For the longest time, when I felt down or unwell, I would picture a house in the middle of a clearing in the woods. It was a space where I could just exist far from what I knew—and, mostly, from people who expected me to be. In this mental projection, what mattered was not so much the place itself but the distance with my everyday life. I needed an “elsewhere,” a recluse corner outside of the boundaries of my own identity. A place where I could feel free.
This general longing for an elsewhere laid a fertile ground. Inhabited by an undefined desire for something different, it made me permeable to other’s dreams and experiences. 

I think this yearning set me up to be a perfect YouTube audience member. Growing up, I consumed routine vlogs and observed people’s day-to-day lives, projecting what life could be like if I’d step outside of myself and become someone different for a fleeting moment of time. As I inched closer to adulthood, though, the contours of my own identity and desires formed, and I became more demanding in my online escapism. I needed a space that was far enough away from myself to experience proxy freedom yet close enough for it to be realistically desirable. 

In 2021, I discovered hiking videos and creators documenting their journey on the Pacific (aka the PCT). They filled this exact gap and defined my 2024.
I first heard about the PCT through my friend Avi. Hailing from San Francisco, Avi grew up with the trail in her backyard and dreamt of hiking it. I remember one day sitting on her couch, sharing our usual herbal tea. We must have been talking about the heaviness of everyday work. Avi hated her job at the time, and she wouldn’t shut up about this dream: hiking from the Mexican to the Canadian border, all along the West Coast of the United States. 

Growing up between France and Switzerland, I had once hiked for two days in the Alps with friends. I loved nature, but sleeping overnight in a tent left me frozen, begging for a warm shower. The idea that people yearned to do this for days on end was equal parts ridiculous and fascinating. 

That night, Avi sent me a link to a YouTube video accompanied by a minimalist text message: “You’ll understand.” 

I clicked play.

In It is the people | A Pacific Crest Trail Film (released in 2019), videographer Elina Osborne describes her experience hiking the PCT. She later developed her footage into a nine-episode series on YouTube, which sparked her career as an outdoors creator. 

The short film and nine-episode series are a masterpiece in storytelling. For my 2021 self, it marked the discovery of a new space on the Internet: people obsessing over hiking from border-to-border through the length of a country, aka “thru-hiking.” I relished in watching thru-hikers attempt something I found entertaining but separate from my own goals.

When bored at work or sitting with heavy feelings in my chest, I regularly returned to the video Avi sent me. I slowly began channeling Elina’s excitement every time I watched her start at the Southern Terminus, knowing the emotional peaks awaiting her in Canada months later. As someone who never reads or watches a book or a movie twice, I finally tapped into the comfort of consuming something known.

For me, thru-hiking videos struck the right balance between “near” and “far.” It hit the sweet spot of elsewhere, growing on some of my own interests while offering a peek into a different world. The nature of the American West Coast and the chain of the Sierras Mountains are just so perfectly different that—whilst I identify with the snow-capped horizons from growing up in the Alps—I know they’re not at all the same. 
Another key hook is likely my obsession with movement. As a dancer, I want to understand what drives people to commit to their physical practices, too. Long-distance hiking, is essentially one long, repetitive movement. One step at a time: the folding of the knee, extension of the ankle, impact of the foot, and a sway within the hip joint. In thru-hiking videos, many creators show a first-person perspective; the camera bounces before them, and you can hear their every footstep. All you see is motion. I wonder how it feels to be in their bodies.

Looking to extend my watching options within this niche, I quickly realized that not all thru-hiking content could be my refuge. I avoided dramatic videos claiming to “embark on the journey of a lifetime” and attempting “the hardest thing” knowing that “very few people will make it to the end.” Only a handful of creators gave me the opportunity to dream alongside them on their hikes. I particularly connected with people of similar backgrounds with me: women in their late twenties, living in urban areas before their journeys. 

The approach I enjoy is humble—“there is this very silly and privileged thing I decided to do. It was amazing but also very stupid and tiring. I felt a lot of things. You can tag along and watch me do it if you want to.”

So as I sit here, holding a cup of tea under my warm blanket in my city apartment, my eyes well up in front of the screen.