Where it all began

Her conservation journey began in 2018 when she joined the Eastern Sierra Conservation Corps (ESCC), a developmental leadership organization committed to building a stronger, more inclusive outdoor community. Like many of us here at the PCTA, she just couldn’t get enough of spending time outdoors and naturally found a way to turn her love of hiking and camping into something that gives back.

ESCC expanded Itzel’s world as she learned how to backpack for the first time, as well as build and maintain trails. She credits her time living and working in Kings Canyon National Park with giving her not only a deep connection to the mountains but a true foundation in habitat restoration and trail maintenance.

This work proved to be so transformative that she returned to ESCC as a co-lead and eventually a crew lead, supervising trail crews across the Sierra Nevada and Shasta-Trinity Wilderness, including work on the PCT. In most recent years, her work has centered on designing and leading backpacking and outdoor education programs for youth and young adults that combined conservation, leadership development, and identity-centered learning.

Finding her way to PCTA

From the very beginning of her time on trail crews, Itzel has lived and worked along the Pacific Crest Trail in Kings Canyon, Inyo National Forest, and Sierra National Forest. During her first season with ESCC, the crew completed several miles of maintenance on the PCT along Bubs Creek in Kings Canyon. A few seasons later, she found that she and her crew were to be based along the PCT, solidifying an intimate relationship with the trail and the obvious and not-so-obvious ways it connects us all.

As for how she found us at PCTA, it was through a volunteer opportunity in the southern Sierra led by Suzanne Hessler, our Regional Trail Stewardship Coordinator. The timing could not have been more meaningful to Itzel. She missed trail work, and volunteering gave her the chance to get her hands in the dirt again, back to doing what she always loved.

What does a Regional Trail Stewardship Coordinator do?

Think of our Regional Trail Stewardship Coordinators as our eyes and ears along the Pacific Crest Trail. Their outdoor leadership and experience with coordinating trail projects make them very good at what they do. Who doesn’t love a logistical wizard who just so happens to know how to handle a crosscut saw and get the job done?

Itzel will be working with volunteers, partner organizations, and land managers to keep the PCT maintained in Southern California. That means recruiting and supporting volunteers, planning and leading trail projects in the field, training crews, and building relationships with the agencies and communities who care for the land the trail passes through.

What lies ahead?

Itzel will be the first to tell you that she’s looking forward to being on the trail, getting her hands dirty, and connecting with our volunteers. She recognizes the opportunities and challenges that lie ahead, and she’s ready to take it all on!

“We have great volunteer crew leads, which means there’s real opportunity to support them in growing as leaders and in volunteering sustainably over the long term. The challenge is that we always need more volunteers. The opportunity is to connect with local community members and organizations tied to the lands the PCT passes through, and to invite them into volunteering because of their special connection to this region.”

We’re excited to share that she recently had her very first PCTA project: a three-day camping trip at Mission Creek Preserve. It was a partnership with Environmental Charter High School, a long-standing PCTA partner. The students got to enjoy being outdoors while participating in trail work. It was a fitting welcome into her new role, and we’ll soon hear more about it, so stay tuned!

Outdoors as much as possible

It will come as no surprise that when Itzel is not out working on the trail, she’s still spending her days off outdoors, preferably still on the trails as much as possible. If she’s not in the mountains, she’s walking her dog, practicing photography, rock climbing, reading, and most recently, taking on guitar lessons.

To anyone interested in joining Itzel on an upcoming project in Southern California, she has this to say:

“Come volunteer with PCTA! I say this especially to folks with no experience who are curious about conservation or trail work. It’s a great way to get your feet wet, meet people in the field, ask questions, and get hands-on experience. You may even get a sense of what it’s like to be part of a trail crew, and there’s a wide variety of projects to learn from.”

You might even follow in her footsteps and consider looking into a conservation corps. There are so many ways to be part of conservation work, and Itzel encourages you to explore them all. We hope to see you on the trail sometime soon.

We’re happy to have you with us, Itzel!

The post Meet Itzel Roman: PCTA’s New SoCal Regional Trail Stewardship Coordinator appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

“I was about to go to bed when I peeked out of the tent to look at the stars. A massive, breathtaking shooting star arced across the sky for half a minute, lighting up my tent. It was the most awestruck and breathless I was on the entire PCT, and possibly, my entire life.”
Photo by: Dennis Gavrilenko

“There’s something kind of beautiful about the Pacific Crest Trail — something so massive, so life-changing, can exist while taking up almost no space at all.”

The above quote comes from PCTA member Jake Boldt, musing on the incredible power of the Pacific Crest Trail and its ability to pack an emotional punch despite having a relatively small footprint. It’s a view that befits our rugged trail; it’s often the most unexpected moments and momentary encounters that can change one’s entire perception of the world.

Some of those moments on the PCT are mundane, such as encountering a bear or a beautiful sunset. Others are a little more fantastic, adding one more line in the long oral and written history of folklore and strange happenings in the wild spaces of the West.

If you should happen to be hiking through California’s mountains at the right time, then you might encounter one of those life-changing moments in the form of the Dark Watchers.

Photo by: Karthikeya Nadendla

While traditionally associated with the Santa Lucia Range, but increasingly found in other spots that are closer to and crisscross the PCT, accounts of the Dark Watchers go back centuries.

