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Tamsin McMahon left her job to walk 4,260 kilometres up the Pacific coast. She wrote about her decision in the May 2 edition of Globe Travel. Here, she regularly updates us en route. Check back for new entries to her blog at the top of this page.

At The Shining hotel

Right near the end or Oregon is a little godsend of a place known as Timberline Lodge.

It's actually quite a massive mountain lodge that rises out of the forest at a treeline midway up Mount Hood.

Hood itself is a spectacular sight. At 11,200 feet it is smaller than many of the mountains we climbed in the Sierra Nevada. Yet it appears so much more impressive as it towers over everything else in the area - a rugged, snow-capped dormant volcano.

As mountains go, Hood is stunning. But we're more concerned with the amenities of Timberline Lodge - the gourmet buffet breakfast, the heated outdoor pool and hot tub.

What we weren't expecting was a place with so much history and character.

The lodge was one of the state's more successful depression-era public works projects, part of President Franklin Roosevelt's Works Progress Administration. It was constructed in 1936 by the Civilian Conservation Corps, which put unemployed men to work on projects to preserve the country's natural resources. Amazingly, the average age of the workforce was 56. They were paid 90 cents an hour and worked into winter, hauling massive wood beams through up to 18 feet of snow.

It took just 15 months to complete construction on Timberline Lodge at a cost of $600,000, most of it spent on wages.

The entire building is a testament to timber frame architecture and every room is covered from floor to ceiling in carved wood - Ponderosa Pine, Douglas Fir or White Oak. A single craftsman was paid $25 a piece to hand-carve several 50-foot support beams. Blacksmiths designed and forged every hinge and door handle, and even a series of massive, heavy boot scrapers.

Every piece of material in the lodge came from local sources, most of them recycled. Workers carved old telephone poles into elaborate handrails and used chains from trucks to make heavy screens for the lodge's 90-foot stone fireplace. They cut up old uniforms and wove them into tapestries and rugs. All of the present furniture in the lodge is original to the 1930s, although much has been reupholstered.

Despite its noble beginnings, the lodge fell into disrepair during the Second World War and suffered through a series of poor managers. In 1955, a Portland-area social worker named Richard Kohnstamm won a bid to take over management of the lodge and transformed it into one of Oregon's best-known ski areas. Kohnstamm died in 2006, but his family continues to run the lodge, which is owned by the United States Forest Service.

Still, today Timberline Lodge is best known among Pacific Crest Trail hikers for having served as the exterior of the Overlook Hotel in the movie The Shining.

And while its history is fascinating, I can't help appreciating this trail stop for its delectable brunch buffet of Kobe beef burgers, Belgian waffles, fresh fruit and tri-tip steak.

In Oregon: Where the Pacific Crest Trail becomes the "privatized" trail

There are dozens of side trails in Oregon that lure hikers off the high and dry Pacific Crest Trail with promises of prettier landscapes.

The trails have allowed us to see parts of the state not accessible on the Pacific Crest Trail, including an abundance of crystal clear, tree-rimmed lakes.

These lakes are all beautiful. And they have virtually all been privatized.

Hiking through Oregon essentially involves hiking from one private fishing resort to the next, from RV park to ski lodge. There are few wilderness areas near the Pacific Crest Trail that haven't become profit-making enterprises.

While the much of the land itself appears to continue to belong to either the state park system or the United States Forest Service, private companies have moved in to operate resorts, restaurants, campgrounds, marinas, ski lifts and a myriad of other services.

These private operators charge hefty fees to hikers for camping on what remains public, tax-funded land. What results is that most of the lakes either on the Pacific Crest Trail or on connecting side trails have changed from true wilderness experiences to commercialized amusement parks.

We stop for a day at one one of these resorts: a posh marina and RV park on spectacular Odell Lake in Deschutes National Forest. The resort itself offers few amenities - some expensive, rustic cabins, a fire pit and a store with a few hot dogs, fishing lures and the most elaborate espresso bar I have ever seen.

Showers here cost $1.50 for three minutes, by far the most expensive showers on the trail. Laundry is $2, not including soap. The entire resort is undergoing extensive electrical upgrades as the owners plan to build a restaurant on the waterfront.

Before we can get our laundry into the dryer, the power goes out as construction crews prepare to dig up power lines.

"Where can we hang a clothes line?" I ask the resort manager, a well-groomed woman in her 60s whose silver purse matches her silver flip-flops.

"Oh, we don't allow clotheslines here," she says as she retrieves something from her H2 Hummer.

As we talk, a woman comes running from the showers, wet and covered in suds.

"When will the power come back on?" she asks, looking a bit frantic.

The manager, clearly uncomfortable with the growing mob of angry campers, rushes from her Hummer to a Corvette convertible. "It will be back on in a few hours," she says as she starts the car.

"But I need to finish my shower," says the wet woman as she moves in on the convertible.

The manager guns the engine and takes off. "It'll just be a couple of hours," she calls back, leaving her wet, dazed customer in the dust.

A day later we take a side trail to a place called Crescent Lake. The water is warm and clear. The beach is covered in pale white sand and we nestle into a grove of trees below a large campground for some lunch. There is nothing here except a few boats moored to the shore that twist idly in the wind. It's a beautiful, empty and quiet spot.

A couple from Salem, Ore., walks down to the beach to test the new engine on their boat.

They tell us they have been coming here for years, to one of the last lakes in the area that hasn't been entirely sold to a private operator. (In fact, there is a resort at one end of Crescent Lake, but most of this large area is still run by the Forest Service.)

Crescent Lake has the warmest waters in this part of Oregon, they say. As we chat, I notice there is no one around. No espresso bar. No restaurant. The only sounds are our voices and the wind kicking up sand on the long, pristine beach.

"Please," the woman whispers to me as the couple heads back to their campground, "Don't tell anyone about this place."

The case of the Pancake Challenge and the disappearing Leprechaun
Late August

As much as food is debated and discussed on the trail, no culinary expedition is quite as talked about as the Seiad Valley Pancake Challenge.

To understand the significance of the pancake challenge on the trail, you have to understand a bit about Seiad Valley itself.

The smallest and hottest trail town, Seiad Valley is situated at the very northern edge of California, a state that takes up 1,700 miles - 2/3rds of the entire Pacific Crest Trail. By the time most hikers arrive here, they're pretty well sick of the Golden State and ready to run as fast as possible for the blessed Oregon border.

Seiad Valley is not so much a town as it is an RV Park and restaurant, whose hours consist of opening when the owner pleases and closing when business starts to slow (on the day we arrive, the cafe closes at 1 p.m.).

The entire town seemed to subsist on gold dredging along the Klamath River until the state outlawed river dredging this year. Now Seiad Valley seems to survive by selling gold dredging equipment for cheap.

Those who choose to spend the night at Seiad Valley can head to the RV park and pay $10 to sleep in a 10x10-foot fenced area with a straw floor, which hikers have sarcastically nicknamed "The Manger."

Leaving Seiad Valley, hikers face a 4,500-foot hot and waterless climb, the most gruelling ascent on the trail.

