There’s a moment on every long-distance hike when you question everything. Your sanity, your body, your life choices. For me, that moment came somewhere in the Sierra section of the Pacific Crest Trail, standing in ankle-deep snow, staring at a trail that had vanished beneath it.
I had been on the PCT for over a month, hiking solo. I wasn’t new to long-distance hiking, but this was different. The vastness, the unpredictability, the feeling of walking the spine of the West Coast—it was exhilarating and humbling at the same time. Every day was a challenge, but I had found my rhythm: wake up with the sun, filter water from glacial streams, and push forward, step after step.
But the Sierra had different plans.
A late-season storm had swept in the night before, and I woke up to a transformed world. White, silent, and completely disorienting. My GPS was glitching, my footprints from the previous day had vanished, and the trail? It was buried somewhere beneath a pristine layer of powder. My heart pounded. I knew getting lost in these conditions could be dangerous.
I took a breath and reminded myself: panic helps no one. I pulled out my paper map and compass, something many hikers had ditched for lighter setups. Slowly, I pieced together my location. South. I needed to head south. I took a step forward. Then another. My legs burned from post-holing through the snow, but after an hour, I found a familiar landmark—a rocky outcrop I had marked the day before. Relief flooded me. I was back on track.
That night, as I huddled in my tent, eating cold-soaked ramen and watching the last light fade over the jagged peaks, I thought about what the trail had already given me: resilience, patience, and an appreciation for the smallest victories.
The PCT is more than just a trail. It’s a test, a teacher, and—if you let it—it’s home.
Anyone else had a "lost and found" moment on the PCT? Let’s hear them!
Wow! What an incredible story! I definitely would have freaked out, but good on you for keeping your cool AND being so prepared!