SUFFER WELL
The drive was quiet. I stared out the window of my aunt's range rover contemplating everything that had led to these final moments and what awaited me. We're driving through a part of California that my aunt and uncle, lifelong residents of the state themselves, have never seen, let alone my world-weary small town, Pennsylvanian self. Coming here for this trip was the second time I'd ever set foot in this state. Before the last 24 hours, I'd only ever seen Irvine and its immediate vicinity. This was a far cry from that. Hell, this could have been Pennsylvania if only the desert vegetation and abnormally clear sky didn't give it away. We were in the proverbial "middle of nowhere," nearing the United States-Mexico border and why I'd come all this way. To begin a Thru-Hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. An adventure that, all said and done, was nearly two years in the making.
I was in perpetual crippling depression when I realized I wanted to thru-hike the PCT, and even when that thought first entered my mind in march of 2020, I barely believed myself. I went back and forth with the idea for the better part of a year. Eventually, it came down to two options for myself: Publicly declare the intent to thru-hike the PCT and commit to that as my purpose in life, or put a pistol in my mouth and pull the trigger. Two rather extreme options by any stretch, but after everything that went wrong with my life in 2020, I reached a literal breaking point. I joined the army in December 2019. By March of 2020, I was back in my hometown due to an involuntary medical separation. Even though I lost over 200 pounds to get there and dedicated my life to the cause, it didn't matter. The way I looked at it, if I couldn't make the army work, nothing would. And that notion nearly literally killed me.
Instead of a 147-grain exit strategy, I opted to create a video that would tell my story and thus make it my life's work to inspire others to keep fighting. I realized I was worth more to the world alive than dead from that moment. Eventually, I realized that by hiking this trail as someone who weighed nearly 500 pounds at one point, I might objectively do more good for the world than I would have hoped to on my prior path. After all, inspiring people to keep fighting their personal battles seems like it could do more long-term good than being part of a war machine. Now I just had to put my money where my mouth was, and I was mere minutes away from doing just that.
The border fence was much larger and more menacing than I imagined. Like something out of a dystopian science fiction thriller, it rolled on as far as the eye could see, only disappearing in the shimmer of heat waves in the distance. I approached the border and stuck my arm through to touch Mexico. I felt like armed sentries would undoubtedly appear to remove me if I lingered near it for too long. Better not find out. There were more rolling hills and vegetation than I anticipated. Not what I expected from a desert. Although before this moment, I had never set foot in a desert, so who was I to judge? I wandered up to the terminus where I signed a registry and was given a hard plastic tag with the official pacific crest trail logo brightly printed on it. It was all so surreal. in the months leading up to this; I was sure something would happen that would yet again derail the plan I had made for my life. But no. So far, so good. Now I was officially here at the start of this 2,650+ mile journey of a lifetime, and as far as I could tell, there wasn't a damn thing that was going to stop me.
As my aunt and uncle drove off and disappeared over the horizon, the sensation of "this is really happening" came over me. I approached the terminus, stared at it, marveling at how much smaller it appeared in real life, patted it and went off. I had no idea how far I was going to go that day. It was already after 1 pm. I had assumed I would start the trail with 15-mile days, but that wouldn't happen today. In fact, after dawdling with setting up my camera multiple times throughout the afternoon, it ended up being more like a 5-mile day by the time the sun started to set. Little did I know how much of a rude awakening I was in for and just what all this strange and inhospitable land would throw my way.
The morning of day 2 found me waking late, taking my sweet time getting camp packed up, and making a cold soaked instant oatmeal breakfast. That was part of my pre-packed strict utilitarian resupply strategy that I would not become physically sickened by the thought of eating and remain disciplined enough to consume for the entire journey, surely. By the time I left camp, it was probably 10 am. I wasn't stressed about the time; I only had 15 miles between Lake Morena and me. I glanced at the Far Out navigation app and saw a few water sources along the way. No need to backtrack for more water; 3 liters would be plenty to get me to the next source. The day started easily enough.
