Most of the time, I will tell anyone who asks that there’s no such thing as too much adventure. This last week, however, was a pretty good counterargument.

When we sign up for an adventure, we don’t get to specify what type of adventure. Good, bad, or anything in-between. Adventures are, by nature, unpredictable. So was this last week.

This last week of hiking started out with a rattlesnake. No, this is not the too much adventure part yet. But it was an adrenaline-sparked start to run across a rattlesnake coiled up on the trail less than two miles into this last section. It didn’t even rattle. Just drew up into itself, raising its body and neck as if preparing to strike anything that approached. I, along with the two hikers right behind me, waited as the snake gave up and slithered into a trailside shrub, and then one at a time, we edged past, making sure to give a wide berth to the shrub and its snake.

The following day, a Sunday, started out great. No, not just great – absolutely fantastic. I hit mile 100 on the trail. I got my first trail magic by Cheshire Cat, who was handling out fresh fruit to hikers at a road crossing. (I got a pear.) The scenery was absolutely gorgeous.

Like most other PCT hikers, I’d planned to swing through the upcoming small community of Warner Springs, just a mile off trail, to resupply. But while most people had mailed themselves a box, I was planning a gas station resupply. So when I found myself at the spot I’d originally eyed for a campspot at 2:15 pm, right before the town, and found it filling up with hikers who couldn’t retrieve their box until the post office opened the next morning on Monday, it was an easy decision to keep hiking.

I didn’t need to wait for the post office. I’d just pop on into town and get my resupply that afternoon. No need to wait around for the gas station to open the following morning, no crush of hikers. Besides, my food bag was pitifully flat. With confidence lending speed to my feet, I didn’t stop to put my rice and beans in water to rehydrate for dinner. Going in that afternoon meant I could treat myself with ramen and maybe even something fresh – fruit, juice, yogurt, etc. Whatever the gas station had on hand.

The info online had the gas station closing at 6pm. I figured I’d play it safe, in case the online info was out of date, and assume a 5pm close. It turned out I was right. But what captured my attention as I walked up to the gas station just before 4:30pm wasn’t the sign in the window which indicated a closing time of 5pm, but the completely empty parking lot. The wind blew a piece of trash across the empty asphalt just then in a show worthy of any cinematic dramatization right before I saw the second sign in the front window. ‘CLOSED’, in nice, big red letters.

I’d forgotten how flexible small communities could be with their hours. There would be no resupply that day.

There would also be no dinner.

I had been far too confident in my plan to resupply, dreaming of ramen. My beans and rice, which I’d decided were unnecessary to prepare earlier, would have taken a good three hours, and by the time I was back on the trail, it was after 5pm and I was ready to crash. So instead of a proper dinner, I threw up my tent and then huddled inside to consume the dregs of my Pringles can, with a dessert course of my last packet of fruit snacks, before falling asleep.

I woke up to a mildly sore left leg. About time, I thought. It’s not a proper thru-hike until something hurts a little. I hadn’t even experienced sore muscles thus far.

I circled through town again, resupplied, and then, still feeling a bit out of sorts from missing dinner the day before, made it a short day. I stopped hiking at 1pm after around 10 miles, sat in the shade of some manzanitas, and ate snacks all afternoon. It was glorious.

Over the course of the following day, my leg began to hurt more. And more. It went from a vague ache in the morning to a very localized, deep sort of pain with any amount of weight bearing by the afternoon. It was perplexing and a bit concerning, so I took an on-trail nero the following day, hiking only five miles to the next water source.

When I arrived, several other hikers were already there, chatting. Despite being early in the year, many typical water sources were already dry, forcing hikers to either make longer carries, or in some cases, decide if they wanted to use what I might call ‘less than desirable‘ water sources.

We were all at the nexus of one such decision. Below us, down a quarter mile steep track, was a spring which was supposedly running a bit slow and swampy. Several miles ahead was a cistern that was right on trail, but supposedly had a dead lizard inside which had apparently been stewing for quite some time, according to comments on our navigation app.

Steep, extra milage. Or lizard water.

Naturally, the choice sparked some lively debate. While we all loudly voiced our opinions about lizard water – which everyone had taken to calling lizard juice – one hiker took a few steps off trail in the direction of the spring, took off his backpack, put back on his backpack, and walked right back to the trail while calling over his shoulder, “I’m going to the next one.”

I was firmly in the “avoid lizard juice” camp. I walked down and filled up from the flowing, clear trickle of water, and then trudged back up just in time to hear a passing group of hikers yell over to a hiker who had also chosen spring water and had just returned to the top.

“How was it?”

The hiker shook his head, newly acquired bottles of spring water heavy in his hands. “Not worth it man! Not worth it!”

“That’s all we needed to hear!” The group yelled back, not even breaking their stride as they pressed onwards to the cistern with its lizard juice.

But I looked down at my own water, crystal even before filtering, and knew I’d have made the same choice over again.

Water acquired, I found a bit of nice shade and proceeded to read two and a half books over the course of the day. Surely that would give myself enough time to rest up. (Surprise, it did not.)

Instead, my leg continued its steady decline into rebellion. I couldn’t exactly…walk… which is a minor obstacle when hiking.

At this point I knew it wasn’t going to improve with just “taking it easy” so I took a double dose of ibuprofen, queued up some music, and began hobbling my way towards the closest bailout point, 15 miles away. I camped just over three miles away from the road into town, and the next day, I triple-dosed myself with Vitamin I and skedaddled.

I made it out, all the way to Paradise Valley Cafe, on my own two feet. There, I proceeded to order a breakfast burrito the size of my forearm. A trail angel took me into town where I lucked out and managed to get a motel even though most everything was booked.

I remained comfortably horizontal over the next two and a half days, but when I was still unable to take a single step unless I’d taken a generous dose of ibuprofen, I made the only decision I could make. It was time to leave the trail.

Of course I wish my PCT adventure could have been longer. But again, true adventures are unpredictable, and that’s what this was. If my leg heals quickly, it’s always possible I’ll be able to return. But if it’s anything like a stress fracture, which I suspect is possible, I’ll have to be content this spring with the 150 miles of PCT I already got to hike. And surprisingly, that’s okay.

I will never have my fill of hiking. 150 miles or 1500 miles or 15,000 miles – I suspect no matter what I will always be thinking of trail and open skies and backpack on my shoulders.

This year, I got to hike. As soon as I’m able, I imagine I’ll be hiking again. Walking straight towards an unpredictable adventure for however long I can.

I have some short video clips of the trail which I plan to upload soon, but until then, I’ll leave you with a few more pictures of the trail.