We Didn’t Finish and That Was Enough
Content First Appeared on The Trek
The orange burst of sun filled my vision as I briskly walked, then jogged, back down the trail to where Neapolitan was waiting for me. It was getting late. Daylight was slipping away, and soon the desert would be swallowed by darkness. I needed to reach him quickly so he could have his jacket, and so I could use my headlamp to guide us back to the dirt road.
I passed the same rocks and brush I’d already traveled twice that day. First, I’d carried both of our backpacks back to the road. Then I turned around, determined to get back to him in time for our friends to pick us up. Everything felt urgent now
Earlier that afternoon, we had left Paradise Café just outside the San Jacinto range and taken our time hiking toward camp. The plan was simple: Warner Springs in a couple of days, then onward. We had just 130 miles left to reach the border and complete our Pacific Crest Trail journey for the year.
But if the trail has taught me anything, it’s this: plans are never final. Not in life, and certainly not on the Pacific Crest Trail.
Two miles from the nearest dirt road, Neapolitan had a bad fall. One moment we were talking, laughing even. The next, a small misstep off a rock step, then a pop. He collapsed in searing pain. My heart sank instantly. I knew we’d need a doctor that night. I knew, just as clearly, that our hike was over.
The Last Sunset
By sheer luck, we had cell service at the campsite ahead. I ran a bit ahead and called every friend nearby. Gratefully, our newest trail angels and trail friends from Acton once again came to our aid, driving five hours in the dark to reach us.
We decided quickly: I would carry both packs to the road first, then return to help him. I don’t know what I expected to find when I got back, but I certainly didn’t expect to see Neapolitan dragging himself down the trail on his hands and knees with Latin music playing cheerfully from his phone.
I couldn’t help but smile. Even in pain, even worried it might be broken, he was still being himself.
What followed wasn’t an hour of effort, but three. We rotated between hopping on one foot, leaning heavily on me, and piggyback rides. Inch by inch, we made our way back to the dirt road where our packs waited.
As we walked, I asked him, “Did you get a picture of the sunset?”
In my rush, I’d left my phone behind with the bags.
He nodded and showed me the photos, burning orange and fading purple over the desert. Somehow, I think I already knew that would be our last sunset on the trail this year.
Image Source: Chris Harvey, “The Last Sunset,” November 2025.
But Wait… The Mojave
The last time I’d written, we were still in the Mojave. I spent an extra day in town wrapping up blogs at Starbucks, trying to catch up and take care of lingering trail errands. We caught a quick hitch with a man heading to see his family in San Jose. He reminded us that Thanksgiving was right around the corner.
It’s strange thinking about holidays while hiking. If you’re lucky, you land on a town day. If not, it’s just another quiet moment to reflect on the journey.
After he dropped us off, we hiked seven miles uphill to the nearest water cache and studied the map ahead. A ten-mile climb loomed in the heat of the day, or we could wait and night-hike. I still remember the sun beating down, sweat stinging my eyes even in the early morning.
I suggested an early-morning hike. Neapolitan was game.
A couple of day hikers passed, asking about our journey. We were lucky enough to receive trail magic in the form of two Starbucks espresso drinks. Now, settling into the afternoon, we rested. We set up our camp below a lone oak tree, listening to the hum of wind turbines and the sound of passing cars lulling us into sleep.
Night Hiking
My alarm went off at midnight. I rolled over in annoyance. Just a few more minutes. But no. We needed to make it up the hill.
I nudged Neapolitan awake. We drank our espresso, filled our bottles, packed up our gear, and started moving. The trail followed the hillside at a gentle grade, wind turbines blinking red along the ridge. We lost the trail briefly near an eroded sand pit, ducked under a fence, and found our way back.
Four hours later, we reached the next water cache at the top of one of my favorite views outside of Tehachapi and the Mojave. It was a cute setup, with chairs, water, and some trail magic in the form of Trader Joe's snacks. I indulged a bit while Neapolitan set up the tent, then took a quick nap for a few hours. I took the time to admire the sunrise spilling gold across the desert while he snoozed away.
The Aqueduct
The heat crept back in by noon. We hid under trees when we could, took a siesta, and pushed on in the evening. Erosion made the trail tricky with sand sliding beneath our feet along cliff edges.
At sunset, hiking through the wind turbines was magical. Blue, red, and orange painted the sky. We wound down switchbacks and dirt roads, briefly getting lost among the turbine fields.
By 7 p.m., exhausted and nearing 25 miles for the day, we reached the final water cache only to find murky water filled with bugs in plastic bottles. Still, water is water. We decided to filter in the morning and set up camp in the meantime. Darkness was all around us, and I didn't have any more energy for hiking this evening.
We were in bed by 9 PM and up by 4 AM to avoid the morning heat. I didn’t want to get up. The moon was bright. I ate cold oats, charged my headlamp, and listened to Neapolitan sleep beside me. I wanted to linger, but we needed to move. We knew that the worst section was just ahead of us through the aqueduct. There was no coverage and it was a long dirt road for 17 more miles into town. There's always temptation through here to get a hitch. There isn't even anything to set your eyes on as a goal through these sections. You just have to walk, and walk, and walk. One foot in front of the other and little to no stimulation aside from the sound of your footsteps and breathing.
