Crossing the Mojave: The Last Stretch of the PCT Desert Section
The end of the desert. The turning of a map.
The end of the desert is a strange thing. It doesn’t arrive with ceremony—no finishing tape to break through, no sign that reads “Congratulations! You Survived!” It just…shifts. A slow-turning map. Nearly 600 miles, 140,000 feet of elevation gain and a collection of core memories woven together like magic.
The PCT is divided into five chapters: the Desert, the Sierra, Northern California, Oregon, and Washington. In our digital guide, FarOut, each is denoted by its own map, its own color-coded world. The Desert, though often underestimated, is a rite of passage. A sorting hat.
It is the first big test on the Pacific Crest Trail. Blazing heat. Freezing wind. Long, dry water carries. Surprise storms. Injuries. All reveal raw and humbling lessons.
Only about 15–30% of hikers who start at the border actually make it to Canada. The odds aren’t great, and everyone out here knows it. That’s why we call it an “attempt.” But for those of us still here—dirt-streaked and sore-legged—there’s a quiet camaraderie.
We left off at Breakthrough Week, a chapter that landed us in the delightful town of Wrightwood(mile marker 369), where we rested with our trail family before turning our eyes north toward Mt. Baden-Powell— a 9,407ft peak cloaked in snow.
The trail, usually a kind and curving teacher, got a little sassy here—abandoning switchbacks in favor of a thigh-burning, soul-testing straight-up climb. While challenging, it felt much more doable at this point in the journey. At the top: a slow lunch, big views, deep breaths.
And then we were descending. Out of the snow and into warmth that felt celebratory. We were through the last snow of this section. The end of was near and the Sierras were coming fast.
Too fast.
The snow pack ahead was extremely deep. Reports said mid June was the optimal date for entry, and at our current pace, we were nearly six weeks ahead of that. We needed to slow down— but how do you pump the breaks when your trail legs feel strong and you’re finally in the flow?
So we practiced patience, which somehow felt harder than climbing. We moved with intention, stopped more often, and tried to stretch the in-between moments. In Acton, a cowboy-scented-hole-in-the-wall-town, we found ourselves camped in the backyard of the 49er Saloon. Complete with an outdoor shower and bucket laundry, it felt like luxury.
The next town, Agua Dulce, greeted us with stunning rock formations and the seed of a brilliant idea: a detour.
Just thirty minutes off trail sat Six Flags amusement park. And I don’t know if it was the delirium, or just a desire to scream for reasons other than dehydration—but the thought of coasters was magnetic. I called my father-in-law, trail name: King of Spontaneous Fun, and within hours, Doc (my husband) and I were in a real bed, soaking sore muscles in a jacuzzi, then flying through the sky in rollercoasters the next day, bellies full of hotel waffles.
A blur of overstimulation, crowds, lights—and then, just like that, we were back to the quiet crunch of dirt beneath our feet.
Back on the trail, the desert still had some curveballs to throw. We hiked into two straight days of rain before the skies finally cleared.
We soaked in the last trees of the section before dropping back down to the desert floor one last time—for the legendary aqueduct section. It’s one of the most talked-about stretches of the PCT: a long, exposed water pipeline cutting across the belly of the Mojave. Later in the season, hikers head out at midnight to avoid the 100+ degree heat. We had the advantage of cooler temps and started the 24 mile day around 4am instead.
It was otherworldly.
Stars glittered above, silhouetting hundreds of Joshua trees into the black horizon with dreamlike mysticism. The aqueduct stretched out like a ribbon beneath our feet. Wind turbines blinked in time across the horizon. We were mid-step, mid-thought, mid-wonder— when a rocket launch lit up the sky. A flaming arc traced overhead, casting a perfect halo over Doc. The scene was surreal.
Full body chills. Time slowed down. Just us, starlight, and the open desert. It was one of those core memories we’ll carry forever.
The sun eventually rose and with it came heat, an exposed 3,000-foot climb, and no water. We were feeling it. Our pace slowed, but so did our minds—settling into that beautiful state where everything hurts but you wouldn’t trade a second of it. At the top, we were greeted by a stream, new friends, and our first campfire of the trail. There’s nothing like good conversation, warm food, and flickering flames to remind you how little you actually need.
The next day brought us to the edge of the desert map: Tehachapi. Most hikers were pausing here to let the Sierra snowpack melt a bit more. For us, it was a chance to head home—Santa Barbara was just a couple hours away. A childhood friend met us at the trailhead and whisked us home to regroup. Blister care, family hugs, and a hefty grocery resupply to bolster some boxes we were having sent to us later on trail.
And as always, town wasn’t exactly restful. The stimulation too much. And although our bodies still hurt(a constant reality of life on trail), they also craved being in motion. Within a few days, we were aching to return. Mom dropped us off—right into a windstorm (because, of course)—and with the desert behind us, we turned our faces toward the unknown. The Sierra’s loomed ahead.
Reports weren’t promising. The few who had forged the first snowy tracks described needing to begin their day at midnight to get over the passes in time. The consequences for not? Sun exposed snowy faces meant slushy unpredictable ground, and post-holing— sometimes chest deep…
But we had another 150 miles of climbing the Sierra foothills before needed to face that.
For now, we had our trail family, our momentum, and a healthy dose of fear to keep us humble. And maybe that’s the best way to walk into the mountains—with reverence, grit, and a little wild hope.
Here we go.