All this makes the pancake challenge about the only reason to stop in Seiad Valley.

The challenge consists of five pancakes, each weighing more than a pound. Finish all five pancakes and your meal is free. Fail the challenge and you owe the local greasy spoon a steep $14.

The cafe has a book in which hikers recount their heroic pancake-eating efforts. Most conclude their entries with comments like: "I feel like I'm going to be sick," or "What was I thinking?"

The cafe also posts the photos of challenge winners, mostly scrawny hikers holding their distended bellies and grinning at an empty plate. There have been just about a half-dozen challenge winners, the last in 2006.

The day we arrive, only one hiker is brave enough to attempt the pancake challenge.

Leprechaun is a small, spritely 20-something guy from Georgia who hikes in a skirt.

He excitedly photographs his pancakes as huge dollops of batter are ladelled onto the griddle.

The pancakes are each about half a foot in diameter and sit more than a foot high when stacked on a plate. They arrive with a gravy boat full of butter and several carafes of syrup. Since they're so huge, the pancakes look burned on the outside and raw batter drips from the middle.

For months I've been hearing about the various theories hikers have cooked up to complete the pancake challenge:

Some starve themselves for days and drink massive amounts of water to "stretch" their empty bellies.

Others say that successful eaters have to forgo the butter and syrup and eat the pancakes dry.

Another theory says that hikers should drink lemonade while eating because the acid from the lemons will break down the pancakes.

"You've gotta go slow," the waitress tells another patron who was contemplating the challenge, but orders a burger instead. "They always start out too fast."

Leprechaun heeds none of this advice. He digs in with aplomb, slathering his pancakes in butter and syrup. Next to the huge pile of food, he looks like a little eating machine on fast-forward.

After several minutes of shockingly excessive inhalation, Leprechaun tosses his fork down and groans. He has managed just 1.5 pancakes.

He pays his $14 and staggers out of the cafe looking dejected and unsteady, saying he's going to go take a nap.

Leprechaun arrives in camp late that night and takes off before sunrise the next morning.

We have never seen him again.

Lightning strikes, flames ravage the trail
Friday, August 7

If you hike long enough in California it's only a matter of time before you encounter a forest fire.

Having hiked more than 1,500 miles so far, we are nearly finished with the state and until recently, had yet to see even a small brush fire along the trail.

The trail through this area of Northern California is less majestic than what we have seen so far. The hills are gentler, the towns smaller, and ridges scrubbed bare of vegetation by previous blazes.

Still, there are a few treats, including Drakesbad, a charming resort and hot springs that serves up delicious food with deep discounts for hikers.

The Heitman's Hiker Hideaway in Old Station is another treat. Firefly (Georgi Heitman) and husband Firewalker (Dennis, a retired firefighter from Oakland) own a lovely sprawling property with a stunning wooden treehouse where hikers can stay.

We leave the Heitmans and head toward Hat Creek Rim, a hot and totally exposed ridge with panoramic views of the majestic snow-capped Mt. Shasta. We arrive in the Town of Burney in the afternoon. That night, the lightening storms hit, lighting up the sky for hours.

The next morning, the air is filled with smoke so thick that 14,000-foot Mt. Shasta disappears into the haze. Burney is overrun with firefighters who tell the lightning storm has set off more than 30 fires in the area. They say that Hat Creek Rim is ablaze but the fires to the north are not yet threatening the trail.

On our way out of Burney, we're picked up by a woman who is heading home to evacuate her pets from her house.

"I don't even know why I stopped," she says. "The fire is burning 700 feet from my house."

That night, we camp at Burney Falls State Park and wake up to smell of smoke so pungent that it chokes my lungs. Everything I own is covered in ash.

In the morning, a vanload of hikers pulls up. The trail from Old Station to Burney is now closed and the Heitmans have been evacuated from their home.

Nevertheless, a park ranger assures us the trail ahead is still open and we press on.

As we hike, smoke from surrounding fires blocks out the sun and turns the sky a eerie shade of orange. After sunset, we can see fires blazing atop a ridge just above us. They set the sky alight in the darkness - the smoke having blotted out the moon and stars.

By the time we have reached Castella, 80 miles ahead, we are greeted by throngs of hikers who have been pulled off the trail by the forest service. At this point, large sections of the trail have been closed for nearly 150 miles, from Drakesbad all the way to Castella. According to local news reports, nearly 50 square miles of forest have been obliterated by the flames.

Climbing at Yosemite, with the whole family
Friday, July 10
Yosemite National Park is one of the natural highlights of California, with its spectacular rainbow-rimmed waterfalls, towering mountains of granite and lush valley. It’s visited by nearly four million people a year, and we are lucky that the Pacific Crest Trail winds its way inside Yosemite’s borders.

The trail sits far from the popular Yosemite Valley, meandering through an area of the park largely inaccessible to day trippers. A two-day detour off the PCT will take hikers down to valley and over to climb the iconic Half Dome. A giant framed Ansel Adams photograph of this famous mountain has hung in my mother’s hallway for years, and the thought of reaching the summit is just to tempting to pass up.

Visitors to Yosemite Valley have an exhausting 5,000-foot climb from the valley floor to the top of Half Dome. The round trip is about 16 miles and takes up to 12 hours. We meet some who began this epic trek at midnight just to beat the crowds. The climb is steep, up stone steps blasted into the mountainside. From the base, the climbers, tiny as ants, look as if they are heading vertically up the slope.

The most famous part of climbing Half Dome is the last 400 feet – accessible only by a cable system that consists of two steel ropes bolted into the rock and the occasional small slab of wood to rest your feet on.

Yosemite’s website warns that Half Dome is becoming increasingly popular and the cable system is becoming overcrowded. It advises visitors to stay away from Half Dome on popular days. “Most visitors arriving at the cables during these periods will experience slow access to the summit, extended exposure to potentially uncomfortable conditions, and an increased likelihood of irresponsible behavior due to frustration with conditions,” the website reads. “We strongly recommend planning your Half Dome visit for days other than Saturdays or holiday weekends.”

Unfortunately for us, we’ve arrived here on July 4th, what’s likely the busiest day in the park’s entire year.

We reach the cables by late morning, just as the crowds are starting to swell. The line just to enter the cables is growing.

The thing about the cables is that they are perhaps the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. They are literally a couple pieces of rope hung at a 60-degree angle from the summit of the mountain. They are swarming with people: Moms, dads, small children, grandparents, Japanese tour groups.

The same set of cables is used to climb up Half Dome as is used to climb down, so climbers have to let go of one of the cables and swing outside the cabling system to let other climbers pass. Along with all the regular tourists, mountaineers also use cables, clipping themselves to the outside of either cable using harnesses and carabiners.

All this means that what should be a 15-minute climb – up a very steep, slick and scary rock – takes about an hour. Most of that time is spent hanging on for dear life through 10-minute delays, waiting anxiously as climbers yell at each other to move. The whole thing has the air of a funeral parlour as everyone seems fairly sure they’re about to fall to their death.

