I came to the desert expecting to experience some mental shifts, philosophical changes. I was strong. Good cardio. I thought the heat would be my biggest challenge, followed by the hills.
I expected it would take me two weeks to settle into the life of a thru-hiker. A month to be comfortable.
Instead?
I was settled in this life on day two. I’m not comfortable. I’m never comfortable.
A flat spot to sleep on used to be the expectation. Now it’s more of a battle to find anywhere to lay down, managing the slopes as best as I can by stuffing my clothes under my sleeping pad to level it out.
I thought I was in good shape before I left. Now, I feel weak and bullied by the tough conditions out here. An hour in the gym everyday doesn’t compare to the physical and mental challenge of days on the trail.
My shoes worked well before I came out here. Comfortable. No problems.
They failed the test under the stress of the desert that wears everything down. My feet have been blistered for 700 miles, through two pairs of shoes and a billion first-aid supplies.
I just changed the way I walk to compensate for the blister pain. This isn’t a good thing, of course, but I’ve managed.
And that’s all it is out here. Managing.
I got used to my squishy dinners, smelly clothes, urine splattering on my shoes when I pee because there is only ever rocky sand for my toilet.
I don’t prefer it, but that’s simply how it is out here.
My life is simplified. I care only about my most basic needs. Eat. Sleep. Water. Bathroom. Bored. Look at the map for guidance.
My feet hurt everyday. My legs are tired. The views are underwhelming. This journey isn’t about an epic view. It’s about being forged in the desert.
Miles used to be the only factor in the equation. Now, it’s miles + elevation + heat + terrain = challenge.
There are so many variables out here.
Walking Mission Creek, an eight-mile stretch of river rock, taught me that having to navigate every single step is incredibly draining.
Navigating is draining.
Although I wander the sandy hills of the desert, along with the thousands of other hikers, we all look like foreigners in town.
We’re easily identified by our dirt-stained clothes and hiker-style of clothing. Thru-hikers look like eleven-year-olds on their first day of middle school, bouncing around with an oversized backpack full of heavy books.
We don’t walk well on pavement. This life doesn’t fit well in society.
I am suspended in time out here. It feels as if I began the trail months ago, that the desert will go on forever.
Normally I focus on the future with my spare time. Out here, the future is only a distant dream. The only things that matter are my basic needs. Those are the only things that populate my mind.
It feels as if I met the people out here ages ago, that we’ll forever be on this trail together.
I am caught in a moment in time.
A moment in time with my dad.
People think my dad and I are becoming closer out here. We’re not. My dad and I are already so close that this adventure is simply maintaining the strength of our relationship.
I’m so lucky to be here with him. Before this trip, I watched a YouTube video of a PCT hiker. She was finishing the trail when she said, “I wish my dad were here. He would be so proud of me.”
I’ve held that close since I started trail, because my dad is here. He is alive. We get to do this together. Not many people get to do this with their parent.
I’m so grateful to my dad for teaching me all about backpacking. It’s not rocket science by any means, but he’s giving me all the tips and tricks learned through experience.
I’m so grateful he allowed me to join him in this adventure.
Something I learned from my granddad is that at the end of the day, the only thing that really matters are the people around us.
Out here, I’m building something. Character, strength, memories with my dad, I don’t know exactly. Sometimes I think the best thing to do is just get out there and do something.
And that’s where I’m at.
So I’ll take the blisters, the wicked hot days and freezing nights, the bland meals, the depleted bank account. I’ll choose the pain and discomfort every day.
Something is being built in me out here, but it’s my hard work that’s producing it. It’s just taking some time.
The Wonderland Journal 
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