One of my favorite outdoor activities is to soak in hot springs at dawn. I crossed the ice-cold river little after 5am in the dark to visit the Shooting Star Hot Springs. The evening primrose was blooming right above the springs. I saw Orions with other stars. Soon, they slowly disappeared into the gradation of indigo blue sky. I love watching the night falls and day breaks. It is a sacred ritual of beginning and ending. I wanted to stay until I saw the first light on the mountains across the valley but I needed to get going. Since I heard the South Fork of San Joaquin River was fordable, I wanted to be at the crossing point by mid morning before the water gets too high. I said goodbye to the hot springs with a hope to come back next year and left for the river-crossing. 

When I arrived at the river, I saw the bridge that was damaged by the snow and the NPS warning signs. I back-tracked, keeping my eyes at the river for a safe crossing point. Down the river, there was a section that was wider and shallower. I saw a social trail that led down to the entry point and an exit point with another social trail on the other side. The river was moving fast and there was a deeper section right before the exit point. I scouted further down the river, looking for any strainer, holes, rapids or rocks that could be dangerous in case I swim. It looked safe so I prayed for the best, took a deep breath and braced myself to begin the crossing. Until I hit the deep section, the water was at or below my knees. Once I took a step into the deep section, it was up to my quads. My hiking poles were vibrating against much force of the water. I stood there for a few seconds, and I just let go. Everything happened so quickly. I swam for about 5 seconds, relaxed, rotated my body, got back onto my feet, took the last few steps and finished the crossing. There was no thinking. My body just knew what to do. I found a large rock in the sun and dried myself out. I was surprised how little my pack was wet. I continued to the next ford at Evolution Valley. Two major fords in a day took time and I managed to arrive at Muir Pass at the golden time around the sunset. The mountain was glowing in the evening light. I descended down the snow slope stopping many times in awe. The north facing slope of Muir Pass is the last place for the snow to melt on the Nüümü Poyo. From there on the southbound, I knew snow would be much less. I hiked until the last daylight to make it down to the tree line and settled in for a camp with a view of waterfalls.

That night, I woke up in the middle of the night hearing thunder followed by a lightning storm. I did not see the storm coming at all. The wind gust knocked my tent down. I fixed my tent in the rain with a bunch of rocks. For the rest of the night, I held onto hiking poles that kept my tent up every time there was a wind gust. For the next two days, it rained consistently. Including the NPS, nobody predicted this sudden change of weather and storms. I still kept going as soon as I saw a small window of no rain. After going over Mather Pass, it rained a little and once it cleared, the golden light shined the mountains and I saw a double rainbow as I descended from the pass.

On the second day of the storm, as I was approaching Pinchot Pass, I saw dark clouds coming. From the way the clouds moved and looked, I predicted it would rain for the next few hours. By the time I made it to the pass, I was soaked to the bones and cold. I kept walking, thinking that I would be fine as long as I kept moving. I was also paying attention to stay connected to my body signals for care. When I realized that my hands were so cold and my body became numb, I asked myself, “if this is happening to my clients, what would I do?” I would probably pitch a tent, strip all the wet clothes, put the dry clothes on, put them in a sleeping bag, give them a hot water bottle and let them shiver to avoid going from mild to moderate hypothermia. So I stopped, pitched my tent and took care of myself to be a self-sufficient hiker. As soon as I became functional and the rain stopped, I started walking into the evening to go over Glen Pass. I encountered snow near the top of the pass so I scrambled the steep boulder slope instead to avoid the snow. Then, I heard a voice behind me say, “I thought I was the only crazy person to go up the pass this evening.” I turned around and responded, “I’m not crazy. I’m just trying!” Patrick, a guy from Minnesota, laughed and said, “I liked that better. Yes, I’m trying too!” We descended the pass together in the dark, having a pleasant conversation. Both of us thought that the time passed so quickly when having a fun company. I said goodbye to Patrick and made my way to Charlotte Lake where my friend was stationed as a backcountry ranger. With my headlamp on, I knocked on the door of her cabin and heard my friend, “Miho!” She was so happy to see me. We caught up with a candle light and she offered me to sleep on her bed. I felt so much comfort after having such a rough day in the rain. Her cabin was a five-star hotel to me.  

The next day, I went over Forrester Pass at 13,200 feet, the highest point of the entire PCT. I felt so strong and my pack was light that I flew up to the pass. It was a beautiful clear day with dynamic clouds in the sky. The view from the top of the pass was just stunning. I made it to Crabtree Meadows where another friend was stationed. When I arrived around 7 PM, my friend and other rangers were still working. They were responding to some situations in the park. They work hard to help people. There are some situations that are inevitable and it’s appropriate to call for help. I am also aware that they are more busy than ever due to the increased use of satelite technology that allows hikers to hit the SOS button whenever, mostly at non-emergency circumstances. The western ideology of individualism is prominent in the mountains. The colonial value of quantity over quality drives us to disconnect ourselves from our own, others and nature, to “conquer” mountains. Conquering includes covering unrealistic miles, reaching peaks or destination in the face of fatigue, altitude sickness and various weather challenges such as storms, and disregarding physical and emotional needs of our own and others. As one of the purposes of my journey is to remember connection, I work to notice when conquering attitudes show up in me and try to prevent or undo the harm to myself, others and the Earth. I encourage all wilderness travelers to be self-sufficient, meaning that to have basic map and weather reading skills, wilderness first aid training that focuses on prevention, backup plans when things go wrong and self-awareness to turn around or quit the trip to respect our own body, mind as well as other’s well-being and nature.

