Run for Our Lands II: One Week on the Pacific Crest Trail

Words and Photos by RPL Ambassador Oscar Ponteri

The Pacific Crest Trail has been a quiet throughline in my life. It was there for the day hikes and outdoor excursions of my Oregon adolescence. It was there in high school, making up the course of my first trail race in Mount Hood National Forest. Even when I moved 1000 miles south to Southern California for college, it was there waiting for me in the dry foothills of the San Gabriels where I now train. I’ve won ultramarathons on the PCT. I’ve puked my guts out on the PCT. The trail has seen so much of me it might as well be an earthly god-parent of sorts.

Naturally then, when the second leg of my summer project, Run for Our Lands, brought me to Oregon’s stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail, it felt like a homecoming. After a grueling week of swollen ankles and bone-soaking rainstorms on the Appalachian Trail in Vermont (read about that journey here), I was more than ready for a trail I knew by heart. The journey across Oregon, though, was also a personal one. Just weeks before I was set to hit the trail, U.S. Senator Mike Lee proposed an amendment to sell off 3.3 million acres of public lands, including sections of the protected nature that I was planning to cross through. While it is true that our natural resources have been consistently undervalued in federal budgeting and are in particular jeopardy under the current administration, the threat to public lands had never felt more real than it during the weeks when Senator Lee’s amendment was under consideration. Even after 20 days of intense mobilization resulted in the amendment’s defeat, the public lands I’d come to know in Oregon felt a little more fragile and much more precious. 

From the Journal, Day One: Saturday, July 5, 2025, Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest 

Rhythm like the land

we invite ourselves unto—

Coarse soil, take me back.

I started the Oregon PCT on a cool, clear afternoon near Mount Ashland with the company of my dad, who was joining me for the short three mile hike to camp before sending me off in the morning—a welcome reminder that this really was my home state. One mile in, and I felt myself relax into the journey.. The trail—in its wonderfully familiar and gently graded gravel-dirt—lulled me easily into a more relaxed state. We glided through pine forests, occasionally dropping into alpine meadows with panoramic views of Mount Shasta to the southeast. I reveled in the ability to look up from the ground and observe the world around me rather than hyper-fixating on footwork as the Appalachian Trail had required. It’s not to say that I didn’t appreciate the rugged authenticity of east coast trails in their technical abundance, but this terrain fit me like a well-worn glove. 

That night we shared a long picnic table with a rag-tag group of about a half dozen PCT thru-hikers who had been on-trail since Mexico. They welcomed me, my dad, and a couple other section-hikers into their conversation without question, exuding a certain kindness that felt somehow reflective of their experience of the landscape—as if the frilless deserts and Sierra snow had opened them up to something much more expansive than themselves. They pondered the best all-you-can-eat buffets of the PCT and asked the rest of us about our respective journeys. It was a lovely evening with one of the most motley groups you could possibly assemble. In retrospect, the full cast of characters (two old-timers from California, a New Zealander returning to the PCT for his second year in a row, the eclectic mix of dirt-bag thru-hikers from across the country, me, and my dad—a college professor, somehow still wearing a collared shirt) was a testament to outdoor recreation and public lands’ ability to bring people who would normally never interact into close, communal contact. 

The next morning, my dad and I woke before the sun and ate a quick meal before others had emerged from their tents. The air was crisp and, watching the morning light hit Shasta, I felt the freedom to turn the page on Vermont and indulge in a fresh adventure. I said goodbye to my dad and set out through the wildflowers. 

From the Journal, Day Three: Monday, July 7th, 2025, Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest

I fell asleep with the river in my ear

And dreamt that I was a drop

Flowing down the mountain

Grafting against rock and dirt

Spinning in the whirlpools. 

On my first full day of hiking, I had the privilege of crossing through a special area of federal protection, the Cascade Siskiyou National Monument. Stretching 114,000 acres across northern California and southern Oregon, the Cascade-Sisikyou Monument was designated in 2000 by Bill Clinton (and expanded in 2017 by Barack Obama) due to its status as one of the most biologically diverse places in North America. The monument is home to more than 300 species of birds, mammals, reptiles, and amphibians—many of them rare and endemic. During my time in the monument, every mile felt profoundly different and exciting as the landscape oscillated between grasslands, fir forests, oak groves, and occasional lava rock outcroppings. 