For hundreds of years, settlers and hikers have gazed at the mountaintops to see dark specters staring back. Often described as wearing dark cloaks and hats, these inhumanly tall, black silhouettes have silently observed the people passing through the mountains for over 300 years–and likely far longer. Spanish settlers in the 1700s dubbed them “Los Vigilantes Oscuros,” which, in English, became the Dark Watchers of today.

They do not meddle. They do not interact. They simply observe from high above. And, when one draws too close, they disappear as though they were never there.

Photo by: Marcel Meeuwissen

The more scientific-minded dismiss it as nothing more than the Brocken spectre, a strange but specific mountain phenomenon. When the sun is at a specific angle, mountain atmospheric conditions can cast a person’s shadow onto a cloud bank, elongating and stretching it into something that looks like a tall, shadowy figure. In support of this argument, it’s worth noting that most accounts of the Dark Watchers happen at dusk or dawn, both times when the sun is at extreme angles, and the marine layer rolls in.

Photo by Jacek Jacobi on Getty Images

Still, not every sighting has happened during these times, and the Brocken spectre can’t fully explain every account. For one, the Brocken spectre is virtually always accompanied by a rainbow halo around the projected shadow, which is rarely mentioned in accounts of the Dark Watchers. Other accounts come from lone individuals who see two or more entities, which isn’t possible with the Brocken spectre phenomenon. Still others have multiple accounts of seeing the Watchers, even trading gifts with them, one of those being John Steinbeck’s mother, Olive.

So firmly did the Steinbeck family believe in the Dark Watchers that Steinbeck immortalized them in his 1938 short story, “Flight”:

“Pepé looked suspiciously back every minute or so, and his eyes sought the tops of the ridges ahead. Once, on a white barren spur, he saw a black figure for a moment; but he looked quickly away, for it was one of the dark watchers. No one knew who the watchers were, nor where they lived, but it was better to ignore them and never to show interest in them. They did not bother one who stayed on the trail and minded his own business.”

Like Steinbeck, others accept the Dark Watchers as part of the land, a spiritual connection to the mountains of California that goes far deeper than anything science can yet explain.

Photo by: Megan Gorsky

Whether one believes it to be nothing more than an optical illusion or ascribes to a more supernatural explanation, the existence of the Dark Watchers serves to illustrate just how special the mountains of California are; a place that can generate strange optical phenomena or birth spectral phantoms is one to be cherished and protected. The origin of the Dark Watchers may never be explained, but perhaps the most wondrous part of the story is that it doesn’t matter–our wild spaces that give birth to science and mystery alike are the real magic.

The post Folklore of the PCT: The Dark Watchers of California appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

Perched precariously on a bootpack above a narrow ridge on Mount Whitney with my camera, I was living in one of those all-encompassing moments.

My heart pounded from the exertion of the switchbacks, and adrenaline still coursed through me from the thrill of the scramble and steep snowfields in the dark. At the same time, with my headlamp off and silence all around me, I felt an inexplicable calm.

It only lasted a second, though. As I framed up a shot, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Hey, can I get by you? It’s freezing up here.”

Darwin wasn’t as far back as I’d thought, standing just behind me on the single-file bootpack. I apologized for holding him up, let the rest of the 20-second exposure run, grabbed my camera, and stepped off to the side up the steep slope as best I could to let him pass as I packed up.

The bootpack drops back down to snow covered trail as it rounds a bend on Mount Whitney

I’ve long had dreams of mountaineering. In my early 20s, I spent a few weeks volunteering on a political campaign in rural Alaska and got to see Denali from the air while I was there. I’ve been backpacking my whole life and skiing since I could walk, but Denali was the most breathtaking mountain I’d ever seen. I vowed to come back and climb it someday.

Denali from inside a small plane. Alaska was also the first time I ever picked up a camera.

But over 10 years later, I’m no closer to climbing Denali than I was back then. How do you even get started in mountaineering? There are no mountains suitable for learning anywhere near where I live. Courses and gear are expensive. Work was demanding, with very limited windows for time off. I have a lot of inertia and even more excuses, and my mountaineering ambitions were backburnered.

Now, I found myself joining forces with a number of my fellow thruhikers to climb the highest peak in the lower 48 in the middle of the night to watch sunrise at the summit. Mount Whitney doesn’t require technical skills and isn’t considered mountaineering (at least on the standard route from the PCT), but in late May there was still significant snow to contend with. Getting comfortable with basic snow travel was one of my goals for the PCT, not necessarily for mountaineering purposes since I’d come to terms with the fact that I was unlikely to pursue it in any serious sense, but at least to extend backpacking season and perhaps take on some more challenging routes.

My morning on Mount Whitney began rather unceremoniously with a wake-up call just after midnight. A precariously icy log crossing immediately out of camp did little to shake the cobwebs as I stumbled through the first mile or 2 of gently rising trail.

Suddenly, as if a switch had flipped in my brain reminding me of what lay ahead, my delirium cleared. There was a traffic jam of headlamps out in front of me, winding their way up the first real slopes of the climb to Whitney’s summit. On a moonless night somewhere above Guitar Lake, I couldn’t make out much outside the halo of my own headlamp, save for those meandering pinpricks of light attached to the hikers ahead.

Headlamps from hikers near the beginning of the climb up Whitney

I turned my headlamp off. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, my narrow field of vision expanded to reveal a veritable snow globe: 360-degree views of a white alpine meadow with faint outlines of the high peaks towering over me. In place of plastic snowflakes suspended in liquid, thousands and thousands of stars dotted the night sky, with more becoming visible every passing moment. Before long, the pale arc of the Milky Way revealed itself hovering above the sharp rocky cliffs opposite Mount Whitney.

