14-Year-Old Solo Hikes 2,650 Miles Across the USA (Pacific Crest Trail)

What would it be like to go alone into the unknown, across the country, just me and the elements of nature? Would it even be possible to solo hike it at the age of 14? To hike 2,650 miles from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail. The Pacific Crest Trail runs through some of the beautiful and wild parts of the United States, with an elevation equivalent of 17 Everest from Base Camp 29 times. The trail is known for its rugged mountains and brutal conditions. Although a few thousand people set out each year, only a few make it to Canada before winter, and I would have to finish even early in time for school. As I found out along the way, it was a journey beyond limits. My name is Samuel and this is my dream. I'm setting out solo to hike across America at the age of 14. This is my story. When I was 10, my family and I backpacked along a short section of the Pacific Crest Trail and met many hikers who were on the cusp of finishing their hike. This was the spark that ignited my dream. It took four years of begging to convince my parents to let me make an attempt. Everyone laughed at me, saying that it was impossible, but I was not going to let them into my head. I was confident I could do it. In 2024, I started to plan and train. Despite my fear of the dark, I learned to camp alone. I started camping on my lawn outside my house, progressing until I was able to camp a few miles away from home. I started to do my first hikes on my own, good enough to be able to do 20 miles some days. I learned how to use an ice axe, took a wilderness first aid class, saved money, prepared food, learned about nutrition, researched equipment, put together my pack, and built spreadsheets tracking mileage, resupplies, and river crossings. My target weight without food and water was 13 pounds. Every ounce added up. My parents knew it was a dream of mine and wanted to support me, but like any sane person, did not believe I would last long. When I started hiking, they had not even taken me fully out of the last month of school. As I built the tracking spreadsheets, I quickly realized I'd have to hike the trail with an average of 25 miles per day to finish in time to start high school. After all the preparations, my dad drove me down 26 hours to the There's not a book on parenting a 14-year-old over a 2,650 mile through hike, so your mom and I are making this up as we go. I just have no idea what I should be doing as a parent. I'm slightly nervous right now because it's a big thing, it's a big jump. What I'm worried about is stranger danger since there's a 14-year-old kid in the middle of California hiking by himself, so what could go wrong? On April 10, 2024, I set out to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. We're here at the Mexican border. Here's where I won. Let's go. I was off. I could not believe it was actually happening, but I was also scared at the monumental task ahead of me. I had put everything into this adventure. My time, my energy, and every dollar I could save. What would happen if I quit? What would all those who had doubted me say? How would I think of myself? These thoughts raced through my head, but I let them dissipate into the grandeur of the desert. The desert just amazed me. It was not at all what I had expected. It was dry but beautiful. Every day I would watch cacti bloom, flower petals open and close. I would hear the busy work of bees and feel the progressional heat of the sun. The first mile and trail were hard. My legs shook from soreness every night. My feet ached and I was scared. The desert had made everything harder on my body. On my second day, I saw my first rattlesnake. Seeing it, I jumped a few feet into the air. For the rest of the day, I was on my tiptoes. I was scared of another snake striking from a nearby bush. As expected, I did not see any other kids on trail, but that did not stop me from making friends. It felt like the first day of school. In some ways it was, but there was an added piece of thought going through my decisions. I knew I would be safer with others, but I needed to use my judgment to find good people to join me. I was looking for groups to be with, not singular individuals, and people who looked like they were making responsible decisions and hiking sufficiently each day so that they would loosely fit into the mileage plan I had made. On my fourth day, I found myself hiking with a fun mixed group of people that I really enjoyed. I'd met them all individually at different times on the first day, and I'd crossed paths since. On my third day, I finished at a camp consisting of 15 people. The next morning, I set out with four of them. The group changed slightly at first, but before long we had come together. The