Arriving in Hiker Town
We reached Hiker Town by late morning and hid in the store from the heat. Supplies were scarce, but we made do: sardines and rye chips, Clif bars, mystery oats.
We spent time in town longer than we had anticipated, but the owner of the shop, Richard, offered to give us a ride back to the trail. We helped him unload his truck with items for his shop. And in exchange, he gave us a hitch back to the trail where we hiked about a mile out to camp and planned for the climb ahead.
Weather, Friends, and Snow
I wish I could say the miles that followed came easily, that Southern California softened for us and rolled out a red carpet of sunshine and smooth trail. Instead, it surprised us again with record storms and flash floods that swept through the mountains. The days became a rhythm of trying and retreating: hike a little, get soaked, dry what we could, wait it out, and try again. Every time we thought we had figured out the weather, it shifted its plans. So we shifted ours.
We did our best to stay dry and out of dangerous conditions, ducking into towns, wringing out socks, and hanging damp gear wherever we could find a sliver of warmth. Still, one thing remained non-negotiable. We were determined to meet our tramily that weekend. Some plans, even on the trail, are worth holding onto.
The Hot Springs
Deep Creek Hot Springs felt like a miracle tucked into the canyon. Steam curled into the cool air, and the sound of laughter carried over the rocks before we even saw everyone. Then there they were. Kangaroo. Sweets. Rachel. David. Mufasa. Familiar faces, familiar hugs, familiar ease.
We soaked until our fingers wrinkled, shared snacks that tasted far better than they had any right to, and traded stories. We celebrated what we’d already done instead of mourning what lay ahead. After weeks of weather battles and uncertainty, that joy felt essential. Restorative. Like remembering why we were out there in the first place.
When a few of our friends joined us for the next stretch, something shifted. The miles felt lighter. Laughter carried us uphill. The trail no longer felt like something we were bracing against, but something we were moving through together. That shared momentum carried us all the way to Big Bear Lake.
Big Bear to Paradise
Somewhere along the climb, the landscape began to change its costume. The desert gave way to pines, and then to snow. At 8,000 feet, we were hiking through deep drifts, our footsteps crunching and squeaking beneath us. Our breath hung in the air, and nights dropped below freezing. Mornings came slow and cold, fingers stiff as we packed up camp.
And yet there was magic there, too. Sunshine glinted off melting snow, turning the trail into a mosaic of light. It was hard, yes. But it was also playful, especially with friends around us. We took turns breaking trail, joked about frozen toes, and admired the quiet beauty of a world temporarily transformed. Everything felt more manageable with company. More human.
Once we arrived in Big Bear, we did what we hadn’t wanted to do. We checked the conditions for San Jacinto. Reality hit hard. Snow. Blowdowns. Eroded trail. No snow gear. No margin for error.
It wasn’t safe. So we skipped. “Smiles over miles,” we reminded ourselves, repeating the phrase like a mantra. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one. The trail asks for humility sometimes and asks you to listen instead of push.
We caught a hitch to Paradise Café and hiked out toward a campsite we expected to reach by sundown, carrying cautious optimism and a quiet sense of peace with the choice we’d made. And then it happened.
Image Source: Paige Combs, “Hiking to Big Bear,” November 2025.
The Fall
It was a bad fall. Bad enough to end our hike.
Everything moved quickly after that. Phone calls. Cold settling in. Decisions stacking on top of one another. A kind couple stopped to help. An ambulance arrived uninvited. Somehow through a blur of generosity and timing everything worked out.
When we finally reached our friends and I saw Mufasa chasing a ball in the dirt, my heart felt lighter than it had all day. Relief washed over me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Image Source: Chris Harvey, “The Injury,” November 2025.
Finishing Our Hike
That night at the hospital felt numbing. X-rays. Conversations. Waiting. The verdict: no break, just a Grade II sprain. Enough to end hiking, at least for now. And yet, as I walked back to the car, wheeling Neapolitan beside me, I felt okay. Because for me, this was a complete thru-hike.
Grateful for the miles we walked. For the sunsets we saw. Grateful that this year wasn’t about finishing every mile but about sharing the journey.
On December 9th, we rented a car and drove to Julian for our free slice of pie at Mom’s Pie. We wandered through shops dressed in Christmas lights and took photos at the terminus anyway.
Image Source: Paige Combs, “In the Hospital,” November 2025.
Reflections
Protect your whimsy, your fantasy, your adventure, and your childlike wonder. Our hope is rebellion.
Stats in the Wilderness
Temperature Range: 31° - 85°
General Location: Mojave, CA to Warner Springs, CA (and beyond!)
Ascent: 31,815.6 feet
Descent: 28,699.8 feet
Whose land am I on? Learn why it’s important to respect the land we travel on.
