Through the Spine of the Mammoth

Hello everyone! Welcome back to a new chapter of this adventure through the Sierra Nevada, as I make my way along the Pacific Crest Trail in search of the journey of a lifetime.
“Through the Spine of the Mammoth” is the continuation of my previous post, At a Crossroad in the Sierra where the trail kept surprising me at every turn—surprises that were overcome thanks to the incredible teamwork of my trail family.

First, I want to give you some context about where this chapter takes place. I’m including a map showing some of the key points mentioned in this post.
This stretch of trail happened in early June, so the satellite images are from a similar time of year, giving you a better idea of what the terrain looked like back then.

hat year, snowfall was around 110% of the historical average. It had been a slightly above-average season.
I was hiking right at the peak of the snowmelt, which meant the river crossings were full of water and had become quite a challenge.
At the same time, there was still a lot of snow lingering in the high Sierra. By now, I knew that above 3,000 meters, I would definitely find snow on the trail.

Because of the heavy snowfalls in previous years, one of the bridges over the San Joaquin River had collapsed.
For that reason, the PCTA was advising hikers to exit through Bishop Pass and rejoin the trail via Piute Pass. This way, hikers could avoid the broken bridge and continue toward Selden Pass safely.

The downside of this detour?
You’d skip the climb up to Muir Pass and miss out on visiting the iconic Muir Hut, a stone shelter built in honor of the founder of the U.S. National Parks system.

Our Plan

When we left Bishop with our big crew, we decided to take a different route.
We wanted to cross the broken bridge area and make it to the legendary Muir Hut.

This alternative was proposed by mountaineer Andrew Skurka. He had found a way to avoid the San Joaquin River crossing by staying high on the mountain slope and then making a steep descent down some rocky cliffs.

Most PCT hikers aren’t very comfortable traveling off-trail sections that aren’t clearly marked or well-traveled.
Skurka’s route required a good sense of navigation and some digital mapping tools for off-trail travel.
Since almost all PCT hikers rely solely on the FarOut app, which isn’t designed for off-trail navigation, adopting Skurka’s variant was pretty tricky.

But we had a key advantage: Saida.
She had mountaineering experience and had already completed this alternate route the year before.
With Saida’s knowledge, along with my own mountaineering and navigation experience, we felt confident we could make it.
Being a large group also meant we could watch out for each other and manage the risks of venturing into the unknown.

At a Crossroad in the Sierra

But as with everything on this journey… surprises were just around the corner.
When we reached Bishop Pass, one hit me like a bucket of glacial water over the head.

Our natural leader, Salty Chef, expressed concerns about the challenges ahead and the overall condition of our group.
Showing his great sense of solidarity and responsibility, he told us:

“This is also a crossroads. One path is filled with uncertainty—there’s a broken bridge and some risky sections ahead. The other is a safer route that almost every hiker is now taking. I have to be honest with you all. I’ve been feeling really tired lately. This is a big group, and the trail has been tougher than I expected. That’s why, after discussing it with Saida, we think a good option would be to exit here via Bishop Pass, rest up in town, and re-enter the trail through Piute Pass. Some of us are also running low on food, and we don’t know what lies ahead. This alternative gives us more certainty. But I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

After everyone shared their thoughts, we agreed to put it to a vote—whether to take the safer Bishop Pass exit or continue toward the unknown challenge of the broken bridge at the San Joaquin River.

The Vote

Salty Chef said:

—Alright, then. Raise your hand if you’re heading out through Bishop Pass.

The hands went up, one after another:

1. Salty Chef
2. Hatchet
3. Jumper
4. Coyote
5. Mufasa
6. Simba

After a moment of hesitation… Saida raised her hand too.

It was a long, heavy moment.
My companions were making the rational group decision.
It made total sense—they were a strong team, moving through the mountain passes safely and efficiently.

But deep inside, my heart and mind were starting to pull me in a different direction.

I waited until everyone lowered their hands.
Then I raised mine and said:

—I’m going for Muir Pass. I’m going to try… I’ll miss walking with you so much—you’re my family out here.

The Farewell

I hugged each of my friends, wishing them luck for the road ahead.
Even though it felt like a goodbye, deep down I knew we would find each other again later on the trail.

What made it feel more final was that I would be tackling the “Up and Down” variant alone—a plan we had originally crafted together.
It wasn’t just a goodbye for a few days; it was a true parting of ways at a crossroad where we wouldn’t be following the same path.

I hugged Saida. She told me:

—Be very careful up there. The trail is long, and the Up and Down section isn’t entirely clear. But I know you can do it.

I looked at her, thanked her deeply, and replied:

—Don’t worry. If things get bad, I’ll backtrack all the way to Bishop. First, I’ll get to Muir Hut—and then I’ll decide. I trust myself.

Those words gave my friends some reassurance, maybe more than I had inside myself.

Finally, I said goodbye to Rafa, who warmly told me:

—Our paths part again. Take care up there, negrito.

I loved that message. We hugged, and I turned to pick up my pack.

Don’t Give Up

With everything packed and ready, I took my first steps toward Muir Pass.
I turned around, raised my hand, and shouted:

—See you down the trail! And remember:

Don’t give up,
even if the cold burns,
even if fear bites,
even if the sun sets and the wind goes silent.

Please, Don’t give up,

And just like that, I continued on my journey.
At my crossroad in the Sierra, I chose to dive headfirst into the unknown.

After saying goodbye to my group, I had to start walking. The morning was already moving on, and I still had a long stretch ahead before reaching the shelter.

Feeling Alone

As soon as I started walking, within just a few minutes of being on my own, I felt a deep sense of emptiness in what I was doing. I missed the usual chatter around me and lifting my head to check where everyone else was on the trail. I remembered Jumper’s laughter, his jokes that were hard for me to understand with my rough English. I remembered Hatchet disappearing over the horizon, only to reappear from behind—clearly after a long and necessary pit stop.

I missed Salty Chef’s shouts in Dutch, something that sounded like “Daime!” (in Spanish pronunciation), his call to his son who had gone out of sight.

I missed Saida and Coyote too, always bringing up the rear. I used to turn around every now and then to make sure they were okay.

A Sense of Desolation

The landscape didn’t help either—it seemed to add to this growing feeling of isolation that haunted me all day.

The sky was gray. No animals in sight. Not even the cheerful morning songs of the birds. The only sound I could hear was the endless rush of water crashing over rocks. That was my only companion on this lonely day—the Middle Fork King River. It ran fiercely down the valley, in the opposite direction of my steps. While it descended violently, I was climbing up.

The sheer volume of water caught my attention. The riverbed looked much wider than usual. In many spots, thick vegetation peeked through waves, proof that this was more flood than stream.

Big Pine Meadow

The cold was becoming more noticeable with every step. That probably meant I was getting closer to the snow. I checked the altimeter—2,800 meters. Just 200 meters to go before hitting snow level. I knew hiking would get tougher from that point, so I decided to stop for a bathroom break and grab a snack, under the shade of the tall trees in Big Pine Meadow.

As I returned, I noticed someone near my backpack—it was Two Bucks, a hiker we’d met the night before during our wild descent with Salty Chef and Hatchet.

I greeted her with excitement:

—Hey! Two Bucks! I didn’t know you were behind us—what a nice surprise!

She smiled and said:

—Thanks! I’m not really an early riser. Besides, I’m only doing 11 miles today to Muir Shelter. It’s a short day, so I’m taking it slow. Where’s your group?

What Happened at Bishop Pass

I told her everything—what had happened just an hour earlier with the group decision, the vote, and how most of them had chosen the Bishop Pass detour. They planned to reassess at the Piute Pass junction and decide whether to head to Bishop for rest or keep hiking. I, on the other hand, was the only one who decided to keep going toward Muir Pass. I had high hopes for this place.

Two Bucks said it was a shame we weren’t all sticking together—she’d really enjoyed the campfire the night before. But she explained she was planning to exit the trail at Mammoth Lakes to meet some friends. This route was shorter than doing both detours, so she preferred to take her chances with the “Up & Down” variant—or just cross wherever seemed doable.

She talked about her plan with such ease and calm. It was clear that her experience on the CDT—and her personality—allowed her to move through challenges with a kind of relaxed confidence. Something I knew I needed to learn.

She was going to stay there for lunch, but I wanted to push on while the snow was still somewhat firm. We said goodbye, hoping to see each other again later in the day.

Entering the Snowfield

Water

The trail began climbing steadily in such tight switchbacks it made me dizzy. I couldn’t tell which way was forward and which was back. Snow started to appear on the edges of the path and slowly built up. At one point, it looked like someone had cleared the trail with a snowplow—the difference in snow accumulation was that stark.

What really started to bother me, though, was the water. The trail, though snow-free, had become a stream of freezing runoff.

Erosion

At first, I didn’t mind stepping in water. I just kept walking. But after a while, my feet began to swell. I noticed because my gaiters felt tighter, pushing into my skin and forming bulges like overstuffed sausages.

Now and then, I’d step onto a rock, and a sharp pressure pain would hit, building up until I had to stop and massage my feet. They were soaked—completely flooded by the stream flowing straight through my trail runners like a hot knife through butter. The constant pressure of stepping on uneven rocks was also starting to hurt.

Hours went by like this—slow progress in miserable conditions. My morale was getting eroded, step by painful step.

But slowly, the snow started closing in. First in patches, then in islands, and finally, it took over the entire landscape.

The Slush Snow

Suddenly, the pain that came with wet feet hit harder. I looked down and noticed my skin—just above the gaiters—was slightly purple and swollen. But over time, the pain faded—strangely even faster than it had arrived.