group consisted of Queen Bee, who had a great spirit and was kind. Pusher, who was the most serious and had the most experience after hiking the Appalachian Trail. Mrs. Fancy Pants from France, who was very funny and sweet. And Tinker from Germany, who was always cracking jokes, half the time without meaning to. And then, of course, me, Simba. It was a great group. Despite all of us being different, we all fit together well on trail. We would always be laughing and having a great time. Another benefit was that we were able to hitchhike together into town, and it was a lot safer to hitch as a group. Towns were a great place to recover, but also stuff ourselves with anything you could imagine. On trail, you could eat whatever you wanted. When resupplying to keep my pack light, I would not pack anything below 100 calories an ounce. We started out with easy mileage, around 16 miles a day. Because of the sweltering heat, we took advice from the coyotes, taking advantage of the cool mornings. During the middays, we would seek shade and take a siesta, and then we would hike late into the evenings, becoming nocturnal like the bats. It was a constant struggle to move on, but also rewarding. Before we knew it, we were already 160 miles in, at the base of the San Jacinto Mountains. Tragically, two years ago, a PCT hiker had fallen to their deaths in these mountains, and we knew from late winter snowstorms it was going to be sketchy. My parents encouraged me to skip it, but I was ready. Ice axes and microspikes in hand, we headed into the mountains. It started out with a lot of climbing. The trail wound up and up and up. There were hundreds of fallen trees we had to climb over. It was a constant battle. On the second night, after 25 miles of climbing over the past two days, I found myself on a windy ridge. The forecast showed an intense storm with 60 miles per hour winds. This was going to be the harshest test of my preparations yet. Okay, just finished a long day. We're up in the mountains. Let's go on to the tent. It's really windy, as you can see. It's like shaking the whole tent. Hopefully this tent pole stays up. I'm worried about that, but I'm gonna try to get sleep. I don't think I will be able to in this, but I'm really scared this wind is gonna blow over the tent, so hopefully it doesn't. Hopefully I'm safe. This is my tent set up. It's a little bit disorganized because it's really cold. The trail did not give us a break. You would miss an entire day of snow traveling along a high ridge the next day. My experience with an ice axe was a big help to everyone. Most of them had never even touched one before heading into these mountains. The day was long and unrelenting. Lots of elevation and challenging conditions. When my group ended that night, we experienced the most beautiful sunset of my life. It felt even more beautiful because it marked the end of the San Jacinto Mountains and my survival. I just got on the mountain. My longest day by two miles, and that's real exciting. Today was pretty good on my knees. I descended around 8,000 feet, so that's a huge descent. That's the biggest descent I've ever done in my life. My relief to have the San Jacinto Mountains behind me was short-lived. Being met with fear the next morning. Two days ago, I initially did 22 miles. That's my longest day yet by a lot. And then I woke up the next morning with my ankle hurting really, really badly. So, I took yesterday as a rest day. I slept with my ankle raised. I iced. We got an ankle support thing. I thought today I could go out less than half a mile, and I realized if I was going to keep on walking on this ankle, it's not going to hold me, and it would just get worse and worse. I'm hoping it heals really quickly, but I have some doubts. I'm worried I'm not going to hike the CT at all, or I'm not going to hike for a long time, and I'm not on a busy schedule. My ankle, I saw a PT. She helped me do some exercises, and she also gave me basically a support for my ankle that was basically like a firm bandage that I wrapped around in a certain way to help keep my ankle stable. My original group decided to pass through a closed section of trail. Now, I was back to hiking alone. Over the miles, my legs started to adjust. My ankles wouldn't up, and my body was feeling strong. I am to eat. Over the miles, my legs started to adjust. My ankles wouldn't up, and my body was feeling strong. I started to do marathons consistently, sometimes even hiking as many as 33 miles. I climbed from mountain to mountain, from hill to hill with the most beautiful views. Over the next few weeks, I moved from group to group, hiking with many great people from day to day, but leaving them to push ahead because I needed to hike more miles. Each time I started to grow connected to people, I'd