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Tips, humor, and stories from the trail that will make you want to pack your bags
The Journey Begins
We decided to do an overnight backpacking trip on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). It’s like a day hike but with more gear, more effort, and way more opportunities to laugh at ourselves.
Since this is a point-to-point hike, we drop one car at the exit trailhead, pile into the other like sardines with our big packs, and drive back to the starting point. And after way too much driving, we hit the trail.
On the Trail
As usual, my oldest is far ahead, as if he’s training for the Olympics. My husband follows and tries to keep up with him—my 10-year-old alternates between running ahead like a puppy and stopping to point out cool stuff. Our dog is the true trail hero, zooming back and forth between the fastest and slowest hikers, covering twice the mileage as the rest of us. Eventually, even she realizes that her effort is pointless and just follows one of us like a shadow.
Meanwhile, I take my usual position, slow and steady at the back. We stay connected via walkie-talkies, because, yes, I have been known to wander off-trail. Like that one time when I cluelessly walked into a riverbed, thinking, Wow, this trail is so sandy and unique! until the walkie-talkie crackled: “Mom, where are you? Turn around and get back on the trail!”
Campsite Adventures
By the time we reach our campsite, I am done. My feet hurt, my knees hurt, and my body feels like gravity loves it extra hard. Setting up the tent becomes a challenge. I collapse onto my trusty Z-Lite pad and attempt to assemble the poles from a sitting position, which is about as effective as trying to build IKEA furniture blindfolded. My youngest takes over inside the tent, arranging sleeping bags with a level of precision I can only envy.
After dinner, gourmet freeze-dried meals out of a bag that taste amazing only because we have no other options, it’s time for the nightly ritual of playing cards. Specifically, Old Maid. We use a regular deck, pulling out a random card to leave its pair as the Old Maid, so no one knows which card it is. This makes it more suspenseful… but somehow, my youngest always ends up with the Old Maid.
We try. We really try to help him break the streak. Round after round, we reshuffle, re-deal, and give him every chance to get rid of the cursed card. But every single time, it finds its way back into his hand, like it knows. By attempt #7, he gives up, sticks the card into my hands, and walks over to the tent. “The Old Maid is going to bed!”, he announces with an old lady’s voice.
Exhausted from hiking, we follow. Before going to bed, we wipe down with wet wipes (the backpacker’s shower), brush our teeth, lick the toothbrush clean (backpacker’s hygiene at its finest), and collapse into our tents.
Stars and Selfies
Of course, just when I’m comfortably horizontal, nature calls again. I drag myself out of the tent, the dog insists on coming with me, and chaos follows. But then… I look up. The night sky is breathtaking! Stars scattered across the sky like glitter on black velvet. After getting back into the warmth of my sleeping bag, I decide to capture the beauty of the sky. Flash. Right in my face. My phone was on selfie mode, so I immortalize my blinded look instead! Attempt two: Success.
The Morning After
The next day, my husband is up early, cheerfully boiling water for breakfast, because apparently someone is immune to the aches and pains of backpacking.
Meanwhile, in Tent #1, my teenager is awake. I know he’s awake because I can see the glow of his phone lighting up the inside of his sleeping bag. Does he really think we can’t see him? Is he going to come out of his tent asking innocently again: “What’s going on? What are we doing?”, like he does at home on hiking days? Nope. He’s just lying there, scrolling and probably thinking deep thoughts like, “Maybe I can hike in my flip-flops today?!”
Over in Tent #2, it’s just me and my 10-year-old, who is still completely oblivious to the world. I’m up, packed, and ready to go, except for the part where I also have to pack his stuff. I try the subtle approach: quietly removing the rainfly to let in some light and gently nudging him awake. Nothing. I could set off fireworks and he’d still be snoring.
Finally, I start taking down the tent around him, leaving just a sleeping burrito (my child) on the ground. This, at last, wakes him up. He sits up, yawning like a hibernating bear, and I think: “Yay! Progress!” But no! We’re now entering the “Mom, my sleeping bag doesn’t fit in the stuff sack” phase. “Why doesn’t it fit?”, I ask. “Did it expand overnight? Did someone switch it out for a bigger bag?” Nope. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes and mischievous smile, “Because I am still in it, Mom!”
Pit Toilet Luxury
Mornings on the trail are a mix of challenges and small victories: packing up gear, hunting for lost socks, and answering the call of nature. Speaking of nature, one particular campsite offered the ultimate trail luxury: a pit toilet. My oldest and I went to investigate, marveling at its wooden walls. Sure, it had no door and no ceiling, but who cares? Out here, a seat and a bit of privacy felt like five-star accommodations. My dog even stood guard at the “door,” playing the perfect watchdog while I enjoyed this rare trail luxury.
Why It’s All Worth It
Eventually, we’re all moving together again, surrounded by the stillness of the wilderness, and everything clicks into place. The funny moments, the squeaky voice of the Old Maid, and the steady rhythm of our sore feet remind me why we do this. These chaotic, imperfect, but beautiful moments are the ones we carry home long after the soreness fades.