ansari

Our packs were the heaviest they had ever been, as we had to bring extra food and snow gear. The miles were slow and grueling, the air thin due to high altitude. We would wake up at 1am to climb the steep icy passes, as this was when the snow was most firm. We would sleep during the day, when it was warm enough under the sun to fall asleep on top of snow.

M, being the fastest in our group, tended to take the lead in navigating. Often, we ended up off the trail, traversing steep snowy slopes, digging our soaking wet feet and trekking poles into the ice. Hiking through the snowy Sierras was challenging, but we all felt determined to see it through till the end, and getting through each pass felt incredibly rewarding. For a while, things were good… until they weren’t. 

“With no option but to wait until it was safe to hike, I sat in my tent shaking from cold and exhaustion and cried.”

During one tough section, we were met with intense back-to-back hail storms that made conditions slippery and dangerous. Lightning danced all around us and we found ourselves slipping on steep descents and self arresting with our ice axes several times. The snow became slushy and we began postholing (falling through pockets of air under fragile snow and onto unforgiving granite). All of our gear became soaked and we set up our wet tents haphazardly to wait out the storm. For the next few days, there were repeated storms, making travel feel unsafe; still the only way out was through.

M and D, frightened by the weather, picked up their paces, and I struggled to keep up.  They were clearly frustrated by my inability to keep pace, and I was frustrated at myself, and at them. We had entered the Sierra as a team, but I was starting to feel more like a problem and less like a team member. As we had to make tough calls, it always felt like my opinion was secondary; this was their hike, and I was just tagging along, slowing them down. This didn’t feel good at all, but what was I supposed to do? I was in dangerous terrain and I depended on these girls, my trail family. We were safer in numbers than we were alone, and they were my friends, after all.

Photo courtesy of Soophia Ansari

During one tough day, we found ourselves on top of a mountain when an intense lightning and hail storm made its way toward us. We set up our shelters to wait it out, and when the storm passed, we had to decide if it was worth heading down the mountain or not. M and I agreed it was worth trying, D disagreed. We pushed forward, ultimately getting stuck in the storm again, and having to set up our tents on the side of the mountain, exposed even more to the elements.

As my already wet tent started dripping ice cold water onto my sleeping bag, I suddenly felt powerless and panicked. I wanted to get out of here so fast. I was tired of being stuck in this mountain range that was so cruel. I was tired of shivering from the damp cold and tired of feeling dizzy from the altitude. I considered what would happen if I pressed SOS on my Garmin, but knew it wasn’t the right choice. My sleeping bag still provided warmth; I could still hike; and I still had food. With no option but to wait until it was safe to hike, I sat in my tent shaking from cold and exhaustion and cried. I called out to M and D, hoping we could talk. They weren’t interested in speaking with me.

D felt that the reason we were stuck on this mountain was because I wanted to keep pushing forward. The reason we were stuck was because I was slower than the two of them. She lashed out at me while I was crying. Were these the same people I had hiked 900 miles with so far? I felt incredibly small and alone, weak and pathetic for getting upset.

We eventually found a clear weather window to hike in the middle of the night and we were able to get out of the mountain range and to safety in town. I was relieved to finally feel safe. Three days in town went by and I was nervous to re-enter the Sierra with my tramily. They didn’t seem interested in talking about how difficult this last section was, what we could do differently, how we could work better together as a team. 

The night before getting back on trail, our last section in the Sierra, M and D told me they didn’t want to hike with me anymore. They felt it was safer to make decisions with two people, not three, and didn’t want to wait for me anymore as the slow hiker of the group. After 900 miles and three months spent nonstop together, it was time for us to part ways.

Hiking alone.

This broke my heart. I couldn’t rely on the people I had spent so much energy building connections with, but more importantly, I was a failure. Too slow, not a good decision maker, why on earth did I think I had any right to be out here? Who did I think I was attempting a thru-hike? The intrusive thoughts poured in and I started to panic. There was no one else in the Sierra I could hike with - the numbers had dwindled by this point, and I couldn’t risk hiking with people I didn’t know or hiking alone. Should I quit? I couldn’t imagine doing that either. I called my partner and cried endlessly.

After an awkward evening with M and D (with whom I was sharing a hotel room), I called several trail angels to ask for advice on flipping north out of the snow, and spent 3 days on buses, making my way to dry trail. The people I met on this journey north were kind and soft; it made me feel vulnerable after all the challenges in the snow and the bitter-sweet end to my time in the Sierra. 

Photo courtesy of Soophia Ansari

I made it to Chester, the first place where the snow-pack died down, and where I could confidently hike alone. I took my first steps on dirt and all the pain of the last few weeks melted away. Navigation was now easy; water was abundant and I would no longer have to melt snow; I could sleep on warm dirt instead of freezing snow; I no longer had to worry about postholing or river crossings or lightning storms or altitude sickness. I was safe. I had agency and choice again. 

Though this was the first time I was alone on my thru-hike (I had met M and D on Day 2), it didn’t take long before I met amazing groups of people. I still felt shame and embarrassment for being dumped by my tramily. But those I spoke to about this experience offered tender hearts. The miles I skipped represented failure to me. Too slow I would remind myself, while staring at the giant gap in my footpath on the map.  

The gap in my footpath on the PCT due to snow (eventually I came back and hiked this section successfully). 

After hiking through Northern California, Oregon, and Washington, I made it to the Canadian border. I had finished more than 2,200 miles of the 2,650-mile PCT, and the thought of the comforts of home flooded my brain with joy. Still, my hike wasn’t complete; California and I had unfinished business. I needed to head down south and complete those miles that were once buried under snow, but were now past the melt.

After a flight, a few hitches, and even more kindness from trail angels, I was back in California to finish the miles I had skipped. When I re-entered the Sierra, I was scared; I didn’t know what to expect. But instead of icy traverses and raging rivers, I found idyllic water and lush meadows. During my first night back, I cowboy camped (slept outside of my tent) and gazed up at the Milky Way, watching the International Space Station float through the sky. Coming back to this section after the snow had melted and I could safely hike independently felt like the closure I needed from this harsh and beautiful terrain.

At the end of the day, it didn’t matter if I was “slow”; I was still able to rejoin my footsteps and complete a continuous footpath from Mexico to Canada. Though my path was marked by fear and failure, it was also illuminated by moments of profound beauty and connection. The beauty of nature is often only an option for the physically fit and able-bodied; it's essential to recognize that the outdoors belong to everyone, regardless of athletic prowess or physical abilities. 

Every individual, irrespective of their fitness level or mobility challenges, deserves the opportunity to immerse themselves in the wonders of nature, to learn the skills necessary to participate safely, and claim space outside; this is especially true for historically inaccessible sports like thru-hiking. Ultimately, the people who share these values and prioritize community over achievement mean the most to me. I am grateful for these experiences and all that they taught me. I am lucky to have successfully hiked the PCT during a historic snow year, but I didn’t do it alone– I had a village of people support me– including M and D.