The Milky Way above the cliffs opposite Mount Whitney.

I’d finally arrived. The desert was its own adventure, but the mountains are what drew me to the PCT in the first place. Just a few days out of Kennedy Meadows and the sandy backdrop of the Mojave Desert, I was in an entirely different world.

I eventually caught up to the traffic jam where people were gearing up with microspikes and ice axes before the first set of steep snow-covered switchbacks. I followed suit and made my way across the first snowfield following the bootpack.

On the other side, I found another queue as the snow gave way to a talus field. Most people were scrambling up in a single-file line, but that felt sketchy to me. I didn’t want to be below other hikers as they climbed over loose rock, so I made my way about 15 feet farther out to where the talus field met another snowfield and started climbing that way, sinking my ice axe into the snow to anchor me as I went up.

Sure enough, just as I turned uphill, someone yelled, “Rock!” from behind me, and I heard what sounded like a decent-sized stone bounce down the slope where the others were climbing. Fortunately, it missed everyone, though Legs took a rock to the foot in a similar situation farther up the mountain. It reinforced my decision to get away from the crowd.

Skirting around everyone also let me move a bit faster, and soon I was up at the head of the pack. At one point the bootpack disappeared, and I could either keep climbing up a rocky chute or traverse to where it looked like there might be a trail, but it was hard to tell in the dark as it rounded a small bend. I turned to Jinx behind me and said, “I’m going to keep climbing up, but there might be trail over there,” as I gestured into the darkness.

She joined me in scrambling up the steep rocky chute, and everyone behind her followed. I was almost at the top when I heard a voice above my head.

“What are you guys doing? There’s clear trail right there.”

Darwin had gone the other way and found a nice, easy snow-free trail that went right up to the top of the chute we were in. Thankfully, everyone made it up the chute safely.

As I climbed Whitney that night, aiming for the highest point I’d ever reached in the U.S., whenever I had a moment to stop and collect myself, my mind kept wandering back to a trip to Nepal I’d taken with my dad. We hiked a variation of the Annapurna Circuit during monsoon season, and that trip remains the highest elevation I’ve ever touched at over 17,700 feet atop Thorung La pass.

Prayer flags mark the top of Thorung La, the highest point on the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal.

The morning going over Thorong La had also begun in the dark, lit by headlamps. Yet, the experience couldn’t have been more different. The clear, star-filled skies above me on Whitney were a stark contrast to the monsoon clouds that surrounded me in the Himalaya, clearing only briefly at the top of the pass. The misty morning spent walking up Thorung La was tranquil, reflective, and almost mystical, while the early-season conditions on Whitney were exciting, full of adrenaline and energy.

A gap in the clouds reveals a glaciated ridge on Annapurna I.

That diversity of emotion and experience is part of what’s always drawn me to the outdoors. Regardless of what you’re looking for, be it solitude, inner peace, and deep contemplative thought, or a new challenge that demands all of your focus and forces you to clear your mind and be fully present, you can find it in the backcountry–often within a single trip, a single day, or even a single moment.

After a long traverse and a climb up a relatively shallow snowfield, I arrived at Whitney’s summit area.

Before the summit hut, there was an outcropping of rock with a view back toward the long traverse at the top of the switchbacks. I could make out several headlamps winding their way up the trail and wondered which of my friends they belonged to. The first hints of sunrise were starting to become visible on the horizon as I set up on the rocks for another shot.

Headlamps from PCT hikers are visible as they traverse across from the switchbacks towards the summit of Mount Whitney.

I walked past the summit hut to the edge of the cliff, looking east toward the desert and the approaching sunrise. Darwin was the only one up there when I arrived. I chose a spot a bit farther out on the rocks so that, as people filled in, I’d still have a clear shot of the mountains and desert valley below. We were still about an hour from sunrise, so I sat there shivering in the dark, scared to take my quilt out of my pack for fear of it blowing away while my hands were occupied with my camera.

Slowly, the rest of the PCT sunrise crew started to file in. I knew most of them, but there were a few unfamiliar faces too. I could see Legs had joined Darwin. Drippy and Jinx had been the next ones up after me, and I could see the rest of their crew had joined them. Natalie had made it up, but I didn’t see Happy Hour or Radish in the crowd of 20 or so people by the time sunrise rolled around.

With the exception of a few wispy clouds on the horizon, it was perfectly clear. There’s something particularly magical about watching the sun break the horizon sitting atop the highest point in the contiguous United States.

Looking out towards sunrise, you could make out the small town of Lone Pine down in the valley below. Whitney is a wild place, perched atop massive alpine mountains on one side, but quickly dropping to a desert valley on the other. It’s hard to comprehend, but the desert landscape looking out to the east is a reminder that, as you sit atop this high point, Death Valley and the lowest point in the country is less than 100 miles away.

Sunrise at the summit!

By 6:30 am most others had already left due to the cold, and I packed up to head down. Just as I started back past the hut and away from the summit, Happy Hour and Radish came up over the ridge. It was great to see them up there, especially since I’d promised weeks ago to take some Save the Date photos for their wedding at the summit.

Darwin, Legs, and Natalie were still up at the top, so we all got a group photo before the three of them headed down. I found out later that Natalie had absolutely no idea who I was while taking those group shots since I was wearing my glasses. I’m pretty sure that makes her the only person in the history of the world that the Clark Kent disguise has worked on.