Walking on snow meant I was no longer submerged in cold water. But this snow was weird. My Chilean friend Coyote had the perfect name for it: sopa snow—like slushy soup. It crumbled beneath each step and felt like it melted under my feet, like I was a heavy furnace stepping across a snowfield.

New discomforts took over: constant slipping, unstable footing, and no trail to follow.

Frozen steps

The further I went, the deeper the snow. Some patches were firm, but the surface was rippled, like a thousand pebbles had dented it. It was impossible to find footprints or any signs of the trail. Progress was slow, energy was draining fast.

My mind started to feel the fatigue too. Without the emotional support of my friends—or even a small distraction—I felt exposed. Vulnerable.

I usually like being alone. I’ve chosen solitude often on this trip. But now… it was getting heavy. I wished I could laugh with Jumper, slip and fall with Saida, or watch the father-son bond between Salty Chef and Hatchet.

The contrast hit hard—going from group to solo hiking so suddenly made me feel small. Insignificant. Like I didn’t even have a clear path anymore—just a constant effort to decide which way to move forward.

The Snow Trap

I was lost in my thoughts when the trail pulled me back with brutal simplicity— : Hello darkness, my old friend I’ve come to talk with you again. I had fallen into a snow trap.

A posthole swallowed my right leg all the way to my hip.

When I sent the signal for my muscles to push up and out—nothing happened. My leg didn’t move a millimeter. It was frozen in place. I rocked my torso side to side to widen the hole. No luck.

I tried to twist like a corkscrew, turning on the trapped leg. That helped move the snow near my hip, but my calf was still stuck in a tighter hole. I managed to wiggle my foot a little, just enough to feel a mini cavern under it.

Ego’s Turn

I planted both hands in the snow and placed my free foot on the surface, trying to push up with everything I had.

—AGGGGHH VAMOS DIEGO, SALIIII… DALE DALE DALE!

The ice felt like a thousand tiny blades cutting into my leg. But the harder I tried, the deeper my hands and free leg sank. I began to panic.

I looked around—Two Bucks had to be somewhere behind me! WHY THE HELL DIDN’T I STAY AND EAT WITH HER?! Why did I decide to go alone?

My ego was in full attack mode, telling me I’d done everything wrong. That I was arrogant. That I had abandoned my trail family. That I passed on a chance to walk with someone experienced. That I brought this on myself.

That voice—the voice of Ego—clouded everything. It made me search for blame when I should’ve been solving the problem.

Time to Cool Down

But blaming myself was useless now. I wasn’t even sure I’d made the wrong call. It was like I’d opened a pressure cooker of negative thoughts, and the steam was blinding me.

Then my rational mind stepped in. I remembered Ian telling me he once postholed up to his hip near Bishop Pass. He’d had to remove his backpack to escape.

So I did just that. I unbuckled the waist and chest straps, twisted my torso, and left my pack standing in the snow.

I tried again, this time using my free knee to push. I managed to shift my leg, but it was still stuck. The jam now felt closer to my knee—like ice had wedged itself behind the joint, locking me in.

The trail always provide

At that moment, something magical happened. My backpack, which I’d left standing, toppled over violently. Snow burst into the air as it hit the ground.

I looked at it. The Uruguayan flag patch facing the sky. Resting beside me in the snow. On the side of that pack: my ice axe.cTechnically, Marcelo Hitta’s ice axe—a gift from a friend back in Uruguay who was following my journey.

I traveled back in my mind to Mt. Whitney. To that day I wrote about in “At a Crossroad in the Sierra”. 

I remembered Salty Chef using the pick end of his axe to carve steps in a snow patch so the rest of us could descend safely.

Time to dig

I grabbed the ice axe and started digging.

Pac. Pac. Pac. The sound of steel biting into snow.

Eventually, I freed my thigh and sat back onto the surface. My lower leg was still stuck. I kept going.

Pac. Pac. Pac.

And then, suddenly, my foot burst free—like a bubble rising from the deep ocean.

I collapsed onto my back, eyes wet with emotion.

My mantra came back loud and clear:
Don’t give up… even if the cold burns… even if fear bites! Don’t give up…

I had done it. After 5 minutes fighting I had escaped my icy trap—and most importantly, I had done it on my own.

A Pause, Then Onward

Coming out of that moment of despair, I realized it was time to stop for lunch and lift my spirits. Nothing that had happened so far was truly serious—the real issue was my constant self-doubt and second-guessing every decision I made. So, I looked for a few rocks to sit on, had some lunch, and thought, why not take a proper power nap? Let’s just say—if you can, you can. LOL.

I found an incredible spot with a bit of sunlight, a tree to lean against, and most importantly, no snow on the ground. I sat down, ate, and laid back for a quick rest and woke up twenty minutes later with a reset mind. I was even able to lift my head and truly take in the beauty around me.

The bad moment had passed. My insecurities had utterly overpowered my common sense, especially out here in a terrain I wasn’t used to—and truthfully, one I was a little afraid of. Being alone in such vastness had rattled me. It had shown how unprepared I was to be in a place like this.

Push the Limit

But what I did next told a different story. It revealed another side of this adventure—a version with the exact same events, but a completely different narrative. I’d managed to get out of that unexpected situation using my own tools. I didn’t fall into that hole because I was incompetent—it was just something that could happen on a trip like this. Let’s face it: if I was terrified of falling waist-deep into a snow trap, I should’ve stayed on the couch back home instead of hiking the PCT.

Because this is what this journey is about—pushing your limits within the bounds of acceptable risk. And what happened? It wasn’t even that big of a deal. But fear and insecurity turned a puddle into an ocean.

Don’t give up even if fear bites

That’s when I asked myself: how many times have I done this before? How often have I doubted myself and built walls of imaginary dilemmas that only hold me back—worrying instead of focusing on what actually needs to be done? Here, it was clear—I had to get out of that hole. What good would blaming myself do? Telling myself it only happened because I was hiking solo and not with my amazing friends?

The answer was simple: I had done this a thousand times before. There were countless examples. Like when I used to think of myself as the short chubby kid who wasn’t cut out for volleyball—and yet I got selected to play on my country’s junior national team.

A short look back

Or when I was in my first programming class at the engineering school and felt so dumb for not understanding how to write a simple loop. I thought I’d never become an electrical engineer, never make my parents proud by becoming the first university graduate in my family—something they deserved after everything they gave me and sacrificed for me. I felt I was failing them. And now? I’m an Electrical Engineer, I hold a Master’s in Power Systems, I taught at the university, and I was even invited to the U.S. for a PhD.

And then there are the deeper wounds. The lingering ones that eroded my confidence and made me feel like a fool who wasn’t worth anything. Wounds I haven’t yet healed—some I haven’t even fully uncovered. But I have a feeling that on this trip, I will. That this crazy challenge I gave myself is going to bring so many hidden parts of me to the surface—parts that will help me grow and learn to value myself.

I still couldn’t bring myself to say the final lines of my mantra out loud, but in my head, I could already sense how I wanted to end Meyer’s poem. I had a feeling where it was heading—and thousands of kilometers ahead to keep working on it.

—Keep enjoying the ride, roadrunner.

Time to Keep Moving

With my head now a bit clearer, I continued on toward Muir Hut. I hadn’t seen any sign of my friend Two Bucks yet, but I was sure she was close behind. Just in case, I kept checking my digital maps frequently to make sure I was on the right path—and I was.

The trail kept climbing steadily, only leveling out when it skirted a lake. Each time I reached the top of a ridge, a new one appeared in the distance. And each time I told myself:

—Come on Diego, just one more climb. Let’s go get it.

But this time, something was different—and it filled me with excitement.

In the distance, I spotted a set of tracks heading up the next ridge. They didn’t follow a single line—instead, they crossed each other, weaving between rocks to avoid the snow where possible.

As I got closer, I confirmed they were human footprints. Judging by the depth of the holes, they had been made with full crampons, not microspikes. That explained the two distinct paths: with crampons, you can power straight up steep snow sections, skipping the longer, slower switchbacks. More importantly, though, this meant someone had recently come through—there was life out here.

Helen Lake

At the top of that ridge, I came across a massive lake. According to my digital maps, it was Helen Lake—the last lake before reaching Muir Hut.

The lake’s turquoise color peeked shyly through a white blanket of snow. I stopped for a while to take it in—I was exhausted, emotionally drained from everything the day had brought.

I decided to drop my backpack in the snow, grab my 4-liter water capacity, and walk over to the lake to collect some of that pristine water. As I stepped carefully across the snow, I quickly realized the layer was too thin to hold my weight. So I aimed for the larger exposed rocks, walking slowly and deliberately.

At one point, the ice I was standing on gave way and my foot plunged straight into the freezing water. Thankfully, my left foot was planted firmly on a rock, so I didn’t fall. I pulled out my water bags and began filling them.

It’s much harder to fill bottles when the water isn’t flowing. You have to maneuver the bags under the icy water while trying to keep what little you manage to capture from slipping right back out. And in the awkward position I was in, it was even harder. After a few failed attempts, I gave up and just stuck my foot fully in the water and got the job done faster. At that point I was already soaked, and my final goal for the day wasn’t far off.

I walked back to grab my pack, loaded in the water bottles, and pressed on toward Muir Pass.

Packing the Weight

As soon as I hoisted my backpack, I could feel those extra 4 liters—about 4 extra kilos—pulling on me. It’s wild how your body gets used to the weight of your pack, and any increase is instantly noticeable. Just lifting it off the ground becomes harder. Especially when the added weight is water—it’s all in one spot, so where you place it in your pack really matters.

Now it was time to get the pack on my back. If dragging it across the snow had been a challenge, lifting it onto my shoulders was a full-on mission. My method is to prop it first on my knee, then grab the right strap with both hands and swing it over my shoulder with a push from my hip.

