I Quit The PCT
As I sat on a boulder at the bottom of LeConte Canyon, I stared at the button that I knew would end my months of adventure on the Pacific Crest Trail. It was on the side of my Personal Locator Beacon, a bright yellow hand-held device that I’d carried through 1,600 miles of trail across two states. The PLB had sat unnoticed in my pack’s hip pocket through miles of scorching heat, howling winds, and deep snow. Now, when I needed it most, I hesitated.
I was miles into the backcountry of Kings Canyon National Park, and I was in trouble. My heart was ten hours into an episode of atrial fibrillation, a condition that causes the chambers of my heart to beat out of sync with each other, slowing my blood flow and drastically reducing my cardio capacity. I was diagnosed with it on-trail just a few months before. It had first struck near Idyllwild in Southern California, where I felt an irregular, elevated heartbeat and acute shortness of breath. An electric shock administered by a cardiologist at a hospital in Palm Springs had kicked my heart back into its normal rhythm. This time, however, I was nowhere near a hospital or a cardiologist.
I could have waited longer to see if my heart would correct itself, as it occasionally did, but I knew it wasn’t the smart move. While atrial fibrillation episodes are rarely fatal on their own, they need treatment to prevent a stroke. I knew I needed help, but I also knew that pressing that button would prematurely end the biggest adventure of my life. As I pushed it in with my thumb, I counted out the five seconds I needed to hold it down before the beacon would activate. When the light blinked green, I knew my time on the Pacific Crest Trail was over.
When I started the trail at the Mexican border four months before, I thought I was realistic about my prospects of making it to Canada. I knew that most people who attempt the PCT don’t make it all 2,650 miles, and I knew that any number of things out in the wilderness could force me to quit. I also knew that I’d spent years getting myself in shape for the trail, honing my gear, and getting comfortable with the thru-hiker lifestyle. I felt optimistic. I felt ready.
The first weeks were every bit of the exciting adventure I’d hoped the PCT would be. I dove headfirst into thru-hiker culture, getting to know my fellow hikers and bonding with them over our shared experiences. I struggled with them through the desert heat and sleepless nights in howling winds. Together we enjoyed the beauty of the trail and the simple pleasures of beers and ice cream in towns. I started to settle into the rhythm of thru-hiker life, and I loved it. As the miles ticked by, I allowed myself to imagine making it all the way to Canada.
My first A-Fib episode brought me crashing back to earth, and pulled me back into a world I’d been excited to leave behind. Soon after I checked into the Eisenhower Medical Center in Palm Springs, doctors told me it was unlikely that I would be able to continue the hike. I was devastated. I could see the San Jacinto Mountains from the hospital, and knew that thru-hikers were passing over them every day. After so much physical preparation, I hadn’t expected my body to break down so quickly. It felt incredibly unfair, and I was angry.
I got a reprieve when I responded well to treatment, and I received a hesitant all-clear from the doctors to continue on the trail. I’d made friends with my hospital roommate, a retiree from Wisconsin named Bob, and his wife, Karen. They kindly put me up at their home in Indio for a few days while I got back on my feet. I got a ride back up to the mountains from a local trail angel named Jesse, who walked with me back up to the PCT from Idyllwild.
For the next few days, I was full of shaky optimism. I was immensely grateful to still be on this adventure. I conquered Fuller Ridge, made the long descent down to the desert floor, and completed the climb to Big Bear. Along the way, I got my trail name – Paddles – after my date with the defibrillator.
A few days later, A-Fib struck again, this time as I hiked through the San Gorgonio Mountains, but resolved itself before I made it to Big Bear. Call it summit fever, but I’d invested too much in this trip to quit so soon. I’d saved for four years, moved out of my apartment, sold my car, and negotiated a sabbatical with my boss. People back home and on the trail urged me to take it easy, to go home and try it again another year, but I knew it would never be that simple. I knew that it would be years before I could try again, and I wasn’t going to let go of my chance so quickly.
Days turned into weeks, and my confidence came back. In Wrightwood, I befriended another hiker, a Texan girl named Tidbit, and we summited Mount Baden-Powell with each other and hiked together for the rest of the desert. At Kennedy Meadows, we flip-flopped to Chester, after considering the conditions in the Sierra. We’d made it through Northern California and halfway through Oregon when my next A-Fib episode struck.
We got a ride from Charlton Lake to a hospital in Eugene, where I underwent cardioversion for the second time. I was in and out of the hospital in barely a couple of hours and felt normal once the sedative wore off. By this time, I was more comfortable with the condition and felt like I understood the risks. Again, I decided to continue. I finished Oregon, then parted ways with Tidbit as I traveled south from Portland to hike the Sierra.
