In a little under a month, I plan to turn my back on the rusty fence that marks the US- Mexico border. Under the hot desert sun, I’ll make my way north. It’s 2650 miles to Canada along the Pacific Crest Trail. I don’t know if I’ll make it all the way. I’m not sure I care if I don’t. I just want to spend as many nights as possible under the stars and explore three beautiful states that I have barely visited.

I’ve spent the past few springs daydreaming about the PCT, but I’ve always found an excuse not to go. This year, I’ve finally run out of excuses. I feel more unprepared than some of the people who will start out never having backpacked a mile before, but in someways it feels like I’ve been getting ready for this for the past few years without even knowing it.

We go on training hikes, me with my backback loaded down with snacks and beer, speaking in broken Spanish to try and warn off the bears that are already awake. Coyotes howl at us, bold on the front range, and we howl back, while Isla cowers behind my legs. I scour the shelves at the grocery store, buying the processed junk that I normally shun for the few resupply boxes that I will send.  I’m both terrified and impatient to begin. So nothing new there then.