Three Things the PCT Taught Me About Getting Older

By FeetForBrains on 2026-08-08

Red Beard and Bhikkhu drying out

I began my 2025 attempt at the Pacific Crest Trail with some assumptions that belonged to a younger version of myself. I thought I could eat the way I had always eaten, hike mostly on my own, and rely on determination to carry me through the difficult stretches.

The trail corrected those assumptions quickly.

What I discovered was that a long-distance hike is not just a test of endurance. It is a test of planning, relationships, nutrition, recovery, and self-awareness. These were the three lessons that stayed with me.

1. I can’t eat like a young man anymore

One of the first things I had to confront was that my body no longer tolerates the same diet it once did.

Most resupply points along the trail offer convenience rather than nutrition. The available choices are often limited to fast food, processed snacks, sugary drinks, and whatever can be found at a small-town market. I ate a metric ton of potato chips and all that salt and potassium accumulated in my system and caused as many problems as it solved. Those foods may provide calories, but calories alone are not the whole equation—especially for an older hiker trying to recover day after day.

Finding healthy food along the trail is half the battle. The other half is actually sticking to the dietary requirements that allow me to meet both my caloric needs and my nutritional demands. It’s probably okay to splurge from time to time the basis of my diet needs to be calorically dense, light, and nutritious.

That sounds simple until you are exhausted, hungry, and standing in a convenience store with limited options. “Oh those jelly beans look tasty.” At that point, the most immediately available food can be very persuasive. A long day of hiking can make it easy to justify eating whatever is in front of you, even when you know it will leave you feeling worse later. Glyphosate enriched pancake trail magic on day two of this hike resulted in a week’s worth of pain and discomfort.

I learned that nutrition on the PCT requires the same kind of planning as navigation or mileage. It is not enough to hope that good food will appear at the next town. I need to know in advance where I can find food that supports my body, what I need to carry between resupply points, and which compromises are acceptable.

The trail does not care whether a food choice is convenient. My body does.

2. I intended to hike alone—but the trail had other plans

Mount Baden Powell Summit Crew

I started with the intention of hiking alone. That plan lasted until I was waiting for the shuttle to Campo at a bus stop in San Diego. While standing around waiting for the shuttle Moose and Yeti joined me. Later one of my best friends Red Beard got aboard. By mile four or 5 I’d met Bhikkhu.

I discovered that the social side of the PCT is intense, immediate, and intoxicating. People who were strangers only hours earlier can become companions, problem-solvers, dinner partners, and emotional support. You share miles, water sources, frustrations, victories, blisters, jokes, bad weather, water, a hitch, and the occasional questionable meal. Under those conditions, relationships develop quickly and this trail-tribalism is overwhelming strong.

I expected solitude to be one of the defining features of my hike. Instead, I discovered how much value I could get alongside other people. The trail community became one of the most meaningful parts of the experience.

There is a downside, though. Trail relationships are temporary by nature. Your tramily may move faster, slow down, take a break, leave the trail, or simply choose a different route. When that happens, you may find yourself suddenly alone again—not because you wanted to be, but because the circumstances of the trail changed for them or you.

After becoming accustomed to the closeness of a tramily, it can be difficult to find or create similar relationships with the next people you encounter. Every new group has its own rhythm, and not every connection develops into something lasting. Keep in mind that you’re not in that bubble, anyone’s tribe can only get so large before it becomes chaotic or problematic.

This experience taught me to appreciate trail relationships without assuming they will continue indefinitely. Some are measured in weeks, some in days, and some in only a few miles. Their temporary nature does not make them less valuable. In many ways, it makes them more precious.

3. Training matters more than determination

Salt build up in my shirt from too much salt in my diet

In retrospect, I have a new understanding of the value of training.

When I was young, my body seemed to provide an almost limitless reserve of slack. I could show up to a difficult challenge with little preparation and trust that I would somehow adapt and rise to the occasion. That belief became part of how I approached this attempt at the PCT. I assumed that determination, experience, and stubbornness would compensate for inadequate preparation.

They did not.

I quickly used up whatever reserve I had. Once I began operating from a day-to-day deficit, the challenges started stacking the odds against me. A difficult day became a harder recovery. A missed meal affected the next morning. Fatigue changed my stride. Small problems accumulated until they were no longer small.

At that point, injury becomes the most likely outcome—not because of one dramatic mistake, but because of the combined effects of age, insufficient preparation, and continually increasing physical demands.

The trail exposed the difference between being willing to do something and being prepared to do it. Desire matters, but it cannot replace conditioning. Determination can help you endure discomfort, but it cannot make your tendons, joints, muscles, and connective tissue adapt overnight.

Training is not about proving how tough I am. It is about creating enough physical reserve that ordinary trail challenges do not immediately become emergencies. Training also affords hikers the opportunity to work the kinks out of their thru-hike in safer circumstances. There is plenty that I could have done to prepare for my 2025 PCT thru attempt but the first and most important thing I needed to do was recognize that I’m not a 20-something kid any longer.

What I’m taking forward

My attempt at the PCT did not give me the experience I originally imagined, but it gave me something more useful: a clearer understanding of what the undertaking requires from me now.

I need to eat differently than I did when I was younger. I need to recognize that hiking alone may not be entirely within my control—and that the social experience can be just as important as the miles. Most of all, I need to respect preparation. The trail will eventually reveal every place where I have relied on optimism instead of planning.

The PCT did not simply test whether I could keep walking. It showed me what kind of person I need to become in order to walk farther, more safely, and with greater awareness of my own limits.