Occasionally, hikers are overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the climb and plunk themselves down on one of the few wooden slabs, refusing to move. Many times these are the petrified children of overzealous parents and the entire line has to wait until Mom or Dad can convince their tiny child to keep climbing.

“Did you hear someone fell off the cables and died a few weeks ago?” one man whispers from behind me during one of these delays as I’m hanging precariously from a cable.

“Under what circumstances?” I shoot back.

“Um,” he says. “I believe under circumstances very much like these.”

(I later find out from a Yosemite Search and Rescue worker that this story is true.)

Above me, a grown man is trying to look cool and relaxed, but is clearly scared out of his wits. He spits every five seconds and chuckles nervously to himself. The line begins to move, but he’s frozen still. Hikers coming down the cables are passing him in droves as the rest of us wait. “I’m just relaxing,” he sighs unconvincingly.

After what seems like an eternity, we arrive at the summit, where the mountain climbers are doing handstands on an rock outcropping above a 4,000-foot drop.

The scenery is stunning, although the park has decided July 4 is the best time to stage a prescribed burn of the forest, which has filled the valley with smoke. All around me I see the contours of grey mountains, the waterfalls pouring into lush valleys.

Our descent of Half Dome takes just as long as our climb, after a child who is clipped in to both cables sits down and refuses to move.

Half Dome is a thrilling experience – if you can stomach the climb and descent.

In Independence
Friday, July 3

We had just finished a dinner of burgers and beer on a patio in Independence, Calif. It was one of those all-American meals and we dined beneath an American flag that towered above this tiny desert community's grand courthouse.

As we strolled to our bed and breakfast, we spied a café nestled between a gas station and construction equipment for a major road reconstruction. The building had an aged, European quality unusual in this, the most American of small towns. “Biere et Vin,” it advertised on its windows.

As we read the menu, a tourist popped his head out the door and beckoned us inside. “Best French food I've ever eaten,” he whispered.

It turns out the Still Life Café is a culinary favourite that attracts foodies from miles away. It's run by a couple from France and has all the charm and authenticity of a true bistro. The tourist who invited us in gave us the remainder of his bottle of Paul Mas Cabernet Sauvignon and we feasted on crepes filled with crème fraîche and strawberries as the soundtrack shifted from Billie Holiday to Buena Vista Social Club.

It's the kind of strange mix of cultures that makes Independence more than just a pit stop on Highway 395 through remote Owens Valley.

Nestled in the foothills of the grand Sierra Nevada, Independence has long attracted writers, adventurers and tourists alike. The town itself – population 300 with 87 children and a graduating high-school class of three students – was established on July 4, 1862, as a military outpost. It was later expanded to Fort Independence when fighting between the white settlers and Paiute natives escalated. The fort closed in 1877 and has since become an Indian reservation, although some of the original fortress structures have been relocated to town.

For the past six years, Independence has been renowned for a charming Fourth of July parade that brings floats from as far away as Phoenix.

“The Fourth of July is probably one of the biggest holidays here,” says organizer Carolyn (CJ) Joncas, herself a Los Angeles County expatriate. “I would say it's bigger than Christmas.”

The festivities begin at sundown on July 3 with a dance in Dehy Park and finish with a fireworks display at sundown on July 4 at the Independence Airport – a concrete slab just big enough for a helicopter.

Parade floats are awash in red, white and blue, the nearby Edwards and China Lake air force bases usually conduct a military jet fly-over and children pull bullfrogs from the creek for an annual frog-jumping race.

The parade may be the main attraction for visitors, but tourists would be remiss not to explore the history and natural beauty of Independence. The town's Eastern California Museum (www.inyocounty.us/ecmuseum) features a remarkably diverse mix of exhibits on Owens Valley history – from dinosaurs to Indian beadwork to famed mountaineer Norman Clyde.

Close to town is the Manzanar National Historic Site, one of the largest Japanese-American internment camps of the Second World War. At its height, Manzanar housed 10,000 people within 800 buildings; today, the site is a national park (www.nps.gov/manz).

The 12,000-foot-high Kearsarge Peak towers over Independence, the gateway to the spectacular John Muir Wilderness area. The mountains are accessible by a strenuous climb on an eight-kilometre trail up to the 3,300-metre Kearsarge Pass. The trail winds and rises past pristine lakes filled with rare golden trout. Once over the pass, day hikers will be delighted by the short and easy Bullfrog Lake trail, which boasts some of the most spectacular scenery in the Sierra.

Visitors looking for the amenities of posh California mountain resorts would be better off heading to nearby Lone Pine, Bishop or Mammoth Lakes. But those who want an authentic small-town experience should be charmed by the spirit of Independence.

Mountain stream rescue
Thursday, June 25

As first-time thru-hikers, we have spent our days worrying about the dangers of climbing snowy, 13,000-foot mountain passes. But those few hikers out here who have completed this trail once before seem to worry more about the creek crossings.

The Sierra Nevada mountains are full of water. It flows in spectacular waterfalls down from grey peaks into deep blue icy lakes. We hike through literally hundreds of creek crossings on the Pacific Crest Trail, although most can be hopped over or climbed around using fallen logs.

However, there are two major creeks that can't be avoided and must be forded by wading through the water: Evolution Creek and Bear Creek. They are both deep, rocky, wide and very, very fast. Hikers have fallen and been swept downstream toward dangerous waterfalls.

The level of the water in these creeks can vary widely depending on how much snow has fallen in the mountains that winter and how quickly it is melting. As far as we can tell, it has been an average snow year, but a bout of cold weather has delayed some of the melt in the Sierra and now that the temperatures have risen, the snow is melting. Fast.

We spend the night camping just before Evolution Creek, deciding we will tackle it in the morning.

I wake up by 5 a.m. and repack my pack, lining it with a thick trash bag. I place my sleeping bag and clothes in separate trash bags and transfer all my electronics, money and passport to waterproof sacks. I take off my hat. It has a drawstring and I decide if I fall, it could get twisted or snagged on debris and choke me.

Evolution Creek is broad and lined with slick, large boulders although the current doesn't appear to be moving too quickly.

Brendon, one of two hikers I am travelling with, goes first. He's 6-foot-3 and the water hits him just below the knee. He has an easy walk until he reaches the middle of the creek,when the current pulls him off-course, although he lands safely on the opposite bank.

I start in next, undoing the clasps of my pack and loosening the straps so I can remove it if I fall. The water hits me at my upper thigh. I dig in my hiking poles and move slowly over the boulders. I move a foot at a time, sliding easily over the rocks.

I'm two-thirds into the creek before the current picks up. I can feel it trying to wrest my hiking poles from my hands and drag them downstream. I dig in deeper, determined to make it to shore.

I slide my leg over a large boulder and feel it shift beneath my foot. Before I can find a better foothold, I feel my leg being pulled behind me. It pulls one of my hiking poles from my hand and suddenly I am losing my footing. I feel myself being pulled backward into the water and dragged downstream.

It takes me a split-second to get my bearings and in that time I start to panic. A voice in my head reminds me that I'm a strong swimmer. "Get your pack off and swim to shore," it tells me.

