Hiker Trash : definition
If you had asked me about the PCT before I set off, I would have emphatically declared that I would never become "Hiker-trash," one of those individuals who lose their dignity on the PCT. The idea of it seemed completely unnecessary and unpleasant to me. After all, one only truly becomes "Hiker-trash" when they resort to eating food found on the ground, shitting their pants, or being mistaken for a homeless wanderer.
My intention was to embark on a 4000km hike in the wilderness. Of course, that meant accepting a more limited number of showers and foregoing shaving, especially in the arid stretches of the desert. However, I believed that my essence, my dignity would remain intact.
Little did I know that this journey would teach me a profound lesson in humility. Within a mere month of starting the trail and in less than week-span, I had already transformed into genuine hiker-trash. It all began with an amusing incident when I acquired my trail name, Big Bear. A mere two days later, I found myself eating an M&M that someone had dropped on the trail. And just two days after that, a well-meaning woman mistook me for a homeless person and offered me a pack of McDonald's Nuggets by the highway.
Humility came to me through countless small signs: the first time I found myself eating at a restaurant in town before even thinking about washing up, the first time I strolled through the city center wearing nothing but my waterproof plastic anorak and rain pants because all my clothes were at the laundromat, the first time I devoured a whole liter of ice cream while sitting on a supermarket parking lot, waiting for my motel room to become available. These experiences quickly became my new normal, devoid of any sense of shame.
However, I was determined not to veer into excess like some of my fellow hikers who chose to forgo washing themselves throughout the entire journey of a 1000km across Northern California. I walked alongside them for a few days, and even eating a few meters away from them was a challenge. I have encountered corpses and carrion that smelled better, and I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have to hitchhike with them. There was simply no valid reason for me to willingly subject myself to additional hardships on the trail. It saddens me that such attitudes, which are held by a minute minority, tarnish the image of hikers. I have heard stories from people who have hesitated to offer rides due to unfortunate encounters with individuals like them.
I made the most of every opportunity to cleanse myself, to sleep in a comfortable bed whenever one presented itself, and to relish in the small luxuries available on the outskirts of civilization. All the while, I wore the same worn-out clothes every day and accepted that my nails would remain perpetually stained.
Let me be clear—I do not regret the sensation of my skin stinging under the salt and grime, the filth that accumulated relentlessly. However, I do yearn for the taste of ice creams consumed while seated on the concrete of a parking lot. In those moments, they held the most extraordinary flavor in the world—a flavor rich of absolute freedom, vast and intense like the mountains themselves.