As I left Kennedy Meadows, I remained hopeful I would finish the trail. I had completed more than half of the miles, and was slightly behind schedule, but still in good shape. I’d become accustomed to walking 25 to 30 miles a day and hung on to the hope that my heart would settle down. If it did, I knew I could make it the remaining distance. Still, the specter of A-Fib always loomed in the back of my mind. The mountains were ruggedly beautiful, surpassing all the spectacular scenery I’d hiked through to that point. Summiting Mount Whitney was an intensely emotional and cathartic experience. Having conquered the highest point of the trek, I allowed myself to believe that I could go all the way.
When my A-Fib hit again just a few days later at LeConte Canyon, I was devastated. The episode started as I crawled into my sleeping bag, and I spent a sleepless night willing my heart to revert to its normal rhythm. I knew that if it didn’t, my hike was over. After every previous episode, I’d made a risk assessment about whether to continue. Each time I decided that it was worth the small risk to keep pursuing my dream of making it to Canada. I’d always been able to seek help without imposing too much on others, but now I knew I needed a rescue. I was trapped by mountains, with no way out that my heart could tolerate.
After I activated my PLB, I left it on the exposed outcrop and sat in the shade of a nearby tree. I stared at the two-foot-wide ribbon of dirt that had been my home for months, knowing it was all about to become a memory.
A backcountry ranger arrived a few hours later and introduced herself as Ranger Muller. She gave me a brief medical and agreed that a medevac was the right decision. She radioed to base. A helicopter was dispatched. It landed on a rocky outcrop near where I’d camped and transported me back to Sequoia National Park headquarters at Ash Mountain. An ambulance took me to a hospital in Visalia. Somewhere on the ride, my heart returned to its normal rhythm on its own.
I called my dad, who had been alerted by search-and-rescue the moment I activated my beacon. He’d spent a sleepless night back in Australia waiting for the news that I was ok, and I could hear the relief in his voice when I told him I’d finally decided to quit. For the first time, my heart condition had put other people – my rescuers – at risk. I couldn’t, in good conscience, do that again.
I was discharged from the hospital in the late afternoon and found myself standing on a sidewalk in the blazing desert sun, with no idea where to go or what to do. Twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been happily hiking through a remote corner of the Sierra Nevada range, days from civilization and entirely at home. Now I was back in the “real world,” but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like I’d left the real world behind at LeConte, and now I was back in the bleached, artificial world of freeways, motels, and pizza deliveries. I didn’t mind the pizza part so much, but the suddenness of the transition from one world to the other put me in an existential head spin.
I drove a rental car down to Los Angeles the next day, then flew up to Portland to reconnect with the hiker herd at Trail Days in Cascade Locks. I was glad to have the chance to say goodbye, literally and metaphorically, to the people and the lifestyle I’d made my home with over those months. I was proud to see so many of the people I started the trail with heading into Washington – the final stretch – and I was sad that I wasn’t among them.
The “real” world reasserted itself far too quickly after that. I reunited with Tidbit and we road-tripped around the Pacific Northwest, before meeting up with my dad and stepmom who’d flown in from Australia. We traveled with them up and down the West Coast, but it was a vastly different experience than hiking it. I was grateful to have the time with them, but they could tell all was not right with me.
I returned to Perth and my pre-trail life. I’d been nostalgic about home while I was on the PCT, but returning to my way of life from before the hike felt depressingly pointless. I couldn’t understand why anyone would devote five out of every seven days of their existence to something as menial as a job, but I saw no alternative. I fantasized about buying a camper van and continuing my life of adventure, but after seven months of no income, I’d have been lucky to afford a used bicycle. I was in a downward spiral of cynicism and knew I needed to snap out of it.
If there’s one thing the trail has taught me, it’s the value of perseverance. While the world seemed grey and unexciting on my return from my PCT adventure, I knew deep down that I could overcome my post-trail depression and find a new purpose in life. Like the trail, I made it a challenge. I took out a loan to buy a second-hand SUV (great for hiking), then moved out of my dad’s spare room and into an apartment. I reconnected with friends, got back into playing baseball, joined a kayak club, and started going on short hikes around Perth. I took my dad on his very first overnight hike and was glad to be able to share a piece of trail life with him.
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Two months on, I’m still shaking off the culture shock of transitioning from thru-hiker life back to society, but I’m beginning to find more and more ways to enjoy living in the city. I’ve realized that while the thru-hiking lifestyle is like no other, there is still life after the trail, and it’s worth savoring. It’s a gradual process – too gradual – but it is happening. I’m scheduled for heart surgery soon, and if all goes well, I want to have another crack at the PCT. I don’t know when that will be, but I do know I’m going to enjoy life in the interim.
There’s a map of the PCT on my bedroom wall, and every time I look at it, I get a flood of memories of the people, places, hardships, and joys that made up my adventure. I’ve slowly come to realize that the fact that I didn’t hike all 2,650 miles of the trail does not diminish those experiences. All of those experiences were unquestionably real, and they made up what I will always remember as a life-changing adventure. I can choose to dwell on not finishing, to see the PCT as an unfulfilled dream, or I can continue living in the spirit of that adventure and go find what life has in store for me next.
That sounds like a lot more fun.
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