I'm in the process of taking off my backpack when I can hear Brendon yell "I've got you" as he grabs me by the back of my shirt and drags me to shore.

Scott, the second hiker I've been travelling with, runs into the creek up to his waist to grab my hiking poles, which are lodged in a log downstream.

I'm soaked, although all my belongings are safely dry within my backpack.

It takes me a minute to recover and I promise Brendon and Scott that I'll buy them both dinner for their lifesaving efforts.

On Mount Whitney: 'I make a mental note not to look down'
Wednesday, June 17

Without a doubt, the Sierra Nevada is the most highly-anticipated, most talked-about section of the Pacific Crest Trail.

For more than 200 miles, the Pacific Crest Trail winds up and down snow-capped mountain passes, some higher than 13,000 feet. Hikers are treated to azure lakes of ice-cold snow melt, lush forests of foxtail and lodgepole pine, and daily sightings of deer, white-tailed jackrabbit and bear. Here hikers can walk for weeks without encountering a road or any other sign of civilization.

One of the highlights of the Sierra is the chance to climb Mt. Whitney, which at nearly 14,500 feet is the highest mountain in the contiguous U.S. excluding Alaska.

Although the Sierra promises the most spectacular scenery on the entire trail, it is also meant to be the most challenging. This is where hikers swap their trekking poles for ice axes, their sneakers for crampons, as they navigate snowy mountains in changing weather conditions.

And with the talk of pristine natural beauty come the rumours about the dangers that lurk among the mountains.

The rumour mill begins churning at Walker Pass, nearly 100 miles before we are to set foot in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The stories come in two forms: Horrific Spring storms that turn otherwise harmless mountain passes into snowy graves, and temperatures so cold they can freeze your speech in midsentence.

By the time we reach Kennedy Meadows, considered the gateway to the Sierra, the rumours have reached a fever pitch.

Waiting in line for the Internet cafe, I encounter three hikers checking the weather at Cottonwood Pass, which sits just below Mt. Whitney. Temperatures are due to plunge to -10C at night with a constant barrage of snow and sleet and rain. One hiker warns that there is two-to-four new feet of snow on Mt. Whitney, that two hikers have died this year attempting to summit the mountain, and that one had to be rescued.

After two days of non-stop rumours about the horrors lurking in the Sierra, we head off to test our fate. In the end, I opt for a pair of lightweight crampons, but no ice axe.

As luck would have it, most of the rumours are true.

It's freezing here and on our trip to Guitar Lake, the closest camping before Whitney, we suffer through rain, snow and a hailstorm that lasts for hours and freezes the tent solid.

Two people have died on Whitney this year, but none was on the route we intend to take. A PCT hiker did have to be rescued after she got caught in a snowstorm unprepared for the cold conditions.

Also, as we find out, there is a good four feet of new snow on Whitney and more is falling.

We start up Whitney early in the morning. The skies are clear, but we can see clouds forming over the summit. The snow is soft and deep and covers the entire trail. We pass several narrow patches of trail that run across a steep snow chute where a fall could send you tumbling several thousand feet. I dig my crampons and hiking poles into the sticky snow and make a mental note not to look down.

As we climb the more than 3,000 feet to the top, we encounter three hikers who have opted to turn around at the junction with Trail Crest, about two miles from the summit. Our group agrees to continue until we feel it's too dangerous and then turn around.

The trail clouds up quickly and we pass sections where there are drop-offs on either side. Thankfully, we can't see more than 10 feet ahead. One of the hikers I am with nicknames the drop-offs: "The Abyss."

The altitude starts getting to me as we crest over 14,000 feet. My head pounds, my stomach churns, and I'm breathing heavily. I briefly consider stopping before I meet a hiker from Quebec who promises I'm almost at the summit.

I round a corner and there it is: the famous stone shelter that sits atop Whitney.

The summit of Whitney is entirely covered in snow, but the weather is warm and we are blessed with a rare window of cloudless skies that afford us a stunning panorama of mountains, none taller than the one on which we stand.

The clouds begin to reform 15 minutes later and we make a hasty exit from the summit - Whitney is known for its afternoon electrical storms.

By the time we get back down to Guitar Lake the hailstorm is making a repeat performance and we huddle in our tents to stay warm.

Climbing Mt. Whitney is an exhilarating experience and a lesson in trusting your gut over rumours. This hike wouldn't be an adventure unless you're willing to take a few steps beyond the unknown.

The strangest restaurant experience
Monday, June 15

There is a book that many PCT hikers, myself included, carry with us on the trail. It's called Yogi's Town and Trail Guide. It gives helpful hints about the various services in each of the towns along the trail.

Listed under Kennedy Meadows is a cryptic note about a local restaurant called Irelan's. It reads: "Irelan's is a very interesting experience. If you go there, you'll definitely come back with a story."

As someone who can't resist the urge for an interesting experience, I raise my hand when Tom, who runs the local Internet cafe, offers to drive a group of hikers over to Irelan's for breakfast.

Irelan's is distinguishable as a restaurant only by a spray-painted sign that says "Irelan's Fine Foods." Beyond the sign is a house, and a small one at that.

We arrive to find the blinds drawn and a sign in the window that says closed.

Undeterred, Tom begins banging on the front door and yells, "Hey Jerry! Get up!"

He does this for a good 10 minutes before Jerry, the owner, tears open the blinds. He has just woken up.

Jerry easily weighs 300 pounds. He has the face of a school boy and a booming voice best suited to announcing the results of stock car racing.

As he opens the door, an angry pit bull - the dog of choice in every small town we've visited in California - comes rushing out, bearing its teeth at Irelan's first customers of the day.

"Littlebit!" Jerry yells. "Littlebit, come here!"

Irelan's is the kind of place that has taken home-style cooking to an entirely new level.

First, Irelan's is Jerry's house, although he has set up a few booths in what looks to have once been a living room.

Second, it seems as if no one has cleaned Irelan's in the decades it has been opened. The tables are smeared with remnants of some other meal.

In hushed voices, hikers discuss how the local health department has likely not yet made it out to Kennedy Meadows.

"Where's the bathroom?" asks my friend Brendon.

"Hey Jerry," yells Tom. "Your toilet working?"

"Nope!" Jerry yells back.

The restaurant is staffed by a couple of Jerry's friends, including one whose hands are still stained black from the BMW engine he worked on in his day job as a mechanic.

"Hi, I'm John," he says as he tosses some cutlery on the table in no particular order. "I won't be your waiter, but I'll get you stuff cuz I know where it is."

The wait at Irelan's is interminably long, mostly because Jerry is the lone cook and appears to do all the cooking in his small kitchen.

The phone rings incessantly and Jerry answers it with a charming: "WHAT?!"

At one point a hiker offers to answer the phone. "You'd better not," says Tom. "Last time it was his mother."

Although Irelan's has to be the strangest restaurant experience of my life, my pancakes and bacon are some of the best I've had on the trail.