be torn away from them because of the pressure of my schedule. Time started to creep up on me. Even the two days of rest for my ankle added more schedule stress. Would I be able to finish in time before high school starts? Before long, I found myself in Kennedy Meadows, the threshold of the Sierra, 700 miles into my hike. In the Sierra, I'd be regularly hiking above 10,000 feet, and I'd have one or more passes every single day, reaching as high as 13,000 feet. Everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything, was harder in the Sierra. This was going to be my biggest test yet. The Sierra had the most dangerous part of the trail, with the most deaths. The trail is remote, and often help is days away by foot. The river crossings are notoriously dangerous, having taken a considerable portion of the deaths on trail. Some crossings can be deadly without the safety of others, often requiring early morning crossings when the snow runoff is lowest. You swear on your life you will not do any river crossings by yourself? Yes, I solemnly swear. Snow travel is the second most dangerous part of the trail, and losing control in high altitude snow fields can turn into a dangerous or deadly slide. Right now, we're heading up into the Sierra. We're seven miles into the actual Sierra. My legs burned and buckled as I climbed into the mountains. Within the first days, my quads gave me a sharp pain whenever I twisted or bent down. There was never a flat spot. Every hour in the Sierra felt like an entire day. I could never have imagined how hard it was. The sun began on me burning into my skin. I slipped on every few steps, not used to the magnitude of the snow. The Sierra section is the hardest, most demanding section of the PCT. I had my longest food carries, sometimes hiking for over a week between towns, and my pack was an oppressive 40 pounds. It felt like I was carrying an entire elephant on my tiny back. My lungs stung on every pass. My legs burned under all the weight and climbing. Every completed pass just meant another, bigger, and even snowier one the next day. Seventy miles of brutally hard hiking in, I reached Whitney, the tallest mountain in the continental United States. My adrenaline grew as I neared it. I was even more excited because, for the first time, my dad was going to join me for the ascent. It was going to be incredibly special. The day of our summit attempt, my alarm sounded. Packing for a day at Whitney. And we were off by midnight. The idea of sunrise at the top warmed our minds. The cold bit into my skin, but I was ready. I shivered not only in cold, but in fear. The words fail loomed in my head, but adrenaline rushed in. I was going to do this. I was going to make it to the summit with my dad. Before I knew it, I was walking on sketchy, snowy ledges on the edge of cliffs. If you took one wrong step, you would not see sunrise. My legs and arms shook after each sketchy section and fear. Before long, half my group had turned around, giving up their hopes of summiting. We climbed for five hours, ending with a short sprint to the top through the thin air to make it in time for sunrise. That evening after the hike, I set back out on trail, saying goodbye to my dad. As I quickly learned, my climb at Whitney was just the beginning. The hardest days were still to come. I would even come near to death a couple of times in the coming weeks. The next day was Forrester Pass, the highest pass on the PCT at 13,153 feet. At 4am, I was buzzed awake by my watch. Sleep beckoned me, but I was able to turn it down. My feet crunched against the frozen snow as my adrenaline grew. Before I knew it, we were climbing. Climbing Forrester Pass was the scariest thing I've ever done. It was like climbing a 45-degree hockey rink. Virtually impossible. By the top, I vowed never to do another pass again and was on the verge of tears. Another man in my group had lost on the way up and was sobbing, barely making it too. This year kept on coming, pass after pass. My legs were breaking down, even with 18-mile days because of the snow and elevation gain. Many days were almost entirely on snow, including hours of post-tolling. Every night, I would finish in complete exhaustion. The days gave me no grace. My shoes, like every night, they freeze overnight because of all the river crossings and the snow I've gone through each day. So they're always soaked and then every night they freeze because of the freezing temperatures. Here are my shoes and this is what I do to unfreeze them. Like little wood. Happens every single day. Rolling on. See if I can get my feet into these now. Despite my aching bones and wet, soggy, aching feet, despite my burning legs and cold sunburnt face, it was beautiful. It had become a normal thing I'd taken for granted, but looking at