Why the right shoulder first? Because my left arm is more flexible—it slides into the second strap way easier. I think that’s true for most of us. Like when you’re putting on a jacket or shirt, there’s always one arm that’s better at fitting into the sleeve. For me, if I start with my left sleeve, there’s a good chance I’ll rip the shirt trying to jam my right arm in. My dominant side is just clumsy like that.

It’s the same story with my pack—I have to do it from the same side each time. Otherwise, I end up lying on my back in the snow like a flipped turtle.

When you finally stand upright with your full pack on, there’s this flash of heaviness—annoyance, doubt, maybe even regret. You think, Ugh, this is so heavy. Am I really carrying all this? Do I need all this water? But then, you buckle the hip strap, and suddenly the pressure lifts off your shoulders like magic. Of course, it’s not magic—it’s just redistributing the weight—but it feels like a miracle every time.

The Final Stretch to the Hut

You give your hips a little sway to test the fit of your pack and check whether everything is secure. Are the water bottles steady? Is anything pulling weird? If something feels off, I always stop and fix it right away. I’ve learned the hard way that saying, “Eh, it’s just a little off, I can deal,” leads to dropping the pack in agony fifteen minutes later to fix a “minor” issue that’s become unbearable.

With everything feeling balanced, I set off on the final stretch of my first day hiking solo—a quiet walk into the snowy wilderness of the Sierra Nevada. But, as usual on this adventure, the next surprise was just around the corner.

The Hat on the Horizon

The trail was flat at first, then it began to climb sharply. At that transition, the crampon marks I’d been following deepened noticeably, and I knew they were leading me to my destination: the famous Muir Hut.

Suddenly, there it was—deep footprints in the snow leading straight toward a small dark structure standing out against the white landscape.

I moved forward with effort, step by heavy step, breathing hard. My eyes stayed glued to the footprints; lifting my gaze toward the hut took real effort. And as I did, it began to change shape in my mind:

Pac, pac, pac—my feet crunched in the snow. I looked up and the hut looked like a spire.

Pac, pac, pac—it morphed into a tiny marmot.

Pac, pac, pac—now it looked like a black bear watching me.

Pac, pac, pac—suddenly it was a solid cube with a pyramid roof.

Pac, pac, pac—and finally, it shouted: Come on! You’re almost here! Margaritas await!

The Most Crazy Trail Magic

When I heard that, I looked up sharply and saw a human figure waving an ice axe in the air. For a moment, I thought I’d lost it—up here where there was no sign of life, someone was suddenly yelling at me from my final goal for the day.

The adrenaline kicked in instantly. My steps came quicker, my breath shortened, and my heart pounded. But none of that mattered—because the hut was waiting, apparently with friendly company.

Come Out and Play

I took my last steps, and there it was—the iconic Muir Hut, emerging from the snow in a perfect circle. Two cheerful people greeted me with giant smiles.

Welcome at Muir Hut

—Hey hey hey! I finally made it!” I said. “Thank you for the shouts—those really helped me get through that last stretch.

The two hikers kept smiling. It was a man and a woman, and the man said:

—We weren’t expecting company, and Level Up was too lazy to make another margarita.

He said this while sipping from his Jetboil.

I laughed, dropped my pack, and found a spot in the sun to enjoy what was left of the afternoon.

Roadrunner sunbathing at the Hut

“Good Vibes” and Level Up

These two people were truly special. Their good vibes and contagious energy made it impossible not to smile from ear to ear. I sat down with them, and we started talking.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember his name, so I’ll just call him Good Vibes. Her trail name was easy to remember, and besides, Good Vibes couldn’t stop referencing Level Up. She laughed with every comment and always took it one level higher.

They told me they had done the PCT eight years ago, and since they were from the area, they often came up to Muir Hut and then went on a secret side tour—one they wouldn’t tell me about, afraid I’d stray from the trail and never come back.

In the middle of all the laughter, Good Vibes insisted:

—Level Up, it’s time to upgrade this. It’s just water!

He then pulled out a bottle of blackberry-flavored Mio electrolytes and squirted it into his JetBoil, adding ice he was grabbing straight from the icy wall in front of us.

Then he said:

—Go on, Level Up—work your magic!

She reached into her pack and pulled out a glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. My brain couldn’t quite process what I was seeing. Yep—they had carried a bottle of tequila all the way up to Muir Hut.

They caught the disbelief in my eyes and said:

—You never thought you’d find Trail Magic at the top of Muir Pass, huh?

Our laughter echoed through the mountains so hard my abs started to hurt. We were just so damn happy in that moment—with the setting, the sense of freedom, and the simple joy of sipping some alcohol with ice and berry electrolytes. I couldn’t think of a better moment.

Time to Multicolor Level Up

That’s when I jumped up and said:

—I’m Roadrunner, and I’m about to Level This Up!

I leapt to my pack, grabbed my snack bag from the front pocket, and went back to them. I tossed a handful of Mogul gummies into the JetBoil, then pulled out three Snickers bars and shared them.

That’s when Good Vibes exclaimed:

—OMG THIS GUY IS LEVELING UP OUR DAY!

We laughed so hard that tears streamed down our faces. We looked like a bunch of blissed-out lunatics who had reached the peak of life and needed nothing else.

Then, in the middle of our joyful madness, we heard a voice behind us:

—What’s going on here? Did I take a wrong turn and end up at a party? I swear this devilish climb was killing me—I wasn’t expecting this much joy up here!

I turned around, and there she was—Two Bucks had just arrived at the party.

Exploring Muir Hut

While Two Bucks dropped his pack and got settled, I took a quick walk around Muir Hut.

This stone structure, rising from a sea of snow, gave off a sense of being in a truly privileged place. Surrounded by 13,000-foot peaks, the view was absolutely stunning. The sky was clear and sunny, allowing us to take in every detail of the landscape.

The hut offered a much-needed sense of safety in this unpredictable alpine environment. While Muir Pass isn’t the most exposed, with mountains blocking the wind, it’s a flat area, making this man-made shelter essential.

Inside, I was surprised by how clean it was. In many mountain shelters, trash piles up, attracting rodents and making the place unpleasant. But not here. Just a bit of dust—likely even swept at some point.

Under the Snow

Sitting inside, looking through the window, it struck me: I was lucky the snow had already melted. Just a few weeks ago, this hut was probably buried.

Its smart design likely helped it shed the snow quickly. The stone roof, shaped like a cone, didn’t hold onto snow well. Once the sun warmed it, the snow would slide off, thanks to gravity and solar energy—no maintenance needed. An incredible feat of human design in sync with nature. A true marvel.

I planned to spend the night at the hut and begin my descent at dawn toward the infamous Up & Down. Maybe some of the others would join me, so I left my gear in a corner and stepped out to enjoy the rest of the evening.

Mountain Colors

As I stepped outside, the Golden Hour had arrived—probably one of the most breathtaking I’d ever witnessed. Nature’s harmony, the finely sculpted rocks, snowy ridges and majestic peaks all bathed in soft golden light.

That final light of the day seemed to awaken a deep sense of contemplation. It felt like the mountains were finally winning a battle against the mighty sun.

The snow, like an exhausted marathon runner nearing the finish line, was still holding on. Covered in a frosty sweat, it waited for the relief of nightfall, dreaming of rest.

As the sun dropped lower, we instantly felt the cold return. It snapped us out of our golden trance. We got up, reached for our jackets, and gathered our things for dinner.

Pika, hello Big Friends

We cooked dinner while sitting on the steps of the hut, which sheltered us from the wind. In front of us stood a one-meter wall of snow, blocking the breeze coming down the slope.

Then, a surprise guest appeared.

A tiny, furry pika peeked out from a hole in the snow. We left a little nut at the entrance, and it quickly snatched it and disappeared again.

It was a sweet reminder that we weren’t the only ones enjoying this magical place. These are the kinds of places John Muir fought to protect—spaces where people and wildlife can connect to something bigger.

An Unexpected Goodbye

After dinner, our margarita angels decided to continue on toward their next stop.

They were heading to a secret spot—some remote hot springs. Temptation trail, as Good Vibes called it.

—Guys, I know you’re all excited to finish the PCT, and I get it. I did the same seven years ago. But now I come back every year and take a different route.

Two Bucks and I laughed, agreeing we’d keep following the PCT.

—Well, then I don’t feel as guilty about tempting you! We’re exiting after the fallen bridge and heading to a place called Mono Hot Springs. Paradise. Cabins, hot water, and if we’re lucky, we might stay for free since the season hasn’t started yet.

Two Bucks was tempted but said:

—Honestly, if I didn’t have plans to meet my friends in Mammoth Lakes, I’d join you! But I need a shower and some decent clothes—we’re going to party for a few days.

Good Vibes smiled:

—You should totally bring them to the hot springs later. It’s cheaper than Mammoth and waaay better.

Money saving tip

Then I asked:

—Any budget tips for Mammoth? I’m watching my money…

He replied:

—Mammoth is expensive. Big hotels, golf courses, ski gear shops… I’d recommend hitching to Bishop. You’ll find the Hostel California there—best place to rest and do a cheaper resupply. Then hitch or bus back to Mammoth the next day.

I loved the idea and thanked him. I’d had a great time there before, so I figured I’d ask my girlfriend to help book a room when I got close again.

As Good Vibes said goodbye, he joked:

—Alright, I couldn’t tempt you this time… but someday, you’ll realize it’s better to float like a monkey in a hot spring than ride the spine of a mammoth.

We all laughed one last time—full-hearted and free.

Time for an Unexpected Welcome

Our friends already had their backpacks loaded and were getting ready to leave. I saw Level Up starting to put on his microspikes, and Good Vibes was adjusting his crampons. That’s when I realized the crampon tracks I had seen on the trail were actually his. In the end, it was my friend Good Vibes who had guided me to the summit of Muir Pass.

