The Wonderland Journal

It’s been less than a month since my application to hike the PCT was approved, and somehow the “minus three months until trail” countdown has already started sprinting. The last four weeks have been a blur of FaceTime calls with Dad, purchases from small thru-hiking companies, Amazon, and REI (plus a respectable number of returns), and a schedule packed tighter than a can of sardines. I even purchased my plane ticket to California, which somehow made the whole thing feel more like a legally binding decision.

With very little time for anything unscheduled, I’ve been running on protein shakes and Pop-Tarts. This was not originally part of the plan—until Dad told me about protein Pop-Tarts as a trail option. I’m beginning to wonder if my growing fatigue and minor headaches could be linked to the fact that frosting is not, in fact, a primary food group. Now that the Pop-Tarts are gone, I’ll need to revert to something resembling a sustainable diet. Preferably one that once grew from the ground.

Most of my training happens at the gym, where I feel slightly unhinged. I’m growing my hair out, and my current look falls somewhere between Albert Einstein and Cindy Lou Who—the only differences being that Einstein had a 170 IQ and Cindy Lou Who somehow made the hairstyle look intentional. Mine leans less “festive Whoville” and more “electrocuted trail gremlin.” Between the knee sleeves, spandex, shorts, and a headband to keep the sweat out of my eyes, I look like a six-tier cake assembled entirely out of synthetic fabric. If the trail doesn’t work out, I may have a future in interpretive fitness fashion.

Each morning, I spend ten minutes contemplating life before dragging myself out of bed and hobbling across the room to flip on the light switch. This is especially true after leg day or a long hike, when my body seems to have undergone a full cementation process overnight. For a few steps, I genuinely question my life choices. Then I remember: this is the point. I am trying to prepare my body to walk all day, every day. Apparently that preparation involves temporarily becoming a hundred years old.

A good chunk of every week is spent on long calls with Dad—who I like to call the Trail Oracle—deep-diving into gear nuances: what do I actually need? What’s considered a luxury item? What weight sins can I justify? I have entered a phase of life where removing tags from clothing feels strategic. Every ounce matters.

One of my recent additions is a pair of Teva sandals—something some hikers skip entirely. They’re lightweight and useful for camp, water crossings, and town days. To me, that sounds worth the extra weight. Future trail-me can argue with present trail-me about it later. Right now, I’m still in the phase of trying to prepare for trail in every possible way: ounces, pace, diet, weather, clothes.

My first gear purchase was a pair of trekking poles, which I never even opened before finding a deal elsewhere: buy a pack, get trekking poles free. Sold! My sleeping quilt—basically a sleeping bag without a zipper that straps to your sleeping pad—came with a free inflatable pillow. Dad sent a box of essentials, including a tent. With the big-ticket items out of the way, I finally took the time to surf through the internet collecting smaller things: a trowel, utility knife, water filter, a spoon, and patches for my trail hat. My visor, however, remains elusive. Amazon, REI, and Dick’s have all failed me. The search continues.

All of my trail gear is now stacked in the corner of my room like a backcountry pile of laundry. At least it’s contained—for now.

Dad can’t emphasize enough that I need to be hiking with my loaded pack—as much as possible. “Simulate trail life,” he reminds me. The best way to train for thru-hiking is, well, hiking. Apparently, simply owning the gear is not the same thing as being ready to carry it for 2,600 miles.

The day my pack arrived, I rushed home from work, tore open the box, and FaceTimed the Trail Oracle within two seconds for a formal inspection. Ten minutes later, the pack was stuffed with blankets, water bottles, a dumbbell, and a borrowed 15-pound weight plate. The pack shouldn’t exceed 35 pounds. This one absolutely did. I had thirty minutes before heading out for a six-mile hike. Accuracy was not my priority that afternoon.

This past Saturday, my friend Eric and I tackled a 12-mile hike at a park about an hour away from home. It probably would have benefited me to check the weather beforehand. Instead, I was focused on testing a new pair of lightweight shorts. Had I worn them around town first, I would have learned they require adjusting approximately every two seconds. Nothing builds resilience like hiking into icy wind while negotiating with your pant legs.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, the wind whipped through the trees. My legs turned a concerning shade of pink. My fingers stung. I layered up quickly, and Eric kindly informed me I looked homeless—which is ironic, considering people often assume PCT hikers are homeless anyway.

Eric’s running shoes have approximately zero tread, so he moved cautiously across icy patches. Meanwhile, whenever I descended rocky steps with trekking poles, I felt like a mechanical spider from The Maze Runner. Without them, I’d already have been face-first in the dirt.

Dad keeps a walking pace between 3 and 3.5 miles per hour, which is my benchmark in training for the next three months. Eric—who happens to be the same height as Dad—has unofficially become my pacer. I can maintain the speed, though it becomes significantly more difficult when I attempt to eat while walking uphill. Huffing through your nose with a mouthful of pepperoni is not a refined athletic skill.

At one point, the wind picked up and the trees began to squeak as they rubbed together. Then we heard a loud crack. About 15 feet ahead of us, a branch came crashing down from 30 feet above. We stopped walking and stared at it. Then at each other. Had we been a few steps ahead, one of us would have been dragging the other out of the woods—nature’s quiet reminder of who’s actually in charge.

Between work, the gym, church activities, friends, and normal life responsibilities, trying to fit in multiple long hikes a week feels almost impossible. I’m squeezing miles in between shifts and laundry cycles. Right now, I’m blocking in hikes, weighing ounces, returning failed purchases, and trying to optimize everything.

And yet, in less than three months, my entire job will be simple: walk.

No spreadsheets. No returns. No weighing chapstick. Just forward motion.

I’m busy, nervous, excited—you name it. If I had to guess, I’d say the first few weeks on trail will humble me. After that, maybe I’ll stop thinking so much about ounces and pace and start thinking about bigger things. Or maybe I’ll mostly think about cheeseburgers.

Either way, I’m looking forward to finding out.

For now, I’ll keep hobbling to the light switch in the morning, and weighing my pack like it’s a competitive sport.

California is coming.