my surroundings, I realized how fortunate I was to be out there. Finishing a 17-mile day this year, I had had three 19s, now it's 17. It's nice to have a little bit slower. There's a lot of snow today, so it's also a little bit slower hiking. I'm feeling great, real excited, and I can't believe like I'm here. I'm in the Sierra, so yeah, it's great. Every moment during the day, I'd hear marmots chirping, ice cracking, poles and ice axes digging in, beating in the snow. I'd feel wind pushing into my face, chilling me. I'd feel wet, blistering feet and constant wet shoes. I would smell the stench of hikers unshowered for many days. Complete strangers to me a week ago, but now great friends. Going through similar challenges, sharing this remote part of the world with me. Despite all the pain, I was loving the hike most of the time, but with all the snow and beauty came rivers, big rivers. They were the leading cause of death on the PZT. I was only 110 pounds. A new heat wave added a whole new threat. Because of the intense spring snow storms in the Sierra, the rivers were record breaking high. This proved to be very difficult. Once again, the safety of my group mattered immensely. Often we would have to join together, supporting each other to be able to cross safely. These rivers were furiously cold. Each time, the cold would bite down to the bone, staying there for at least an hour. These rivers caused me to skip a short section around a washed out bridge that swept other hikers downriver. I wanted to live to hike another day, which influenced my hard decisions. The rivers shown were only some of the easiest to afford. Bigger rivers needed everyone's support, and were impossible to film. The Sierra were incredible, but had to come to an end. I was now in the Northern California section of the trail. It was muddy relative to the Sierra, lacking both the risks, but also the challenges and surprises. In the Sierra, I was fortunate enough to be able to hike with two great groups, but I had to leave both of them due to the pressure of my schedule pushing me to do more miles. By the time I finished the Sierra, I was near the front of the hikers heading northbound on the PCT, and finding a trail family would be very hard. Doing the math, I would have to average 30 plus mile days to be able to finish in time for school, to start 9th grade in high school, not even giving me time to settle in. I'd been through a and had a hard time. I'd always felt the pressure of time on my back. No connection lasted long, because of my specific timeline. Despite not being able to hike more than a few weeks with any of them, I now have great friends from all around the world, from France, and Britain, and Germany, to the Netherlands, and even Uruguay. It was hard constantly saying goodbye to everyone I met, and I was worn out. I knew there would be no enjoyment with the long, lonely days waiting ahead. I went out there to have an adventure, and to have a good time, and that, along with many other unimaginable things I accomplished. Before I knew it, my first year of high school had come to a close. I wanted to go back, but was also scared to do so after how I had finished the year before. As the starting date grew nearer on the itinerary I had previously planned, I decided it was now or never, and within 48 hours, I found myself on trail. I was heading out to finish what I had started. On July 20th, I left Northern California, heading north on the Pacific Crest Trail. I was starting the second part of the journey with my cousin, Charlie, who was joining me for the first week. I was back on the Pacific Crest Trail. I had decided to attempt to hike from Northern California through Oregon before the start of school. This time, I would be completely on my own. My parents told me they would not be able to check on me. No parental support, just me and the trail. Unlike the year before, the first few days were hard. We started out with longer days, over 20 miles out of the gate, and I missed the trail community. It turned out we were two weeks ahead of the bubble, so we only saw two to three hikers a day. I started to worry what I'd do when Charlie left. I didn't want to hike alone. The first days of Oregon had fewer mountains and a lot more forests than I had envisioned. The views I had hoped for were few and far between. The woods were lonely, but with Charlie's company, it was a great first week. After a week of hiking, we arrived at Crater Lake, where Charlie dropped off the trail. With him gone, I felt completely alone. Where was everyone? I asked myself. The trail felt different this year. Over the first week, I'd seen fewer people than I'd seen on one typical day in Southern California. Maybe this wasn't the right time. Maybe I should try again another year. I started