While we were doing this, we heard someone else approaching the shelter along the PCT. We walked over and started shouting: “You got this! Come on, come on, come on!” A few minutes later, a tall blond guy arrived. He looked exhausted and said:

—My friend Slippy is a little behind. We came all the way from Mather Pass. It was a really long day.

I looked at him and said:

—Incredible! That’s a huge effort—congrats! That’s a tough stretch and a tough day.

The next visitor

A few minutes later, Slippy showed up at the hut, smiling wide despite her tired face. She hugged her hiking partner and came over to say hi. When she saw me, she said:

—No way! You must be Roadrunner! I finally caught up to you, you damn fast kid!

I looked at her face and honestly had no idea who she was. It was the first time I’d seen her. I replied:

—Yes, that’s me—Roadrunner, from Uruguay. How do you know me?

Slippy said:

—I saw your name in the trail registers and I see your sign saying you are from Uruguay. I used to hitchhike around South America for several years, and I was really excited to meet you. I kept seeing your name pop up in the registers—sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. But lately, I saw you getting closer and closer… and now I finally made it! I got to meet you!

We hugged briefly and laughed. I was amazed at how happy she was just to meet me, and how a simple signature in a trail register could give someone motivation and even a goal. I think only someone who’s done something like the PCT can really understand that.

A Quiet Night

Night fell suddenly, and we headed into the hut. The newly arrived hikers were exhausted from their long day, but this was their usual rhythm. After a few hours of rest, they’d be ready to hit the trail again. We each found a spot and slipped into our sleeping bags to chat.

Slippy asked:

—So, what are your plans for tomorrow? Are you going to do the Up & Down, or try to cross the river? I’ve had some bad experiences with river crossings and I’m a little nervous about it.

Two Bucks replied:

—I don’t know yet. I’ll wake up late and start walking. I think I’ll do the Up & Down, but I don’t have a solid plan. I just go at my own pace and decide on the spot. I guess the trail will be marked, or maybe the bridge is still there—I’ve seen pictures of it.

The Myth of the Broken Bridge

Slippy told us the bridge had been removed because some hikers had tried to cross it while it was at risk of collapsing. Even though it seemed unlikely that anyone could actually get to such a remote spot to dismantle a bridge, rumors were spreading. Some said the story about the missing bridge was a myth—just a tactic to discourage hikers from trying to cross it.

Good Vibes himself had told us he believed the bridge might still be there. They were planning to go down and check it out. They were relaxed about it and ready to make a decision once they saw the conditions. They were even tempted to go just to see whether the infamous bridge was still standing.

I told them I wasn’t planning on walking all the way to the second bridge to check if it was broken. It would mean a lot of extra hiking, and from what I’d seen on the topographic map, it looked like it would be really tricky to find a crossing point either upstream or downstream. My plan was definitely to take the Up & Down. I was going to start hiking around 4 a.m. to catch the snow while it was still solid and descend calmly. That way, I’d have time to deal with the Up & Down without pressure—because off-trail travel is always a wild card.

A New Team

After listening to me, Slippy asked if I’d mind if they joined me. I was really happy about that—it would reduce the risks of going off-trail. Then Slippy added:

—My only issue is that I can’t start that early… or at least I can’t promise it. LOL. I probably won’t wake up in time. I don’t want to slow you down.

I replied:

—I don’t mind going down and waiting for you at the crossing point for a bit. Actually, you might even catch up with me—and then you’ll be the ones waiting on me.

Slippy and her friend Ulrik went to sleep, and so did I. Tomorrow, we were about to step into the unknown.

I woke up in the shelter, and the morning silence was striking. You could hear the deep breathing of my companions—gentle sighs that showed they were in a deep sleep.

At home, I’m used to my girlfriend being extremely protective of her sleep. Being an early riser myself, that has caused some friction, because lying in bed staring at the ceiling isn’t really my thing. So over time, I developed an extreme stealth skill: the tiniest sound can unleash a dragon’s breath if I dare to disturb her peaceful slumber.

I put my super skill into practice and managed to sneak out of Muir Hut without waking anyone up. Once outside, I finished getting dressed and packed my gear, enjoying the incredible mountain views at sunrise.

The sun had risen once again, the shadows of the mountains still stretched across the sky, but surprisingly it wasn’t that cold. The absence of wind made the Sierra Nevada landscape even more breathtaking.

Familiar Footprints

I packed my things and began descending the mountain. I could clearly see Good Vibes’ and Level Up’s tracks on the snow. It was obvious my cheerful friend had taken a straight line down thanks to the extra grip his crampons provided. Level Up, on the other hand, made a constant zigzag that regularly crossed his friend’s path.

They seemed like more than just trail buddies—not necessarily in a romantic way, but as two people who simply loved spending time together out here. Finding friends who enjoy mountain adventures is tough. It’s physically demanding, and you’re far from any comfort. That shrinks your circle of potential trail partners. Plus, you need to click with that person to truly share the beauty of nature in such an extreme state.

That harmony is like Yin and Yang—like the sunlight reflecting off the mountains. You have to get along and be in sync with your companion. You could feel all of that with these two hikers, laughing freely as they crossed the mountains together.

A little detour

The snow was rock hard, which made my descent fast and smooth. The slope was steady and gradual, easy to walk. I wasn’t following any footprints—I was just flowing downhill along the easiest path.

At one point, I found myself on the left shore of a lake I recognized as Evolution Lake.

I was walking near the shoreline when I saw a tent set up in a small green patch nearby. It didn’t look like the most comfortable place to camp. Being close to a body of water with snow all around, I figured its occupants had probably spent a rough night.

A Priceless Warning

One of them woke up and said in a sharp tone:

—Hey! Don’t go that way!

They started moving toward me, so I stopped and walked a bit closer to where they were. Then they explained:

—We just wanted to warn you—it’s pretty much impossible to descend from this side of the lake. I tried for almost an hour yesterday but had to turn back. So we came back and camped here. The trail actually goes along the other shore of the lake.

Their tone was much friendlier now, and the message was genuinely helpful. I looked across the lake and realized I had to backtrack about 45 minutes to find the proper crossing. I thanked them and turned back in search of the correct path.

Crossing a Lake

After 15 minutes, I got tired of walking backward, so I decided to try crossing straight through the lake at a wide section. I stepped into the icy morning water—actually, it was freezing. The sun hadn’t yet had much time to warm the mountains around us.

Crossing a lake is completely different from crossing a river. You need to stay alert because the water is still, and you can’t spot deep holes that might swallow you and soak your entire pack. Trekking poles are incredibly useful for probing the ground before every step.

The lake was partially frozen, which also made it harder to see. There were chunks of snow and ice that cracked open as I moved forward. The big advantage, though, was the lack of current. I didn’t have to worry about being swept away—just about moving forward.

After about three minutes, I reached the other shore and spotted footprints in the snow again—back on trail. That lake crossing saved me around 30 minutes of slipping through the snow, so I was happy with my decision.

Reaching the Tree Line

As soon as I picked up the trail on the other side of the lake, the descent became steeper, and the first trees began to appear.

The trail was clear, the snow was easing up, and my body was warming up. I stopped on a rock to eat breakfast and take in my final moments in this snowy expanse. Everything that had happened the day before had been so intense—from loneliness and doubt to companionship and euphoria. Too many emotions for one day—more changes than I’m used to handling or even feeling.

I’m usually pretty stable when it comes to my moods. But not out here. The PCT stimulus was huge—so huge it made me vibrate on its frequency. It made me feel alive in a way that confirmed the mystical saying: The Trail Provides.

This was proof of that. I needed a new reason to keep going after parting ways with my trail family, and the PCT sent me this nomadic crew I could walk with—be myself with—and count on for the hard parts.

Sitting on that rock, I got emotional. I cried while looking at the mountain peaks. I laughed like a madman at the sky. Then I did what had to be done—I grabbed my poles and kept walking.

Warning Signs

The trail gently continued through a valley called Evolution Creek, with less and less snow. But oddly enough, I started feeling colder. That snow had turned into water, and it was nearly impossible to keep your feet dry. At one point, I reached a flat area called McClure Meadow, where the trail literally led into a lake.

I looked for a way around but, after failing to find one, I resigned myself to wading through the water again. The stillness of this section of the PCT was striking. There was no sound except the occasional stream running downhill. Then, I came across a sign that caught my attention.

This sign stood out for two reasons: first, it was in the middle of nowhere. The park service must be amazing to have placed a warning like this way out here.

The second reason was the suggestion to take an alternate route. That option wasn’t originally part of the plan since the detour via Bishop Pass was many miles back. So I took this sign as a clear confirmation that the Up & Down detour was the right move to stay on the PCT.

I grabbed some nearby sticks and left a message for Slippy and Ulrik, letting them know I’d wait for them further down the trail.

Time to Analyze the Route

I lay down under the trees, took off all my wet clothes, and spread them out in the sun. Since it wasn’t cold, I stretched out on my sleeping pad and just relaxed. I pulled out my trusty couscous and enjoyed a calm lunch. Afterward, I closed my eyes for a short nap. 

When I woke up, I started studying Skurka’s suggested route in detail.

The first thing I noticed was that the trail wasn’t a real GPS track. It looked digitally drawn, likely on a tool like Google Earth. That means Skurka didn’t necessarily walk exactly along that purple line. In these cases, the idea is to follow the general logic of the line, using the map as a flexible guide, not a strict path.

The Logic Behind the Detour

The topographic analysis revealed the reason for the detour. Near the river, the contour lines were packed tightly together, meaning the slope was extremely steep. In that stretch, the elevation gain was about 300 meters over a very short distance — like climbing the Eiffel Tower up a smooth wall.