The crew at the summit of Mount Whitney just after sunrise.

I stuck around for a bit with Happy Hour and Radish before starting down. Somewhere near the switchbacks, we ran into Natalie again, who wasn’t feeling great from the altitude. We all carefully descended the steep snowy slopes, alternating between snowy bootpack and scrambling down exposed rock that sometimes felt safer and more stable than the snow.

We all had a blast practicing glissading once we were down on the shallow, low-consequence slopes above Guitar Lake. We never really mastered the art of glissading, but it was a skill we’d use with great delight over the next several weeks.

We rolled back into Crabtree Meadows sometime after 11:30, nearly 12 hours after I’d started. We were exhausted, happy, and ready for a nap, though the adrenaline of the morning kept me from ever actually falling asleep.

Whitney was fun, plain and simple.

While there were challenging sections and areas where I wouldn’t want to fall, nothing felt overly sketchy or beyond my comfort and skill set. If I was a bit nervous going in, I came out of it with a renewed confidence that I could handle whatever the Sierra threw at me.

More than that, Mount Whitney reignited a spark that I thought had been extinguished. My dreams of climbing mountains came flooding back, reinforced over the next several weeks on the snowy passes of the High Sierra. I’m more determined than ever to get back to Denali, and eager to develop the skills I need to get there. Maybe I’ll even find my way back to the Himalaya one day and set my sights on an 8,000-meter peak.

Sunrise at the summit!

The PCT opened a world of possibilities for me, giving me the confidence to overcome my anxieties and the momentum to overcome my inertia.

The post A Morning on Mount Whitney appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

Of all the cryptid legends of North America, none is better known or more widespread than Bigfoot, a.k.a. Sasquatch.

Photo by James Parsons

Though Bigfoot-like creatures aren’t unique to North America–stories of similar wild “hairy men” exist in virtually every part of the globe–the elusive creature is arguably best associated with the Pacific Northwest and surrounding territories. After all, it’s the famous (or infamous, depending on how you feel about it) Patterson-Gimlin film shot in Northern California in 1967 that established the iconic silhouette of Bigfoot, with its long stride and loose, swinging arms.

Hardly a modern invention of the internet, as are entities such as the rake and Slender Man, stories of Bigfoot can be found in the legends of virtually every single Indigenous tribe in North America, whether the Tlingit of the Pacific Northwest or the Cherokee people who were the original Appalachians. Those stories depict both peaceful and adversarial relations with the wild people, old accounts of native tribes trading with their primal neighbors, whom they largely considered to be another race, and even some legends that describe Indigenous tribes and Sasquatch once sharing a common tongue.

However, encounters with the elusive creature aren’t just relegated to the realm of ancient Indigenous folklore. Their history has continued unbroken for centuries. Accounts from hikers and campers encountering Sasquatch on and around the PCT exist into the current day.

Take, for example, this witness account submitted to the BFRO last year about an encounter that happened in September 2024 in Washington, about 24 miles NE of Mount Rainier. The witness and her fiancé were hiking to the emergency cabin in Government Meadows off the Horse Camp Trail in Greenwater. As they approached the trail, they saw three dark, hairy figures–two adults, one carrying a smaller one on its back–cross the trail below and hurry into the woods.

Accounts like this litter the Pacific Crest Trail’s history.

Photo by: Colin Arisman

They range from observed sightings and physical encounters, including the well-documented phenomenon of rock throwing, to more mundane stories of hearing tree knocks and howls. And while your chances of encountering Bigfoot in desert climates and more populous settings are low, most encounters seem to cluster around mountains.

Like Mount Rainier, Mount Shasta is one of those documented hotspots for Sasquatch encounters, an arguably unshocking revelation considering the mountain’s long history of high strangeness. The Indigenous tribes of the region all treat the mountain as sacred and eerie, and their practices reflect their respect for the strange mountain and the entities that inhabit it. The Shasta people, for example, will not go above the treeline of Mount Shasta, claiming it is the realm of gods and the spirits of the dead; only their strongest shamans venture above the treeline.

Backcountry wilderness also seems to attract the elusive ape-like figures.

“Around Mount Shasta, monsters roam the forests. They creep here and there, they say, and every time you turn your back, you don’t know what might be watching.”
Photo by: Chris Pickering

With the Pacific Crest Trail running through six different national parks on its meandering path from the deserts of Southern California to the rugged rainforests of the PNW, it’s no surprise that those parks are rife with stories of encounters. Hike the PCT long enough, and you’re bound to run into a fellow nature lover who has spent time in Yosemite or the Olympia Peninsula and has some strange stories to tell.

Whether one believes those tales or not–or, like Fox Mulder, wants to believe–the indisputable truth is that there are enough stories of Sasquatch sightings that an entire cottage industry of Bigfoot tours and investigations has popped up in and around the PCT. One Washington county, Skamania, even established a law in 1969 (later revised in 1984) that makes it illegal to kill a Sasquatch.

Bigfoot is as intertwined with the land as the mountains and trees, older than our national parks, older than the Pacific Crest Trail, older, even, than our stories about them. Just knowing there’s a possibility that they exist injects a little bit of wonder into a trail that already generates so much.

It gives us even more of a reason to be responsible stewards of the PCT–after all, it’s what good neighbors do.

“A fun Bigfoot meter gauge in Oregon”
Photo by: Laurie Meade

The post Folklore of the PCT: Sasquatch appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

These final hitches epitomized late-season adventures in the North Cascades, including mushrooms (yay!) and a lot of ever-changing weather.