to think that trying to hike this year had been a terrible idea. It was not going to work. I should just go home. When I arrived, I set a deadline. With time ticking, I talked to everyone I saw. One person was doing short days. Another couple were newlyweds. There was a solo guy who looked like he wanted to stay that way. There was a drunk. Nothing I was looking for. On the final day, I still hadn't met anyone. I was done. It was not going to work out. I was going to go home. I packed my bag into spare, thinking it would be the last time. Moments before leaving, I met Skippy, a 19-year-old from Wisconsin who loved peanut butter. He was the first viable option I had come across, but I had my doubts. He was doing more than 30 miles a day. If I tried to keep up, I'd almost certainly get injured. That level of mileage seemed impossible. I couldn't just increase to 30-mile days after only a week of hiking, and if I tried to join him, I knew there was going to be a good chance I would be hitching home to the next town in three days. But I wanted to give the trail one last shot. As soon as I started hiking, it was evident that it was going to be very hard to keep up with Skippy. He already had more than 1,800 miles under his belt. Within 10 minutes of getting on trail, he spit out of sight, even though I was almost running. My heart sank. This was not going to work, but I still needed to make it to the next town in three days down the trail. For the final 10 miles of that first day, I was limping, with sharp pains all throughout my body. The days did not get easier. The previous year, I had only hiked two days exceeding 30 miles. But now, I was going that distance every day. My body was not ready for the strains of this kind of mileage. Without a break, I was barely holding on. Day two was the same. Skippy left first thing in the morning, and I didn't see him until the end of the day. I hiked alone, with aches and pains throughout my body. On day three, my body still ached, and I was still alone. But looking at my map, I realized how far we had gone. In three days, we had hiked as much as I had hiked the entire previous week. At the end of day three, I decided, hesitantly, to try and hold on for as long as I could. Not wanting to quit, but not believing I would make it much farther at this pace. Continuing at this pace was a relentless rhythm of sleeping, hiking, eating, over and over again. The pain never won away. Some afternoons, after so many miles, the pain was so significant, I hiked in tears. One day, it was my back, forcing me to walk with my backpack in one arm for five miles. Another day, it was my hip, forcing me into a limp for two hours before camp. Being ahead of the bubble of the thru-hikers, the trail was still pretty empty. But with Skippy and a few others we met, some life started to return the trail. The soles of my feet felt better, and slowly, my mood improved. Among the never-ending forests, I saw splashes of beauty. Unfortunately, much of the state was scorched by large forest fires from the previous ten years. Every day, I woke up in the dark at 5.30am and started steadily hiking alone from 6am, just before sunrise, until 1pm, barely ever pausing and eating my snacks on the go. At one, I had a quick lunch, no longer than 25 minutes, and then I pushed on to camp, all the while not being able to stop to even filter water without a pack of hungry mosquitoes on my back. Almost the entire day would be spent in solitude, as I was unable to keep up with Skippy's fast pace. I arrived in the camp after 7pm each evening, as the sun set, meeting Skippy as he was finishing his dinner. I immediately pitched my tent upon arrival, and dove into it, as the mosquitoes bit through every piece of clothing I had on. I ate quickly, thinking only of sleep, and finished my day by lying down on my leaking air mattress, which I had to re-inflate multiple times a night. The long days of hiking were very difficult with so little sleep, and hiking dawn through dusk was slowly but surely catching up to me, but I felt constantly on the clock, every hour counted. I worried that my body was not going to be able to last. Despite the challenges, working to keep up with Skippy had its benefits. Big miles meant I was flying to Oregon. Before I knew it, we were halfway, then three quarters. After miles of actual blood, sweat, and tears, I finally reached Washington state, after 21 days on the trail. My goal had been Washington, and I had finally made it. I was done, but the idea of finishing this year excited me. What if I tried to continue? Another year waiting did not seem realistic. Of the five main sections on the PCT, Washington state is the second hardest section, after this year, but it is most hikers' favorite state because of its beautiful scenery. After