Skurka’s suggestion is to avoid that brutal stretch by climbing to a height between 3000 and 3100 meters, where the slope is gentler and easier to traverse. Then, the idea is to contour along the side of the mountain for around 2 km, and finally descend diagonally to the bottom of the valley, where the slope becomes manageable again.

Tools and Strategy

So how to put this into practice? The key lies in two tools:

1. My watch with a barometric altimeter, which tells me when I’m between 3000 and 3100 meters.

2. My smartphone with offline maps, in this case using Guru Maps. These apps show contour lines, the suggested route, and my current location.

With the analysis done, all I had to do was wait for my friends. Luckily, they showed up about an hour later.

Reunion with the Team

As soon as she saw me, Slippy smiled:

“I thought you left without us! So glad to see you here. Now I feel safer doing this stretch together.”

I replied:

“Of course I waited for you! Besides, it’s much safer in a group. And to be honest, I enjoy the company.”

Ulrik laughed and asked me:

“Did a guy from the lake talk to you? He was kinda rude to me at first, but then showed me the way.”

“Same here,” I said. “Anyway, the route starts over there. We need to climb up to around 3050 meters, stay at that level for 2 km, and then tackle a steep descent.”

Going Up to the Spine

We started the ascent together, but as always, everyone settled into their own rhythm. Picking our own foot placements naturally spread us out. Ulrik and I ended up a bit ahead of Slippy.

When my altimeter hit 3030 meters, we decided to begin contouring. The terrain, though flatter, was full of obstacles: ups and downs, trees, massive rocks, and patches of vegetation.

That’s when the real challenge began. There was no clear path. We were walking on pure instinct.

I turned around and asked Ulrik if Slippy was behind us. He shook his head.

We Lost Slippy

A chill ran down my spine. We started yelling:

“Slippy! Slippyyyy! SLIPPY!”

Nothing. Ulrik decided to backtrack while I stayed where we were, shouting now and then. Time passed. Still no response.

I lost sight of Ulrik. I left my backpack as a marker and started retracing our steps. Eventually, I saw Ulrik coming down from a side slope, yelling:

“Slippy! We’re over here! Where are you?”

That’s when it hit me: maybe Slippy had kept climbing. I headed uphill… and there she was, coming down with a huge smile.

“Hey, I think I overshot the route… LOL”

“Yeah, just a little! We got worried when you didn’t answer.”

“I never heard you guys. Must’ve been the mountain blocking the sound.”

Contouring the Mountain

We decided to stick closer together. The real difficulty was yet to come — the descent. The terrain was wild, messy, and completely untouched. The easier sections were made of massive, smooth rock slabs. We were worried about traction, so we continued diagonally. It worked.

In the distance, we could already see the San Joaquin River — our target.

Anxiety grew. The GPS said we were close to the descent point, but there was no obvious way down.

“Maybe here, Roadrunner?”
“Ulrik, do you see anything?”
“Slippy, maybe up ahead?”

Then the mountain left us no choice.

Descending the Mammoth Spine

Ulrik came to a sudden stop. A waterfall ran down the slope. It wasn’t much water, but the force was impressive.

—“I really respect river crossings,” said Slippy. “Had some bad experiences. But if you think it’s the way, I trust you.”

I checked the GPS. The descent ridge was right across the water. But crossing was out of the question. The slope was so steep that a slip could be fatal.

I told them:

—“Guys, it’s time to head down. Carefully. Look for big footholds — rocks, trees. It’s a short stretch. We’ll take it slow.”

We got organized. Ulrik led, and I stayed close to Slippy in case she needed help.

One Misstep

The descent was tricky. Everyone picked their own line based on the obstacles. At one point, I chose to go around a boulder on the right and stepped into loose scree. I hesitated… but stepped anyway.

As soon as my foot touched down, everything gave way. The rocks slid out from under me. I lost balance. I remembered Pablo Bravo’s advice, my mountain instructor:

“On descents, always keep your wrists out of the trekking pole straps.”

I let go of the poles. They flew. I tried to stop myself. My left hand grabbed a root… it snapped. My right arm stretched toward a rock I’d spotted lower down.

Slippy screamed:

—“AHHHHHH!”

My hand reached the rock. I braced for impact. And I stopped!

Aftermath

I froze for a moment. After a jolt of adrenaline like that, your body just… empties. I guess after so many months on trail, my reserves were different from those in city life.

I stood up. I had fallen about five meters. I gave my friends a thumbs-up.

—“You okay, Roadrunner? Need help?”

—“I’m good. Stay there. The path over here is… a bit slippery. LOL”

We shared a nervous laugh.

I checked myself. Just a scrape on my leg. But when I moved my right shoulder, it felt off. Like something had shifted. Still, I could move it. I picked up my poles and examined them. All good.

I put some weight on one with my right hand. No pain. Time would tell once things cooled down.

San Joaquin River

We kept descending together, and little by little, we began to stretch out again. At one point, Ulrik shouted, “It’s this way! I see the trail!”

We all screamed with joy! The PCT emerged from beneath the bushes, and we quickly made our way to it. I threw my backpack on the ground and hugged my companions.

“We made it!! I can’t believe it! We did it YES YES YESSS!”

We were back in a safe zone, on the trail, and had overcome a challenge far beyond what’s expected from a typical PCT hiker. And let’s be honest—just walking the PCT is already extremely difficult and demanding. Well, at that moment, we had solved something extra, using the information we had and making our own decisions. We were very proud.

We decided to check if the bridge was actually broken. So we hiked back on the PCT for about 100 meters to get to the bridge area.

The reality was, there was nothing even close to a bridge there. The only things we saw were some metal structures on each side of the river where the bridge had once been. The materials were stacked neatly, probably left by maintenance crews planning to rebuild it at some point—it all looked very orderly.

The Definition of an Uncrossable River

When I saw the San Joaquin River, I immediately realized it was the perfect example of a river that cannot be crossed safely. At the spot where the bridge used to be, the river ran through stone walls that forced the water into a narrow, high-speed current—absolutely impossible to cross.

Knowing this, I was shocked that any hikers had even tried to cross it. Clearly, they hadn’t done it at that exact spot, or they would’ve lost more than their backpacks (which is what they reported on FarOut). They might have lost their lives.

It’s unfortunate that those hikers took such a big risk, but fortunately, nothing serious had happened—or at least nothing that we or others knew about. The truth is, if someone had died in that remote area, it might’ve taken months before anyone even realized something was wrong—only once someone who knew them started asking questions.

That area was completely remote, and with the extra challenge of a missing bridge, there was absolutely no one around.

Thinking About My Shoulder

We were walking relieved and happy to have overcome this trail obstacle. My only concern was my shoulder. It felt strange, and I was certain I’d done something to it. My friends noticed I was acting off and kept asking if I was okay, to which I always answered yes.

I tend to hide it when something worries me. I only talk about it once I’m sure of what’s going on. In this case, I felt I needed to stop, sit quietly, and have a little chat with my body to figure out how bad it really was.

I started thinking about how I could do that—maybe camping at the junction between the PCT and Piute Pass would be a good option. It was nearby, and I could rest there. There were still several hours of daylight left, but I was in need of a break.

Head Injury

I was lost in thought when I walked under a tree branch that hung over the trail. It was high enough that I didn’t even have to duck, so I passed under it without a problem. But a few steps later, I heard a rustle and a cry of pain:

—“Ouch!”

I turned around and saw Ulrik sitting on the ground, holding his head with both hands—and instantly, thick red liquid started dripping from between his fingers. Blood.

I immediately ran to him, dropped my pack, and grabbed my first-aid kit as fast as I could.

First aid

I pulled out alcohol, iodine, gauze, and scissors. I quickly cleaned my hands with alcohol, cut some gauze, soaked it with iodine, and said:

—“This is gonna sting, my friend.”

He nodded and closed his eyes while bracing himself against the burning sensation. As I cleaned the wound, I saw it wasn’t very deep. He had hit the sharp tip of the same branch I had walked under—since he’s taller, he probably didn’t see it and walked right into it.

I checked to make sure there were no wood splinters, but there was a lot of hair around the wound. I had no choice but to cut some of it to secure the gauze with tape.

I took out the scissors and trimmed the area. Then I applied more iodine-soaked gauze and taped it down. But we needed something to apply pressure.

That’s when Slippy said, “You can use my buff,” and we wrapped it tightly around his head. It was a brilliant idea. We secured everything and added more gauze, which quickly turned red with blood—but at least it stopped dripping down his face.

Saving the Day Again

We sat there for a while. I told them we weren’t in a rush and it was best to rest and see how Ulrik felt. We pulled out our sleeping pads, and he lay down for a bit.

Slippy and I looked at each other and high-fived—we had done a great job. That’s when she said:

—Roadrunner saving the day again.

I looked at her, smiled, and turned away to hide the tears forming in my eyes. A lot of thoughts rushed through my mind. Slippy continued:

—We’re so lucky we met you. You waited for us, you led us across the broken bridge detour, you kept us calm and cheerful the whole time—and now this! You pulled out so many things from your backpack to help my friend. I don’t know what we would’ve done without you. We don’t even carry a first-aid kit in our packs. Do you always carry that?

I nodded and jokingly said:

—Yeah, I’m a true ultralight hiker, can’t you tell?

We all laughed—even Ulrik, lying on his sleeping pad.

Growth

I told myself:

Diego, you matter. You’ve grown so much through your constant effort. Now you just need to start recognizing your worth, bury your fears, and value yourself. Because that’s it—each one of us matters. We are treasures of life and nature. Each of us has a reason to live and keep going, and that reason is happiness.