Photo provided by Jade Crabtree

We’re not exaggerating. It ranged from sun to rain, hail, thunder, and lightning, way more rain, and finally snow! Our main objective was to improve trail conditions on the Bald Eagle Trail, an alternate access route for the North Fork Sauk to reach the Glacier Peak Wilderness section of the PCT. With so few access options into the Glacier Peak Wilderness, even doing a little maintenance on another trail can pay off big time when unexpected (yet inevitable) floods or fires close down one of our major arteries.

We set up a home base at Curry Gap and worked on log-out and tread, climbing up the trail toward Long John Camp.

The trail itself was a pleasant surprise to all of us; despite its proximity to the North Fork Sauk, its character was very different in terms of the landscape, ecology, and terrain. A major highlight was the amazing views of Glacier Peak in the distance, which we certainly appreciated each time the weather cleared. We even encountered a few PCT hikers, adding France and Argentina to our running list of countries people traveled from to come hike the trail.

Photos provided by Jade Crabtree.

Mother Nature bade us farewell on our final hitch, bringing an early-season storm that left the trail covered in snow, and us cold and wet.

As a consolation, we were treated to views of fresh snow on the mountains and a bluebird day for our hike out. On our drive from the trailhead, we encountered PCT hikers lamenting the “worst 24 hours on the trail all year”. Beyond the rain, thunder and lightning, hail, and snow, ridgeline portions of the PCT saw gusty winds and even colder temperatures. Despite this, folks seemed determined to eat a hot meal, dry out, work through logistics, and get back on the trail. PCT thru hikers: never failing to impress.

Photos uploaded by Carly Reiser.

During our last hitch, we frequently referred to the Bald Eagle Trail as “the trail that keeps on giving”.

We stayed pleasantly surprised by multiple aspects of the trail, keeping us ever curious about what might be around the corner. We found this to be an extremely apropos sentiment to capture our time working on the PCT this summer: in many ways, for thousands of hikers, it is in fact the trail that keeps on giving. As a crew, we feel extremely fortunate to have experienced and appreciated it all season, and to have gotten to know and work with each other, all while improving the trail experience for those who venture.

Photos uploaded by Jade Crabtree.

Thank you for reading and following us throughout the summer. It has truly been a pleasure. GPW crew, signing off!

The post The Glacier Peak Wilderness Saga: The Final Hitch appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

“This has to be one of the best days of our lives- mixture of joy, elation and sense of accomplishment.”
Photo by: Julianna Tsao

Earlier this year, the Pacific Crest Trail Association signed a new 10-year Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) with the USDA Forest Service, the National Park Service, the Bureau of Land Management and California State Parks.

What does this mean for the trail?

The agreement builds on the 1968 National Trails System Act, which established volunteer organizations as partners with federal and state agencies in the collaborative management of national trails. The MOU explicitly spells out the PCTA’s role as the agencies’ primary partner in the operation of the Pacific Crest National Scenic Trail. Under the agreement, the PCTA and the agencies coordinate the maintenance of the PCT and management of the trail and the surrounding corridor, which includes construction and maintenance, signing, condition surveys, trailhead and trail use surveys, volunteer programs, and educational materials.

“The MOU is an important tool that clearly articulates the roles and responsibilities of the PCTA and the federal and state agencies in the maintenance and management of the PCT. We’re excited to see this new MOU finalized and look forward to continued collaboration in the maintenance and management the trail.” – Justin Kooyman, PCTA Director of Trail Operations

The MOU further supports us in our mission of conserving the PCT and surrounding landscapes that are integral to providing for the trail experience. Our staff and volunteers work diligently to help maintain the trail, and with the MOU, we now have a framework that provides language toward not only highlighting the PCTA’s role in maintenance but management as well. PCTA staff bring renowned expertise with national scenic trail administration and management and work collaboratively with agency staff to ensure that planning efforts and project-level decisions support the PCT’s “nature and purposes.”

Photo by: Shauni Bernau

“The MOU strengthens our shared commitment to steward the Pacific Crest Trail together. The PCT thrives because of the partnerships that bring its vision to life. It truly takes a community made up of dedicated volunteers, agencies, and supporters to operate, maintain, protect, and preserve this iconic Trail and the extraordinary values it embodies.” – Lindsey Steinwachs, Pacific Crest National Scenic Trail Administrator

What does this mean for you?

Photo by: Matt Sadowski

As a supporter of the PCT, it means that we have the privilege of continuing to ensure that people like you, who care as much as we do, feel connected to the trail. An inspirational outdoor experience does not simply happen; it is shaped by community and collaborative partnership from the ground up. The PCTA feels incredibly fortunate to be in the position of helping care for the trail. Thank you for your continued support.

Join us in celebrating all that we’ve accomplished and will continue to pursue over the next ten years for the betterment of the trail!

The post PCTA Signs a New 10-Year Memorandum of Understanding appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

PCTA’s Southern Sierra Regional Manager, Allissa Brush (left), tabling alongside Jen Havener (right), PCTA’s Philanthropy Coordinator, at REI in Folsom, California.

Since 1994, on the fourth Saturday of September, the nation has come together to appreciate and participate in celebrations commemorating our amazing public lands. National Public Lands Day is known as the largest single-day volunteer event for public lands, and it’s an important day to create awareness of the need to advocate for public lands.

