They say that a journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step. Now if you have arthritis or any form of chronic pain disease, you know this to be an especially daunting quote. In high school, I read Wild by Cheryl Strayed. A story of a troubled, newly divorced woman who decided to walk the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), a trail that goes from the California-Mexico border, up through California, Oregon, Washington, and into Manning Park, BC, by herself. Her journey inspired me and by the time I finished university, the idea had taken root and became something that I knew I had to do.
I graduated from university shortly after the start of the pandemic and was subsequently diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis – a chronic progressive form of inflammatory arthritis. As a 22-year-old, this was devastating news. I was in so much pain and despite the relief of having a formal diagnosis, the idea that there was now a whole world of things that I wouldn’t be able to do felt impossible to process and accept. I was in the unique position where I was able to fully focus on understanding and mastering the disease while working remotely during the peak of the pandemic, focusing the bulk of my energy into managing my seemingly run-away health. It was far from perfect, but I gained strategies that helped my flare ups become less extreme and improved my quality of life.
I leaned on many of the services offered by the CSA. I met regularly with support groups, joined the piloted mental wellness coaching series, read basically every article and blog on the CSA’s website and spoke with a number of individuals affiliated with the CSA about their experiences managing the disease. The sense of community I found with others facing similar challenges was highly comforting and empowered me to redefine what was possible.
There is such a vast array of the impacts that this disease has on people’s lives. Though there are people who have struggled significantly with this disease for decades, there is, contrastingly, a sizeable demographic of people with arthritis who are living full, happy, healthy lives. I hope that my story might help to inspire those struggling with their diagnoses. Simply put, this is the type of article that I wish I had had the opportunity to read when I was newly diagnosed.
When I started the PCT at the Mexican border, I felt a mix of excitement and anticipation, among many other feelings. To complete the trail, hikers to cover about 17.5 miles (28 km) daily for five months straight. My first day, I managed only 7.5 miles before collapsing into my sleeping bag. By the end, I was hiking roughly 24 miles per day—something I never would have imagined when I began. I attribute a large part of being able to successfully complete the PCT, to the many skills I’ve acquired over the years managing my arthritis.
The PCT tested me in ways that mirrored my challenges with arthritis and was as much a mental journey as it was a physical one. Physically, I faced scorching desert heat, river crossings in the Sierra Nevada mountains, wildfire smoke, hypothermia-inducing conditions, altitude sickness, and wildlife like bears and rattlesnakes. The physical rigours of the trail were simple – wake up, hike, have lunch, hike some more, set up camp, sleep, then repeat. However, the mental challenges were arguably harder. Long stretches of solitude forced me to confront my thoughts: I can’t do this. Why am I doing this? What is the purpose of my life and life itself? What direction do I want my life to go and why can’t I figure that out? These moments felt very similar to the emotional toll of a flare-up. I had to recognize the negative thought patterns, sit with the feelings, and then decide to be okay with what I was experiencing. Despite the pain or discomfort I was feeling, I had to make the choice to not suffer because of it. This mental resilience carried me through the hardest days.
Trail life demanded constant adaptability. In Idyllwild, California, I had an unfortunate run in with a microwave that sent me to the hospital for stitches and earned me the trail name “Eggnado” (nicknames are a rite of passage on the PCT). Within an instant, I had to figure out for the first time how to contact my international insurance, get to the nearest hospital late at night in a remote town with no buses or rideshares, and manage my injury with limited supplies. Life on trail required me to become completely self-reliant, navigating logistics and safety decisions daily. It was tiring at times but hugely empowering. Prior to hiking the PCT, the thought of one day needing biologics made my stomach turn and the idea of travelling abroad while on biologics seemed unrealistic. I am now confident that this is something I can manage and has made the prospect of one day needing biologics considerably less scary.