lots of indecision, I decided to keep on going, step after step. The same way I had made it here was the same way I was going to finish. Within the first day on trail in Washington, I immediately felt the difference. I'm exhausted today. I was starting at the lowest point on the entire trail, at the Bridge of the Gods. Instead of 4,000 feet of climbing every 30 miles, it was now closer to 4,000 feet of climbing every 15 miles. The same distance felt twice as hard. My legs burned and my feet stumbled as I climbed up and up. With this climbing came the views, gorgeous views. On August 13th, reaching Goat Rocks, 150 miles into Washington, I was stunned by the beauty. Sharp ridges dividing long colorful valleys, leading into a snow-covered Mount Rainier. My heart raced as I sat for lunch. I watched the light puffy clouds skimming across the sky above. I barely tasted my Nutella and peanut butter sandwich. I was mesmerized by the view. Unfortunately, we were hiking a 31-mile day. After a 25-minute timed lunch, I was back on trail, hiking across a knife-edge ridge, where with one wrong step, I could fall 1,000 feet into the rocks. Pushing on, my lack of sleep and the longer days with more miles and increased elevation started to get to me. Starting the trail, my only rest day had been in Crater Lake, over 500 miles ago. I was worn out. The only part of the day I looked forward to was lying down in my tent. At this point, I was hiking more to finish than to enjoy. Washington was gorgeous, with views around every corner, but I was mentally and physically ready to be done. I'll be honest with you, I'm having an awful time hiking right now. I'm just completely exhausted, sleep-deprived. Just pushing my body way past what it should be pushed through. They're hard days too, trying to do 30 miles with 8,000 feet of climbing today. It's almost getting to a safety point, because I don't know if I can. That is where my head's at right now. My gear was also starting to break down. My backpack frame was starting to lose its strength, hurting my back and making it squeak every time I took a step, driving me insane. My tent zipper had completely failed, letting water in when it rained. My pad had to be re-inflated multiple times a night, but I was going to have to put up with all of it for the last few hundred miles to Canada. I was ready to be done, and I was counting every remaining mile. Time was ticking, and school started soon. My mind buzzed through crazy scenarios to be able to finish in time for 10th grade. Hiking north from Tenoquale Pass, the trail became slower. There was loads of climbing, and the footing was tough, with lots of scree fields and a never-ending uneven rocky ground. Two days before the start of school, I arrived at Stevens Pass, 180 miles from the border. I was heartbroken. So close to the end, but so far. I left the trail reluctantly to start my sophomore year. My brain could not think of anything except for finishing. Then, I concocted a plan. I could start 10th grade, complete my first week of school, then pick back up at Rainy Pass, and head out for the long four-day Labor Day weekend and finish the PCT. After what felt like the longest first week of school, I headed back out on trail. I jumped ahead a short section to Rainy Pass, where I would have a little less than 100 miles left. I did not like missing miles between Stevens and Rainy Pass, but it was necessary to finish, and I knew I would go back and do them someday. I powered on to catch up with a group I had met early in Washington to be able to finish with them. They were a half day ahead. As I neared the terminus, the views showed me their best, as if ushering me on. Green landscapes, mountains stretching as far as I could see, in all directions, with only a dirt path traversing them. Glaciers dotted the far peaks, and sharp ridges reached into the sky. Blueberries dotted the green hills, as though the lanes were offering me support in the final miles. I started the trail one step at a time. I had started each day one step at a time, and now I would finish the adventure of a lifetime the same way, one step at a time. I had set out thinking it was about the achievement, wanting to prove myself, but now I realized that my journey was much more. If I had set out to prove to others what I could do, I finished with something immeasurably more meaningful. Proving to myself what I could do. It was about the small moments along the way, and most importantly, it was about the people. My heartbeat quickened, and we started to run as we neared the border. I couldn't believe it. I was finished. Is this actually happening? Is this a dream? Days and days of work. Weeks and weeks of pain. Six million steps, all working towards Canada. A journey that will take a lifetime to understand.