This year, PCTA had the opportunity to partner with REI and the Partnership for the National Trails System to celebrate not just for the day, but all of September! For three weekends, the PCTA staff tabled at REI Co-op stores from San Diego all the way up to Issaquah. We attended 8 events total, getting to meet new friends, some very familiar with the trail and others who had never heard of the PCT but were eager to learn more! We loved connecting with local communities and helping introduce people to more ways to get involved in caring for our public lands.  

REI generously committed $1 million to fund trail projects and partners supporting over 60,600 miles of National Scenic and National Historic Trails, including the Pacific Crest Trail. They are asking members to vote on the categories where these funds should go: advocacy, education, and stewardship. The PCTA joined the education category, which supports training the next generation of trail leaders.  

We want to give a special thanks to the REI stores who included us in their festivities, and to all of you who stopped in to meet with PCTA and the other nonprofit stewards of our public lands. The Pacific Crest Trail traverses some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world. Ensuring access to the PCT and surrounding public lands is our shared responsibility.

These lands belong to all of us, and it’s been a pleasure to celebrate them with you!

Spencer Valenti, Regional Trail Stewardship Coordinator in Northern California and Southern Oregon, tabling at REI in Medford, Oregon.

We had a great time chatting with folks at the Medford REI location! Our staff learned early on that asking people walking past the table, “Have you hiked on the PCT?” was a great conversation opener. Some people had hiked on it in the area but hadn’t realized it until we showed them a map of the PCT.

Hana Wilder, our Senior Manager of Donor Relations, tabling at REI in Huntington, California.

We welcome the chance to meet people who aren’t familiar with the PCT and share this treasure with them. Bringing people into our world and helping them learn more about the trail and what we do as an organization is always rewarding.

Jack Haskel, our Trail Information Manager, tabling at REI in Sacramento, California.

We love questions! How do I volunteer? How long are volunteer outings? How else can I stay involved? The more the merrier. Your enthusiasm for the trail and encouragement of what we do as an organization means a great deal to us. Exchanging stories about the trail and the rich history of its surrounding regions was definitely a highlight!

We certainly hope you made the most of the day and found an opportunity to get outside!

But if not, caring for our public lands is a year-round affair. There’s always another chance for you to connect to the natural environment, even better if it’s on the PCT. Here are ways to get more involved: join PCTA as a member, sign up to volunteer with a local trail crew, or share advocacy efforts to protect the trail.

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Photo by: Christopher Thompson

In 2020, the Bear Fire burned across roughly 30 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail at the Middle Fork Feather River in the northern Sierra Nevada. Five years later, we’re still working hard in the burn scar each year. We analyzed ten years of trailwork statistics in an attempt to better understand how much additional effort is needed to restore and maintain the trail after the wildfire.

The result: we’ve put around six times the maintenance hours into this stretch of trail in the five years since the fire compared with the five years before it. Our new Story Map lays out the reasons for this, with a side-by-side map you can swipe to compare maintenance projects before and after the fire within the burn scar.

As the Story Map shows, what once was routine work turns into a multi-year challenge to keep the trail open and passable after it burns.

The Bear Fire is one fire among many. Since 2020, about 250 miles of the PCT have burned — roughly 9.4 percent of the trail. Many of those burns demand this same kind of multi-year recovery work, and every hour spent there is an hour not spent on routine maintenance somewhere else.

Our Trail Operations Director Justin Kooyman, who was a key contributor on this project, says this:

“Large wildfires inherently change and destabilize entire landscapes. This can have huge impacts on our ability to repair and maintain the PCT. The stability of entire hillsides can be compromised, and keeping up with the erosion is challenging. The number of trees coming down increases exponentially. The result is that post-wildfire work isn’t a one-and-done approach. It demands years of increased efforts to restabilize the trail and keep it clear and passable for hikers and horseback riders.”

Post-fire recovery is a permanent part of caring for the PCT, and sustaining it will take more federal funding, more private support, and more volunteers.

Photo by: Suzanne Vetter

Visit the Story Map to scroll through the maps and images, see the data, and get a clearer picture of what it now takes to keep the trail open.

Explore the Story Map →Six Times the Work: Maintaining the PCT After the Bear Fire

While we’re still compiling numbers from 2026, it was a similarly huge effort to maintain this stretch, as hundreds or thousands of trees fell again over the winter, and there was a new season’s worth of brush to cut back.

The post Six Times the Work: Maintaining the PCT After the Bear Fire appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

The theme of this hitch was teamwork and collaboration!

Photo by Sam Webster.

We started the hitch with the help of a packer who lightened our loads by dropping our food and gear at White Pass, so we could climb the North Fork Sauk switchbacks with unusually light packs and save energy for many days of sawing. After a night at White Pass, we loaded back up with tools and gear and started out north on the PCT.  We continued our hike, appreciating the clear trail, thanks to the work of the Regional Trail Stewardship Coordinators who’d been there the week before.

We started working north from Baekos Creek, thankful for an extra set of hands from Sam, our North Cascades Regional Manager, who’d joined us for the first half of our hitch.

We had a productive, fast first couple of days of work, logging out a couple of miles before we hit a series of large trees that took time, as well as considerable work and planning, to log out. Working north towards Sitkum Camp, we cleared logs and a few severely brushy areas, ultimately working our way to Kennedy Creek. We found Kennedy Creek to be quite foreboding; between the precariously balanced logs and the chocolate-colored waters, we opted not to cross, as we had plenty to do on the south side of the creek.