A typical Tumanguya summit day is to catch a sunrise from the peak. I miss-calculated my time walking from Crabtree Meadows to the summit so I saw the sunrise from one of the ridge crest gaps then I made it to the summit shortly after the sunrise. As I reached the top, everyone was leaving. I didn’t expect to be alone on top of Tumanguya. I remembered that I wished I would have had a solo time when I reached the Canadian border and it didn’t happen. This time, the universe was giving me a solo time on the spot closest to the sky in the lower 48 states to reflect my journey as if the world is saying to me, “you belong to the mountains and sky to reflect, not to the border.” I turned around and around 360 degrees and admired the views in the golden morning light. I saw where I came from and where I was going for the remaining 65 miles. I choked up and I started sobbing. I felt overwhelming gratitude – how amazing and privileged I am to be able to do something like this? The sunshine was warming my face. The mountain was giving me a permission to recall and remember all the feelings I had on the journey. I felt capable, fulfilled, present, thrilled, courageous, powerful, peaceful, touched, happy, excited, free, proud, strong, humbled, grateful, trusting and reflective. There were times that I was annoyed, exhausted, weak, disappointed, nervous and miserable. I took time to connect with myself then prayed for a safe journey for the remaining time in the mountain and descended down to continue hiking.

On the way down from Tumanguya, I saw two PCT hikers climbing towards the summit. They told me that it’s been rare to meet a PCT hiker hiking the entire trail and there are only few of us left to make this far. I told them that I saw less and less hikers as I got closer to Canada and as I moved south on Nüümü Poyo. When I left Crabtree Meadows and continued my journey south for the last 3 days, I saw only one southbound thru-hiker and a few backpackers. The trail was empty. It was quiet. It was mostly just me and nature. I liked it.

My last day on the PCT was nothing different than usual. I started my day at sunrise. I heard raven calls. They said it’s time to go. I climbed the hill as I watched the first light shining the mountains. So many desert wildflowers were blooming and seasonal streams were running. When the sun hit the trail, I stopped and faced the sun, and did my ritual of sun salutation with prayers. May I be safe. May I be at ease. May I be peaceful. May all beings be safe, at ease and peaceful. I made the last big climb up to 10,574 feet, and from there, it was all downhill. I could see the South Fork of Karn River below that led to Kennedy Meadows.

I was taking every moment with gratitude. As I approached a giant Juniper tree for my lunch break, I heard wild honeybee’s hum sound. It was coming from a crevasse of an old Juniper. I said hi to worker bees coming in and out of the crevasse and was so excited to see our divine friends. I watched and listened to them, thinking what a significant encounter I have on my last day. Honey bees have roles and responsibilities that change throughout their entire life cycle to keep the hive healthy for the generations to come after them. They make consent-based decisions. In Japan, when a giant hornet comes to the hive, a few Japanese honey bees sacrifice their lives, distracting to give the rest of sisters a chance to swarm and eliminate the hornet in a defensive mass known as a “bee ball.” I left them thinking that they came to me as a holy messenger to remind me of harmony, endurance, social awareness & responsibility, sustainability, and health as I return to the life after PCT.

For the last 10 miles, hiking in a transition zone between desert and the Sierra brought me back to the time when I was walking in the desert at the beginning of the PCT. Wildflowers and bumble bees were everywhere as if they were out to congratulate me. Many of these flowers were small, just like me. I played chase with lizard and was careful not to step on ants, grasshoppers and stink bugs on the trail. I felt blessed. I felt complete. I thought it’s a full circle to end the PCT at Kennedy Meadows and it just so happened to be on the evening of the new moon.

The new moon brings a sacred new beginning of a cycle. It’s a time for reset, letting go of what does not serve me anymore. It is also a reminder of a circle of learning in our lives. What I learned on this trip will live not just in me but also support those whom lives I touch in person or through writing and speaking. I didn’t come on this trip just for myself to remember the connection. My hope is that my learning and experience will help remember and restore connections in our way of being, thinking and behaviors. That’s my hope. 

I reached Kennedy Meadows in the early evening light right before 5pm on September 14th, exactly 4 months after I left Mexico on May 14th. Nobody was there. I saw the trail register, ran toward it with a huge smile on my face and hugged it. I closed my eyes and whispered, “I did it.”

I walked the entire PCT in 2023, the unprecedented snow year which brought unprecedented challenges. It was 2,650 miles that connects Mexico and Canada plus numerous more miles from side trips, detours and extension to Manning Park in Canada.

I took a deep breath with a moment of silence and relaxed my body. Then, I was swarmed by the surprise guests: mosquitoes. They welcomed me with numbers and I thought they were so thrilled and happy to see me. With the record amount of snow, the mosquito season is prolonged in the Sierra. They are still active and alive in mid September. I started to laugh, explosively, then tears came out with a mix feeling of extreme happiness, satisfaction and annoyance. I said out loud, “this is perfect. Thanks, friends, Quitos.”