Learning the lingo
Saturday, June 6

Like any niche sport, long-distance hiking has its own unique lingo, which I am learning quickly. Here, I'll attempt to explain a few of the hiker terms I've picked up on the trail:

Yogi The act of asking a stranger for a favour so subtly that the person being 'yogied' thinks they have offered you their goods or services of their own volition. This works best for finding rides into town, food and drink, and sometimes even a free place to stay for the night. For example: "I yogied a ride into town with some day-hikers," or, "I yogied a burger out of some campers." The term is iinspired by the tactics of Yogi Bear.

Slackpack When someone else carries most of your gear from your starting point to your destination for the day so that you can hike with a light backpack.

Pink-blaze/Yellow-blaze Blazes are the marks - usually a painted stripe on a tree- along the trail that tell hikers they are going in the right direction, although the PCT is signed, not blazed. Pink-blazing refers to when a male hikes faster or slower to keep up with one of the few females who hike the trail. Yellow-blazing refers to the act of taking some kind of motorized transport, like a bus, to skip a section of trail.

Cowboy camp Camping out in the open with no tent or shelter, just a sleeping bag, sleeping pad and a ground sheet.

Flip-flop/Yo-yo Flip-flopping is the act of starting the trail at one end and then jumping ahead and hiking back to where you have left off. For instance, some hikers will start at the Mexican border and hike up to just before the Sierra Nevada mountains. Then they will jump ahead to the end of the trail in B.C. and hike back down to the Sierra. Usually, they do this to avoid high snow in the Sierras. A yo-yo hike is when a someone hikes the entire trail one way and then turns around and hikes back, essentially doing the trail twice in one trip. Believe it or not, a few hikers have tried this on the PCT and one has done it successfully.

Vitamin I Ibuprofen, a hiker's best friend after a long, hard day of hiking.

Zero/Nearo days Everything on the trail is measured in miles. When you take a Zero Day it means you haven't done any miles, usually because you're resting up in a town. In the real world, this would be known as a rest day. A Nearo Day is when someone hikes only a few miles and then rests. Many hikers do a Nearo Day coming into, or going out of, town.

Hiker trash A tongue-in-cheek term for long-distance hikers, who get so dirty and unshaven on the trail that they often get mistaken for hobos.

Ground control to Mojave Tommy
Monday, June 1

Mojave has the air of a dying mining town. It's sweltering here in the town of 4,000 situated next to Death Valley. The heat kicks up a bitter wind and the windmills from one of the largest windmill parks in the state whine and groan in the desert sun.

Mojave is little more than a collection of roadside motels. Cargo trains rumble through the downtown at all hours of the day. The local KFC is offering a new roast chicken special that has the residents in a tizzy. Children run unattended through empty parking lots and women who have seen better days huddle in alleyways, smoking and digging through plastic bags of garbage.

Mojave would be a forgettable stop on the list of towns along the Pacific Crest Trail if it weren't for the Mojave Air and Space Port. The space port is a massive 3,300-acre flight research centre that is home to the first private, commercial space flight in the U.S. It opened in the 1930s as a small, regional airport serving California's Kern County and grew when it was taken over by the U.S. Marine Corps during the Second World War. It now trains more test pilots than any other location in the country.

The Space Port is so large (at 3,300 acres, there's nearly an acre for every resident) that it has attracted the attention of Virgin Mobile founder Richard Branson, who is working on a commerical space flight program for the exceptionally well-heeled. It will cost passengers $200,000 US a flight, claims our tour guide, a retired narcotics expert named "Mojave Tommy." He has a car full of firearms loaded with snakeshot, which once got him turned away from the Canadian border. He has offered up his personal arsenal for security services to the space port. Space launches here, he says, attract up to 30,000 spectators.

"There will be a flight a day into space by the end of the year," Mojave Tommy swears, though his predictions seem stunningly optimistic in this sleepy little town.

The Tejon Ranch dilemma
Friday, May 29

The Tejon Ranch property has been the bane of many a PCT hiker's existence since the trail opened.

At 250,000 acres, Tejon Ranch is the largest tract of privately-held land in California. It encompasses the beautiful, tree-covered Tehachapi Mountains, the searing desert and the flat golden prairies. So close to Los Angeles, the Tejon Ranch property is remarkable for its rugged, pristine beauty.

Any section of the Tejon Ranch would be a thrill to hike - in particular, the Tehachapi Mountains, where the trail founders had always intended the PCT to go. The U.S. Forest Service even began building a section of the trail through the mountains.

Unfortunately for the trail, the Tejon Ranch owners weren't huge fans of hikers and resisted any attempts to allow conservation easements along their property.

They eventually agreed to allow the trail access to their vast landscape, but required that it be routed through the hottest, ugliest section of the entire property.

The PCT skirts the very edge of the Tejon Ranch lands. For at least 10 miles, it parallels a barbed-wire fence, passing over low hills and through an old burnout, and winding along what one trail guidebook aptly calls "over-engineered switchbacks."

We are afforded distant views of the mountains, the desert, the plains. But for us, the scenery is only scrub.

Last year, Tejon Ranch announced that it had struck a deal with a consortium of environmental groups, including the Sierra Club and the Pacific Crest Trail Association, to conserve 90 per cent of its lands and open up much of its property to the public.

That includes rerouting 37 miles of trail back through the Tehachapi Mountains.

As part of the arrangement, the environmental groups have agreed not to oppose development on the remaining10 per cent of the property. There, Tejon Ranch expects to build an entire planned city called Centennial. The Ranch would also be allowed to continue with its existing operation, which includes oil production.

How soon all this could occur seems very much up for debate. Liz Bergeron, executive director of the Pacific Crest Trail Association, told me that the agreement is still in its preliminary stages and a trail reroute could be years away. However, Don Line, a trail maintenance worker, recently told me it could be a matter of months before a deal is signed and take just four or five years to construct a new section of trail.

Meanwhile, Richard Skaggs, whose Hikertown property sits adjacent to Tejon Ranch, believes the existence of an endangered kangaroo mouse in the mountains could tie up environmental approvals in red tape.

Hollywood's reach
Thursday, May 28

In California, Hollywood seems to have a funny way of reaching its tentacles outside of the Los Angeles area. So far that they inevitably reach the trail.

We encounter our first taste of Hollywood magic at a bizarre place called Hikertown, just outside the town of Tehachapi.

Hikertown is, as the name suggests, a proper little town for hikers. It looks like something out of an old western film, and indeed the "town" is mostly made up of thin-walled movie sets.

There's a "hotel" that consists of a desk and a single bedroom with a bathroom that doesn't work and is entirely for show. There's a post office that seems more like a storage shed. Hikers gather on a deck, curled up on rocking chairs to watch the traffic kick up dust from the nearby highway.

There is even an outdoor solar shower, complete with swinging saloon-style doors, that runs on a giant water tank and a battery.

Hikertown is run by an eccentric, but personable, man named Richard Skaggs.

As far as we can tell, Richard made his fortune as the president of a company that developed an engine fuel conditioner. He has since moved into producing motion pictures. He says he is also a former US Marine Corps General, and a commissioner appointed by the governor to make recommendations to the state on air quality issues.

