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In 2025, I did not finish the Pacific Crest Trail. |
That sentence carries some weight and, if I’m honest, makes me feel some regret. Finishing was the stated goal, and by that measure, the attempt failed. I had to come off the trail because of a painful injury that made continuing unsafe and, for a time, made even ordinary mobility difficult. In the moment when I recognized the pain I was experiencing might end my journey, I was concerned that I might have suffered a stress fracture or another serious and lasting injury. In the end, it was “only” shin splints. |
Only shin splints but profoundly painful, mobility-limiting shin splints. |
The injury was real, and it was the immediate and functional reason I stopped. But that’s not the whole story. My PCT thru-hike failure began much earlier with a question I had not answered clearly enough: |
Why was I hiking the PCT? |
I had goals. I had plans. I had equipment. I had done some preparation and training. But I had not fully established a reason that would carry me through the inevitable discomfort, uncertainty, boredom, fear, and disappointment. Looking back now, more than a year after leaving the trail, I can see that this ambiguity shaped the entire attempt and set my feet on a path to failure. It influenced how I prepared, how I responded to problems, and ultimately how long I was willing or able to continue when things became difficult. It limited my tolerance to pause, rest and recover, and even my take care of simple daily chores like stretching. Of the group of people in my bubble I know of only three that made it to the Northern Terminus and I would suggest that all three of them answered this question for themselves before ever setting foot on the trailhead. |
The functional failure: an injury I could have prevented |
The physical reason I left the trail was shin splints. Near mile 500, they became severe enough that I could no longer move normally, much less hike day after day under a loaded pack. |
At the time, I was worried that the pain might indicate a bone injury. That fear changed the situation from one of ordinary trail discomfort to one involving a potentially serious medical problem. Continuing without knowing the extent of the injury would have been irresponsible and could have left me stationary in a remote section of the trail without food or water resupply. So with tears in my eyes I limped back to the Green Valley Fire Station and waited for a ride. |
Fortunately, it was not a fracture. But that does not make the injury insignificant. Shin splints can be intensely painful, and mine affected every aspect of movement. Going up was a struggle, going down was an absolute penance. The fact that they were preventable makes the experience more frustrating. |
The injury was not caused by one dramatic mistake. It was the result of accumulated stress, insufficient attention to warning signs, and complicated by a change of shoes to an un-tested model. A long-distance hike demands gradual adaptation, and I did not adequately respect that process. I either asked too much of my body too soon, failed to address developing problems early enough, or probably both. |
The lesson is straightforward, even if applying it is not: |
- Train with a load.
- Build mileage gradually.
- Take early pain seriously.
- Identify and strengthen the areas most likely to fail.
- Pay attention to gait, footwear, pack weight, terrain’s effect on your body, and focus on recovery.
- Do not confuse toughness with ignoring useful information from the body.
I had wanted to be resilient. Instead, at times, I treated resilience as the ability to endure pain without changing course. That was a huge mistake. |
The larger failure: I had not answered “Why?” |
The injury ended the hike, but I no longer believe it was the largest mistake I made. |
The more important mistake was failing to establish a clear answer to the question of why I was attempting the PCT in the first place. |
I knew I wanted to hike the trail. I knew the idea appealed to me since I was a teenager. I fear that prior to this attempt, others assumed that I was chasing an accomplishment and that became my default answer because I simply stopped thinking about it. But this was never the case and not owning my “why?” or articulating an answer meant that I went into a complex challenge rudderless and without a compass. |
That distinction became important once the experience stopped matching the idealized version in my head. |
A long-distance trail is not one continuous adventure. It is a collection of ordinary days, difficult days, logistical problems, physical setbacks, interpersonal tensions, weather events (lots of weather events), navigational decisions, all peppered with fleeting moments of deep satisfaction. The exciting parts are real, but they are far from the whole experience. Eventually, the question becomes less “Do I want to hike the PCT?” and more “Am I willing to continue today?” When it becomes “Can I take another step?” you’re already way to far past answering for that answer to have any sway. |
I had never fully prepared an answer. |
Without a clear purpose, every problem became more destabilizing. Fatigue was not simply fatigue; it became evidence that the plan might be wrong. Pain was not only a physical warning; it also raised questions about whether the effort was worth the cost. Setbacks became harder to interpret because I lacked a firm internal standard for distinguishing between temporary difficulty and a legitimate reason to stop. And all of this compounded. |
A clear “why” would not have prevented the injury. It might not have changed the final outcome. But it could have changed how I approached the trail and how I understood the inevitable difficulties along the way. |
More importantly, it would have helped me make decisions from conviction rather than from momentum, flase expectations, pride, or fear of disappointing myself. |
Failing to finish does not mean everything about the attempt was a failure. In fact, I did many things well. |
I committed to the attempt |
It is easy to discuss an unfinished hike as though the only meaningful outcome is completion. But reaching the trail, beginning the journey, and continuing through difficult sections all required real commitment. I made the attempt rather than keeping the goal hypothetical. Considering the change that was occurring in my life — moving from the US to Canada with my family, changing employment, dealing immigration challenges — I still made time and space to learn my kit, get steps in when I could, and test everything. It was imperfect, but I can hold my head high and proclaim that I showed up to Campo knowing how to set up my tent and pack my ruck efficiently. End-to-end I only discarded a pair of socks in a hiker box. |
I learned to function in an unfamiliar environment |
