Why We Are Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail… Again

People keep asking why we’re hiking the Pacific Crest Trail again. Six months, 2,650 miles, dirt, discomfort, uncertainty—again. And the answer isn’t simple, but it is clear.

Before our 2020 hike, we watched too many people we loved lose battles with cancer or experience life-altering events—losing a leg, losing stamina, losing the ability to do the things that once brought them joy. We watched loved ones age and slowly shrink their worlds, their friend groups getting smaller until sometimes there were none at all. We watched family friends work diligently for decades, carefully planning for retirement, only to have health issues steal the years they had saved everything for. Plans were delayed, then modified, then replaced with acceptance of limited mobility and energy.

And we watched families fracture during the teenage years—parents and kids drifting apart just when connection mattered most.

We didn’t want that story to be ours. So we chose the trail.

In 2020, we stepped away from “someday” thinking and into now. We hiked together as a family, choosing adventure while we still could. And it changed everything. We grew closer in ways we never could have imagined, building a bond forged through shared effort, vulnerability, laughter, and hardship. That closeness didn’t fade when the trail ended—it became the foundation of our family.

Even now, with Cricket away at college, we talk daily. We text constantly. We share our lives in a way that isn’t common between parents and their adult children—and we know how incredibly lucky we are. She’s excited for us to move close to her for a month, host weekly dinners, invite her friends over to play games and just be together. That kind of connection doesn’t happen by accident. It’s built—mile by mile, moment by moment.

In the six years since our hike, life has continued to remind us how fragile and precious time is. We’ve lost more people we love. Others have faced cancer scares. I had my own—two biopsies, and the immense relief of being cleared. Since the beginning of 2025, I’ve lived with chronic migraines, and I’ve found myself longing for the strength, clarity, and groundedness I felt on trail. The version of myself that woke up tired but capable. Worn down, but deeply alive.

As we stand at the edge of another life transition—selling the house, closing one chapter and opening another—it feels only logical to finish what we started. To return to the trail and fill in the missing pieces we had to skip. To complete the journey not out of nostalgia, but out of intention.

We know ourselves better now. We know we’re not in shape to go southbound, and we’re okay with that. We’re looking forward to starting at the beginning again—building stamina slowly, hiking through the desert, forming the kind of social bonds that only come from shared struggle and shared growth. There’s something powerful about beginning alongside others, all of us adapting together, becoming stronger one step at a time.

This time, it’s just the two of us. And in the past six years, our relationship has grown deeper, steadier, more resilient. We’re excited to experience the trail as a couple, to discover what this next adventure holds, and to let it shape the years ahead. We hope it sets us up for many more adventures—strong, healthy ones—across mountains, across oceans, and across whatever chapters life still has in store.

We’re hiking the PCT again because life doesn’t wait.

Because health isn’t guaranteed.

Because connection matters.

Because adventure now is better than regret later.

And because the trail still has something to teach us.