We had the somewhat unfortunate opportunity to talk to many hikers twice on this hitch, as the Miners Ridge Fire closure caused many thru-hikers to have to turn around and come back the way they came. Those hiking southbound were largely able to escape the closure, and several people commented on the improved condition of the GPW, including the notoriously brushy Milk Creek section where the Forest Service crew has been working diligently for several weeks.

Photo by Carly Reiser.

While it seems unlikely that thru-hikers will be able to complete the GPW section for the remainder of this season, it was pretty great to hear that our efforts, combined with the good work of the Forest Service as well as numerous other crews working hard throughout the season, were in fact improving the hiker experience heading through the Glacier Peak Wilderness…even if it is one log at a time!

The post The Glacier Peak Wilderness Saga Continued: North Fork Sauk Trail to Baekos Creek appeared first on Pacific Crest Trail Association.

The vast majority of the PCT is absolutely stunning. You don’t need much more to keep you engaged than the scenery around you. Every now and then, though, there’s a section that’s particularly barren and brutal for one reason or another.

Somehow this is the only picture I took of a Joshua tree, and it’s not a particularly interesting one. Somewhere between Tehachapi and Kennedy Meadows South.

I had just woken up from a brief two-hour nap after hiking through the night over the LA Aqueduct. I looked over at Stoker, in groggy disbelief, that he was actually standing in front of me.

“Dude, I’m so mad you’re here. Now I have to start hiking again too,” I joked.

I’d left Stoker under a bridge a few hours earlier, after he’d decided he needed to rest and couldn’t keep hiking through the night. I assumed he was down for the count, but here he was back on his feet, chipper as could be, as I rose like a zombie from my own dirt nap (that is, a literal nap in the dirt; no one was dying here).

The LA Aqueduct section is boring. It’s long, it’s hot, there’s no shade, and very little water. It’s mostly just empty desert except for the endless wind turbines dotting the hillsides. It isn’t without its own kind of charm. There are some incredible Joshua trees with their twisted trunks and spiky hats plucked straight from the pages of a Dr. Seuss book, and the history of the aqueduct itself is fascinating, if controversial. 

But from the pipeline to the turbines, to the shared right-of-way with a dirt road, to the bridge at the water source, the most obvious points of interest in this section are part of the built environment, not the natural one. Not exactly the views that drew me to hike the PCT.

Yet, almost to a person, every thru-hiker will describe the aqueduct as one of the most memorable parts of the desert.

The area around Hikertown has tons of horned lizards. For whatever reason, it’s the only place on the trail I saw them.

With the long water carry out of Hikertown and temperatures that often soar into the 90s and 100s during hiking season, most thru-hikers elect to wait out the heat of the day and hike the aqueduct overnight. I was no different, spending the day eating burritos and ice cream at the market before heading back to Hikertown to get my resupply together and hike out at sunset.

There was a big crowd getting ready to leave. Someone had glitter and offered to paint my face with it. Instead of dreading the overnight hike, there was excitement in the air, and the atmosphere was festive. Throughout that day, there had been a running joke among a few of us: “No sleep ‘til Tehachapi,” we’d crow at each other in passing.

It really was a joke. It was a bit over 40 miles from Hikertown to the road where most people hitchhike into Tehachapi, farther than any of us had gone in a day on the PCT so far. But the more we said it, the more the idea started to infiltrate my mind.

“Maybe,” I thought. “Just maybe.”

The beginning of the LA Aqueduct at sunset, all glittered up for the night hike.

I left Hikertown at sunset alone, as everyone else had gone ahead while I was still packing up. A few miles in, I caught up to Stoker, Marlin, and JC in the dark along the shared right-of-way between the PCT, aqueduct, and road. I didn’t really have a plan and wasn’t sure if I wanted to hike with people or just put my head down and get through as many miles as I could. We got to talking though, and I sort of just fell in with the crew. The longer we walked together, the more the idea of heading straight through to Tehachapi gained steam.

Just like that, the march to Tehachapi was on…for now.

The aqueduct section itself is 17 miles from Hikertown to a bridge that goes over a creek. This is a common spot for people to set up camp after the overnight hike, trying to take advantage of the shade under the bridge to wait out the heat of the day again. We arrived a bit after 2 am, so we still had plenty of time before we had to worry about the sun and heat again, and we intended to just make a quick stop for water and assess how everyone was doing. While tired, we all wanted to press on and keep the “no sleep ‘til Tehachapi” dream alive, except for Stoker.

At first, I thought Stoker was just complaining about being tired like the rest of us, but it became clear he wasn’t enjoying the overnight hike anymore and wanted to stay at the bridge. We ran into another group of friends planning to camp there, so after some discussion, Stoker said he’d sleep for a couple of hours and either catch up to us in the next section or meet us in Tehachapi.

Satisfied that we had a new plan, Marlin, JC, and I pressed on.

This time though, it felt like the party was officially over. We were too tired to keep the banter going, and everyone went at their own pace as we started to spread out a bit. I ended up in front, but every now and then I’d turn around and see two headlamps winding their way up the hillside through the windmills behind me.

Exposed sections of the LA Aqueduct at night.

I have no idea how fast or slow I was moving; this was the definition of head-down hiking. At the 24-mile mark, there’s a beautiful creek tucked into a hillside. I rolled in a bit before sunrise, though I could see the dawn light starting to creep in.

