Why We Flipped to Northern California on the PCT (and What We Learned)
More snow, blowdowns, and unexpected trail magic: the detour that gave us grit, gratitude and healing
Leaving the High Sierra: A Hard Decision
After a harrowing experience in the High Sierra that left me with frostbite, we knew something had to change. Staying on trail felt impossible—but leaving entirely felt worse.
This is the story of why we flipped north to Northern California on the Pacific Crest Trail, how that decision shaped our hike, and what we learned along the way through snowfields, blowdowns, and unexpected trail magic.
While we were regrouping, a new and completely wild plan emerged:
“We’re flying to Hawaii.”
A few of the boys had booked flights to wait out the snow on sunny beaches with Mai Tais in hand. Tempting? Definitely. But I knew how hard it would be to get back on trail once we left—and I wasn’t ready to break from the rhythm we’d fought so hard to build.
I still wanted to make forward progress, but I was seriously worried about my toes, which were in rough shape. So Abhi and I started looking for another way.
That’s when our new plan took shape: we’d flip to Northern California—where we knew we’d find more snow, but also, significantly warmer temperatures—and hike a 180-mile section while the others vacationed. Then we’d return to Bishop, reunite with our crew, and reenter the Sierra together with the hope of better conditions (and stronger toes).
From Casinos to Snowstorms: Entering NorCal
A day later, we were on a Greyhound to Reno, spending a night at a casino, where we would catch a transfer bus the next morning—an odd contrast to the backcountry life. Our second connection brought us to Truckee, and we reentered the Pacific Crest Trail at Donner Pass.
Just in time for another snowstorm. Of course.
Our late start that afternoon meant we weren’t aiming for miles—just a place to sleep. The ground was blanketed in fresh snow, and soon so were we, as a flurry quickly built around us. There were no boot tracks and no visible trail. But we saw a cabin marked on our map—the only one on the entire PCT—and set our sights on reaching it.
A Cabin, a Fire, and a Fellow Hiker Named Chuckles
The cabin was real, but almost completely buried under a 10-foot snowbank. We arrived cold and soaked, our core temperatures dropping, and smelled smoke—a fire! That meant hikers. That meant warmth.
We knocked. A man opened the door, confused.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah… we were hoping to stay here too?”
Turns out the cabin required a reservation. But Chuckles was a fellow PCT hiker who had flipped up from the Sierra too, and after sizing up our state (soaked, shivering, and desperate), he let us in.
That night by the fire, we shared leftover pizza from town, which we reheated over the wood stove as we swapped stories. He had self-arrested twice in fatal fall zones in the Sierra and finally made the same choice we did—NorCal over more near-death risk.
We would see no other northbound hikers that entire week. And luckily, no more snow storms.
Breaking Trail on Untouched Snow
This section hadn’t been trafficked yet, and laying fresh boot tracks is slow, exhausting work. Route-finding was constant, but the snow was mercifully better than what we’d just left—consolidated and firm, thanks to repeated freeze-thaw cycles. No more postholing. No more icy creeks to break through. And no more freezing cold toes!
A New Lens on Northern California
Northern California has a reputation for being boring—a long, hot grind through exposed terrain, just after the jaw-dropping beauty of the Sierra. And if you hit it in the heat, it’s no joke: triple-digit temps, endless climbs, and long water carries.
But for us, it was snow-covered, lush, and full of perspective.
The trees were vibrant green, moss glowed electric against bark, and the snowmelt made water sources abundant. We slowed down. Slept in. Let our bodies and spirits recover.
We took in the beauty. We let the trail cradle us a bit. It was still technical—navigating snowfields, and later, another unexpected challenge—but we had space to breathe.
Blowdowns, Budget Cuts & Scraped-Up Legs
Once we descended below snow line, the trail changed again:
Blowdowns. Hundreds of them.
This stretch is normally well maintained, but recent federal spending freezes have forced the PCTA and U.S. Forest Service to cancel over 50 weeks of planned trail crew work in 2025—leaving NorCal sections clogged with blowdowns and under-maintained trail. With poorly defined trail, it felt like bushwhacking through a post-apocalyptic zone. Fallen trees blocked the path every few minutes—sometimes every few feet.
In burn scars, the trunks were covered in charcoal. We crawled over and under blackened wood, legs getting scratched and bruised with every obstacle. Our gear was filthy. We were the dirtiest we’d ever been on trail. We traded posthole bruises for blowdown bruises.
And we earned every one.
Unexpected Trail Magic in Sierra City
We arrived in the tiny town of Sierra City—a population of just a few hundred—right as the Chamber of Commerce was hosting a dinner. They boldly advertised with a sign that said “free dinner!” on the main drag through town. Say less to a couple of hungry hikers, we were there faster than you can say BBQ.
There we were, filthy and sore, feasting on buffet food and dessert with the entire town. One woman offered us a ride back to trail, and on the way, we discovered a beautiful connection—she had raised her children in cohousing community, a type of intentional living where I’d grown up, and she even knew some dear friends I was raised with.
The serendipity was wild. She offered us her vacant home for the night (she was heading to Nevada City). We gratefully accepted. Warm bath. Tea. Sleep. A roof. Space to organize our resupply. Some of the sweetest trail magic we’d ever experienced.
Blowdowns, Belden & a Fastest Known Time Attempt
From Sierra City, we continued through endless blowdowns, crawling our way to the strange little town of Belden, where we arrived just in time for greasy bar food and a round of drinks—paid for by a generous local.
The next morning, we lingered outside the bar, still connected to its Wi-Fi, when a southbound hiker passed by: Punisher.
He was attempting a Calendar Year Triple Crown— hiking 3 long trails, totaling over 8,000 miles in one year—one of the most elite and grueling accomplishment in the hiking world. His mom, a nurse from Napa, was there supporting him and offered us trail magic too: charcuterie, cold drinks, watermelon, and snacks to go. She radiated pride for her son and it was so sweet to see her dedication.
That connection meant a late start—right before our longest climb on the PCT yet: 14 miles straight up.
Reaching Chester: Goal Met, Bodies Wrecked
Over the next two and a half days, we pushed two big days—25 miles each—and finally made it to Chester, our endpoint.
We were exhausted and filthy and celebrated with an epic Mediterranean feast, which was the best meal of the trail so far. We hobbled our way over to a public park, where we crashed for the night to save some money. Hotels were steep, so a wipe down in the park bathroom sink would have to do. I’ve never wanted a shower more in my life.
Back to Bishop: Facing the Mountains Again
Thirteen hours of buses later, we were back in Bishop. I was nervous. The Sierra still loomed over me, but I didn’t want fear to define the rest of my hike. I used logic: we were rested, recalibrated, and surrounded by people we trusted. We could do this.
A heat wave was melting much of the snow, but also made conditions tricky—the snow wasn’t freezing at night, so hikers were postholing even before dawn. We took a couple extra zeros, waited for the moment to strike, and loaded up with a 7-day resupply.
Finally, we set off. Ten strong hikers, reunited, with me representing the only woman in the group. Packs heavy. Energy buzzing. I felt fierce.
We were ready.
What We Learned from Flipping North
Be adaptable: the best plans often come from the unexpected.
Healing requires movement, not just rest.
Magic finds you when you’re open to rerouting.
Some of the best moments on trail aren’t planned.
Northern California is tough, underrated, and SO beautiful.
We are more resilient than we know.
