For as excited and romanticized as our group was imagining our 'return to the PCT' to be, our first night’s campsite was far from glamorous. It was a cul-de-sac at the end of a dirt road, in the dingy interstate town of Cabazon. We camped about ten feet from the trail, at the point where, over a year ago, we begrudgingly took a detour via public transit around a forty-two mile section that was closed due to a fire.

Morning view from our campsite (with interstate traffic in the background...)

Despite the campsite, we were smiles all around. Chance had flown into LAX from Medford, I made the flight from Reno, and we were picked up by LA locals Cam and Brad. All four of us are 2016 thru-hikers, having hiked the length of the PCT, with the notable exception of this forty-two mile section. Excited to see familiar faces, we were more excited to see an unfamiliar stretch of trail, and officially mark our PCT hikes as 'complete'.

The din of the interstate made for a spotty night's sleep. Daylight finally broke, eyes opened, and we hit the trail, after a few false starts. It was obvious that our routines were a little rusty - packs were packed, then unpacked, and 'yard sale’ accurately described our campsite. But we eventually got ourselves fed, dressed, and walking.

A little bit of color in an otherwise-scorching desert

It's ironic that one of the least aesthetic sections of the PCT is the one we made a special trip to hike. “hot”, “dry”, and “up” are the first words that come to mind, as the trail rises up from the southern California desert to the pine-covered mountains. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Conversation varied from nostalgically reminiscing about friends we met on the trail, to adventures and memories that we had together, to beliefs and values that the trail helped foster. And for the Southern California desert, there were copious amounts of stream crossings and lush cottonwood trees, with a suspicious lack of poisonous reptiles.

After twenty five miles we rolled into our campsite for the evening - painfully aware that our feet and legs were not in the grisled thru-hiking shape of last summer. I'm sure it was comical to watch us set our tents up, with quizzical looks turning to grins as our hands remembered how to set up what had been our mobile homes for four months.

After making substantial dents in our food bags, and continuing to ponder and philosophize, we turned in for the evening, with our fair share of groans as we went horizontal. A night looking at the stars, with the gentle trickle of a creek in the background, was the perfect cap to our only full day on-trail.

Those same evening groans were echoed when we woke up the next morning and began to move. We trickled out of camp one by one, enjoying the cool morning hours, and an ass-kicker of a climb, to ourselves. After half a day of leapfrogging one another, we grouped back together for the last mile. Chance said it best: "you get on trail, start feeling good, and want to crush miles and hike faster and further. But you don't want it to end."

After forty-two miles, our brief trip did come to an end, with my continuous foot-path from Mexico to Canada now being complete. Hugs, fistbumps, and goodbyes capped things off. Then it was off again to "what's next".

The past several months, capped off by this trip, have allowed for some deep reflection of the time I spent on the trail, the truths that it taught me, and the direction I'm moving now.

Folks often refer to the time on trail as being entirely separate from our lives before and after the trail - portraying our time in nature as a reprieve from the 'real world'. I don't think it’s that simple. Certain aspects of on-trail life are more ‘real’ than the lives we normally live, and I think a combination of these viewpoints provides the most balanced perspective.

One of the most tangible takeaways from the trail was the relationship between simplicity and contentment. It becomes very clear how much of the excess (physical, and emotional) baggage in our lives we don't really need, how much it distracts us from what we deem most important. You experience firsthand how invigorating it is to limit your possessions to those that are either survival necessities, or that add value to your life right now. It clarifies what’s important, relegating everything else to the sidelines.

The community and culture on the trail was also a reminder of how socially stunted our broader society has become. On the trail, genuine conversation and kindness are the norm, not the exception (but by no means universal). When the noise of society and the crutch of social media is removed, your interactions become solely in-person, instead of filtered through a screen, and you realize the technology that connects us has paradoxically made us less socially equipped to truly connect. It's easy to tap on a photo and indicate that you like it. It is hard to start a conversation with a random stranger, family member, or friend, and get to the point where you both understand each other's story, feelings, and needs. This is a deeper and more fulfilling interaction,which the trail highlights as painfully absent from our lives.

The relationships I developed on trail were also very deep. When you are going a hundred miles between laundry and showers, months without shaving (did you see that thing that was growing on my face?!?), and have nowhere to go to the bathroom aside from the forest or desert around you, you are in a remarkably real, genuine, unfiltered state. No makeup. No hair products. Legs aren't shaved. Deodorant isn't applied. You aren't tricked into thinking that other people's lives are mirror images of the clarendon-filtered photos that they post on Instagram. You see actual, real, imperfect people. And this is the way the world actually is. The filtered selfies, with perfect lighting - the result of twenty attempted photos - that bombard us from every angle, are a superficial glimpse into the lives of others, and into society. You don’t see this level of superficiality on the trail. In this way, the trail seems much more like the 'real world' than the bubble that so many of us spend most of our time in, and offers an invaluable contrasting perspective.

All this isn’t to suggest that we would be better served if society returned to a pre-modern state where everyone carried all their possessions on their back and lived a nomadic lifestyle. Nor is it to suggest that is even possible. This is where I think many thru-hikers struggle to readjust back to the off-trail life: they reject the reality of how the 21st-century world operates.

Many aspects of 21st-century living are antithetical to the living we experience, and thoroughly enjoy, on-trail. I think there will always be a tension between the seemingly natural ways of life on the trail, and the seemingly unnatural way 21st-century life off the trail. But I believe we can balance these competing pulls to move towards a better collective future.

In trying to strike this balance, my post-PCT trajectory has subtly shifted - though on the surface this shift appears more drastic. I started a new business in the Reno area - Silver State Gardens - that is simplifying the answer to a question that has become very complex: “Where does my food come from?”. At the core, we are applying 21st-century technology, including machine learning and autonomous drones, to more effectively manage small-scale, diverse, sustainable growing spaces. In simpler terms, we are installing and maintaining gardens for residents of our community. We provide the simplest possible answer to the question “Where does my food come from?”, at least for the most perishable and important of food items - fresh vegetables.

The core belief, fostered on the PCT, is that complex technology can be used to help simplify our lives, as opposed to complicating our lives further. As I put the PCT squarely in my rearview mirror, I’m thankful for what it helped me realize about myself, others, and the world. I can only hope this next adventure is as impactful and enjoyable, though I have a strong hunch that it is going to be. With that, it’s time to keep getting busy.