Gear is the result of a dialogue with myself—and the starting point for exploring the world.
Over the course of my long journey on the Pacific Crest Trail, my gear became my closest companion. It carried me through wind, snow, and blazing sun, helped me survive in the wilderness, and reflected how I relate to the world around me. Every decision about what to carry was a deliberate and intimate process—one that began with listening to my body, continued with assessing the weather and terrain, and ended with making a choice I could take responsibility for.
Two principles from PCT culture especially resonate with me:
“Pay It Forward” and “Hike Your Own Hike.” This journey taught me that the freedom to experiment, adapt, and create in the face of uncertainty is a deeply valuable right. That’s why I prefer sharing personal experiences over offering definitive answers. I believe everyone deserves to make their own choices—because whether it's joy or hardship, the experience belongs uniquely to you.
Choosing gear is never just a technical matter. It’s also a profound response to the questions: Who am I? and How do I relate to nature? Your familiarity with wilderness, physical and emotional state, personal definition of comfort, adaptability, intentions and goals for the journey, and self-care practices—all these factors shape your relationship with the gear you choose.
That’s why I firmly believe:
There is no “best” gear—only the gear that’s most right for you, in this moment.
Knowing yourself is the foundation of every gear decision—and the first step in building a relationship with the natural world.
Below is the gear list that supported me throughout the entire thru-hike. I offer it as a reference and a source of inspiration:
This list
accompanied me for over seven months of fieldwork,
spanning my PCT hike and time in Canada. None of the gear was sponsored; I received no brand endorsements. Sharing this information is not about promotion or persuasion. My intention is to spark ideas and help you discover your own direction. This is a resource—not a formula. In the end, the power to choose should always remain in your hands.
Before setting out, it’s normal to feel anxious—uncertainty is part of how we instinctively respond to the unknown. But this is also where a conversation with yourself begins. When we pause our search for external “right answers” and turn inward instead, we can begin to understand our current needs and make decisions that truly suit us.
You don’t have to get it all right the first time. Gear can be adjusted. Methods can evolve. Your pace will shift along with your inner state. You will learn as you walk—and gradually, you’ll discover a lifestyle that feels true to you. And in that process, the gear you truly need will quietly take shape.
Dialogues with Body, Emotions, and Environment in Extreme Terrain and Climate
In the mountains, we may seem small, but in truth, we are deeply protected.
On the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), slipping, crossing streams, and chiseling across frozen lakes became part of daily life. Each time I fell and was caught by the soil—without tumbling into ravines or sustaining injury—I felt immense gratitude for the Earth’s embrace.
I once stood beneath a scorched tree, the only shade in a forest burned by wildfire. Though already destroyed, it still sheltered me. In an era where extreme weather is closely tied to human behavior, practicing Leave No Trace feels like the very least we can do for the land—yet it matters deeply.
From early spring to late autumn, I conducted a six-month solo field study across five major geographic sections in the U.S., traversing deserts, snowfields, volcanic terrain, and lush forests. Temperatures ranged from –10°C to 40°C (14°F–104°F). As a solo female hiker, I had to navigate not only the unpredictable elements of the wilderness but also the physical and emotional toll of sustained long-distance travel.
My gear became a transitional object—a psychological anchor that supports the individual in times of change and uncertainty. It was more than just a set of tools; it served as a bridge between my body, the environment, and my emotions, helping me to continuously negotiate, adjust, and settle. It kept me warm, protected me from the sun, helped me carry and unload weight, and more importantly, helped me notice when I was tired, anxious, or in need of a pause—to unpack, to realign, and to begin again.
To help readers better understand how gear supports these dialogues in different terrains, I offer a brief overview of the environmental and climate-related challenges across the five sections of my journey. Each represents a distinct context where my interaction with gear—and with myself—was tested and deepened.
Southern California｜Desert Terrain
Roughly one-third of this section was covered in snow, with three major snowstorms along the way. The remaining areas were marked by drought, water scarcity, high winds, and intense sun exposure. Drastic temperature shifts between day and night challenged my pacing and physical adaptability.
Sierra Nevada｜High-Altitude Snowfields
2024 was a heavy snow year. When entering the Sierra, the entire section was still buried in deep snow. Mornings were icy and slippery, while midday sun produced countless “sun cups” that made walking extremely difficult. Rivers swelled with snowmelt, turning each crossing into a high-risk decision.
Northern California｜Forests and Fire-Scarred Landscapes
Fallen trees and exposed trails under a scorching sun made this section especially tough. Burned soil and charred trunks served as reminders that nature can both shelter and confront us, urging a rethinking of what “fragility” and “resilience” truly mean.
Oregon｜Volcanic Terrain and Wildfire Disruptions
Frequent wildfires required constant rerouting and flexibility. Anxiety and decision-making became a daily rhythm. Learning how to keep moving through uncertainty became a central lesson in this stretch.
Washington｜Wet Forests and Extreme Weather Swings
The high alpine terrain and dense forest brought wildly shifting conditions—sun, rain, and snow could all occur in a single day. Every step forward became a process of grounding and rebuilding the self amidst external flux.
EN 
TW