While the monument receives federal attention and funding for its upkeep, local nonprofits and organizations are central to its long-term preservation. Later on in my journey, I had the pleasure of talking with the leaders of both Friends of Cascade-Sisikyou National Monument and the Sisikyou Mountain Club about their work and the tentative future of public lands. The Sisikyou Mountain Club (SMC) in particular is responsible for the upkeep of over 400 miles of backcountry trails across the monument and the surrounding areas, including sections of the PCT through their Wilderness Conservation Corp. SMC Executive Director Gabe Howe told me, “We have about 18 members this year in our corp and they are responsible for the big, heavy lifts—they backpack into these wilderness areas, where they spike out for two weeks, cutting long sections of overgrown trail.” Serving a slightly different purpose, Friends of Cascade-Sisikyou National Monument (FCSNM) is dedicated to the outdoor-education and local advocacy that advances long-term preservation of the area. FCSNM Executive Director, Daniel Collay told me about one of their main initiatives, Hike and Learn: “We do a Friday evening lecture and then a Saturday outing that’s really on any topic—It can be on birds, it could be on art, we did the last one on bats this last weekend, the one this weekend’s on bees… basically, we’re trying to connect people to the landscape.” The organization also often coordinates local advocacy, funds an interpretive ranger in the monument, and offers grants for students undertaking science or arts projects in the area. 

One similarity between the two groups is their reliance on federal grants and contracts to fund their work. As Colley told me, “We do receive some funding from the BLM, or sometimes we don’t. Right now we’re not, and that’s one of the upper level things that has changed… Public land agencies across the board have really been getting cut off at the knees, for lack of a better term, for like, two decades—They haven’t had fully staffed budgets, and now it’s even worse.” As for the Sisikyou Mountain Club, Howe told me that they have $800,000 of previously agreed upon federal contracts, which help support projects like their Wilderness Corp, in limbo. “What’s creating a lot of uncertainty for us is that we’re not seeing those [previously agreed upon federal contracts] get executed, and I don’t know where they are in that process, and I’m not being told about their status in any sort of empirical way,” he said.

Even small cuts to federal programs are stressing local organizations like those protecting the Cascade-Sisikyou area. For example, Colley told me that federal employees no longer have purchase cards that were previously used to buy items like toilet paper or make building repairs. Instead these costs are increasingly falling to external organizations to cover. Both Colley and Howe echoed the notion that budget shortfalls, which have been steadily worsening over the past decades, are tightening the entire outdoor preservation funding landscape to the precipice of major reductions. “What [federal funding shortages] do is stress all the other resources,” Colley said, “It stresses private donations, because anyone who has money is getting called two, three times as much and then same thing for the grants—We’ve applied for grants this year, and pretty much all of them have had some message sent back that’s like, ‘we’ve gotten x amount of more applications than we get in previous years, it’s going to take longer to review it, or we just don’t have as much money this year to fulfill all of our applications we want to fulfill,’ so it’s a cascading effect.” 

Despite an increasingly dire outlook, when it comes to ways for everyday recreationalists to help support organizations and push back against the federal cuts to natural resources, Howe offers a hopeful, action-oriented message: “Get involved in your democratic processes. That’s not just voting, it’s being an active member of your community and reaching out directly to the policy makers, starting with county supervisors or commissioners, going to everybody: The local line officers, the district Rangers, the forest supervisors—these are people who are accountable to the public. I say this because over the course of my career, I’ve seen that work, so just from my observation, it’s a really powerful way for people to engage. It does make a big difference.”

From the Journal, Day Two: Sunday, July 6, 2025, Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument. 

Each lizard, keeper of their rock. 

Each butterfly, suckle to the flower.

Each worm, farmer of a plot. 

The trees stay home, breathe deep. 

