Pacific Crest Trail Day 1: Same-same, but Different

PCT Day 1 — April 27, 2025
US-Mexico Border to Boulder Oaks Campground
Mile 0 to Campfire Camp
PCT miles: 26 miles
Total miles: 26 miles
Elevation change: 3904ft gain, 3638ft loss

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Some things never change. Like so many times on the PCT in 2015, I cowboy camped in risky conditions to avoid setting up my PITA tarp at all cost. Like so many times, my laziness came back to bite me. Ignoring the intermittent sprinkles between sporadic snoozes, I finally gave up at 1:30am, moving my damp gear 30 yards to the pavilion. Grateful for the dry concrete despite its harshness through my flimsy foam pad, I drifted back to sleep, wondering if I hadn’t made the wrong choice bringing this damn tarp along for old times’ sake rather than my better-in-every-way tent. Oh well. I’m out here to relive that PCT experience, good and bad. Turns out, I’m just as stubborn as I was ten years ago.

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The automatic coffee cauldron woke me with an odd, rhythmic scraping sound in the dark. Further retribution for my questionable choices. My back ached, and I was a little bit cold, so I packed up quickly, glad that none of the other hikers had a chance to see how foolish this experienced thru-hiker really is. Casually, I pretended that nothing weird had happened at all when the first inquired about how I had slept.

A bagel and some fruit later, I hefted my pack, hoping for better days ahead. I joined a Scottish hiker, let’s call him Moritz, for the quarter-mile walk to the border monument.

The wall was taller, though more transparent than the one I remembered, which, honestly, had been tall enough. The three wooden obelisks marking the PCT’s southern terminus were also new. I wouldn’t have noticed except that it was rotated 90 degrees, which probably made sense for some reason. Maybe the lighting is better for selfies this way. Mine was pretty rocking, at least.

Then, in what seemed like a memoryless rush, Moritz and I started north. Unsure of what I was supposed to feel, I fiddled with my camera to let him get ahead of me so any feels would have space to do their thing. Instead, this and that, all of them practical concerns, crowded my thoughts. Nope, nothing profound to feel just yet. I smiled at the sprinkling clouds above, taking heart in a part of my written journal from this day in 2015, “Not too many emotions today surprisingly. Just feels good to be hiking and have a pretty free itinerary. I guess I don’t know what I expected to feel, but maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet.” Aye, that guy was onto something.

It took three miles for anything resembling peace and bliss to calm my scrutinous mind. From there, I relished the gentle cruising through the lush scrub of the desert. The sky brightened with the day, but the sunglasses on my hat were covered in raindrops, so I squinted without them.

What a wild contrast with before. Then, the sun had baked, with temperatures rising to 95°F. The high today was forecast to be 55°F, and I hiked in a jacket to stay warm in the damp wind. The flora seemed greener as well, and where there had been none, water flowed. For California and much of the West, 2015 was, in scientific parlance, the droughtiest of the drought years. I remember a dusty brittleness, and now I walked through unbelievable lushness. Popping greens all around, and more flowers than I could count. Tall bushes, fluffy with periwinkle tufts of minute blossoms, congregated on western aspects. I wished I had downloaded that nature app thing. What were they?

I picked up Moritz under tall cottonwoods, and we hiked on together for a few hours. They flew by in a blur as we brought each other up to speed on what we’d missed in the past 30+ years of our lives. It was a lot to cover. I liked the guy, but I was scared by the mindless forward progress. It was hard to reflect when I was so wrapped up in another’s past, as well as my own. Still, I enjoyed the company and was happy about how good my body felt after we dropped to Hauser Creek at mile 15. After a winter of running and bingeing seasons of Survivor, I wasn’t used to carrying a load. Fatigue permeated my legs, but my feet and shoes were still pleasingly spongy. No blisters, too. That was nice.

It was easy to identify my lunch spot. This memory was strong. Moritz found a rock to sit on somewhere over there, but I planted my butt in the same place that I had. Maybe my butt-to-earth memory would jog some revelations loose. Yet I sat to no avail. Nothing to notice other than the pleasant temperature and surrounding poison oak. The food was good, though. I am certain that I’m better at food this time around. 2015 was still my pre-potato chip era. It would be years before Spice shared that wisdom with me. BBQ Lays were an untapped spring of flavor joy.

I lost Moritz on the climb to the northern rim of Hauser Canyon. My achilleseses were tight to start after the rest, but they loosened up, and I felt great. Initially, I was sad that the inevitable parting had come so soon, but I easily settled into a familiar solo rhythm. I concentrated on the movement and all the stuff around me. My mind was quieter alone. Thoughts, observations, and memories wandered through without leaving a mark. What did I think about? Oh, this and that. Nothing at all.

I cruised into the Lake Morena campground around 4:30pm, the same time I arrived in 2015. I didn’t plan it that way, so how about we call it destiny, huh? The hiker scene was vibing at a campsite where some trail angels were slinging burgers, so I dropped my stuff and took the smoky seat at the campfire.

With only three weeks out here and the likelihood that I’ll be hiking faster than most, I didn’t stress about getting too familiar with the unfamiliar dozen that were there as well. I like people, but getting to know them can drain this introvert to a husk, so I let the conversation chug along without me. It was salubrious to be present, but not essential. When I cracked a joke that got a few laughs, I knew my job was done.

It was tough to saddle up again while everyone else remained, but it was becoming clear that, at least for now, what I craved from this experience would be accessed alone. I spread some fist bumps around, then wandered back to the trail, trying to look confident as I guessed where to find the trail. Nailed it.

The evening was quiet. The hiking was smooth as could be. Sadness was soon replaced by joy, and I was certain that I’d made the right choice. This felt like me. 2025 Owen would hike for a few more hours past 5pm, and there was a confidence that came with the realization. Remembering who I was in 2015 doesn’t mean that I needed to become that person. I’ve come a long way, walked a long way, since then, and it will be easier to notice just how far if I do it my way, 2025 style.

Those ridiculous blue bushes kept blowing my mind, and I finally got dewy-eyed for half a second as the journey overwhelmed me. 2015. 2025. Everything in between. There’s no way I’m not the luckiest person in the world.

Up and over, under a road, across a stream, and along a fence of cottonwoods. Red paintbrush flamed in UV brilliance. Grass so green it made the sage look blue. A vaulted canopy of oak supported by thick trunks of bark that looked like the crumbling walls of an ancient castle. The ultimate peace. I found my thru-hiker stride, amazed that I wasn’t hobbled by blisters like I had been.

I joined two other hikers around the campfire at Boulder Oaks Campground, eating my beans and digging their exuberance. Then, feeling luckier than yesterday, I set up to cowboy camp. This was a 2025 Owen decision, even though that 2015 guy probably would have done the same thing. Some things never change. I think that’s a good thing.