The physicalness of the trail was another hurdle to tackle. I’ve long heard that the only limits are the ones you set yourself. There was a time when even considering hiking the PCT seemed insane. How can I, someone who experiences pain almost daily, do something like hike for 5 months straight? I wrestled with self-doubt, questioning whether my body could handle such a challenge. I worked on building up my conditioning in the months before starting trail but struggled with injuries, life stressors and flare ups. Starting with just a few miles a day at the start of the trail, I gradually increased my endurance. I connected with a trail family (a group of hikers that stick together), and together we steadily built up our mileage, navigating the desert’s early challenges. Over time, the daily exercise strengthened my body, and hiking became easier. Before long, I was tackling 20 miles a day, keeping pace with others. With patience, what once seemed physically impossible became my reality.
Nutrition on trail was another obstacle, as thru hikers aren’t exactly known for their healthy eating habits. Given my BMI, my body generally needs about 1800 calories daily. In comparison, on trail, I was aiming to consume between 3500 – 4000 calories daily in order to meet my energy demands without losing weight. The most calorically dense hiking foods—like Nutella, tortillas, candy bars, ramen, and instant mashed potatoes—are far from ideal when it comes to managing an inflammatory autoimmune disease. I had to be mindful of my choices, knowing that too much junk food could trigger a flare up. Instead, I relied on slightly better options, consuming endless granola bars, nuts, dried fruit, jerky, salami, cheese, and packets of chicken or tuna. Balancing calories and health was a constant juggling act.
Additionally, to keep hiking, I had to prioritize self-care, even when others didn’t always understand. In the first eight weeks on the trail, I discovered I couldn’t hike for more than an hour before my back would stiffen and ache. Taking 10-minute breaks every hour became essential, and I continued this practice throughout most of my hike. This practice allowed me to sustainably hike 10–12 hours a day sustainably for 5 months. Sleep was another non-negotiable. Unlike some of the younger, more energetic thru-hikers who could get by on 7 hours, I needed between 8–9 hours of rest every night to adequately recover and carryed an inflatable pillow, a pillow case that I stuffed with a sweater for between my knees, and even an emergency blanket for extra warmth on cold nights (as I am a notoriously cold sleeper). Though I often had to regularly shift positions during the night to relieve back discomfort, this setup was just comfortable enough to be sustainable. It certainly was different than sleeping on my soft bed at home with 3 pillows propping up my knees and back.
When I crossed into Oregon, I began having a tremendous amount of foot pain. Often, an indication that it was time to get a new pair of shoes. Unfortunately, even after swapping out my shoes and orthotics, my pain only worsened. After weeks of progressively worsen pain, I finally limped into Sisters, Oregon and consulted with a physiotherapist. She said that I had likely both plantar fasciitis and neuropathy in my feet, both common among hikers at this point on trail. She offered temporary solutions but acknowledged that the pain wouldn’t fully subside until I finished the hike. This meant that for most of the rest of the trail I was hiking in pain. While other hikers were pushing 30-mile days, I struggled to hit 25 miles, frequently taking breaks and struggling to maintain a positive outlook. Yet, this challenge felt familiar. Living with an invisible disease means that others, even my close friends and family, rarely know when I am in pain. I am used to operating with a certain level of physical pain, while not vocalizing that discomfort. As the old adage goes, life doesn’t stop just because you are in pain. Both on trail and at home, I often had to quiet the voice saying “Ow, stop please, this hurts too much” and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how slowly.
The PCT was an incredible journey. One that filled me up, tore me down and built me up again. Along the way, I saw some of the most beautiful landscapes and connected with countless wonderful, wholesome, warm, endlessly generous, hilarious and caring people. This adventure left an indelible mark on me, and I could go on about how much it meant to me. If you take one thing away from my story, let it be this: you are so much more than your disease, and the things that feel impossible today might just be within your reach tomorrow. I’m not extraordinary—I’m just someone who decided to take one step after another, arthritis and all, and walk from Mexico to Canada. You are capable of more than you think.