An Day Ending Among Unknown Friends

We continued walking on the PCT. Ulrik was doing fine after the incident and walking with energy. When we reached the junction with Piute Pass, I told them I planned to camp there. They looked at each other and said:

—Okay, don’t you want to keep going a bit more? We’re thinking of walking another two hours—there’s another campsite about 9 km from here.

I replied:

—I’d love to go on with you guys, but I feel like today has already been a lot for me, and I’d rather rest here. Maybe my friends will catch up tomorrow if they took the same detour—who knows, I might see them.

They talked briefly and said:

—If you don’t mind, we’d love to have dinner with you before we keep going. We really enjoyed spending the day with you.

My heart leaped with joy, and I told them of course—we’d share dinner together! I loved the idea and thanked them.

We ate, laughed, and reflected on the day. It was a dinner I’ll never forget—because these two hikers filled my soul, and thanks to them, I too was able to overcome the broken bridge of the San Joaquin River.

I camped alone that night. The ground was crawling with ants, so I spent a while looking for a spot with fewer of them—I didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night covered in bites from these tiny creatures.

It was hard to sleep. I kept waking up because of a burning pain in my shoulder. After lying in the same position for too long, it started to ache with an intense burning sensation that made it impossible to rest. I’d wake up, shift positions, and then it would happen all over again. Eventually, I got used to the discomfort and around 5 a.m., I got up to start the day.

The truth was, I had no idea where Saida and the others were. The only people I knew who were ahead of me on the trail were Slippy and Ulrik. It was also possible that I had caught up with some PCT hikers who hadn’t taken the longer detour through Piute Pass and Bishop Pass, which easily added one or two extra days compared to the main PCT.

Climbing Slowly

While hiking, my shoulder didn’t bother me at all. I was feeling full of energy—probably because I had finished early the past two days. Maybe, just maybe, today would be the day I’d push for my first 30-mile day in the Sierra. That way, I might be able to catch up with Slippy and Ulrik.

I was moving fast. That was good in one way, but also a bit risky. I could tell I was burning through energy too quickly—I was drenched in sweat even though the temperature wasn’t that high. That’s when I slowed down a bit and reminded myself to enjoy this rare opportunity to walk in peace through the Sierras.

I was starting to enjoy it again. The Sierra Nevada brings out a new version of yourself—it’s ever-changing, always dynamic. It’s up to each of us to decide how we want to experience it. In my case, I chose to walk it my way, following the wandering spirit that guides me to be who I am. I’m not a hermit—on the contrary, I love company—but here I was, testing myself, pushing the limits of what it means to step into an adventure without everything planned and in place.

Heart Lake

My whole being was on edge—in a good way. Usually, it’s my mind that leads the way. It thinks, analyzes, and measures every action. It’s the part of me that gets worn out every day while I sit in my office trying to solve the challenges of Uruguay’s electrical grid.

But in that routine, my heart had taken a back seat—my connection with emotion and passion had been left behind. The PCT was bringing that part of me back to life. It was quieting the voice of logic and letting my feelings rise to the surface. These emotions were becoming my fuel. Because if it were up to my rational mind, I’d be lying at home enjoying a cold beer. But instead, here I was, feeling the crisp air of the Sierra Nevada brushing against my face.

Selden Pass

Lost in my thoughts about myself and everything I’d been feeling that day, I suddenly found myself approaching a mountain pass. I could hardly believe this was actually a pass—it had felt unusually easy to reach the top. I’d been hiking for hours, but I didn’t feel tired at all.

At the summit of Selden Pass, my reward was waiting. The reward for having taken time to reflect on how beautiful this journey was. The reward for finally opening my eyes and surrendering to nature.

Ulrik and Slippy were already there, enjoying their lunch. As soon as they saw me, they started waving their arms in the air, calling me over.

I climbed up quickly and sat down with them.

—Roadrunner, we didn’t expect to see you today. You’re definitely faster than us.

I laughed and replied,

—I doubt I’m faster than you guys—probably just earlier to start the day. I’m really happy to see you here.

Another Roadrunner

Just then, a fourth voice chimed in:

—Well, it looks like we’ve got too many Roadrunners on the same mountain pass!

We turned around—and there she was. The original Roadrunner, or at least the most famous one: the hiking dancer.

She joined us and asked if we had seen her friends, who were somewhere behind.

I told her I’d seen one of them at Heart Lake, taking a short break. He should be arriving any minute.

The Margaritas Story

Roadrunner asked if we’d come through Piute Pass, because she hadn’t seen us there.

We told her we’d taken the “Up and Down” alternate route yesterday instead.

—OMG! If I had known you were there, I would’ve gone that way. I really wanted to see the Muir Hut!

I answered:

—You would’ve loved it—not just for the views, but because… we had margaritas at the hut.

—WTF??

I explained how we’d run into two bohemian hikers who had probably left the PCT near the Piute Pass bridge to head toward the hot springs. According to the map, their route followed the San Joaquin River downstream.

She couldn’t believe it—someone had carried a bottle of tequila all the way out there and shared it with everyone. Honestly, this trail never stops surprising me.

Walking Together

Ulrik and Slippy told me they were ready to keep going, as they’d already been at the summit for an hour. I hesitated—I hadn’t even had lunch yet, not even soaked my couscous—but decided to join them. I could eat later down the trail.

It was a great opportunity to stretch out my food supplies and enjoy some company. Truth is, I was comfortable with their pace. What I noticed was that they almost never stopped.

Meeting new hikers is always exciting.

I had a long conversation with Slippy about her travels in South America—where she’d been, how old she was, and how she managed to do such a trip. She shared her stories so naturally, and I was genuinely impressed.

Getting to Know Slippy

Her story fascinated me. So young, and she had dared to travel across my continent with nothing but her backpack, open to whatever the world had to offer. I asked how she got around between places, and her answer left me speechless:

—Hitchhiking—or ‘hacer dedo’, as you guys say.

My mind was blown. She had hitchhiked through regions we South Americans ourselves often consider dangerous, like Colombia and parts of Argentina. But this girl had done it—and in doing so, she proved that danger isn’t always about the place. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of being open and finding good people along the way.

Then she added:

—There are dangerous places here too—places a girl shouldn’t walk alone. But over time, you learn how to avoid those areas and minimize risk. You learn to read people, to know who to trust. Sure, things can go wrong, but I want to experience the world as it truly is.

Don’t Let Fear Stop You

That conversation taught me something big. As someone from the so-called “third world,” I realized how often we look down on our own countries and glorify the rest. Even I, as a Uruguayan, instinctively feared that people from Colombia, Peru, Bolivia—or even Argentina—might hurt someone like Slippy.

But what she showed me, so effortlessly, is that bad things can happen anywhere. There are people with bad intentions all over the world. But if she had let fear stop her from doing the things she loved, she would’ve missed out on experiencing so many incredible places—and on truly becoming part of them.

At one point, Slippy said:

—Argentina is the best country in the world.

It’s a feeling I can relate to. Even though we Uruguayans have this friendly rivalry with our neighbors, deep down we’re like little brothers. In my eyes, Argentina has a cultural and geological diversity that’s truly one of a kind.

Bear Creek River Crossing

When we reached Rosalie Meadow, I checked FarOut for the next water source. That’s when I saw comments about a tricky river crossing up ahead. Some hikers had struggled with it. The recommendation was to head upstream and cross Bear Creek via two tributaries, about 5 kilometers off the PCT.

We talked about it, and I could sense some concern. That’s when Slippy admitted she felt nervous about river crossings—that it was something she struggled with. I reassured her:

—Don’t worry. There are three of us. That’s a great number for a river crossing.

I suggested taking the Sandpiper Lake Trail to the crossing and rejoining the PCT via the Bear Creek Alternate. It would add just over an hour, but if it made us feel safer, it was totally worth it. They both agreed, and off we went.

As we approached the first crossing—by far the hardest—I explained what I’d learned about river safety: how to position your body, how to use trekking poles and legs for balance, and how to spot a good crossing point.

For that first one, I stepped ahead of Slippy to break some of the current’s force. And with that, we made it across—safe and sound.

Getting to Know Ulrik

After the river crossings, Ulrik told me he was surprised by how much I knew about crossing rivers. The tips I had shared helped him feel safer, and that made the crossings much easier for both of us. Ulrik is from Denmark, and I had this idea that Danish people were colder and more reserved than us, the warm-blooded Latinos. But this guy didn’t fit the stereotype at all. He was always cheerful, energetic, and ready to chat about anything.

He also looked out for the group, always trying to help both Slippy and me.

Knowing I had helped him feel stronger and safer made me really happy. And receiving his recognition felt even better. It wasn’t necessary, but it was meaningful. Actions like that say a lot about people — how observant they are, and how humble they can be when it comes to learning and giving credit. I was really glad I could help and pass on what I had learned about river crossings

A Lunch Break

After several crossings and hours of hiking, my energy levels dropped. I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, and I was going to need that fuel to reach the day’s goal — almost 30 miles.

I wasn’t sure I could make it, so I told Slippy and Ulrik:

—Hey guys, I’m hungry. I’ll stop here to eat and then keep going, but I’m not sure I’ll make it all the way to the VVR area. You’re planning to head there, right?

Slippy answered:

—Yeah, we’re planning to get to the junction with the VVR side trail and start the first part of the climb. We saw there are some campsites a few miles past that intersection. But we’re not going to the resort — it’s way too expensive.

We totally agreed: skipping VVR was a practical, economic decision. Still, I didn’t know if I’d have enough time to reach the campsite they were aiming for. We agreed they would take a short break while I had lunch, and then they would keep hiking.

Mosquitoes

As I entered a valley, I found a spot to take my break. But some unexpected “friends” showed up while I was eating.