Richard is an entertaining character who seems a mix between man and myth. He is bald, although he occasionally wears a a shock of black-and-white hair. He can spin a yarn like no one I've met on the trail. Yet his stories have a ring of truth to them.

He shows us photos he has taken with Stephen Segal from the time they tried to take a shotgun onto a private Warner Brothers Lear jet.

He says he is producing a movie based on a book on the illegal Mexican slave trade by an investigative journalist. The day we arrive, both the journalist and a reporter from Fox News are having a meeting at Hikertown.

He feeds us dessert and tells us of his latest movie venture - a rambling tale of a group of bank robbers who are running from the mob by posing as PCT hikers. It's in the early stages, he asserts, and is only a 26-page treatment.

Then, in true Hollywood fashion, Richard offers all of us hikers jobs as "technical advisers" on the film, because of our intimate knowledge of the trail.

Sweet warmth of home - and a raucous free-for-all
Wednesday, May 27

Among the PCT's trail angels, the Saufleys and the Andersons are perhaps the most famous.

They live just 24 trail miles apart - a day's walk for most hikers. But despite their proximity to each other, they couldn't be more different.

The Saufleys run their operation with military precision. Their residence, Hiker Heaven, is more a hiker compound than a home.

Hikers are greeted at a garage that has become a laundry station. They check in at a tent, where they grab a laundry bag and choose from buckets full of loaner clothes. Donna Saufley often does the laundry, but today she has friends to help her with the chores.

Hiker Heaven comes complete with a giant trailer for hikers to use. It has a kitchen, beds, bathroom, a shower, two computers with Internet access and two phones. Outside, there are six tents with four cots apiece. Hikers who can't fit in the trailer can grab a cot in a tent.

The Saufleys used to allow hikers to take their vehicles into Los Angeles to run errands, but recently stopped that practice for liability reasons. Instead, friends of the family run shuttles several times a day.

The Saufleys began hosting hikers on a whim in 1997. Donna tells the story over a bonfire. Jeff was at a bachelor party and Donna, bored, ended up alone at the local pizza shop. She spotted six of the filthiest people she had ever seen in her life trying to wash their feet in the restaurant bathroom.

She brought them back to her trailer and since then, she estimates they have hosted more than 3,400 hikers.

Donna and Jeff are considered the Trail Mom and Dad of the PCT.

Just a day away, but world's apart are the Andersons - Terri and Joe. We meet them as we stumble down a hill in the dark toward a quiet road. A van careers toward us, whipping on to the shoulder and nearly taking me down with it.

The driver, Joe Anderson, grabs my hand through the window and kisses it. Five of us pile into his van and he speeds off toward his home.

The Andersons are renowned on the trail for their parties. Their home, Casa De Luna, is a raucous free-for-all. We're given a tour by a guy named "Doug the Tour Guy."

The tour consists of choosing any spot on the lawn and a brief stop at the shower, where Doug opens an empty cupboard to show us where the towels would be, if there were any to be found.

Terri makes taco salad for hikers every night and Joe makes pancakes every morning. There's a cooler full of beer. Someone is tearing apart a wooden structure and throwing it in the fire.

Unfortunately, we've missed the hiker oil wrestling by a day.

The Andersons have been hosting hikers for 10 years after Joe spent the day making vegetable soup and later happened upon a group of hikers who were craving exactly that meal. Terri later began trolling the local forest ranger station for hikers.

Despite their differences, both the Saufleys and the Andersons exude the warmth of people who genuinely care about hikers and enjoy following the highs and lows of the trail. They are both legends of the trail and for good reason.

Height before heat
Wednesday, May 20

Southern California evokes images of a barren desert landscape, replete with sand dunes and cactus. There are plenty of both, but the Pacific Crest Trail follows the.mountains that lure us with shaded groves of trees sprinkled with soft pine duff, patches of hard-packed snow and natural springs so pure you can drink right from the spigot.

Of all the mountains we have climbed so far, the tallest is Mount Baden-Powell, named for Lord Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts.

At 9,400 feet, Baden-Powell is the fourth-highest mountain in San Gabriel mountain range. The tallest is its neighbour, the rugged and snow-capped "Baldy," at more than 10,000 feet.

To reach the top of Baden-Powell we climb about 3,000 feet (914 metres) in nearly four miles (6.4 kilometres) - the steepest climb we have experienced to date.

The trail is tough but wide and covered in needles from Jeffery and Lodgepole pines. As you climb higher the forest gives way to the ancient Limber pines, some thought to be more than 2,000 years old. Their gnarled limbs are warped from years atop a windy summit.

After tramping through deep patches of snow, we reach the top of Baden-Powell via a short side trail. From the top, mountains roll off in deepening shades of blue, as far as the eye can see, poking their snowy peaks out from the morning mist.

There's Mount Gleason to the west, and the Santa Ana Mountains to the south. To the east, we see the San Jacinto and San Gorgonio ranges, through which we have just climbed. On clear days, travellers can see Mount Whitney, which we're not planning to reach until June 15. To the north is the barren Death Valley, the lowest and hottest place on the continent.

After Baden-Powell, we will plunge back into the Mojave Desert. The trail beckons, but we're in no hurry. And so we stop for a break at the summit, enjoying the cool breeze at our back and Southern California spread out before us in all its seemingly endless glory.

Hot springs, nude beach
Friday, May 15

There is exactly one hot springs on the Pacific Crest Trail, and for a split-second we were planning on passing it by.

We change our minds quickly when the exposed, burned-out section of dusty trail opens into a desert oasis known as Deep Creek Hot Springs. The only drawback (for some) is that the hot springs is also a nude beach.

It attracts all sorts of local Southern California nakedness: young nudists in hats, flip-flops and nothing else; nudists as old as my grandparents; toddler nudists sleeping in hammocks.

This being California, there are even nudists filming a movie on the beach. (For some reason only the cameramen are naked; the actors are clothed.)

But public nudity aside, Deep Creek Hot Springs is one of the highlights of this trip.

There is a cold lake with a waterfall, as well as six hot pools of varying teperatures. The locals have built some structures around the pools and embedded the rocks with subtle art: stone faces and arrowhead.

At night as the desert turns cold. We gather in the hottest of the pools - 117 F - and swim under the stars and rising steam.

A tiger on the trail
Monday, May 11

There is plenty of wildlife on the Pacific Crest Trail. We've seen rattlesnakes, deer, lizards, coyote. The last thing you expect to see is tiger. A tiger and a giant, pacing grizzly bear.

But that's exactly what we see about two miles outside of a place called Big Bear.

The trail in this area is pretty indistinct. It's dusty, slightly downhill, with a few trees and low brush. We're hiking into town today, thinking of burgers, cold beer and hot showers.

Then we hear a roar.

At first I think it's just my stomach rumbling. But then we round the corner and see a tiger. He's pacing back and forth, shoulders hunched. He stops a minute and stares at us.

I should mention that he was on a hill. Behind a fence. In a cage.

