A Pacific Crest Trail Blog

Mammoth to Truckee, June 11- 25th

Community on trail is a living, breathing thing. It shifts, evolves, and teaches lessons you never expect. Earlier in the summer, my husband Doc and I had flipped north to hike a different section of the Pacific Crest Trail while we waited for Sierra conditions to improve. Our trail family took a different path entirely—flying to Hawaii—which meant we had about 180 miles banked ahead of us. Now, as we closed in on our flip point, we knew our reunion would be fleeting. Just fifteen days together remained—fifteen days that would demand more of us physically, and pull us even closer emotionally.

Hiking With Tank: Redemption, Strategy, and Big Miles on the PCT

Since we were already hiking at different paces than some of the crew, Doc and I joined forces with Tank. Tank attempted the Pacific Crest Trail back in 2022 and became our unofficial trail mentor over the past almost thousand miles. That year, he ramped up to 30–35 miles per day after a steady streak of 25+, only to tear his Achilles near the Oregon border. It ended his thru-hike and crushed his dream of finishing.

But this year, he was back for redemption—walking the fine line between ambition and injury. With his wisdom and our collective determination, we built a strategy: mid-to-high 20s every day. It sounded wild compared to the low 20s we had been grinding out in the Sierra, but the terrain promised to be more forgiving, and we had a hard deadline to hit—a family wedding at the end of August.

Naturally, our “gentle” start was a 29-mile push across Yosemite. The elevation gain was merciful, the laughter plentiful, and we felt unstoppable. But the trail always balances the scales. Just as we said goodbye to endless snow, we were greeted by a new trial: the mosquito apocalypse.

What It’s Like to Hike Through a Mosquito Hatch on the PCT

If you’ve never hiked through a mosquito hatch, imagine this: thousands upon thousands rising from the melting snow, swarming in a relentless cloud. I’ve lived in Southeast Asia. I’ve endured summer lakeside evenings in the Midwest. Nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for this.

We wore rain gear in the heat just to protect our skin, hiking inside a suffocating sweat box. Head nets were non-negotiable. Hands and wrists were prime targets. Sometimes you could outrun them; other times, not even 3.7 miles per hour was enough. Lunch breaks vanished. Campsites became quick, frantic affairs: pitch the tent, dive inside, then count the twenty or so mosquitos that had slipped in with you.

Bathroom breaks? Pure comedy—or horror, depending on your outlook. Picture digging a cat hole while being swarmed by hundreds of mosquitos. Our trail brother OG even started waking up at 4 a.m. just to poop in peace, banking on freezing temps to keep the swarms grounded.

Sonora Pass: The Last Big Test of the Sierra

Four days into our big-mile push, we reunited with our trail family for one final test of the Sierra: Sonora Pass. Rumors of fatal snow traverses loomed. We started early, climbing into stunning views and surprisingly manageable snow. Relief swept over us—until we hit the traverse.

No solid boot pack. Slick ice. And a very clear line where others had fallen.

JLo went first. You might remember him as the guy who fractured his arm earlier in the hike. Halfway across, he slipped. In a blur of instinct, he self-arrested with his ice axe—using his broken arm. We shouted encouragement as he dug in with his spikes and climbed to safety. It was terrifying and inspiring all at once. We watched him pull himself back from the brink with grit and sheer will as we all shook our heads in disbelief. It was raw survival.

One by one, we made it across, cheering when the last hiker stepped onto solid ground. Together, we exhaled. Together, we carried on.

At Kennedy Meadows North, we celebrated with hot food, real beds, and the comfort of community.

The Epilogue of the Sierra: Tahoe Rim Trail Magic

In the days between Kennedy Meadows North and Lake Tahoe, the terrain softened. Snow faded. Even the mosquitos eased up. It felt like an epilogue, a chance to soak up the beauty and each other before the inevitable goodbye.

We’d hiked nearly a thousand miles together—sharing meals, jokes, fears, and endless hypotheticals. We knew each other’s gaits from a distance, recognized one another by cadence alone. We had become family, bonded in a way that only the trail makes possible.

Tahoe was breathtaking: 63 miles of the Tahoe Rim Trail, a wonderland of alpine lakes, lush forests, and gentle climbs. We pushed our miles higher—26s starting to feel cruisey—but always mindful of that thin line between strength and strain.

Tahoe to Truckee: Trail Magic, Wildflowers, and Strong Legs

After a well-earned zero in the bustling mountain town of Tahoe—complete with an obligatory casino visit and some incredible trail magic from Doc’s dad, who came to meet us—we set back out for our final stretch together.

Those last three days into Truckee felt like a gift. Wildflowers were still popping off in every color, the ridgelines opened into sweeping views, and our bodies felt strong, capable, and seasoned from the Sierra miles behind us. It was a bittersweet beauty—knowing our time as a trail family was closing, but soaking in every shared mile while it lasted.

Saying Goodbye to a Trail Family

In Truckee, blood family welcomed us with feasts and hot tubs (luxuries beyond belief). But it was also where we said goodbye to our trail family. We had flipped earlier, so now it was time to flip back north—180 miles ahead. After one last resupply, one last car ride in style, and one last round of hugs, we parted ways.

Chester awaited us. The halfway point. 1,325 miles behind us. 1,325 ahead.

It’s hard to grasp that kind of distance—harder still to imagine the trail ahead of us. But standing there, at the cusp of Part Two, with Doc by my side and the trail stretching out before us, I felt the magic of community carrying me forward. Our trail family had given us strength, resilience, laughter, and love.

And now, it was time to keep walking.

The Magic and Evolution of Community on the pacific crest trail