The mosquitoes came like a horde of hungry zombies. Ulrik and Slippy barely took a bite and then took off. They were so annoying that I had to pull out my tent and crawl inside just to eat.

With my tent half set up, I finally ate in peace. And while I was at it, I lay down and closed my eyes for a while. It was time to give my sore body a break.

Woken Up by a Bird

I woke up from my nap when I saw Roadrunner walking by.

—Hey! Are you camping here? I was thinking of staying a few miles ahead — she said.

I replied:

—Hey! I’m planning to push another 9 or 10 miles… I’m kind of behind today, haha. But I’ll do my best.

—Great! Good luck then! You got this.

The afternoon kept rolling, and so did I. The trail led me through a beautiful forest, right before the lake that feeds into VVR. Everything was peaceful.

There was no snow on the trail anymore, which made walking much easier. I reached a long descent with a seemingly endless number of switchbacks. I counted more than 30… then stopped counting and just spun down into the valley like a top.

Fatigue Is a Bad Advisor

It had been a long day. I was exhausted and the sun was setting. I reached Mono Creek Valley, the junction to Lake Thomas Edison and the VVR resort. I looked at the sign, hesitating. If I took that side trail, I could enjoy a good burger and rest like a king. It was tempting.

I sighed, looked back at the PCT, and kept going. I wasn’t in a position to spend close to $100 between the ferry, food, and resupply. Mammoth Lakes wasn’t far. Maybe two days away. I had enough food to get there. As much as my mind melted at the idea of melted cheese dripping over a burger… I moved on.

I took the path toward North Fork Mono Creek, which would lead me to Silver Pass, the next mountain crossing.

Just after the trail marker confirming I was going the right way, I came across a river with an intense flow.

Time to Cross

I was tired. I wanted to get there. Those are not great conditions for clear thinking.

I analyzed the crossing. It was wide, flowing fast, and looked pretty deep in the middle. There were trees growing in the middle of the river, which meant that area was usually dry. I checked my watch: 8 p.m. — the worst time to cross a glacial river, when the flow is strongest.

I knew Slippy and Ulrik had crossed here. Probably hours ago, with less water. But there I was.

I took a deep breath and said, “Let’s do this.”

I saw a big rock in the middle of the river breaking the current — a good target. I unbuckled my hip belt, faced the current, and stepped in.

The icy water pulled the heat from my body like a Dementor from Harry Potter.

Mid-calf. Knee. Thigh. Three-quarters of the thigh.

Water splashed over my butt. I was at my limit. If it reached my hips, the current could sweep me away.

Push

The fight had started. My trekking pole couldn’t move straight through the water. Each step was a battle. My feet kept sliding back with each push.

I felt like the river was about to beat me. Then that fire inside me lit up. I yelled:

—DALE DIEGO DALEEEE, ES AHORAA EMPUJA.

I focused again. Threw all my weight forward. I shut down my mind. Only the rock mattered.

PLAF, PLAF, my steps echoed.

—ES UN POCO MAS, UN POCO MAS, AHORA NO TE VAS A CAER, NO TE PODES CAER.

I reached the rock. I was breathing heavily, like I’d just run a marathon.

There was a bit more to go. I lifted my pole — the water nearly ripped it from my hand. I couldn’t move it outside the water, so I guided it underneath.

With one more step, the current felt lighter. Then lighter still. Finally, the water dropped to knee height.

—YES! I made it!

North Fork Mono Creek Campsite

I came out of the water pumped. I had just survived the hardest river crossing of my life. I was freezing, soaked, and somehow had water all the way down to my underwear.

I kept walking. There was a short stretch left, but it was all uphill.

The river had drained every bit of energy I had. My feet dragged. Cold, effort, and hunger were taking their toll. But by now I knew how to read my body. Instead of panicking, I just slowed down.

Eventually, I reached the campsite. And there they were — Slippy and Ulrik — finishing dinner inside their tents.

—Hey hey! Look who’s here!

Slippy shouted:

—Roadrunner!! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT, YOU MADE IT!

Laughing, I said:

—Yes! Here I am, my friends! I completed my first 30-mile day in the Sierra. Incredible! But now I’m exhausted, haha. Time to set up camp and rest.

Dinner Together

I quickly set up my tent across from theirs. While I cooked, they told me about their day after we had split. They had arrived about an hour earlier and were tired too.

They came out to their tent doors. We couldn’t see each other’s faces — night had already taken over — but while we chatted, we had a stunning view of the sea of stars above us.

I asked them how their river crossing had gone. Mine had been wild.

Slippy laughed and said:

—There was a little bridge if you just followed the trail! A log across the stream — super easy! We didn’t have to cross the lake at all.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I really should have checked for an easier way. But clearly, I hadn’t.

—Oops… I guess I like the taste of danger, LOL.

We laughed and said goodnight. Tomorrow would be another day on the PCT.

The next day, my body was feeling the accumulated strain from all the previous days—especially from yesterday. It’s crazy how fine the energy balance is for us hikers. I’m just not used to this at all. In my regular life, I’m always full of energy. Sure, I get tired, but I bounce back pretty easily.

This was clearly not one of those days. Everything felt twice as hard. There was a river crossing early in the day, and I had the brilliant idea of trying to keep my feet dry by walking over a log… The result? I ended up face down in the water with all my clothes soaked.

I took off my wet gear and waited for Slippy and Ulrik to arrive, so I could help them cross—or rather, tell them not to do what I had just done. They laughed when they saw me completely drenched. Since I was already wet, I jumped into the water to break the river’s current and help them cross more easily.

Warming up burns energy

As we started to climb out of the tree line and the sun began hitting my body, I felt my energy slowly coming back.

Being wet for so long had drained the little energy I had left—just like what had happened the day before when I reached the shelter. Instantly, I could hear my friend Coyote in my head saying:

—Roadrunner, check your food and rest. That’s a sign your reserves are running low.

The cold and the wet were draining most of my energy just to maintain body heat. And since we were walking at about 3 miles per hour, the balance was clearly negative for my body. At that moment, there wasn’t much I could do other than take it easy and understand what was happening.

Learning to read your body is vital on the PCT, and honestly, I’ve discovered quite a few new things about myself during these months on the trail.

Separate paths

Once I reached the top, I sat down, took off my backpack, and started cooking. Slippy and Ulrik were surprised and asked me:

—You’re going to cook now?

I told them I was feeling really tired and needed a break to load up on some carbs.

—Yesterday’s effort must’ve been huge! That’s probably what’s going on, They said

I agreed and told them I was going to take the rest of the day a bit easier. I knew we were just a day away from heading into Mammoth Lakes. If we pushed a few more miles in the evening, we could camp right at the turnoff to town.

That was Slippy and Ulrik’s plan—head into Mammoth Lakes, resupply, and keep going.

I listened and then told them to go ahead.

—These old legs are going to need to move a little slower today. You go ahead, and maybe I’ll catch up later. But today, I need to take it easy.

We all knew in our eyes that this might be the last time we’d see each other for a while. They would keep their blazing pace, and I wanted to take my time in the Sierra. I was even thinking of getting off trail at Yosemite Valley.

Slippy looked a little sad. We fist-bumped and said we’d see each other further up the trail. She said to me:

—I know you’re going to catch us today 🙂

Purple Lake

Truth is, I really needed a break. As much as I loved my trail friends, I had to slow down. There’s a saying on the PCT: “If you’re losing the smile, take a look at the miles.”

That’s exactly what was happening to me. So I decided to hike fewer miles that day. I pulled out my phone and started checking options. I found a big lake after a valley and a short ridge—Purple Lake. It was nestled in a deep valley, and after that, I’d only have one big climb left before reaching Mammoth Lakes.

The place was incredible. The sound of silence ruled the area, only interrupted occasionally by a whisper of wind on the lake. I reached one of the shores but saw that camping wasn’t allowed there—it was a restoration zone.

So I walked a bit farther up the trail and found a flat patch of dirt perfect for setting up my tent.

The day was splendid. The warm sun lit the afternoon with a pristine glow. My feet had been wet for days, but that ended today. I took off my socks, put on my sandals, and laid out on my sleeping pad for the rest of the afternoon, gazing at the lake and the mountains ahead.

A night of a thousand stars

That night, I slept peacefully. I was already used to waking up every two hours with shoulder pain that slowly built up until it became unbearable. That’s when I’d change positions and drift back to sleep. I needed rest more than ever. Recovery was essential to keep going.

Between my tossing and turning, my alarm rang at 4 a.m. Time to leave the tent. Today, I’d climb up to the spine of Mammoth.

I stepped out into the world, and the stars greeted me once again under a clear Sierra dawn. Walking in the dark, focused on reaching Mammoth Pass. The early morning cold was brutal. Every breath I took released a thick cloud of vapor that rose and disappeared into the black sky.

As the sun began to warm the morning, the birds started to sing again. That feeling of being privileged to be out here filled my body once more. I took a pause to have breakfast.

But this break wasn’t like any other. Something special happened in that moment. A spark lit inside me—a fire of pride and hope that filled my whole being. That’s when I realized the crazy thing I had just done: I had made it through the most demanding section of the PCT so far.

I had done it, and I was physically and mentally intact, enjoying every moment. So much had happened during these almost two months on the trail. I had grown so much and learned how to truly live this lifestyle. I was starting to believe that maybe the dream of reaching Canada wasn’t so impossible after all.

The Mammoth Cloud

As I reached the turnoff to town, I caught a stunning view of Mammoth Mountain—and a surprise I wasn’t expecting.

A cloud was resting right above the mountain. It looked like the trunk of an elephant pointing toward the sky.

Without a doubt, I had done it—I had crossed the Mammoth spine.

