Humbled

I've been putting off writing this, mostly because I didn’t know how to begin. But there’s no easy way to say it: I’m stepping away from the trail.

Tomorrow I’ll board a train and begin a 46-hour journey back to Minneapolis.

I don’t think this is the end of my PCT story—but it is a pause. And it’s not a decision I made lightly. For six years, this goal shaped my life: planning, training, dialing in gear, saving money, taking prep trips. Walking away from it now stings more than I expected. I'm hoping I can come back later in the summer and hike a smaller stretch of the trail I missed. Hopefully I can share that with some friends.

This journey has been so much more than the photos and blogs I’ve shared. What stands out most are the people—the hikers I met and the countless trail angels who showed up with generosity and kindness at just the right moments. That spirit of selflessness, the “trail magic,” is something I’ll carry with me long after this.

But the trail itself—especially the desert—was far more demanding than I ever imagined. The heat, the scarcity of water, the long carries under heavy packs, rattlesnakes, sudden cold and wet weather, unstable stretches of trail high in the mountains—there were no easy days. I remember thinking at one point, someone is going to die out here. A few weeks later, a PCT hiker did. From what I understand, it was heat-related. I don’t know the details, but it hit close to home.

On the Colorado Trail, I felt myself growing stronger and more confident every day. Out here, while my body got stronger, something else was happening—my confidence was slowly being worn down. The trail began to feel less like an adventure and more like a grind.

I hate to admit it, but there were mornings when getting out of my sleeping bag felt like a battle. I started asking myself why I was doing this… and eventually, I started to not have an answer anymore.

So for now, I’m choosing to listen to that. To step away, regroup, and figure out what comes next. This isn’t how I imagined this journey going—but it’s an honest part of it.

I want to share what the last couple of days have looked like, because they’re really what brought everything into focus.

For a while now, I’ve felt this journey slowly starting to come apart. But in the last few days, it wasn’t gradual anymore—it felt like everything unraveled all at once.

I came up to Northern California to bypass the Sierra for now. Heading into those mountains in April didn’t feel right to me—the snow on steep passes, the unpredictability of late-season storms, the risk of sketchy water crossings. The plan was to head north instead, hike toward the border, and come back to the Sierra later when conditions were safer.

But things shifted as soon as I got here.

As far as I know, there was only one other hiker in this area heading my direction, and she had already been turned back by snow at higher elevations—right where I was headed. Another storm system is rolling in, likely adding even more snow.

A trail angel dropped me off at the trailhead yesterday. When I mentioned I was going northbound, her immediate reaction was, “Oh shit!" Not exactly the confidence boost you hope for.

I started hiking anyway, but there was no excitement in it. Just a quiet, persistent voice in my head saying, don’t do this. There was no one else out there. The trail felt empty in a way that wasn’t peaceful—it felt isolating. Like I was walking into something I shouldn’t be.

I had planned to hike 15 miles that day. Instead, I made it a couple of miles before stopping. My body and mind were both pushing back, and I listened. I found a beautiful campsite—towering pines, a flowing creek, exactly the kind of place I usually dream about. But even there, something felt off.

With everything I’d heard about the conditions ahead, continuing north didn’t make sense. Going south wasn’t an option either because of the snow. I might have been able to push farther north, but some of my planned resupply stops weren’t even open yet for the season. I would’ve run out of food.

The only real option was to wait—and not just for a day or two. Possibly weeks.

Sitting there at camp, it became clear. I had come up here too early. The logistics were stacking up in ways that didn’t feel manageable anymore—especially financially. And beyond that, I could feel how drained I’d become.

So that’s where I made the decision to step away, at least for now.

I didn’t sleep much last night after deciding. But even with the uncertainty, it still feels like the right call. I’m hopeful I can come back to this—under better conditions, and in a better headspace.

I went back and forth on whether to share this, but honesty has been my goal with this blog from the start. Not every part of this experience is beautiful or inspiring—and I think it’s important to show that too.

This is the last journal entry I wrote in my tent last night. I’m still trying to make sense of these past 47 days, and I know that will take time. But this feels like the beginning of that process.

Here it is…

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April 24,2026

How can you feel so lost when you can point to exactly where you are on the map?