It seems the Pacific Crest Trail runs directly beside something called Randy Miller's Predators in Action. This unusual business supplies large animals for Hollywood films. There are tigers, lions, a large grizzly bear and something that looks like a falcon. There are workers who are tending to the animals, but they all look somewhat distressed. The massive grizzly is pacing back and forth.

Unfortunately, Randy Miller doesn't allow hikers to visit his celebrity animals.

A retired race horse, a crash, Pasta Alfredo and a rescue
Sunday, May 10

The Pacific Crest Trail is also an equestrian trail, although few riders attempt the entire path.

Some sections are tricky and those riders who do attempt the trail will often skip areas or take alternate routes.

We meet one of the few thru-riders, Susan Bates, at Mission Creek, a nice shady spot on a hot day. She is from Arkansas and her horse, Port, is a retired race horse, a beautiful chestnut-brown thoroughbred. She lets him sip from the creek and then moves on.

The account of what happened next comes from interviews with other hikers and from Susan herself, in a note she posted to the PCT-L, the official mailing list of the trail.

Susan had come around a corner and encountered a very large downed tree, difficult for hikers to hop offer, but impossible for a horse. Susan carries a small saw to cut away fallen debris, but the tree was too large to cut.

The path in this area is a narrow trail cut through loose sand. Susan tried to back up. When that didn't work, she tried to turn her horse around, but Port lost his footing and the two tumbled 50 feet off the slope.

"The slide was surreal," Susan wrote. "We kind of floated in the scree."

Dazed, Susan pressed the help button on her emergency GPS locator, but later turned it off when she realized both she and Port were uninjured. She tried to lead the horse back up the hill, but the talus was too uneven and 10 feet from the top, he tumbled over backward and crashed violently on the shelf.

Amazingly, he still wasn't injured and Susan again attempted to lead Port up the hill. But he fell over again and struck his head.

"I thought he was a goner," she wrote. "I prayed that I hadn't taken this great horse to his death."

But Port, once again, stood up and shook out his head and body. He had blood on his hind legs, but seemed to be all right.

Susan left a note, then rushed off to call a veterinarian whom she had heard of who had success with rescuing horses from similar accidents using a sling. The vet agreed to rescue Port the next day.

While she was gone, several hikers came upon the scene. This account comes from Arran, a hiker from Calgary, and her boyfriend, Ryan:

They ran into a hiker named Sailor rushing up the trail saying there had been an accident.

Sailor's partner is a strapping Italian named Pasta Alfredo. In one of those strange twists of fate, Pasta Alfredo just happened to be a champion horse jumper and trainer in his native land.

He and Ryan climbed down into the gully, where Alfredo whispered to the horse and helped it to its feet.

Ryan got in front and Alfredo took the rear and together they began to lead the horse up the steep mountainside.

"He kept saying: 'Don't look at the horse, don't look at the horse,' " Ryan recalled.

Apparently, horses, when scared, will rear up on their hind legs. When they're on an incline this can cause them to topple over on their backs.

Ryan said he kept his head down and pulled as hard as he could on the reigns. It was only later, when he watched a video another hiker had captured of the rescue, that Ryan said he realized how close the horse had been to flipping over.

The two managed to lead the horse to safety and back to its shaken rider.

Miraculously, Port was not fatally wounded in the ordeal, and Susan expected to take him home to recuperate.

She was also expecting to return to the trail in a month with a new horse.

"I am forever grateful to the group who took the time to help Port and realize the PCT is so very much more than a trail," she wrote.

Obsessed with mileage
Saturday, May 9

There are days when hiking this trail can seem like one big race. So many hikers are obsessed with getting in their miles. They compare mileage stats the way veterans compare war wounds.

It can be an important consideration - when you have just six months to hike 4,200 kilometres, you need to hit an average of around 20 miles (30 km) a day to make it to Canada before the snow hits. It can be easy to get pulled into the competition, to try to beat your mileage from the day before.

Mileage was on my mind today as we sweated through a heatwave like I've never experienced. Temperatures above 100 F (37 C), a parched desert landscape of gravel and cracked dry mud so hot it burned the soles of your shoes.

We hiked three miles (five km) in the blistering heat to a highway underpass, Brendon, my hiking companion, dry heaving all the way. From there, we bolted through shifting, grinding sand toward a wind farm, where we hid behind an electrical truck drinking until temperatures cooled.

We took off again in the evening as the sun was sinking. I thought of my mileage. I had hoped to do 20 miles (30 km). I had done eight.

I took off downhill on easy switchbacks. I started to hike faster, almost at a run. I was making good time. Maybe I could hit my 20 miles, I thought.

Then I looked up from the trail that had held my gaze for the last 200 miles.

I was in the San Gorgonio Wilderness, where the sky was ablaze with a brilliant panoply of colours, turning the rising moon a deep orange. The San Gorgonio is filled with gentle rolling hills the colour of brown sugar. The trail through here is well-manicured and when you walk the tall grass tickles your legs. The wind comes up from the valley with a whistle almost like a song.

I thought again of my mileage, of the race to the finish, of hikers who hiked through the night, past stunning scenery shrouded in darkness. I slowed my pace and drank in the surroundings. Maybe I would see this scene a thousand times on this trip. But maybe I would see it only this once.

As I strolled into the sunset, I figured the miles could wait.

Dave
Friday, May 8

There are dozens of Trail Angels along the Pacific Crest Trail and each has his or her own personal reason for helping hikers. Dave's story is the most touching one I've heard yet.

Dave, his daughter Audie and his friend Jim show up right where we need them: at the end of a long, hot waterless descent into the desert, where the thermometer reads 107 F. Eleven years ago in December, Dave's wife died on the Pacific Crest Trail after she got lost in a fierce snowstorm that left icicles frozen on the trees.

"The trail went right," he says. "She went left."

This year, Dave's two sons, Corey and Jared, 30 and 19 respectively, are hiking the trail in their mom's memory.

Corey has already earned the nickname Chopper because he had to be airlifted from the trail after suffering a bout of dehydration. He's back on the trail though and Dave is supporting his sons along the way. They're due to hike down to this spot sometime today.

Dave and his gang come equipped with cold water, beer and sports drinks. They cook us hamburgers and offer us medical supplies.

It's sweltering out here and Dave and his crew are a godsend.

As we're leaving, I mention that I left my sunglasses up in the San Jacintos.

Dave takes his sunglasses off his face and tosses them to me.

San Jacintos
May 3 to 5

The San Jacinto mountains rise majestically from the desert; jagged granite snow-capped peaks.

At 10,800 feet, they are the highest mountains we've passed so far.

The day we head into the San Jacintos, a group of hikers pile out of vans and cars. They had hiked eight miles into the San Jacintos and then turned around because of a bad storm.

"You don't mess with the San Jacintos," says Boomer, a hiker from the area who is one of those who bailed from the trail.

We climb quickly and steeply to 9,000 feet, crossing icy snow chutes that could send an unfortunate hiker tumbling several hundred feet.

I tend to trip a lot and have divided the trail mentally into bruise, break or death. Bruise sections are those where I can fall and come away with little more than a bruise. Break are those sections steep enough that a fall could result in a smashed bone or two. Death speaks for itself.