Then about two miles in, I encountered two hikers going in the opposite direction of me. "hello," I said as they passed. Curious about their direction but noticing their gear, I asked, "are you thru-hikers?" "Yes, but we heard there are no water sources until Lake Morena, so we're going to hitch there." "Oh, well, good luck," I said as we parted ways. I had 3 liters of water and a bunch of liquid IVs. Not ideal given the terrain and heat index, but surely there would be water along the way? Besides, I was too proud even to consider skipping a section, and with less than 15 miles to go, I would be there in no time, so I thought.
Looking back at the AccuWeather recording for that region in march of 2022, I just so happened to pick the hottest day that month to make this trek. With an air temperature measuring just under 90 degrees Fahrenheit and walking over rocks with no shade nearly all day, I quickly realized 3 liters of water was nowhere near enough. I hoped the added electrolyte mixes would make the difference, but I was undoubtedly rolling the dice with that notion. I didn't panic, but I knew there were legitimate odds this could end badly for me. Even hot days back east usually have cloud cover offering some extra UV protection, but out here, the skies were some of the bluest I've ever seen. I decided to ration my water by taking small gulps every hour and just hoped I would encounter a flowing water source or a water cache I had heard so much about.
About ten miles in, I reached the infamous Hauser Creek, a valley that stands as the final challenge before the home stretch to Lake Morena. This area is where a lot of thru-hikes end prematurely. Luckily there was a water cache someone left at the entrance to the creek. Unfortunately, it was hot to the touch and made me almost sick to my stomach to consume. I knew I wasn't the only hiker passing through, so I only took an extra liter from the cache. I now had two liters of water and was banking on the creek below to be flowing. I made my way to the bottom, and sure enough, no flow. This was a pivotal moment, and I didn't know what to do. In hindsight, the obvious answer would be to siesta and continue at night, but at this point, I had never night hiked and thought my best bet would be to push through and get to the campground. After all, I wasn't getting any more hydrated just sitting around. I had about a 1,300-foot climb ahead of me at the tail end of the day's peak heat. I looked back at the hikers making camp, then I looked at the climb that stood before me, ripped open two liquid IVs, mixed them into a liter of hot water, and pushed forward.
Not long after I began my ascent, I realized just how dire my situation was. I was covered in salt head to toe, and my mouth started to go dry. I began to feel nauseous and light-headed. At this point, I had about four miles to go, and I began to question whether or not I would actually survive this trek. I found a small piece of shade under a bush and sat there. I thought of everything that led to this moment—my life before coming to this god-forsaken Hauser Creek. I may have been miserable living it, but at least I wasn't competing for death between heat exhaustion and dehydration. I thought about all the things I wouldn't get the chance to tell the few people I cared about most. Would I even survive long enough to be rescued if it came down to hitting my Garmin's SOS button? Perhaps what motivated me the most to keep going was thinking, "If I hit this button, If I give up, I will be part of a news article that gets shared throughout the rest of time in every PCT and backpacking group known to man. 'Dumbass PCT hiker doesn't carry enough water in the fucking desert' I can see it now." I don't know how true any of that is, but it was enough motivation to kick my ass in gear and get moving.
It was slow going, but I had no other choice but to keep moving. Stopping now would do nothing but seal my fate. I took another seat to catch my breath and rest for a moment. As I did so, a spry young man decked out in all the ultralight gear of the day casually strolled past me. As much as I hate to admit it, this struck some strange chord with my ego; here I was struggling to get by, and this guy was blazing past me. It made me realize and reflect on how badly I prepared for this section, even though I thought I was ready to come out of the gate swinging on this trail. I realized how much of an idiot I sounded and snapped out of it. The least of my worries was getting passed by other hikers. The fact that I was a few more dumb choices from death's door regained precedence in my mind, and I continued.
