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Staff Writer Justin Wang reflects on his 20-week 2653-mile Pacific Coast Trail experience

Justin Wang | Photos by Justin Wang

Since junior year of high school, I had always wanted to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, and I promised myself I would make this trip before I went to medical school. I decided my best chance to pursue this 2,653-mile hike from Mexico into Canada was this past summer after my junior year and that I would also have to take a leave of absence the Fall 2019 semester. I considered this hike a big break before I committed to the next sequence of my life; I wanted to take time to relax and reflect in the absence of projects and exams to ensure that I was heading in the right direction in my life. I also felt that the PCT presented a significant challenge to overcome and an accomplishment that I would cherish for the rest of my life. To be honest, I have not quite dealt with the fact that I left the Aerospace Engineering program. Even though I'm an accomplished Astrophysics and MCDB student who worked for two research labs with plans to attend medical school and even higher ambitions, that decision still bothers me. Perhaps the trail was always, in part, a way of proving to myself that I am not a quitter.

I started the PCT May 10, 2019, only 48 hours after my last semester final, with this existential burden on my mind. I started walking from the US-Mexico border in Campo, Calif. to Manning Park, B.C., Canada and soon realized the hardest challenge and greatest feat of my life lay ahead of me.

Within the first two weeks of the PCT, I faced pounding rains, triple-digit temperatures, and a snowstorm delivering six inches of snow to the mountains of Southern California. The most immediate and difficult change was adapting from a rather sedentary lifestyle. Starting the hike, I was overweight at 208 lbs and had a reputation for towering my tray at the C4C among my friends. Suddenly, I was walking 20 miles each day and carried all the food that I was eating. I lost 25 lbs within` these first two weeks.

During that snowstorm I found myself reminiscing about the good ol' days when I was doing my graduate-level biophysics homework until midnight because at least I was indoors then and had a warm bed to sleep on. I also wasn’t walking 12 hours a day. I found myself looking fondly over those sleepless nights and stressful deadlines; because despite the anxieties, I still had fun. I had my ski pass and made many trips to Eldora, I made frequent visits to Wendy's for their 4-for-4 deal, and I partook in one too many “Super Smash Bros.” battles. I realized that not only had I become too cynical regarding my college experience, but ironically I was also growing more cynical of my current situation.

On the first day of the PCT, the overwhelming emotion for me was dread; I was scared at the magnitude of the journey. I was reminded of my plaguing fear of impermanence, which is something I have felt for only a few moments in my life. One such moment was on my first day of college. I had spent such a long time hoping for the first days of both journeys, and upon reaching the first days I realized the dread I had for how swiftly life was flying by ... milestone after milestone. I knew I would be looking back at each milestone for the rest of my life, and the idea that these happen ever so transiently gave rise to this sense of dread. Perhaps this was caused—or at least amplified—by my inability of living in the present present.

In the following days, I experienced the extremes of the Mojave desert and its mountains. I had to camel multiple liters of water through parched stretches, hiking 25 miles daily in the early mornings and late evenings to avoid the triple degree heat.

In California’s High Sierras, my endurance was tested due to record winter snowfall. Nearly half of the PCT hikers who reached Mile 700 at the start of the Sierras became “flippers”; that is, they went off to hike a safer, less treacherous part of the PCT. The Sierras’ mountain passes were covered in snow and required technical rock scrambling and ice axe mountaineering. At times, I found myself descending a 45-degree slope covered in a sheet of ice with a 50-lb backpack, tiny microspikes, my ice axe, and a hiking pole for stabilization. I often deliberately slid down mountains I couldn’t hike down without falling and hurting myself.

The whitewater river crossings were worse, as I had to wade through raging three-foot waters. In 2017, another record year of snowfall, two hikers died from trying to cross these rivers on their own.

Even though I promised my parents I would find somebody to hike with, when I left for the Sierras I was alone with nothing but a 60-lb backpack and food for 11 days, which would last for 180 miles in the barren wilderness. My shoes were wet from crossing snowmelt rivers multiple times a day and froze into blocks of ice at night. I woke up at 3 a.m. each morning to below freezing weather and went to bed by 5 p.m.

Despite these conditions and my inexperience with rivers and ice axes, I kept on going. In preparation for a possible fatal outcome, I said goodbye to my family and thought carefully about what my last words would be. In case they felt they might have prevented my death, I decided on “I love you so much. There is nothing you could do that would make me change my mind.” For the first time, I thought about how devastating my death would be to friends and family, and I realized how much I had to live for. Crossing these rivers and trekking these passes, I felt like I was fighting for my life, and I had a greater appreciation for myself and my loved ones. I saw what my future held, and I fought for it. Even though I hadn’t yet finished the PCT and wasn’t even sure if I would, getting through each day was an accomplishment. The Sierras remains the most beautiful place I have ever been, both for the natural beauty and the context for which it appeared to me in my life. After the last dangerous pass, I cried a sense of relief.

Eventually I met up with a hiking buddy but we had to say goodbye after the Sierras. Continuing northward, I got to meet up with my family and together we watched the fireworks for the 4th of July.

When they left, I started feeling lonely and started to process what had just been the scariest trek of my life. Throughout the rest of the hike, I faced isolation and loneliness on every snow traversal, every waist-deep river crossing, every time lightning struck near me, every night when I heard animals by my tent, every time I fell, every time I just wanted to talk out loud. I saw people here and there, but we only engaged in small talk. I came to realize that while I preferred to hike and camp alone, what I needed was occasional meaningful conversations. Just a little social interaction and a little camaraderie went a long way.

As I journeyed, I recalled my past experiences at exact locations I was revisiting, like Burney Falls in California and Crater Lake in Oregon. I realized I had changed so much and that although nothing was permanent, places and ideas can be revisited. I would never get to experience my first day of the PCT again, but I’ll have my first day for another trek or life milestone.

When I entered Washington, it was exceptionally rainy for September and there were several nights when I set up my tent during downpours. Temperatures dipped down to 40 degrees, and I slept in a wet sleeping bag for a few of those nights. I awoke to mice in my tent multiple times, and I also came down with a stomach flu 50 miles from civilization or cell reception. Nevertheless, I had become so endurant and adaptable that I pushed through. I finished on Sept. 26, one day before a foot of snow fell on the mountains of Washington.

When I finished, my legs were sore, my ankles were tired of the weight, and I had lost 53 lbs. Twenty other hikers were present at the northern terminus, which was overwhelming since I spent nearly twothirds of the past 140 days by myself. I was shocked and socially nervous, I was proud and felt accomplished like never before, and I was relieved at having finished. Many other indescribable emotions were present, but I felt no dread.

I got what I needed out of the trip. I had a long break from my busy life with many deadlines. I had a greater appreciation for my family, my friends, and my own well-being, and I knew that I was accomplished and that my life would be so amazing. The PCT would be just a small, yet fulfilling chapter. And even if I don’t become a doctor or succeed at every ambition that I have, I always have the PCT to be proud of. I learned how to be present to the best of my ability and that it’s fine that things aren’t perfect. I felt confident I could experience life to the fullest, and it only took 2,653 miles to earn this insight.