McLeod Lake

I reached the intersection where the PCT splits off toward Mammoth Lakes. After a bit of research, I decided to skip the traditional route and take an alternate path called the Rim Trail, which runs through an area known as Red Cone. The trail was much less maintained than what I was used to on the PCT—it seemed to be mostly used by horses. Massive fallen trees blocked the way, forcing me to find creative detours to keep moving forward.

The trail was fun and challenging. I felt genuinely happy with what I had accomplished. At one point, the steep climb ended and the path leveled out. Suddenly, I came across a sign that read “Mammoth Pass.” I had made it! The easiest mountain pass I’d crossed in the Sierra that month. I shouted with joy! Just then, I noticed a couple hiking with their dog—clearly weekend hikers out for a casual walk in the mountains.

It hit me: it had been such a long time since I’d seen people hiking just for fun. The people here were so relaxed, enjoying the stunning lakes around them. The atmosphere was incredibly peaceful. Seeing them soaking in the beauty of the outdoors made me want to live in a place like this. We don’t have this kind of scenery in Uruguay. I love our beaches, streams, and hills, but the idea of just stepping outside in a sweater and sitting down to drink mate with a view like McLeod Lake—it felt like a dream.

Horseshoe Lake Trail Head

I love the simplicity of life in the mountains. Combined with the minimalist lifestyle I’d been living on the PCT, it made me feel whole. It made me feel authentic.

Lost in thought, I eventually reached the Horseshoe Lake parking lot, where there were countless vehicles. Some people were doing water sports, others were walking their dogs, and a few were riding bikes up the road. It was truly beautiful. I spent about an hour just soaking it all in until the free public bus to Mammoth Lakes arrived.

A Huge Event I Had Completely Forgotten About

The bus pulled up and I hopped on.

I sat right behind the driver, who noticed the flag on my backpack and asked,

—Oh! Argentina?

I replied,

—Close, but not quite. I’m from Uruguay, a neighboring country.

The driver answered in Spanish:

—Of course I know Uruguay! Suárez always makes sure to score goals and knock Mexico out of the tournaments! But now you’re coming to play here, so we’ll have our revenge.

The Soccer American Cup

That’s when it hit me like a bucket of cold water. A massive event I’d completely forgotten about—something that, if I were back home, I’d be following obsessively. This year, the Copa América was being played… right here, in the United States.

—That’s right! The Copa América is this year! It must be starting in just a few weeks! That’s amazing. I’ve been walking through the mountains for almost two months now, hiking the PCT. Right now I’m heading down to Mammoth Lakes, then planning to go to Bishop to rest for a few days.

The driver took off his hat and sunglasses, smiled, and said:

—That’s a great idea. This town is really expensive, especially the area I’m dropping you off in, called The Village. It’s a tourist spot, built for foreigners who come to Mammoth for snow sports. Super pricey. What I recommend is catching the red line bus and asking the driver to let you off at the Shell station on Old Mammoth Road. From there, you can probably hitchhike to Bishop.

We kept chatting. He had been living in the U.S. for many years, and it felt fantastic to have a conversation in Spanish again. One of the most beautiful things about the PCT is how deeply it connects people. Even if you’re basically strangers, you end up having real, honest conversations. It’s something magical—hard to explain, but easy to feel.

Welcome Back to the Hostel California

I got off the bus and thanked my Mexican friend for the ride and all his helpful advice. I walked over to the Shell station and started hitchhiking. Tons of cars were headed toward Bishop. After about 30 minutes, a couple finally pulled over.

Once again, I had a beautiful conversation. The guy had hiked the PCT himself, while his girlfriend supported him whenever she could—like trail magic in motion. They drove me all the way from Mammoth Lakes to the legendary Hostel California in Bishop.

My plan was to stay for two days in that wonderful place and recover from everything the PCT had thrown at me so far.

My Altra Lone Peaks were destroyed. They barely lasted 500 km since my last resupply. I guess wearing them with microspikes, soaking wet all day, and pushing through snow had taken a serious toll.

I was a bit disappointed in how little they had lasted. While chatting with another hiker at the hostel, he suggested I try Topos. I figured it was the perfect time to give them a shot, so I walked over to the stores on Bishop’s main street and picked up a pair. They felt sturdier, even though they weren’t as comfy as the Altras—but right now, I was prioritizing durability over anything else.

The Key to Recovery

One of the best parts of being back in this amazing place was having access to a real kitchen—a luxury I was determined to enjoy to the fullest.

And enjoy it I did! I made myself burgers with roasted potatoes. I didn’t hold back on flavor: onions, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, guacamole… and a lot more. I sat down with a big smile and devoured that beautiful dinner.

The other part of recovery was just taking it slow—soaking in the energy of the hostel, surrounded by dozens of hikers all out here doing this crazy trail.

I ran into a bunch of friends I hadn’t seen in a long time. One of them, you might remember from earlier posts, was Zack—the guy I camped with who suggested staying at the Little Bear Hostel. Zack played guitar like a country legend, like something straight out of a Western film. He brought a whole mystique with him.

The hostel was packed with hikers, many I’d never met before. But weirdly enough, some of them already knew me—from the trail register books. Since I had flipped back to Bishop, I was now crossing paths with hikers who were about 7–10 days behind me. To them, I was a new face—but they’d seen signs of this crazy Uruguayan out on the PCT. A few even told me I was a legend, and they couldn’t believe they were meeting me in person.

I found those comments hilarious—and also kind of heartwarming. For a moment, I felt like I had stepped into a movie. It was one of those very “American” moments, and I loved it.

Sharing Knowledge from the ‘Future’

I shared with everyone what the stretch between Bishop and Mammoth had been like—by far the toughest part of the PCT. I told them about Skurka’s Up & Down route and offered tips on how to approach it.

Some hikers said they’d try it. Others decided not to take any risks and planned to exit via Bishop Pass instead, then return to town for a break.

I remembered that Saida and my trail family had to be somewhere around. I texted them but got no reply—they were probably still deep in the mountains. So I left Saida a message via my InReach email, hoping she’d see it once she had service.

After two days of rest, I resupplied and caught a bus back to Mammoth Lakes.

Once in Mammoth, I decided to stay an extra day to explore the town. From what little I’d seen on the way down, it looked absolutely stunning. At the entrance to Mammoth, a quote from John Muir greeted me—and captured exactly what I was feeling after this short but meaningful break.

 

Walking Through Town

But first, I wanted to walk around Mammoth. I crossed the main road and found an RV campground. I talked to the camp host, and he let me pitch my tent beside his spot—as long as I packed up early in the morning. I thanked him and set up my gear.

What I found was a town deeply connected to hiking. There was literally a trail running through the town, winding between trees and streams, letting people walk immersed in nature, yet safely away from traffic.

The trail curved through neighborhoods and parks. At one point, I passed a large sports complex where people were playing soccer. Another subtle reminder that the Copa América was coming.

For us Uruguayans, football is sacred. It’s part of who we are. The idea that my country would be competing made me emotional. I felt goosebumps just thinking about it. One of my dreams had always been to attend an international match. Now I was in the host country… but the truth is, the U.S. is so big that the matches were happening far away from where I was.

I told myself, “Hold onto that passion for La Celeste. You’ll find a way to catch a game later on the trail.”

A Sign

I’m not a religious person. But since my parents wanted it, I attended a Catholic school for 12 years. Back then, I was somewhat close to religion—mainly because of the school’s influence. But over time, I drifted away.

One thing that pushed me even further was seeing the tragic consequences of religious colonization during a trip to Peru. It was painful to witness what had been done to Indigenous cultures in the name of evangelization.

One day in Mammoth, I came across a newspaper article about a local church. What caught my attention was that the name of the priest was in Spanish. That’s when I remembered my friend Marcelo Hitta had told me he once visited a priest named Jorge while hiking the PCT, and how uplifting that had been.

So I decided to go to St. Joseph Catholic Church.

St Joseph Catholic Church

The church was open. I stepped inside. The choir was rehearsing, and to my surprise, everyone was speaking Spanish. I sat and listened. When they finished, I applauded. They turned around and smiled warmly. I told them how amazing they sounded. One of the women pointed out Father Jorge, and encouraged me to speak with him.

I took a deep breath and approached—without really knowing why. I just let my heart guide me.

My Journey Was Blessed

I shared my story with him—where I came from, what I was doing, and how I was following a dream I didn’t fully understand. I was letting my emotions lead me, and I felt I was on the right path. I told him how much I was growing—both inside and out—and how things were happening out there that were hard to explain.

He smiled and told me we all have a mission in life. Mine, he said, was clearly to spread a powerful message with joy and light along this incredible trail. He thanked God for guiding me to him and said he understood the message. Then he blessed me—my journey and the road ahead—so that I would keep walking wherever my heart led me.

“Sometimes,” he said, “we know our destination. But the real teaching, the real challenge… it’s in the path we take to get there.”

We said goodbye, and I left with a full heart. This man, who didn’t know me, had seen straight into my soul. Even though I wasn’t aligned with his faith, we connected as human beings. And that was enough.

Time to Return

I walked back through the streets of Mammoth. So much had happened in just a few days—deep new friendships, longing for my trail family, a reminder of my connection to my homeland, and most importantly, the realization of how much I had grown.

I walked with tears in my eyes, messaging my loved ones in Uruguay and friends—some close, some distant—who had reached out on social media to encourage me.

Something had changed. Something new was stirring inside me. Something was about to be born on the PCT. I didn’t know exactly what it was yet.

But I knew one thing for sure:

The Mountains are calling… and I must go

Every word I write comes from deep within. Thank you for being on the other side, walking with me through a path that is much more than a trail—it’s a journey of transformation.