After two days and a little over 70 miles covered, I was finally feeling confident on my feet again and ready to push harder. I had about a day and a half to cover the remaining 52 miles that I had planned for my first-leg of the PCT, but I wondered if I could do it in a single day. Finishing early would also mean that I would have a half-day to explore Crater Lake National Park where I had arranged a ride from my mom. “If I’m feeling good, why not try,” I thought. 

The next morning, I woke up to my 4 am alarm, packed my tent, left a little note for the kind German couple who I camped with, and set out in the dark. I climbed across the east slope of Mount McLoughlin, trying to jog the flats and downhills while pounding carbs with tactical precision. The day flew by, and I entered the underbelly of Crater Lake National Park just as the sun fell below the horizon. Racing the light, I navigated through snow banks, and down a forest gully, clocking some of my fastest miles all day. Night—of course—beat me, and I stopped to consume my last bar and throw on my headlamp: I had just one last, brutal 2000 foot climb to the rim. With a healthy dose of adrenaline, I marched through the black forest, constantly checking my shoulder for a bear or other-dimensional creature to appear out of the darkness. Just after 11 pm, I emerged onto a road, marked by vaguely illuminated National Park buildings. As I stumbled towards the edge of the rim, and the lake revealed itself in striking scale. I could hardly comprehend the moment after 18 hours and 54 miles of walking. I sat down on the ledge looking into the crater, and examined the cliffs, illuminated in an eerie grayscale by the nearly-full moon. The water itself, a striking blue during the day, was like a black void. 

From the Journal, Day Four: Tuesday, July 8, 2025, Sky Lake Wilderness

I follow snow melt down the mountain 

From trickle to stream to river to lake;

Scree fields give way to prairies,

Forest begets forest;

This land stretches out like an open palm

That asks for very little and, in return, gives everything. 

 

Crater Lake National Park has had a special place in my heart ever since me, my mom, and my grandma first visited in 2015. No photo or poetic description can do justice to the colors and scale of the park. And, as Oregon’s only national park, Crater Lake holds special importance to those who are lucky enough to call the state home: the unthinkable creation of nature is a strong part of our identity, and an international tourist attraction that we are proud to hold in our backyard. 

Over the last few months, however, a familiar story has been flooding out of the Crater Lake: Staffing cuts and all-around reductions are leaving the National Park in jeopardy. As one of his first actions in office, Trump fired around 2,000 recently hired employees at the U.S. Forest Service, and cut an additional 1,000 National Park Service (NPS) jobs in a round of layoffs which some called “the Valentine’s Day Massacre.” Weeks later, the administration backtracked, re-hiring probationary workers but for many it was too late. Parks across the country had already been left in a deficit, and many employees opted to take leave packages instead of returning. Data published in July by the National Parks Conservation Association shows that the NPS has seen about a 24% decline in its permanent workforce since January. “The park staff who remain are being asked to do more with less, and it’s simply not sustainable,” reads the report. 

Across the country, the reductions have left remaining staff scrambling, and Crater Lake is no exception. A current NPS employee at Crater Lake (speaking anonymously) told the Washington Post that the park only has three park rangers for the summer, well below the fully-staffed level of eight rangers. Staffing shortages are threatening recreational opportunities and safety: In the same Washington Post article, former Crater Lake NP Superintendent, Kevin Heatly, who resigned among the Parks Service among cuts, said that low staff almost forced the park to cancel the annual “Ride the Rim” event, which closes East Rim Drive to cars so cyclists can enjoy the scenery—it was only thanks to 40 volunteers that the ride was saved. 

My final three days on the Pacific Crest Trail were simply pleasant. Picking me up from Crater Lake, my mom drove me around a snow (and fire) laden section of trail to Lake Ollalie, where I walked another 100 miles north to the Columbia River, which divides Oregon and Washington. I spent miles with friends and strangers, criss-crossing snow-melt streams and the deep woods of Mount Hood National Forest. The days ebbed and flowed, but a re-found strength propelled me forward. Where Vermont’s rugged forests had taught me humility, Oregon’s mountainous slopes had given me the opportunity to find a little resilience. Crossing the Columbia River on the Bridge of the Gods, I thought back to my first, nervous miles on Mount Ashland one week and 230 miles earlier. Public lands and the ever-familiar Pacific Crest Trail had brought me a long way.