There are several Death sections of trail through the San Jacintos, with a couple Break sections thrown in for good measure.

A section of the trail known as Apache Peak suffered an extensive fire last year and it has left the area hot and exposed. The air of death is thick here, from the steep drops to the charred apparitions of ruined trees.

But the views from the San Jacinto wilderness are breathtaking: On one side the lush green mountains and communities of Coachella and Palm Springs, turn your head to the other side and there is nothing but arid, brown desert.

Unfortunately for us, we're headed toward the desert.

Trail Angels
Sunday, May 3

There's a phenomenon along the Pacific Crest Trail known as "Trail Angels."

These are usually folks who live near the trail and have an affinity for hikers. They offer rides into town, sometimes feed you, while others even let you stay in their homes.

Trail Angels are such a common occurence along the trail that they have even become a verb ("I'm trail-angelling out in Oregon this year. Give me a call!")

Most do this out of the kindness of their hearts and ask for no money (although it's courtesy to at least attempt to leave a donation). These random acts of kindness are known as "trail magic."

We've met quite a few trail angels in the first 150 miles. But my favourite has to be Hector.

Hector has a son named Boomer who hiked the trail last year. He hopes to hike the trail himself next year.

"People were so good to my son," he says. So he's decided to repay that kindness.

We meet Hector at the 150-mile mark near the Pines-to-Palmes Highway. He's dressed entirely in camouflage.

He's got a huge tent set up with chairs and hammocks. He has laid out tarps on the grass for hikers to stash their gear. He's got popsicles in a cooler and 50 gallons of spring water. There are foot-bathing stations and buckets and soap to wash dirty clothes.

Hector has even brought his sewing machine, along with strips of leather and buttons to repair damaged backpacks and clothing.

He's been camping near the trail for the entire weekend. He makes breakfast and lunch for hikers on a small grill.

But Hector's real specialty is his foot care. He's fixed hundreds of bruised, blistered and broken feet. "I fix feet from nine-to-five," he says. He's seen a blister so large it wrapped around the entire base of one hiker's foot and over her big toe.

I stumble over to Hector and unload my filthy feet into his gentle hands.

First he soaks my feet to remove the dust and grime from hundreds of kilometres of hiking. Next, he cuts off the layers of moleskin, Band-Aids and duct tape. He rests my foot on his knee (he's got a little tarp to protect himself from foot-grime) and trims my toenails. He wipes down a few blisters with an alcohol swap, and drains the blister with a pin and his fingers. He dabs on some hydrogen peroxide with Q-tips to remove dirt and prevent infection.

Next, he places a piece of foam around the blister with the middle cut out to let it breathe. He tapes a Band-Aid over the top and wraps the entire area in duct tape. He rubs a mint-scented medical cream meant for horses on the leg to soothe sore tendons and muscles. Then he douses my foot in medicated talcum powder.

The whole process takes a good 20 minutes.

"I'm also dying hair today," he jokes.

I leave "Dr. Hector" with my feet feeling better than they have since I started this trip.

Hector is truly a trail angel.

Facing a rattler
Tuesday, April 28

We have been warned that there are rattlesnakes in the desert, but haven't come across one until today.

He's lying across the trail, baking in the sun. He's as thick as a large rope and at least two feet long.

A group of hikers begins to form a line behind us. One of them identifies the snake as a Western rattler, one of the less deadly rattlers in these parts. The deadliest is something called a Mojave rattler, which injects its victims with a powerful neurotoxin that can paralyze the respiratory system.

The snake looks at us, but doesn't rattle. Instead, he flicks his tongue at us a few times, curls into an "S," lifts his body slightly and, almost hovering, gracefully exits the trail downhill.

He is a beautiful, if heart-stopping, sight to behold.

Two journeys: the trail, and the personal journey
Monday, April 27

I first meet Brian at the kick-off, the massive annual gathering of the Pacific Crest Trail community.

Brian is in his 20s, with a wide, white-toothed grin. He is dressed head-to-toe in khaki and he has the tall, lean physique of a college basketball player, which he was.

I meet him again a few days later as he saunters up the trail on his way to the first town stop in Mount Laguna. We hike with Brian all day. He's one of the most amiable people I've met so far. He is from Bend, Oregon and like me, he quit his job to hike the trail. It has been his dream for several years. He worked with handicapped kids, but was feeling lost, directionless. He hopes to find some answers on the trail.

About seven months ago, Brian had major foot surgery after tearing the arch in his foot. He knows that hiking is a gamble, but his doctor has told him he's fit for the trail. He says he hopes to come away with a positive attitude whether he finishes the trail or not. The next day Brian leaves our campsite at dawn. I watch him walk off into the rising sun.

We meet him again a few hours later. He's sitting by the side of the trail with his shoes and socks off.

He recounts that he was having a great hiking day until he stepped the wrong way on a rock.

"I think I've re-torn the arch in my foot," he says.

He's clearly despondent. And in pain.

"I left a job for this," he says. "I cancelled my cellphone."

He shakes his head. "I never thought I'd be one of those guys."

By "those guys" presumably he means the ones who don't finish. The ones who sacrifice everything to get here, only to return home empty-handed.

Brian hobbles up a rocky hill toward a road to hitch a ride into Julian, his 4,200-kilometre hike over in less than 100 km.

I think about Brian for the rest of the day. When you've sacrificed so much to get here, the worry is always in the back of your mind: What if I don't finish?

But for every hiker, there are two journeys: the trail itself and the personal journey to get to the start of the trail. Many never even make it to the trailhead, and those of us who do can hopefully find some meaning in the fact we made it this far.

I hear from Brian about a week later. He's back in Oregon.

He was eventually picked up by a woman named White Buffalo, who drove him 160 km to a hotel at the nearest airport. There, the hotel manager took pity on him and let him stay for free before personally driving Brian to the airport.

He shed a few tears for his failed hike, but he's already starting to see the positives in this experience.

"My faith in humanity has been restored," he writes. "I was so fed up with the BS of our world until this trip. There are still amazing people in this world."

The first kilometre
Wednesday, April 22

The Pacific Crest Trail starts in the least scenic of spots: a dusty desert beside a barbed-wire fence. Behind the fence is a dirt road. Behind the road is the Mexican border — a massive steel barrier that separates us from Mexico by only a few feet.

Border patrol is everywhere in these parts. They wave to us from armoured vans and fly their helicopters low over our campsites. Equally as prevalent are the signs of illegal immigrants who use the trail: dirty clothes in bushes, torn and bloody rags, a purse filled with family photos.

We spot a man down below moving unsteadily along the trail. He's dressed in jeans and a thick plaid top with a child-size backpack. He's clearly not a hiker.

We meet him a few minutes later. He's sitting in the bushes, sweating profusely. He looks to be in his 50s and obviously Mexican.

"So hot," he sighs. "Water?"

He holds out a small soup can that we refill from the six litres we've each carried from the border. "So hot," he repeats.

We later learn of several other hikers who gave this man water.

Click here to read Tamsin McMahon's original story, When the economy tells you to take a hike.