Marlin and JC weren’t far behind, and it was clear when they arrived that they planned to get some rest. I was torn. I was exhausted, but I still felt like I had some gas left in the tank. More than that, if the plan was really just to get a couple of hours of rest and keep going to Tehachapi, I’m much better at functioning while tired than I am at waking up once I’m asleep. I don’t sleep a lot, but I sleep hard. Additionally, I was worried that I’d lose some good hiking hours before it got too hot, and would rather take a break in the heat of the day.

Despite all that, the prospect of pressing on solo didn’t sound particularly fun, and the exhaustion won out. I quickly inflated my pad on the ground, set my alarm for 7:30 am, and did my best to fall asleep as the sun peaked over the horizon. The alarm was really to placate the optimist in me, but I’m a hardcore snoozer, and I was pretty sure the push to Tehachapi was over.

As my phone alarm vibrated me awake, I heard hushed voices nearby. That’s when I spotted Stoker, risen from the dead and no longer doing his best impression of a troll living under a bridge, talking to JC and Marlin. Everyone was actually awake, and shockingly vertical!

As I said, I’m not good at waking up, and that carries over to breaking camp. One of my hiking partners once told me, “You’re 20 minutes away from leaving for about two hours every morning.” I think that’s a pretty apt description. So, while they mostly looked ready to go, I still needed to pack up, and I told them to go ahead, and I’d catch up.

Exposed sections of the LA Aqueduct at night.

I don’t really know what was motivating me to keep pushing through to Tehachapi at that point.

The challenge of a 40+ mile day was intriguing, as I’d put in one 30+ mile day in the desert and several over 25, but nothing even approaching 40. I also absolutely loved the desert, but it was loooong, and I was starting to feel ready for a change of scenery. Getting to Tehachapi put Kennedy Meadows and the Sierra in sight. Having a group that was equally excited about it despite our exhaustion also helped immensely and made it feel more attainable. It wasn’t just some crazy idea that I had; it was a shared goal. With that said, I don’t think any one of these things alone would have been enough to make me fight the exhaustion to keep hiking.

Perhaps the best way I can describe it is an embrace of the spontaneity that thru-hiking allows for. I was doing it because I wanted to, and that was all that mattered. Yes, I could stop and rest or call it off any time I wanted to if the miles, the heat, or the lack of sleep became too much, but that decision too would be made because it’s what I wanted at that moment. That choose-your-own-adventure mentality ran the other direction too. Sometimes 25 miles became 10 because I found a beautiful campsite and decided I was done for the day (or because the giant plate of spaghetti and entire loaded baked potato I had for breakfast coming out of Acton was making it hard for me to waddle through much more, though those short days were much more involuntary).

Regardless of my rationale, the push to Tehachapi was back on! It was perhaps in need of a rebrand, but “just a little bit of sleep before Tehachapi” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Going down for a dirt nap–again, a literal nap in the dirt, no graves were dug that morning.

A few miles after the creek, there’s an 1,800-foot climb with no shade. It was still before 10 am, but the heat was already setting in. I passed one hiker trying to shelter in a tiny sliver of shade underneath a little desert shrub. She insisted she was fine, so I kept climbing.

It wasn’t the longest or the steepest climb, but it was one of the hottest climbs of the desert for me. By the time I got to the top, the combination of little sleep, heat, and over 30 miles of overnight hiking had taken its toll. Sweaty and tired, I rounded a corner and saw what must be a mirage. Tucked into a campsite off a dirt road was a little desert oasis! There were drinks, snacks, and even packs of ramen up for grabs. Most importantly, there was a big red deck umbrella providing shade for what must have been almost a dozen hikers.

The rest of my crew was already there. I grabbed a soda and sat down. I honestly don’t think I said a word to anyone. I just sat. In a real chair. It was glorious.

For months after that, every time someone brought up the aqueduct, I’d say, “Remember the red umbrella?!”

It stuck out so vividly in my mind. Finally, one of my hiking partners said to me, “You know that umbrella wasn’t red at all? I’ve heard you call it red to so many people, but it definitely wasn’t red.”

The “red” umbrella — photo courtesy of Natalie Versaggi, since I was too tired to take pictures while I was there.

I was positive she was wrong; I remembered it so clearly. But she produced the picture above, and sure enough, it was some sort of sun-faded beige. Apparently my sleep-deprived brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Who would have thought? Honestly, I’m still sort of convinced it was red despite photographic evidence. I’ve been accused of being a bit stubborn before.

I don’t remember much about the final ten miles to Tehachapi, other than it was mercifully cruisy and we walked through the biggest wind farm I’d ever seen. A truly absurd number of wind turbines.

Wind turbines outside Tehachapi.

We arrived at the road to hitch into Tehachapi around 4 pm, about 20 hours and 41 miles after leaving Hikertown. I was tired and hungry, ready to sleep in a bed and devour a town meal. I’m not sure if I can technically claim that I went from Hikertown to Tehachapi in a single push given my dirt nap (I do anyway), but I was happy, proud of what I’d accomplished over the last 24 hours, and had a lot of fun doing it–even if some of it was type 2 fun.

Again, end-to-end the PCT has to be one of the best bang-for-your-buck long trails out there, with a diverse array of scenery and near-constant views. When you get to those rare boring sections, though, get creative with it. Embrace the freedom and whimsy life on the trail allows. Break out the temporary tattoos, face paint, and glowsticks (make sure you pack it out and adhere to LNT principles!). Turn it into a challenge.

As long as you listen to your body and adjust your plans accordingly if you need a rest, you might turn these “boring” sections into some of your favorites.

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