This morning, I am waking up in the living room of a small house near Big Bear Lake. I am curled up into a tiny ball on the couch with my friend Alyssa beside me, a small fuzzy blanket stretched over me and a gear bag from my pack as a pillow. Besides Alyssa and me, there are six other hikers in this room: Ryan, who has been hiking with us for a few days, and the five others we’ve seen several times out on the trail but only really met for the first time last night. This warm house I got to sleep in, the free ice cream I got provided and the coffee currently being brewed, all of the generosity I am bathing in is the work of “trail angels” — kind souls who live near the PCT and dedicate a lot of time and energy during thru-hike season shuttling hikers to and from trailheads and giving them a place to sleep, shower and do laundry.

The hiker trash scene unfolding around me is something I heard stories of, and something I kind of dreamed of and tried to imagine myself in, but it was never something I expected for myself.

When I thought about the trail I thought mostly just about the walking. Yes, there is a lot of walking. But there is so much more than that. This life is even richer than I could have ever imagined. I haven’t been on the trail for long—this will be day 7—but I have already learned so much about the power of the wilderness, the power of community, and the power within me; I have already experienced so much beauty and fear and adversity and pain and exhaustion and frigidity and pure joy; I already know that I am right where I am supposed to be.

I haven’t been journaling, or walk-journaling, nearly as much as I thought I would be. Simply because there is so much living packed into every minute, second, day, unit of time; every single breath and every single step. I could sit here writing for hours and fail to do it all justice, but I am going to do my best to provide a thorough summary of this wonderful first stretch of trail below—after all, I am hoping that through this blog I can bring you all along on this journey with me.

The photo above is me at my starting monument. Stretching, closing my eyes, and giving myself a moment to soak in that this moment is real. I am here. I am starting. I am walking from Mexico to Canada. If you’ve seen the photos of other hikers at their starting monument, you might be a bit confused. Yes, I am thru-hiking the entire Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada. No, I did not start my hike at either the southern or the northern terminus like most do. This is because my hiking partner wanted to start earlier so we could get to the Sierras before the snowmelt. She has to get off trail for 10 days at the end of June, and it is during that time that I will make up the miles I missed. We were going to get on the PCT via the Black Mountain Alternate trail, but there was a construction road closure so we hiked 10 miles up the road to get to the PCT. So, this road closure became my starting monument.

This road closure sign means the world to me. And this road closure also taught me my first lesson: All plans will change and nothing will transpire as I expect it to. This is part what makes the trail so beautiful, and so different from anything I have experienced before. I fell in love with the unexpected.

So my first day, we got a late start to hiking and spent more than half the day trekking up the road. Of the 10 miles to get to the PCT, just under 8 were composed of a gradual, winding ascent. Difficult, but I was filled with so much adrenaline that those miles flew by. We joined with the PCT at mile marker 190 and hiked for a little more than an hour until just before sunset, and I set up my first camp on the PCT in a little spot with a perfect view of the majestic, snow-covered San Jacinto Peak.

We were at a high altitude that night and I didn’t put the rainfly on my tent—a big mistake. I was freezing so I didn’t sleep much and when the time came to start moving I discovered that my pack was covered in a layer of frost, my sweaty clothes I’d hung out to dry had froze, and there was even a layer of snowy frost inside my tent. Ooooops. My hiking partner Alyssa and I laughed about it and dealt with it, and then the hiking day began. We hiked 16.52 miles that day down endless rocky, shadeless switchbacks to the desert floor. It was actually warm enough to sleep good that night, but all the downhill had left me with three blisters. Completely worth it.

The following day (my third day) we began hiking was another late start because taping up all of my blisters was more difficult than I thought. I also snapped a pole on the first day and since I finally had service,  I called REI to inquire about repairs. When we finally did get going it quickly became the prettiest hiking day so far. Our first 4 miles were winding through endless superbloom—fields of brilliant orange poppies and shimmering little purple and pink flowers. It was breathtaking. These miles were easy. We stopped many times to smell the flowers.

Only 13.6 miles were covered that day, but every single one of them was enjoyed.

On the fourth day, things got interesting. After 4 miles of climb and descent, with views of Jacinto in the background, we went down into a canyon where a long day of battling Mission Creek began. Because of all the rain and snow, much of the trail had completely eroded away, and the swollen creek also presented us with many more river crossings than expected. The day was spent with wet feet and slow miles of forging our own trail through the stretches where the trail had completely crumbled away. It was a challenging day, but a good day. Thrilling. Only 11.7 miles were traveled but we made it through all of the Mission Creek crossings.

Day five was the scariest day yet. My hiking partners (Alyssa and Ryan) have been on the trail since Campo (the southern terminus), and both of them said it was the most challenging and dangerous day of miles they have experienced. The first half of the day was spent maneuvering around massive downed trees in a fire burn zone, which was difficult and time-consuming, but it was the second half of the day when things peaked.

Traversing the north facing slopes of the mountain range, we were faced with much more snow than expected. There was no trail, only steep snowy slopes with the disappearing footprints of the people before you faintly etched in, and when I say these slopes are steep I mean like probably 60 degrees steep. And if you slip and fall, you tumble a long way down and crash into a ton of trees along the way. We hit this stretch in the afternoon when the snow was slushy which increased our chance of slipping.

Luckily we all had microspikes to give us some traction on the ice, and by moving through these miles extremely slowly we managed to stay safe. Right after we made it through we saw search and rescue helicopters circulating the slopes—the other group of hikers was not so lucky. Grateful. Humbled. The wilderness is beautiful, but it can kill you. I have more respect for this trail and this world now than ever before.

I wasn’t going to stop and whip out my phone to take pictures on the steepest slopes, so this is the best I’ve got. Just imagine this but much steeper.

That night was spent at an extremely high elevation and we only covered 11 miles, but we were safe. We were only 20 miles from Big Bear Lake, where we would be getting off trail to resupply.

On day six, we covered all 20 of those miles. They say you don’t get hiker legs until after 200 miles, but I experienced something magical that day. Those miles flew. I couldn’t feel my body. I felt so in my element. We made it to town before 5 p.m. where I was greeted with real food, a much-needed shower, the chance to do laundry, a warm place to sleep, and wonderful new friends. I was so grateful and so refilled.

Today is day seven. Soon we are heading out into the wilderness again. My food supplies are replenished and I am well rested—prepared.

You will hear from me again soon. I am challenged, I am right where I belong.