The PCT required constant adaptation. I had to manage food, water, navigation, weather, fatigue, resupply, sleep, and changing physical conditions. Even when the larger plan became uncertain, I gained experience operating outside normal routines and comfort. I did an absolute bomber job learning these lessons, but am only now attempting to catalog them. I am much better today at anticipating challenges for a hike of this scope and distance than I was having only hiked shorter distances. |
I recognized when continuing was unsafe |
Leaving the trail was disappointing, but it was also the responsible decision. I did not finish because I ignored the injury until it became catastrophic. I stopped when the pain and uncertainty made continuing unreasonable. |
There is a difference between accepting discomfort and gambling with a serious injury. I did not always recognize that difference early enough, but eventually I did. The truth is that every thru-hike requires any of us to operate outside our design parameters. Understanding where safe thresholds are for you is a critical decision making skill. I did this well. |
I came away with better information |
An attempt that ends early still provides information. I now know more about my preparation, my physical limits, my decision-making, and the realities of long-distance hiking than I did before starting. |
That knowledge is valuable provided I use it honestly. |
The most useful lessons are usually the most uncomfortable to acknowledge. The world is shades of gray and we’re all flawed apes that get excited wearing our favorite colors, but we don’t improve by ignoring our mistakes (or in my case out right blunders). So allow me some grace to own mine. |
I did not prepare my body specifically enough |
General fitness is not the same as readiness for a long-distance trail. Hiking day after day with a loaded pack places repetitive stress on the body in ways that many other forms of exercise do not. Because of long, snowy winters in Vermont, between November of 2024 and March 10th of 2025 most of my walking was on a treadmill. Even with a pack on my back, this is not an adequate facsimile. |
I needed a more deliberate approach to: |
- Gradual mileage progression with load
- Lower-leg strengthening (including feet, ankles, shins, and knees)
- Recovery and rest
- Mobility
- Footwear and gait
- Early and effective treatment of pain
Preparation should have included not only the ability to hike long distances once, but the ability to recover and do it again the next day. |
I relied too much on determination |
Determination is useful, but it is not a reliable strategy. It can help a person continue through temporary discomfort, but it can also encourage them to override warning signs. |
I sometimes treated my determination to reach the Northern Terminus as a plan to get me through a daily or step-wise challenge. With that mindset it’s infinitely harder to respond appropriately when your body begins communicating that something needed to change. For instance, I took four days in Aqua Dolce to try and rest my shins. I should have looked for medical assistance and perhaps checked into a room to augment the rest and assist with some actual targeted physical therapy. My determination not to waste too much time between there and Canada pushed me down the trail before I was ready. |
I mistook a goal for a purpose |
“Finish the PCT” is a goal. It is not necessarily a reason. |
Goals are measurable, but they do not always provide enough meaning to sustain effort. When the goal itself becomes difficult or uncertain, a person needs to understand what lies beneath it. |
Was I seeking challenge? Transformation? Solitude? A test of self-reliance? A break from ordinary life? A specific personal milestone? Some combination of these? |
I had not sorted that out before starting. As a result, I was asking the trail to provide meaning that I had not clearly brought to it. This is what I’m talking about when I speak of direction. The physical destination of the Northern Terminus is useful for physical navigation purposes. You can connect the physical dots between Campo and there by simply taking the next step. This is not the case should your journey require a more spiritual bearing. |
I did not define my decision points in advance |
A future attempt needs clearer criteria for responding to problems. Before starting, I should establish what would justify: |
- Taking a zero day
- Reducing mileage
- Changing equipment
- Seeking medical attention
- Leaving the trail temporarily
- Ending the attempt entirely
Without predefined decision points, it is easy to make choices reactively. In the moment, pride and exhaustion can distort judgment in either direction. What I was left with was a decision that I had to make, but which made me feel great disappointment in myself. Not an optimal outcome. |
Pattern thinking is a crucial for tasks that are long duration, low incremental reward. Habits are how we deal with daily checking the mail, doing the laundry or washing the dishes at home. I’d formed habits around a lot of camp chores but I neglected all the habits around maintaining my body save brushing my teeth. Next time I’ll have a routine established for: |
- Stretching
- Taking routine breaks
- Eating on a schedule
- Pain management
- and Pain point acknowledgement
More than a year later, I can see that coming off the trail was not a single failure. It was the result of many interacting factors. |
There was a preventable physical problem. There was inadequate preparation in specific areas. There was an overreliance on determination. And beneath all of that was an unclear sense of purpose that let me lazy when I should have taken a more disciplined and self-interested approach. |
The physical failure was the most visible. The lack of a clear “why” was the most important. |
I do not mean that a sufficiently meaningful purpose would have made me invincible. It would not have eliminated the need for preparation, nor would it have made shin splints harmless. A strong reason cannot substitute for sound training or good judgment. |
But a clear purpose can provide context or more importantly direction when it’s most needed. It can help distinguish between a hard day and a wrong decision with compounding consequences. It can make the ordinary parts of the experience meaningful or even helpful instead of merely tolerable. And it can give a person a stable foundation from which to decide whether to push, adapt, pause, or stop. |
When I attempt the PCT again, I do not want to repeat the same failed pattern with more age, slightly better gear, or more optimism. I want to approach it differently. Some will ask “You’ve already section hiked significant chunks of it. Why not just fill in the gaps?” and my answer to this query is also my “why?”. I want to hike the whole PCT because I can, while I still can. This is an act of curiosity, out of interest for no one but myself. Any trail is an experience only obtainable in that moment and that’s what I want, to feel all the different ways I can be alive and moving through the world. |
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