Here’s a bold statement: the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) can break your heart before you even lace up your boots. And no, it’s not the grueling miles or the physical pain that’s to blame. It’s the unsung villain of the story—the paperwork, the timing, and a permit system that can make or break your season in a matter of seconds. But here’s where it gets controversial: is this bureaucratic hurdle a necessary evil, or does it overshadow the spirit of adventure? Let’s dive in.
I say this with all the love in the world: the PCT is incredible, but it’s also one of the few trails that can derail your plans before you step foot on the trailhead. My friends don’t actually hate the PCT—they hate the logistical nightmare it represents. The walking? They’re pros at that. But the permit roulette? That’s a different beast entirely. It’s like planning a dream vacation only to have it hinge on how fast your internet connection is on permit day.
And this is the part most people miss: for years, I turned down invitations to join my friends on their thru-hike attempts. It wasn’t out of fear or bitterness—I was building my career, pursuing licensure, and juggling responsibilities that left no room for a months-long adventure. I don’t regret those choices, but now the stars have finally aligned, and it’s my turn to tackle the PCT. My friends, however, have already danced this frustrating waltz.
Our journey began in 2008 with casual day hikes on the Appalachian Trail (AT). Over time, those hikes evolved into whispers of “What if we just disappeared into the woods for months?” Fast forward to 2016, and we were attempting our first AT thru-hike as Camp Moonshine—a crew of dreamers with trail names like Rockslide, Hambone, and Turbo. But it wasn’t until the PCT entered the picture that we truly understood the meaning of frustration.
In 2018, we trained hard, lined up time off work, and built a meticulous schedule around hiking the PCT. Then permit day arrived, and it felt like trying to snag concert tickets for a sold-out show. Blink, and your preferred start dates vanish. The season clock ticks relentlessly, and suddenly, your “big year” is decided by a website’s refresh speed. Here’s the kicker: our fitness wasn’t the issue—timing was. And when the PCT plan crumbled, we didn’t downshift. Instead, we pivoted to the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) as our backup plan. Because that’s just how Camp Moonshine rolls.
But here’s the controversial question: does the PCT’s permit system protect the trail from overcrowding, or does it unfairly penalize those who’ve prepared for years? I’m not here to debate the system—trail managers have limited resources, and overcrowding is a real issue. But it’s hard not to feel a sting when your dreams are dashed by a digital lottery.
Take a look at Camp Moonshine’s trail résumés, and you’ll see why I listen more than I argue. These folks have hiked thousands of miles, from the AT to the Camino de Santiago, and turned the CDT into a backup plan. Their “hate” for the PCT isn’t real—it’s a mix of love, teasing, and the frustration of seeing effort overshadowed by logistics. In the end, the setback became the story, and now I’m the one planning my PCT thru-hike with Camp Moonshine in my corner—roasting me every step of the way.
So, do they actually hate the PCT? Not at all. They hate what it represented in that moment: a system where bureaucratic logistics can trump honest effort. But here’s the thought-provoking question for you: Is the PCT’s permit system a necessary safeguard, or does it deter deserving hikers? Let’s hear your thoughts in the comments.
Coming next: What I’ve learned from Camp Moonshine—and what I’ll probably learn again the hard way. Because let’s be honest, the trail always has a way of teaching us lessons we didn’t know we needed.
I’m Sage, a geologist/geophysicist prepping for a 2026 PCT thru-hike. I write about grief, grit, and gumbo—sometimes poetic, usually practical. Backcountry bidet loyalist; Cajun cooking on trail is a recurring mistake. Let’s hike on.
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