The Sierra Awakens: Our Pacific Crest Trail Journey Beyond the Desert

PCT Miles 566.5–752 | From Tehachapi to Chicken Spring Lake

We left off at the edge of the desert—the end of a chapter, the beginning of something new. After five days off trail, waiting and hoping the Sierra snowpack might begin to soften its grip, we found ourselves climbing once again—this time, into the foothills of the great range that had called us from the start.

A Serendipitous Reunion

There’s a kind of magic out here on the trail. Within a few miles of hiking, we ran into our trail family—no communication, no plan, just the unexpected joy of reunion. We hadn’t seen them in over a week and had no idea if our paths would cross again. But here we were, together once more, like the trail itself had conspired to keep us close.

Trial by Wind and Snow

The weather didn’t waste time welcoming us. Within hours, we were gripping trekking poles through 60 mph winds on an exposed ridge, wrapped in every layer we carried. The cold sliced through us, our fingers and toes numbed as we stumbled through the first patches of snow. This was no longer desert confusion— this was the Sierra. We pitched camp quickly, cooked dinner huddled under our quilt, and shivered into sleep. It would be our coldest night yet. But the morning broke with sunshine and familiar faces around us.

We’d been ahead of the main hiker bubble for much of the trail, but slowing down to let the snow melt meant more hikers began catching up. A shift in energy, yes—but also an expansion of community. New names. New stories. New friendships forming under the rhythm of shared footsteps.

Rock, Paper, Water

At one creek, we paused to filter water and assess the miles ahead. A long, dry stretch loomed. We could either carry a full day’s worth of water—plus the next morning’s—or detour off trail for a refill. Thru-hikers will do anything to avoid “bonus” miles that don’t count toward the continuous footpath. This particular detour dropped steeply off the side of the mountain and meant a brutal climb back up.

Our friend JLo had a solution: one of us could take all five water bags and make the trek solo. A quick game of rock-paper-scissors would decide our fate.

I had a bad feeling.

Naturally, I lost.

So after a 20-mile day, I descended, filled 25 extra pounds of water for the boys, and climbed 1,500 vertical feet back to camp. Let’s just say, the bonds of trail family run deep.

Following Spring Into the High Country

The days that followed blurred together in golden light and wildflowers. We said goodbye to the last Joshua trees and welcomed the pine. The trail carried us higher, deeper into the hills. Spring was unfolding before us, a slow-motion bloom. We were chasing her into the big mountains.

Conversations deepened. We talked of ideas and dreams as our legs carried us over hours of miles. Hiking for ten hours a day gives friendships space to take root quickly.

Resting in Lake Isabella

We took another couple of zeros in Lake Isabella, waiting out a storm. A trail angel welcomed all eleven of us into his home. We feasted, laughed, rested. I played hours of music on a real piano—such a gift. It was a pause before the next climb, a breath before the next push.

Pancakes and Pack Shuffles at Kennedy Meadows South

And then, Kennedy Meadows South. The symbolic gateway to the High Sierra.

We hiked 25 miles just to be within reach of the Grumpy Bear Lodge’s all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. The lodge—a quirky hiker oasis—offers free laundry, resupply box pickup, and a lawn full of dirty, happy people sorting their packs and telling stories.

These pancakes? They were over a foot wide and an inch thick, hanging off the edges of the plate. Hiker hunger is no joke, but even with our bottomless bellies, I could hardly put a dent in mine. My husband, who eats about 40% more than I do out here, barely finished one. We’re still laughing about those pancakes.

At Kennedy Meadows, we picked up our heavy Sierra gear: bear cans, microspikes, ice axes, waterproof layers, snow baskets, warmer gloves, and an 8-day food carry. Packs ballooned. Hikers groaned over new base weights. Ounces were shaved, luxuries abandoned. We felt the shift—this was no longer the desert. The big mountains were calling.

A Return to Sacred Ground

As we climbed out of Kennedy Meadows, the landscape began to change. The air smelled like memory—fragrant pine, lush fir, sun-warmed bark. This was sacred ground. Seven years ago, this was where I fell in love with backpacking. Where Abhi and I fell in love with each other. Where we said “I love you” for the first time, on the summit of Mount Langley.

To return here, now, together, felt like a full circle moment. Like coming home.

The Sierra’s are a full-body sensory experience—textured bark, icy snowmelt creeks, birdsong, the hush of alpine air through ancient granite. Wildlife tracks crisscross the trail, meadows beg for afternoon naps, every part of you feels alive and the sheer scale of it all leaves you breathless. You feel small, and somehow, more whole.

We slowed down intentionally. These 300 miles are some of the most beautiful in the country. Many hikers say their biggest regret is rushing through. We didn’t want to make the same mistake.

Postholing and Perspective

By day three, I felt the altitude creeping in—lightheadedness, weakness, headache. By afternoon, it hit hard. And then, the snow. Fields and fields of it. Not the nice kind— the deep, soft, and relentless type. Every step was a fall, postholing to our knees— legs flailing, muscles burning, joints screaming. We slowed to a crawl, moving less than one mile per hour. It was brutal. Our bodies were spent, feet soaked and freezing.

We reached Chicken Spring Lake—a frozen alpine basin—just before dark. Made camp. Ate with our friends and stared out over the silence of ice and stars. This was it.

The reports were clear: hikers ahead had started waking in the dark, walking in the frozen hours when the snow could hold weight and was solid enough for microspikes to bite in. We knew we needed to adjust.

We set alarms for 3 a.m., knowing the next stretch would ask more of us. No more leisurely mornings. No more dry socks. It was go time.

To Be Continued…

What followed changed everything. Those next four days shook my understanding of what this hike really meant—of what I was truly capable of. Those next four days deserve their own story.

One I’ll tell next week.