A short while later, who do I see but that same hiker sitting on a rock staring off in the distance in direct sunlight. Feeling bad for judging him earlier, I decided to say hello. His response, "Dude, I don't think I can make it." "OH SHIT." I thought to myself. This gave me a rush of energy as I wasn't about to let this guy die on my watch. I gave him a liquid IV and convinced him to sit on a rock in direct sunlight wasn't the move. There were about 3 miles until lake morena. Three miles to guaranteed water and even hot food. Inside I was getting more nervous about the situation, but keeping my cool was the only option. It dawned on me that I could check the comments on waypoints in Far Out, and I found one claiming there was a water cache around mile 17, not far from where we were. Knowing this gave us a second wind.
I incessantly checked Far Out to see how close we were getting. Eventually, I could see the tree and water jugs hanging from it. I made my way over and started shaking the jugs for signs of even a drop of water. Every one of them was bone dry. My stomach immediately dropped, and an overbearing sense of dread permeated my being. At this point, I was actively fighting the urge to vomit, and my hands were starting to tingle. I had half a liter of electrolyte-laden water left and no idea if it even mattered. We progressed, and once we got to 2 miles left, I downed the rest of what I had. The closer I got to the campground, the more my steps became a stagger. That final half mile was the longest of my life. I wanted nothing more than to take a seat and rest my eyes, but I knew the likelihood of me getting back up would be slim. I staggered like the living dead into the Lake Morena campground as the sun was setting. I made my way to the bathroom and began dry heaving before I started drinking from the sink. I was in rough shape, but a least now I was pretty sure I wasn't going to die.
All of this transpired on day two and was effectively my introduction to the Pacific Crest Trail, specifically the "desert section." And for nearly the last two months, that's what I've been traversing. I feel like I've lived several lifetimes since that day hiking to lake morena. I've made friends that have come and gone, traveled alone most of the time, seen people fail, and questioned my sanity and existence during that time. I've learned a lot about myself, people, nature, and countless other things. But the one lesson that has come to stick out the most to me is how to suffer. How to suffer and how to suffer well. Because some days that's all we do out here.
You will suffer from physical discomfort. You will suffer from emotional turmoil and existential dread. You will know what it means to suffer from factors beyond your control. You will embrace it. Or you will not last. We're all out here for different reasons; some are between college and a career field, some to make the most of their golden years. Some of us are just lost and maybe even looking for redemption. We all come from different walks of life, socioeconomic status, religious and political beliefs. It doesn't matter what we did before or what we'll do after. When we're out here, we suffer together, and we do it with a smile.
A few years ago, I reached a point in life where I was determined to suffer. I felt it was what I deserved and needed to experience after a life lived in excess. Excessive use of drugs and alcohol and binge eating food. Excessive amounts of comfort that never did anything but make me a weaker and more bitter person. It took suffering to transform me from a 450+ pound semblance of a human being to someone that can complete something like the Pacific Crest Trail. I thought a military career in combat arms would fill that void and forge me into the person I wanted to become through the unusual amount of suffering that comes with that path, but that wasn't how life panned out for me. Instead, I now walk the path of the PCT. I'm a little short of 600 miles in at the time of writing this, and I've found it to be the experience that may fill the void after all.
I'm no stranger to suffering. I've been doing it my whole life in one form or another. For many people, myself included, at one point, simply living day to day was a form of suffering. You'll have to do it one way or another. You can suffer through the pain and regret of giving up, which might lead you to know how a Glock tastes. Or, you can suffer through the process of change which will lead you to become a better person. It's up to you which one you go with, but I can tell you from experience with both that the latter is more worthwhile. So whether you're thru-hiking a long-distance trail, struggling to lose weight, battling addiction, or lost with no purpose in life, I urge you to take control of your suffering as a way to set yourself free. And when you go down that path, and things inevitably become more challenging than you bargained for, and you want to quit, remember why you started. You can suffer to self-destruction, or you suffer well to redemption.
