A Journey of Mental Health on the Pacific Crest Trail

Jason France is an author, speaker, and executive coach. He is a United States Air Force Veteran and retired after serving over thirty-one years in uniform. He thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 2021, the Colorado Trail in 2022, and the Tahoe Rim Trail in 2023. Jason is the author of Five Million Steps – Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail after Three Decades of Service to Our Nation.

I touched the monument at the northern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail at 11:57 a.m. on a Friday, 144 days after taking the first steps of my journey. I had just finished the most challenging thing I had ever done in my life, physically and emotionally, and in doing so, I had fulfilled a childhood dream. The sense of accomplishment was incredible, and my mind was flooded with countless memories of the people I shared the experience with, thoughts of the challenges I had overcome, and snapshots of the moments that created this journey of a lifetime. 

A group of us had a small celebration as we admired the monument we had all worked so hard to reach. We had lunch and shared some of our favorite memories from our journeys and a ton of laughs before each beginning the thirty-mile trek back to Harts Pass.

I spent the day and a half it took me to get back to Harts Pass reflecting deeply on how my PCT adventure had changed me. 

The visible signs were obvious. I had lost forty-three pounds over the nearly five-month journey. My legs were thin but toned and strong, carrying me more than 25 miles on most days. My hair and beard were long, scraggly, and sun-bleached. Time in the sun had tanned every bit of my exposed skin, darker than it had ever been.

But my most profound changes weren’t visible at all.

I learned about the healing power of nature when I was young. I was born and raised on Whidbey Island, Washington. I always knew it was a special place, surrounded by incredible beauty. Enduring a difficult childhood, I went outdoors to escape, feel safe, and find peace and answers.

My connection with the outdoors continued as an adult. Shortly after graduating high school, I enlisted in the United States Air Force, which allowed me to hike all over the world during my 31-year career. Most of those hiking trips were relatively short, the longest being an eight-day hike of the 93-mile Wonderland Trail around Mount Rainier. Still, even on my shorter hikes, some only hours long, I experienced improvements in my mental health.

Two weeks after retiring from the Air Force, I embarked on my hike of the PCT. It began as a journey to celebrate my military career, fulfill a childhood dream, and explore new life paths, but quickly transformed into a deep emotional exploration. Until starting my hike, I hadn’t fully realized the impacts my career choices, demanding leadership, and lack of self-care had on my physical, emotional, and mental well-being. It took time on the trail for my mind to slow down. My newfound quiet was almost deafening at first. But eventually, as the miles behind me grew, my mind began to calm, and I found quiet.

My most significant improvements were in the peace and clarity I found once I got used to being disconnected. At first, the lack of communication and incoming information was uncomfortable and frustrating. I had been so accustomed to constant stimulation from my devices that I experienced phantom notifications, anxiety in areas with no service, and trouble sleeping some nights. But once I adjusted, I felt free from the endless message traffic and the relentless influence, negativity, and pressure of the news and social media. The distractions and noise that had been begging for my attention for as long as I could remember were finally gone.

With peace and clarity, I could be more present for myself and others. My focus became sharper, and my experience more fulfilling. I was able to sense when the most impactful moments were coming, truly immerse myself in them, and notice details I would have missed before: the sounds of nature, vibrant colors of the sky during sunrises and sunsets, the scents of the forest, glimpses of wildlife, the expressions of joy from fellow hikers and their excitement when they shared their experiences with me. These were the best parts of my journey, and I would have missed them had I remained lost in my devices. My sleep also improved, not because of physical exertion, but because of the reduced cognitive load and pressure to respond.

Of course, my journey on the PCT came with challenges and struggles, too.

Climate change is creating a new reality for PCT hikers. I was aware of this but didn’t fully grasp it until I saw it for myself, day in and day out. The year I hiked, like others since, there were record fires and heatwaves, and as soon as I made my way past Donner Pass, I couldn’t seem to escape the areas where they were the fiercest. That was the start of what would turn out to be my most difficult period on the trail.

Forty miles later, as I approached Sierra City, I rounded a bend in the trail and found an enormous fire about ten miles away, in front of me. As the trail led me along a ridgeline, I watched a steady flow of firefighting aircraft attempt to battle the fire, appearing to have no impact. For hours, I watched the fire continue to spread out of control. Even though there were several miles between me and the fire, it was a frightening experience; I had never been that close to a wildfire, and I was in awe of its destructive power. I would later learn that I was watching the beginnings of the Beckwourth Complex Fires, which eventually destroyed over 105,000 acres – 165 square miles – before being contained.

Thoughts of the fire consumed me after that, filling my mind with images of flames and smoke. I couldn’t shake the fear of being trapped and helpless. I didn’t want to stop and camp, and I didn’t want to sleep. I just wanted to keep moving, to escape the danger and uncertainty. As I continued north, I was met by a heatwave, the fifth PCTers endured that summer. The temperatures were reaching the mid-nineties on the trail and the low hundreds in towns at lower elevations. After that, I quickly spiraled down mentally and emotionally. I wasn’t enjoying my journey anymore and just wanted to put miles behind me, hoping to get to a better place in my head. I distanced myself from other hikers, eating alone, camping alone, and avoiding all conversations. I thought I could shake it off, but my mental state got worse as I continued, and the darkness of my past returned to haunt me.

I deployed to Afghanistan four times and Iraq three times between 2001 and 2008, and with each deployment came tragedy and loss. The effects of my repeated exposure to combat trauma and not having the skills to recognize and manage those effects built up for years, long after I stopped deploying, they caught up to me.

I knew that I needed help, but I didn’t get it for many years; I was too concerned with the stigma associated with seeking mental health care and didn’t want to be viewed as a victim. I wish I’d realized the impacts my struggles and decisions were having on my family. When I finally overcame my pride, got help, and worked through extensive therapy, my life improved significantly. I knew I wasn’t “cured,” but I wasn’t expecting my struggles to re-emerge on the PCT.

Pushing north, the relentless heat and wildfire smoke were punishing, but I kept moving forward, absorbed in my thoughts and facing head-on memories and images I’d thought I’d overcome. With no access to any vices to distract me, to take my mind somewhere far away from my trauma and the memories, I revisited it all.

The closer I got to the border of California and Oregon, the more I realized that my life’s greatest rewards have always come after my most difficult challenges. I also realized that it was the first time in my life that I had allowed my thoughts to play out without interruption, to explore every detail of them, and to notice details I had been too resistant to see. My difficult time on the trail was giving me great rewards: closure, better mental health, and true post-traumatic growth.

All of our hiking journeys are different, and so, too, are our journeys with mental health and growth. I wish you strength and peace and evolution with yours.