I had a sense things were off before I ever heard the trail angel’s reaction—but it made it crystal clear the moment she realized I was heading northbound out of Dunsmuir and muttered, “oh shit!"

By then, I’d already felt like I lost my connection to the trail. The two miles I managed today felt hollow, stripped of any kind of purpose. Each step was slow and heavy—not because of the terrain, but because of the weight of doubt. Forty-seven days out here had worn me down in a way I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just physical anymore.

Ahead lay higher elevations, lingering snow, and a forecast calling for more of the same. Every step forward carried a question mark. My legs felt packed with bricks, as if my body had already made the decision my mind was still trying to avoid. The fifteen miles I’d planned—once a routine day—felt impossibly far away.

I knew I wasn’t going to keep going forward. My body said it first.

In the desert, for some reason my confidence never grew. The trail had a way of breaking you down. Up here in Northern California, my confidence unraveled. I came hoping to reclaim something I hadn't found in the desert—clarity, momentum, maybe even belief again. Instead, I’ve found more uncertainty. More questions with no clear answers.

There’s no one else out here. The only other hiker I’d heard about—a French woman who had also skipped ahead—turned back a few days ago. I never saw her. I haven’t seen anyone.

It’s a lonely stretch of trail. Usually, I can carry that solitude without trouble. But with snow underfoot, higher elevations ahead, and weather closing in, the silence feels different now—heavier, harder to ignore.

In the distance, a train calls out—the only sound beyond the steady rush of the creek and the soft stirring of leaves in the wind. That train could carry me all the way back to Minnesota. Back to family, to friends, to something familiar and easy. That’s what I hear in it—not just steel on tracks, but home. That's a powerful sound and one that's hard to ignore after 47 days in the mountains.

I’m sitting at a crossroads, and somehow these three sounds—the water, the wind, the train—feel like a summery of the last 47 days.

Water has been everything. The sound of it, the search for it, the constant pull toward it in the desert. Out here, life revolves around water—on the trail and beyond it. It’s survival, but it’s also something deeper, something grounding.

The wind has been both companion and adversary. It cooled me when the heat was relentless, and it cut through me when the cold set in. It tested me in sleepless nights as I held my tent up in the Mojave, and it tested me as I leaned into it while crossing exposed ridges. I’ve been grateful for it. I’ve hated it. Sometimes both at once.

And the trains—always seemingly there on certain parts of the trail, threading through towns, echoing through nights spent too close to the tracks. They’ve kept me awake, but they’ve also carried me forward, brought moments of connection, of reunion, of movement toward something meaningful.

Now I’m here, alone in the mountains, listening to all three at once.

And they don’t just feel like memories anymore.

They feel like a choice.

I don’t know what “moving forward” on this trail even means anymore. It feels scattered—like a puzzle dropped on the ground, the picture broken into pieces I can’t quite fit back together.

If I quit, I can already hear the questions waiting back home. Will I be seen as someone who gave up? That’s a hard thing to sit with. Because the truth is, I’ve given this trail everything I have. Still, I can’t pretend there wouldn’t be disappointment—some quiet, stubborn weight I’d carry with me.

So which direction do I go?

Right now, I feel pinned in place. The trail ahead is dictated by snow and weather, and the only thing that changes that is time. Time I don’t know how to spend—waiting, restless, unsure.

After five days off, my body feels stronger. My sore leg is better. Physically, I could keep going.

But my mind is worn down. I’m not really enjoying this anymore. And if I’m honest, there have been long stretches where I haven’t—I’ve just kept pushing forward because that's what I was supposed to do.

I can see the trail from my tent right now. It looks abandoned. In a few months it will be worn down by passing feet, full of movement and purpose—but tonight it’s empty, quiet, and offers me nothing.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my reason for being out here. I’m not sure when it happened, only that it’s gone. Why am I still here? This isn’t really fun anymore.

All I have are the sounds around me—the water, the wind, and the distant call of a train. Three directions.

So what do I choose?

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I'll be back in Minnesota in just a couple days. I would love to see folks! Hoping I can return to PCT for a smaller section later this summer.

Thank you so much for following on this blog! I've really enjoyed reading the comments. I'll try to give you an update on the train home.

See you down the train tracks (I finally get to do a cross country train trip)......