Quick Summary
Jackson Abhau uses the mosquito bite as a metaphor for the long-distance hiking bug, tracing his path from youth-group section hikes on the Appalachian Trail to the John Muir Trail in 2022, where meeting PCT thru hikers made the urge impossible to ignore. He finally set out on a Pacific Crest Trail thru hike in 2025, hoping one big trip would get it out of his system, but 2,655 miles later the itch is stronger than ever. Now he’s weighing whether to keep scratching with the AT, a PCT encore, or the CDT, or to settle into a more sustainable life, concluding that scratching never makes the itch go away.
Words and Photos by Jackson Abhau @switchbackjack
If you’re a mosquito magnet like me, then you’re familiar with the dilemma. You feel a light prick—on your ankle, the back of your neck, your forehead—and know it’s too late. A reflexive slap later, and the unfortunate insect lies plastered against your skin in a pool of blood, but the damage is done. The itchy juice has already been injected, and it’s just a matter of time before it takes effect.
At this point, you have a choice. Every fiber of your being wants to scratch that itch, to seek relief. But deep down, you know that this is a fool’s errand. Scratching the itch will bring temporary relief, but ultimately, it will prolong the misery. The rational part of your brain knows this: scratching an itch might feel good for a moment, but it won’t make the underlying issue go away. So which part of you will win? Will you tackle the problem on instinct or logic?
My thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail has left me with an itch—and I’m not just talking about the innumerable mosquito bites I suffered in Oregon.
My first backpacking trip, April 2013
Really, I can trace the beginning of my journey to a handful of trips I took in high school. Though the family I grew up in was decidedly non-outdoorsy, I wound up on a pair of week-long section hikes of the Appalachian Trail with a church youth group. This was my introduction to Type 2 fun—it was hot, it was cold, it rained, my food was infiltrated by mice, everyone and everything stunk, and I enjoyed it. I might have been the only one in the entire group to do so.
My first trip to Yosemite, April 2019
When I graduated and moved out west for school, things really took a turn. Suddenly, the outdoors were so accessible and so attractive. As I began to explore this new hobby called backpacking, one of my roommates mentioned three words that kept me spellbound: John Muir Trail. After years of trying to get a permit and find the time, I set out for my three-week stint in the High Sierra in June of 2022. It was everything I hoped it would be and more. My timeline also coincided with the stream of northbound PCT thru-hikers, whose brains I picked at every opportunity. The itch grew stronger.
Atop Mather Pass (elevation 12,068”) on the John Muir Trail, July 2022
It wasn’t until 2025 that I found the opportunity for this longer adventure. It’s not exactly easy or sustainable to drop everything and make room for a five-month walk. So be it, I told myself, this won’t be a recurring theme. I just need to try it once, to get the urge out of my system, to scratch that itch.
Terminus photos on either end of the Pacific Crest Trail, March and August 2025
Four and a half months on trail and 2,655 miles later, I’ve scratched it and then some. I should have learned a lesson from all those mosquito bites I’ve suffered over the years—this isn’t going anywhere. And now I have a choice. Should I keep scratching by trying out the Appalachian Trail, giving the PCT an encore, or even tackling the Continental Divide Trail? Or should I ignore the gnawing urge and settle into a lifestyle that’s a little more sustainable?
Atop Forester Pass (elevation 13,153”) on the Pacific Crest Trail, May 2025
One thing’s for sure: scratching the itch doesn’t make it go away. It just prolongs the inevitable. What you choose to do with that information is your choice entirely.
